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sinkovia · 5 months

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The idea of losing you

Simon Riley x Fem!Reader

Angst, Mentions of suicide, Violence, Blood.

The mission had been intense, with bullets whizzing past and adrenaline pumping through your veins. You and Ghost were working together, taking down enemy operators one by one. Amid the chaos, you called out for Luna, your loyal German Shepherd, who had just finished killing an enemy operator attempting to flank your position.

With a simple command, you beckoned her over, and she trotted to your side, her ears perked up and her gaze locked onto you, awaiting your next orders. Ghost was at your side, urgently calling for reinforcements as you watched from a distance. The tension in the air was thick as you both knew that this mission was far from over.

The faint sound of approaching aircraft grew louder, and you looked up to see an ominous sight—a squadron of fighter jets streaking across the sky. Then, it happened in a heartbeat. The building where your brother was located, the very same building you had just passed moments ago, was engulfed in a fiery explosion.

Time seemed to slow as you watched in horror, the world around you muted by the deafening roar of the explosion.

Your heart shattered as the realization hit you like a tidal wave. Your brother, who had always been there for you, your rock in the tumultuous sea of your life, was now gone. The airstrike had claimed him, ending his life instantly. Beside you, Luna whined, as if echoing your grief. She felt it too; she sensed his presence vanish, and in her own way, she mourned the loss.

For a brief, agonizing moment, the mission, the gunfire, the chaos around you all faded into the background.

Ghost's firm grip on your shoulder pulls you back from the brink. He turns you to face him, and his eyes convey a stern determination. He knows you're hurting, but he also knows that there's a mission to complete. In that silent exchange, Ghost encourages you to hold on, to push through the pain. The mission is still in motion, and you can't afford to lose yourself to grief, not now, not here. With a deep breath, you muster the strength to nod, acknowledging Ghost's unspoken command.

In the days that followed your brother's funeral, your life had taken a downward spiral. Grief had consumed you, making it difficult to eat or sleep. You had distanced yourself from the team, retreating into solitude as you grappled with the loss that weighed heavily on your heart. Your teammates understood, giving you the space and time you needed to process your pain.

Through those dark days, Luna never left your side, her presence was the only thing that seemed to tether you to reality. She stayed by your side, a silent companion that understood your pain better than anyone else. On one sleepless night, you took Luna for a walk. The night air was cool against your cheeks, carrying a faint scent of pine and earth. Luna trotted beside you, her warm presence a comforting reminder of the life that still existed, despite the overwhelming grief that clouded your heart.

As you wandered deeper into the quiet night, you stumbled upon Ghost. He sat on a bench with a cigarette in hand. His gaze was fixed on the mountains in the distance. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, the soft ember glowing in the dark. You approached him, Luna at your side.

"Mind if I join you?" you asked, your voice a fragile whisper in the stillness of the night.

He glanced over at you, his eyes reflecting the dim moonlight. "Be my guest," he replied, his tone a mix of weariness and understanding. You took a seat beside him, the night air cool against your skin, and for a moment, you both sat in silence, staring at the mountains in the distance.

The weight of the world seemed to press down on your shoulders, but here, with Ghost beside you and Luna at your feet, you found a moment of respite from the relentless storm that had become your life. Finally, Ghost broke the silence, his voice tinged with concern that he couldn't conceal.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his eyes shifting to study your face in the faint moonlight.

Ghost wasn't one to readily express his feelings, but his worry had been gnawing at him ever since you started pulling away from the team. He would never admit it to you, but your absence had left a void, and he missed the sound of your voice, the liveliness you brought to the group. Your presence had, in its own way, always been a comfort to him, a reminder of life beyond the shadows of his past.

You grounded him in a way he couldn't quite explain.

You took a deep breath, you decided to be honest with him. "To tell you the truth, I thought about ending it. Several times actually, with one quick bullet to the head. But I realised I couldnt give up, Luna needs me." You softly patted the top of her head and smile as she looks up to you. Ghosts eyes never left you, his gaze scanning over your features, lingering when he noticed the deep bags under your eyes.

"My brother gave her to me after our parents died. She’s all I have left of him. She was just a puppy when she was thrown into this hellish world of war. I can’t leave her behind. Im trying to pull myself together for her sake. Shes the only reason I havent given up."

Ghost listened, his gaze never wavering from you. He saw the pain in your eyes, the weight you carried, and he didn't know what to say. But when you looked at him, he met your gaze with sincerity. Breaking the silence, he spoke gently, his voice a calming presence in the still night.

"You're not alone in this, Y/n. The team, we're all worried about you. We care about you, and we're here for you whenever you need it."

Ghost's gaze remained on yours, his eyes reflecting the concern and genuine care he felt. "Don't push us away, we care about you more than you might realize."

Don’t push me away… I care about you more than you realize…

Words he would never dare speak to you.

"Thank you, Ghost" Your smile, though faint, warmed his heart.

The horizon began to shift, the first soft rays of the rising sun peeking over the distant mountains. Together, you and Ghost sat in the comfortable silence of the early morning, Luna at your feet, as you watched the sun rise.

A couple days after your talk with Ghost you were thrown into another mission. You were meant to infiltrate a building, and the team had split up to cover more ground. Luna was at your side as you cautiously opened a door, not anticipating the nightmare that awaited on the other side. In a fraction of a second, the situation went from under control to utter chaos. Luna leaped into action, her training taking over as she swiftly neutralized the enemy in front of you. But you failed to realize that it wasn't just one target; there was a group of them inside.

Two of them emerged from behind the door, pinning you to the floor before you could react. You struggled against their weight, your heart pounding in your chest as the situation escalated. Panic surged through you as you saw one of them raise their weapon, aiming it at Luna. The deafening gunshot pierced the air, and you watched in horror as Luna was struck, the bullet tearing through her leg. She cried out in pain, collapsing to the floor beside you, her once vibrant eyes now filled with agony. You screamed out as two men began kicking her.

"Please stop. Please dont do this!"

You were mere inches away, your arm slipped from the mens hold on you. You outstretched your hand, fingers trembling as you desperately tried to reach her, to offer any comfort you could. But they were quick to grab your arm, pinning your hands behind your back. All you could do was watch helplessly as she lay there, her gaze locked with yours, a silent plea in her eyes. The pain and guilt gnawed at your insides, the anguish of being so close yet utterly powerless to save her.

"Luna please get up."

You watched as one of the men took the pistol from his holster aiming it at her head.

"Im begging you shes all I have left please dont do this. Please just let her go."

Luna who had been looking at you the entire time lets out a low whine. All you can do is look at her.

"I'm so sorry" was all you can say before the deafening gunshot pierced the air.

The rest of your team burst into the room, and in a flurry of gunfire, they took down the enemy operatives. Ghost hurried to your side, but the tears continued to fall silently as you stared at Luna's lifeless body. Ghost positioned himself in front of you to shield you from the lifeless form her. Gently, he lifted you, cradling you in his arms, and carried you away from the room, heading towards the medevac.

Ghost had been there for you every day, his presence unwavering after the loss of your brother and your Luna. He remembered the words that had echoed in his mind, how Luna had been the last thing keeping you from ending your own life, and that thought scared him to the core. He couldn't bear the idea of losing you.

So, he checked on you constantly.

He would bring you tea at random times of the day, ask you to training sessions , and do anything he could to prevent you from being alone for extended periods. You looked okay, you had accepted every cup he brought thanking him with a small smile, joined him for training sessions, watched movies with him and the team in the rec room. He knew you were faking it, putting on a facade to shield him and the team from your pain.

Then, one day, you finally told him that you were okay.

"I'm okay, Ghost. I'm trying my best to pull myself together. It's just... a lot, you know?"

Ghost nodded, "I know," he replied, his voice gentle. "And I'm here for you, always. Dont forget that."

Ghost, ever the soldier, wanted to believe you. He wanted to believe that you were strong enough to overcome the grief and trauma that had engulfed you. But deep down, he had a nagging feeling that you were still hurting, that you weren't as okay as you claimed to be. He knew that healing from such profound loss took time, and he wished he could do more to help you through it.

You guys had just finished watching a movie in the rec room, the two of you were walking back to your rooms. His room was right next to yours, he stopped in front of his door. The nagging feeling in his heart was screaming out to him to not leave you alone. His mind flashed back to you laughing at the movie with Soap. You had made a joke that Soap thought was hilarious.

He thought that maybe you were trying your best to be okay. So he turned saying goodnight to you before stepping into his room and closing the door. He couldnt fall asleep, he had been tossing and turning for an hour. His mind wouldnt let him rest, he was worried about you. Something had kept screaming out at him to knock on your door and check on you and so he threw the covers off himself.

He opened his door and walked over to yours, he raised his fist to knock on your door when he flinched.

The sound of a gunshot made him flinch.

"Y/n?!" he tried opening the door but of course it was locked. He started to ram his shoulder against it until he finally broke through. He saw you laying on your bed, your eyes were open.

They were far away.

In your hand was a gun.

And you lay in a growing pool of your blood.

Ghosts breathing was labored as he looked at your eyes, you had been crying in your last moments. If only he had come sooner, if only he had listened to the gut feeling that screamed out at him the second he left your side. His eyes went to the small piece of paper in your hand, he carefully grabbed it, slowly opening it. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes read over the letters.

Im sorry Simon.

You noticed how hard he had been trying. Your conversations with him were always one sided before your brother and Luna's death. He was always the one listening, he never bothered to start conversations, never bothered to make plans, never offered you tea, never went to the movie nights.

He had tried his damn hardest to make sure you would be okay but it still wasnt enough.

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frantic-fiction · 5 months

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Reoccurring Nightmares

(Gif: margonite-seer)

Astarion x GN!Reader / Astarion x Good!Durge

Summary: A night reveals that maybe the past is not left behind, and maybe old urges have begun again. As people always say healing is never linear.

Triggers/Tags: Implied mentions of self harm. Violent topics. Angst Hurt/comfort.

Minor spoilers for Durges plot line nothing very specific but you have been warned.

Word Count: 2.2k

(Quick note I gave reader Tav's name so hope y'all don't mind)

Cold damp earth thunders under your feet as you run, each step echoes in the silent woods. Your chest heaves, each breath a meager attempt to fill lungs that can't seem to feel satisfied.

Why are you out here?

The forest is a maze, and you navigate it with urgency, propelled forward by the rhythmic pounding of your heart. It threatens to break free, like a wild creature desperate to escape its cage. You don’t stop, fueled by the momentum and the all-consuming fear clawing at your throat.

Why were you running?

This isn’t the first time your memory has betrayed you, leaving you disoriented in the unknown.

Ducking beneath a fallen tree, the rough bark scratches against your skin. You turn sharply and press on, the underbrush snapping beneath your hurried steps. The surroundings are a blur, darkness shrouding any discernible features. The moon, a mere sliver in the night sky, casts an eerie glow through the dense canopy.

A plan forms in the chaos of your thoughts. The distant sound of water becomes a lifeline; a river might offer refuge from a pursuer. You move toward the sou-

Your foot snags a root, and you collide with a rock. Blood fills your mouth, the metallic taste jarring, familiar. In the darkness, your hand tightens around a shard of glass. The moonlight reflects off its jagged edges, casting faint ethereal patterns on the forest floor.

Frogs and crickets harmonize in the night, their symphony a stark contrast to the turmoil within. The beauty of the scene clashes with the disarray of your mind. A brief moment of clarity emerges, allowing you to catch your breath.

What happened?

You examine the shard of glass, uncurling your fingers for a better look. A deeper wound reveals itself, and the blood flows unabated. The taste and sight is both revolting and comforting, a paradoxical sensation that grounds you in the reality of pain.

Where did the glass come from? Memories fracture, and images of a shared life flood your mind. The house on the outskirts, memories of love and healing. Someone's absence looms, silver curls and sharp teeth; Astarion, a question unanswered.

Knees pulled to your chest, you notice the blood-soaked clothes. Panic sets in; that part of you, the monster believed buried, threatens to resurface. Did his blood taint you again? Did you harm Astarion?

Jerking to the side, you vomit, the weight of imagined horrors overwhelming you. The riverbed offers a cold sanctuary, and you scrub the blood away. The water numbs your body, but you persist until your fingers ache. The raw emptiness grows, time stops, and the world holds its breath in shared grief. You can’t face your friends; the word "friend" is tainted by your actions. Astarion’s absence is a void you can’t bear.

