#( … ) // BEYOND LATE BUT GOD THIS WAS SO SOFT I HAD TO ANSWER IT DESPITE THAT | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

verai-marcel · 3 months

Text

Your Hearth Is My Home (BG3 Fanfic, Astarion x Female Reader, Part 23 of 28)

Summary, Notes, Tags, & Part 1 are here.

AO3 Link is here, darling.

Word Count: 4,692

Act III, Chapter 2 - The Confrontation

You woke up in a room on a surprisingly soft bed. Sitting up, you rubbed your temples.

That fucker hit me hard.

Taking a look around, you realized that the room was adorned with paintings on the walls and smelled heavily of perfumes. But underneath that was the odor of…

Oh gods.

You immediately leapt off the bed and brushed yourself off. You didn’t even want to look at the bed for fear of seeing all kinds of stains. Looking around the rest of the room, you felt like it was a couple of centuries too late in its decor, the tapestries and draperies in a rich red and dark green with details in gold thread.

There was no time to observe your surroundings any further as the door opened slowly. Behind it, a vampire spawn, dressed in a similar doublet to what Astarion had been wearing when you had first met him, bowed to you.

“The master wishes to see you.”

“You say that as if I have a choice,” you mutter.

“Indeed, you do not.” He stepped aside and gestured gentlemanly toward the door. “This way.”

You walked with him, side by side. “How long have I been here?” you asked, not really expecting an answer.

“A few hours,” he replied to your surprise. “The master has been waiting for you to awaken so he can see what kind of creature has captured Astarion’s attention.”

So this master knew where he was AND that he was fond of me specifically? That’s far too powerful for anyone’s good.

“I see,” you said noncommittally. You eyed him for a moment, noting his haughty expression. “And what’s your name?”

“You may call me Petras,” he said in a lilt that made you think of how Astarion first spoke. “I can see why Astarion has been distracted.” His eyes wandered up and down your body before resting on your hand. “Your blood smells absolutely fragrant, like a crisp autumn breeze through an apple orchard.”

You suddenly remembered that you never healed your hand. Looking down at it, you realized that the blood had been wiped away.

Or licked away.

You shuddered at the possibility and went silent for the rest of the walk.

As you were marched down, down, down to the defiled chamber deep below the city, you realized you were passing by cell upon cell of feral spawn that attacked the bars as you walked past, smelling your fresh blood. There were thousands of spawn here, and you had a sinking feeling that the six spawn that were marked for the ritual were only a small part of the sacrifice.

Petras held your arm and escorted you into the final chamber where you were immediately overwhelmed by the immense size of it. A sickly green glow illuminated the stone walls that went down to the depths, small torches highlighting balconies that led to more prisoner cells. You kept pace with the vampire spawn beside you, but you paused for a moment at the last flight of steps before continuing.

You stumbled on the last few steps, distracted by the vile magic emanating from the space around you. Catching yourself before you fell, you found yourself before a dais where a man—no, a true vampire—stood facing away from you, holding a golden staff. Beyond was a dark stone coffin, elegantly decorated with gold lines.

So. This bastard must be Cazador. Gods, I can feel such… tainted energy from him.

On instinct, you took a step backward. He shifted the staff in his hand.

Suddenly, you couldn’t move.

“So, you must be the one who has been distracting my boy and preventing him from coming home.”

“This is no home,” you spat, despite the fear bubbling deep in your gut. “He’d never want to return here.”

“And that is where you’re wrong. He knows this is where he belongs.”

You glared daggers at him as hatred spilled into your heart. HE was the one who hurt Astarion. HE was the one who starved him for a year.

Cazador continued with his rant. “He is weak, imperfect. He needs authority in his life. He can’t be trusted to make his own choices—”

“Shut UP!” you screeched at the bastard. “I trust him! I believe in him!”

As you spoke, you could feel power leaking out of your seal, shooting into your veins. For a breathless moment, you could feel your eyes glowing with fey magic, your hair beginning to turn fiery red. Taking a deep breath, you glowered at the vampire with every ounce of vitriol you had.

In the following silence, staring into your enemy’s undead eyes, you felt your imminent death weighing on your chest like a blacksmith’s anvil, your heart hammering with what could be its final beats.

Cazador's eyes narrowed before he raised his staff and tapped the ground once, the clang echoing in the chamber. A set of iron chains suddenly appeared in front of him. He pointed at you, and all of a sudden you were in the air, then flung onto the ground, your knees hitting the stone with a painful crack. In the midst of the pain, your arms were stretched before you, your wrists together as if waiting to be shackled.

Oh shit shit shit—

The chains wrapped around your wrist, the iron burning your skin. You had never had this reaction to iron before, but then again, your ancestral blood had never been as active as it had been lately. You grit your teeth against the searing pain, unwilling to give him the satisfaction, even as your transformation ceased and melted away.

“Weak. Nothing but fancy tricks and pretty little eyes,” he mocked. Stepping off the dais to loom above you, he gently touched your cheek, tracing a line from your jaw up the lobe of your ear. “I wonder if your screams are as sweet as his.”

You shuddered, feeling disgusted, but you glared back with all of your hatred and fury. Your own emotions nearly drowned out the cold, sterile curiosity dipped in sadistic cruelty that you felt from his ice touch.

His fingers dug into your hair bun, and without warning he fisted your hair and tugged, pulling you onto your feet and sniffing your neck.

“I can smell him on you. Disgusting. Of course, he would have relations with livestock.”

“You arsehole!” you hissed.

Cazador released his grip on your hair, leaned back, and swiftly backhanded you in the face, sending you skidding across the marble floor.

Your nose and mouth burned as you tried to breathe, drops of blood splattering on the floor with each exhale. Oh shit, he really did a number on me.

His steps were casual as he sauntered over to you, like he had all the time in the world. You pushed yourself up and let your fury ride you hard, even though common sense and self-preservation were screaming at you to stand down. You spat blood at the vampire, just out of spite.

It landed on his shoe.

He looked down at the bloody glob for a moment before he suddenly disappeared and reappeared behind you. Grabbing the back of your neck, he violently pushed you down, forcing you on your hands and knees, his fingers digging in right below your ears. Ice cold fear laced your insides when you heard the sound of a dagger being removed from its sheath.

You struggled as hard as you could, but the hand on your neck tightened and you felt yourself freeze up uncontrollably. The fear that had temporarily left you was now back in full force, and you regretted giving into your anger. Now all you were left with was absolute terror.

The back of your shirt was suddenly torn away, and you felt the slice of cold steel against your back.

“No, noooooo!” you screamed, recognizing in horror the pattern that Cazador was beginning to cut into your skin.

“Yes, yes, I knew your pained cries would be most exquisite,” he said with sadistic glee as he sliced into your back with aplomb. “If he doesn’t come back, I’ll drain you so you can take his place. Or perhaps I’ll wait, and then drain you in front of him, just so he remembers that he owns nothing.”

You weren’t sure how long you screamed, but half your back was carved and your throat was raw before you suddenly heard a familiar and very welcome voice.

“CAZADOR!”

The others were walking carefully towards you, clearly being cautious in case Cazador decided to kill you off, now that his real target was here.

And why the hells did Astarion come here? Didn’t he know that he was key to this ritual? He should have stayed away!

Cazador grinned viciously before he flung you away. You slid across the floor on your back, blood smearing against the stone. The sharp, flensing pain on your skin made you curl into a ball as you desperately remembered how to breathe.

“Who stands before us? Is this truly our prodigal son?”

Astarion glanced over at you. You struggled onto your hands and knees, looking up at him and minutely nodded. I’m alive.

He frowned before turning his attention back to his old master. The terrible reunion unfolded before you, Astarion partially blocked from your sight by Cazador's looming figure. Watching them snarl at each other through your bleary vision, you tried to catch your breath.

Then Astarion attacked… and was immediately flung away to the other side of the platform, his body rushing past you as he was locked into position. His shirt was stripped from his body as glowing red runes everywhere suddenly became activated.

“No!” he yelled in anguish. “Stop him! And get me out of this!”

Astarion!

Everything was flung into chaos as your companions immediately jumped into the fray. Cazador summoned minions to distract the others while he attempted to finish the ritual, but fortunately, the others were strong and focused.

But you realized that the runes were getting brighter, even as they drove the vampire away from the dais and distracted him from chanting his spell. Grinding your teeth, you forced yourself to focus on the lines of the power around the room, and you realized that each spawn had a thread leading straight to Cazador.

Shit, we have to free them!

You ran to Astarion, swiping away at the bats that lunged at you from all sides. You ignored their bites and scratches as you used the weight of your chained wrists to smack them down. What was one more wound when it meant you could get close to saving him? With all of your momentum, you flung yourself at Astarion, knocking him off the rune's space. Twisting your body to get your weight off him, you rolled onto your bloodied back, the pain blossoming across your skin once more. You gasped and immediately rolled onto your side.

He called your name and scowled as he undid the chains. He stared at the burn marks on your wrists.

“Hide. Find Shadowheart later, when it's safe,” he commanded.

You nodded with no intention of obeying.

“Stay alive,” he added as he got up, took a knife he had hidden in his boot, and joined the battle.

You snuck around the perimeter, pulling each spawn out of their rune while the others fought hard, eventually sending the vampire lord scurrying back to his coffin.

“Oh no you don't,” Astarion snarled as he pushed the lid back open, pulling his former master out and onto the floor. “This isn't over. Not yet. WAKE UP!”

While they argued and yelled at each other, you had managed to come back around to rejoin the others. Shadowheart immediately healed you while Gale cast Thaumaturgy to mend your shirt.

Then Astarion called your name and beckoned you closer. Quietly, only to you, he explained his plan. How he needed you to show him a mirror version of himself so he could carve the rune on Cazador’s back.

“I can do this, but I need your help.”

You frowned. “But… all those people…”

“Those people died years ago, trust me on that. All that’s left are feral spawn, desperate for blood. If we release them, how many people will they kill? Tens of thousands? Hundreds of thousands? But if they die and I ascend, I won’t have to rely on the parasite to walk in the sun. I’ll be free. Truly, completely free. Isn’t that what you want?”

You didn’t have to use your empathic touch to sense that something was terribly wrong. You only had to look into his eyes. The environment, filled with the scent of blood and a touch of power that could be his, was influencing his thoughts, intoxicating his mind. Behind the fear in his gaze was a hunger for power and the alleged freedom that comes with it. But you knew, deep down, that if he were to look at this situation from the other side, he’d regret sacrificing all those souls. You shook your head. “The price is too high, Astarion.”

“But I can protect us. I can protect you.”

“You don't need to do this.”

He stepped closer to you, his voice dropping to a harsh rasp. “You're the only thing I'm willing to protect, and you don’t want this?”

He said ‘thing’ again. You knew now was not the time to be angry.

But you were.

“I'm not a thing to be owned, Astarion,” you snarled, flinging his words back at him.

He flinched.

“This power will just trap you, just like it trapped him. You said you weren’t afraid to die.” You took a deep breath. “I'm terrified of dying. But more than that, I want to live with no regrets. I want to live a life I’m proud of.” You looked at him beseechingly. “Is this what you want? Do you want to be like him?”

Astarion frowned, looking away from you. You held your breath, hoping that you were right. That it was the bloodlust making him like this. That deep down, he wasn’t like this. Gods, I hope I’ve been right about him all along.

He finally turned back to you with a thoughtful expression. “You… you’re right. I can be better than him.”

You let out a sigh of relief. Thank the gods.

His gaze turned back to the vile creature that once controlled him. “But I’m not above enjoying this.”

You turned away, the sounds of the dagger piercing flesh, though deserved, making you feel ill. It was when Astarion cried out, his catharsis felt deeply within your bones, that you turned back. Falling to your knees beside him, not giving a damn for all the blood staining your clothes, you nearly reached out to him, but paused. No. Let him come to you.

So you knelt beside him, close enough to let him know you were here for him, but with enough space to let him sort himself out.

He didn’t look up at you; he stayed still, staring at nothing, silent as the dead.

“Is… is it over?” One of the spawns, a female, quietly spoke. “Is he..?”

Astarion blinked, and returned from wherever his mind had gone, slowly getting up. He spoke with the others, laying out their choices. And when it came to the other spawn… He turned to you.

“What do you think?”

The answer seemed obvious to you. “Let them go,” you replied.

Astarion nodded. “The poor wretches in the cells are innocent. They shouldn’t have to suffer because I… lured them here.”

Using the staff, he released the other spawn, gave orders to take them to the Underdark, and turned to the rest of you. “I… I think we’re done here. Let’s go.”

Quietly, everyone walked away, letting you and Astarion walk together behind them. You looked at him, covered in blood, sweat, and though he would never admit it, you could see some streaks on his face from the tears.

“I’m here,” you said simply, holding out your hand.

He immediately took it without a word.

As the party made it back to the dais that would take you out of this wretched place, you saw a group of people, armed to the teeth. You immediately stood in front of Astarion.

Where is this courage coming from? I could never defend him better than he could himself.

But your seal tingled with power, and even though it hurt, burning like a wildfire, a part of you knew that instinctively, you could protect your loved ones from harm if push came to shove. It’s what my power responds to.

Love.

He placed a hand on your shoulder and gave you a reassuring smile before stepping forward and speaking with them. You watched them talk, watched the fighters stand down and let you go. As you joined your companions on the dais, you kept an eye on Astarion. He looked like he was deep in thought.

I’ll ask him how he feels when we’re alone.

***

Back at the Elfsong, you took Astarion to the private bath and heated up the water to his preferred temperature. He said nothing as he listlessly removed his clothing and stepped into the water. Not even a sigh of satisfaction.

You were afraid to leave him alone, but you weren't sure where his head was. Kneeling beside the tub, you began to wash his hair.

I sense nothing from him.

You continued to wash and rinse his hair while he soaked quietly. Finally, you moved around to see his face. He was staring vacantly ahead.

“What's on your mind?”

He looked in your direction, but his expression was still blank. “He’s gone.” He stared into the water. “After all these years, these centuries… it’s really over.”

You reached out and gently touched his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

He turned back to you, looking lost. “I’m…not sure. I… feel a little… numb. What I’ve lost… what I’ve gained… it’s all so much.”

You felt a spike of panic from him, his emotions churning chaotically. You squeezed his shoulder to keep his attention, to be his anchor.

“And gods, all those spawn, free in the Underdark.” He frowned, his head turning this way and that, his eyes looking everywhere. “I need some time, I think, I… just to let it all sink in.”

You nodded and patted his shoulder. “Take all the time you need.”

Shifting around him, you began to gently dry and brush his hair. Through your touch, you could feel his emotions begin to simmer down back to a low buzz, still anxious, but less hectic. It felt as if with each passing moment, he was untangling the web of his emotions, one thread at a time, slowly, carefully.

You finished with his hair and got up.

“Show me your back.”

You blinked at him, surprised, but you realized during the chaos that he probably hadn't noticed Shadowheart healing you. Turning around, you lifted your shirt.

He breathed a sigh of relief and reached out to gently caress your unmarred skin. “Good.”

When he said nothing more, you turned to mending and cleaning his clothes. It was strange, him not being his usual chatty self, but you understood the need to process.

After he was done washing himself and getting dressed, you led Astarion up to the roof where no one was around. The sun was setting over the city, and the two of you watched it quietly dip beneath the horizon before either of you spoke.

“How do you—”

“Are you—”

You both paused, looking at each other.

“You first,” you said.

He cleared his throat. “How do you feel?” He suddenly looked panicked. “Did he bite—”

“He didn’t bite me,” you reassured him. “He only attempted to carve the same sigil on my back.”

Astarion nodded. “We arrived in time.” A hint of his usual smile flickered on his face. “It’s rather gauche for a couple to match.”

You let out a soft chuckle. “We wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

“Gods, no.” He smiled before holding his hand out to you. “What were you going to ask?”

“I was going to ask if you were hungry,” you replied, taking his hand.

“I’m alright for now. Perhaps later.” He looked off toward the sunset.

You clasped his hand with both of yours. “Just let me know what you need.”

His gaze turned back to you, soft and solemn. Without another word, he placed his other hand on top of yours and leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, his eyes closed. You weren’t sure how long you stayed that way, but you could sense the amorphous cloud of his feelings slowly coalescing into something solid.

When he pulled away, he seemed to have come to some kind of conclusion. “There’s… something I’d like to show you, if that’s all right. Something out in the city.”

You tipped your head. “What is it?”

“Something I haven’t shown anyone else.” He stepped back. “Come. It’s not far.”

As you walked with him, hand in hand, the stars came out of the inky darkness of the night sky and the moon shone brightly on the cobblestone streets. It would have been a romantic little date… if he hadn’t turned right into the graveyard.

You followed him in, wondering why here, but when he stopped before a worn, neglected gravestone, you had a feeling. You watched him brush away the vines and dust to reveal a tombstone, the letters faded over time, but still legible.

Astarion Ancunín.

“Nearly two hundred years, and I never came back.” He went on to tell you about how he had to escape his grave only to see Cazador. Only to become his slave.

“From that day on I was his,” he muttered. “Until today.”

“How do you feel?” you asked quietly.

He smiled, but it was tinged with melancholy. “Exhilarated. Terrified. Exhausted.” He let out that last word with such a sigh that you could feel how drained he was without touching him. “For nearly two centuries I stalked the streets like a ghost, while the person I was lay here, dead and buried. Now I need to figure out who I am.” He turned to you, a smile growing on his face. “What I want.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And that is…?”

“Must I spell out everything, darling?” He took your hand. “It's you. I want… you.” Stepping close, his smile grew ever warmer. “Through the bloodlust, the pain, the misery… you stayed. You were patient. You cared. You trusted me when that was an objectively stupid thing to do.”

You frowned for a moment. Just as you were about to snark back to him, you saw the vulnerability in his expression and wisely kept your mouth shut, letting him continue.

“I feel… safe with you. Seen. And whatever the future holds for me, I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t.” You squeezed his hand. “It’s too late to get rid of me now,” you said with a grin.

He smiled back. “You had better keep your word.” He let go of you and looked at his grave marker. “Well, I should probably fix this.”

You watched as he etched out a new date on his tombstone with his dagger. When he was done, he scooted back to look at his handiwork, his gaze miles away.

Grabbing a flower from nearby, you lay it gently on his grave.

“Cute.”

You smiled and knelt down beside him. “So what now?”

“That’s the question, isn't it?” He stared at his tombstone. “I've been dead in the ground long enough. It's time to start living again.” He turned and took your hands in his. “With all that life has to offer.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

“You know… I didn't care for you when we first met.”

“Considering you held a knife to my throat without so much as a hello, the feeling was mutual.”

He smiled. “And now look at us.” He shifted closer and pressed his forehead to yours. “I love you. I love this. And I want it all.”

You were touched. So much so that tears came to your eyes. The love that you felt flowing from him was warm and soft, like a hug.

“I love you too,” you whispered. Through your tears, you could see his smile, soft and radiant, and you could sense that the possessiveness you had felt before was being replaced by something lighter, stronger, deeper.

Seems like his fear of being owned again was driving his possessiveness… Now that Cazador is gone, he's getting better. He trusts me.

A sudden twinge of guilt shot through your heart, and you knew it was your own.

He should know the truth. He deserves that much.

You pulled away from him. He must have seen the apprehension in your eyes, because he raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“I…” You trailed off, taking his hands and placing them back in his lap. You couldn’t confess while you were feeling his emotions. Swallowing hard, you tried again. “I haven’t been… forthcoming, about one of my… quirks.”

He stared at you, his face carefully blank.

You took a deep breath. “I can feel emotions through touch. It's why I normally wear gloves, it's why I avoid direct skin contact.”

Astarion looked a bit surprised as he processed what you had just dropped on him. “Wait. So you feel… everything?”

You nodded. “That's why I cover up as much as I can.”

His eyes narrowed. "So that's how you figured out I was trying to seduce you."

"Yes," you replied weakly, casting your eyes downward. Gods, he's probably furious. You wondered if he was going to reject you, or worse, consider your power a betrayal of his trust.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, he finally huffed. "You little cheater."

Seeing his wry smile, you breathed a sigh of relief and smiled back, shrugging. "Use the gifts the gods gave you, right?"

Astarion chuckled. "You're damn right." He was quiet for a moment, but then suddenly understanding dawned in his eyes. “So when I bite you…?”

“I feel your hunger, your pain, your happiness, your sadness. Everything.”

You could see him visibly trying to digest that information.

“You felt all of that, and still let me bite you, night after night?”

You nodded. “I meant what I said. I'd feed you, no matter what method. To eat is to live, to survive. I won't have my people go hungry.”

He only looked at you, partly in awe, partly worried. “I… I don’t want you to be in pain because of me,” he finally said. It was a truly altruistic thing for him to say, and it was for you.

“It’s alright,” you said, taking his hand. You smiled. “I can feel your concern through your touch.”

He smiled wryly. “So I can't lie to you, can I?”

You shrugged. “No, not really. But you don’t need to lie to me anymore, right?” Looking up into his face, you quietly asked, “You trust me, don’t you?”

He stared at your joined hands for a moment. “You're the first person I've trusted with anything.” Squeezing your hand gently, he brought it up to his lips and kissed the back of your hand tenderly, his eyes locked onto yours.

The thrum of desire and craving pulsed through you. “Oh,” you said breathlessly.

“But I suppose we should head back, before the others look for us,” he said, getting up, holding your hand as you got up with him. “Without you, they’d be gnawing on fishbones.”

You laughed. “Gale can cook,” you commented.

“He may be a bit preoccupied,” he said with a sly grin. “Did you know how much he fussed over Shadowheart the entire way back from the House of Grief?”

“Gods, she must have gotten so irritated!”

Astarion laughed with you as the two of you headed back to camp, sharing snarky comments and holding hands.

As far as dates go, this one was pretty damn good.

---------------------------

Act III, Chapter 2 End notes: It hurt to write this chapter, because quite frankly, I hate writing injuries. But I had to do it, it’s the scene that popped into my head and kept replaying in my brain. Hopefully it came out alright. And I was going to post this yesterday, but my damn brain decided to rewrite a huge portion of the post-fight scene (there wasn’t originally a bath scene!). Let me know what you think in the comments!

