#grief is not a shroud but a skin? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

onlyswan · 2 months

Text

summary: in which you want to turn back the clock and jungkook wants you to stay.

idol!jungkook x reader, est. relationship / angst, fluff / word count: 5.8k

content/warnings: mistreatment of service workers / oc felt inappropriately touched by a customer (only mentioned in passing) / (oc works part-time in a restaurant) (then quits) / another dive into oc’s lore / allusion to death / grief grief grief / lots of crying :( / jk wants to move in together :") / mention of s*x (24/7=heaven?) / mention of period blood (they’re in diff contexts js to be clear lol) / u will get pissed and cry and laugh it’s fun <3

playlist! knees - iu ; chinese satellite - phoebe bridgers ; love wins all - iu

> in which masterlist

note: contains lil flashblacks from the giving up drabbles ^^ can be found in the timeline masterlist above this incase u haven’t read them and want to ^^ listen to love wins all when jungkook tells oc to wear their seatbelt (trust me). tried to encapsulate the epiphany of oh. everything’s going to be okay because i am loved when i’m at my lowest. as always reblogs & feedback are appreciated :") come chat!!

—

the rusty swing-set creaks as you unsteadily swing back and forth, staring lifelessly at your white socks and shoes stained with burnt orange. you look up to the sky but the moon and the stars are shrouded by the clouds. not even your favorite snack can poison your sadness with optimism. mouthful of bungeoppang, but you taste nothing, and every swallow only adds to the heaviness weighing on your chest.

your shift should be ending by now, which means you probably should be heading home, but your limbs have given up and refuses to move.

jungkook’s special ringtone ceaselessly disrupts the night scene’s quiet, but there’s no point in answering his calls when you know no words would come out of you.

“are you an imbecile?! you can’t understand basic instructions?!”

“ma’am, i’m so sorry. i’ll take it back and give you the right ord-”

“we’re fucking starving! move faster!”

you flinch as the bowl collides with the tiled floor, producing an ear-splitting sound that reverberates throughout the entire restaurant. you want to give the woman the benefit of the doubt and believe that she just shoved the bowl a little too harshly due to her frustration, but you have a hand over your mouth not due to shock, but the inexplicable pain of having your skin burnt by the piping hot soup… and she’s just… there.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry! please understand. she’s just in a bad mood. she’s not- she’s not usually like this.”

you stand on your spot, frozen and speechless, as her husband profusely apologizes. you’re only jolted out from trance when you feel him wiping your legs with crumpled tissue papers, a little too farther up for your comfort. a fleeting tug-of-war ensues when you forcefully rip them away from his hands. you thank him despite not meaning it.

you grip the edge of your skirt as you sit on your heels, picking up the broken shards of glass scattered across the floor. a concerned co-worker swoops in with a broom and you instantly jump the opportunity to save yourself from the mortifying stares, mumbling another thank you as you take your leave.

“you said table six.”

“____, i’m sorry. that was a fault on my part.”

your manager observes your current state. his stare lingers at your feet.

“but they don’t know that! she literally burnt me!”

“look, we don’t have to take this too far. it couldn’t have been that hot. we can see you’re still walking.” his condescending tone makes you feel so small, but it fuels the anger inside of you. “you don’t have to pay for the damages, so let’s just put this behind us.”

you gasp in disbelief, and it borders on a laugh. you feel crazy. you can’t believe this is actually happening to you. he can’t be fucking serious.

the workers in the kitchen remain quiet as tension arises, minds a tornado of thoughts but mouths remaining shut in fear of getting on the bad side of their superior.

“well you…” you hastily strip off your apron, bunching it up into one big ball. “don’t have to pay me anymore, because i fucking quit! i hope this place burns down!”

and you ensure that it hits him on the face before you turn around to march out of the kitchen. on the way out of the restaurant, you nonchalantly grab a bottle of water from the fridge, twisting off the cap as you push the door open. you leave a wet trail behind your steps as you pour the cold water over your feet, a poor attempt to soothe the sharp pain of the injury.

you know it will be alright eventually; you will heal, but this… this is leaving a permanent scar on your dignity.

with a vexed groan, you retrieve your vibrating phone from your pocket.

LAST EVICTION NOTICE— you do not even bother reading the rest of the words that come after that.

“fuck!” you scream, throwing the bottle at the nearest wall, hands coming up to your hair to roughly pull in frustration. the heels of your palm dig into your eyes and your knees give way to the ground. “this is a nightmare.”

it dawns on you that you’ve finally arrived at a surface on the rock bottom that you so awfully dread. you find yourself standing here— infront of the atm machine, staring blankly at the large number displayed on the screen. this money isn’t yours. this didn’t come from your blood, sweat, and tears. it’s an amount that you’re supposed to accept as a payment for the eulogies you had to deliver. you swore you would never do this, but desperate times come when you’re forced to swallow your pride and allow it to rot you from the inside.

you’re once again faced with the ugly difference between surviving and living.

you grab the cash, hastily pushing them inside the pocket of your jacket as if you’re being burnt by them. you feel so nauseous; if only emptying your stomach would untangle its knots.

you don’t need anything from anyone. this is the first and the last time, you swear to yourself in place of your defeated oath.

you don’t want jungkook to see you like this, helpless and hollow, the antonym of the sun he willingly flew too close to. you look pathetic seeking for solace in an abandoned playground, unfortunate soul stuck at fifteen, in denial of the passage of time.

but there goes your lover running towards you, calling out your name, and you begin praying for yourself to disappear into thin air.

much to your disappointment, no wiser being grants your plea, and now you have a man tucking you in his safe embrace, uncaring of his knees being bruised by the ground.

does he need to surprise you when you least anticipate his presence?

“i’ve been looking everywhere for you! i went to pick you up at the restaurant but they told me that you quit! what happened?”

he pulls away, tenderly cupping your cheeks in his warm hands.

“was it your boss again? it’s him, isn’t it? what did he do?”

jungkook dies a little inside. your glassy eyes study his face, a clear picture of distress and concern, but at the same time, they seem so far away… like you’re not certain if you’re truly here.

you unconsciously squirm— your feet retract themselves, escaping underneath the swing; and your ankles twist, and twist, one hiding behind the other.

this doesn’t feel like being stripped naked.

you feel like you’re being turned inside out.

“what’s wrong? baby…” he utters sadly as tears drip from your lashes—one by one— even they are lost and hesitant.

your distant stare remains.

he doesn’t know if you’re even aware that you’re crying. it’s a frightening sight and he doesn’t know what else to do. he holds you in his arms but you feel too stiff for this to be comfortable. the time passes, and he lets it do so in silence.

he waits for you to come back to him.

he waits, and waits, and waits.

“jungkook… i want to go home.”

“okay. i’ll bring you home, baby.” he strokes your hair, breathing out in relief. “yours? or mine?”

only for his world to crumble into pieces.

“my mom…” you whisper, breathless, releasing yourself from his embrace. “i want to be with my mom.”

and only then does he see traces of emotions written on your face.

“i miss my mom so much.”

the crack of your voice gives him an opening to catch a glimpse of your heart, that is but a mosaic of broken parts. pain, grief, longing… the past two years haven’t been enough to make him well-acquainted with the anatomy of your afflictions. he has only witnessed you speak of your family with a proud and affectionate beam; old stories that spark the agent of joy. and despite knowing that you must’ve been battling your pain all these years all alone, he couldn’t bring himself to meddle with how you handled your grief. however, if he’s going to be completely truthful, he was terrified of this— of seeing you so unmoored and broken. his pain is no comparison. quite frankly, it is an insult to yours.

“i miss her so, so, so much. what do i do? i…” you sobs become uncontrollable, overcome by the weight of the world crashing down on you.

how is it possible that you feel nothing and too much at the same time? is what you would often ask before, but today you realize that your pain simply goes beyond what any of your human parts is able to fathom.

“this is too hard… it’s too tiring. i can’t- i can’t. i don’t want to be here anymore. i’m always so scared. i don’t know what i’m doing anym-”

“shh, shhh, baby- baby, breathe for me-”

“how did my life end up like this? i don’t understand! the world- it’s so cruel- i can’t stand it.”

jungkook wipes away your tears, but it’s no use. once you break down, it becomes impossible to remedy. nonetheless, that doesn’t deter your boyfriend from trying. he gathers your weeping and trembling vessel in an attempt to glue you back together, and in while doing so, he also wills himself to be strong for you.

“why did she have to go after them and leave me all alone here? am i not her child too?”

the obtuse questions you’ve been too afraid to ask out loud are being brought out in the open, spilling out from the torn seams of your soul as they’ve become too agonizing to annihilate over and over and over again.

you know the answer. you know she didn’t want to leave.

but you can’t help but to be angry at the fact that her heart gave up. you don’t understand why it had to happen and why you’re being grinded in the mouth of the world.

“i’m tired, i’m so tired. it’s so unfair… i need her with me too…”

jungkook squeezes his eyes shut, gently rocking your tangled bodies — a defense mechanism. you’re succumbing to defeat as if it’s been long overdue; even your voice is giving up on you.

if he had to imagine, the earth must have shared his current dread when it witnessed a solar eclipse for the first time, wired to assume the worst of perpetual darkness.

“jungkook…”

your weak fists desperately grasping at the fabric of his hoodie— the final thread you are hanging on. your words break into stutters and hiccups, salty tears slipping past your lips and stirring their bitter taste.

“i just want to go and be my mom’s child again.”

and he would truly fucking hate to try and get into the implication of your words, but if jungkook is going to be completely truthful— he is terrified beyond words can say. of this; of witnessing you slip away from everything you’ve ever known; of losing you. maybe he’s being selfish, but whatever it takes, he will make you stay.

he swallows the lump in his throat, hurriedly drying his eyes with his sleeve before facing you.

“listen to me, okay…?” his voice isn’t enough to pull your head from underwater; he lightly taps your cheek, even though it breaks his heart. “hey, hey, hey. look at me, baby- look at me.”

he searches for your eyes, begging them to focus on him. and it’s silly, what he does next, pressing a kiss to your lips as if this is a fairytale. but then it works— you tilt your head to subtly nuzzle your cheek against his palm— and he has to quickly recover from being taken aback. you effortlessly make a slave out of his heart.

“you never stopped being her child. and that will never happen! because even with them being gone, you haven’t stopped trying your best to be a good child and older sibling to them. i… i’m a witness to that. every single day. are you hearing me?”

can he get some sort of sign whether he is doing this right or wrong?

“you’re not alone here because you have me. you do know that, right?”

and you want to believe him… you do. but just like how you’re clinging onto him right now for dear life, you can’t forget how you had to beg him to stay.