Wasn’t this the fear? The fear that kept you awake, haunted by the possibility of losing control. The dark whispers that the urges would resurface.

Your reflection in the river, blood-soaked and tormented, triggers waves of self-loathing. The glass shard gleams, a macabre symbol of your descent into the abyss.

Fingers graze the cold surface, and a distant voice interrupts your thoughts.

“Tav!” The sound pierces through the chaos, freezing your movements.

“TAV!” Astarion’s voice, a lifeline in the disarray.

Frantically searching, he emerges from the trees, disheveled and relieved. He is by your side in a moment joining you halfway into the river. He cups your cheek, his touch offers a brief respite, a moment of grounding in the maelstrom.

Words are cement in your mouth. You're mystified by the reality that is facing you. Astarion is here, in front of you. And, in fact, very much alive. You reach up with a shaky hand to barely caress his cheek, as if a more stern touch would shatter the fragile moment. He grabs your wrist and kisses your cold palm softly.

“You’re alive,” you choke, collapsing into his chest sobs rolls through your body.

He momentarily freezes in confusion at your words before refocusing at the current urgency of your state. Pressing you tighter against him, Astarion strokes your hair and gives you a gentle kiss to your hairline. Maybe he had just fed before finding you, or maybe it's a testament to how long you have suffered the freezing night, but he’s warm. You bury yourself deeper in his embrace, hiding your tear-streaked face in his neck.

“Of course, my love,” He softly says and holds you a moment longer, allowing you to feel the truth of something he’s not quite understanding but knows is important just the same. But little by little, he begins to pry you from his body.

“No,” you make a pathetic whine in protest, desperately trying to stay attached. Too afraid that once you let go, he’ll disappear and the truth of what you did will be brought back into the moonlight.

“Hush now, my sweet,” Astarion stands up suddenly and removes the heavy jacket you had given him. Kneeling back down, he drapes it over your shoulders.

“You have been in the middle of the woods in freezing weather for gods know how long. And you've had a bit of a swim.” His thumb brushes the line of your cheekbone. “Let’s get you home so I can warm you up, and if you are feeling okay tonight, we could discuss what my darling was doing alone out here.”

He doesn’t leave room to argue, and you have none to give. So he takes you in his arms and begins to walk. You’re too tired to speak, so you simply curl closer into him and resume your position, face tucked into the crook of his neck. His scent invades your nostrils, and finally, since waking up in the woods earlier this evening, you breathe a sigh of relief.

***

You don’t remember falling asleep, but you awake on the plush sofa in your living room. Astarion must have moved it because it is now as close to the fireplace as safety would allow. The only thing standing in its way was the intricately sculpted metal table Dammon had gifted you for a housewarming gift.

What seemed to be the entire house's stock of blankets was now piled on top of you, effectively cocooning you in cotton and silks. You try to sit up, but find that no strength is left in your bones.

“Stari?” You croak, your voice hoarse from your sobs.

There is not an immediate response, just the crackling fire and the rustling of dinnerware from the kitchen. You don’t bother to call out again; you know he’ll be in to check on you soon. When it comes to you, Astarion’s mother hen tendencies rear their head with great urgency.

While you wait, you stare transfixed into the fire, mesmerized by the crackling wood and swirling ash. The chaos of fire has always been interesting to you. In small quantities, fire can bring warmth to a home and light to darkness. But uncontrolled fire burns, burns everything in its path. No mercy, no complexities, just fire and fuel; anything in between is insignificant in the grand scheme. It's familiar, too familiar.

Maybe this topic was best left untouched; maybe you hated fire. After all, fire is made to burn.

“Oh good, I was just about to wake you,” Astarion sets a tray on the coffee table. “I made tea,”

He starts to unearth your body from your blanket tomb and helps you into a more seated position before moving to the armchair. You catch his wrist; his crimson eyes meet yours. You're not entirely sure what you want; you just can’t bear him being so far. Not after thinking he was lost to you forever.

“Hold me?” The words are barely above a whisper, hesitant as if Astarion has ever denied you anything. “Please,” you tack on for good measure, though you're not sure why.

“Of course, my sweet,”

Handing you your tea, Astarion motions you to lean forward so that he can slip in behind you. Sandwiched between his legs, he wraps an arm around your middle and eases you against his solid torso.

He’s warm; you must have been right. During your trek in the woods, he must have stepped out to feed. Now that the winter is approaching, he’s been hunting larger game; he likes to be warm, says it’s not always fair when you're the only one bringing heat into the relationship.

He silently urges you to drink your tea, and you do. It’s quiet; neither of you speaks; you simply drink your tea and Astarion comforts. Hands gently trail up and down your arms, in between peppering tender kisses on your neck and shoulders.

You know what he’s doing. You’ve done the same tactics on him plenty of times in the past. He’s waiting. Waiting for you to speak first. To share with him why you were in those woods. What horrors brought you there. It’s an unspoken rule between two very broken people. You offer each other comfort, the safety each has lacked in the past and wait. If or when the person wishes to speak, the other listens.

But how do you even begin to describe the night that has occurred? The terror, the guilt, the hatred. It all just boils in your chest like wet tar. You can’t even really explain what happened to yourself. Once the tea is finished, you pass the cup to Astarion, who in turn returns it to the tray.

With a deep breath, you say simply, “I thought it happened again,” he knows immediately what you're saying and holds you just a bit tighter.

“I-I-I don’t know what happened, b-but I was just running. I was… Gods, Astarion, I was so scared.”

Pushing the blankets further away from you, you turn in his arms and wrap around his neck. His eyes reflect the same sadness and fear you are feeling. “I was covered in blood, and then…then all I could think about was you,”

Tears begin to roll one by one down your cheeks; he collect them with his thumbs. Tears of his begin to follow a similar path. “I thought it finally happened,” you're crying harder now, hiccuping between words.

“I thought he finally made me kill you,” words began to fail you from there. You pathetically tried to say more but the only sounds that escape are choked hiccups and wet sobs. When you know you have no hope of continuing you simply hide your face in your hands, no longer wanting to face the world.

“We’re okay, little love. Everythings okay.” Astarion is rubbing soft circles into your back, repeating calming phrases until they stick. “I’m here, nothing can change that. You’re okay darling.”

It takes a lot of lovely words and small touches before your breathing calms down and you seem to have run out of your tear supply for that night. But even then Astarion doesn’t let go. You two stay interlocked, warmed by the slowly dwindling fire. He clears up your scattered thoughts.

Astarion's voice, tinged with concern and a hint of reassurance, breaks through the remnants of your panic. "It was probably just one of your nightmares," he offers, a familiar acknowledgment that nightmares are woven into the fabric of your existence. In the quiet aftermath of your ordeal, the weight of his words settles in the still air.

As he gently extracts one of your hands from your tear-streaked face, the dim light catches the glint of a heavy bandage wrapped around your trembling fingers. The glass shard, a cruel messenger, the night will leave its mark. With a tender touch, Astarion guides your gaze to the bandage, and then, with a careful motion, he lifts the fabric of your pants to expose a larger wound on your thigh, neatly covered in thick gauze.

The size of the injury is alarming, and the realization dawns that stitches would have been a necessity. Astarion's eyes reflect a regret that mirrors your own. "I should have been there, I'm so very sorry, my love," he whispers, his voice carrying the weight of an unspoken vow to protect you from the horrors that lurk within your own mind.

As you open your mouth to argue or perhaps offer words of comfort, Astarion anticipates your protest. "Regardless of what you are going to say," he interrupts, his words cutting through the heavy air, "from now on, I will be feeding exclusively when you are awake." The admission reveals a vulnerability in his eyes—a fear that lingers from the night when the scent of your blood permeated the air, and you were nowhere to be found.

"There was nothing more frightening than coming home to the smell of your blood and you gone." His hand begin to play with a strand of your hair. "Not to mention the absolute nightmare of a talk I’m to receive once I call for Shadowheart come morning, because I’m still not convinced you didn’t contract hypothermia during your midnight swim.”

A small smile plays on your lips, a silent acknowledgment of the impending lecture from Shadowheart, whose disapproval you can almost taste. Astarion seems to relish in your smile, and he cups your jaw, pressing his forehead to yours in an intimate gesture that transcends words.

"That is all behind us," he declares, a note of determination in his voice. "Our wounds are still fresh, but we are here, and we are healing. We'll get through this, we always have." His smirk carries a promise of resilience, and you nod in agreement, surrendering to the irresistible urge to find solace in the warmth of his lips pressed against yours.

Author's notes: Oh boy I haven't posted any of my writings since 2018 but damn BG3 has sparked something in me. Astarion is something special and I love him. If anyone has some ideas they would like to throw my way I would loved to see them.

Feedback is welcome, hate is not! Have a nice day, cheers.

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x dark urge #astarion #astarion imagine #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #bg3 astarion #bg3 tav #baldur's gate #fanfic #writing #reader insert #astarion ancunin #angst #hurt/comfort

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futureman · 1 year

Text

living in a state of dreaming

summary: it’s been a year since you, joel, and ellie returned to jackson, and you’re finally starting to feel a sense of security. but when the sun goes down and joel closes his eyes, the horrors beyond the walls still hunt him, out to take back the family he’s worked so hard to protect.

pairing: joel miller x reader

warnings: hurt/comfort (mostly comfort), nightmares, sleepwalker!joel, language, minor injury, mention of panic attacks, ellie struggles, post-season one

word count: 1.5k

a/n: inspired by my own sleepwalking adventures :') i've loved tlou since the first game came out, but the hbo show really made me wanna start writing again, so this is my first fic here! thoughts and feedback are super welcome and appreciated! 💕

“You still mumble in your sleep,” she says, worry lines marring her face as Joel shoots up and off the couch. His eyes are much too alert for someone who was dead asleep moments before.

You meet Ellie’s gaze from across the room, her concern mirrored in your own. Joel had always suffered from nightmares, for as long as you’d known him, but it was so much worse now. Of course, Ellie notices. She may have moved into her own space out back, but she still watches Joel like a hawk, a side-effect of traveling together, of looking out for each other for as long as they had.

You can’t even begin to pinpoint the cause. Sure, he hadn’t loosened up much since your little group arrived in Jackson—he was still Joel, after all—but it had been a year. Ellie was safe, you were safe, and the delusion that nothing could ever harm you again was almost believable.

But still, there he was every night, tossing and turning, mumbling evolving into screaming as he reached out for you in the dark.

You do what you can, but your presence alone isn’t enough. You hold him in your arms, the warmth of his back against your chest a reminder that he's still here with you. "Joeljoeljoel," you murmur into his hair. He smells like suede and wood oil, and you squeeze him a little tighter. "I'm here, see? Go back to sleep, we're safe. Nothing here but you and me."

He’s still trembling, but you can feel his heart rate calming. Just a brief respite until the monsters come for him again.

For a while, Joel tried not sleeping at all. He occupied his nights woodworking, your home slowly filling up with small statues of animals and cowboys, neatly sanded and coated in a fresh stain. He’d let the bite of guitar strings on his calloused fingertips distract him from the burning behind his eyes, the headache blooming in his temples.

This isn’t sustainable and you both know it. But he’ll keep going, excuses falling from his lips that you and Ellie pretend to believe.

There’s not enough time in the day, he’d say. How do you expect me to finish fixin’ Ellie’s guitar, I made her a promise.

Ellie smiles for him, treads lightly as if she’s dealing with a child, and you think it’s probably a habit she picked up from the little time she had with Tess. It’s okay, Joel, there’s plenty of time for you to teach me. We’ve got forever, and she means it.

Ellie catches you before your shift one morning, her small hand circling your wrist.

“We should probably talk about Joel,” she lets go and wraps her arms around herself like she always does when she’s upset. You let out a sigh and it feels like you’ve been holding it in for days. She shouldn’t have to worry about things like this. Joel would be furious with himself if he knew.

“Something’s freaking him out. I dunno, maybe you should ask him about it?” She sounds frantic now. “I mean, what if he starts getting those panic-things again and can’t breathe, or he has a fuckin’ heart attack and dies?” You do your best to reassure her.

“Kiddo, I promise he’s not going to die,” your thumb smooths the wrinkle in her brow. “I think he’s just been through a lot. We all have.” Ellie doesn’t look like she believes you; she wants a better answer than that.

“...Do you still get nightmares?”

Your mouth tips down and you glance away. The front door is open and the chill of the air makes you shiver.