Tags List: @numblytemporary @xalphafox @avitute @stormyjane7 @kmoon21

#bg3 #astarion #astarion x f!reader #baldur's gate 3 #writing #bg3 fanfic #female reader #bg3 spoilers #your hearth is my home #cw: blood #cw: injury

24 notes · View notes

imaginesofeverykind · 22 days

Text

Witches Brew ~ Chapter 4

Summary: To practice magic is to slight God with the devil's embrace. It is evil, sin, consuming and the price one pays is never worth what one seeks. Yet people, in times of desperation often turn to desperate measures, in Aegon’s case, medicinal remedy is not an option. No healer can undo what has been done. But the Hag tucked away behind reeds, water topped with algae and the voracious bog may be able to. For a price.

Warnings: Blood and Gore, Character Death, catholic-centric monotheism demonised

Tags: DnD Fusion AU, Targaryens are noblefolk, Aegon is a werewolf.

Word Count: 6.1k

Chapter Song: ‘O’Death’ Theme (Until Dawn Soundtrack) - Jeff Grace, Amy Van Roekel

SORRY THIS IS TWO WEEKS LATE !!! I literally got slammed at work two weeks in a row, i did so much OT and im SORRY but here she is yall :’(((((

Series Masterlist

You’re Back. The void bringing a sense of unnerving, and much like it had been the previous time — overstimulated the senses tenfold like a barrage of everything all at once. You move, but there is no feeling of your legs carrying you, just that you have moved from point to point with no memory of getting there. It was a more disorienting form of how you materialize from one place to the other, except in the prime realm you knew where you were going.

Here, there was nothing to determine a position or place other than the faint sense of knowing you weren’t in the same place. A droning of magical song ebbs and flows, louder or softer depending on whichever direction you appear to be going. Perhaps spirits are reaching out or even the Gods, faintly you recall Auntie speaking in hushed whispers whenever she reached out to Syrrelio, God of Blood, and think for a moment that this may be his domain.

Though you wait, there is no voice calling from the great beyond, no divine message flowing through you or even a presence to indicate a greater celestial presence. There was something, however. A beacon of warmth beckoning you in the void, barely detectable but the heat was like being in close proximity of a large fire during a winter blizzard.

Finally, the small glimmer of light sparkles like a flare against the abyssal backdrop of pitch black darkness. At first you think your eyes are playing tricks on you, but it flickers again and there is an instant and urgent pull to go to whatever has your attention. An exit from this madness? Maybe so, but it was an answer you would not get this visit.

A violent and abrupt flash of light from the sun’s spotty beams cutting through the trees of the kitchen window jerk you back to the prime realm. There is a moment of utter confusion as you take in the surroundings with care, the hut remains in tact and in normal shabby condition, but the cause of confusion is that you are standing over the table with a sprig of dried Goodberry clutched in your hands hovering over the Mortar and Pestle.

Strange.

These… episodes… weren’t something brought on by sleeping it seemed. They were involuntary, like someone - or better yet - something was trying to send a message. It was only slightly unnerving to say the least, but shakily you continued on creating the healing brew like you weren’t just psychically accosted by an unseen force or entity.

The days were short but slowly dragged on a little later each day, now that Dead Winter’s Day had been to pass. Snow was still falling in excess, marking a relatively relentless bitter winter as the trees of the swamp withered and the bottle brush shrubs discoloured from frostburn. It wasn’t just the cold that swept through the dreary feeling across the swamp, you could sense that despite restoring Ornmirs shrine it had not settled the spirit.

Her unstable energy seemed to entice more malevolent creatures to the area, Stirges were now the least of your problems.

Your current problem required more attention — this evenings full moon was a mere few hours away judging by the soft sweeping darkness encasing the swamp and Aegon was yet to arrive. Since he started coming to see you he had been relatively punctual, often arriving midday at the earliest or mid-afternoon at the latest but never this close to dark.

It deeply concerned you, more than expected and it only slightly embarrassed you. The deep inner voices within your mind were at a battle, one half expressing urgent distress and beckoning to go and investigate, the other half was trying its best to reason and that there was nothing to worry about.

Today, it seemed, anxiety was much louder than reason. That paired with the unpleasant feeling that twisted inside your gut was reason enough for you to throw on your cloak and disappear into nothing, appearing back in reality inside the Fortress that overlooked Oldtown. He’d be beside himself if he hurt anyone, is what you tell yourself to not feel flustered and to justify why you’re going to him. Deep down you know he cared little for those inside the stony fort, only his siblings had the privilege.

Your hood concealed a great deal of your face and the cloak hid the rest of your attire, aware that you didn’t exactly look like the typical local roaming. It was disturbingly quiet which was odd enough considering it was renowned for housing belligerently loud swordsmen and knights.

And yet, as you cross the courtyard with a purpose it was as quiet as a chapel. Your eyes scanned the few people, some were holy men, some were servants and others were simple folk or traders but not a single notable individual in sight. Time was not on your side, as you give the darkening sky a despondent look before quickly making haste to the West Wing of the building.

Living quarters were located within the West Wing and if Aegon had any sense, he’d have locked himself in his room lest he be set loose to attack any ignorant wanderer. The lack of people around may have been a blessing in disguise, making things easier to lurk around without fear of being caught.

Most of the holy men were headed to the East Wing, where you had to assume the inbuilt chapel was since for the last three corridors you only passed servants who looked at you with curious glances but said nothing or alerted anyone. This corridor in particular inlaid carved stone, a garish green rug trailed from end to end with golden accents and the holy symbol of their false god reminded you how much you despised their religion.

The thought had barely registered in your head, softly stepping on the carpet and past a door that was half open.

”— and what of Aegon?”

Hearing his name pricked your ears and forced you to come to a stop, the voice was raspy, struggling to speak and airy. Viserys, was the first thought that came to your head, shocked slightly at how quickly he sounded to be deteriorating. You lean against the carvings that lined the door, not caring to look up and inspect whatever lavish artistry has been wasted on accenting what amounted to a door hole.

“If I may speak plainly, my Lord… Aegon… he is a sinner.” Another voice, older but more confident. A priest. You think, a holy devoted man. “He has been unfit to take over long before you became ill, you must know this, your Lady wife knows this.”

Your eyes flicker to the window, the sky darkening with each moment, you have little time to waste but find it difficult to step off from the wall you leant against, wanting to hear what was being said while Aegon was absent. From the stories he has vaguely revealed, you piece together that this can’t be very pleasant —.

”—Devil work is at play, are we to ignore what Ser Criston reported back… The hag of the swamp may be gone but she has left a younger in her stead. A younger, might I add that Aegon has been seen visiting every month.” A stern female voice snapped imperiously, ah, you stop to focus, Alicent.

“There is no charge, no proof, we can’t simply abscond the witchling or trial her.” The priest grew weary by the sounds of things. This discussion had been happening for a long while before you happened to stop by and eavesdrop. “Though… we may still be able to help Aegon. A procedure a higher devout can perform, through the word of God, to banish any and all devils that possess a human.”

The silence was thick, almost as though there was a fourth person speaking amongst the three until it was broken, “send one of the stablemen to Durrenden, I want Aegon back here tonight for the procedure. I also want Ser Criston sent to the swamp bitches abode and have her apprehended for maleficium, devil craft, seduction and heresy. She has poisoned my son long enough, I want her burnt in the square.”

A threat against your very being didn’t seem to spark fear within you like it should have, it had quite distinctly the opposite effect, a giddy smirk tugged at the corners of your lips. You’d never been a part of a witch hunt before and it sounded rather exhilarating.

“She is right, I will not have another of my children marr this house with shame. Do what must be done,” Viserys weary and tired seemed to want to put an end to the conversation - or arguing - you weren’t entirely sure.

You make a face, once again feeling that you should be fearful or somewhat scared but instead find the ordeal quite amusing. Mayhaps the confidence in Lady Alicents imperious tone about your persecution was what tickled at your humour. Auntie was sure to have cackled if she were present, but the nagging feeling stirring within drew your smirk down to a thin line.

Aegon could not be taken tonight, that was of utmost importance — The nebulous ‘procedure’ the holy man spoke of did well to cause unease within, if anything about this religion was clear is that many of this belief did horrendous acts to justify and uplift their false idol.

Durrenden. The small village southwest of Oldtown, bordering the edge of the swamp was all you seemed to know of it, not being the one you occasionally pass through for fresh produce. But Alicent’s comment on sending their Holy Knight there gave answer to why the Fortress was so barren of life, as to why Aegon and the swordsmen were down there, remained a mystery.

With little time left you close into yourself, disappearing within a blink and reappearing on the outer edges of the swamp. Durrenden a short walk, silhouetted by the sun that had begun descending behind it, haloing golden edges around the small huts and buildings. Temporary battlements had been set up, tents scattered close to the town's walls and many swordsmen wearing the insignia of their God.

One might think they were ready for war, though you had no time to ask or answer hypotheticals inside your head. Time was running low if the colour of the sky was any indication. Hurried in stride and purposeful with your steps, Durrenden surrounded you quickly with its townsfolk sneering and occasional swordsman wearily casting gazes. None of the strangers blurring past you had violet eyes nor silver locks of hair which caused unsteady panic to brew within, there was a small voice in the back of your mind that cast doubt. What if he was already at the hut? Perhaps he snuck away without anyone seeing him, but the surplus of men and eyes around indicated that the task may be unfeasible.

The steady stream of armored men flowing to and from the village tavern served as a good starting point, remembering Aegon mentioning that he’d sneak into the Howling Keep (a poor mans tavern) in Oldtown. The naming convention humoured you greatly at the time, though Aegon grimaced and looked at you with a deadpan expression.

You push open the Oak doors, not caring for the two patrons you cut off by doing so causing a slight commotion. Everyone within turned their heads and fell silent once their gaze fell on you — from head to toe not a single thing about the attire you adorned or markings drawn into your skin indicated you were a commoner or local.

Scanning the room, your eyes fell on a pair of violet ones, familiar but not Aegon’s. They were deeper violet, one slightly off colour and colder, narrowed down to a cautious glare. Aemond. Dressed in dark leathers, chain mail glinting from beneath the studded black vest with a different insignia. Not a symbol of their God but a house crest. A Three-Headed Dragon.

“Where is he?” You demand, disregarding all others in the tavern, speaking to him as though you were the only two in the room.

He is still for a moment, though you aren’t able to decipher if he’s wanting to argue back or is merely conflicted in aiding you. As far as you were aware he had at least a vague idea of what occurred on full moons, and must know that was the reason for your intrusion. Yet, he hesitates.

Two swordsmen step forward before he holds a hand out and dismisses them, there is a soft grumble in displeasure while he strides toward you. He brushes past you, heading back out the way you came, and you follow quietly behind him. Many of the locals and swordsmen watch with attentiveness, judgment passing through their cold glares as if you were on your way to lead Aemond to eternal damnation right before their eyes.

Neither of you exchange discussion as there was little need to do so, yet the question of why Lord Targaryen’s men were out in Durrenden as though an invasion was due hung at the tip of your tongue. It never passes your lips, even as he leads you to one of the larger tents, the same house crest embroidered on the tent door.

Inside, unlike sleeping quarters like you anticipated to see, there sat a large cage manned by a single guard. Within it, Aegon sat slumped against one of the bars in some type of drunken stupor though his pained groans carried to your ears instantly. The cage is far too large for something like a lycanthrope, your first thought followed by, they’re going after Ornmir.

Your question was finally answered but there was much too little time to reprimand Aemond and the men of the battalion. In a quick sweep, you fade from beside the younger brother and appear beside Aegon who hadn’t quite processed your arrival just yet. “Apologies, we must make haste — I don’t have time to explain,” your voice is softer than you expected, voice cradling him as though he were an injured animal.

He looks up at you, eyes half lidded but attentive when they search your face. Sweat beaded down his forehead, down past his flushed cheeks, “bumble,” he whispers in a drunken slur and it takes you a moment to realize he is addressing you.

“I’ve nothing to give for the pain,” you fumble with the pouch on your belt before gently placing a hand at the base of his neck to cradle his head and the other to grip his arm tightly. You cast a pointed look at Aemond before your surroundings fade away, no longer encaged and inside a tent but now surrounded by dozens of trees on an old faded trail. The furthest south of the Swamp, knowing it was too risky to return to the hut.

It seemed as though you had mere minutes to spare, the sky no longer streaked with orange and yellow, completely covered in darkness with the moon rising over the horizon.

***

Faint mildew and damp earth fill your nostrils as you awaken, there is initial panic when your eyes fly open to surroundings that weren’t the decrepit interior of your abode. Condensation dripping from rocky walls subtly glimmering in the flickering light of a waning lantern, you are reminded where you have taken temporary refuge.

Everywhere ached, the muscles around your shoulders and neck yearned for some tension release while your legs felt stiff from a night of keeping the wolf entertained. Surprisingly, Aegon being inebriated hadn’t done much to effect the transformation or behaviour from your observations aside from a comment he made after dawn broke and he laid on the swamp ground, chest rising and falling after shakily becoming normal again.

“My fucking head,” was all he groaned before promptly passing out. A massacred hand resting atop his forehead as though that would do much to alleviate his pain.

Now, his breaths were simple and consistent like any other noise within the deep cave you chose as sanctuary. His head rested on your lap for lack of a proper bed for him to rest and gain some strength back — at least that's what you tell yourself. Nevermind you are aimlessly combing fingers through his hair, detangling the ends riddled with sweat and blood.

It must have been mid afternoon when he stirred awake, eyes fluttering open to take in the surroundings. You had half expected him to sleep for the entire day and well into the night, looking down on him you offer a smile in the dimly lit cave. A flourish of one hand and murmur an incantation, materialising four orbs of light that float nearby to brighten the area.

“You came for me,” He croaks, voice crackly no doubt from straining it the night prior, turning his head in your lap to look up at you. The first thing he says is not to question where you had taken him, he trusted you without question and this statement wasn’t lost on you whatsoever.

There was something very innocent in the moment and perhaps it had been the fact you were still raking fingers through his hair despite it had long been detangled.

Casting your gaze downward it was becoming increasingly more difficult to ignore the feelings that stirred within, no matter how hard you tried to reason that it was something else entirely. You cared for him. The revelation should not be one that is shocking, half a year in tending to him would indicate this truth and yet it still shook you to the core.

Loneliness was a bitter thing, you had plenty of loneliness over the course of your life that it seem only fair to rid yourself of it.

”An unfortunate twist in fate has me caring for you, it seems,” you admit dryly, feeling lighter and less wound up upon saying the words aloud. “A most ill-fated outcome considering it is I who put this burden on you.” A sardonic smile mocking your own misfortune, of course it would be fated that the cure to loneliness would be in the form of a man you had inflicted a most painful blight upon.

He is silent for a moment, so still that you'd have thought he fell back asleep if it weren’t for his attentive violet eyes looking up at you, he finally says, “I tried to leave them at the road before Durrenden — They wouldn’t let me.”

”So they encaged you?”

“No,” he smiles meekly, “that was after I stole two carafes of wine from our reserve.” A flash of something must have passed through him causing the corners of his lips drop, eyes suddenly dimming with resignation as he looks away for the first time, “I thought if I was too drunk to feel anything I wouldn’t be in pain.”

Stupid. You admonish silently, but your chest tugs at the words of a man who simply wishes for the pain to fade. It was the first time you considered that he isn’t just talking about the pain of transformation. Without jostling him around too much, you reach into the small pouch off to the side and pull out a small phial, the best you can offer considering you weren’t in the hut.

After passing it over to him wordlessly you sigh and look around the cave, “your family’s Knight was sent to fetch you, the holy man mentioned to your mother a procedure to ‘purge you of sin’.”

”You went to the castle?” He asks, sitting up as though he were startled by the notion. Wincing at the sudden movement, he steadied himself on the wall beside you. At some point between your fated first meeting and now, he stopped complaining or questioning whenever you handed him things to consume. Since there was little resistance when you handed him a small bottle of sanguine liquid.

”To look for you,” a simple answer and yet it still caused your stomach to flutter, “your mother seems to be of the belief I have corrupted you with devil work… I wasn’t aware she was so… pious.” As amusing as a witch hunt sounded to you yesterday, it felt more cumbersome in reality and you had only really been forced into hiding for a mere day.

Your words struck him as amusing, a dry laugh falling from his cracked lips and you curse yourself for not thinking to get water amongst the hubbub of yesterday. “In the bigger picture, you have done little to push me into the devil’s clutches, my lady.” He addresses you, as if a highborn and not a witch of the woods or at the very least; a Commoner. The phrase catches you by surprise, so much so there is a physical reaction akin to a slight recoil. It sounded foreign to hear it, but you didn’t hate it.

A connection in your head seems to click, instantaneously dismissing what you were going to say about what he called you and in comes a flood of thoughts so incredibly obvious that you are almost ashamed to say anything about it now. But, your mouth moves much quicker than your mind and a sharp, “oh gods,” falls from your lips.

He stares at you, looking embarrassed as if you were lambasting his choice of words but that couldn’t be further from the truth. “I might — well it is possible to relieve you of this curse but the chances may not be in our favour.” It wasn’t some magical cure out of nowhere and it wasn’t without risks involved but if done right it could be done.

There’s confusion etched into his facial features, for that you couldn’t blame him, “but this is a blood curse —,”

”It is not a cure, per se…” Trying to find the words seemed difficult, especially ones that wouldn’t be insensitive, “if you recall this ailment was imparted onto Aemond and I moved the curse. Blood curses attach themselves to the essence of a person which is why they can be moved to family members — which is why I could rid him of it.”

”Be that I dislike my brother, I do not wish for him to suffer monthly —“

“Sibling blood is closer entwined than other familial relatives but much like I restored Aemonds eye, I could attempt to move the curse to someone else… someone who is already on the cusp of death.” It would be all too easy to say his name aloud, but there was a part within your aware conscience that felt it rather evil for suggesting second hand patricide.

Though you needn’t say his name, Aegon understood wholeheartedly, “Viserys.” Not ‘Father’, not a hint of endearing or love in his tone. The relationship between father and son had long severed before you had waylaid the noble family with magic interference all those months ago. It may have not been your intent to send the Lord to an early grave, the fates seemed to have planned for it anyway.

You just hoped they planned for him to suffer one last time.

There was an already inherent distaste for the man, one that was imparted to you from Aunties bias but it only increased tenfold when Aegon would regale you with stories of how absent and horrible of a man Viserys seemed despite the public opinion being otherwise. How does a man have five children and only care for one? Even for that one child, the care presents as thinly veiled kindness at best from what you’ve heard.

He mulls over the idea, you can sense his hesitancy to answer and it is something you don’t hold over him considering what you are suggesting could be coercive murder in the eyes of the church.

“Forgive me, if I spoke out of turn.” You say softly, smiling at him as if silently understanding the conflict within him. If anyone had been present to hear such blasphemy you were most definitely not avoiding the accusations of being a harbinger of chaos and devil whisperer.

”No,” he shook his head, there was uncertainty in whether he was denying your suggestion or if he disagreed that you’d stepped over a line. Even you were self aware enough of how bad it sounded, but over the course of half a year the two of you seemed to slowly understand the inner machinations of one another enough to know when something was laced with malicious intent or not. While he understood to a degree your distrust and ire toward the head of his family, he has never had reason to believe that you worked with an ulterior motive. Initially, perhaps, but now? No.

”I want to say yes,” he begins, a pained look within his eyes laden with guilt, “but what option remains for me? I am his eldest son. He is destined to pass, sure. But my path lay already ahead of me. To become Lord of the city regardless of if I’m afflicted by a curse or not. This —,” he gestures to himself, riddled with grime and filth, “— this is physical pain but no matter my options I will suffer.”

The strain in his voice gave quite a clear indication that he was hesitant to be so vulnerable, not for a lack of trust, it seemed as though the cause for his trepidation simply grew from a lack of someone around to listen to his complaints. You tactfully reach over and clasp his hand. Entwined it was easy to see how the dirt and muck complimented one another on each hand with wayward splatters and streaks like paintings on parchment.

He seldom spoke of duty, opting to spit in the face of it whenever the topic broached but you knew what lay ahead of him when the inevitable arrival of death comes to consume Viserys. A strange custom, you noted. Many families had long abandoned succession through eldest offspring, a handful of Lords (Targaryens included) seemed to keep the tradition, whether it be in honour of tradition or it aligned religiously though you were unsure of.

To be a Lord and be ailed with something as unforgiving as Lycanthropy would become harder to hide, a bigger burden, one that would turn the devout folk on him in an instant. Public opinion on the man beside you, already sat lower than the other siblings, in a cruel string of fate it almost feels as though he were destined to fail.

“But you are second to oldest, what of your sister?” You ask.

“Rhaenyra?” His voice was laced with surprise, he spoke very little of her and though you never prodded further there was uncertainty of if he held disdain toward her and that had been the reason for his little mention of her or if there was something else. “He may love her more than the rest of us but she will never inherit after what she’s done to the family.”

I will not have another of my children marr this family with shame. Viserys had said this the previous day, now with context it seemed to make sense. You were in no position to question further and you didn’t, though little pieces of information you’d gathered over the months fell into place, albeit disjointed but nonetheless sensical.

The oldest of the siblings, born to a different mother was free-spirited and rather outspoken, if the rumours of the common folk were to be believed then she ran off with Viserys’ brother and her Uncle for love. You’d initially taken the slighted gossip with a pinch of salt but could think of no other reason Rhaenyra could bring shame to such a proud and religious family.

You spare Aegon a look, not pitiful or full of sorrow and despair but one that was at least hopeful.

“If you ever wish to disappear, far from here, say the words and I will make it happen.” A grim solution, but it was the only thing you could think about that would keep Aegon’s conscience intact with the least amount of bodies in the process.

“Threat of death? After all this time? Here I was beginning to think you tolerated me,” he found it within himself to jest, a smile on his lips that etched into your mind long after he turned away sullenly, “I couldn’t… I can’t leave them.”

The unspoken burden of the oldest remaining sibling weighs heavy on him, you have come to learn many things about Helaena and Daeron in passing comments or quips. Aemond fiercely sits in the peripheral of your thoughts often when you think of Aegon and wonder how different things may have been if you didn’t help Aemond.

“I tolerate you no more than a crocodile tolerates a drowning wildebeest in his river,” you jest, suppressing a coy smile. You squeeze his hand reassuringly and as if responding to a question, he squeezed yours in return. “Threat of death is not so awful, death is not the end we believe it to be,” you muse, eyes cast down the expansive cave mouth, a very characteristically cryptic moment from you.