“so stop working all these jobs! please, i’m begging you! it must also break your mom’s heart to see you torturing yourself like this. it’s not healthy! just focus on studying and let me take away your burdens, please?”

you stop breathing; your features soften like you’ve made it out of a nightmare.

“jungkook…”

“let’s live together, baby.” he sounds sure; he sounds steady, but the waver of his eyes beseeches you. “you’ve been so good to me, even when i didn’t deserve it. please… let me love you in my own way too.”

“stop. i told you… i’m still thinking about it.” you say meekly, avoiding his intense gaze. “i mean, let’s be honest. what would your family even think of me? your aunt already hates me. what if she uses this to prove that she was right about me and-”

“fuck what everyone else thinks. i couldn’t care less.”

the reminder of the disrespect you were subjected to because of him has him seething all over again. his jaw clenches in anger, and he feels obligated to take a deep breath so he can keep himself composed. growing up, he was always taught to be the bigger person, but he simply can’t implore himself to do that if it means turning a blind eye to your hurt.

“i won’t let her get away with that type of bullshit so don’t even bother thinking about her anymore. i’ll take care of it. we can’t let that get into our heads. right, baby? we said that?” his thumb caresses your cheek softly, and you hold on to his wrist, silent as you try to understand him through the thick haze clouding your mind. “i want to be with the person i love. how could that be so wrong?”

you slowly shake your head in response, a little hesitant.

“i won’t leave again. no matter how hard you push me away, i will stay within your reach.”

and here he is, kneeling infront of you, seeking to make true of what he solemnly vowed to you.

are you going to take this away from him? after everything you’ve gone through together?

he is the only thing you have left to lose.

“i love you.” you whisper, initiating the hug this time.

you’re holding him tight, like you don’t ever want to let go, and it brings jungkook to the brink of tears once more.

“i love you so much.”

he sweetly kisses your cheek, but when you pull away to give him that look, a wordless command for more, his lips finally meet yours for the first time in forty-eight hours. they slowly curve into a smile, not at all surprised that he’s tasting sugar. he’d go through hell and back to experience this kind of kiss one time, only to do it all over again.

“let’s go home?”

you blink at him cluelessly. you don’t know why he’s wearing a dimpled smile out of the blue, neither do you know which home he is referring to. nevertheless, you intertwine your fingers with his, choosing to save yourself from this forlorn neverland.

there’s just… one teeny… tiny problem…

“shit,” you mutter to yourself, freezing on your tracks.

“what’s wrong?”

you awkwardly glance down at your shoes, the origin of the squeaky sound that was impossible to be missed by your ears. after inspecting you from head to toe, a worried expression morphs on his face, and you can only show him a shy wince in response.

“i don’t want to make your car dirty.”

“baby…”

his chest feels so much heavier. he is nearly blinded with red. he wants to scream and be infuriated. what the fuck happened back there?

you merely shrug, sending him a forced smile. “do you still have those extra slippers?”

—

“jungkook, i can do it myself.”

he clicks his tongue, his hand around your calf gripping. “stay still!”

you watch him from the passenger seat, your legs dangling from the edge as he carefully takes off your shoes and socks, yet again kneeling on the ground.

“does it hurt a lot?”

“not… a lot.” you answer through gritted teeth.

perhaps the stinging never did quell; it was just pushed to the back of your mind when more painful things surfaced succeeding it.

“who did this to you, huh? i need to go back there and make them pay! what kind of decent human being would do that?!”

“a miserable woman in a miserable marriage.”

in her eyes, you may be naive and she, the decades old wiser— but who is the one with a lover who would wash not their dirty hands, but their feet that have walked a million miles?

“i feel bad for her.” you comment absentmindedly.

you’re too far deep in awe watching jungkook gingerly clean your bare feet with his hands and a bottle of cool water, doing what you were meant to do earlier, if only granted that you weren’t erupting with rage.

“____, you’re too nice.”

“you’re too nice.” you argue. “also, those shoes are hopeless. just throw them away.”

he glances at you with fondness, shaking his head as he softly pats you dry with a clean towel. you stifle a gasp. it’s no longer as bad as before, but your skin still feels warm and raw. this wasn’t in the job description. you decide that you can practice empathy, as well as your strong belief in karma, at the same time. at this moment, you hope that the universe is already crafting tricks up its sleeve, because you’re in a world of fucking pain.

“there you go. wait until we get off the car before you wear the slippers, alright? and you’re not allowed to wear tight shoes.”

he rises to his feet, not wasting the opportunity to steal a kiss.

“yeah, it was wildly uncomfortable.” you mumble against his lips, tugging at his collar to properly respond to his display of affection. “thank you.”

“wear your seatbelt.” his eyes shines with a glint of with uncontainable excitement. “we’re going home.”

—

you stir as jungkook gently shakes your body awake, his muffled voice gradually becoming clearer as you gain your consciousness.

“wake up, baby. we’re here.”

you tiredly rub off the sleep from your swollen eyes, discovering your boyfriend waiting for you where the door of the passenger seat should be.

“let’s get you some more rest.” he places a chaste kiss on your forehead, before standing aside to make way for you, offering his hand as a gentleman.

you must still be dreaming. you assumed he would bring you to his apartment, but you do not recognize this place. this is a different parking space, a different parking lot.

“um… t-this is…” you stumble on your words, feeling lost. “where are we?”

“home,” he smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes and turn them into little crescent moons.

you must still be dreaming. the clock attached to a nearby pillar strikes midnight, and unbeknownst to you, a brand new day awaits beyond the dark and empty sky.

you were so thoroughly convinced that you’ve been living a life past the point of salvation… but life stands before you overflowing with hope and glowing with ardor.

you take his hand and allow him to whisk you away to another world.

—

this is beginning to feel real, jungkook thinks as he presses the elevator button. earlier’s excitement becomes interweaved with nervousness. he’s a little dizzy as the giant box ascends. if you feel his hand’s growing clamminess, you don’t show it, your clasp still as firm as before.

“you bought another house…”

“hmm, but this one is a secret.” a confession that is yours truly. “this one is ours.”

your eyes wordlessly speak with each other. neither of you imagined following your hearts could materialize your future plans to the present time. what goes beyond dreaming of beautiful things is still foreign to the both of you, but jungkook is here, willing to free fall with you.

the elevator dings.

he guides you through a well-lit hallway, to a door, and you pay close attention as he punches in the passcode— another set of numbers you ought to have memorized alongside birthdays and anniversaries and id numbers.

your heart races but everything else moves in slow motion. the door opens and you get swallowed by the need to remember every moment so vividly as if you’re reliving it.

the first time you set foot into your own apartment,, the empty space daunted you despite its modest dimensions. however, right now, your head is tracing half of a circle, from left to right, just to study this large space in its entirety— and all you can think about are the endless possibilities forming intimate images of a sanctuary in your head— a place where fears and sadness can co-exist with tenderness and joy.

beside you, jungkook patiently holds your hand.

“this one is ours…” you repeat the words, more so to convince yourself, and they drip with disbelief.

you follow his lead as he walks to the other half of the room, bare feet sliding across the floor.

“this is the living room, and the other side is the kitchen.”

he faces you with a wide grin, the kind he wears when he wants to tell you something he is proud of.

“i was thinking that if we get a big television bolted on the wall…”

he gestures to the blank canvas, letting go of your hand to draw an invisible rectangle on the air with his arms fully outstretched.

“then we can easily watch even from the kitchen.”

he puffs up his chest, side-eyeing you expectantly.

“genius, right?”

“and greedy.” you blink. “i don’t think that’s safe to do while you’re cooking.”

“but i’ll be very, very careful!”

“that’s the bare minimum when you’re holding a knife.”

“okay! i look forward to arguing with you about that on a different day!”

his enthusiasm doesn’t waver. in fact, it is fueled. how could it not? when you’re starting to sound exactly like a couple who lives together?

he captures your wrist and tugs you towards the other side of the room, but you pull him back with a noise of protest.

“are we not going to address…” you hang on to your words, eyes wandering to the floor where there are signs of living. “whatever is going on here?”

a single mattress with a single pillow; a folded blanket neatly sitting on top of it. surrounding them are bottles of water, a laptop, a speaker, and a basket of what you assume are skincare products.

“i’ve been sleeping here lately…”

“i can see that.”

“i didn’t want to buy furnitures yet while you haven’t given me an answer… i just thought that if we’re living together, then we should decide on those things as a couple.”

…he dips down to kiss you. “it was hell without you…”

his teeth captures your bottom lip, nipping at the supple flesh.

“going to build a life with you. i’ll build furniture, and they’re going to be ours.”

jungkook feels your stare. oblivious of your thoughts reigning chaos, he tilts his head in question.

how long has he been planning this?

“you okay?”

you blink away the tears brimming your eyes. you shake your head, clinging to his arm. “where were you taking me?”

“this is the kitchen!”

a smile of contentment graces your lips. you’re guilty of admiring the pure, unadulterated joy on jungkook’s face instead of what he is passionately endorsing to you.

“this is the fridge!” he presents to you, swinging the door open. “but there’s nothing inside.”

“what are you saying? there is something.”

the two of you peer at the green can of soda, chilsung cider, left at a far corner. the refrigerator light casts over your curious faces.

“oh, that’s still there?”

the animated sound of your giggles prompts him to look at you, and he couldn’t be more glad to be laughing with you again, bellies aching at the same time.

“do you want it?”

“it’s not peach.”

“let’s move on then!”

there are cups of ramyeon and packs of dried seaweed on the countertop, the photo of his dinner that he sent last night still vivid in your memory. your hand daintily brushes across the white marble, stealing a feel as jungkook drags you to a new space.

“this is the second kitchen and laundry room!”

he waits for a reaction as you survey the room and its overhead cabinets.

“it’s not supposed to be the pantry…? eh, you know what? cooking and doing laundry are more of your thing so you can have them however you want.”

you turn on your heel to walk away, and jungkook follows behind you, celebrating his victory by punching the air and whisper-shouting a yeah!

“what’s here?”

you reach another hallway beside the living room.

“what’s here?” he zooms past you to open a door. “bathroom. there’s a bathtub! but i still need to install grip bars so no one will slip.”

he needs to stop saying things that make you want to make him your husband on the spot.

“and we have my favorite part! the master bedroom, of course!” he swings the door open on the other side. “where else would we spend the most time in?”

“wow, really? i thought you were also endorsing the living room as the bedroom.” you jokingly quirk an eyebrow.