“Yeah, I do. But when I wake up, I know they can’t hurt me anymore,” you reply. She must still have them too, after the horrors she’s seen and lived. So much and yet so little time has passed, but Ellie’s scars are healing.

The friends she’s made here make her smile and she laughs more. Her cheeks are fuller and her eyes are less clouded. But scars never fade completely.

She nods stiffly.

“I’ll talk to him, see if something happened.” You hug her and she thaws just a little. Ellie hasn’t really warmed up to physical affection, and you won’t push it. But sometimes she welcomes it when she needs the comfort.

“It wasn’t like this out there, I-...I don’t know,” you continue. “I don’t know what changed, but we’ll figure it out.”

You don’t, and it escalates.

Sunday is the first day Joel sleepwalks. He wakes up halfway out of bed, his foot catching on the sharp, wooden bed frame—the one he built himself, close to the ground just like you wanted—and he can feel the skin of his ankle twisting and tearing.

He catches himself before he can crash to the ground and you’re on him in an instant. “Christ, Joel, are you okay?”

“S’nothin’,” he grumbles, bleary-eyed and dazed. You move to check the damage to his foot and he swats your hands away, which doesn’t surprise you at all, but hurts nonetheless.

The few times he let you patch him up were less a choice than a necessity, to say the least. A memory of Ellie with a syringe of penicillin, and you with a roll of duct tape and the cleanest rag you could find comes to mind, and so you let him go. “I got it, jus’ go back to sleep. Sorry for wakin’ you.”

The door to the bathroom closes and you follow behind, resting your head softly on the door. It’ll get better soon, you tell yourself. It’s getting colder, winter’s on its way, and Joel’s just stressed about sorting out patrol duties; infected are more unpredictable this time of year. Once Tommy and his crew are back from the dam, it’ll be better.

On Wednesday, his eyes are vacant as he grabs for the doorknob leading out of your bedroom, but it's gone, stolen away in the dark. He pounds his fists against the wood, desperately fitting his fingers in the gap between the door and the frame in a futile attempt to pry it open.

You don’t fully comprehend what’s happening until the yelling starts, low grunts becoming frantic pleas. He’s calling out for you, for Ellie.

The lights flicker on, enough to make him aware of his surroundings, of reality. Joel’s chest is heaving, eyes sad as your hands take his, leading him back to bed.

It's Saturday when the front door slams open, startling you awake too early in the morning. The other side of the bed is still warm, frighteningly so, as your hand slams down on the sweat-dampened sheets where Joel should be.

You’re too late to stop him from running out of the house into the cold, barefoot in the snow, as if something was chasing after him.

Joel can feel his heart pounding in his chest, hear the blood rushing in his ears like white noise, and he can’t seem to draw in enough air. He can't remember what he was running from, but its eyes in the shadows still haunt him. It’s all too much and his body finally reaches its breaking point.

It’s a terrifying sight, Joel dropping to his knees. His eyes are blank and he’s gone so, so quiet.

“Joel, please. You have to tell me what to do, tell me how to help you.” Resisting the urge to shake him feels so hard, but you have no idea how else you’re supposed to bring him back from this. He’s sinking into himself, hands tensing and untensing as he battles the urge to fight.

You wonder if he can even hear you.

The commotion hasn’t woken Ellie up, and you’re grateful. You don’t want her to see him like this.

“I let my guard down,” his gravelly voice catches you off guard. “This place is makin’ me weak.” Joel’s eyes are wet and your heart shatters. “Once you stop moving, it hits you all at once. The adrenaline’s gone, there’s no gettin’ it back.” His eyes find yours, and you’re frozen. “The fuck am I supposed to protect you like this?”

You sink to the ground to wrap your arms around him and the snow burns as it seeps through your threadbare pajama pants.

“There’s nothing coming for us, the Fireflies are gone. We got her back, okay? She’s ours now,” you murmur, words gentle even as you grip him tight, tethering him to right now. “And sometimes you have to let me protect you. Even from yourself, especially from yourself. That’s what we do, we keep each other going.”

Joel slumps, exhausted. His forehead drops to yours and his nose is cold as it bumps your own, breath warm and humid in contrast.

“Trust us,” you hum against his lips, and the remaining tension leaves his body.

It’s not enough to stop the nightmares; they’ll never stop. But it’s enough for tonight. And when the monsters come again, you’ll be there to turn on the light.

thanks for reading! 💕

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #joel miller

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dirtytomatoedwrites · 8 months

Text

ONLY HUMAN

Summary: Changes are happening. Rafe can feel it.

Paring: Rafe Cameron x Fem!Reader

Strictly 18+ No Minors to Interact

Warnings: Dark!Rafe, Dub-Con/Non-Con, "Blood-Drinking", Character Death, Smut, Horror.

Word Count: 2k words

Author's Note: Wanted to contribute to Kintober but also wanted to experiment with how and what I write. Hope you enjoy and Happy Halloween 😈

Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Please don’t steal or copy bits of my writing or any writing from other writers cause karma will get ya.

It was the headaches that first hinted something was wrong.

Not just mild, fleeting headaches, but relentless migraines. They were excruciating, bouts of pain that seemed to originate from deep within his skull, right behind his eyes and radiating outwards in waves.

They were accompanied by disturbing visual auras—shimmering zigzags of light that swirled around his field of vision, making the world seem fractured and broken. He couldn't help but wonder if something sinister was taking root—something malignant, something deadly.

Over-the-counter pain pills and the heavy prescribed meds from his dad’s bathroom cabinet didn’t help. Being exposed to sunlight only made things worse; once a source of warmth, now felt like molten fire, forcing him to wear his sunglasses indoors. But after a while even that didn't work.

The only respite came when he submerged himself in utter darkness. And so his days became isolated, cocooned within the confines of his bedroom. The thick, heavy curtains drawn creating a sanctuary from the glaring sunlight that now felt like an enemy.

Cloaked in this artificial night, he clung to the few comforts that remained: scrolling through his Instagram feed to stay connected with friends. But even their mundane accomplishments made him feel worse, knowing the world carried on—while his was standing still.

Topper boasted about his championship win and how his dad was lending him the family boat to celebrate. Kelce posted pictures of himself at the golf club, scoring a suspiciously low 90. And then there was you. Sweet you. Pretty you.

“When did you get a puppy?”

He clicked on the video, showing you cradling the little fur ball. Despite the pain, a chuckle escaped Rafe's lips.

Ah, so it wasn’t your pup after all but a friend’s, he mused. He watched as you gently petted and cooed at it, your voice a calming balm soothed even his anxiety while his gaze drank in your contented features slowly, lingering just a tad too long on your eyes and lips.

Clearing his throat Rafe clicked off the vid.

RAFE- Yo can you guys quit posting this shit? You know I'm dying over here. Don't need to feel like killing myself too.

The boys' "lols" and your kiss and hug emojis, along with well-wishes, made him smile, giving him a glimmer of hope. "It'll pass in a few days," Topper responded. "Migraines can't last forever. You'll be up and about soon," you assured. And for a brief moment, Rafe believed it.

But then, the loss of appetite hit him.

Food suddenly didn't have the same appeal anymore, not after the headaches started. Bland, tasteless, gagging on his favorite meal—the texture of food itself seemed off somehow, like it wasn't going down quite right, like it wouldn't clear his throat when he swallowed it. And if the terrible texture wasn't bad enough, it tasted like it wasn't made for human consumption. Every bite seemed artificial, a blend of plastics and chemicals.

Drinking water only seemed to make things worse—every sip led to a lurching of his stomach, a violent uprising of nausea that ended with him hunched over the toilet, retching, even when it seemed there was nothing left.

Enough was enough.

He decided to video call Dr. Morris.

"Were you able to take your temperature recently?" She asked as she scribbled down his list of symptoms.

Rafe touched a hand to his forehead. "Yeah, it’s pretty normal. Checked it this morning; it was 98.6, or maybe just a touch below."

"Alright..." Dr. Morris murmured as she scribbled notes. "And the headaches, did they appear with the eye changes?"

"Eye changes? What changes?"

Dr. Morris gave a short laugh as if he was pulling her leg but stopped immediately when he didn't laugh with her. "There's discolouration around the edge," she said, her finger making a circle near her own pupil. "It's crimson. Haven't you noticed the color change?"

Rafe leaned closer to the screen, trying to see the reflection of his own eyes. They did seem different—possibly a bit darker around the edges? It was hard to tell in the dim light.

"I haven't noticed—no offense, doc, but I've had other things on my mind," he replied tersely. "So, what's wrong with me?"

"These symptoms can indicate many things: the flu, food intolerance, a bacterial infection. We'll need to run tests. But given your age and lifestyle, I suspect it's just a bug. I'll refer you to Claire for a blood test appointment this week, and in the meantime, I'll prescribe something for nausea to help you keep food and fluids down."

"Alright... doc." he nodded with a sigh of relief "That sounds like a plan."

Time bore down upon Rafe, its weight an oppressive force that enveloped each passing moment, shrouded in the inescapable cocoon of artificial darkness. The world outside seemed distant, lost behind the heavy curtains drawn across the windows.

Confined within his dimly lit room, the persistent throb in his head wove a malevolent lullaby, blurring the boundary between reality and hallucination. The antinausea pills only dulled the edges of his suffering, allowing sips of water to stay down, while he managed to eat small morsels of food. But a hunger unlike anything he had ever experienced before clawed at him from deep within, a gnawing emptiness that defied satiation.

Amidst his despair, his Instagram feed served as his bridge to the outside world, a bittersweet reprieve. Travels, festivities, sporting events—brief snapshots of lives that captivated him as long as it took to scroll. Yet, within those fleeting glimpses, you shone distinctly. A light in the darkness. With a magnetic radiance, your digital presence seemed more real than the dim walls surrounding him. He found himself irresistibly drawn to you, toggling between your Instagram, TikTok, and Facebook, silently observing every aspect of your life.

You were his friend and yet, with each photo and video, you unveiled new layers he had never noticed before. Were you always this serene? This happy? Your laugh that infectious? Peace seemed to radiate from you. And he found himself wanting to understand its source. Your digital presence had become a double-edged sword—offering him solace at one moment and then amplifying his torment in the next.

And then one night, the comforting yet painful ritual of immersing himself in your virtual world was interrupted.

Rubbing his eyes, aching from the screen's glare, he decided to splash some water on his face. Entering the dimly lit bathroom, he was startled by his own reflection. Leaning closer to the mirror, his eyes just inches away from the glass, he scrutinized the change.

The crimson around his pupils had grown darker, more pronounced, and now covered most of his pupil.

But what scared him more was the pulsing pattern. Every heartbeat seemed to send ripples through the shade, expanding and contracting with his pulse as if it had a life of its own. As if it were connected to some deeper, more sinister force within him.

"What the fuck?"

Panic set in, and Rafe fumbled to switch on the brighter overhead lights, hoping that maybe the subtle light from the bathroom bulb was playing tricks on him.

But under the stark, unforgiving light, the reality became even clearer. His heart raced, matching the rhythm of the ominous pulsing in his eyes. It was as though something was alive in there. A parasite. A silent watcher buried deep within, looking back at him from the mirror.

And just as that thought gripped his mind, another thought intruded, one that wasn't his own.

SLEEP

A dark siren echoed through his consciousness, promising peace and tranquility if only he gave in.

SLEEP

Its voice dripped with honeyed sweetness, promising it would make it all better.

SLEEP

Rafe felt its presence, an intangible force that clouded his thoughts, pulling him down into an abyss of darkness. He wanted to resist, to fight back against the compulsion that demanded his obedience. But fatigue suddenly weighed heavily on his eyelids, and the false comfort of the voice was impossible to resist.

SLEEP

With trembling hands, Rafe switched off the bathroom light, the shadows immediately lengthening and merging into one great expanse of blackness.

SLEEP

Suddenly, his steps were heavy, as if sinking into quicksand, his mind numb and zombified as he trudged along. Exhaustion made it a struggle to even reach his bed, and when he finally collapsed onto it, heart pounding against his ribcage, he began to sob because he knew he was surrendering to the unknown.

You awaken with a jolt, your heart racing and your eyes darting wildly in the pitch black. The air in your bedroom feels thick, an ominous heaviness that chills you to the bone. Your bed, once a sanctuary of familiarity and safety, now seems alien and cold beneath you.

Something catches your attention—a subtle but undeniable weight at the foot of your bed.