Down the cave, a seemingly tiny dot in the distance was your only indicator of an exit, a light that specified the sun's bright rays was what awaited you when it was time to leave the soggy cavernous hole.

Deep rumbling shudders through the cave, a great force rippling through the ground no different to how an earthquake unmistakingly rips through the earth indiscriminately. Though it is a force of nature, it is not what one might think as queit relief washes over you. Aegon looks to you in search of an answer or reaction, you remain unbothered and look to him with a sincere smile, “you’re a good man, Aegon… I only wish for others to see you the way I do.”

He is stunned a moment, possibly wondering where that came from as you were thinking the same but he looks past you and back nervously, “this isn’t the moment where you leave me at the mercy of whatever thing has crawled in here?”

You laugh and shake your head, a sound so foreign to even you it was a wonder how you managed to share a space with Auntie who was decidedly humourless for so many years. “This cave may be Ornmir’s own domicile but she won’t hurt you, and I won’t leave you here either… I believe it isn’t safe to return to the hut. Your holy knight might still be on the lookout for you and I’d prefer you rest before I release you back to those den of wild dragons.”

What you wanted to say more than anything was, stay, stay here with me and never go back to the wretches who seek to ruin you. But it was hard, hard to even admit that first and foremost and hard to be so vulnerable with someone. Auntie kept you at arms length always as if preparing you for the inevitable time she left you, feeling attached to someone always seemed forbidden.

But with Aegon, it was easy. So easy it was terrifying.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks quietly, when you turn to him his eyes are already trained on your face as if trying to pry into your very thoughts.

The words can’t form in your mouth, the admission that perhaps loneliness wasn’t what fulfilled you any longer refused to leave your mouth so you search for another answer quickly. Despite not finding a way to express your inner thoughts you find your body leaning in toward him, hands cupping the sides of his face and pressing your forehead against his in a manner that was more intimate than expected.

Noses brushing against one another, your eyes look down at the curve of his cheeks from the smoothest point to where his stubble had started to break through.

“Let me make this right,” you promise, thumbs brushing softly over his cheeks, “the least I can do is try and take away the curse I put on you. I cannot cure the ailments of the future but I can undo my own wretched infliction.”

“Okay,” he breathes out in a voice so small you wouldn’t hear it if it weren’t for his breath lightly fanning your face. “What about you?” He asks almost painfully, and you selfishly think it’s at the thought of the monthly visits coming to a stop.

”You are no stranger, I wish for you to visit on your own terms, not because you’re forced too.”

“Okay.” He says again, hands coming up to sit atop yours over his face.

The two of you remain there for an uncertain amount of time, you don’t fully recall disengaging from the embrace but you do. Quietly going over the plan for the evening, you stated many times throughout that the likelihood of success was slim and the results wouldn’t bear its fruit until a month away, but you’d be damned if you were going to at least try.

Aegon assured you he was well rested and in fact argued he should accompany you. Him joining was not the problem, it was the prospect of his mother or holy knight finding him before you could finish the ritual. There was little else you could do to convince him otherwise as he held onto your hand firmly when you whisk the both of you away through darkness and into the Fortress.

Night had fallen a couple of hours prior, the sun no longer commanding the skies but the moon. Her rays of silver cascaded through stained glass and created prismatic shapes of colour on the carpet below your feet as they quietly roamed the West Wing corridor together. Aegon still held onto your hand.

Much like it had been the day prior, it was desolate bar from the occasional servant who eyed the two of you but made no comment or haste to alert anyone.

“Aransmore wrote to us about their cattle getting eaten and the farmers being terrorized by a great beast in the swamp… that is why we set for Durrenden.” Aegon whispered cautiously, you had guessed he felt as though he owed you some degree of explanation for why the castle was bare and Durrenden had so many swordsmen.

”Yes.. Ornmir… She’s — She’s still angry and I am unsure what the cause is. Her shrine has been repaired yet there is an ire that remains present. I shall visit her again in time…once this has been settled,” you nod at him, quietly responding.

Once outside a large set of oak doors, gilded gold edging and embellishments, there was little mystery left at who lay in the chambers beyond them. Neither of you make the first move, both merely staring at the door as if it would open on its own accord.

You look over at Aegon, “we need not go through this, if you wish it so.”

“No,” he says softly, looking down, then back up to the door, “no I want to.” His voice is hardened, more determined and you wish more than anything you could read his thoughts but you turn away and nod.

He surprises you more, taking the first step forward but you are the one who opens the door. Both of you have an unspoken kinship bred from months of understanding each other slowly.

The room is dark, save for the silver light of the moon cascading through the open window. Despite the cool breeze flowing through, the room stank distinctly of mold and must, as though the windows had been sealed shut for years. Your eyes settle on Viserys, the first time you’ve seen him since ailing him with his son's mangled eye. He was less man than he was rot, you decided, the cause of the smell being him.

Half of his face blackened with necrosis, the infection taking a rather nasty turn. The leeches on his face had no more incentive to keep eating away at the flesh, not when it had shrunk down to the bone and exposed part of his skull. It was grotesque, really, but your face remained unmoved as you stood beside the bed and looked down at him. Only then did your face twist into something unpleasant.

You turn to Aegon, face pulled to a frown that half indicated disgust, nostrils slightly flared and eyebrows crossed together into a sullen expression. “He’s dead.” You say, defeatedly.

You were too late.

Tag List (lemme know if you wanna be tagged :D)

@karlachs-soldier @serving-targaryen-realness @deltamoon666 @bogbutteronmycroissant @heavenly1927

#imagines #fanfiction #aegon targaryen #house of the dragon #aegon ii targaryen x female reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader

17 notes · View notes

a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 6 months

Note

Hi M! Can I request Prince Aemon the Dragonknight x Fem. Reader for the prompt: "The first snowfall"? Fluff and a slice of lime please, thank you!

Here you go!

Pairing: Aemon the Dragonknight x Fem. Reader (Established relationship | House Stark | Second person POV)

Themes: Soft | Smut (subtle)

Warnings: Mentions of canon Targaryen marriage: Baelor x Daena | Kissing | Penetrative sex | Cream pie

Wordcount: 1K words

Summary: Winter arrives in King’s Landing, and the first fall of snow is looked forward to.

A/n: I write with the seasons operating on the usual three months, and not years and years.

Rating: 🔥| Minors DNI | 18+ | You are responsible for the media you consume.

Dividerr by @estrelinha-s

When Aemon opened his eyes, it was to a bell ringing out eleven times. He shivered and slipped out of bed. The world outside was quiet, as if a strange hush had enveloped it. He threw back the shutters of his windows and peered into the night sky. It was but an hour before the hour of the bat, and thick, dark clouds dimmed the light of a full moon.

The seas beyond the tower he called home were as still as a looking glass. There was a strange quality lingering in the air, an otherworldly hush that lay upon the world. The Maesters spoke of this, how it all foreshadowed a changing of the seasons.

Winter is coming, he thought to himself. And it brought a smile to his lips. Those were the words of your House, and now it appeared as if the first snowfall of the year would happen this very night, while the chief of King’s Landing slumbered peacefully. Aemon did not want you to miss it. He returned to bed and shook you gently awake.

“Aemon?” You rubbed the back of your hand over your eyes and drew the pelts to your chin. It was cold, and the fire had died down to smoldering embers. “Has something dreadful happened?”

“Nothing of the sort, my love.” Aemon walked to the hearth and settled onto his haunches. One by one, he threw in fresh logs and started a new fire. As the flames rose, the room grew warmer. It was enough to make you sigh in contentment. “But I believed you would like to see this.”

The pelt was still wrapped tightly around you when you left the bed and made your way to the window. The sea was calm, and uncommonly so. And while Aemon heard nothing, you, on the other hand, heard the low hum only one born to the North would recognize.

“Winter is coming,” you proclaim, then look up into the sky. There was nothing to be seen yet, save for the clouds faintly limned by the light of the moon. “Can we stay here a while? If there is going to be snow tonight, I wish to see it.”

“Of course.”

The first white puff fell just outside the window. Then another joined it, and another, and another, as if the Gods heard your wish, and agreed to answer it. The wind slowly rose, and the snow that came down after was thicker and bigger and fell faster. A bell rang—a different one this time. It was the bell in the Grand Maester’s tower.

“Autumn is finally at an end,” Aemon declared as the chimes echoed clearly around the Red Keep. “And it is getting colder. Come, wife,” he said and closed the shutters. “It is time we returned to our bed.”

The fire burned brighter now, and the bedchamber was warmer for it. Despite this and the late hour, neither of you cared for sleep. There was so much to look forward to, even in such weather. There would be plays and dances and a grand feast on the longest night of the year. Already, the Red Keep was festooned with flags and bunting of black and red, and wreaths of evergreen. Baelor had balked when he saw the latter, and declared them a symbol of false Gods. He demanded they be removed and consigned to the rubbish heap. His queen and council refused to yield, and ever since then, Baelor had ensconced himself in the Red Keep’s Sept, praying and fasting.

It is just as well Daena was delivered of a son, Aemon thought. Father will have less trouble bringing about a regency now.

A great many changes were afoot, and not just with the seasons. Aemon was grateful for it, and silently repeated a prayer of thanks. He pulled up the pelts, content to watch the fire with you.

“Is it true what they say?” Rumors of winter games and other contests abounded. The maids spoke of little else when they brought hot water for your bath. “That there will be a winter tourney?”

“One of Aegon’s notions,” Aemon confided, and he drew you into a loose embrace. “And just jousting in the outer bailey on the day of the feast. It would still be a good diversion, I think. Now enough talk of that, wife. Tell me if I kissed you today.”

“You have not, sir. I am quite wounded.”

“Tis a mistake I aim to correct. Come here.”

His kiss was a reflection of his mood—light and jubilant. Aemon shivered when you wound your arms around his shoulders and made yourself comfortable beneath him. He showered you with half-whispered endearments and with languid caresses that set every nerve of yours afire. The bedchamber began to feel uncommonly warm, and Aemon pushed the pelts to one side, claiming it was too hot with them, and they were in his way. Goosebumps prickled all over your skin, though not from the cold air. He reveled in your sharp, shallow breaths and grew drunk on your shameless pleas. Then he propped himself on his elbow and slipped his other arm under your back to hold you.

The two of you lost yourselves in each other’s flesh. Tenderness slowly gave way to passion that was deep and ardent and all consuming. You felt like you were drowning. Dizzy himself, Aemon willingly surrendered to the maelstrom of sensations that flowed through him in a rush. He drowned with you, grunting softly when he took you to the edge of the cliff and over it. Aemon then shuddered, and two of you lay still.

An icy chill flowed in from the outside, and the room grew cool again. Aemon moved onto his side, taking you with him when he did so. He stroked your back, your hair, then looked toward the windows.

��On the morrow, the city would be covered in a blanket of white,” he noted. “What do you say to a sleigh ride after we break our fast?”

The prospect alone was enough to fill you with giddy anticipation. “I would like that very much indeed,” you decided, then flushed when Aemon pressed a kiss against your nose.

#whimsy's christmas fics #aemon the dragonknight x reader #aemon the dragonknight smut #reader insert #aemon the dragonknight #house targaryen #reader insert request #twelve days of ficsmas

11 notes · View notes

koumeowkami · 11 months

Text

🪐 no celestial ; kanallen

— chapter three

"Kanata was a poor little angel that heaven couldn't help. He'd always been a tough one, not trusting anyone but his little brother Nayuta, the only person that ever made him feel love. Growing up by themselves, he did everything in his power to protect his sick brother, things that dirtied his holy hands. "It's for a good cause though", he thought. But it wasn't enough, and Nayuta died soon after.

Kanata's soul was completely spent. He became unable to feel love, and adding to his dirty dealings that soon were found out, he got cast out of heaven. Fallen on Earth with his wings blackened, he felt so lost and empty he thought he could've just died.

But a random encounter with a very annoying, persistent, stupid redhead human boy would've made him discover love again."

1430 words

genre: supernatural, hurt/comfort, angst

warnings: none

previous ✧ next

Allen was finally back to his apartment, tired and with his mind clearly elsewhere. It was almost 3 AM. While he was trying really hard to be as quiet as possible, the lights in the living room were suddenly turned on.

"Where the hell were you!?"

Standing there was Anne, arms crossed and a scowl on their face. Hajun was behind them, looking immovable as always.

"Do you have any idea how late it is? I thought you fell asleep in front of your laptop!" Anne whispered-shouted, getting closer to Allen looking at him inquisitively. They might look cute and all but God, were they scary when angry.

"Sorry... I just took a detour when coming here. Tonight's soft breeze is so relaxing..." Allen replied, smiling softly with his head lowered. For some reason, he couldn't tell them about his encounter in the park. Well, he'd probably never see Kanata again anyways, would he?

Anne kept looking at him weirdly, as if they were trying to spot a lie, but in the end they accepted his answer. "Well nevermind, it's too late for a discussion now. We have school tomorrow so we'd better head to bed" they said yawning, and went towards their room. Hajun, who had been silent the whole time, got closer to Allen. "Don't go wander so late ever again, alright? Because if you don't get up in time for class the next day, we're leaving you here" he whispered, flashing a smile that made Allen gulp in fear.

"Understood."

Probably half an hour had passed, and Allen still had his eyes fixed on the ceiling of his room. He just couldn't stop thinking about what happened that night. For some reason, he was instantly attracted to that kid, as if he was put under some spell. He felt like he couldn't leave him alone. Behind the rage in those galaxy-colored eyes he saw so much suffering, one he couldn't ever imagine. Behind that steel barrier he put in front of his heart, he could feel his loneliness. He wasn't able to understand why Kanata would force himself to deny that despite everything.

Frustrated, he got up and sat in front of the window, gazing at the shining moon.

"How can I go beyond that wall of yours?"

— ☾ —

"...Allen? Hello? Earth to Allen!"

With a gasp, Allen paused the music in his headphones and raised his head from his songwriting notebook. He was faced with a pouting Anne, who was sitting across from him at one of the university's cafeteria tables.

"Huh? What is it...?"

"Look, I know you always get invested when doing anything that has to do with hiphop, but you've been really out of it for the past week. I've been calling you for five whole minutes!" they said, exasperated.

"Are you okay? You haven't even had your lunch yet" Hajun pointed to the ramen sitting beside the notebook, "We have class in fifteen minutes, so hurry up please. I don't want to be late because of you." he said, sipping on his coffee.

"Don't worry, I'm okay! It's just that I'm having trouble with this one... I haven't gotten much sleep lately either" Allen smiled, "I'm gonna finish lunch quickly, you guys can go already!"

Anne and Hajun took their bags. "We're waiting for you in the hallway, alright?"

"Sure thing! See you there!"

— ☾ —

Hajun and Anne walked, an awkward silence filling the air.

"So..." Anne started, looking at the boy beside them, "Have you also noticed something weird about Allen, lately?"

"Of course I did. He's awful at lying and keeping secrets, he wears his heart on his sleeve after all." Hajun said, "It all started when he came home late the other day..."

"Yeah. He always looks like there's something on his mind but he won't tell us! Ugh, it's so frustrating!" Anne pouted again, slightly gripping their hair, "I know he doesn't want us to worry... but if something is troubling him I don't wanna leave him alone!" they said, closing their hands in a punch, resoluted.

"Oh Anne, you're so cute~" Hajun teased playfully at the little display of protectiveness from Anne. "Shut up! I know damn well you'd do the same for him, even though you pretend not to!" they replied while crossing their arms.

"I wonder?" he giggled, while his eyes confirmed Anne's words.

— ☾ —

"Guys, I'm gonna head out for a bit to breathe some fresh air! I'll be back for dinner!"

Allen sprinted towards the park. There was one in a million possibilities that Kanata would still be there, but he wanted to see that with his own eyes. He hadn't stopped thinking about their conversation for the whole week, he tried to pour his feelings on a piece of paper like he always did, but something was missing. He thought that seeing Kanata would've cleared up his mind a bit.

The park was already almost empty when he got there, most people were already heading back home or going to eat somewhere; he immediately reached the most hidden part, where he was sure Kanata would be hiding, then wandered slowly to catch him, but to no avail.

"Tch. You're here again."

Allen turned around, eyes widened.

"You're still... here?" he said, looking over at the boy. His once white clothes got dirtier than the time before, his long hair a bit tousled, his eye bags bigger, his skin paler. Allen's heart was hurting. "Why does he keep doing that to himself?" he thought.

"Not that I could be anywhere else. I'm too tired to walk around this huge city" Kanata sat on a bench, "Didn't I tell you to fuck off, the other day? But you still came to me... you're really that stupid, huh."

His piercing gaze intimidated Allen slightly, but he still stepped forward. No matter what, he had to make his words reach the boy.

"Well... I just wanted to see you. You've been on my mind for a while" he said shyly, looking somewhere else, "And I still have a promise to keep after all. I really wanna understand you better."

"The only thing you gotta understand is that I wanna be left alone and yet you keep annoyin' me and bein' a creep. So I'm gonna tell you again, fuck off."

Allen looked at him properly and clenched his fists. There it was, that huge wall in front of his heart again. He didn't want to forcefully pry into Kanata's past, but he also didn't like standing there and watching him suffer. That boy surely didn't deserve it, despite what he said.

"I'm not going anywhere. Why do you want me not to get close to you? I'm not scared of you..." he got a bit closer, approaching him steadily but still not too much, "And no matter how much you push me away, I'll come back, 'cause I know deep inside... you don't wanna be alone. I know the loneliness in your heart, I know the pain-"

"...You don't know shit about me!!"

Kanata stood up, gritting his teeth. He pushed Allen, who only moved slightly. "Who do you think you are? Thinkin' you know me oh so well to make such stupid assumptions. You don't know all the shit I went through, the reasons why I ended up like this..." he said shivering, "You don't know why I deserve... all of this..."

"All I know is that you don't deserve it! I can feel you're not a bad person, and no matter what you did, there's always a second chance! The world is full of possibilities!"

"You're so naive it's pathetic... is your head filled with flowers and butterflies? Only the gifted ones are given second chances. If you've gone once through the mud, you're stuck in the dirt forever." Kanata wasn't looking at Allen anymore, the latter's eyes too intense they made him flinch. "Wake the fuck up, Suzaku. This is the real world, a fuckin' pile of garbage!"

Allen's gaze softened, but still let his tenacity flow out. "Well... if you put it like that, then I'm gonna prove you wrong. I will be the one to give you a second chance!" he said smiling proudly, "How about you move in with me and my roommates? Don't worry, we'll give you lots of personal space! The apartment is big after all and-"

"...He said what!?"

"Anne, you should lower your voice..."

Allen heard some not so muffled voices behind the bushes and immediately turned around.

"Anne... Hajun...!?"

#🪐; no celestial #paradox live #paralive #kanallen #allenkana #allen sugasano #kanata yatonokami #IT'S BEEN 84 YEARS #i was just ITCHING to write again #i'm thinking about publishing a new chapter every month but. who knows #anyways yes their final dialogue was a bit inspired by the desire drama cd :>#it's one of my favorites so why not remaking it 🤪#i hope y'all like it!! reblogs asks and comments are always appreciated <3

16 notes · View notes

elizaviento · 1 year

Text

Green on the Vine — Strawberry Wine (Part 6 of ?)

(Stardew Valley — Shane/Female Farmer/OC)

This chapter is rated SFW — 4079 words.

Note: I'm so sick right now, I wrote this entire chapter while drugged up on Nyquil and Imitrex. Lmfao. I hope to god it makes sense.

(FYI: Additional chapters of Green on the Vine — Strawberry Wine can be found in the Stardew Valley Fic Masterpost link in my blog description. Or, you can click the #green on the vine strawberry wine tag in this post, within my blog, to access all additional chapters.)

*****

Shane coughed, covering his mouth just in time to prevent the lump of what Kristen called lasagna from flying right into her face.

Her expression twisted in concern, obviously thinking he was choking, and she rose from her chair to slap him between the shoulders with more force than he expected. He coughed again, weakly shoving her away so he could swallow the mass in his mouth and reach for his water glass.

"Are you okay!?" she asked, hovering behind his chair, close enough that he could feel her breath on the back of his neck. Even now, he had to suppress a shiver as the humid warmth lit up an unexpected pleasure center in his brain.

"Yeah," he answered in between several more coughs. He scrubbed at the unshed tears that pooled in his eyes, the raw sting at the back of his throat making him grimace.

Naively, he wondered if the farmer would forget about her ridiculous demand if he didn't acknowledge it. So, he hesitated, silence settling between them like an unwanted guest that had overstayed their welcome. Eventually, she returned to her chair across from him, her large brown eyes brimming with uncertainty.

"Shane —"

"Give me a minute," he interrupted, rising from his chair. Before he realized it, he was pulling the bathroom door closed, his lungs deflating so rabidly that he felt slightly dizzy.

Shane's haggard reflection greeted him from the mirror above the sink, small patches of fog still clinging to the smooth surface. He knew he couldn't hide forever, so he sat on the toilet seat and cradled his head in his hands, the image of her imploring face seared into the back of his eyelids like a fresh brand.

Despite a lack of sleep, he'd had a decent day. Almost good. Work sucked; it always did. But he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that seeing Kristen that morning and the anticipation of seeing her again afterward was the only reason it wasn't as soul-suckingly miserable as usual. It was uncomfortable enough admitting such a thing to himself while he made the trek back to her farm after his shift, only to be greeted by her smiling face and a home-cooked meal, despite her dismal culinary skills. But the request she'd dropped on him like an atom bomb made his discomfort significantly worse, especially since he was certain she was blissfully unaware of how her presence had taken root in his life. Piercing his flesh, worming through soft tissue, snaking between his ribs, constricting his once atrophied heart.

Her request was benign. Innocent and pure. But Shane's feelings were anything but.

She'd once called him her best friend after they'd spent a late Friday at the Stardrop. It wasn't often she drank with him, but that night she'd clearly had something weighing on her mind that she intended to drown in a sea of whiskey. Already tipsy by the time she'd arrived, liquid courage urged him to support her quest, buying her shot after shot until her cheeks flushed and her calloused hands clutched one of his biceps for support. The warmth that had bloomed in his belly as she uttered those words had nothing to do with the booze, and he hadn't felt the need to deny it. He also hadn't said it back, hoping she instinctively knew he felt the same.