“nonsense!” he cheekily chides you. “you deserve better than that.”

you take a step, peeking inside the empty room that you estimate to be as twice as larger than yours. you can’t say that you care so much about its size, because behind the white curtains, you reel at the prospect of the natural light shining over your face every time you wake up. your mornings have been gloomy since you arrived at seoul four years ago.

he sneaks his arms around your waist, your back resting against his chest, and your being feels so light you might just begin floating when he lets go.

“let’s stay like this for a while.”

“okay,” he puts his chin on top of your shoulder, his soft smile becoming permanent.

the two of you stand at the bedroom’s doorway; the cusp of what could be your entire lives.

“what’s that other room?”

“which one?”

“i don’t know. i see it from the side of my eye.”

he cackles at your humorous nonchalance. “i have more to show you. there’s a guest room… if we decide it to be.”

“cute. i have somewhere else to sleep when i’m mad at you.”

“that’s fine,” he replies after a beat of silence. “at least i’d know where to find you.”

“don’t make me change my mind.”

he cries out your name childishly, burying his face by the crook of your neck. he hugs you tighter. he wants to sleep every night drowning in the sweet scent of your hair. if he had to choose, it would be the most peaceful way to go.

“we have a walk-in closet too!”

“i expected nothing less.” you giggle, not a stranger to his lifestyle. “what’s exciting is that we can finally have a big bed.”

“but i like our small beds.”

“cuddling isn’t all that fun during the summer. trust me, you’d eventually want space.”

“nuh-uh! that’s what aircons are for!”

you roll your eyes at his persistence. “then why did you choose such a huge apartment if you wanted a small bed?”

“so we can have all the space to slow-dance to love songs.”

jungkook, ever the charmer. the butterflies in your stomach come alive beneath his embrace.

“why are you suddenly quiet?” he laughs. “was that too cheesy?”

“no!”

“really?” he spins you around, and heat creeps to your cheeks when he leans in so close that you can perfectly distinguish the brown in his eyes. “so have you given it more thought?”

“given what more thought?”

“there’s nothing to be scared of. it’s only the two of us here, see?” he tells you like overeager puppy. “will you move in with me?”

if this is a dream, you wish to never wake up from it. to have a person care for you this deeply and unconditionally, you want to believe that you have done something right to deserve it.

“i just don’t think you understand what you’re getting yourself into.”

his eyebrows knit together in defense. “what does that mean?”

“the thing is… yeah, sex 24/7 and cuddling and having first times together, that sounds amazing and all… but living with me would probably drive you crazy.”

a tired yawn almost interrupts the end of your sentence, and you cover your face out of courtesy. you sniffle and wipe your teary eyes with the back of your hand.

“i’ve lived on my own for so long. i’m messy and clumsy and i’m used to having everything my way… i mean… i’m willing to compromise, but i can’t promise i won’t be insufferable as hell about it.”

“ah, seriously! you scared me for nothing!” he exclaims, throwing his head back with a groan. “baby, i’ve been living with six other men for the past decade. you know that there was a time when we even slept together in one small room. can you imagine how that must’ve been like for a bunch of teenage boys…? you? messy? think about it again. living with you can’t possibly get worse than that. you don’t have to worry about me! really, i can take it! watch me!”

“but i bleed every month.”

“i’m a man. seeing a little blood doesn’t faze me.”

you make a face. “it’s actually a lot.”

“yah, why are you acting like we haven’t been together for two years?”

“it’s different living together!”

“it’s only natural! i don’t care!”

a noise of complaint bubbles in your throat when he shakes you by your shoulders, coaxing you with an whiny “please baby.”

your chest deflates in defeat. “sure, i guess… as long as we have the big bed, and the slow-dancing-”

“done!” he doesn’t waste his breath, not keen on wasting this opportunity. “anything you want, you have it!”

you narrow your eyes. “and i’ll keep my tutoring job.”

“will you punch the next guy that insists you study at his dorm for me?”

“or i can just keep saying no firmly, baby boy.”

and with that pet name, he instantly folds. “okay.”

“okay?”

“okay, since that’s the only one that you genuinely like.”

“you-” your teeth unconsciously finds your bottom lip to dig into, and you inhale sharply. “…you really love me, don’t you?”

suddenly, you’re raising your voice and waving your hands in the air. you’re feeling too many emotions at once; it’s like when you mix all the colors in a palette and end up creating black. you’re angry and happy and you may be fucking crying again.

“you were just picking up speakers one night and a pretty stranger offers you some boring food and now you want to be stuck with me forever?”

your fist throws a restrained punch to his chest, shoving him backwards.

“oh my god, you’re so stupid!”

jungkook finds this too amusing, tries to hide that he is enjoying this but a smirk is plastered on his face.

“you are loved by so many,” he brushes away the hair that has fallen over your eyes. he tucks them behind you ears and tenderly holds your face in his warm hands. “but i’m confident that i love you the most.”

you are the muse in his dreams. your perfume clings to his clothes. you make him the happiest man on the planet and your pain torments him. what is this, if not love?

“and if that makes me the stupid one? then so be it.”

“when did it become a competition?”

“since you got yourself a competitive boyfriend!”

“okay, fine! let’s make it my fault!”

you throw your arms around his neck, peppering kisses all over his face until he’s an uncontainable giggling mess.

“i’m drowning in kisses! nobody help!”

and you hope you’re hugging him close enough that he can feel the love and gratitude flowing through your veins. your eyes flutter shut, and you sigh— tranquility triumphs over chaos.

“are you falling asleep standing up again?”

“no!” you blatantly lie, drawing back with innocence masking your drowsiness. “we still need to go online shopping!”

“what are we buying?”

your face lights up. “appliances first?”

“appliances?” he cheerfully says. “sure! let’s get you new shoes too!”

as he gets dragged to the living room where his laptop is, he mumbles something with an enamored expression. “i should keep working hard.”

—

“yah, why are looking at me like that?” jungkook chuckles upon feeling your poorly concealed stare, diverting his attention away from the laptop over his stomach. “i’m the real deal. the tv is over there, on the screen.”

“just because…”

you snuggle closer to his side, heart fluttering when his arm that is your pillow moves to also hold you. you don’t really mind a small bed. this is the most favorable consequence a nuisance could have.

“i feel sorry.”

“sorry? for what?”

“because i made you sad, didn’t i? i hate that so much.” you sniffle, hand coming up to pat his cheek affectionately. “i know it must be hard for you too.”

“you’re the one who’s in a lot of pain.” he means to firmly speak, but the tremble of his voice rudely refuses to cooperate. “how could you even think of me feeling sad?”

“because i love you. of course i always think of you.” you argue, bottom lip jutting out into a pout. “i can’t do that now?”

he sighs. “you know that’s not what i meant.”

a kiss is planted on your forehead— tender and cherishing.

“let’s be happy, baby.”

the sharp edges of jungkook’s fears are eroded in a way. in a universe that relentlessly challenges you to be optimistic, your heart that is well-versed in loving continues to rise above it all.

you echo his words wistfully. “let’s be happy.”

—

taglist in the reblogs! send an ask/dm if you want to be added (or removed) :D

—

#jungkook #jungkook fluff #jungkook drabble #jungkook scenario #jungkook one shot #jungkook imagine #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook au #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #bts fluff #bts reaction #jungkook angst #jungkook smut

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elvirable · 7 months

Text

Ambrosia (Act 1)

[ Astarion x f!Reader ] | ao3 link

rating: explicit | word count: 2k | status: ongoing themes/tags: vaginal sex, feelings realization, denial of feelings, light smut.. for now, and a whole lotta angst, will add more smut tho in the next chapters, soulmates, fluff, written as a glimpse into his mind during each act ———–

Astarion would never tell you, though - it was his little secret, one he hid away just for himself.

In other words: A delve into Astarion's thoughts, starting with the day he met you. *will update description at some point. ———– A/N: i wrote this as a peek into Astarion's mind throughout Act 1. plan to continue as i progress throughout the game. lmk what you think and if you like this style!

-------

Grief had a penchant for wearing different masks.

Phantom faces that slithered through shadows, white-hot wrath that clawed at the throat, an endless gnawing that swallowed one whole: all faces of a primordial monster that had existed before time itself.

Astarion knew all this.

He had met them all – intimate with its simplest form, a cold polarizing solitude; a loyal companion for two centuries, teaching him to lick his wounds with malice. Others had taken everything from him, or they were too weak to lift a meaningful finger. It took several lifetimes to finally mend his precious pride back together. Why should he practice mercy when no one had shown him any?

And by some stroke of luck, he was free – at least for now. Opportunity had fallen before his feet; he could chase after power, clutch revenge in his pale fingers, walk amongst the sun. Red eyes clung to the light glimmering across the water and wavering leaves. A desperate urge pulsed up his spine, insisting he memorize each saturated detail before it faded away like the most ethereal dream. The exhilaration rose wildly before plummeting to the pits of his stomach.

Huh, that was odd. It had never dawned on him that grief could also bloom in the slow, golden sunlight.

Languid beams washed against his flesh and through the faint hem of his shirt. Every fiber of his skin ached, dull and shallow, at the sacred warmth that had been a stranger for so long. He felt this haunted and holy gift – the vigor of life from each ray of light running over his fair face. Reunited once again, like long-lost lovers.

It was the sound of boots thudding against dirt that pulled him back into the world, on the ravaged beachfront.

With straight posture, a hollow smile painted itself across his lips. ==

“You have your mother’s eyes, you know.”

No, he didn’t know.

Quiet was this small voice that, for some odd reason, had grasped onto his conscience the night he died. It had sung loud in the beginning, but now it was just a whisper. Everything else had reduced to dust, long-buried beneath the cold earth.

But if he could conjure the ghost of his mother, he couldn’t be bothered to. Astarion envisioned a sharp tsk , a scowl dripping with disgust if she could see the creature he was today: a thrall to his own hedonistic desires, wielding manipulation and seduction as an instrument. A vampire , taking solace amongst the shadows and draining the life around him.

Maybe he was the same, just calloused and rearranged by the fate spun for him.

However, there was no need to exhume the past. It proved futile anyway; he couldn’t even recall the previous hue of his eyes, much less run his hands over his reflection. The only thing worthy of concern was survival. Memories had been shrouded by the same pivotal virtue, the one that carved the habit to become shapeless – to cater to every impulse and whim of those who could serve useful. Those who could protect him, at least for the time being.

And that was exactly what he tried with you, as his breath was inches from your slender neck and your eyes widened in hazy alarm, catching him by surprise.

“Shit.”

You scuttered to your feet in the frantic silence, dozens of excuses fluttering to Astarion’s tongue. The fatigue of bloodthirst hindered his wit, but he raised his palms in reservation.