With trepidation, you force yourself to look down, and sheer horror grips you.

There, bathed in the eerie glow of the moonlight, is Rafe—or at least what remains of him. His posture is slumped, defeated, his silhouette a mix of lost and predatory.

Your throat tightens, and a scream gets stuck within it, but before it can escape, Rafe's voice—eerie and unlike him—cuts through the silence. "I had to see you... it commanded me too."

In a supernatural blur, he's suddenly upon you, his weight oppressive and suffocating. His skin is sickly pale, drawn tight over gaunt cheekbones. But it's his eyes, blood-red radiating pure evil, that hold you captive.

His icy fingers glide over your face, every touch searing your skin like a brand, a mixture of tenderness and threat that has you trembling.

"You're scared," he rasps, his voice a deathly whisper. “I’ll make it so you’re not."

The moment your lips meet, everything fades—your perception of past, present, reality; memories; even the chilling dread that had consumed you. Suddenly you're floating in a void, a liminal space between desire and oblivion.

His lips are a potent elixir, and with every passing second they pull you deeper into a spellbound haze. Your body is electrified with the intensity of his embrace. Every inch of skin comes alive beneath his ice cold touch.

Every whisper of breath; moan; gasp emanating from your lips mingles with the steady beat of your pounding heart. Your thoughts evaporate like wisps of smoke as the kiss intensifies to lust that surpasses all understanding.

His fingers leave a trail of fire down your exposed torso, as his hands slip away your clothes and his own. You do not notice. You're too consumed by pleasure and need alone. The need to be taken. The need to be fucked.

Suddenly he's pushing inside you and moving against you with an impatient hunger, claiming you for himself until you become one entity with one pulse, one breath, one desire��to reach ecstasy together.

With an animalistic vigor, he thrusts into you again and again, faster and harder, each stroke more powerful than the last. Pleasure builds inside you until there are no boundaries between pain and pleasure, only bliss. Bliss consumes every fragment of your being, building into an orgasm so profound, so primal, mounting higher and higher until—

Cold fingers seize your chin, jerking your head to reveal the delicate skin of your neck. Your eyes widen as grotesque, razor-sharp fangs extend from Rafe's perfect white teeth.

With agonizing force, they snap onto your throat, synchronizing with the grinding of his hips, and the sudden, overwhelming orgasm that tears you into a million pieces. Your muscles convulse and quiver around his cock, while Rafe's grip on your shoulder tightens, anchoring you in place as he drinks deep.

"What's happening?" you choke, sensing your heartbeat slowing. Tears now cascade down your cheeks, mingling with the blood trickling from your collarbone, staining the once-pristine white bedsheets.

"Rafe... I'm scared," you whisper, your grip on his arm weakening as desperation fills your fading gaze.

A monstrous hunger gleams in Rafe's eyes as he briefly withdraws, crimson trailing from his lips. An unsettling vitality now surrounds him, no longer pale or sickly; he appears healthy and handsome, reminiscent of his former self – a picture of perfect health.

In a cruel mockery of tenderness, he raises your wrist to his mouth, his eyes gleaming with ravenous hunger. With savage grace, he sinks his bloodstained fangs into your vein.

The world seems to bleed into his mouth as your life force drains. Each beat of his heart grows louder, stronger, overpowering the diminishing rhythm of your own, which slows... slows... and finally fades into silence.

GIF by outerbankspov

HAPPY HALLOWEEN MY LOVES 🖤😈😘

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

Thanks for reading x If you enjoyed it please like/reblog/drop a comment would love to know what you think. Until next time ❤️

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nevess · 8 months

Text

[ i love thee with a love that shall not die, till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old. ] - William Shakespeare

🌱… description: You and Anakin are stargazing and he can’t stop looking at your beautiful face.

🍵 … warnings: none, more Anakin fluff :p

🧳 … character/s: Anakin Skywalker x Reader

☕️ … word count: 760 words ; | date: October 3rd, 2023

🗞️ back to the main menu

a/n: still just making anakin x reader fluff cuz tumblr needs it. :) Hope you enjoy it! <3 Disclaimer!!! i didn’t read it after finishing, so i apologize for any typos :p In other news, im looking for beta readerssss here's the post!

The moon hung low on the horizon, casting a silvery glow across the quiet hilltop. Anakin Skywalker and you had returned from your respective missions, weary from the battles and conflicts that seemed to define the Clone Wars. Tonight, you both sought solace in the serenity of the night sky.

Laying on a blanket beneath a tapestry of stars, you gazed up at the twinkling constellations, captivated by the beauty of the cosmos. The galaxy seemed vast and endless, a stark contrast to the turmoil you faced on a daily basis.

Anakin's eyes, however, weren't on the stars above; they were fixed on you. He watched you in awe, his heart swelling with a deep, unspoken love. Your profile was illuminated by the soft moonlight, casting a gentle glow on your features, and in that moment, you were the most beautiful thing in the universe to him.

Lost in his thoughts, he finally broke the silence, his voice soft and filled with admiration. "You know, Y/N, I've seen countless stars in my lifetime, but none shine as brightly as you do."

You turned your head to meet his gaze, your eyes locking with his intense blue ones. His words caught you off guard, and a gentle blush colored your cheeks. "Anakin," you replied, your voice tender, "you have a way of making every moment feel extraordinary."

He reached out and gently traced a finger along your cheek, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "I can't help it," he whispered, his eyes never leaving yours. "You're the most incredible thing I've ever known."

Your heart swelled with emotion at his words, and you couldn't help but smile. Anakin's charm and intensity had always drawn you in, and tonight, beneath the starlit canvas of the galaxy, you felt a deep connection that transcended words.

As the night wore on, the two of you shared stories of your missions and the challenges you faced, finding solace in each other's understanding and support. Anakin's laughter echoed through the quiet hillside as he recounted a particularly amusing encounter with a droid army, and you couldn't help but join in.

The moments of levity were precious, a reminder that despite the weight of their responsibilities as Jedi and soldiers, you were still able to find joy in each other's company. Under the vast expanse of the night sky, it felt like the galaxy had granted you a brief respite from its turmoil.

As the hours passed, Anakin's gaze never wavered from you. He admired the way your eyes lit up with enthusiasm when you spoke about your passion for diplomacy and negotiation, and how your determination shone through when discussing your duties as a Jedi. To him, you were a beacon of hope and inspiration, a force of nature he couldn't resist and wasn’t going to.

At some point, you both lay down, side by side, your fingers intertwined as you continued to stargaze. The conversation gave way to comfortable silence, a shared appreciation for the quietude of the night.

Anakin broke the silence once more, his voice a soft whisper. "Y/N, I know we face so much uncertainty and danger every day, but the terrible agony im in when you are not near goes away as soon as my eyes see you. In the horrors of what we may or may not do in batter… when i’m with you anything is possible. I love you."

You turned to him, your eyes locking onto his, and the world seemed to fade away. You were mesmerized for his way with words, and how he would always know how to make you feel loved and appreciated. "Anakin," you replied as you look at him with all the love in the world, your voice filled with sincerity, "I love you too, more than words can express." You smiled as your thoughts gathered around one very specific… You can’t believe you are so lucky as to have him as a partner.

In that moment, beneath the starry tapestry of the universe, your love felt like a force of its own, unyielding and eternal. Together, you found strength, love, and hope under the stars, and for as long as you gazed upon them, you knew that no matter the challenges ahead, you would face them together.

© Nevess 2023. My original posts are not allowed to be edited, translated and/or re-uploaded on another account or platform without my permission, nevertheless, re-blogs are accepted and very appreciated.

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storiesbyrhi · 1 year

Text

Witch!Reader x Bat/Vampire!Eddie Munson Series Masterlist The Grimoire The Timeline

Warnings: canon typical violence, horror genre typical violence, swearing, animal death, no beta, warnings updated each chapter.

Synopsis: No witch has stepped foot in Hawkins since 1845, but when Vecna opens the ground and poisons the town, a voice begins to call to you. Have you been brought back to this cursed place to heal the townspeople’s wounds, to save a hexed bat that always finds its way to you, or to redefine your history with a reunion 150 years in the making?

Chapter Summary: Death is here. 3051 words.

Notes: As per canon, Max is in the hospital. Argyle left Hawkins once he dropped Jonathan, Will, and Mike off, at the urging of Jonathan – who did not want his friend to be hurt. Maybe headcanon that he went back to Suzie’s place in case they needed her expertise and also because, ya know, Eden.

1843

Left in the sunlight, a vampire would not explode nor turn to ash and float away in the breeze. They would burn, blister, and shrivel until their body lay twitching and immobile. This provided a very brief window of respite from their evil; as soon as night came or shade was provided, the vampire would begin to heal.

Whatever damage, they could heal. Sunlight’s scorch. Blessed blades’ cuts. Holy water’s burn. Nothing could kill a vampire. A witch could curse a vampire to trap them in places, times, and forms; but ultimately, it had always come down to a fight.

At the beginning of the 18th century, a witch from a Romanian coven wrote a spell. It would allow a conjurer to summon a ball of sunlight to wound the vampires. The wounds would linger, fester, and scar their marble skin. Ripples in an otherwise perfect complexion. The Romanian witch had to offer her life in exchange for the gift of the spell to bless all of her kind.

And so, “lux solis urere hic malum,” became the witchfire war cry.

By 1843, the vampires had been hunting the humans your coven protected for seven years. The sunlight spell helped, but it was no longer enough. Your coven’s strongest wordsmith, Penelope, had been at work, spending days… months… years… on end hunched over her alter and communing with The Witches Who Came Before.

It was a bitter morning when Penelope’s magic worked for the final time. Frost bit at the tips of leaves and even the most hardened farmers took an extra minute to get out of bed, while she worked to ensure not only the protection of humankind, but the freedom of all witches.

Through bloodletting, she poured herself into a bucket, a witch’s sacrifice the last ingredient in a potion so strong, a single drop was death to an entire colony. Your aunt painstakingly soaked paper in the potion, let the sheets dry, then ground them up into a matte powder. She went into the night, her fist full of dust, and blew into the face of the undead.

The vampire had forgotten what it was like to breathe, but as quick as the feeling returned, it was taken away, and he clawed at his throat for air. He screeched until he shredded his own throat deep enough to sever his vocal cords. Then, not by God nor sword but by a magic woman’s hand, he was no more.

…

1986

Little witch echoed in your head.

You tore your gaze away from Eddie and blinked off the haziness that had overcome you. Change the subject, change the subject.

“So…” you started, but lost your intended sentence.

“So,” Eddie repeated.

“I don’t… I don’t know what we’re meant to do now…”

He rolled his shoulders back and considered his options. There was an urge to run, to abandon you and leave the doomed Hawkins. Go to the cities, feed, make more vampires. It was his first thought, primal and defining.

Eddie didn’t know if was all those years in bat form or if he had been patient in his forgotten life, but he was willing and able to wait on his primage urges. While his memories weren’t returning, his personality was, and he personally found it very amusing that a witch had knowingly brought vampires back from extinction.

That’s what he was telling himself. That he was not moving from your couch because he was entertained. That it wasn’t the feeling he got calling you ‘little witch.’ That it wasn’t a familiarity he couldn’t place. That it wasn’t your smile or smell.

You wondered what he was thinking. It occurred to you then, that he was probably sizing you up. “Do you remember what it feels like?” you asked. Eddie’s eyebrows rose. “The witchfire?”

His naked body had been in front of you enough for you to know the witchfire scars run along parts of his torso, and it covered his arms. Part of his neck, jaw, and cheek had been marked too.

“No,” he answered, holding a hand out and examining it. “Remind me?”

Hesitating, you thought about it. The burning smell. “Um… It would burn, like the sun. But concentrated. You couldn’t heal from it fast. Couldn’t wash it away with darkness,”

“It disturbs you,”

“No… Not… Not the vampire part. It’s the rest. Everything that happened around the vampire part.”

Eddie nodded. “Show me.” Your puzzled expression made him grin, fangs and all. “Witchfire. Show me,”

“You might not remember the pain, but assure you it definitely hurts,”

“Then hurt me,” he replied.

“I liked you better as the bat.”

Eddie laughed. “You spoke of witchfire first. You want to show me you are not weak. So, show me.”

Huffing, you crossed your arms over your chest. It only made him happier. You tried to pretend you weren’t loving it by standing up and walking a few steps away.

“Come on, little witch. You did not go to all that trouble to get me here, just to not play with me now.”