It was early February, and flakes of fluffy snow danced around them as the duo stumbled from the Saloon into the abandoned town square. Emily had closed and locked the door behind them before patting them both on the shoulder and steering them toward their shared path. The walk was slow, with awkward steps they'd attempted to make in tandem, only to trip over one another's feet and slip on the freshly fallen snow like a pair of spring foals taking their first steps on wobbly newborn legs.

Her giggles had been more intoxicating than anything Shane swallowed that evening. The chill of her nose when she'd pressed her face to the column of his throat sent a shiver down his spine that even the frigid gusts of winds couldn't compete with. The uncharacteristic huskiness of her voice when she'd invited him inside her home awoke something within him that he'd suppressed for longer than he'd wanted to admit.

Her keys jingled as she'd fumbled them from the pocket of her jeans. His breaths quickened as she'd swung the door open and pulled him inside. And his body had burst into flames when her lips made contact with the corner of his mouth.

"Fuck," he hissed, digging his nails into his scalp as the memory haunted him once again. Almost 6 months had passed, and he still couldn't scrub it from his mind. Kristen's memory of that night was non-existent. He knew the second he'd bumped into her the following afternoon at Pierre's, her curly hair tied in a messy bun and her bloodshot eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses despite the snowy gloom. She'd smiled and waved at him, a bottle of aspirin clutched in one hand and a case of ginger ale in the other.

Shane's heart had sunk through his stomach and settled in his toes. Every step he'd made that day squashed the traitorous organ more and more until it resembled the flattened husk of a possum that he'd once discovered during his morning walk to school as a child. Discarded. Lifeless.

Despite his own hangover, he'd hyped himself up to approach her while sober. Apologize for refusing her advance but explain that it was only because he didn't want to fuck it up by sloppily screwing his only real friend in a drunken haze just to have her regret it the following morning. Or worse, accuse him of taking advantage of her. So he'd gently peeled the farmer from his front and guided her to bed. He'd removed her shoes and smoothed the wild strands of hair from her forehead and face. He'd fed her mangy cat and ensured her fire would burn through the night. Then, he’d walked home to the ranch. Alone.

When Shane gathered his wits and found his way back to the kitchen, the table was cleared, and the nerve-wracking sound of silverware scraping porcelain assaulted his ears, making him cringe.

"Do you, uh — need help?" he asked, coming to stand beside her at the sink. She'd balanced a plate on the side of the basin and used the prongs of a fork to fling the attached slab of overdone pasta into the disposal. "You don't have to be so stubborn."

"Are you going to ignore my question?" she pivoted, painfully pointing out that she wasn't the only stubborn one in the room by stabbing the plate one last time, sending it clattering to the bottom of the sink.

"It wasn't a question," he countered. Kristen closed her eyes and lowered her head, frustration emanating from her in waves that were nearly palpable. "Kriss, I can't just move in here. You know that. I can't leave Jas —"

"Do you really think I'd expect you to leave her with Marnie?"

"Then where would she stay?" he asked, a lump forming in his throat. No matter how fucking insane it was, his mind conjured up an image of Jas occupying one room of the farmhouse while he and the farmer shared the other. He swallowed, the lump growing larger as his heart fluttered and its pace quickened.

"You know that cabin at the edge of the property? I had Robin fix it up a year ago because my brother said he wanted to come help out on the farm."

Shane vaguely recalled Kristen mentioning it when he'd stopped by and saw Robin and her son Sebastian unloading lumber from the carpenter's pickup truck. As far as he knew, her brother never showed up.

"It's only one room," he pointed out, confused.

"I know. I thought I could move in there, and you and Jas could stay here in the farmhouse. See — plenty of space for everyone."

"Oh."

Silence settled between them again, and Shane quickly dispelled the happy family fantasy from his head, feeling foolish.

"So?" she hedged, taking a step toward him, invading his personal space like she always did. "I know this seems out of the blue, but I can't think of anyone else who would go out on such a limb for me, Shane. The thought of you walking here multiple times a day to take care of my farm… it isn't fair. As much as I hate to admit it, I'll need help for a while if I have to have surgery, and I want to help you, too. You can stay here for free. You can quit Joja if you want or maybe go part-time?"

"What happens after you're all healed up?" he asked. His heart rate had increased again, and he found himself pacing the floor. Partly to put a bit of distance between them and partly to burn the anxious energy that began to radiate up his spine.

"Nothing," she said, shaking her head. He wondered if she felt as flustered as she suddenly appeared. "We can run the farm together."

Shane figured that statement was supposed to provide clarity, but it only confused him further — she and the town drunk running a farm together… but separately.

Anger suddenly boiled within him, bubbling over and threatening to consume him if he didn't leave. Now.

"I gotta think about it," he said, snatching his backpack and stalking toward the door. Kristen said something, her voice beseeching and her aura pressing down on him from behind as she followed him outside and down the steps of her porch. But he kept walking, hastening his stride until he crossed the property line into Cindersap Forest, anger quickly replaced by something more potent. Something harder to control. Something he didn't have the energy to wrestle into submission while Kristen's thoughtless proposal relentlessly bounced between his ears like a rogue ping pong ball — "We can run the farm together."

Marnie's questioning expression faded the second she recognized the hardened and vacant look in her nephew's eyes. Shane ignored her as he entered his room and rooted around in his sock drawer for the wad of cash he'd been storing there. He hadn't bothered to count it in a while, but the stack had grown fatter and fatter each night he'd managed to avoid the Saloon. Maybe the stack would be cut in half by the morning. Maybe it would be completely gone. At this point, Shane couldn't bring himself to give a damn.

❦❧🍓❦❧

"So —" Emily said, sliding a fresh mug of ale toward Shane, "— where's Kristen tonight?" Shane flicked his eyes upward to meet hers, a hardly contained scowl contrasting the playful smirk she delivered in return. Shane never understood how this woman could peer directly into the recesses of his soul, but she never ceased to surprise him. "I suppose she's not up for the Friday night crowd?"

Shane scoffed, taking a generous gulp from the frosty mug.

"Dunno what she's doing."

"She's on your mind, though. I can practically see her dancing on your shoulder," Emily quipped, gathering the collection of empty mugs surrounding him before loading them into the small portable dishwasher she only seemed to wheel out when Shane was on a bender. He wondered if she kept tabs on those instances just as closely as he did these days. Regardless, he simply shrugged in response, another gulp of ale slipping past his lips to join the countless others, blunting his frayed emotions until they no longer scratched at the closed door of his heart like an abandoned puppy.

As much as Shane preferred to sulk without distractions, the cacophony of voices and raucous laughter in the Stardrop Saloon on Friday evenings served as necessary white noise. When he'd lived alone in the city, he couldn't afford to frequent the local bars and still pay his astronomical rent. So he'd opted to drink cheap Joja brand beer with the television's volume set to max. In the Saloon, no one bothered to approach him anyway, so he considered it a worthy alternative to pissing Marnie off and keeping Jas up all night.

"Will you do me a favor?" Emily spoke up again, shattering the delusion he'd just attempted to craft — No one notices you. No one cares…

"Hmm?" He didn't bother to look up at her this time. Studying the strange woman's intuition and why she bothered to waste it on him was no use.

"Would you mind calling her to see how she is? I would do it myself but keep my phone in the back and —" she gestured at the crowd surrounding them, several members waving toward her, signaling that they required another round.

Shane blinked slowly, considering her request. If he were sober, he might have seen through Emily's subtle ploy. Unfortunately, he was well past the threshold of drunk and steadily ebbing toward shit-faced. Nevertheless, he narrowed his eyes at her, the corners of his mouth sagging as he clutched the handle of his rapidly draining mug a bit tighter than was necessary.

"Please? I have a healing crystal to lend her. Just ask when I can swing by tomorrow?"

Before he could reply, Emily shimmied her way past Gus and exited the opposite side of the bar. Her shock of blue hair was easy to track as she weaved through the crowd with a tray weighed down with assorted cocktails he hadn't even noticed her mixing.

With an audible groan, unbothered by who may notice, Shane cradled his chin in one hand. Marnie's laugh filtered toward him through the crowd, and he cringed. He'd felt her gaze upon him more than once like a laser, sizzling his flesh from across the Saloon. Lewis was most likely with her, treating her like a business associate while in the public eye. But she would spend the remainder of the night away from the ranch, tiptoeing through the front door at the crack of dawn the following morning like a rebellious teenager. At least Jas was sleeping over at Vincent's that night, sparing her witnessing her caretakers behaving like self-centered fools.

Shane momentarily forgot Emily's request as he brooded, draining the remainder of the ale in his mug. Until the farmer's name escaped the mouth of one of the kids in the adjacent game room.

Kids, he thought with a bitter laugh, recalling when he would have been offended if some bar rat called him such when he was in his 20s.

"You saw Kristen in town?" Sam asked one of the others.

"Yeah. She didn't say much, though. Bet her hand is pretty fucked up, based on how big the bandage was. Alex is supposed to drop some shit off at her place tonight, so maybe he'll spill the beans," Sebastian said, followed by the loud and precise clack of pool balls colliding.

"How much you wanna bet he shows up in the crop top and gridball shorts like that's his normal outfit?" a female voice interjected. Shane could picture her face in his mind's eye, but her name escaped him. Purple hair, lots of eyeliner… It didn't fucking matter. What did was the chorus of answering laughter, presumably agreeing with the young woman's apt assumption.

"You're giving away how much porn you watch. And what kind," Sam joked. Shane — completely homed in on their conversation now — swiveled on his stool and watched the trio as they took turns at the pool table, petty gossip flowing from their lips like a fountain.

"Honestly," Sebastian chimed in, taking another expert shot. A cigarette was tucked behind his ear, reminding Shane of 50s greasers — a whole pack rolled up in one sleeve and a comb wedged in their back pockets. "Remember when he told us he'd have her ankles behind her ears within a month when she first moved here?"

Another round of laughter erupted from the small group of friends; their evident skepticism proven right over 2 years later.

"I dunno, man, I almost believed him," Sam said, lining up his own shot and missing it in spectacular fashion. "There's a reason he wears that crop top and why Haley rides his dick all over town."

"Shut up!" the girl hissed. Shane suddenly remembered her name — Abigail. As if it mattered. "Emily can probably hear you like… telepathically or something."

The utterance of the waitress' name slammed her former request back into the forefront of Shane's brain, along with a raunchy vision of Alex the gridball player seducing the farmer and railing her into next Tuesday. Bile bit the back of his throat and he swallowed, forcing it down to drown in the lake of ale it had somehow escaped from. His motor functions were already loose and sloppy, but he managed to fish his cell phone from the pocket of his threadbare hoodie and initiate a call.

The tension in Shane's jaw tightened with each ring, his teeth feeling as if they could crack at any second.

"Hi, it's Kristen. Leave a message, and I'll get back to you when I can."

He immediately tapped the call button again and held his breath.

"Hi, it's Kristen. Leave a message, and I'll get back to you when I can."

Again.

"Hi, it's Kristen. Leave a —"

He slammed his phone on the bar hard enough for a crack to form at one corner of the screen and snake upward toward the center. Bitterness coated his tongue, and he slammed it harder, watching as the crack branched, consuming the tempered glass entirely. It was oddly satisfying, and he ran the pad of his thumb over the pattern, the slight scrape grounding him momentarily.

"Everything alright, Shane?" Gus asked. His jovial tone was unexpected, but his concerned expression was not. Emily had reappeared and hovered nearby, filling a glass with ice water. Shane wondered just how many eyes had shifted toward him in the wake of his micro tantrum but refused to acknowledge them.

"Uh, yeah," he said, not bothering with an excuse. Emily placed the water glass in front of him, the soft clink of ice inside conjuring up memories of sweet tea on the farmer's porch in Spring. Marnie chattering away while Jas played with the mangy cat. The farmer's gaze laid heavy upon him while he scowled, determined to reject her hospitality at every turn...

His phone lit up with an incoming call, the contact photo easily recognizable, even through the spider web of destruction — the farmer proudly standing in front of her grange display at the Stardew Valley Fair. She'd asked him to take it, first place ribbon pinned to the front of her overalls and a broad smile plastered across her freckled face. He was sure she had no idea he'd saved it after texting it to her, let alone used it as her contact photo.

He snatched the device from the bar, indignation flaring up anew as he aggressively tapped the answer button and pressed the phone to his ear.

"Shane? What's up?" Her tone was apprehensive. Almost cautious.

All at once, words jumbled in his brain. Phrases formed and caught in his throat before another took its place. He wanted to ask her why she didn't answer. He wanted to ask her if she was alone. He wanted to ask her —

"Did you have fun with Alex?"

"What?" He could almost see her shocked expression as he screwed his eyes shut and raked his free hand through his hair. "How did you —"

"Why don't you ask him to move in with you instead?" he spat, venom lacing each syllable. He felt betrayed in a way that made perfect sense to his ale-addled brain. Explosions of color bloomed behind his eyes as he dug a fist into them, his jaw clenched again so tightly that his temples ached.

"You're drunk." He scoffed as if her obvious observation was utterly outlandish. "I'll be there soon."

She hung up on him, and Shane slipped his damaged phone back into his hoodie pocket. He contemplated leaving, stumbling to the dock and spending the rest of the night there with a case of Joja brand beer. It was tempting, but he knew Kristen would seek him out, and that would be the first place she'd go, having found him there on too many occasions to number. As much as he loathed to admit it, he was a creature of habit, and she'd become a part of that routine, disrupting his vices with her stupid distractions.

Fuck it, he thought, pulling a wad of crumpled bills from his cargo shorts and tossing them on the bar. The farmer had flipped Shane's entire life on its head, inserting herself into every aspect despite his initial resistance. She knew what she was getting into; he never asked for any of it. He never asked for her.

The walk from the Saloon to the ranch was hazy, but his feet knew the path by heart. Idly he wondered if the outlines of his footprints could be detected like the remnants of blood spatter at a crime scene. A morbid blueprint that traced the path of his daily trek as a useless deadbeat.

"I want you to move in with me."

The ranch was dark when he stumbled through the front door, save for a small night light in the kitchen. Marnie had left it unlocked, probably realizing that Shane would be too drunk to wrestle with his keys, which was simultaneously endearing and annoying. But he shook it off as he plodded toward his room and fished the spare case of beer from the back of his closet. He'd considered getting rid of it multiple times but never did, unease forcing him to toss a spare blanket over it instead.

"We can run the farm together."

He cracked open one of the lukewarm cans and tipped the contents down his throat, draining it completely before leaving his room. Crumpling the empty can in his fist, he tossed it toward the wastebasket in the corner and missed. It lay on the floor, instantly forgotten until the following morning when he would trip over it on his way to the toilet — a problem for future Shane to deal with, along with the shameful hangover and disappointed lecture from his loving aunt.

The journey to the lake dock was just as instinctive, and he soon found himself lying with his legs dangling over the edge, a warm breeze caressing his bare calves and forearms. The night was sultry, so he'd shed his hoodie and rolled it into a makeshift pillow, protecting his hair from the thin layer of mold carpeting the surface of the moist wood.

Time seemed stretched thin, like a rubber band on the verge of snapping. Seconds pulled taunt until they resembled hours, spinning and tilting like a top when Shane closed his eyes. He didn't know how many cans he'd demolished while waiting to be discovered nor how many he had left. He supposed it didn't matter, anticipating it all to make a reappearance before the night's end.

The faint crunch of twigs and rustle of fabric caught Shane's attention, and he lolled his head to the side. Muddy boots appeared out of nowhere, thumping across the wood of the dock like thunder rolling through his head. He groaned, draping an arm over his face to shield his eyes from the beam of a flashlight, striking his skull like lightning.

"Sit up," the farmer demanded. A scrap of metal assaulted his ears, and he grimaced, wondering if she was sharpening a knife on a flint block.

Maybe she's finally sick of your shit and came here to put you out of your misery.

The grim thought amused him, and he laughed, breaking into a throaty, fruitless cough. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted toward him instead, hardy and robust, and he finally sat up, catching the farmer pouring the black concoction into the lid of an ancient thermos. A backpack sat next to her, another thermos poking out along with an entire loaf of bread. She'd clearly come prepared.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the lid toward his face. The uncompromising quality of her tone slapped some sense into him, and he cautiously took it, shiny metal already warm to the touch. “Time to sober up.”

#stardew valley #stardew valley shane #sdv shane #sdv shane x farmer #fanfiction #green on the vine strawberry wine

13 notes · View notes

grieverled-moved · 1 year

Text

"Happy Birthday Leon." Cloud said with a smile, taking Leon's wrist with one hand and dropping something from his other into the man's palm. It was a ring fashioned very similar in design to the fenrir emblem on his chest, only this one was in the shape of a lion. It was also very reminiscent of the necklace that Leon always wore around his neck. That kind of profile but 3D like Cloud's emblem. The perfect mix of the two designs, carved from sturdy steel. "I've actually been meaning to give you this for a long time. I was just waiting for the perfect moment I guess. I hope you like it." Cloud didn't make eye contact with him, a light blush turning his cheeks pink.

He never bothered with things like birthdays. Not usually nor as often, as his attention was usually split between several other tasks that held more importance to him over something as sentimental as that.

. . . Or so that's what he told himself, reasoning it all off as his own birthday held little importance, brushing it off & going so out of his way to hide it from his friends & those he knew so they wouldn't make such a big deal out of it. He never understood why they did - but he couldn't fault them either for it, finding some endearment from it in the rare moments of peace he could when they'd go to plan things for one another.

It was . . . evidently fine so long as it wasn't done for him, or with him in mind.

He never knew how to accept that kind of thing, never really liked to act so selfishly when all he'd known for the past few years was to give & focus on everyone else under his care. To have so much attention focused solely on him all at once when it wasn't for an emergency situation . . . it picked away at him, made him even more avoidant on the actual day out of some paranoia & discomfort.

But silver linings - with things calming down following their world's restoration, the gentle, hopeful easing back in to something more normal without all the panic & ever present need to fight & stay so on edge . . . he was starting to open up to things little by little. But watching as Cloud approaches today, he can't help but squint, the cat-like cant of his head & the suspicious way his brow arches as he watches the blonde man come to a stop directly in front of him. When Cloud bluntly gives his birthday wishes, that old urge to hide & excuse himself briefly flares, but it's Cloud's smile that keeps him stubbornly frozen in place, eyes widening in surprise.

He blinks a couple times, a bit of warmth coming to colour the tops of his cheeks, dusting along the shells of his ears & the bridge of his nose as he goes to clear his throat, to try & respond, only to find himself stunned into silence again at the grasp curling around his wrist. Gentle, tender as he always was with him, Cloud guides his hand to their center, turning it over before he places something in the heart of his palm.

It's warm, no doubt metal but well-loved in how it'd likely been cradled in the other's hand till then. He's almost scared to look down, holds off on it as the swordsman continues, his tone soft, fondly so - bearing with it a sort of sheepishness that draws a ghost-like smile to his own lips as he makes a sound low in his throat. Cloud was normally so blunt, direct, just as awkward as he was ( 'Usually a relief . . .' ) with stuff like this. Seeing him push through it for sentimentality's sake, get out of his own comfort zone to present him with something for his birthday, it incites curiosity, a feeling just as warm unfurling within the hollow of his chest as he gently curls his fingers around the gift.

They feel along it blindly, tracing the ridges & divots he can find, his gaze focused solely on the other man as he explains more, all before he breaks contact to duck his head with a flustered sigh, one that teeters off into a quiet laugh usually reserved for their more private moments. It feels appropriate, he reasons.

"I see."

Drawing his hand up once Cloud releases him, he can feel the other's eyes following each move, lingering along his face to watch his expression in anxiety-ridden anticipation. His smile widens, the barest peek of dimples & teeth present as the gun-blader moves his fingers to study what he now knows is a ring. He recognizes the design near instantly - a mix of his own beloved Griever & Cloud's Fenrir, the very same metal clasp that adorned his pauldron.

It's a small but meaningful gift, one that bears with it an unspoken seriousness in what it represented. He wasn't particularly traditional . . . but . . . assuming it's what Cloud meant in gifting it his way, it stood as a symbol he was serious about him. About their bond, the decision to grow as close as they had. That Cloud had thought of him fondly enough, trusted him enough to keep him cradled as close to his heart. He already knew just how much he'd meant to the other, but something about this whole thing makes him feel like melting wax in that moment.

His smile twitches, the falter nearly giving way to something more tender in it's vulnerability. But he'd never been very good at expressing it, something he is beyond thankful the other swordsman understands . . .

As he goes to carefully peel his glove off, tucking it away into one of his jacket pockets, he remains ever mindful to keep the ring from any threat of falling. Leon raises his eyes to meet Cloud's own, the way they crinkle around their edges & the lightness in shade belaying his joy in their usual calmed manner - holding out the hand for the other, he cheekily asks if he'd be willing to do the honors for him.

"I feel like I should be giving you something in return . . . birthday gift or not, this . . . Cloud, it's beautiful. Where'd you even find time to get something like this made?"

@defiant-ex-soldiers ╲ CLOUD STRIFE

#╰┈➤ IN CHARACTER.#DEFIANTEXSOLDIERS #➤ 𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒. ◆ KINGDOM HEARTS VERSE #╰┈➤ MEMORIES. / ARCHIVED REPORTS.#( … ) // BEYOND LATE BUT GOD THIS WAS SO SOFT I HAD TO ANSWER IT DESPITE THAT

1 note · View note

todoscript · 4 years

Text

coming home and finding out you fell asleep with lingerie on

characters: bakugou katsuki. todoroki shouto. genre: smut. warnings: 18+. very heaty moments. katsuki and shouto have no restraint. author’s note: This came out of nowhere, but I had an urge to write some spicy stuff so this is what happened. I was going to add Izuku too, but these things became longer than I thought they would (sorry baby). I’ll probably post his version of this with another character in the future though! The actual steamy stuff is written underneath the bulletpoints & read more! ;-)

bakugou katsuki

isn’t surprised to see you passed out on the couch with a small blanket over you, being that he arrived back at your shared apartment late at night due to another full day of hero work

cue his expression softening to those secret endearing eyes of his he never shows in front of you as he watches you for much longer than necessary, breathing in and out evenly in your sleep

but hey, can you blame him? you’re pretty damn cute when you’re so sound asleep like that—word by word thoughts going through his head right now

he knows you can’t stay here for long though. it gets pretty chilly in the living room and he doesn’t want you to catch something, considering how flimsy the blanket is that’s covering you. the material barely reaches to your ankles.