He had already taken note of your misleading presence – you were small, but heavens , would you put up a fight. Other companions had already turned towards you for guidance the past few days, and you were carved with a beauty that could intimidate. Though, there were cracks underneath that facade – ones with darkness in between.

Peering into these cracks was his only outlet to earn your trust; after all, it was paramount for survival.

“I – I wasn’t going to hurt you,” exasperated breaths pushed from his throat. “I just needed, well.. blood.”

Basked in the dim firelight, your wary gaze studied him for what he really was: a vampire, a slave to sanguine hunger. He caught the stutter in your furrowed brows before they eased. Smug delight settled in his nerves when you, although with apprehension, allowed him to taste you.

Astarion eagerly obliged, immediately losing himself in the euphoria– the sweet vigor of your blood, how silky and rich. A low hum vibrated in his throat, and he barely registered when your palms pushed his broad weight off of you. Lush satisfaction that quenched his blood-thirst still coursed through him like a stimulant, but he still caught the tail-end of your groan.

“I don’t care that you’re a vampire. Just –,” you paused briefly to reel from your daze. “We’re all a team now, so I have to have some trust in you. Just ask next time.”

He felt happy, more alive – not only from the fresh blood still lingering on his tongue, but that you trusted him. Maybe not entirely, but the anchor had already been dropped; one step closer to wrapping you around his finger, even if you weren’t entirely flexible. He could feel it in your gaze, in the little quivers that rolled through you while his fangs sunk into your soft skin.

Once you had returned to sleep and his frenzied nerves quelled, he mulled over your parting words. You weren’t phased’ that he was a vampire, instead placing emphasis on trust. You were full of surprises – especially when the entire world met him with repulse.

Something that had been fossilized inside him tremored, as if it began to thaw. ==

There was a thin chill in the evening air, in the way nature prepares for a new season. And he hated you.

Well, he didn’t hate you – frankly, he couldn’t get enough of you; that was the issue.

You plagued his thoughts like a helpless addiction, better yet like a mirror; one he had repeatedly peered into, struggling to find the right angle and when he did – he was left staring at you.

Those careful eyes – a mocking reminder of everything he could have been. So different, so resilient, so disgustingly kind.

Since the day he laid eyes on you, he was the first to glimpse at your secret hidden in plain sight. Your habit of hiding yourself from everyone you came across, retreating behind stone-bared walls and tailoring a facade just enough to avoid drawing attention. Reserved lips were a mere confirmation you sealed away a vault of grief that you didn’t want – or need – clumsy, temporary hands to pry open.

That discreet resolve particularly made you the sour dagger twisting between his ribs. Grief had been your companion as well, but its mark never trickled from anywhere else – not a warbled voice or frustrated bout. It was only noticeable through a fleeting glint in your eyes. Meanwhile, he had made this medley of rage and anguish his armor. It had fused to skin, and he no longer knew how to scrape it off. Astarion dedicated decades to cursing the Gods. You ignored them.

He knew he should despise you and eagerly await the day he could shatter this mirror you were – but all bitterness dissolved in your presence. You had become his wonderfully terrible affliction; withdrawals could damn near kill him if they were to happen.

Ribbons unraveled from his chest with each conversation, whether it pertained to the graveness of the journey or a simple ‘good morning’ from your lips. Strange yet blissful, he could feel himself surrendering every bitter pang for the peculiar sensation of… comfort .

Once laced with such harshness, his mind eased with familiarity. An interesting chord of harmony, he thought, the two of you. From the start of the journey until now, you shared an enriching balance. He would encourage you to be more outspoken, while you stirred him to be authentic and soft – even if you weren’t aware.

You were stable like bedrock; never once expecting to be selfless or pious, instead only demanded transparency – at least to the extent he was willing to concede. Aside from the occasional brow-raise or retort, judgment never twisted your face. Respect was a new sensation to him, as you gave him yours.

This dynamic, this balance ; it was irresistibly and invariably warm.

The rendezvous sort of just fell into habit.

Every night he would savor the ambrosia from your neck, and one evening tension gave way to carnal desire. Whether it was a simple cathartic release or not, he didn’t care; tender moments bathed in amber firelight or the hush of the night had always left him craving more.

“You’re such a tease .”

You’d whisper those words every so often those sacred nights, and a rakish grin would slide across his face without fail. Lust gripped him, but never once weaved with routine; the way your legs parted to invite him in left Astarion with an insatiable urge to indulge in everything you were willing to give him. He could spend the entire evening with his head between your thighs, cold hands steadying your quivering legs as his tongue lured you to new heights of pleasure – giving you exactly what you needed.

When he was with you – skin pressed together, desperate hums like honey – he began to relish in taking things slow.

He preferred the nights where your bare body writhed beneath him and melted against his, while he eagerly coaxed wispy whines from your lips. No matter how wet and ready you were, his girth always met resistance as he parted your warm, sensitive walls. Your skin buzzed at the sensation of his cock splitting you open, like every time was the first you’ve been touched.

Desire laced every word he whispered into the curve of your neck, each encouraging and soft. His pace was slow, pushing into the depth of your core, buried deep enough to kiss your cervix with each thrust. Low, guttural grunts left his throat as your body’s natural instinct clenched around his throbbing cock.

Despite his centuries of experience, he found himself struggling to restrain from succumbing to the all-consuming euphoria of it all: your lashes wet from your tears, precious gasps warm against his skin, the desirous ache to fuck you the way that pretty face beckoned to be fucked.

The unbridled intimacy – which felt so real and tender was enough to send him over the edge. His veins hummed with yearning as he drank in the vision beneath him; your skin flushed, shaky whines that sung his name as he pushed you to pleasure. And when you wrapped your legs to press him deeper – he surrendered to the white-hot bliss.

Although Astarion would never tell a soul, his most treasured moments were spent after desperate breaths calmed and the entire world stilled.

It was never long before you lulled into sleep, and your weight slacked against his broad chest. He lingered over each detail with softer eyes; the gentle curl of your lashes, a freckle he had missed the last time. Peace graced such beautiful features, ones that were usually still with resolve. There had never been another face quite like yours in the two centuries he had lurked amongst the earth.

Your chest rose and fell slowly before you would eventually fidget, still deep in slumber, to slink an arm over his waist. His gentle hand grasped the one that rested against his chest, careful not to stir you, as he ran his fingers over your silk skin. Such delicate hands, he mused, that had to grapple their way through life.

He pressed a silent kiss against the back of your palm before laying it back on his chest.

In the silence, something washed over him – that rousing feeling that he never knew quite what to make of.

His eyes swept once more to watch the shuffle of your face, buried now against his side. Your hazy sighs warmed his bare skin. Astarion could almost laugh, imagining your face reddening if he ever shared how affectionate you were in your sleep.

Though he would never tell you – it was his little secret, one he hid away just for himself.

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randomdragonfires · 1 month

Text

If The Sun Ever Rises | Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1 | To See You Again

SUMMARY | After narrowly escaping the Battle Above God’s Eye, Prince Aemond is now a hidden fugitive within the very kingdom he once ruled. Driven by vengeance, he plans to usurp Aegon III and avenge his family. His rage-blinded path to the throne begins with getting rid of Cregan Stark and the men who support his nephew’s rule. Having nothing to lose, he recklessly kidnaps the Northerner’s betrothed - his own niece - hoping to lure him and his men out to fight.

Soon, Aemond finds that memories of a first love are strong, and that he cannot steel his heart against the woman he has loved all his life.

WARNINGS | 18+; Smut; Canon Divergence - Aemond lives (but barely); Violence; Stockholm Syndrome; Mental and Physical Trauma; Angst; Canon Incest; Manipulation; No Happy Endings In This House YAY

WORD COUNT | 2k

Text Divider by @saradika

They had been running for three days now.

Slivers of moonlight pierced through the dense canopy above. The twisted and gnarled branches of trees, like skeletal fingers grasping for the Seven Heavens, cast their eerie shadows across the forest floor. The tangled roots snaked across the damp earth and moss clung to the ancient trunks like a dark shroud.

The air was heavy with the scent of damp soil and decaying leaves, mingling with the sweet aroma of wildflowers that dared to bloom amidst the darkness. Faint whispers seemed to echo through the tangled undergrowth, as if the very forest itself held secrets long forgotten.

As they ascended the hill, the terrain grew steeper, the path narrow and treacherous. Each step was a struggle against the relentless pull of gravity, the earth slick with dew beneath their feet. Aemond held onto her hand as tightly as she could - she hadn’t allowed him to touch her initially, having been in shock at being abducted from the arms of her betrothed - but there was only so much a defeated, tired princess could do on her own.

She panted from exertion. The blood on her face was dry now – he’d needed to hurt her to get her to comply. She looked at him with all the anger that he knew she was never capable of, and a forgotten corner of his mind yearned for an easier time when she’d held different feelings for him.

In an ideal world, there would have been no war. He could have married her, just as he’d promised in the protected darkness of the nights in hidden chambers and intimate correspondences. They could have been happy.

Though his thirst for vengeance was screaming at him, a small part of his mind wished for a quieter time; a time that would never come.

His family was dead, and he needed her to balance the scales. He owed Helaena that much. He owed Aegon that much. Mother, Daeron, Criston, sweet Jaehaerys, and Maelor - all his kith and kin. He had failed them all.

He would be damned to all Seven Hells before letting their deaths mean nothing.

At the hill's summit, the forest parted, revealing a precipice that loomed over the land below. The distant glimmer of moonlight danced upon the surface of a winding river, its waters black as night. He let go of her, and she fell to her knees, relishing the feeling of a flat surface and slower breaths as she bid her heart to slow down. He watched her ears perk up as she heard the crunch of his boots over the dry leaves, stalking towards her in that catlike stealth that he had taught himself to have.

He took her by surprise as he tightened his arm around her chest and grabbed her by the neck, making her body twitch in fear as she rose involuntarily. At the edge of the abyss, he turned her around to face him as he let the cold steel of his blade kiss her skin and travel over her frayed white dress from neck to navel.

How did we come to this?

She did not recognize the man in front of her.

He was the boy who had brought her books when her brothers teased her to the point of crying; who had kept her company in her grief of being a dragonless Targaryen; who had held her hand and promised that he would marry her; the one who had come rushing to her the night he claimed Vhagar, promising to take her on a ride.

He was the man who had taunted her and her brothers' parentage at a family supper; who had kissed her senseless in a lone passageway the very same night when he found out that Rhaenrya had no intention of letting him have her. He was the man who had killed sweet, mischievous Luke; the one whom she had left behind when she had been sent to the North; the one whom she had hoped would come and take her away, against all odds.