You knew you shouldn’t.

Muttering the spell under your breath, “Lux solis urere hic malum,” you held your hand out, palm side up, and let a ball burn into existence. Without nurturing it, it remained the size of a tennis ball, floating just above your skin. As you turned and walked back to the couch, you watched the witchfire reflect in his dark eyes, getting brighter the closer you got.

When you sat, Eddie moved closer still. He looked at the orb in awe rather than fear. “Your magic is…” He shook his head softly. “Remarkable.” He slowly held a finger up to the fire, you pulled your hand back, extinguishing it.

“It will burn.”

Eddie didn’t move. His sly smile did not falter. He waited.

“Fine…” And you repeated the spell and brought the fireball back to him.

Eddie’s eyes grew wider as he got closer, then as the tip of his finger touched the flames, he hissed and flung himself back so hard he rolled off the side of the couch.

Cackling with laughter, you clapped your hands together to kill the fire.

His face popped up over the armrest glaring at you, then in a literal blink, half his body was over the side coming towards you. He froze, timing his movements with your blinking. You didn’t see him change positions. It was terrifying. His arm looked twisted somehow, or maybe it was the sharp angles he was holding himself in. Spiderlike. Murderous.

You held your breath and tried to wait it out, but the trailer’s air wasn’t clean enough to let you stare for long. When you blinked, he was instantly halfway across the couch.

Terrifying, but exhilarating.

It would take one more. Less than half a second. A single blink. He’d be on you.

Eddie’s pupils were wide, dark, void of emotion. His lips were in a twisted smile that let his sharp teeth show just enough. Nails clawed into the plush of the couch. A monster, no doubt, but somehow still so profoundly beautiful that you couldn’t bear to look away.

Through his complete stillness, Eddie listened to how quickly your heart rate began to race. You were breathing through your mouth, audible and shaky. Like his, your pupils were blown. Although he couldn’t recall when or where or to whom, Eddie knew he’d played this game before. It wasn’t like this though.

You closed your eyes with purpose. He was silent, but you felt the weight of him as he climbed over you.

Eddie waited for you to open your eyes, or push him away, or conjure witchfire, or any number of predictable things. Instead, you short-circuited his brain when you giggled. A happy sound. Carefree. Unafraid. Then, with your eyes still closed, you slowly laid back.

One of your legs hung off the side of the couch, while Eddie straddled your other. He held himself above it but you could still feel him there. His hands were still clawed into the fabric, one on the backrest, the other next to your head. As you laid yourself back, he followed you down, letting his weight distribute on his knees.

When your eyes opened, you were looking up into a soften expression. You could see the chocolate brown of his eyes. The ghost of freckles he earnt as a human and couldn’t shake as a vampire. His expression – a gooey combination of confusion, curiosity, and something else.

“I told you it would burn,” you whispered, turning your head and taking the hand next to your head. A mortal man would have collapsed, unable to maintain the position, but his nimbleness prevailed and he remained still. Eddie watched you study the finger he’d held the flame. It was a raw wound, but it would heal.

Without thinking it through, you kissed it. He let you. As your lips touched his skin, the hunger roared through him. Suddenly, he was at the door of the trailer. You scrambled, standing up.

“I must go,” he said.

“I can’t let you-”

“I will return,”

“You-”

“I won’t,” he assured you as if he was reading your mind.

“Promise me,” you demanded. “Say it,”

“I’ll return to you,” Eddie swore. “I won’t harm any of your humans.”

You hugged yourself and frowned.

Eddie said your name softly. “I will return to you.”

The trailer door slammed and he was gone.

…

Steve Harrington died in pain. There were no memories flashing before his eyes. No warm bright light to follow. Just agony. The feeling of his bones snapping through his skin. His eyeballs squelching inwards just before it all stopped. Then, he was gone.

There was no time to hold Steve or to carry his body to a safe place. Nancy Wheeler screamed and thrashed against everyone as they tried to pull her back. It took the brawn of Jim Hopper to hold her tight and carry her to the car. The group sped away, reeling from another loss.

Steve made three. Murray Bauman and Dmitri ‘Ezno’ Antonov died a week prior, on the Party’s second ill-fated attempt at taking Vecna down.

Nancy and Robin held onto each other in grief-stricken desperation in the back of the truck. El Hopper, not a witch but magic nonetheless, blamed herself.

“What are we gonna do…?” Joyce Byers’ small and scared voice asked from the front. “How are we going to keep them safe?”

Nobody answered.

The ride to where the Party was held up was void of conversation. They’d taken up in the empty lakeside house of one of Hawkins’ currently incarcerated drug dealers. Hopper, assumed dead but still a cop, knew Reefer Rick wasn’t going to come home anytime soon.

Inside the house, Dustin Henderson was the first to notice Steve’s absence.

While the children cried, Hopper and Joyce huddled in the corner. They were both pale with shock. Joyce shook her head. “We can’t keep doing this,”

“We’re getting them out of here. Sue and Charles were right to take Lucas and Erica. I’ll drag Henderson to his mom. Get them out of Hawkins. Mike too,”

“You think he’ll leave El?”

“Won’t give him a choice.”

Nancy, forcing herself into stoic resolve appeared. “I’m not leaving,” she asserted.

“Nancy,”

“No. We have to end this. For Will. And El. For Steve. For everyone. We have to end this.”

Within hours, half the Party was on route to evacuation, leaving Joyce and her sons – Will and Jonathan, Hopper and El, Nancy, and Robin. Like Nancy, Robin refused to abandon ship; vengeance was on the minds of the teenage girls.

“He’s getting stronger,” Will said. They were all sitting around Reefer Rick’s kitchen table. Will’s skin was tinged a sickly blue. His connection to Vecna and the Upside Down had never truly been severed.

“We cannot fight him there,” El added.

“So, we need a hometown advantage? How do we get him up here?” Hopper posed.

There were no suggestions or solutions at first. Then, Nancy thought out loud, “We need help. Maybe if we go back to Victor, to his dad…”

“Help!” Robin yelled suddenly. “We need help!”

Everyone watched her. “Erica. Erica’s leg should not have healed that quick. And it wasn’t just a sprained ankle. That was… that was Vecna magic poison shit, right? So, so, the girl that helped. Erica said she was weird. What if she’s like…” Robin gestured at El. “You know, superpowers weird? What if she can help?”

“Where would we even find her?” Joyce asked.

“Yeah, I don’t know, seems like a-” but before Nancy could finish, Robin interrupted.

“A shot in the dark?!”

…

When a knock on your door woke you up, you tripped over your feet to get there. It was as you opened it you realised Eddie wouldn’t have knocked. You’d learnt the hard way vampires did not need an invitation; they’d carefully cultivated that myth themselves.

Standing on your doorstep was a group of people. Although you recognised them, it was only Robin who recognised you.

“I told you we shouldn’t have all come,” one of them mumbled. Jonathan.

“We need your help,” Robin said. “We know you have superpowers. We know you did something to Erica. You have to help us,”

“She means ‘please.’ Please help us,” Nancy corrected.

Pure desperation.

Utter grief.

Abject misery.

“Come in.”

They told you the story, beginning in 1947 when Henry Creel was born. The Lab. Papa. Eleven. Will Byers going missing. The Upside Down. Barb. Demogorgon. Dr Sam. Demodogs. Bob. The Mind Flyer. Kali. Billy’s possession. Russian invasions. Starcourt. Hopper’s not-death. More Russians. Vecna. Demobats. Kate Bush. Max Mayfield lying in a hospital bed. Murray. Enzo. Steve.

“So, now it’s your turn. What’s, ah, what’s your deal?” Robin was pacing, nearly manic. Only Steve had ever been able to focus her energies, now he was gone and she was lost at sea.

“You’re not like me,” El said. She was sat between Hopper and Joyce on the couch. Will sat at his mother’s feet. Nancy perched herself on the barstool while Jonathan stood against the kitchen bench next to her.

You blocked Robin from taking another step, taking one of her hands and holding it tight. Her eyes welled up with tears. “When this is done and if we survive, I will help you talk to him. You are owed a farewell.” You turned to the group. “You of all are.”

Robin dropped to the floor and folded in on herself, wrapping her arms around her legs and rocking. You let her self-soothe.

“The first thing you need to understand is that involving myself in this could make it worse. Vecna is a parasite. He has his own power, but he feeds off others’ too. The other world, the Upside Down, he draws power from there. From you, Eleven. Even you, Will,”

“But he’s just a boy,” Joyce said sadly.

“I don’t think he is… You’re something else. But… nothing that can help us now. My point is that if gets a hold of me, he doesn’t just get my magic. He’ll find a doorway to all witches. That’s… Well, it’s almost endless power. He will not be stopped. He will take this plane of existence. And, he might find ways to the others.”

There was a stunned and pensive silence.

“So… It’s, it’s a gamble,” Nancy concluded.

“And we’re betting… literally the entire world…” Jonathan said, looking at her. She nodded.

“What if he already knows about you?” Will asked, voice quiet.

You sat down on the carpet on the opposite side of the coffee table. Eye level with Will, you studied his face. “You feel him…” Will nodded. “And he feels me?”

“No,” Will replied. “He saw Erica, after you healed her,”

“Are you sure?” Joyce asked him.

Will shook his head. “No… But… he might.”

Cutting through the tension like a chainsaw through salted butter, the phone rang. Nobody was spared from the jolt of fear.

You jumped up to answer it, knowing the few people who had your number. “Hello?”

“You need to get out of Hawkins,”

“It’s fine,”

“No. It’s not,”

“Kelsey, whatever the news is saying-”

“You don’t understand. It’s not on the news. As far as the humans know, the clean up of Hawkins is going well and there hasn’t been any more casualties – injured or dead.” There was something worse than panic in Kelsey’s voice that you hadn’t heard in decades.

“What’s going on?” you asked, skipping over the obvious ‘that’s not what’s happening’ and rhetorical ‘how do you know about what happened?’

“The Witches Who Came Before. They’ve given a warning to the coven.”

Your blood ran cold, so cold it felt like ice, like all the red had frozen solid in your veins. Kelsey didn’t continue, maybe too afraid to tell you, maybe wanting to give you a chance to bail from the conversation if you wanted to go entirely rogue.

“Karhu. What’s the warning?”

Kelsey hadn’t heard her first, her ancient name, for centuries; she wanted to sob. She remained stoic and delivered the mystic caution. “He knows. He knows you’re close. He doesn’t know what you are. He can’t find you like he can find the humans. But it’s only a matter of time.”

Divine timing.

“And the coven? What are they going to do?

“Ah, well, they-they’re gonna set up a border. Around Hawkins. He-he shouldn’t be able to cross it. And his power shouldn’t be able to, you know, get through. But, um…” Kelsey was nervous, stuttering as she anxiously reported.

“But what?”

“They haven’t worked out if… If it’s better that you… Uh…”

She didn’t have to say it. “If it’s better that I’m trapped in here with him. Right? ‘Cause if I run, he’ll come after me,”

“Yeah,” Kelsey whispered. “I’m sorry… I tried-”

“Don’t. Don’t say you’re sorry. You haven’t done anything. And don’t try to… Don’t fight the coven on my behalf, okay?”

Kelsey was crying.

You looked back at the terrified faces watching you intently.

“He’s powerful, but he’s just another monster. Just another leech. We have outlived famine and demons and war and witch hunts. Henry Creel is no match for a witch.”

End Note: I personally feel like the 1843 section of this chapter slaps so hard. Grimoire updated to include witchfire, and the timeline has been updated too.

You know the drill. Tell me your thoughts and feelings! I need them! xo Rhi

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#Mine #Burning Yarrow #Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson/Reader #Eddie Munson/You #Eddie Munson x You #Eddie Munson x Reader #Vampire!Eddie #Vampire!Eddie Munson

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fanficapologist · 5 months

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Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

A day later, the brief respite from the tumultuous events shattered as Dowager Queen Alicent burst into Aemond and Maera's shared chambers. Distress etched across her face, her tearful brown eyes pleaded for assistance, revealing the gravity of the situation she carried with her. Responding to the urgent summons, Maera swiftly made her way to Queen Helaena's chambers. Once a refuge where her friend withdrew from the world, now it bore witness to a different kind of crisis. The maids, who had entered that morning to serve breakfast, discovered bloodstained sheets and Queen Helaena, doubled over in pain and in desperate need for help.