“Babe. Hey, babe. I’m home, c’mon let’s sleep on the bed,” he says low in his gruff voice, running a hand up your arm that’s clad in the blanket.

shakes you a bit to stir you awake so you can both walk to the bed together, but you don’t budge the first couple of times, only humming in your sleep

so he takes it upon himself to carry you to your room and properly get you to bed

however, when he moves the thin blanket off of you, that look of surprise slowly envelops his face when he sees inches of bare skin unveiled the more he pulls the sheet down

- - - - -

You’re practically naked aside from the sheer, wine red lace that only covers your most intimate parts, and even that isn’t enough to keep Katsuki’s eyes from wandering and his thoughts from wandering further.

With the blanket drawn off you, there isn’t a barrier to keep the cold from nipping at your skin—a sensation that agitates you awake as you stretch out your sleepiness on the couch. You’re still unaware of the lecherous eyes that stare at every angle you offer them. Spreading your body out like that, where the fabric clings to you, accentuating all your curves right in front of him? You may seem half-asleep, but there has to be a vixen at work inside that mind of yours. There’s no way you can’t be aware of what you’re doing to him.

It’s not until you rub away some of your drowsiness that you finally perceive the blonde kneeling before the couch. The surprise at discovering his attentive, red eyes glaring at you startles you to attention. You fix your hair, moving the strands out of your face and cleaning off the invisible marks of drool that might have abided your lips.

“Oh, welcome home, Katsuki,” you manage to greet, but Katsuki does not return your welcome. Instead, you feel his large calloused palm run up the length of your legs, and you realize the situation you’re in—how you decided to surprise him that night, wearing a new matching set of dark red lingerie, only to end up dozing off on the couch waiting for him. Though it seems it wasn’t all for naught. With the carnal expression he gives you in your most vulnerable state, he’s more than surprised alright. He’s absolutely thrilled.

Katsuki’s hands explore across your skin, mapping through every expanse despite being more than familiar with the territory. But in actuality, he’s paying all his attention to the lace—the fabric seeming so flimsy, so obscenely indecent on that figure of yours, yet at the same time, equally exquisite. You don’t wear lingerie often, but when you do, it always spurs something to tighten down in his pants, seeing you like this.

His hand trails up the material, tracing the texture before slowly inching his fingers beneath the waistband. “Mm, babe, were you planning something? Looking all sexy, wearing this—” he snaps the elastic against your bare skin, stinging any sleepiness lingering in you away as you wince at the sensation, “skimpy thing while I was gone? You must be desperate to get fucked, right?”

Even if you want to answer, he doesn’t let you. Any words desiring to leave stay trapped in your throat when Katsuki suddenly leans in to fervently capture your lips.

Despite the usual rampant pace of his actions, you soon adjust into his air of lust like it’s second nature. Your tongue mingles against his through each succession of your lips locking together, your hands twining into his ash blonde hair. Katsuki gets to work at removing his shirt with one hand, but remains mindful at busying the other by palming at the lace, gathering your flesh in his grasp before the other joins in on the ministrations.

He finally makes his way onto the couch with you, towering over your body and revels in the noises sounding past those pretty lips when his fingers find your center. All the sensations pile in your body, making you tremble in waves. The wetness already seeping through your delicate panties becomes slicker at his touch.

“Barely even did anything and you’re already this fucking wet? You really do want to get fucked don’tcha?”

“God, yes, please Katsuki. Please fuck me, I want you to fuck me so bad,” you whimper, not sugarcoating your words. You need him right now. Need him so much you’re willing to beg for him without restraint, dropping every ounce of your dignity if it meant he’d pound into you and relieve you of that ache building in your lower-half. It’s to the point where just the sound of his belt unbuckling around his pants is enough to delight and send tingles of anticipation to your cunt.

“Oh, don’t worry, babe. Waiting on me all this time? I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. All. Fucking. Night. Long.” The tone his timbre descends toward incites a whine past your lips, and he smirks at the desperate sound.

“But on one condition.”

“W-What?” You’re quick to reply—anything to lessen the delay and continue the heat of your passion. However, you’re hesitant at what this condition might entail, especially when Katsuki’s grin widens further. His hands do not relent in pulling and pressing against you through the red material of your lingerie.

“I get to fuck you in this thing.”

todoroki shouto

grumbling on his way home because of how late it is and how long you must have been waiting for him

his old man just had to drone on and on at him when the former pro hero visited his agency that night

because of that, he enters your shared space where the silence and dimness of the apartment are what welcome him

he wishes you were the one that would greet him instead, arms open for him as you ask about his day

but he’s more than aware you fell asleep waiting for him all this time

especially when he strides into his bedroom and beholds you laying on your large bed with a fluffy robe wrapped and tied around your body. your eyes are closed in slumber and you’re curled up atop the sheets

you look so precious to him, he can’t stop an adoring smile from finding his lips

he slightly nudges you. when you slowly rouse awake, your small, dozy movements add to his endearment for you that spurs his lips to your forehead while you adjust to your surroundings

“Love, I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Let’s get to bed.”

you hum a pitched “alright” in reply that comes out in a whine while you rub your eyes, saying you should get changed then

he sits on the edge of the bed, watching you saunter to the bathroom as you untie the sash of your robe along the way

just before your figure disappears inside however, he catches your skin, decorated in intricate black lace when you let the fluffy material fall below your shoulders

- - - - -

Shouto can’t help the look on his face while he unknowingly ogles you, eyes growing lidded with every peek of your body shown through the sizable crack of the door. He almost releases a groan when the long robe obscuring him from the rest of you finally piles in a heap on the floor and catches the full appearance of your body covered in the enticing black set.

The way it enhances your curves and brings out the beauty of your skin tone is beyond sinful in his eyes. He’s wondering how something so dainty can incite such a hardened reaction from him so quickly, and why he can’t seem to tear his gaze away at your mussed form still ridden with bits of sleep. You must be a succubus, right? Because how can you look so innocent, yet so tempting at the same time?

His attention on you leads to him lifting off the bed and striding to the bathroom, still trained on your figure with only lascivious thoughts running through his mind. He wants to touch you, squeeze you, feel the elaborate, lacy texture of your lingerie as he presses your soft lips on his, and hear all your lustful cries in the course of his insatiable greed.

Utterly devour you.

You have absolutely no idea what’s going through him right now, too occupied tidying bits of yourself in the mirror with a set of sleeping clothes lying on the counter, waiting to replace your beribboned attire. You wore this with the idea of wanting to treat Shouto to a good night of passion, but considering the time and how he must be tired after a long day at his agency, you figure it’s too late for such desires now. Oh, how wrong you are.

Undoubtedly so as the moment your fingers find the clasp on your back holding your bra together, they’re thwarted by a hand wrapping around your wrist and moving them out of the way. Within that instance, you’re also spun around. Your back presses against the sink counter as you come face to face with the sensual glint in Shouto’s gray and blue eyes.

You feel small underneath his unwavering, heavy gaze, squirming in place while his hands still grip your wrists that subdue any thought of you getting away from him. “Shouto, I need to get changed so we can go to sleep—”

“How long have you been wearing this?” he interjects, ignoring your plea and slipping a finger beneath the satin strap of your bra. Meanwhile, the other hand caresses up your warm, bare thigh until it arrives at your panties’ lace. The gestures leave the air hitching in your throat. You have to swallow down a gulp in order to reply to him amid his methodical strokes and caresses.

“I had it on all evening…” you admit, voice becoming quiet. Shouto hums at your answer, leaning into you and pressing your back further against the counter. He traces up your form with not only his hands but also his eyes, committing your bewitching state to memory, familiarizing himself with the intricate patterns of your lingerie.

“For that long, love? You expect me not to appreciate the effort and thought you put in, bearing your pretty body in this—” he palms at your breast through your underwear, rousing a moan to slip from your lips, “and waiting for me this entire time?”

“I-I thought you’d be too tired to—ah—t-to do anything so I figured we should go to sleep now, mm—” You find it hard to keep your voice steady. Not with Shouto’s ministrations descending to your cunt, stroking the wetness gathering at your center that saturates the crotch of your black panties. He captures the slickness around his fingertips and earnestly licks it off with his tongue, admiring your taste while keeping such intense eye contact. It makes your cheeks burn and your arousal heighten.

“On the contrary, baby, seeing you in this just riles me up even more. Makes me want to ravage you while you’re wearing it,” he tells you with an edge in his tone that reduces you to whimpers. Before you can come up with any coherent thought, he hoists you up onto the bathroom sink, effectively spreading you open in front of him as he kneels eye level toward your clothed pussy.

“And that’s exactly what I intend to do. So sit there and let me admire you as I appreciate everything you have to offer.”

#bnha x reader #bnha smut #bakugou smut #todoroki smut #bnhabookclub #bakugou x reader #todoroki x reader #katsuki smut #shouto smut #bnha imagine #bnha scenarios #bakugou katsuki x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #bakugou imagine #todoroki imagine

9K notes · View notes

tripleaxeldiaz · 3 years

Text

nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy

read on ao3

Eddie’s fine. Really. He’s got a fresh scar on his right shoulder, a twin to his other one, and a couple more medical bills to pay off, but other than that, everything is good.

Why shouldn’t it be? Things could be worse — he could’ve lost his arm, could’ve been shot in the spine instead, could’ve not survived the trip to the hospital. But he did — he’s healed, he’s still breathing, and he’s ready to get back to work on Monday, to stop staring at the inside of his house and get back to the life he’d finally started to feel settled in. There’s a twinge in his chest every time he thinks about actually being back out in the field, but it’s just nerves, a small worry at getting back into the swing of things. He knows the team and how well they work together, so he’s sure one rope rescue with Buck is all it’ll take to feel normal again.

He’s fine. Or almost fine. Really, he is. He doesn’t let the tremble in his hands or the ice in his gut tell him otherwise.

~~~~~~~~~~

It doesn’t really register, the first time it happens. There’s a glint of light in his periphery, and for a second, his arms go numb. It’s just a second, though — he sees the flash again, sunlight shining off an axe Ravi is packing onto the truck, and he moves on, doesn’t think about it again.

The next time, the wind whips by his ear a little too fast after a call at the pier, and he turns around so quickly he cracks his neck, the thought of bulletbulletbullet ricocheting in his head. It gets him a concerned look from Bobby and reminds him that he never called that therapist his doctor mentioned at his last visit, but he elects to deal with it later and moves on.

Things keep happening, but they’re all small, insignificant — someone laughing too loudly at dinner, the feel of hot asphalt under his hands as he reaches under the ambulance for a runaway bandage roll, a phantom jolt of pain in his shoulder when someone accidentally jostles him running to the truck.

Tiny things, meaningless, not even worth remembering.

He’ll get used to them, eventually. He’s been healing, isolated from the real world for months now, it’s going to be a bit of a shock to his system and his senses.

He doesn’t call the therapist.

~~~~~~~~~~

Buck’s happy. Genuinely happy, in an open, honest way that Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever seen. His laughs are still loud but they’re freer, unrestrained, and his smile is bright enough to light whatever room he’s in. It makes something sing in Eddie’s chest, especially when all that wattage gets directed at him. If he’s honest, the music’s been there for a while, it just took lying in his own blood, reaching toward the only thing that felt like safety, for him to finally put a name on the song that’s been playing.

Talk about shitty timing.

Because Buck’s with Taylor now, and as much as he still doesn’t care for her, she’s helping with Buck’s new attitude too. He sees the soft smiles that linger after a text from her, and he only gives himself a minute to wish it were for him instead before reminding himself how much of a miracle those smiles are at all.

If he had watched Buck get shot, been splattered with his blood, been soaked with it as he tried to stop it from leaking out of his chest, he’s not sure he would’ve had any kind of happiness to spare.

So he adds this feeling, this particularly green beast twisting in his chest, to the list of things that he’s just going to have to get used to, and moves on. Buck is still in his and Chris’ life, still at their house more than his own, still the center of both of their worlds, and that’s enough.

It has to be.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Wow, Eddie, you look like shit.”

He glares at Chimney as best he can, but he’s too tired for it to hold any heat. “Good morning to you too, Chim.”

Hen sits next to him at the table where he’s nursing his second mug of coffee of the day, downing the first one before driving Chris to school. She presses the back of her hand to his forehead, and he tries not to melt into the touch too much.

“You don’t feel warm,” she says, “but you look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

He shrugs, staring down at his coffee. “Just haven’t been sleeping well.”

That may be an understatement. Not sleeping well implies sleeping at all, which Eddie’s not sure he’s been able to do in the past few days. It was easy enough when he first got home, still on pain meds that made his eyelids constantly heavy. And when Chris crawled into his bed the night after his sling came off, quiet but sniffling and burrowing into his side, it was a relief to gather him up close, a hand stroking through his hair as they both drifted off, clinging to each other. It was good for both of them, necessary to remind them both that Eddie is still here, but Chris went to his own room on Monday night instead of Eddie’s, and Eddie refused to take that choice away from him.

So he’s been alone, in a too dark room with a too big bed and a too loud brain that only shows him flashes of light and blood and fear whenever he does try to close his eyes.

Just another thing he has to get used to.

He sees Chim and Hen exchange a look and hopes to God they don’t press it. He’s beyond frayed, his state of exhaustion warring with his almost constant state of hypervigilance, and he’s not sure if he’d snap or cry or both if they try to ask him any more questions. Either way, that’s not how he wants them or anyone else to see him, especially not at work. At work, he’s Mr. Cool, always level headed, always in the game, always on top of it. Despite the jumpiness, despite the sense of dread that seems to be a permanent fixture under his skin, he’s been able to keep that attitude going, even getting lost in it sometimes, feeling like the Eddie of four months ago again. If that starts to unravel, who knows what other parts of him will fall apart with it?

Luckily, they seem to get the hint, a pat on the back and a squeeze on the shoulder as they leave the loft to restock the ambulance. But even once they’re gone and he’s alone in the quiet of the loft again, Eddie feels exposed. Fragile. Vulnerable. Teetering on the edge of an abyss he can’t afford to fall into. And he hates it, because this isn’t him. He’s the protector, the provider, the guy who’s survived getting shot twice now, and as much as he encourages Chris to be open and emotional, it still feels wrong to him, like something too close to failure. He knows, rationally, that talking about the mess in his head would probably help, but it would also feel like a loss. Like this one-sided war he’s been fighting was all for nothing.

He hears Buck before he sees him, his unmistakable bounding up the stairs echoing through the whole loft. Just that sound, just the knowledge that Buck is about to be in his vicinity, is enough to yank Eddie back from the edge. He’s not settled or calm or better, but he’s not worse. These days, that’s all he can really ask for.

Buck takes Hen’s vacant seat, stealing a sip of coffee and chattering about a traveling art exhibit he thinks they should take Chris to. Eddie feels the vice on his ribs loosen, letting Buck’s voice and enthusiasm wash over him, pushing him back to center. He doesn’t quite make it, not when Buck stops talking mid-sentence, brow furrowed and looking so intensely at Eddie he can probably see right through him

“You look tired,” Buck says.

Tired isn’t a strong enough word. But he smirks half heartedly instead, willing a little bit of his confidence back to get the subject changed sooner. “And here I thought I looked good today.”

“No, you always—“ Buck clears his throat and shakes his head, “You just look like you could use a nap. Are you okay?”

And for the first time since he woke up in the hospital with a new hole in his body and extra demons in his head, Eddie doesn’t want to say he’s fine. In the face of earnest blue eyes and worry lines, he doesn’t want to lie, and that’s exactly what an I’m fine would be, no matter how much he’s been trying to ignore it. He doesn’t want to downplay and pretend that it’s nothing, because it’s Buck. Buck who has seen him lower than he’s ever let anyone see, who slept on his couch so he was never too far away from him or Chris, who knows when Eddie needs to be pulled or pushed or pressed or none of the above.

He doesn’t want to just say he’s fine, because he’s not.

The courage to say so finally fills him, just in time for Buck’s phone to light up, Taylor’s name flashing across the screen on two messages. Buck doesn’t even glance at his phone before flipping it face down and pushing it to the side, but it’s too late — Eddie feels his walls going back up, any bravery leaving to make room for the reminder that Buck is in a good place and Eddie will do anything to keep him there. He’ll take another bullet, he’ll keep every emotion under lock and key, he’ll carve his own damn heart out of his chest if he has to. He cannot — will not — be the reason that smile that’s become so natural on Buck’s face dims by even a watt.

The crease in between Buck’s brow has only gotten deeper the longer Eddie hasn’t answered, so he musters up the most genuine smile he can. “I’m okay, Buck. I promise.” The lie cuts through his throat like broken glass.

Buck squints at him, scooting forward until his knees are digging into Eddie’s thigh. “You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?”

“Of course,” he says, another lie, more salt in the wounds he’s already given himself. Buck’s quiet for a few long moments, studying Eddie’s face, and Eddie prays that he doesn’t crack, that Buck doesn’t keep pressing. By some miracle, he doesn’t, just rests a hand on Eddie’s knee and squeezes before heading to the pantry for a snack.

The vice is back as soon as he’s out of sight, and Eddie’s list of things he has to learn to live with is starting to feel a little too long.

~~~~~~~~~~

Healing isn’t linear. It’s something he’s heard from every doctor he’s seen, every therapist he’s been assigned to, something he’s experienced first hand, physically and emotionally. So when he wakes up one morning feeling rested, energetic, and normal, he’s wary. He doesn’t want to focus on it, afraid he’ll scare this fragile feeling away, but he also wants to soak in it as much as he can. Wants to remember the easy laughs with the team and the night of board games with Chris and Buck when he’s inevitably surrounded by darkness again tomorrow.

He falls asleep and he doesn’t dream and he wakes up and feels...normal. Again. Same thing the morning after, and the morning after that. For a whole week, he doesn’t wake up with the taste of blood in his mouth or a soreness in his shoulder. He hears birds and sees the sun peaking in and feels something dangerously close to good. The wariness is still there, but every day it gets pushed a little farther back in his mind, making it a little easier to believe that while this feeling might not last, maybe it won’t be as dark when the clouds roll back in.

He’s wrong.

The restlessness comes back with a vengeance — a thrumming in his blood that won’t let him sleep, that amplifies every sound to sharp snaps that remind him too much of the gunfire he’s been trying to forget, putting him constantly on edge again. There’s a heaviness too, making it hard to breathe, hard to move, even though staying in one place for too long feels like putting a target on his back for the monsters that have made a home in his head.

He tries to keep his cool, tries to keep the facade up, but it’s hard to keep your balance on a frayed tightrope.

Bobby notices the shift right away.

It doesn’t help that even the quiet thump of the oven closing makes Eddie flinch where he’s sitting at the kitchen counter. He had hoped that watching Bobby make breakfast would calm him, remind him of the countless hours he’s spent in Abuela’s kitchen doing the very same thing, but it doesn’t. He’s still jittery, worse than he can remember being, and everything just feels like too much.

Bobby sets a to-go container down in front of him, and Eddie flinches (and curses himself) again. He looks up, confused, and is met with Bobby’s I’m about to tell you to do something and you are not allowed to say no look. Usually it’s Buck on the receiving end of that one.

He tries for a deflection. “Are we going somewhere, Cap?”

The look stays in place. “We are not. You are. There’s enough in there for you and Chris, take it home and don’t let me see you here for the next 48 hours.”

“There’s still three hours left of shift.”

Bobby pushes the container closer. “Go home, Diaz. Be with your kid. We’ll talk when you get back. And if you won’t talk to me, we’ll find someone you will talk to.”

Normally, he’d fight back. Raise his hackles, insist he doesn’t need any special treatment or intervention. But he feels like his insides have been scooped out and replaced with lead and cement and he’s tired. He barely has enough left in him to keep himself upright.

He slowly picks up the container and gets up to leave. Bobby calls his name as he gets to the top of the stairs.

“We’re here for you,” he says. “You’ve been through too much to be handling this on your own. Just let us know how we can help.”

I would if I could, but I don’t even know where to start.

He just nods, hopes his face looks some degree of reassuring, and heads to the locker room.

~~~~~~~~~~

The way Chris’ face lights up when he sees Eddie waiting for him in the front office is enough to thaw the ice in his chest for a minute. He can hear the exact octave his mother’s voice would reach if she heard about him pulling Chris out of school for “no good reason”, but he also could not give less of a shit.

He feels a little bit more like a person with Chris in the backseat. That’s a good enough reason for him.

They set up camp in the park near their house, Bobby’s food and extra snacks Eddie picked up spread out between them, and Chris fills Eddie in on all the things he missed while he was working. He tries to focus on everything — Chris’ excitement about his upcoming science fair, the Sour Patch Watermelon sugar stuck to the tip of his nose, the way his hands move with his words. Eddie feels better, more settled, just getting to bask in the sun and in Chris like this, but he still feels heavy, like every move he makes has him fighting against gravity, threatening to pull him into the dirt.

There’s a crack from the playground in front of them, and Eddie’s blood turns to ice. He’s halfway to standing before he sees it’s just some kids snapping sticks in half to build some kind of log cabin. He lets out a slow breath as he sits back down and wills his heartbeat back to normal.

Chris is staring at him, eyes intense and brow furrowed, very similar to someone else they know.

Shit.

As soon as he’s settled, Chris moves to sit in the criss-cross of his legs. He’s a little too on the lanky side for this anymore, but Eddie’s absolutely not going to complain. Chris twists until he’s looking Eddie in the eye. Eddie does his best not to look away.

Chris rests a hand on his cheek. “It’s okay if you’re feeling bad,” he says. “You can talk to me about it, if you want.”

The crack comes from Eddie’s own heart this time. His kid has been through so much in 10 short years, and it’s only made him wiser than he should be, compassionate and understanding and open, ready to be there for anyone without a second thought. He’s good in every sense of the word, and Eddie’s in awe of the fact that he, somehow, has something to do with that. And the last thing he wants to do is lie to his son, but he just...can’t. Talk about it. Not now. Not yet. Not in a way that will keep Chris this good.

He has no way of articulating all that, so he just wraps his arms around Chris’ middle and squeezes him close.

“I know, buddy. Thank you. I’ll be okay, and we’ll talk soon.”

It’s not a lie, but it’s not everything.

It seems to be enough for Chris, though. He nods and pats Eddie’s face before reaching into his backpack and pulling out a library book. “Well, I’m gonna read to you until you feel better, just like you do for me.”

It’s the first real smile Eddie’s cracked in months. He kisses the top of Chris’ head, settling his chin there as Chris leans back into his chest.