So many memories tied to him, inexplicably. And yet, she did not recognize the man in front of her.

As a boy, he had had such striking eyes - in color, but more so in the volatility of their regard. Always flitting about, looking for things to imbibe, to brand into his memory. His functional eye had grown different since she had last seen him - distant, devoid of the charming curiosity that would shine in his violet orb.

The eye of a war-worn murderer. He had probably brought her here because he wanted to kill her too.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” she whispered the words, almost uncertain. The coldness of his Valyrian steel dagger made goosebumps rise up on the planes of her skin, and yet, she surprisingly found that she was scared, not in the least.

He smirked and leaned in close to her, the leather strap of his eyepatch grazing her temple as she let the warmth of his breath bloom over her face. He raised the blade to her neck and teased her, being so bold as to let out a throaty, exhausted laugh that sounded more maniacal than anything else. She shut her eyes closed, hoping that if she could keep her world dark, she could pretend that this was all a nightmare.

She had often dreamt that he would take her away. She had hoped and hoped and hoped, and now that he was here, she couldn’t fathom how wrong she had been to wish for it.

Silly little fool.

“Sharp, sweet niece.”

His tone made her flinch. His voice was rough and predatory - so much so that she couldn’t tell if it was him or the situation itself that made her feel that way. “You’re supposed to be dead. Daemon….”

Her voice was lost in the air as he raised his eyebrow, a menacing smile in place as he pressed the blade into her skin - just enough to make a few blood red spots bloom. “I killed him. He thought he was better than me, the old fool. I stabbed him in his right eye, the very one that I lost. Vengeance, dear niece…” His thumb collected the first drop of blood that dripped from where he had made his mark, “... makes for the sweetest of spoils. And I intend to taste more of this victory…”

It happened on instinct, her reaching out to hold his wrist tight through his shirt. The irony of taking the hand of the man who wanted to hurt her and counting on him to not let her fall was not lost on her; but if she didn’t, she was sure she would faint.

“...With you.”

The last words confused her, having her mind scrabbling to piece the puzzle and figure out his intent. “Me?” She leaned her head back to breathe and put some space between her and his blade, but that only spurned him more as he pulled her to him by the back of her neck.

“Aegon, Helaena, Criston, Jaeherys, Maelor, mother…vengeance for them all. When he comes for you, to save you… I’ll kill him, and then I’ll kill the little boy that you call a King. Take what is rightfully mine and avenge them.”

The Aemond she had known was too calculated, too weary to tell anyone anything at all. But this, this wasn’t her Aemond. This was a different man - a mad killer, a stranger; one that intended to use her in his rage-filled path to regicide and revenge.

When he comes for you, to save you… I’ll kill him.

She could only think of one man who would come looking for her. Her betrothed, Cregan Stark - the same man who had shown her Northern hospitality and shared his home and hearth so she could be kept safe away from the bloodshed of the war.

And Aemond wanted to kill him. He wanted to kill them all and take the Iron Throne.

“Gods…”

She had always felt compelled to help during the war. She wasn’t a skilled warrior, nor was she a bold woman. Dainty little sweetheart, her mother used to call her. How can I manage to keep you safe and sound?

She had always wanted to help her mother - be a good daughter and play her part in helping her sit the Throne, as was her birthright. When she had been sent to the North as Cregan Stark’s betrothed, Rhaenyra Targaryen had told her that this was her duty, her contribution to the Blacks’ victory.

You will help me win by keeping my mind at ease about you, child, she had said. You will help me win by staying safe and bringing the Northerners’ allegiance to our cause.

That had been her contribution, but it hadn’t been enough. Daemon, Luke, Jace, Joffrey, Rhaenys… they’re all dead. She had done what she could, and it was not enough.

And now, Aemond wanted to kill sweet Aegon. Her beloved brother, the little one who held the weight of the world on his shoulders. He would make a fine king, she knew - but not if Aemond was going to lure Cregan out to fight and make him vulnerable to attacks.

She’d be damned to all Seven Hells if she let him win.

He had been observing her, it seemed. As she let her thoughts sweep her away, he had taken to watching her, reminding himself of every inch of her. She raised her hand to his warm dry cheek, bony from what could have only been a lack of proper food. How long has he been staying here, amidst the trees?

“You don’t have to do this, uncle. Let me go now, and it’ll be like it never happened. There’s been enough bloodshed.”

She thought she imagined it, but she knew it was true when she felt his grip on the blade falter for just a moment. She made good on his momentary lapse and kicked his knee to fold under him with all her might. He fell, and she took hurried steps away from him as he grunted in pain.

Her skirts swirled as she turned just slightly, sneaking a peek off the edge of the hill. If she jumped, she would fall into the waters that ran below - but would that be enough? She’d have to die. She had to. She would not let him use her; she would not let him kill them.

This was her contribution to the war. Her deceased mother’s victory lay in her daughter’s ability to keep the rightful king alive. This was her chance, and she was not going to fail her. He stood up with panting breaths, and she looked him in the eye as boldly as she could, knowing very well that she might as well be living her last and final moments.

She had always wanted to fly - and if she wasn’t going to do it now, then when would she?

She closed her eyes and threw herself over the edge, seeing the sky become a fading memory as she made the steep drop. Halfway through, she opened her eyes and saw him leaning over the edge, panicked, watching her free-falling figure from the hilltop as she flew, flew, flew.

She fell into the water, making contact with sharp tree branches and thorns on the way down in her descent. The blood on her face and body mixed with the water that surrounded her, and blood-red ripples muddled her vision as she closed her eyes.

Water filled her nostrils, and her vision went dark in a matter of mere moments.

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Next Chapter

A/N: Got so inspired by the S2 poster, I managed to finish this damn thing hehe. This was a lot more fast paced than my usual writing style, and I'd love to hear what you guys think! I've been really out of touch with fic writing, and feedback is always welcome :)

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historiaxvanserra · 2 months

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All That is Dark Within Me

Pairing: Azriel x Rhys!Sister Reader

Summary: In the wake of Nesta's sacrifice something ancient and long dead awakens, and you with it.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: allusions to sexual assault, and death, grief and longing. lots of dream sequences to keep things extra confusing.

The visions come in flashes of age-worn and the glimmer of Illyrian steel; thinly bladed and lethal, and through the blanket of the dark, the glare of cerulean light pierces the veil of obsidian shadow.

Death came to you as a girl; ravenous and heinous as it feasts upon you. Until all that is left is an assortment of crow-picked bones, interred in some unforgiving blue-darkness, further than Hel. And from that blue-darkness you find breath:

The fetor of decay is thick on your tongue; putrid and so palpable that you can taste it. It lingers there. Festering fruit-flesh in the damp heat and hemlock flowers arch out to kiss the skin that crawls from you. There, in the dark; all maggots and rot in the grave dirt, rebirth calls to you. A hand reaching through the veil of the black.

And you reach back.

The soul; the uneasy ally of the body, nameless as a river, creeps in like the sunlight as it comes back to you with the swiftness of the dawn; golden and ephemeral. It coils itself around you like the ribbons of shadowed sunbeams that come with the first light.

You emerge from your earthly tomb. Arms open. Waiting to become the shadowed ribbons of the firstlight. You are born anew; reaching and aching. Savage and sentimental. Searching for some semblance of touch as you break the surface of the wintry earth. The winter sun dawns over the valley and the earth grieves the loss of you. Sunlight spills onto your body all at once. You are painted in the colors of some celestial body; ichor and carnelian as the heaven-yellow light kisses its way up your spine.

You feel a tremor in the velvet of the earth. You falter with it and a cataclysmic vein of power ripples through the stagnant air; resurrected with you, amongst the dying moonflowers and jasmine, some fallow power.

It wakes from its dormant slumber and rages.

It calls to you.

In fleeting images of age worn bone and a shroud of shadow.

Speaks to you in a language long dead. So old that only the earth itself might infer some meaning from those words whispered on a westward wind. Words so sacred, told in the green tongues of the wilds. It grows in you and festers there. Taking root in your body. A slow, manifesting ache that spreads through you like disease.

Like rot.

The hum of the emerald wilderness lulls you into a misty sense of consciousness as breath comes to you like a bitter memory. That first breath of life burns like cold death as it crawls its brutal way down your throat. The next few tear through you in sporadic succession until you’re choking on the glacial breeze.

The morning air tastes like firewood and fruit flesh as your heart plateaus to a strong, steady rhythm that coaxes movement from you. Unfurling from your fetal position in the dirt you see the world as it once had been; the press of the winter sun into your skin, the draw of the wind as it flutters through the canopy the emerald forest, the darkening horizon and the shadows from the mountain that veil the valley in a misty shroud as the firstlight reigns golden over all.

You crawl from your grave, through the dying jasmine flowers, your fingertips arching and desperate to touch them. To feel the soft velvet of the petals as they give way beneath your trembling fingers. Their descent into decay; a testament to your own rebirth.

It takes a few moments of half-formed joints and muscle coming together to forge you anew but when you stand to your full height you realize that the fleeting remnants of rot and ruin have gone from you.

And in its place; resurrection.

Your girlhood and the innocence of your youth died long ago and what comes back is born wrong. With the knowledge of the ancient darkness from which we are born; and to which we will one day return.

In the distance, through the brush of the fir trees and Illyrian wilderness, a small fire burns golden against the first slivers of morning light, and the dying embers cling desperately to life. Smoky tendrils arch over the tops of the trees guiding you home. You press into the shade of the forest, the thick canopy is dappled in jewel tones; amber, gold, ruby and pale emerald that grant you shelter from the elements as the world turns silent and still.

Feigning peace.

The trees loom ominous overhead, foreboding and resolute, the sounds of the forest having died moments ago. Anxiety weighs heavy on you then, staring out into the dark edges of the forest, you are utterly alone.

You retreat into the darker recess of your mind in the knowledge that, whatever lies beyond, you must face it on your own.

Instinctually, like some archaic muscle memory you bid your wings to come and shield you from the world and the cruel wind. But as old muscles struggle with new life you find that your rebirth is marred with an air of barabarism that bids bile to rise in your throat. You’re brought to your knees in the dirt and a bone-deep sorrow nestles itself deep in the caverns of your chest; finding a home coiled around atrophied muscle and a aching heart.

You’re bereft, and screaming to the deaf stars when you feel the absence of the weight of membranous wings upon your back. The muscles in your back and shoulder blades sear in white-hot agony and trembling fingers trace the brutal scars etched into the skin there. You recoil in disgust and your body feels foreign under your careful hands. Unlike your own-- brutalized and butchered at the hands of the men; consuming and devouring, as they hacked and ravaged the expanse of your body like they had a right to it.