As Maera entered the chamber, the distressing reality unfolded before her eyes. A group of midwives stood clustered around, pleading with Helaena to allow them to assist, their faces etched with concern and worry. The urgency in their voices mirrored the gravity of the situation. Nearby, Maester Orwyle, resolute in his efforts, unpacked various vials of medicine and unsightly tools, which made Maera’s stomach churn with uncertainty.

The stone floor bore splatters of blood, a grim trail leading to Helaena, who was in the corner in her once-white nightgown, now stained with blood. Her hair, matted with sweat, framed a face etched with knowing anguish- she was losing the child in her womb. Angrily mumbling to herself, Helaena’s distress echoed in the chamber, a painful reminder of the fragility of life and the turmoil that gripped the room.

Careful not to make things worse, Maera knelt a few feet away from Helaena, acutely aware of the Queen’s heightened sensitivity during times of stress. The air in the room crackled with tension, the collective breaths held in anticipation of the impending ordeal.

“I’m here, Helaena. It’s okay,” Maera whispered, hoping her words could offer even a moment’s respite.

Through painful cries, Helaena vehemently replied, “It’s not okay. It’s happening too soon, much too soon.” The horror etched on her face mirrored the pain and loss she was enduring. The knowledge of losing another child, combined with the excruciating physical agony, painted a portrait of grief.

Maera, witnessing the depth of Helaena's suffering, held an empathetic gaze as she scooted slightly closer, the cold floor beneath her knees. “I know it is. But the babe is coming, your Grace,” she offered, her tone filled with pity.

With a groan of pain and sweat on her brow, Helaena shifted into a more comfortable position, moving from sitting to kneeling, causing Maera to move right in front of her to provide more physical support. In the midst of her distress, the Queen grasped at Maera's shoulders with a tight grip, her nails digging in as if seeking a lifeline in the storm of pain.

“Nobody listened to me,” Helaena yelled, tears of frustration pouring down her face. “About this babe. About Jaehaerys.”

The rat catcher drops a silver coin on the floor

Maera's heart resonated with the raw emotions that permeated the room, bridging the gap between them in the face of an inevitable and heart-wrenching loss.“I am so sorry, sister. I’m sorry you’re going through any of this,” Maera cried, her green eyes reflecting the shared weight of their sorrow.

Having seen many labours previously, she noticed Helaena’s behaviour changing. The Queen began to hold her lower back and exhibit primal groans through gritted teeth. Subtly signaling to one of the midwives, she communicated the need for a progress check. As the woman situated herself behind the Queen and lifted her bloodied nightgown, Helaena attempted to protest. But Maera gently turned her face back, coaxing her to focus on her breathing through the agonizing contractions and invasive examination.

The chamber, filled with the sounds of labored breaths and the quiet desperation of childbirth, became a battleground of emotions. Brushing Helaena’s matted silver curls from her face in an attempt to distract her as she was checked by the midwife, Maera offered words of sympathy to her sister-in-law.

“I wish we could have stopped it, Helaena,” Maera sniffled through her tears.

In a moment of heightened agony, Helaena grasped Maera tightly by the face, her fingers digging into the flesh. “No one could stop it, Maera. It is fate. Foretold by the Gods,” Helaena uttered ominously, causing Maera’s brows to furrow in confusion. She knew these words, she had heard them before. But could not pinpoint where or when she had heard them.

With a quiet nod from the midwife, who remained behind Helaena, the Queen was encouraged to start pushing. Maera pressed her forehead to Helaena’s as the Targaryen Queen strained with all of her might, yelling out in turmoil as her body began to expel the child. A child that was coming five moons too soon. A child that would not survive the process.

The same haunted look remained on Helaena’s face as her purple gaze bore into Maera’s with such intensity that Maera thought she would burst into flames. The Queen shouted out to Maera through her last few pushes. “It is happening to me. It happened to your mother. And it will happen to you. One flower to bloom, two buds cut down, one seedling unearthed-Oh Gods!”

The words hung in the air like a spectral echo, shrouded in an unsettling premonition, through the sounds of agony and effort. Amidst the intense atmosphere, the chilling sound of liquid hitting the floor punctuated the chamber. The midwife, tears in her eyes, caught something small in a cloth between Helaena’s legs. The absence of cries underscored the somber reality- the child had not lived, as expected.

As Helaena, exhausted from the taxing birth, finally allowed the remaining midwives to assist her onto her bed, a collective sense of relief filled the room. The midwives, with careful hands, removed her bloodied nightgown and began the tender task of bathing her with wet cloths. Meanwhile, Maester Orwyle, administering pain remedies, found a more receptive Queen, now willing to accept the relief the medication could offer.

Amidst the subdued aftermath, Maera, horrified and in shock from the ordeal, moved to the table where the midwife had placed the fetus. With a sense of careful reverence, she lifted the cloth, revealing the tiny form. It reminded her of the countless kittens that had been born at Rain House. The babe was of similar size and looked as if it were made of glass, too delicate for this world.

The shock and confusion from the harrowing ordeal left Maera in a state of emotional disarray. Helaena's cryptic prophecy lingered in her mind, a puzzle she struggled to solve, while the graphic loss witnessed had an almost surreal quality, causing Maera to feel detached from her own body.

Approaching Helaena, who lay in her bed with a vacant look, Maera couldn't help but feel a profound sympathy for the friend who had endured such tragic events in a short space of time. Pressing a kiss onto Helaena's hair, she muttered words of solace, a small offering of comfort in the aftermath of such profound loss, before leaving the chambers.

Walking through the doors, Maera passed Dowager Queen Alicent, who bombarded her with questions. However, Maera, still in shock, seemed oblivious to the inquiries, as if submerged underwater. Alicent, sensing the futility, eventually gave up and rushed into Helaena's chambers, leaving Maera to wander the corridors like a ghost, completely debilitated by the weight of the traumatic event.

Finally alone, the weight of shock and grief became too much for Maera to bear. The guttural sobbing intensified, echoing through the empty halls like a haunting lament. As the waves of sorrow crashed over her, Maera's stomach twisted in knots, a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil. In a desperate search for reprieve, she stumbled toward a nearby window. Overwhelmed by the shock, her body rebelled, and with a violent lurch, she vomited intensely. After a while, it stopped, and after wiping her mouth on her sleeve, she pushed on through the corridors.

In a daze, Maera found herself in the solemn expanse of the Throne Room within the Red Keep. The weight of recent tragedy lingered in the air, casting a somber atmosphere over the grandeur that once defined the space. The absence of courtly activity, the stillness that replaced the usual bustling energy, reflected the collective mourning that had befallen the castle. The heavy silence seemed to echo with the weight of recent events, as if the very walls mourned the tragedy that had unfolded within the heart of the Red Keep.

Maera’s green eyes fixated on the imposing Iron Throne, a simmering anger in her gaze. The gleaming seat of power seemed to mock her, and in the hallowed silence, she couldn't help but wonder how much more blood would need to be spilled in the relentless pursuit of dominion.As she stared at the seat made of swords, a myriad of emotions welled within her, each one a sharp pang of grief.

The memory of murdered Jaehaerys weighed heavily on her heart, and now, the loss of the unborn child expelled from Helaena's body added another layer of sorrow. It was not just the mourning of the present but the mourning of a future unknown, a potential extinguished before it could blossom.

The weight of impending tragedy settled upon her, and in the midst of grandeur and power, she stood as a solitary figure, grieving for the past, the present, and the uncertain future that lay ahead. The echoes of her silent lament mingled with the shadows cast by the Iron Throne, a symbol of both aspiration and despair in the tumultuous landscape of Westerosi politics.

Lost in her own thoughts, Maera remained unaware of the approaching footsteps until she felt a presence near her. Standing before her was King Aegon, his face hollowed and fatigued, tired eyes reflecting the weight of recent events. His disheveled hair spoke of the turmoil that echoed in his visage. The dark green dragon-patterned tunic he wore seemed not quite right on his body, emphasizing the disarray that mirrored the chaos within.

The Conqueror’s crown, forged from Valyrian steel and adorned with rubies, sat atop his head, a regal emblem that contrasted starkly with the haunted expression he bore. His presence, much like Maera's, exuded a distant and haunted aura.If it were anyone else, Maera might have felt a pang of sympathy, but she knew Aegon's tears were reserved solely for himself. Wiping away a tear, Maera reluctantly curtsied to Aegon, her gaze avoiding his face. The weight of sorrow hung between them, a silent acknowledgment of the shared grief that bound them.

“What was it? The babe?” Aegon’s voice cut through the heavy silence. Maera met his violet gaze, searching for signs of genuine concern or mere curiosity. Images of the gruesome birth flashed before Maera's eyes – the blood, the sweat, the agonized screams, the small delicate body beneath the cloth. She shook her head, attempting to dispel the haunting memories, before finally responding to Aegon. “A girl.”

“A girl,” Aegon repeated, the weight of that revelation hanging in the air. Maera nodded in confirmation, her green eyes reflecting a deep sadness as they remained cast downward.

The exchange between them carried the weight of unspoken sorrow, a shared acknowledgment of the profound losses they had individually suffered. After a moment, Aegon’s expression shifted, carrying a tinge of despair. “It seems I have not only lost a son, but now a daughter.”

Maera, grappling with her own grief, found herself at a loss for words. She observed in silence as Aegon ascended the steps, a seemingly reluctant approach to the imposing Iron Throne. The weight of recent events echoed in the solemn atmosphere as he seated himself on the seat of power, a symbol of both authority and the burdens it carried. For a brief moment, Maera watched on, the silence between them pregnant with unspoken thoughts. In her black and gold dress, a sign of mourning, she curtsied before turning to leave, her steps echoing against the hallowed halls.

Just as she was about to depart, Aegon's voice cut through the stillness, a croak that held a peculiar urgency. “She was rather insistent, my wife, about naming the babe after you.” Startled, Maera turned back to face him, uncertainty etched into her expression.

“I would have allowed it…given the circumstances as to how it got there,” Aegon continued quietly as he slumped further into the chair. Maera simply stared at him, a knot of anxiety forming in her stomach. Cautiously, Maera glanced around the room, her eyes scanning for any signs of vulnerability. Aegon, in her eyes, was a monster, and she was keen not to expose herself to undue risk.

Her gaze noted the presence of four guards stationed strategically at different corners of the room. She hoped that it meant that Aegon would not try anything in this moment, being so heavily watched by others. Maera fixed her eyes back onto the King, taking a few steps forward and granted him a subtle nod, showing him that she was paying attention to his words.

“‘Maela’ was the name she picked. It matched Maelor. As Jaehaera’s name matched…Jaehaerys’.” As he mentioned the name of his murdered son, his expression changed, the lines on his face mirroring the heaviness in the room. Maera then began to delicately ascend a few of the steps leading up to the Iron Throne, positioning herself closer to the King so they could continue their conversation.

Standing in front him, she was reminded that Aegon had never been an active father-figure to his children- he didn’t play with them, dine with them, or even spend significant time in the same room as them. Maera could not help but releasing all of the anger she had felt the last few days, the bitterness spilling out of her as she said, “Did you even truly know your son?”

Aegon scoffed, a weariness in his reddened eyes as he conceded, “Truthfully, no. But my mother told me that he was quite confident, adventurous.”

Maera smiled to herself, picturing in her mind the little boy who made her laugh, and was persistent in his claims to riding the blue giant, Ēbrion. “He was.”

In an almost dismissive gesture, Aegon clapped his hands, summoning a maid who appeared as if from nowhere, bearing a jug of wine and two goblets. His gaze didn’t linger on the serving girl as he snatched the goblets from the tray, handing one to Maera. Wearily, she accepted it, allowing the King to fill her cup as she sat on the step beside him.

The air hung heavy with the weight of unspoken grievances and shared sorrows, as Aegon and Maera sought solace in the numbing embrace of wine, each grappling with the consequences of their actions and the emotional toll exacted by the recent tragedies. The silver-haired King, in a desperate bid to drown his sorrows, quickly finished his cup of wine, downing it with a determined swiftness. Without hesitation, he refilled it and repeated the process. Maera observed, concern etching her expression, though not surprised at how Aegon was dealing with his emotions.

Coming to the end of his third cup, Aegon began a self-pitying monologue. “I never wanted this. Any of this. I did not want to marry Helaena. I did not want to be a father. I did not want to be King.”