“Sounds like a good plan to me.”

They sit there for a while longer, Chris reads to him about Percy and Annabeth and Grover, and Eddie, inexplicably, feels a little bit lighter.

~~~~~~~~~~

Buck’s Jeep is parked outside when they get home, and Chris practically breaks down the door to greet him. It looks like he’s gone all out, too — Chinese food on the table, the promise of cookies and cream ice cream in the fridge, and a list of movies that Chris ecstatically agrees with as Buck lists them off. Chris hurries off to change and clean up for dinner, and Eddie moves to start opening plastic lids and cardboard containers.

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” he says. He leaves out just having you with us is enough.

Buck waves him off. “Anything for you two.”

He could leave it at that, keep up the comfortable silence as they move around the kitchen in tandem, but there’s a nagging memory that he has to ask about or he’ll never stop thinking about it.

“Didn’t you have a date with Taylor tonight?”

Buck tenses ever so slightly, a container of dumplings shifting in his hand. “Cancelled,” he says with a shrug.

Eddie knows there’s more, but Chris comes back before he can ask, and it doesn’t feel like a conversation they can have in front of a 10 year old. So they eat, and fall into the familiar banter between the three of them, and for half an hour, Eddie can be present. He can forget the last six months and the weight still hanging off of him and live in this moment, with the two most important people in his life, and pretend that this is all there is. Just these two and their joy and warmth that wraps around him tight enough to make him feel alive again, if only for a little while.

Two bowls of ice cream and one and a half movies later, Chris is dead to the world. Buck carries him to bed and Eddie tries to ignore the new ache that’s sprung up of the course of the evening, the one that wants and pulls towards Buck like a magnet. The one that almost purrs when Buck settles back on the couch so close they’re touching from ankle to (good) shoulder, contentedness washing over the living room as they find a rerun of The Shawshank Redemption playing on cable. It’s not perfect, there’s still a roiling in his blood that won’t seem to leave him alone, but he feels better than he has in God knows when.

Buck shifts closer to Eddie, eyes glowing in the light of the TV, and Eddie never wants him to leave. “Thanks for coming tonight. I— Chris and I both really needed this, I think.”

“I told you, anything for you two. Always.”

He ignores the way his stomach flips and tries to focus on the movie. He gets about five minutes of peace before another thought comes back, still nagging him, mixing with his anxiety enough to actually force him to say something.

He aims for cool and casual. “So, you and Taylor...everything okay?”

Buck gives him a very long, almost challenging look before turning off the TV. Seems he missed that casual mark. “I should be asking you the same thing.” “Very funny.”

“I’m not trying to be. I’m really worried about you, Eds.”

“This isn’t my first time getting shot, I know how to handle it.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as bitter as it does, but he can’t bring himself to care, either. He doesn’t have the energy to keep a filter up anymore.

“Eddie, I’m serious.”

“I’m fine, Buck,” he says sharply, and he’s surprised his teeth haven’t fallen out of his head yet with how hard he’s lying through them. He hates that he’s lying to Buck at all, but those smiles he’s gotten used to have been fewer and farther between recently, and he knows it’s his fault. He might feel like his own seams are coming apart, but he’ll be damned if he rips Buck open too, even if it means pushing him away from his mess. “You’ve got a life and a girlfriend to worry about, I’ll figure everything out on my own.”

“I don’t.”

“What?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend. We broke up.”

Eddie pauses, curses the faint hope that sparks in his chest. “Why?”

“Because I’ve been a little distracted by someone else for the past few months. It didn’t feel fair to her to keep it going.”

He gives him another long look, and Eddie might be a little dense when it comes to things like this, but that look breaks through loud and clear. This is it. This is real. This is everything he’s wanted for the past six months — and probably longer than that — but now that it’s happening, it doesn’t feel right. Buck was happy, free, finally settled into his own skin, and it’s all gone now because of Eddie and his stupid, broken everything. He knows he won’t be able to give Buck everything he needs, at least right now, but Buck needs to know that too. “Buck—”

“Nope,” he says with a firm shake of his head. “I know you’re gonna try and blame yourself for this somehow, but…don’t. It was bound to happen anyway. Because you’re right, I do have a life, but it’s you two. You and Chris. That’s all I need it to be. That’s all I want it to be. And I hate that it took so long for me to figure out, that it took you getting shot, but we’re here now.” His eyes shutter a bit as he looks down at his hands. “At least, I hope we are.”

And there it is. So simple, so easy, for Buck to admit this huge thing that Eddie thought he was dancing around on his own. The ease reminds Eddie, through his fog of sadness and anger and every other bleak feeling that’s been controlling him, that that’s what makes them work so well together. Honesty. Being able to show all their ugly, mismatched inside parts to each other and still find the beauty, the ways to help, the ways to hold each other together when they need it the most.

And Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever needed to be held together more than he does right now.

“Ask me,” he whispers, the sound seeming to echo around the room.

“Ask you what?”

“Ask me if I’m okay.”

Buck shuffles on the couch until they’re facing each other, takes both of Eddie’s hands in his.

“Eddie,” he says softly, “are you okay?”

The world blurs as the tears he’s been fighting finally break free, but he feels strong. Brave. Like he can do anything now that Buck’s holding his hand.

“No,” he says, a crack in his voice but the conviction behind it still firm. “No, I’m not okay.”

The floodgates open, and he lets everything wash over him, all the things he’s been holding back, forcing away in the hopes that they’d just disappear one day. He’s floating and sinking and lost in the waves of it all, but strong arms wrap around him and pull him close, and there’s relief. Not a lot, not enough, but it’s there, for the first time since he woke up in the hospital. He feels safe here, with Buck wiping away his tears and pressing kisses along his hairline. He honestly forgot what safety felt like, was sure he’d never feel anything like it again. But he knew it that day he was bleeding out on the street, and he knows it now — it feels like Buck’s sweatshirt and smells like his aftershave and sounds like whispers of it’s okay and I’ve got you.

It all subsides, eventually, but Buck still holds him close, presses their foreheads together so there’s nothing else Eddie can focus on. His eyes are piercing, bright like Eddie only usually sees when Buck has a plan that refuses to be derailed.

“Let me help, Eddie,” he says, punctuated with a kiss on Eddie’s cheek. “I know you think you can do this yourself, but you don’t have to. I don’t want you to. Let me help you carry it.”

His voice left with the rush of everything, so all Eddie can do is nod before sinking back into Buck, into relief. Even that simple motion, the silent acknowledgement that he’s not alone anymore, is enough to let small seeds of hope sink into him and take root. They’re still weak, still unfamiliar, but they’re here, waiting to grow.

And Eddie knows, with a certainty that he forgot he was capable of, that Buck will be here to help tend to them, no matter how long it takes for them to blossom.

~~~~~~~~~~

When Eddie wakes up the next morning, he still feels weighed down. There’s still an edge, an unease low in his gut, anxiety still crawling through his veins.

He’s not okay. But he looks over and sees Buck — breathing even, arm thrown over Eddie’s stomach, keeping him close — and the ever-present darkness fades from an angry black to melancholy grey. Not perfect, not even close, but better.

He’s not okay. He hasn’t been for a while. But now, finally, he feels like he will be.

#eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie #911 fox #buddie fic #911 fic #tim i know you read fanfic you can HAVE this one so we can get a recovery arc #i don't even need credit just DO IT #ficcery

238 notes · View notes

xjoonchildx · 4 years

Text

greedy | myg x reader | chapter one: you like milkshakes?

summary: being a loner has never bothered yoongi until now. until you.

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: mafia AU, pining, eventual smut

rating: 18+

word count: 4.3K

notes: confession, i am struggling these days with my insane attraction to min yoongi. this guy has it all. looks and talent and mystery and sweetness -- he’s the total package. so i really wanted to give him a story in this AU that i’ve come to love so much and i truly hope you guys enjoy it.

i also hope you guys know how much i appreciate every single one of you. i see your reblogs and comments and likes and i try to answer every one because it truly makes my day. you guys make my day.

i could not post this fic without shouting out the amazing @hobi-gif because honestly, if hope didn’t read it, did i even write it? and i’m sending major love to three people who are such a source of laughter and support for me, @ladyartemesia @ppersonna @taetaewonderland. you guys keep me in stitches.

this fic is a continuation of the Guarded Series but can be read as a standalone piece! Chapter 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05

*************************

Yoongi had fucked up.

He’d misread the massive man’s approach, tracking him in one direction when the guy was actually headed in another. That’s how the asshole managed to catch Yoongi off guard with one meaty fist to the face.

It didn’t matter that it was hundreds of pounds of fat -- not muscle -- behind that punch. It was wielding more than enough momentum to blow up the side of Yoongi’s face like a bomb.

That’s the night he landed in the ER at Songdo at nearly two in the morning, pressing gauze to his bleeding face.

That’s the night he found himself chuckling inside an empty exam room, reading triage paperwork that made him sound like some kind of war hero instead of just an idiot who got caught looking the wrong way.

That’s the night he met you.

“Rough evening, Mister Yun?”

Yoongi had looked up from the floor just as you’d breezed into the room, tablet in hand. That moment marked the second time he’d been caught off guard that night.

“That looks like it hurts,” you’d murmured sympathetically, eyes raking over the bloody mess on his face. Your gaze was clinical -- professional -- as you assessed his grossly swollen eye and the half dozen bleeding cuts that surrounded it.

But then you’d stopped looking at him -- and stepped back to really look at him.

Yoongi had taken one look at your enormous, dark eyes and your soft, sweet face and he was dumbstruck. He’d blinked back at you with the only eye that could still move.

“You’re a doctor?”

“Nope,” you’d replied casually, turning to reach for a pair of latex gloves. “I’m a janitor. But I’ve always wanted to give this medicine thing a try. You don’t mind, right?”

Your eyes had sparkled then, bright with humor -- and Yoongi couldn’t help but grin despite the pain pulsing from the left side of his face.

“Here’s the deal, Mister Yun,” you’d said, pulling on your gloves. “I’m a resident. And I’m more than qualified to handle the -- situation -- on your face, but if you feel more comfortable waiting for the attending, I’m happy to step back. Good luck seeing him before sunrise, though.”

“Nah,” Yoongi had chuckled. “I think I’ll take my chances with you.”

“Good call.”

You’d leaned in close after that, gloved fingers firm under his chin as you turned his face from side to side. You’d smelled fucking amazing. The light, fresh scent that lingered on your skin sure as hell beat the disinfectant odor in this place.

“What happened to you tonight, Mister Yun?”

“It’s a funny story, actually.”

“Oh, great,” you’d said dryly. “‘Cause it turns out, I love funny stories.”

Yoongi had flinched when you’d peeled the gauze back, exposing the angry wounds to the air. But he’d forced himself to sit dutifully still as you got to work cleaning the caked blood off his face and eye.

“Thing is, I work for the circus,” he’d started, hissing under his breath when you swiped across an open cut above his eye. “One of the elephants got rowdy while we were practicing a number tonight and just kicked me right in the face.”

You’d stopped dabbing at his eye then, one brow raised and a cynical slant to your mouth.

Yoongi liked that you knew he was full of shit right away.

He liked that you’d played along anyway.

“God, I hate when that happens,” you’d said with feigned outrage, cutting your eyes at him as you dropped a piece of bloody gauze on the tray at his side.

“I know, right?”

That’s when Yoongi had won a real smile from you, wide and genuine. That's when Yoongi made the mistake of looking at you for just a moment too long.

He knew it by the way your smile fell away as you cleared your throat and turned your focus back to his damaged face.

“Well, I have good news for you Mister Yun,” you’d said after a while, eyes scanning the freshly cleaned wounds. You’d run your gloved fingers gently over one particularly deep slash over his eye and Yoongi felt a shudder run up his back. “I’m pretty sure you’re going to live.”

“Well, that is good news.”

There was that smile again.

It seemed like no time at all before you had him all patched up -- cuts sanitized and sealed with skin adhesive; swollen eye cleaned and medicated. Yoongi had felt a strange kind of disappointment as he’d watched you gather your supplies, pull your gloves off and drop them in the trash can near the door.

“You’re all set, Mister Yun,” you’d murmured. “Watch out for those elephants, okay? I’d hate for them to ruin a perfectly nice face.”

Then you were gone.

***************************

Thing is -- Kim Namjoon is a rules guy.

It doesn’t matter that he runs a criminal organization -- or that the men in his employ are gangsters in custom ties and suits. He expects dirty work done clean because that’s what sets the Gajog apart.

Rotate hospitals. Use fake names. Pay in cash.

All of those protocols are in place to keep any one of the Gajog from drawing unwanted attention. Truthfully, Namjoon’s operations usually run so neatly his men rarely have to seek treatment for anything beyond the occasional black eye or broken bone. That’s why he’d rather trust his men to legitimate doctors in legitimate hospitals than hand them over to some back-alley hack.

Thing is -- shit has gotten a lot more heated of late.

An audit of the Gajog books has turned up millions in missing won, stolen over time by street-level guys all over the city. Yoongi and Hoseok are the ones on the front lines, tasked with confronting those men -- getting them to pay and getting them back in line.

Sometimes they play ball. Sometimes they don’t.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Yoongi knew the moment they arrived at the crumbling warehouse in the Nowon district that shit was probably going to get messy. Their contact was fucked up -- sloppy drunk -- and belligerent from the jump.

After that, everything was a blur.

At some point during the scuffle, Yoongi heard his hand crunch under the heavy weight of the man’s steel-toed boot. The pain was still flaring hot from his knuckles when Hoseok finally took the guy down.

Right now Yoongi should be at Asan or Gachon or any of the other half-dozen hospitals in the city. He should have dragged his tired ass and bloody hand across town because those are the rules.

But instead -- for the second time in a month -- he’s sitting under the sickly fluorescent lights in an empty exam room at Songdo at nearly three in the morning.

Hoping to see you.

*************************

Yoongi is gingerly flexing his aching fingers when a light knock sounds at the door.

It was a long shot that you’d be here tonight -- and an even longer shot that you’d be the one treating him. But when the door to the exam room opens, it’s you on the other side.

Yoongi’s pulse picks up in response.

“Sorry to keep you waiting tonight Mister -- ” you stop dead in your tracks, eyes wide on his before darting back down the tablet in your hand. You scan the screen slowly then look back up, gaze critical.

“ -- Mister Woo.”

“Yeah, sure,” Yoongi replies casually. “It’s no problem.”

You approach him slowly then, disbelief etched into your delicate features and Yoongi takes in every detail.

It’s like he’d forgotten how pretty you are since the last time he saw you.

You’re nothing like the flashy women who like to hang around the usual Gajog haunts. You’re the kind of pretty that doesn’t cost hundreds of thousands of won a month to maintain. The kind of pretty that doesn’t come off at the end of the night.

Yoongi swallows thickly as you eye him, lips parted like you’re about to fire off a hundred different questions. But you don’t.

You play along.

Again.

“Right. Let’s get to it then, Mister Woo,” you say carefully, slipping on your gloves. “What happened to your hand?”

“Well, you see, I’m a hot air balloon operator.”

His mouth quirks into a smile and your eyes flash in response.

“Wind was nuts today and the basket came down on my hand. I think I might have broken something.”

“Hmm,” you murmur. “Hot air balloon operator, huh?”

Yoongi winces when you take his hand between your gloved ones, gently applying pressure to each knuckle.

“Yeah.”

“That’s an interesting way to make a living, Mister Woo.”

Yoongi chokes down a groan when you press against one particularly sore spot. You back off the pressure, turning to make a note on your chart.

“Well, I’m an interesting guy,” he whispers.

You look up at him then, dark eyes focused and intense.

“That you are.”

You’re looking at Yoongi like you can see inside him and the scrutiny makes him squirm. He lowers his eyes to the floor and keeps quiet while you clean his hand and apply ointment to his cuts.

“Mister Woo, it looks like most of these are surface abrasions, but the knuckles concern me. I’m going to have to send you for an X-ray.”

“Yeah, okay. It hurts like hell.”

“I bet it does,” you say quietly, typing into your tablet. “Someone is going to come and take you back when they’re ready. I have to go check on some other patients, but I’ll be back when we have some images to go over.”

“Sure,” Yoongi breathes.

You take another long look at him before standing to leave and Yoongi wonders for a moment if he’s made a mistake. Maybe he’s misread you like he misread that brawler who caught him with the nasty punch all those weeks ago.

You could be off to flag a security guard. Or leaving to call the police.

He really should have just followed protocol.

Yoongi sits in the quiet of that exam room waiting -- ready -- for trouble that never comes. Because when a knock finally sounds at the door, it’s not the Korean National Police.

It’s the X-ray technician.

Maybe he didn’t misread you after all.

*********************

It takes hours for you to come back.

“Mixed news tonight, Mister Woo,” you say upon your return. “You have hairline fractures in three of your knuckles, which explains the pain. Unfortunately, that means I’m not going to be able to do much for you beyond wrapping your hand.”

Yoongi nods. “Got it.”

“And you should probably lay off the ballooning for a while,” you say under your breath as you lay out your bandages. “Just a suggestion.”

“Good idea,” Yoongi chuckles. “Safety first.”

You fix him with another one of those long, indecipherable looks before getting to work on his hand. But you don’t say anything and the longer the silence stretches on, the antsier Yoongi feels.

“So…” he exhales, clearing his throat, “... you like milkshakes?”

“Everyone likes milkshakes,” you return evenly. You don’t take your eyes off his hand or the flexible material you’re carefully wrapping around his sore knuckles.

“Lactose intolerant people don’t like milkshakes.”

“Lactose intolerant people like milkshakes as much as the rest of us,” you argue. “They just can’t tolerate them.”

“What are you, some kind of doctor?”

Your lips quirk with the threat of a laugh you manage to suppress but Yoongi catches the expression before it disappears. You seem to relax after that. He does, too.

“Dijeoteu has the best milkshakes in the city. Ever been there?”

“Can’t say that I have,” you admit, taping off a bandage.

“It’s not far from here. Open twenty-four hours. I hang out there sometimes.”

“So you’re a milkshake-drinking hot-air balloon enthusiast,” you murmur, inspecting your handiwork closely. “Anything else I should know about you, Mister Woo?’

Yoongi scratches the back of his neck with his free hand.

“Not really. That about covers it.”

You hum thoughtfully under your breath as you finish wrapping the bruised knuckles.

“All done. How does it feel?”

“Better,” Yoongi admits. “Thanks.”

You gaze at him then, thoughtful -- expression soft with something that looks almost like concern. Yoongi drops his gaze down to his bandaged hand.

This is the part where you’ve finished -- the part where you leave.

This is the part where he should say something to you but he has no idea what or how.

“I would say come back soon, but this is a hospital and that seems wildly inappropriate,” you announce, voice breaking clear through his stupor.

You turn back to him just as you’re walking towards the door, and for a moment Yoongi thinks you’re going to give in and ask him any one of the dozens of questions that must be swirling around your mind.

But you don’t.

“Try to take care of that hand, Mister Woo.”

Yoongi nods.

“Thanks, Doc.”

**********************

YOU

Doctor Lee is on his Houdini shit tonight, apparently.

The ER is packed -- waiting room crowded with crabby patients -- and you are, once again, running yourself ragged to get to every last one. Lee is, once again, nowhere to be found.

“Page him again,” you call out as you pass the charge nurse outside an exam room.

A quick scan of your tablet confirms the toddler behind this magic door has been vomiting all night. You shut your eyes and wish a slow, violent death on your absent attending. Vomit is the single worst phenomenon in medicine.

“I’ve paged him three times,” Nurse Ko calls back.

“Page him again,” you repeat, forcing a smile and pushing into the room.

Thirty minutes and one change of scrubs later you are checking charts on the next patient in line. You pat the pocket of your new scrubs and realize you’ve left a half-eaten energy bar around here somewhere.

No chance you’ll get that back.

Lee picks this moment to reappear, back from doing God knows what. He strolls down the hallway like a man with nothing on his to-do list.

“You paged for me?” he inquires casually.

“A few times, actually,” you mutter. “I’m getting killed out here.”

“Relax,” Lee purrs, condescension dripping from his tone. “We’ll get it done.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from firing back the half-dozen nasty responses that spring to mind. There is no we when it comes to Doctor Lee. He’s always been flighty and inconsistent, but these days he’s practically a missing person. You’re still not sure how hospital management hasn’t figured out that he’s making his resident run the overnight ER.

“There’s a guy down the hall who says he swallowed a magnet,” you say, waving a hand in that direction. “If you can pick him up I can get to this head trauma.”

Lee sighs like it’s a major inconvenience that you’ve asked him to do his job.

“Yeah, I’ll grab it.”

***********************

It’s nearly four in the morning by the time you have a chance to catch your breath.

You walk out to scan the waiting area and to your relief, there are only a handful of patients yet to be seen. Then your eyes land on one young man -- slumped into a chair in an oversized coat, hat pulled low over his eyes.

You freeze.

The man in the chair must feel your stare from across the room because he straightens, giving you a better look at the face hidden under the brim of his hat. You let go of a breath you don’t realize you’ve been holding.

It’s not him.

It’s not the mysterious man with the fake names and the bogus stories and the insanely handsome face. You shake your head as you look back down at your tablet, silently chastising yourself for even entertaining the thought.

You shouldn’t still be thinking about this guy and you know it.

But it’s driving you nuts that you can’t figure him out.

He’s never tried to play you for pills and that seems to be the only thing people lie about these days. But if his problem isn’t drugs it’s certainly something because no one lands in the hospital that many times, with that many phoney stories unless they’re up to no good.

So you ignore the nonsensical disappointment you feel when the guy in that chair is not the guy.

Because deep down you know he’s either in trouble -- or he is trouble.

***********************

Your pager goes off for a second time and you silence the alert, tossing it onto a nearby blanket.

It’s not like you’re hiding out in here -- not really.

It’s just that you’ve already had one patient cough up blood on your sneakers and another swing at you when you refused to give him narcotics, so this night is off to a spectacularly bad start.

Besides, Doctor Lee could use a taste of his own medicine.

This week has been the worst, by far. You’ve been seeing at least three patients to his every one and you’re exhausted. If there’s any justice, he’s walking into the exam room where the infant with explosive diarrhea is waiting to be seen -- you check your watch -- right about now.

The door to the linen closet cracks open and you groan, hiding your face in your hands.

“What, you thought I didn’t know about your little hiding place?” Nurse Ko asks with a grin. “I find everyone’s hiding place, eventually.”