The world blurs at its edges and you remain there until the brush of the forest is cutting and brutal against the soft skin of your calves and thighs. Until you draw blood that falls like rubies at your feet; a testament to your resurrection.

The first of your tears begin to fall with the rain and you feel like the earth, that had held you for so long, is crying with you. Saltwater that purifies you, and your tears fall like moonlight on the Sidra; sparkling and sacred in the dying light of a new day.

As night begins to gather on the darkening horizon you feel exposed out here in the green expanse of the wilds. The temperatures begin to fall as rapidly with the encroaching night and the dying embers of the fire in the distance becomes a blaze in the dark-- a reckoning or a beacon.

You wrap yourself in the scraps of fabric that had shrouded your body in death and you know that you must face the forest and whatever lies within it. For the bitter wind holds you in its icy embrace and so, you press further into the Illyrian wilderness. The journey to the edge of the forest is long and the sounds of men in the distance is your guide to civilization. The forest becomes a dark symphony; the wind as it caresses the leaves of ancient oak trees and the rustling of the forest floor underfoot, it’s a cacophony of sensation that threatens to envelop you, beneath the leaves and fir trees, to lose yourself in its vastness until darkness descends upon you once more.

By the time you reach the edge of the forest you are close enough that, from your vantage point on the embankment, you can see the orange flames from the campfires as they climb high above the younger trees, the cinders rain down violently on the warriors camped below. These mountains always did have an austere beauty that called to you. Even then. Even as a girl, green and foolhardy with dreams of a life spent following your brothers and Azriel across continents. As a courtier in some distant land where the women were warrior-strong and softly beautiful. Somewhere Ramiel’s long, ghostly shadows could not reach you.

You never did outrun the shadows of the mountain that flanks the valley, you think as a shroud of darkness from the looming monolith blankets the world in a false twilight.

Burrowing down further into the valley of the embankment you find shelter nestled between a felled tree and the jagged moss-covered stone. You find comfort in the heady musky of fir and pine, and soaked to the skin by the morning mildew and blossoming bluebells. There in the valley, the hours pass strangely, against the backdrop of the desolate night, with only the songs of the forest and the sound of the warriors below in the distance to guide you into dreamless sleep.

The hum of the camp behind you lulls you into a sense of misty wakefulness, and every now and then you feel a tremor in the ground, a recollection of the darkness you had left behind. In these fleeting moments you wait beneath some strom-streaked cloud. A heavy velvet darkness descends upon the sky, extinguishing everything in its wake as you acquiesce to dreaming:

Death comes back to me veiled in shadow and flashes of age worn bone as it stakes its claim to me again.

The shadow of the mountain looms like some ill-fated omen over the valley and a red star bleeds into the twilight, casting Ramiel in a bloody halo. The mountain seems to tremble in your wake and the whispers of the Old Gods call your name like a prayer.

A great onyx monolith glitters in the amethyst moonglow and a vein of power hums on the westward wind. You reach out a hand to touch it and the world falls away from you again.Then there is a temple; carved into the stone of the mountain, a great antechamber, shaded in the musk of hemlock and incense as you pass between the sandstone pillars. The pillars themselves are shrouded in climbing ivy and blooming moonflowers that conceal the frescos on the walls.

You can vaguely make out the apparition of a man, cloaked in death. He wears it as some ancient King might. Proud, beautiful and lethal. His great dark wings spread across the landscape and the fae of old in the crowds kneel to him in reverence.

The onyx stalactites become entangled in the light that bleeds from the surface and you come to a stop at the foot of the altar when that myriad of dancing light falls onto you.

You are golden light, refracted and broken divinity-- the memory of some undying Goddess in the pale light.

Unearthly and ephemeral.

The emerald dias is littered with the remnants of the offerings left to a dying God; wilted jasmine and orchids, silver coins, minted with the faces of an ancient king, amphora’s of faerie wine. You sink to your knees at the foot of the altar and you swear you feel the whispers of the dead once more.

You run a fine-boned hand over the collection of offering laid in revereven, made in earnest.

That is when you notice the gleam of thinly drawn steel amongst the dying jasmine. Veiled in the shadows of the mountain; a bloody scythe. The hilt and pommel feel like cool marble in your hand as you raise it to the light that bleeds from the surface. The blade itself is coated crimson and rust and the ferrous smell of blood hangs heavy in the air.

Only false idols are worshiped in flowers and wine alone, you think.

True divinity requires sacrifice.

Out of the devastating darkness steps a figure; shaded in wretched shadows and a devouring black mass as he approaches the dias. As he steps to the altar all the sconces are afire with bluelight; sapphire and cerulean as his robe falls to reveal him in all his divine glory.

The saints whisper my name and his figure, wreathed in shadow and light materializes before you.

Tangible flesh and winged death.

Plumes of incense smoke, like salted-seafoam rise in the mountain air and the flickering blue flame douses me in its seraphic light. Like Venus born from the Kytherian sea. Or perhaps Persephone born again from the dark smoke of Hades.

Plumes of incense smoke, like salted-seafoam rise in the mountain air and the flickering blue flame douses you in its seraphic light. A priestess robed in pomegranate red, with milky, alabaster eyes rises steps from the smoke. The priestess looks like the apparition of a dark celestial body as she intones a mass and the thread that runs between your body and his grows taut, aching and agonizing as it burns through you like the first light.

“The thread of fate is severed and another is forged;

from my power I bestow power upon you,

and from my life-- life.”

The priestess chants and he touches you softly.

Your chest is tight and your muscles cannot be compelled to move. Your body is not your own and all autonomy is stripped from you as that thread that runs from your body to his glows pulsating, liquid gold.

“Stop,” Your voice is hoarse and strained, it echoes around the antechamber until his growl smothers all sound “please stop.” His touch grows cold against your skin and his grip on your arm is a bruising force. Bone crushing and cruel as he brings you harshly to your knees before him.

“Is it done?” His voice is harsh and laden with dark malice as he turns his piercing and deadly gaze upon the Priestess.

She eyes him and nods adamantly, “It is done, Lord.”

She leaves a trail of smoke and ash in her wake as she turns to dust and bone before your eyes. Terror fills you and your heart flutters wildly in your chest as he turns his cold gaze upon you once more.

Death takes your jaw roughly in his grasp, tilting your chin to look him in the eyes. Deep and reckoning, a twilight abyss so black that time and space itself falls away when you’re caught in the depths of his dark gaze. He runs a callous thumb over the sulk of your lip and the wet-heat of your tears fall at his feet.

“Oh, my love,” He coos menacingly, his voice a vacant echo as it ricochets around the chasm of the temple “resurrected from the grave dirt.”

It is a claiming; a devouring as he brings his cold lips to yours.

“To be brutal and mine.”

His words, like a sacred vow, are branded into your skin. There, between the valley of your breasts over your violent heart, in inky lines that same scythe-- age worn bone and blood.

An offering to an Old God. A holy sacrifice, you think as he runs a pointed finger over the hollow of your throat. His skin feels icy cold as he wraps those same fingers around you, pressing against the pulse point with practiced ease. This is it, you think. Death comes to you as an old friend. A darkness so deep that there is nothing before it and nothing beyond it.

But- a thread of light; blinding and golden against the black.

Suddenly Death’s face falters and a smirk spreads across his beautiful pale face when he feels the violent flutter of your heart in the cavern of your heaving chest. Death raises his scythe; a gleam of shadow and age-worn bone as he prepares to give you up in offering-- like a lamb led to the slaughter.

You will not return to the dark.

You are no sacrificial lamb; you are the shadow of a Goddess long forgotten and you will not bend to lesser men.

Nor submit to the will of some ill-fated deity.

You writhe in his hold; poised and ready all the while under the surface some raw divine power, like the light of a bleeding sun, pours out of you. It burns golden and sun-blushed as it spreads through you.

Wilful and ignorant in the face of his wrath you reach for that golden thread.

In a cataclysmic union of the dark and light, death is thrown down against the emerald dias. Brought to his knees before you. The amphora’s and trinkets laid in offering are strewn across the room in the fray and the merlot stains the marble wine red.

“Do not presume to touch me again” Your voice frantic and fragile echoes around the empty chamber and the ghost of his touch on your body makes your skin crawl.

The laugh that you tear from him is like death itself, cold and malignant as he turns his darkness upon you now. His shadows snake their way along the expanse of your limbs as you stumble backwards down the aisle. They curl into you, seeking out the light that bleeds from your skin in bursts of starlight and moonglow.

‘Death-touched girl’, they whisper to you. ‘Lovely bride, you belong to me’.

The temple trembles with a new wave of devastating force.

The mountain quakes and the world falls down around you; The climbing ivy is torn from the ancient and decaying fresco’s and the sandstone pillars give way, sinking and succumbing to Death’s cold wrath, like the trees that bend to the wind. Onyx stalactites fall like tangible night and pierce the earth, creating a cavern so great and so deep that you think it might be the opening to Hel itself.

A helmouth.

Looking down into that cavern. A deep blue-darkness that swallows everything in its wake. The jaws of Death open, awning and screaming as the temple is brought to its knees before you. Beyond the desecrated temple the Illyrian wilderness waits for you. Ramiel casts its long shadows over the valley and from the canopy of the emerald forest you hear a man screaming into the dark.

With only the light of a blood moon to guide you, you retreat into the twilight.

Your legs start moving before your mind has time to process it. So you run. You run. Until your heart is thunderous in your chest and each breath that is torn from you hurts. Still, you run.

Death’s voice whispers on the wind as it howls at a waning moon.

“You know me well, girl.” He says to you, his figure in the treeline like some voyeuristic ghost, “As I know you.”

Your calves burn but you push on, through the thicket and into a clearing. The moon wanes terrible and red at its peak in the night sky and you scream to the deaf stars. Crying for a God who had known your name once.

Only the Gods do not answer.

“Azriel.” You cry his name until your voice is hoarse. But he too does not answer the call.

Death-kissed shadows brush through the trees, appearing again at the edge of the clearing. There he stands, the perfect embodiment of a cruel God. Mercurial and furious as his dark wings spread across the expanse of his back.

Death is a beautiful creature.

His voice again cuts through the dark as you sink to your knees in the clearing, “I was there, waiting in the dark when you spilled your first blood.”

He stalks towards you and you scramble to your feet in some desperate attempt to evade him. He is shadow personified and dark eyes turn hazel and amber in the silver light of the moon.

“I am here with you now,” Death curls a shadow in his hand and smiles at you.