Maera, however, rolled her eyes at Aegon’s display. The weight of his self-indulgent lamentations proved too much for her patience. Unable to tolerate his whining any longer, she looked at him with a mix of disdain and exasperation, a silent reproach for a king wallowing in his own perceived misfortunes.“Do you expect me to sit here and feel sorry for you, goodbrother?”

Aegon looked at Maera with a confused expression as she berated him for indulging in self-pity. His eyes, clouded by the effects of both grief and wine, reflected a mix of perplexity and a hint of wounded pride.

“Your wife lies exhausted having just birthed a dead child. She is about to bury another, her firstborn. You should be with her, comforting her for all she’s been through,” Maera chided him, taking a slow swig of the wine in her goblet, the smooth red liquid soothing her anger ever so slightly.

Yet, in response to Maera’s scolding, Aegon simply shrugged, a nonchalant gesture that belied the turmoil within. “We both know that I am the last person she would want there.”

“Even so, some show of sympathy would be better than you sitting here drowning in your cups,” she replied to him gruffly, causing him to scoff as he drank, the liquid spilling down his chin, and he casually wiped it away with a dismissive swipe of his sleeve.

Maera, undeterred and frankly sick of being in Aegon’s company, slammed her half-full goblet down on the steps and stood up defiantly. The air between them crackled with tension as she faced Aegon, her gaze unwavering, a silent challenge in her eyes.

“You may not have wanted this, but the conqueror’s crown is on your head, Aegon. It is your responsibility to serve the Realm justly,” she sneered at him. The weariness in her eyes reflected a profound exasperation that had built over time. She had grown tired of Aegon’s self-indulgent behavior, his incessant whining, and the way he seemed to revel in his own suffering. There was a war, children dear to her had died. And it seemed things were only going to get worse.

Maera continued on, the Throne room becoming a stage for her frustration. “And if this is how Rhaenyra plans to win the Realm, with the blood of your children, she does not deserve the throne either.”

Aegon looked at Maera crossly, his anger evident in the furrowed lines on his forehead. His frustration stemmed from a collision of pride and vulnerability, an internal struggle manifesting in his expression. Maera knew he resented being scolded, especially by someone who had witnessed his weaknesses and perceived failings.

Yet, in a fleeting moment, the anger seemed to melt away from Aegon’s face. Perhaps realizing the futility of his previous stance, he earnestly looked at Maera, a hint of vulnerability breaking through the façade. In a voice that carried a weight of genuine need, he asked her, “What would you have me do?”

Maera, well-versed in the nuances of Aegon's demeanor, initially squinted at him, attempting to discern if his request for counsel was laced with sarcasm. Given their history and the frequent clashes, she couldn't help but approach the situation with a guarded skepticism.

However, as she studied his expression and the earnestness in his eyes, a realization dawned upon her. Aegon was, in fact, being serious. The weight of sincerity in his request cut through the layers of their complicated relationship, revealing a vulnerability that transcended the usual dynamics between them.

In that moment, Maera's skepticism gave way to a genuine acknowledgment of Aegon's sincerity. Setting aside her initial skepticism, she opted for straightforwardness and honesty in her advice. “Use the people around you. You have trusted advisors on your council that can guide you. My husband, and the Lord commander…they know what they are doing.”

Aegon listened intently to Maera’s advice, nodding in acknowledgment as he absorbed the counsel she offered. The weight of her words seemed to resonate in the air, their significance echoing in the solemn Throne Room.

As Maera concluded her guidance, she curtsied gracefully, a gesture that marked the end of their conversation. The exhaustion from the events of the day weighed heavily on her, evident in the lines of weariness etched on her face. With a final glance back at Aegon, she left him with one last piece of counsel.

“Protect your people, Aegon. Your House, your Family. Be a King.” Maera turned to leave the Throne Room, the echoes of their shared struggles lingering in the space they occupied.

Maera closed the heavy doors of her chambers, shutting out the echoes of the day’s tribulations. A deep sigh escaped her lips as she took a moment to collect herself. The soft glow of early evening light spilled into the room, casting a gentle ambiance on the space.Her gaze fell upon Aemond, seated at his writing desk, diligently sharpening his dagger. His long silver hair framed his face, and the violet of his eye gleamed without the usual concealment of his eye patch. The meticulousness of his actions conveyed a sense of focus and control amidst the chaos that surrounded them.

Aemond looked up as Maera entered, the corners of his usually stoic face softening into a slight, almost relieved smile. His sapphire eye met hers, and the unspoken connection between them hung in the air. Aemond, in his usual dry manner, attempted to lighten the atmosphere.

“I can smell the wine from here.” However, as his gaze met Maera's, he could discern the depth of emotional exhaustion that lingered in her eyes.

Maera, overwhelmed by the weight of the day's events, finally found solace in the company of her husband. The façade of strength she had maintained for days crumbled, and she broke down. In the safety of her chambers, she felt the freedom to release the emotions that had been pent up.

Sobbing into her hands, Maera's cries resonated in the room. The vulnerability she had shielded from the world now poured out, a raw expression of the grief and turmoil that had plagued her. In Aemond's presence, she allowed herself the release she desperately needed, finding comfort in the shared vulnerability that bound them together.

Amidst the echoes of her cries, Maera heard the familiar sound of a chair squeaking, and then she felt herself being enveloped in a strong embrace. Aemond, in a rare display of tenderness, drew her close, creating a sanctuary within his arms.

As Maera continued to cry, she found solace in the comforting hold of her husband. In the warmth of his embrace, she breathed in his familiar scent, feeling a sense of security. Aemond, tenderly tucking her underneath his chin, gently stroked her back. The rhythmic motion became a soothing cadence, offering a semblance of comfort in the midst of her emotional storm.

Though her tears continued to flow, Maera found a measure of comfort in being held by her husband. In the warmth of his embrace, she breathed in his familiar scent and felt herself tucked underneath his chin. Aemond's gentle strokes on her back became a soothing rhythm, a silent reassurance that conveyed a depth of understanding and shared sorrow.

Notes: Merry Christmas bitches. Have some trauma 😅

Tags: @manipulatixe @marvelescvpe @blue-serendipity @shesjustanothergeek @watercolorskyy

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

#maera wylde #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #chapters #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #house targaryen #house wylde #hotd helaena

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1uckygold · 2 months

Text

Jack-IN-The-Box, Song

Summary: High School was a pain, but now it’s time for the next chapter… College. Except this time, what happens when packing up for the dorms, you come across an old childhood toy? Memories say inside the box held a friend—But what are you worried about, right? It’s in the past, a child’s imagination.

WRONG! Innocent eyes see farther toward the unknown… But sometimes, the unknown can see you too.

~Pairing: Jung Hoseok (BTS) | Yandere/J-Hope x f! Reader

~Genre: Yandere au, Imaginary/Monster au, Angst & Mystery

~Word Count: 258

**Warnings: Hallucinations and slight blood.**

A/N: I'm working on Part 2, but while you wait... Here is lyrics to a song I created base off this story! Jack-IN-The-Box

~~~~

(Verse 1:)

In the darkness of the night, fear takes its hold, A twisted tale of horror, a story yet untold. A Jack-In-the-Box, an omen in disguise, It's playing with your mind, truth blending with lies.

(Pre-Chorus:)

Heart pounding in your chest, stomach full of dread, As you stumble upon secrets, nightmares in your bed. The melody haunts you, whispers in the air, Every turn of the handle, a glimpse of despair.

(Chorus:)

Run, run, run, through the halls you flee, Chased by shadows, a twisted reality. But no one hears your cries, your desperate plea, Lost in a nightmare, can't break free.

(Verse 2:)

A roommate appears, a stranger in the night, Relief washes over, fears taking flight. But the darkness still lingers, doubts remain, As the Jack-In-the-Box hides, its secrets retain.

(Bridge:)

Eyes wide open, terror grips your soul, The hallway distorts, reality takes its toll. A force grips your shoulder, pain tears you apart, Invisible nails digging deep, leaving their mark.

(Chorus:)

Run, run, run, to the safety you seek, Haunted by demons, your voice too weak. But no one can save you, in this twisted game, Trapped in a nightmare, consumed by its flame.

(Verse 3:)

Back in your room, behind locked doors, You hide away, broken to your core. Sleep offers solace, a brief respite, But darkness creeps closer, ready to ignite.

(Outro:)

The closet opens wide, a sinister grin, Hoseok emerges, the nightmare begins. Blood drips from your wrist, a mark of his claim, "Welcome home, my sunshine," he whispers your name.

~~~~

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diaphanouso · 1 month

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To Burn in Desire's Name

I've been cooking up a Rolan fic for the last eternity few months, and I'm so excited to finally share a little snippet from it! It started out as a sex pollen one shot (and still will be), but it's gained sentience and grown into a series that will include a sequel following the growth of Rolan and Ruby's relationship with themes of religious sensuality (she's a cleric and I will be leaning into that 😉); a fairytale-style one shot of Ruby's backstory as a child taken and "raised" by a hag; and a gothic horror story about Ramazith's ghost 👀

Anyway, here's a bit from the first fic, To Burn in Desire's Name, in which Tav (Rolan won't learn her actual name until later) leaves a sending stone in Rolan's desk, and that's how they communicate after she leaves the city (snippet contains no explicit content; also please be nice this is my first Rolan fic and it's still an early draft ty😅):

-----❤️-----

Truth be told, he had come to live for these missives, to keenly welcome that most enchanting tingling in his mind, the firm, comforting weight of the smooth stone in his palm, the ghostly touch of copper filament, faint and delicate as a memory, and then: her voice, her laughter, clearer than his own thoughts, precious and intimate as a whispered secret.

This high, the air was as fresh as that in the gardens, the winds lending a slight bite to it. It had become a favorite place of late, a private, serene respite from all the goings-on about the tower. Up here, it was only Rolan and the falcons that wheeled above the city, their majestic wings forming a loose “M” as they rode the winds. Up here, he could let the stress fall from his mouth in a sigh. He could close his eyes, and he could open his mind, let Tav’s words roam freely.

Selune danced before the sun today… my soul still resonates from it

blackest night, but for a ring of brilliant gold — quite like your eyes

Rolan’s eyes fluttered open, bemusement creasing his brow. Selune danced before the sun…? What did it mean, and moreover, what did it have to do with his eyes?

He searched his mind. Other than what was relevant to his craft, cosmology had never been his strongest subject. Selune danced before the sun… Ah.

As a youth, he’d heard travelers spin tales of the moon passing before the sun, turning day to night. Back then, Rolan couldn’t conceive of such a thing, with Elturel's constant daylight. He’d known darkness, but only as something that occurred indoors.

The travelers had spoken of the phenomenon in hushed voices, their shuddering words suggesting terror and awe. But for Tav—and, likely, her fellow Selunites—it was Selune herself. Dancing. Rolan’s mouth tilted into a soft smile.

Tav’s message had had a hushed quality to it, too, but not from terror and awe. It was reverence and awe that Rolan had picked up in her thought-voice. She’d spoken of it like a sacred event. A gift from her goddess.

…and she’d compared his eyes to it. Not that that had to mean anything, of course, and truthfully, it had sounded like an afterthought. But… could anyone blame him if a blush blazed across his cheeks? Or if it called to mind that night at Elfsong a year ago? When Tav had paid him a compliment that made him smile any time he thought about it — which was often:

“I wish you could have seen yourself in that moment, when you rained arcane fury upon the bastard. You were righteous, incredible to behold, even fighting beside Dame Aylin.”

What came after, which he thought of just as often, also made him smile — and had provided Cal and Lia endless entertainment in the weeks that followed.

She leaned in close, and before he had time to recover from whatever alluring scent it was that she carried — honeysuckle? — she’d placed a soft, quick kiss on his cheek.

A kiss between compatriots, a polite peck that meant no more than a handshake or a clap on the shoulder. A brief, platonic gesture, nothing more.

Nevertheless, the tips of Rolan’s fingers found their way to his blushing cheek, where her lips had so briefly and platonically been.

#rolan #rolan fanfiction #rolan fic #rolan x tav #oc tav #bg3 fanfiction #rolan nation #i love them your honor #holy rolan empire #ruby x rolan ❤️#fic WIP #snippet

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sasster · 1 month

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Connections

Ya'll mind if I advance the plot a little?

[Doc]

The nearer to the heart of the city she draws, Nymira finds that the low hanging sun starts to hide behind the taller buildings and the provided shade brings along with it a much appreciated breeze. A brief respite of fresh air. The comfort she finds in the slightly cooler temperature is short-lived, however, overshadowed by the weight of having left Little Friend behind that presses down on her shoulders.