“Haven’t found Lee’s yet,” you gripe.

“Yeah, well he’s sneakier,” she laughs. “Here, I brought you something.”

She tosses a granola bar at you and it lands in your lap.

“Thanks,” you sigh, ripping it open. You take a bite and Ko leans against the doorframe.

“I don’t page you for my health, you know.”

“I know,” you whine around a mouthful of dried oats. “I just needed five minutes.”

“Well, I’ve got a guy out here who says he’ll only see you. Doesn’t want Doctor Lee and says he’ll wait as long as it takes.”

A piece of the granola bar lodges in your throat and you cough around it, spluttering while Ko looks on, amused. She waits for you to collect yourself.

“Is he -- ”

“ -- hot? Yes. Very,” Ko smiles.

Your cheeks flame with embarrassment at both the observation and the fact that it’s coming from a woman in her sixties.

“I was going to say young,” you grumble, standing and dusting your hands off with a towel.

“That, too. Come to think of it, I know I’ve seen him here before. You have some kind of admirer, jagiya?”

You flush.

**************************

“Good evening, Mister Kim.”

You hope the air of nonchalance you affect when you enter the exam room is enough to mask your jitters.

Your mystery patient looks back at you with those dark eyes and a half-smirk that makes your heart trip in your chest. You take a steadying breath as you look down at your tablet.

Get it together, girl.

“What brings you in tonight?” you inquire lightly. “Sword-swallowing accident? Lose a fist fight with a bear?”

Your mysterious patient chuckles under his breath.

“Where would you get a couple of outlandish ideas like that, Doc?”

You look up at him just as the teasing smirk on his face becomes a full smile and heat blooms in your chest and face. You force yourself to tear your gaze away.

“I dislocated my shoulder. Did you know I work air traffic control at Incheon?”

You shake your head with amused weariness as you make notes on your tablet.

“Crazy night. One of the planes nearly slid off the runway and I threw my shoulder out trying to get it back on track.”

“Did you save it?”

“Saved it and all 227 people on board.”

“Bravo, Mister Kim.”

“Just doing my job,” he shrugs.

You set your tablet down on the exam table with a thump, eyeing him as you reach for a pair of gloves.

“The charge nurse says you asked for me.”

“I did,” he admits. “You never told me what your favorite kind of milkshake is.”

You cock your head to the side as you look at him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mister Kim,” you murmur, feigning ignorance. “According to my records this is the first time I’ve ever seen you.”

“Oh, yeah. Right,” he chuckles.

“You need some help getting undressed?”

“Yeah,” he admits, slipping one arm out of his leather jacket. You lean in to help him pull the other side off, compelling yourself to ignore the way he smells like soap and sweat and man when you’re this close.

“It’s strawberry.”

You blurt the words out, anxious to give your brain a task that doesn’t involve analyzing this man’s smell. Something about the mischievous twist to his mouth tells you he knows you’re flustered by his nearness.

“I would have guessed chocolate,” he muses, reaching one hand down to grab the hem of his shirt. He drags it up his abdomen and you will your eyes to stay on his face -- refusing to give him any indication that you have more than a clinical interest in what lies underneath.

“Everyone likes chocolate,” you argue, taking over when he can’t get the shirt up any higher. You push it over his head and carefully work it off his shoulder. “I don’t want to be like everyone else.”

“Mission accomplished, Doc.”

He gazes at you then -- chest bare and eyes sharp beneath those inky lashes -- and you feel a bolt of awareness run the length of your spine. You pray the heat you suddenly feel all over your body is not manifesting in damning spots of color on your face.

You remind yourself to get back to work.

He sucks a breath between his teeth when you press gently against the inflamed muscle and tissue.

“My shoulder’s been shit for years,” he confesses. “I screwed it up when I was a kid and it hasn’t been the same since.”

“So this happens to you from time to time?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then I’m going to have to refer you for an MRI,” you say, and he groans when you press into his shoulder again. “There could be a lot of scar tissue in here, but I won’t be able to know what’s going on until we get some clear scans.”

Your eyes flick back to his.

Every word that’s ever come out of this man’s mouth is a lie -- but there’s something that feels honest about the way he’s looking at you right now. Something that makes you feel seasick, unsteady.

“Turn to the side for me,” you say quietly, and the thin paper that lines the exam table rustles as he complies. The relief you feel when he pivots away from you with those eyes and that look is whole-bodied.

“For now, the best I can do is probably pop -- “

Your words trail off as your eyes lock on a wound that sits just a few inches from his spine, just above the line of his jeans. The edges are white and soft with age -- the area long-healed -- but the trauma is unmistakable.

Textbook.

The anger you feel as you stare at the wound doesn’t make any sense.

But you feel it anyway.

“Is it still inside of you, or did they pull it out?”

“What -- ”

“-- The bullet Mister Kim,” you interrupt sharply. “If it’s still in you, I promise it will come out the second they load you into an MRI machine. The hard way.”

The muscles of his back flex as he stiffens. Tension bleeds into the lines of his body and into his voice when he finally speaks.

“It’s out.”

Neither of you says another word.

The room feels hollow now, painfully quiet without talk of elephants or hot air balloons or milkshakes. The two of you work together silently to crack his abused shoulder back into place. Somehow he manages to endure that pain without making a sound.

In the end, it’s you that has to speak first.

“That should hold you for now,” you say tightly, standing to toss your gloves in the trash. You grab your tablet to make notes.

“You mad at me, Doc?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you mutter, fingers flying over your screen. “I don’t even know you.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re mad at me?”

You tear your eyes away from the screen to find his.

There’s no teasing or humor there anymore. He looks boyish and unsure like this, peering back at you with somber eyes from beneath long black bangs that have fallen into his face.

“No more stories, no more bullshit. Tell me who you are.”

The words are out of your mouth before you can think better of them -- before you can consider how stupid it is to interrogate a complete stranger with a now confirmed history of violence. Before you can consider that you have no right to the anger that now streaks white-hot through your veins.

“I can’t,” he breathes quietly. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head in disgust.

“Are you dangerous?”

Before he even speaks, you get your answer. You get it in the way color erupts across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. The way he looks away from you and down to his hands.

“I guess that depends on who you ask,” he whispers.

“I’m asking you,” you fire back.

He doesn’t answer.

You stand there for what feels like an eternity, waiting for him to say something in his defense. Waiting for him to pull another gag and tell just one more ridiculous story. But the seconds tick by and he says nothing.

“A nurse is going to come by with a sling. She’ll help you get dressed, too,” you say tightly, walking to the door.

You don’t know why your heart feels like it seizes in your chest when you turn to give him one more look.

“Take care of yourself, Mister Kim,” you say quietly. “And don’t come back.”

*****************************

Glossary:

Dijeoteu: dessert

Jagiya: sweetie, sweetheart

*****************************

Tag List!

@heroesfan101 @kpop-saved-ruinedme @mono-kookie @ctvrty @bluewhale52 @thenopekid @uhgood-dooghu @youwannabelostandnotbefound @yiyi4657 @daydreambrliever @mstbeautifulmmt @darktsuki0 @mademysongtakeflight @fireflyinsummer @paperpurple @btseditsworld @outrofenty @taestannie @yeojaa @sahmfanficbts @snackhobi

#yoongi smut #yoongi x reader #yoongi mafia #ficswithluv #ksmutclub #btswriterscollective #networkbangtan #bangtanarmynet

2K notes · View notes

oumaheroes · 3 years

Text

Stargazing

Word Count: 2030

Characters: England, France- FrUK

---

‘If you could go back to any era, which would you choose?’ There is a stone in-between France’s shoulder blades, something that finally tips the scales from being comfortable into not, so France rolls onto his side, cradling his head in his hand.

From his spot in the grass next to him, England turns his head lazily, the movement long and slow. His eyes are the last to move, fixed on the stars, and they find France’s with a sharp flick, ‘What?’

‘Are you too drunk to listen?’ France lifts a heavy arm and reaches across the small distance between them to brush some errant hair away from England’s forehead and lets it stay there, tangled in his roots. France himself is wine soft and slow, warm in his stomach and chest from both the day and the drink which settles within him.

England huffs, ‘More like drunk enough that I can stop pretending you’re worth listening to.’

France hums indulgently, far too jovial at the moment to search for any unintended offense, ‘oh, the lies you tell yourself. They do amuse me.’

England frowns, head still facing France and cheek pillowed in the grass. Wine is not enough to soften him entirely, it seems, ‘that is rich, coming from you.’

France brings his hand down from England’s hair to lay it across his mouth, ‘I’m not starting anything with you this evening, I’m too full.’

England opens his mouth and, very gently, bites the meat of the pad of France’s hand. Just to show that he could and to be difficult, showing that he won’t go down without a fight. France’s small input in the ridiculous battle is to leave it there, refusing to give in. Eventually, England lets go and moves his head away, although not before pressing his teeth down just that bit harder. France reclaims his hand and allows him escape without protest.

‘What drivel did you ask me?’ England looks back up at the sky again, high and cloudless above them.

‘If you could be in any era again, any that we have lived through,’ France repeats, ‘which would you pick to go back to?’ He has caught England in a good mood, one where he has allowed himself to be seen, for a time, without anything sharp covering him. Drink has made him pliant and loose tongued and France, in a similar mood, is keen to make the most of it.

England rolls his head slightly back, considering the question, ‘How long do I get in the era?’

‘No, don’t do that, don’t make it technical. It’s not a difficult question.’

‘It most certainly is, running water always influences things,’ England’s mouth twists in a wry hint of a smile, ‘and it’s one thing to pop back to the Tudor times for one of the court parties and quite another to have to spend more than a week there. I do not lament the loss of hose and codpiece.’

‘I do, they made my legs look fabulous.’

England snorted and rolled his eyes, ‘Why am I not surprised.’

‘You’re avoiding the question,’ France twists away from him briefly to feel for the wine bottle they’d been drinking from. It had rolled away slightly, the slight incline of France’s garden causing it to move easily as they shuffled about and he takes a long swing of it before laying it between them, neck resting on England’s stomach. He’s past beyond the point of using glasses now.

‘I’m not avoiding the question, I was trying to-‘

‘No stop, you’re ruining it; I’ll go first,’ after brushing the grass underneath to clear it of stones, France returns to lying on his back, arms behind his head, and ignores England’s tut of annoyance, ‘I think I’d actually want to go back to the days under Rome, just for a visit.’

England sits up on his elbows and takes a sip from the bottle himself, ‘I hadn’t expected that of you.’

‘No?’

‘God no. I would have thought you’d want to go back to one of your King Luis. You know, peak opulence, decadence- all that faff. You still love the fancy balls and the clothes, and the needless tat that came with it,’ England takes another sip of wine and runs his tongue over his teeth, ‘the dances and the jewels, the silly little court rules of behaviour. The gossip.’

France chuckles, ‘you were so funny every time you were dragged along- so out of place! You couldn’t go more than an hour before letting your true colours slip free.’ England was never truly refined for very long, especially when it came to the Versailles’ court standards.

‘Anyone with a lick of sense was immediately out of place,’ England quips drily and lays down again, placing the cork back in the wine as he goes.

It sounds nearly empty- shame. It was a nice year and the last of the bottles that they’d brought out to the garden. Dinner had been a late, informal affair in France’s kitchen- homemade bread and creamy, locally made cheese with chicken. Simple and filling, comfort food for the both of them. The summer heat made them both unwilling for anything too excessive and the entire day had been spent doing lots of nothing much at all; England lounging about in shorts that France refrained from teasing him about lest he stop wearing them.

‘Yes well,’ France lifts his head and clumsily bats him in the stomach with the top of his hand, ‘despite that indeed being extremely enjoyable, I do mean it. My choice of era, I mean.’

England makes a soft noise that gently demands elaboration, a low rumble in the back of his throat but France needs no prompting. He presses a knuckle into the softness of England’s stomach and feels him breathe in deep and slow.

‘I’d love to have nothing to be responsible for again. Everything was done for me, as a colony- the way my cities were built, the improvements made to my industries, the negotiations for trade and commerce, everything. I’d like to revisit being a child, in the closest sense of childhood our kind has,’ France pauses, mulling that over, ‘Imagine that again, being small but without fear of being so. No politics, no money driven economy, no push for growth. We have spent so much of our lives racing to get somewhere, striving to be more that I can hardly remember what it was like to be nothing more than an idea, existing just to speak for the lives that called themselves mine.’

France turns and catches England watching him, eyes searching and heavy, ‘Does that make sense?’ he asks him.

‘No,’ England’s answer is immediate, ‘no, and yes. The desire to be I understand, but I detested that age.’

France smiles at him, understanding masked by the dark. England does not, and never did, like being anything other than in perfect control of himself. Relinquishing that to someone else, even for his own benefit, has never been anything more than a horror.

‘Well,’ France says, ‘that is my choice. I liked being looked after and I have so much to do nowadays that it would be nice to have nothing to do once again. Nothing more than wander about my fields and see my people, or visit a northern barbarian across the sea.’

‘Don’t talk about Scotland that way, you’ll hurt his feelings.’

France laughs and reaches down to find England’s hand, open palmed and curled fingers by his side. He intertwines his own with it and brings them upwards, watching as together they cut across to block the light from his house and silhouette into a tangle of them both.

‘So,’ he says, running a thumb across the skin of England’s knuckle, ‘what era would you choose?’

England sighs, a light thing but France can hear a yearning there, ‘Any of the years I was at sea. The 1500’s when I was first starting out and even up to the 1700’s when things became more regimented- any of them. To be able to just get in a boat and go, no one knowing when I would come back or even where I was going.’

France shudders, the idea of being out in ocean that deep and so alone chilling him. For creatures that revive after death, who can wake again and again and again as long as there is a body to return to, the ocean is a lonely, painful place to die. To sink lifeless into murky depths, only to reawaken there in the dark press of salty sea; most nations avoided it as much as they could, wishing to avoid the long, drawn out death choked by waves and forgotten on the seafloor.

England never had such a healthy fear of the oceans. He went out into thunderous storms and monstrous waves as if enchanted, unable to resist the pull of something untamed. England sailed off as soon as he was able, going out for further and longer than anyone else dared and losing himself in the harsh life of the brine. He was a different creature far out at sea, something so strangely alive and perfectly at home for a man made from the soul of the mountains and land.

‘You always were a strange one for the macabre,’ France drops their hands back down and finds England once more looking at the sky, the reflection of stars glinting in his eyes.

‘The seas never change,’ his voice is quiet and distant, ‘some things do change, of course- the boats we sail on, how we do so. Things shift on the sea, the lands we travel to and from are washed away and changed with time but the sea itself is always the same. I appreciate it for that, it is predictably unpredictable. Constantly refusing the press of mankind by being the one thing we can never truly understand, for all of mankind’s new fancy gadgets.’

England gives a sudden, dry laugh, ‘I used to navigate the world by constellations, now I have to travel just to find some stars. To the highest peaks I have, or deep in my countryside to avoid as much light pollution as I can. But out at sea they are as they have always been, the same things I have watched and tracked for thousands of years. That is when I can just be as I have always been.’

The sky hangs overhead, speckled and bright and now, France notices, startlingly empty, ‘I often forget that they’re there,’ France speaks to the sky, ‘Funny, isn’t it? How something so fundamental can disappear and mankind not even notice. How odd to forget that stars are there, then to not notice they’re gone.’

‘We are cursed or blessed to remember what’s past,’ England offers, ‘which one depends on who we remember for.’

They lay in silence for a moment. France feels the collected years sit with him openly, laying on his chest and heart like tiny weights. The ground pushes against his back, firm and unmoving, and he breathes in deeply, smelling the heat of the summer in the air. He is here. He is now. He is. Still, after all this time. He watches.

To exist is to change, to live is to evolve and move with the flow of time, but France understands the want for something constant in the flood, something that stays recognisable and the same throughout the years. The older he gets, the more he yearns for it keenly.

‘You’ve gone and made things serious,’ he lifts himself back up on an elbow, England looking at him without moving his head, ‘just like you to take a light conversation and ruin it.’

England raises an eyebrow, “Oh the lies you tell yourself; they do amuse me.”

His French is accented with a Norman dialect, a gentle dig and refusal to fully let France have what he wants and France laughs at it, at this one unchanging constant he is stuck with. He leans down to kiss him, hair curling into England’s face and hiding what remains of the night sky.

----

AN: Every time I try writing one of these small drabbles, I start out with a particular idea and tone in mind but gosh darn it they never go where I intend for them to.

Today we have ended up with this, two old men talking themselves in circles in the summer grass.

#My writing #aph france #hws france #aph england #hws england #hetalia fanfiction #hetalia fanfic #hetalia #aph #hws #arthur kirkland #francis bonnefoy #nationverse #i have so may writing styles and one day i will stop flip flopping between them #another thing to clean up before going on AO3 #fruk #aph fruk

177 notes · View notes

bored-storyteller · 3 years

Text

Blessed are you who send me so many requests for Uta, he is one of the few characters I want to write for even in my black periods, so thank you very much for that!

Despite that, I wonder if I'm getting a bit repetitive and simplistic with him, you are free to correct me and tell me what is wrong in your opinion at any time 🌸

P.s. Tokyo Ghoul's One-shot for Itori is also coming, it's just that I need a little more time for her

68- Tokyo Ghoul, Uta x Human!Artist! Reader

This is the second part of THIS

"Just ... it was unexpected."

Uta's voice is placid and calm, broken only by the concentration he is turning to his work. His precise and delicate hands weave ribbons and move needles, while his eyes from time to time scan the design of a strange mask that he holds nearby.

You weren't prepared for him to bring up that topic now.

You remembered the embarrassment you felt when his fingers touched the pages of your sketchbook so covered with his face, yet all he did was ask you about your techniques, your choices of colors, if you used other tools besides those that had been imprinted on the paper and the like.

He is also an artist. That realization was a surprise for you, a pleasant surprise. And that was what brought you closer, unexpectedly more at the behest of him than yours.

If he ever had doubts about you and the secret he unintentionally shared with you, he never told you.

He just let you go to him shyly, quietly, and you still occasionally find yourself thanking God, the spirits or whatever may exist for allowing you to be so close to him.

Yet right in the middle of the silence of the late afternoon, he asked you that question: "Why me?"

Your head had suddenly popped out of the side of his work table, where you were curled up drawing absorbed in the calm atmosphere.

He just looked at you for a moment, wondering if it was so comfortable to sit on the floor, but you dismissed him, asking him if it really was something so weird to want to draw him, and that was the answer you got.

You are curled up in your corner again, but never really take your eyes off him.

"If you find me creepy you should just say it ..." You mutter softly, immediately lowering your eyes to your sketch.

Not sure you want to hear the answer now that you think about it better.

"I? Should I find you creepy? " His light laugh comes to your ears, and you curse yourself for not having the courage to look at him. “If I found you creepy, you wouldn't be alive anymore. It's me ... the horror movie killer between us, right? "

You don't answer him right away, but rather you wander with your mind between his words. Now that you know him a little better, Uta is different from what you imagined, yet he has never really disappointed your expectations. Your vision of him has changed, over and over, yet it has always been just one more detail, a more defined trait on his figure.

"Are the trims better red or yellow?"

The question of him forces you to look beyond your barrier again.

"Yellow ..." Your answer is immediate, but you know right away that's not what he really needs.

"Come to think of it I almost ate you, but despite this you are here, with me ..." he bends, pushing himself closer to you, leaning on the tabletop to get as close as possible "but perhaps more than disturbing, you are only strange."

Your eyes escape from him again, timid and insecure, still tied to a kind of awe of him.

"We are all strange to someone else ..." You mutter, and your strokes on the paper become more frantic and intense.

For a brief moment all you hear is the soft, muffled noise of your pencil on paper, and perhaps if you listen closely you can hear the hum of Uta's thoughts in his head.

"Well, it's an interesting way of looking at things ..." he murmurs, vaguely losing the playfulness inherent in his voice until then "is this what you saw in me?"

Another brief moment of stillness, just necessary to allow the tip of your pencil to detach itself from the paper permanently. You do not know at all what is going through that ghoul's head, but it is evident that he has waged a battle with you, or perhaps it is better to say an investigation, and that it is a deep interest of him or just a whim he is not willing to give up.

"I ..." you begin, barely sighing as your eyes search for his face drawn on the paper "I know you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, and I didn't. However, you really seemed like a book I wanted to read."

Even the timid noise of his work stops. Muffled by the walls and the isolation of the shop, only the city noises remain between the two of you.

You still don't know what actually touches Uta's mind or heart, he never has excessively surprised or exaggerated expressions, yet he is not expressionless either. The feelings he manifests are like the breeze before the storm; light, almost pleasant, which however heralds power and disaster.

Yet now, his silence is a sign of meditation, and perhaps of understanding.

“It's not the storyline you expected. However…"

There are no questions for you in his words, just findings for him. But you hear him get up, and in a short time he is there, in front of you, sitting on his heels. His hands crossed in his lap almost rest on the pages of your notebook, and you are forced to meet his gaze.

"You are a masochist."

His is not a question, but rather a witty statement that makes you look away with a slight unconscious pout on your face.

"You are a little bit too." You whispers, and a laughing sigh slips from his lips to your face.

When he moves you think you see him disappear from your sight, but instead you find him sitting against the wall, next to you, with those crimson eyes that demand your attention.

"Maybe, but not for the reason you think." He assures you, and before you can reply, his hand points to your drawings again, and without even needing to stop turning the pages, until he can extract the drawing that you had hidden so carefully, the one where his nature it is manifest, clear in its darkness.

However, it is not yet finished, but compared to how it was before it is now more detailed, more true, and Uta is amazed at how much more that drawing seems to reflect not only his body, but also his soul, more and more, every once he sets his eyes on it.

“You keep doing it, you keep drawing me despite this, despite everything. I don't find you creepy, just… it's not something you'd expect from a little human like you. "

For a moment your pupils are lost in his, as if trying to understand where the trap lies in his words, but in the end you sigh. If he really he wants to set you up in some way or catch you out for some reason, he has all the power to do it.

"Is it really that hard to understand?" Your hand swirls in the air, indicating the surrounding environment of his mask studio "You are an artist too, and even better than me. You should know that inspiration can come from anyone and anything. "

"Do I inspire you?" The question he asks you is neither uncertain nor narcissistic, it seems rather the search for a reasoning, an attempt to understand the how and the why.