“as you run from me still.” He takes a step forward, cradling your jaw in his strong hand again. His thumb trails the line of your cheek.

The sound of a restless lake rings like birdsong in the air and you see the orange flames as they streak across the sky; a firebird as she soars over the shadow of the moon.

“You know my name.” He adds, half-amused as he brings his lips to meet yours in a cold, chaste kiss.

“Say it.” He commands.

You do not answer.

“Say.It.” Death spits venom through gritted teeth and you laugh as light floods the twilight forest.

“Azriel.” His name falls from your lips like some holy vow as light becomes you.

#acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic

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frantic-fiction · 4 months

Text

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

483 notes · View notes

fanaticsnail · 5 months

Text

Run Away With Me

Woah, boy! Longest one-shot to date right here. Loved writing it, I hope you enjoy reading it.

Word Count: 9,388

Warnings: injury, angst, fluff, romance, dark thoughts, crying, barely proof-read, mentions of prior relationship and entanglement with another person (no smut). First time writing for Luffy.

Song suggestions are here (primary song I was repeating on a loop), and here (because I wanted to feel more pain). Masterlist here.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you gathered your skirts, sprinting with iron-willed determination towards the docks. Propelled by sheer rage, grief and adrenaline; you continued to sob through your staggered breaths. You heeded no mind to the jagged edges of rocks and stone digging harshly into your bare heals and toes, surely leaving them cut and bleeding in your swift stride.

In the distance, the figurehead of the ship continued to disappear along the horizon; eclipsed by the dawning rays of the sun cascading along the surface of the blue water. Your feet picked up the pace, refusing to relinquish your determination to meet your feet against the polished deck of the ship; holding onto your fruitless dream as the ship continued to flee from your sights.

“Never fall in love with a marine,” you heard echo throughout your mind, “a sailor, nor a pirate. Sea-travelled men will always leave, and you will be alone to bare your shame.”

Another sob fell from your lips as you continued to hold your sights onto the pale white flag of the ship, the logo of the marines waving tauntingly towards you at its retreat. Your eyes had dried up from relinquishment of your stock of tears. There was nothing left but fury.

He had left you.

After spending a night together in the strong arms of your marine: beautiful gestures and spindled words of promises of “forever,” he had left you isolated and humiliated; which he assured you he would never do.

Your feet burned against the harsh coarse sand, propelling you further towards the path of the peer. Many ships, fishermen and sailors beginning to set sail themselves; heeding you no mind as you rubbed your eyes with the back of your forearm, taking a moment to catch your breath.

Heart aching, lips quivering and lungs heavily burdened by sharp inhales and exhales; a growl of frustration and rage fled from your lips as you once again picked up your pace against the wooden, ocean-cracked planks beneath your feet. The ocean air was heavily impacted by the scent of the morning breeze, the ocean tide pulling outwards and into the sea, revealing the hardened sand beneath its retreat.

Hardening your resolve, you brushed your body past a man with a straw hat upon his head, shoving him as you propelled your body further down the dock to bring yourself closer towards the vessel that began its strategic withdrawal from your gaze.

Your bare feet stung as they pressed against the waterworn wood of the docks with sand clinging to the open wounds. Your body ached with overexertion but continued to pitifully drive yourself further towards the end of the peer. You had given everything to him. Your mind, your body, your soul; your heart. You were his and he was yours: only for a single night of passion for him to leave you abandoned and ashamed in your scorn.

Propelling with great strides and paying no mind to the end of the wooden dock concluding its path beneath your feet, a final sob escaped from your lips as you halted your sprint; holding your arms in front of you to steady yourself as your toes clung to the end of the peer.

Dropping carelessly to your knees, you continued to hold your unblinking stare on the ship your marine had sailed upon. The blood from your feet began to dry and cling to your skin as the ship became smaller and smaller in the distance, the tears drying within their ducts and shrouding with a welded seal atop them.

“I will never trust a sailing man again,” you uttered to yourself as your legs began to tingle from their extended hold beneath your weight, “never again.”

You placed your right hand against the wooden floor beneath you, shifting your weight atop your palm while wincing in pain at the damage done to your feet; attempting to raise to stand.

“Woah,” a voice exclaimed from beside you, “what happened to you?”

You looked up, the morning sun shining through the small holes in the yellow straw-hat atop a man with dark hair and mischievous, dark eyes. You were immediately taken by the innocence and sincerity in his voice as he raked his eyes over your legs and feet, assessing the damage your lengthy sprint caused to your broken skin.

“The love of a man,” you confessed darkly, a sinister chuckle falling from your lips as you trailed your gaze towards your stinging and blistering feet.

“Must’ve been some man,” he nodded with a downturned smile and bobbing his head to the side with a shrug. He stooped down to your level, offering his hand out as an added support and an introduction; “I’m Monkey D. Luffy.”

“A pleasure, truly,” you said, a sarcastic nod of your head and roll of your eyes accompanying your words. You looked from his large caramel-coloured orbs to his extended hand and apprehensively reached forward to receive his aid to stand to your feet. You winced under the pain of the fresh welts forming; realising truly only now how dishevelled you looked in the moment.

You were wearing only your white lace, sleeping camisole with a layered white skirt you hoisted to cover yourself in your sprint. Your skin lay peppered with lustful, red marks from last night’s romantic tussle within your bedsheets with the marine; your hair blown out and wild and desperate from the sprint towards the peer; your eyes stained with the memory of dried tears.

“Can you stand?” he asked with furrowed brows as he began to aid your ascension, watching you wince.

“Honestly,” you voice strained under the pain, “not really, but what choice do I have?”

He hummed in thought, examining your body momentarily before immediately squatting to bring himself lower to your body; hooking one arm beneath your knees and the other supporting your back, easily hoisting you upwards and cradle you into himself. A startled shriek fell from your lips as the warmth of his body and comfort of his actions welcomed you into himself.

“How’s this?” he asked with a warm, wolfy-grin. Your eyes widened at his movement, gazing into his innocent face in surprise at his well-natured intent.

“This is fine,” you squeaked out through your lips, clenching your teeth tightly shut in surprise.

“Oh, good,” he nodded in reply, turning away from the view of the ocean and beginning to walk with you in his arms towards the town once more. “Hold up,” he stated, feeling the grip of you within his arms and shifting you with a small hop, “can I adjust you a little bit?”

You furrowed your brows and reluctantly nodded your head. As soon as you bobbed your head in affirmation, a wider grin dawned on his face as he threw you into the air; a shriek falling from your lips as he hooked his arms beneath your knees, your body falling to land against his back as he caught you. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around the front of his neck and clung to the shoulders of his brass-buttoned shirt, hooking your knees over his waist and falling your ankles to his back.

“That’s better,” he commented with a laugh, beginning a brisk pace towards the heart of town. He effortlessly walked with you clutched tightly against the back of his red waistcoat, as he walked over the peer towards the dunes of the beachfront.

“Hey back there,” he called over his shoulder to you, prompting you to look at his cheek and the corner of his eye. “You reckon you could show me where the library is?” he asked you, maintaining his pace into town, “my navigator needs a book and I’m not sure where to start.”

You gleefully laughed at his question, adjusting your arms around his neck to ease his carry of you and gesturing towards the tall, washed sand-stone building to the left of the town.

“You’re in luck,” you smirked into him, placing your chin on his shoulder and your cheek flush against his own beneath the broad brim of the yellow straw hat, “I’m the resident librarian here.”

“You don’t say,” he chuckled warmly, looking at you through his long, dark eyelashes out of the corner of his eye; before turning to follow your extended gesture towards the building.

You hummed against his cheek, enjoying the company and aid he was providing to you on your way back towards your building. You ignored the throb of your feet under the pain and the burn of your body. Your rage had dwindled to a slow smoulder the longer you spent clutching the back of the man beneath your thighs as he carried you towards home, swinging your ankles with each step he took towards the building.

As you approached the large wooden door, Luffy stooped his back down to allow you to reach forward and use your thumb to pull the large leaver of the brass-hooked nob down and shove the door open. You couldn’t help the laugh falling from your lips as he continued to chaperone you on his back through the doors to your library.

“You can just set me down now,” you smiled at him, gesturing to a small desk and chair at the foyer of the large room, “and if you could please make sure the sign is flipped over to read ‘closed’, I would really appreciate it.”

Luffy walked you over to the foyer, opting to sit you down atop the tall desk rather than the chair; unhooking his arms from behind your legs and stalking back towards the door and looking at the sign. You sighed in relief of his relinquishment of his hold of your body; instinctively reaching towards your feet to assess the damage of the heels of your feet and the spirited wounds clutching to your ankles with your fingers.

“Yeah, that looks pretty bad,” the man who carried you to your home spoke suddenly. You realised his close proximity to you as you tore your gaze away from your wounded feet towards his awaiting eyes. You sighed, tucking your hair behind your ear as you readjusted yourself under your skirts, brushing the dried sands away from your feet.

“Nothing compared to the number he did on my heart,” you chuckled darkly, hooking your right knee over your left and lacing your fingertips together expectantly; “you said something about a book your navigator needed. Does that mean you’re a sailor?”

“Something like that,” he confirmed with a nod and a mischievous glint in his eyes, “I’m a pirate.”

“A pirate?” you asked through baited breath, halting at the title he bestowed onto himself. Although the town you were currently residing in was welcoming to all travelling individuals of colour and creed; piracy was still a taboo occupation amongst the townsfolk.

“And one day,” he confirmed, leaning in towards your body, “I will find the One-Piece and be King of the Pirates.”

Your eyes widened at his proclamation before holding an air of surprise over them, absolutely believing it be possible with his hardened resolve and playful attitude.

“And what book did you require?” you asked him, tilting your face up towards him and quirking your left brow upwards in question.

“You know what?” he began, halting his words as he gawked at the sheer number of books located in your library, “I’m not sure. I think it was something to do with translation? Looking for stones? A way to bring us closer to the All-Blue? I dunno-,” he scratched his chin thoughtfully, “-all I know is, it was important.”

Your face dropped, eyes narrowing as you shook your head and tilted your chin downwards.

“Well, while you figure that out,” you sighed, a small smile falling to your face, “do you think you could pour me some water into that bowl over there,” you gestured to the sink, “and bring it over to me with a cloth?”

He followed your gaze, locating a blue and white terracotta ceramic dish in the corner or the room by your sink. He walked over to the dish and began to fill the container to the brim, waddling over towards you with liquid splashing over the edges with each step he took towards you. You creased your brows at him in response, but your smile remained plastered on your face.