This sadness is so heavy that it practically forces her to drag herself the rest of the way to the House of Restoration. But what choice did Cylion leave her? He barely let her see the little guy, let alone hold him overday to bring along for the journey. She has to face the facts; her prophet is being unreasonable, and maybe the leader of this church could be a valuable resource to him, as their fathers guidance seems only to irritate him further.

The thought of being able to help her brother with his strange new behavior, and gain access back to her friend, steels her resolve and she uses it to stand a little straighter as she closes in on the church that looms high above the city’s center. Now her mind floods with the ways she would open up the conversation with the leader behind its doors.

She is too busy thinking about the potential upset the elder Roatus might have with Cylion’s seizure of Little Friend to stop herself from colliding with the back of a stranger who must’ve just been standing stock-still in her path.

Nymira is already apologizing before she comes back fully to her senses, both hands shot up to put some distance between herself and the other troll as she takes a frantic step back.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! My mind was elsewhere,” she begins to explain, shifting her weight away in case he means to attack for the disturbance. “Are you alright?”

He does not answer, instead allowing an eerie silence to bloom into the distance she put between them. His focus stays squarely on the church that sits a short distance away from the pair.

A dull alarm, an easy one to ignore, rings at the back of her head. Familiarity, it could be the way he stands or the brightness of the purple vest over a white button up in the morning light, wafts over her and tickles the same part of her mind that the alarm had tucked itself into.

Still he says nothing, the only movement he makes is a shift from having his hands folded behind his back to finding them a home in the front pockets of his pants.

“I didn’t expect to find anyone else out here so early.” And why is he standing in the middle of the street so early in the morning that even the critters that roam about at this hour still haven’t found their way out of bed. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

The silence hangs for a moment longer before the mysterious figure turns to present himself. In the same instant that she sees his wolfish grin, wide enough that it threatens the integrity of the stitches decorating his mouth, the alarms in her head pitch.

She has seen him somewhere before, many somewheres in fact. This is a face that plagued many of the dreamers she had liberated from daymares. Vanilla scented death assaults her senses, just the same way the stench had been the backdrop in all of those daymares, and sends her into a frenzy through the thicket of her memories for a name. Her recognition of this man, or demon, must be easy to read on her face because his smile only broadens to reveal more and more of the knives that live in his mouth.

A walking daymare.

”Nymira,” he finally speaks and the serenity of his voice jostles something loose from her fragmented memory. “You’ve wandered so far from home.”

He takes a single step to close that distance between them.

Her memories continue to piece themselves together. She has seen him through the horrors faced by the watchful boy, in the terror he forced on the kindly elder the boy resembled.

She fought him off with the protector and experienced true torture as it was inflicted on the gentle doctor.

“Persep,” she whispers as the memories of those and many more daymares crash into her one after the other. She takes another step back to reengage the distance. “You’re… You’re a bad man.”

“Am I?” He asks in a voice laced with a venomous humor. He takes another step.

“Yes!” She blurts out, meanwhile everything in her screaming for her now frozen legs to carry her away from him. “Cylion will be mad if you do anything to me!”

Persep stops in his advancement to bark out a laugh that sends ice through her veins.

“Dearest Dreamer,” smugness saturates his tone now. She knew better, but she meets his cruel gaze anyway. “Cylion sent me to bring you home.”

Nymira is not afforded even a second to process the statement before her world is engulfed in purple light.

#coko writes sometimes #long post #persep

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alphaformation · 9 months

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I can barely find any mutant mayhem Donnie x male reader fics so I was wondering if you could write one please I'll give you this 🍕 as a sign of my gratitude

I GOTCHU ANON (cracks knuckles) keep that pizza in the microwave for me. decided to write it paralleling them meeting april because I think any of these four being clumsy and flustered is cute. I'm still testing out formatting for requests and such so let me know if you guys have any feedback <3 not sure how i feel about the fic itself buuut... i think it's certainly done.

╭────────────.★..─╮ Blood in the water. ╰─..★.────────────╯

Mutant Mayhem; Donatello / Male!Reader Word Count: 1,560 Content Warnings: swearing, maybe internalized homophobia if you squint? but that wasn't the intention as I was writing it. Summary; After a head-on collision in the hallway, Donnie meets the boy of his dreams. Now all he has to do is keep his brothers from finding out about him.

“Sooo… Leo… how’d that date with April go?”

The banter as the four of them walked home carried on as it always has, the only difference being that they finally had some new material. It’d been months since they’d integrated at Eastman high, and things were still running smooth as ever. It was perfect!

Sure, maybe not everyone was so accepting, but when the four of them were expecting screams of horror and violent brutality from the humans, they could tolerate some sour glances and rude comments.

“Mikey how many times do I have to TELL you guys, it- it wasn’t a date!”

“Uhh, you don’t have to tell us that,” Raph shot back. “We aaall heard her at Prom-”

Dialogue quickly overlapped as the three of them verbally dogpiled onto Leo, who was struggling to cut through the crosstalk.

“Well- hey, y’know– I can’t be the ONLY one who’s got a… well, a crush. C’mon! You gotta cut me some slack.”

“Even if we did,” interjected Donnie, “we’d do a waaaay better job of hiding it than you!”

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Donnie now realized the irony in that sequence of events, looking back to the morning that had followed that conversation.

See, despite months of attending a crowded high school, Donnie hadn’t really taken the time to unlearn his habit of walking with his headphones on and his eyes closed. Really because it hadn’t resulted in any major tragedies up until then.

He’d walked to first period so many times he could do it backwards, but as he cracked an eye open to gauge his turn into the classroom, he realized far too late that he’d… miscalculated.

He tried to move back- to reorient himself, but the flow of movement in the hall behind him pushed him forward, and he collided hard with…

With…

Oh.

Time slowed down to a crawl as you were slammed against the locker, a moment passing as you recovered from the blow before you’d twisted around. Donnie had almost forgotten the circumstances that had led him here when he was forced against your chest instead of your back, looking up and seeing your face.

Maybe it came as no surprise that Donnie had a bit of a weakness for cute boys. His brothers hadn’t caught on yet, but if you took a scrutinizing glance at his interests, you may notice the consistency. And currently, he was literally being smushed against the cutest guy he’d ever seen in real life, much like you mash two dolls together to indicate that they’re kissing.

The awe he felt, though, was only a brief respite from the panic as he saw that your nose was bleeding.

“Ohhhh my gosh, I’m so sorry! It– it was the kid behind me, and I, My uh, my shell is making it– hard to get out, and-”

“Ugh- dude.” You grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him back a bit, causing Donnie to realize that the hall was mostly empty now.

You rubbed your head with a small wince, and were clearly about to turn and carry on with your business.

“WAIT!” You turned back, raising a brow, and Donatello tensed at the realization of how loud he’d just shouted.

“Can I at least walk you to the nurse’s office? I’m really sorry.” Wiping the blood away with your thumb (which was like, anime boy levels of hot, Donnie thought privately), you shrugged and gestured for him to follow.

He did. Naturally.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Donnie didn’t know why he and his brothers kept meeting their love interests through near major accidents, but that collision was the start of something fantastic.

He learned that day that your name was (y/n), and from then on just kept learning more and more phenomenal things about you. Another month seemed to fly by, with the two of you becoming fast friends. Not all of your interests overlapped, but as Donnie learned more of what you liked, the more it became what he liked too.

There was just one small hiccup.

Donatello… really didn’t want his brothers to find out about you. As well as he’d managed to pretend not to be crushing on you big time, his brothers were like sharks when it came to that sort of thing. If they didn’t know he liked guys before, he was convinced they’d be able to tell just by your presence - like you were blood in the water.

It was going smoothly enough so far, though. The only class you shared was Computer Science, and, well... Let's just say Donnie's brothers weren't exactly jumping at the chance to sign up for that elective.

As he left the building that day to meet his brothers in his usual spot, He found himself once again glued to his phone, takking away at your DMs.

"Ack-!" "Aah!!"

Donnie reared back from the minor bump, flushing a little as he glanced up.

"Dude, you ever gonna stop bumping into me?"

"Uhh... nah. Too much work. Not my fault you're always standing right in my way." He responded, smiling when that earned him a chuckle. "What're you doing out here anyways? Don't you usually take the bus?"

"Yeah, but I've gotta stop by the store on my way home, so I'm walking. Don't you and your brothers usually walk home together? I could tag along."

"Uh."

Fuck.

"Well. Yeahh.. We do. But, we kind of.. Live in the sewer?"

"...Yeah? I remember. I'd only walk part-ways."

"Right, well, uh... I mean-"

"DONNIE!" Raph grabbed both his shoulders from behind, startling a yelp out of him as he whipped around.

"Oh, uh-- Hey guys!"

"What gives? We've been waiting at the spot for like.." Mikey glances at his phone, "..Well, only like three minutes, but you're usually there first."

"Guys, chill out, I told you he was probably just leaving class with someone else."

"Yup mystery solved-- bye (y/n), let's go guys!!"

Wrong move. Donnie could feel he'd messed up when all three of his brothers turned their heads to him.

Blood in the water.

"Woooah, chill out bro, we're not in a rush. So you're (y/n)? I don't think we've met." Mikey turned to you.

You nodded, "In the flesh. And you're... Mikey, Raph, and Leo?" You pointed to each of them as you recalled their names. "I was just asking if I could walk with you guys."

"Hah- well- I don't think we--" "Oh, totally!" "Yeah man, feel free!"

"I'm sure Donnie would love that,"

Donnie exchanged glares with each of his brothers, huffing before pulling up a reluctant smile.

"Yeah, uh.. what they said!"

"Awesome!"

And so you tagged along as they began walking. It wasn't all bad, Donnie just had to keep his cool and remain nonchalant. Shouldn't be too hard.

"So, we still on for tonight?" You asked, bumping your shoulder against Donnie's.

"Duh- Especially since it's my turn to pick."

"I am not watching One Piece, just FYI."

"You two got a nerd date or something?" Raph interjected. Donnie frowned at him, feeling his fists ball up, but was surprised to hear you laugh easily.

"Kind of. It's a cultural exchange." With one hand gesturing as you speak, the other sneaks its way around Donnie's arm.

Kind of? It was kind of a date? and you were holding his arm??

Donnie glanced down at where you'd held onto him, before his eyes narrowed in a smug glance in Raph's direction. His brother, on the other hand, had his mouth hanging slightly open; his brows furrowed down.

Donnie ran his lip between his teeth before he adjusted his arm, sliding his hand down into yours. It felt.. right. He brushed along your knuckles, how small each of them were under his three-fingered hands- and his heart threatened to melt when you squeezed in return. The dialogue that continued between you and his brothers faded to white noise at that feeling.

"Alright, this is where I've gotta part ways. It was nice meeting you all!"

You leaned down, pressing a quick peck into Donnie's cheek.

"see you tonight!"

You were gone before Donnie could even process what'd happen, an incoherent exhale of noise escaping him as his brothers began hollering.

"WOAH WOAH WOAH. DONNIE?? IS HE YOUR BOYFRIEND??" "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL US??"

Donnie's brain kicked into action finally, looking away with a rub to the back of his neck.

"I ahh..... y'know, we're not really sure yet?- kind of uhh.... testing the waters and stuff..?" He lied, shooting a glance over his shoulder to assure you weren't in earshot.

"Dang, you really DO have some rizz after all!"

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

(y/n) today at 5:14 all good to have you over for the night!

TELLO 🧠💪 today at 5:15 cool cool! so uh... can i ask what the smooch was about earlier??

(y/n) today at 5:18 oh, yeah, sorry!! i just noticed your brothers were teasing you about me figured i'd lean into it & get them to back off lol see you in ten?

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Donatello huffed, staring at that message for a long few minutes. Well, that TOTALLY answered his question.

Not.

But.. At least he'd learned that you apparently weren't opposed to holding his hand and kissing his cheek. Even if it was something of a performance.

Maybe tonight, he could get a private show.

There was only one way to find out.

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

TELLO 🧠💪 today at 5:22 yup! on my way

#mutant mayhem x reader #donatello x reader #tmnt x reader #tmnt #mutant mayhem #mm donnie #mm leo #mm raph #mm mikey #mm donnie x reader #donnie x reader #tmnt imagines #tmnt fic

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