“You are… umh… you have always been very different from what I am used to living. And the more I know you, the more you are something I've never known. "

It's impressive to you how he manages to get words out of you that you never thought you could say. It's as if his silences put them on the tip of your tongue, ready to come out.

He murmurs something in approval, while his eyes wander to a point away from you, following a thread that is invisible to you.

"But I'm a ghoul." An observation. A light observation, a fact left to fly in the air with all the naturalness of his truth. It's normal for him, and for you too.

“And you are an artist, like me. I'm really learning a lot from you. " A second observation, and this is yours. Equally true and just as natural.

Uta's clear lips barely open when your words reach him, suddenly as in a revelation his eyes on nothingness open slightly more. For you it is almost mystical to see true amazement on his face, you would like to immortalize it in a thousand ways, if only it lasted a moment longer.

When his gaze is on you again all of this has already vanished, but something new has been born in his meek look. Is it trust or complicity?

"You're funny" he tells you before you can realize that new truth "even today you deserve not to be my next snack."

He jokes, even if the boundary between joking and seriousness is always thin with him, but the index finger that playfully hits your forehead is a certainty.

"You know, I thought you talked a lot less." You mutter as you watch the man get up.

The one who tasted your meat looks at you from above, and even if you should, you don't want to be afraid.

You don't really know him, yet the more you stay with him, the closer you get, every time his gaze lingers on you, you get the impression that the wound on your shoulder burns for him more and more, and you don't really know what causes that resentment in him.

"I think ... you may want a mask in the near future." A slight, almost imperceptible smile blossoms on his pierced lips "Would you like to let me take your measurements?"

#tokyo ghoul #tokyo ghoul uta #uta x human reader #uta x reader #uta tg #uta tokyo ghoul #tokyo ghoul x reader #tokyo ghoul oneshot #fluff

153 notes · View notes

keiarchived · 3 years

Note

Hey, congrats on 500! Can I get Yandere!God!Hawks kidnapping priestess!reader from his temple to keep as his wife, including forcing immortality on her because she was his most faithful. -🧶 Anon

Thank you bub! ♥️ ALSO YES TO YOUR CONCEPT 🥴💦 thats fucking hot 🥵

yandere!god!Hawks x priestess!reader

warnings: yandere, dubcon/noncon, kidnapping, power abuse, manipulation, blood play, size difference kinda, cum inflation, master kink, no editing, sleepyish writing

words: 1.1k

For as long as you could remember, your people have always worshiped this red winged higher being; Hawks. A God of freedom and compassion. He is said to have gorgeous honey blonde hair that matches those sharp eyes, large scarlet wings that let him soar through the sky like a Phoenix. It is unclear how accurate these descriptions passed down generations of your family are, it could’ve easily been made up just to give everyone a clearer vision on the God they are worshipping. But only for you to find out your ancestors weren’t wrong, “So you’re the new priestess?”

The first time Hawks reached out to you, personally, shivers crawls down your spine as goosebumps scattered. His voice is smoother than you’d imagine, tone lay back almost to the extend of lazy and well he is as charming as people made him to be, there are no doubts about that. “I-I am and you are-“

“Hawks.”

It became some kind of tradition for this higher being to throw new priestess off guard whenever he could, they are new to this almost in a naive way. ‘I’m prepared for this.’ As most would tell their elder, but nothing could prepare them for the first time Hawks would reach out to them like he had done so many times before. After all, they will be working with him for as long as they could so why not have a little fun whilst he’s at it? Surely it can’t hurt anyone.

“You’re a cute one, quivering and looking like you’re about to cry.” Hawks taunts, lips curling into this playful smirk as he closed the distance between the two of you. Stalking over ever so slowly until your back have meet the cold wall, he had been observing you from a distance ever since you walked this earth. But you don’t know that nor do you know the very same God you’re worshipping have taken a personal liking in you, “I’m j-just surprised, no one told me you’d just show up like this. At least give me a heads up sign or something.” As expected, you are different from all those stuffy suffocating and he is amused. No one have spoken to him like this for a while, not a human like you at least.

This is going to be fun.

Hawks only ever make occasional appearances whenever a pristesss calls for him either for his help or just to make a offering, but lately he’s been dropping by more often than usual with the excuses of ‘there’s some business nearby I need to take care of’ whilst in reality Hawks came to see you.

“Who’s that guy?” Your guardian angel asks, eyeing the man up and down, wanting to do nothing more than just wipe that awful pink off his face. How dare he even attempt to flirt with you? When he knows you are his and his alone. “Just a childhood friend.” With a little bit of a crush but Hawks doesn’t need to know that, it’s not like you’re hiding it from him on purpose. “You wouldn’t lie to me would you little one?” Clearly, he is unimpressed by your answer. Having to study and observe you enough from a distance, Hawks knows when you’re lying and this is one of those times.

“Of course not.” Perhaps you should’ve just been honest, rather than to face the jealousy of a God.

Hawks is known to be a trickster among the Gods, so it was no surprise when he decide to appear out of thin air just as you and that so called childhood friend was getting way too comfortable with each other, scooping you right up as though you weight nothing more than a feather. “You’re coming with me and I am not taking no as an answer, little one.” Still baffled by what happened, the next you know you are gone. Nowhere near surface of the Earth but soaring through the sky, “Hawks!”

Not that he could hear you though.

There has only ever been a few people Hawks seems worthy to be his wife and to become immortal, spending forever with him, isn’t that wonderful? Countless of people had tried to impressive him whether that be Gods or mortals alike but no one is as perfect as you, body arching and quivering in ways he had never seen before. “Beautiful...” Hawks whispered, tracing your delicate looking spine whilst the other curls around those soft locks reminding him to be careful or otherwise you just may break whilst he continue to plungs himself into your welcoming cunt.

The only sounds lolling from your mouth are of nothing but pleasure and lust, of course you tried to reason with Hawks. Saying how absurd it is with what he have done, but Hawks have his way with words. He always do. Making you believe this is the best possible outcome, how he have his eyes on you for the longest time and want you as his wife because you are the most faithful as well as beautiful among them all.

“Cry for me baby, that’s it. Fucking scream my name.” A low taunting chuckle rumbled at Hawks’ chest, mercy is now a privilege. Expecting to be treated like a princess is nothing but a naive thought after the lie you fed him, “You want to be with me right my little priestess? Or would you rather have that pathetic of a man as your husband?” The blonde mocks, chuckles soon turns into a echoing laugh instead. Bouncing all those pillars like these sweet delicious moans , “Y-You! I want to be with you!” Shameless, where did your pride and fight go? Devoured by the same God who’s currently fucking you stupid, stretching you beyond anyone have ever before.

“Good girl.” Despite the roughness of his action, Hawks praises you. “Good girl deserves rewards don’t you think?” Who doesn’t like a little reward once in a while?

As if Hawks couldn’t get any more brutal and cruel, his rhythm soon became bruising against your hips. “Ma-master!” You cried, every nudge at that ring of muscle edges those tears to stain your cheeks further with every sobs passing thought those swollen lips. “Take it all my love, take it!” God, if only there is a way to describe this fullness as your belly well with his cum. Pumping you full and to the brim as those eyes rolls back, lips gaping with a silent moan. “Fuck... fuck fuck...” If that’s how Hawks falls from his grace, so be it.

Fingers lodge between your plum lips, forcing them open as a devilish smirk stretch across his lips. “That’s it, drink up baby. Every last drop of it.” Baffled by what Hawks meant but it didn’t take long until you could taste the iron from his fingers, keeping your tongue pressed harshly against your jaw. Forcing ever last drop of his blood down your throat, drowning from this enteral crimson.

“Rest up for now, my love. We have a long day ahead of us.”

#bnha imagines #mha imagines #bnha smut #mha smut #hawks x reader #hawks imagine #hawks smut #tw’blood play #tw’dubcon #tw’yandere #tw’kiddnapping #tw’cum inflation #tw’manipulation #tw’master kink #tw’size difference #hawkschick’s 500 #yannugget 🐤

425 notes · View notes

saphirered · 3 years

Text

Drowned Sorrows (Vagrant pt2.)

Caleb settles at the table in your shared room, ink and paper ready to go to work and you grab your stuff making way to leave when Caleb stops you, stepping in your path to the door, arms crossed and eyes burning into you. You try to step around him but he just moves with you until you give up. Apparently He’s adamant on talking.

“What the hell do you want?” You roll your eyes at his childish means from preventing you from leaving the room.

“This has gone on long enough.” Caleb states.

“What has?” You play dumb and Caleb gives you a disapproving look akin to a teacher scolding a student and you could just wring the life out of him for for it. Gods, can he just leave you be?

“You know exactly what.”

“Please, by all means, enlighten me, oh grand master Widogast.” You mock and now it’s Caleb’s turn to roll his eyes. Do you have to be so annoying? Why can’t you just act like an adult?

“If you insist. Why do you run out of the room whenever I study? Why do you feel the need to cringe and cower whenever I do anything even remotely magic related?” Caleb asks as you shake your head biting your tongue. This man… This man has some guts to call you out like he has but you suppose maybe this whole thing between the two of you wouldn’t have been as much of an issue if the two of you could just talk about your issues instead of bottling it up until you burst in moments like these, usually ending in some kind of shouting match followed by the silent treatment until Nott makes you ‘kiss and make up’ like she’s your mom.

“It’s none of your business, Caleb. Now let me out.” You once again try to push past him but he doesn’t let you. “Try me, Widogast or I’ll-“ You threaten but are cut off.

“Do what? You won’t use your magic beyond rudimentary practices. What could you possibly do?” Caleb pushes. You know he’s pushing your buttons, your anger only another means to get answers for himself and you hate yourself for falling for his calculated move but you still do.

“You don’t want to find out, Widogast. It didn’t end well for the last people.” There it is. That’s what he’d been waiting for. Those words alone, that threat is not an empty one. You wouldn’t harm him, not permanently at least but there’s a truth to your words and Caleb knows his calculated move to piss you off is paying off. He’ll have to tread carefully if he wants more answers and not actually provoke your wrath.

Shit. Shit shit shit. ‘It didn’t end well for the last people’. Shit. You didn’t want those words to leave your lips at all. Ever. Stupid Caleb fucking Widogast. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You can’t deal with this right now and try to push him out of the way but Caleb hardly budges. You half contemplate leaving through the window just to make a point but you’d rather not draw that kind of attention to yourself.

“Veiled threats and half truths. Those are a coward’s words who doesn’t intend to make true on their promises.” Oh you’re this far away from kicking his ass.

“Well it takes one to know one.” You hiss. “You might want to think twice. We still share a room and I will not hesitate to smother you with a pillow while you sleep. Now. Get. Out. Of. My. Way.” You feel a tingling in your fingertips, frustration running through your face with just a tiny hint of fear. You ball your hands into fists, your nails digging into your palms. Last thing you need is to lose control right now but Caleb doesn’t have to know that.

Caleb steps out of the way, allowing you to pass. He stares you down until you close the door behind you, sharing one last glare before you’re off doing whatever you can to not be in any proximity of that room.

————

Hours later Nott has fallen asleep at the foot of Jester’s bed, the tiefling herself curled up comfortably. Beau’s sprawled out across her own bed limbs dangling off each side as she snores. You’d fallen asleep sitting against Beau’s bed until her hand slapped you in the face rudely pulling you from your not so comfortable sleeping position. You get up and stretch your limbs, cracking your back. Hopefully Caleb will have gone to sleep himself and you’ll be able to make it to your own bed without dealing with the wizard at this late, or rather early hour.

Exiting the girls’ room you see Fjord slumped against the wall near to his room, giggles and moans coming from the room he shares with Mollymauk. This time he had the sense to bring a pillow but Fjord still looked about as comfortable as anyone could be sleeping against the wall of one of the most expensive places in all of Zadash. You contemplated waking him and telling him to take your bed instead but you don’t doubt you’ll lose your comfy bed forever if you switched roommates. Don’t want to set any precedents because in all honesty, rather him than you having to deal with the lavender tiefling living his life to the fullest. Still, you take your cloak, throwing it over the half-orc gently as you move on to your room.

You don’t see any candle light bleeding through the narrow slit beneath the door so you count yourself lucky as you quietly open the door and slide in, tiptoeing over to your bed, putting your things down and beginning to get ready to sleep. You pull the silk covers back and lay down, making yourself comfortable and close your eyes. You can still smell the scent of that fine parchment and ink. You can almost hear the phantom scribbling of a pen over that paper, dipping into the ink vial every so often to replenish. It’s pure torture. The sound needs to stop. The smell needs to go and despite you trying to use some prestidigitation to get rid of the smell, changing it to those overly fragrant flowers at the shop you passed by a few days ago, the smell is still stuck in your nostrils, the sound still trapped in your ears, the damage already done.

You turn over onto your back, pulling the pillow from beneath you and pulling it over your head, releasing a frustrated but soft muffled scream more akin to a sigh into the plush feathers. The darkness behind your eyelids doesn’t help as you feel a vision of a room creep in, one etched into your memory just as that scent and sound are. Accompanied by feelings of pain and fear, desperation and helplessness, is the feeling of being completely and utterly trapped. No matter your tossing and turning, it all remains and the walls close in, sleep couldn’t be further out of your reach. That is until the lights turn on. A gentle orange glow fills the room and you’re pulled away from your memories and back into the room you share with Caleb.

“Would you stop your tossing and turning, please.” Caleb asks groggy, the sound of moving fabrics and endless sighs having awoken him from his own sleep. Caleb turns over to see you sitting, elbows on your bent knees and head in your hands as you try to stabilise your breathing, counting under your breath like its a life line. You may not exactly be friends and quarrel more often than not, that doesn’t mean he can’t be worried for you. Something’s clearly wrong and it doesn’t take an expert to see that.

“Are you alright?” He asks carefully turning to a half seated position to get a better view of you.

“Just go back to sleep, Caleb.” You grumble not moving from your position. No quip back, no witty remark, not even actual annoyance or a half threat to let Jester draw dicks in his precious books. The position you’re in, the traits you’re displaying are also familiar to him. He’s found himself in a similar situation many times and while you may have said it before as an offence, it’s true no less; takes one to know one. You’re reliving trauma, or at least coming back from reliving a traumatic memory of some kind. Triggered by what exactly?

“I’ll go back to sleep when I’m sure I won’t be awoken again every ten minutes.” In other words; talk.

“Piss off.” You spit raising from your bed, reaching for your bag. Instead you find an orange tabby raising it’s back and hissing at you, by the command of his master no doubt. You have half the mind to pick the cat up by the scruff and toss him at the wizard but right now you just want out.

“You can’t keep running away from your problems forever.” The words hit hard. Caleb’s right but why does it sound like a statement not solely directed at you? You know exactly why. You might not exactly have had any bonding moments with Caleb and he’s been shifty about his past but you know the words of someone who tries to deny that same truth themself.

“It seems to work just perfectly for you. Hypocrite.” It sounded like a curse. Hypocrite. Caleb had known for a long time but having it thrown so bluntly at his face, it hurt. He doesn’t lash out in anger or hit back with an equally venomous retort but instead just stares at you with pity. He really does pity you. He may not know the story but he knows that pain and no one should have to endure that. Still it’s your choice to keep it to yourself. It’s your choice to keep it all bottled up and locked away. No matter what he says, or does for that matter, he can’t change your mind, or even help you despite your differences, if you don’t allow anyone in, regardless of your like, or dislike in his case, for the person. He can’t help someone who won’t help themselves. And that’s exactly what makes him the biggest hypocrite here. His pain is his punishment.

“Where are you going?” Caleb asks as you push Frumpkin aside just enough to reach for your coin pouch, the cat hissing and clawing at your hands until he falls silent again. You open the door looking back one last time.

“To find a rooftop with a good view and drown my sorrows.” You close the door behind you and do exactly that. A bottle or two of good booze acquired and a nice rooftop found. The view would have been nice weren’t it cloudy. Halfway through your first bottle the gods decided to shit in your dish by the sound of rolling thunder and rain pouring down from the skies by the buckets, drenching you to the bone in a matter of seconds. You debated going back inside but you’re stubborn and stayed on that rooftop watching the water spill over the drains until you were shaking from the cold. Maybe suffering from hypothermia isn’t worth making a statement.

#critical role x reader #critrole x reader #mighty nein x reader #caleb x reader #caleb widogast x reader

56 notes · View notes

jayismydad · 3 years

Note

Hey can i request making out with Jake where you sneak him in your room while your parents are downstairs.

I feel like this could’ve been better but I hope you like it! I also hope you didn’t mind the wait! thank you for requesting :)

⚡︎ Behind Closed Doors ⚡︎

Pairing: Jake x Reader

Genre: Suggestive; Making Out

Words: 1.25k

Warnings: None

»»————-　♔　————-««

“Hey sweetie! How was your date?”, you mother asked as she held the door open for you. Smiling, you entered your home, carefully closing the door behind yourself. “It was great mom! Where’s dad?”

“He’s in the living room,” she shared, sauntering back into the kitchen as she always did. You waited for her to round the corner before opening the door again as quietly as you could. Jake was quick to slip inside, hiding behind your back as you walked further into the house. Your mom was in the kitchen and your dad was in the living room. If you timed it right, all you needed was a quick sprint to get to your room. Making sure your dad wasn’t paying attention, you took a deep breath, grabbed Jake’s hand, and dashed up the stairs.

Once you both were in your room, you let out a sigh of relief and locked the door. Despite having snuck Jake into your house numerous times before, you dreaded the uncertainty of getting caught. He, on the other hand, absolutely lived for the thrill.

He’d been making many frequent secretive visits to your house lately. He preferred seeing you in person rather than hearing your voice through his phone. It baffled you how your parents had never suspected it. Surely they’d noticed something or the other. Like the way you’d be talking to yourself late at night or the way you’d leave your window open despite how cold the nights got.

“Your parents won’t catch us. Don’t worry scaredy cat. Its fine,”Jake spoke assuringly. It was easy for him to say. He wasn’t going to be the one who got grounded if things failed to turn out the way he said. You sighed and went into your bathroom, turning on your shower. Now you had an excuse to keep your door locked. Jake beamed, holding his arms out as you walked over to him. You fell into him, snuggling into his warm embrace. This was the only thing that made your escapades worth it.

“So, what do you want to do today?” Jake asked, running a hand through your hair. You shrugged and looked up at him. “I don’t know. We can do whatever as long as its not too loud.”

Jake pursed his lips, giving your words some thought. His eyes lit up soon thereafter. “Wanna make out?”

You rolled your eyes, playfully slapping his arm. That’s what he suggested every single time he couldn’t think of anything else. Not that making out with Jake was bad or anything, you just couldn’t stand the thought of possibly getting walked in on, that too, by your own parents. As far as you knew, you were a good kid in their eyes. Always followed the rules and never rebelled. Oh, if only they knew what went on behind closed doors.

“Y/n! What did I say about not worrying? Stop being so paranoid and relax a little.”, Jake called out to you, snapping you out of your reverie. You hid your face in his neck, making him chuckle. He sat up, leaning against your headboard and brought you with him. Pulling you away from his chest, he pushed your hair behind your ears and held your face somberly. “Let’s not put any more time to waste,” he said under his breath, leaning in to press his lips onto yours.

You closed your eyes impulsively, humming as he took your lips between his. Jake smiled against your mouth, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. You followed his lead, responding to his each move with renewed vigor. Kissing Jake sent you to another world entirely. Everything else seemed like background noise as you melted into him. Suddenly you’d forgotten about everything that was bothering you.

He pulled away slightly, tugging your lip between his own as he did so. Breathing out shakily, you chased his lips, pushing yourself onto him. Jake pulled your legs over his lap, sighing into the kiss in satisfaction. He knew he had you all to himself in this moment.

The quickly heated up between you both. The shower successfully covered the sounds of the wet and sloppy kisses you both were exchanging. Thank god for that. Now you didn’t have to hold back. Jake groaned as your hips rolled over his. He picked you up and laid you down on your back, hovering over you. He didn’t waste any time in capturing your lips in his once again. Whimpering, you let your fingers thread through his hair. Jake’s hands stayed on your waist, thumbs rubbing small circles into your sides. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling his body down on yours.

Lost in each others lips you both for sure lost track of time. It wasn’t until a brief series of knocks sounded at your door that you finally pulled away from Jake. You both stared at each other wide eyed, not knowing what to do.

“Y/n? Are you in there?” your father called. Based off of his tone, he seemed rather impatient. He’d probably been standing behind your door for quite some time now. You scrambled from underneath Jake and rushed to turn the shower off. Jake aimlessly stood by your bed, eyes wavering between you and the door. You father knocked once again. “Answer me Y/N. Are you in there?”

“Yes dad! Yes I am! I’m so sorry I just got out of the shower!” you shouted, gesturing for Jake to hide in your bathroom. He scuttled into the room, letting you close the door behind him. Pulling your bathrobe over yourself, you opened your bedroom door.

“What took you so long?” he asked, pushing the door wider. You didn’t miss the way his eyes scanned to room. “I was washing my hair,” you answered, eyes widening when you realized that your hair was still dry. Your dad raised a brow and stepped invited himself in. He looked around, eyeing your bathroom door curiously. “Are you hiding something from me?” he asked, turning back to you. If you told him the truth, he was going to ground you. If you lied to him, he was still going to ground you. He could probably deduce what was going on from your worrisome expression. He didn’t wait for you to answer him, heading towards your bathroom. He threw the door open and you swore your heart stopped.

But when he entered the room, that when you let out a breath you didn’t even know you’d been holding. He hadn’t seen anyone in there, but someone had clearly been in there. What was going on? Where was Jake and why could your dad not find him? After thoroughly inspecting your room and asking for your phone, your dad concluded that you’d been all alone, much to your relief.

“Get dressed and leave the door open when your done,” he instructed strictly, leaving once you gave him a firm nod. You locked your door and ran into the bathroom. “Jake! Where the hell are you?”

You heard a pained groan, followed by a soft thud. Your cabinet flew open, a hand emerging from it seconds later. “What are you doing in there?” you asked, reaching down to help him out. How he’d fit into such a tight space in such a small amount of time was beyond you. He stretched his body, cringing in discomfort as he faced you. “So, what time should I come over tomorrow?”

#wkcnet #enhypenwriters #hoehousenet #making out with jake #enhypen scenarios #Jake scenarios #enhypen imagines #Jake imagines #enhypen x reader #Jake x reader #enhypen jake #kpop

388 notes · View notes