“Okay,” Luffy said, placing the dish down beside you atop the bench, “now what?”

“Now, I’m going to wash my feet and assess the damage,” you nodded down to the blistering welts, purple hued bruises and slices of flesh peeled back under your harsh, barefoot sprint, “and you’re going to focus your thoughts on what book you were looking for.”

Looking down towards your bare feet, Luffy winced a little in empathy. His eyes then widened in thought, floating his gaze back up to glance into your face once again.

“Tell you what,” he declared with a joyful expression adorning his cheeks, “if you talk with me about books to help me remember,” he stepped closer towards you, “I’ll fix your feet up for you. Does that sound okay?”

You were taken aback, yet again, at the thoughtfulness of this complete stranger; as he immediately moved to gather your chair and place it in front of you and sat atop it.

“Lay it on me!” he declared with a loud, smiling voice; patting his thigh and gesturing to your right foot. You quirked your brow upwards and hesitantly hooked your right leg over your left knee in front of the hat-adorned pirate in front of you. He firmly gasped your ankle and pulled your foot towards his face. You winced in pain and shrieked again at the action, prompting him to look back up at you again.

“Sorry,” he grit his teeth and softened his eyes up at you. Reaching his hands towards the cloth, he dampened it in the water and began carefully wiping at your skin to remove the dried sand and blood from your foot, ankle and calf.

“Take my mind off it,” you stated through your own clenched jaw, “tell me about the conversation with the navigator, or where you’re journeying to. Might give me a hint on helping you find the book you need.”

He smiled at you, continuing to swipe at your tender flesh of your right foot; checking it over for any serious injury and removing the stains of pain from you.

“I can tell you about my crew if you like?” he smiled down at your foot, focussing his attention on a particularly deep puncture wound on the ball of your foot, “I have Nami, my navigator. She’s really smart,” he removed a piece of stone from your foot, you wincing at it with a small yelp. He again looked up at you, eyes full of sympathy as he rubbed his thumb over the wound to sooth it with his pressure.

“Nami sounds wonderful,” you smiled down at him, quirking your head and softening your eyes.

“Oh, she is,” he confirmed with a broad grin, “and then there’s Zoro. He’s the First Mate, an ex-bounty hunter. Best swordsman I’ve ever known.”

You nodded along, actively listening to the words falling from the man in front of you and imagining what life must look like for him.

“And there’s Usopp,” Luffy tapped your right foot gently to indicate for you to switch your legs over for him to pay equal attention to your left, “he’s our sharp-shooter.”

You unhooked your right leg from atop your left knee and switched over to your left hooking atop your right; smoothing your skirt over your thighs to keep yourself gracefully shrouded from unintentional exposure. He whispered his fingertips over your shin with his right hand while reaching behind your calf with his left to hold it firmly in place.

Breath hitching in your throat, a warm blush rose to your cheeks at his touch. He set to smoothing over your foot, dampening the cloth once more and rinsing your wounded heels and toes with the rag.

“Then there’s Sanji, the chef. He’s amazing at cooking,” Luffy continued, “I especially like the way he prepares pork,” he hummed, eyes glazing over in thought; “I love meat. Meat is my favourite.”

You giggled at his utterance, biting your lip to halt the rise of emotion up into your chest.

“And where do you fit into the crew?” you asked him breathily, “you made no mention of your captain either.”

“That’s because I am the captain,” he tilted his head to look back into your eyes, “and like I said, I will be king of the pirates one day. Gotta start somewhere.”

You gasped at the thought; a pirate captain humbling himself before you and taking care of your wounds after your heart was shattered by a lowly marine cadet. Maybe you had been too hasty in your decision of swearing off travelling men. You shook your head at the thought, softening your gaze down at him as he focussed on cleaning the dried blood from your feet.

“And where are you travelling to, captain?” you asked him softly, watching how carefully he picked at the rocks imbedded in your flesh to rid them from you.

“The Grand Line,” he stated nonchalantly with a shrug. You sighed out sharply with a laugh at him, prompting him to playfully grin up at you.

“You’re really doing it, then?” you asked him, leaning your hands against the desk you were sat atop and shifting your weight onto them, “travelling dangerous waters in search of Gol D. Roger’s One-Piece?”

“Yep,” he confirmed. He hesitated at releasing your foot from his grip, looking down at your feet and tilting his head to the side in deep thought.

“You’d need some knowledge about volcanic activity below sea level and how to navigate the cross,” you nodded before tilting your head back to look at the roof of the library, “probably changes in weather impacting the sails and steering of the ship as you travel. You might also need direction on edible weeds and plants on your journey. Again, lucky for you; I adore reading up on the subject and well versed in-,”

“-Come with me,” Luffy uttered suddenly, holding firm his gaze at your feet, “be my historian. You have everything I’m missing and I want you on my crew.”

You furrowed your brows, snapping your gaze back from its hold on the roof and back towards the stranger in front of you. You gawked at him as he continued: “well, I don’t have a musician or a doctor yet, but I also need a historian,” he shrugged, adding a simple: “be mine.”

You quivered, your eyes flittering between his caramel orbs in awe as he floated his eyes up to join with yours.

“I-I,” you stuttered, unhooking your knees and leaning towards him, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll run away with me,” he leaned forward with a playful grin, “be my historian, join my crew.”

You shut your eyes tightly in thought, imagining what your life might look like sailing the seas as a pirate; fleeing from the embarrassment from last nights’ overexertion and lustful activities and hiding from baring the brunt of your shame. You breathed out a long exhale, reopening your eyes and jumping slightly in surprise to see the captain standing incredibly close in proximity to you now; his body situated to stand between your knees with a broad smile.

“What do you say?” he asked you, grinning wider in question and leaning in closer.

You searched the sincere eyes of the brunette captain in front of you, finding only sincerity in its wake. He truly meant every word falling charismatically from his lips, persuading you with his genuineness and positivity.

“Who will take care of the books here?” were the only thoughts falling, truly reaching for any reason to remain behind.

“Bring them with you,” he shrugged, “we’ve got room. C’mon, I need you. You’ll love the crew, and they’ll love you.”

He brought his body away from its close proximity to you and began to turn away from you to make his way towards the door.

“We’ll be docked for another day to restock the kitchen,” he opened the door, turning his back once more to you, “we’re leaving the following morning. If you’re coming, let me know tonight at the tavern and I’ll help you bring your stuff.”

He waved, before turning back around and shut the door quietly behind him with a small ‘click’.

Astonishment overcame you in all aspects. You fell your eyes to your cleaned and tidied feet, no longer aching nor stinging from the impact of your hasty sprint towards your marine ex-lover. Your body became overwhelmed with emotions. You had no more tears to flee from your ducts at the thoughts of the military man; the only remnants of your time together were the marks littering your collarbone, neck and chest from his passionate ministrations. He used words to get what he wanted from your body physically, fleeing once you had given yourself willingly to him before you woke.

Now here comes this pirate, no expectations falling onto you a part from a place on his ship and a welcome into his familial crew. He was giving you the ending you so desperately desired from your marine lover; to be whisked away from your town and romantically swept into the horizon aboard a mighty vessel.

The only aspect halting you from readying yourself and your supplies and running into servitude aboard a pirate ship were two things: your feet, legs and body ached under the earlier sprint: damage truly impacting your ability to walk.

The other inhibition is the purpose for your travel. You would move the heavens and the earth to feel true, open and honest love for an individual; the true purpose you clung so tightly to the marine. You desired love: to love and be loved in return. Romanticism clung to you like the scent of baked goods wafting from a baker’s door; filling the fibres of your being with the desire of deep, relentless devotion and adoration.

Luffy offered you no such relentless devotion; friendship and kinship being the only things he truly offered to you. There was no romantic notions of love and affection; just truly alliance through acquaintanceship and comradery. Sucking in a sharp inhale, you jumped down from your place atop the desk and planted your feet against the ground firmly. Expecting more pain in anticipation than you truly felt, you shrugged at the dull pain and began to slowly limp up the spiral staircase towards your sleeping area above the large library.

You looked down at your collection from the balcony; your shop being relatively small in comparison to the great libraries of old; but beautiful none the less. You were unsure whether you would’ve truly left it all behind for the marine, only wanting to reach the peer to demonstrate your absolute fury towards him in front of his commander and servicemen. Were you prepared to leave it for a man who promised you nothing than friendship?

Shaking your head, you looked down at your feet which began to heal over with rapidity. The memory of the way he tenderly held your skin and tentatively brushed his hands over your flesh to care for it overcame you, your heart swelling at the feeling.

With no family to impart their thoughts and wisdom onto you, you rolled your shoulders back and glanced down towards the variety of shelves of your beloved books before a ghost of sorrow fell over your face. You will miss their pages, but the notion of belonging to the seas as they carried you from place to place enchanted you. You will join them, and hopefully romance will find you on your journeys.

Wolfing down plate after plate of smoked brisket, honeyed hams and braised lamb shoulder; Luffy’s brows furrowed in thought of his encounter with the librarian. Zoro’s frown deepened at his Captain’s expression, noting his usual cheeriness was missing from his aura.

“What happened?” Zoro grumbled through his lips, reclining against the wooden chair and raising a brown-stained glass bottle to his lips and taking a swig.

“I mwet uh raidy,” Luffy attempted to relay through a full mouth.

“Try again,” Zoro ordered, eyes rolling at the display the captain was offering him, “swallow your food first.”

Luffy nodded, shutting his eyes with a flutter of eyelashes and wincing at swallowing the large quantity of meat in his mouth, before uttering; “I met a lady.”

“A lady?” Zoro asked, narrowing his eyes at him in question, “what kind of lady?”

“A really smart one,” Luffy nodded, reaching for a large roasted turkey leg with a citrus glaze oozing from the crisped skin, “I want her.”

Usopp choked on his food, spluttering a little at the uninhibited thoughts falling from the lips of his captain without filter.

“In what capacity?” Zoro asked with a quirk of his brow, not acknowledging Usopp’s choked action nor the captain’s unfiltered expression.

“As my historian,” he said, biting into the meat and rolling his eyes back at the flavour, “uhnd ash mai feund.”

“Swallow your food,” Zoro ordered, pausing between each word as he spoke them slowly, “then speak.”

Luffy nodded, waving his hand dismissively in front of his face as he chewed and choked down his food enthusiastically, “as my historian, and as my friend.”

Zoro nodded, taking the glass neck of the bottle and tipping the amber fizzed ale back between his lips and draining the remainder of the contents from within.

“She’s so pretty,” Luffy whispered beneath his breath to himself, “even when she’s sad, she’s pretty.”

“Why was she sad?” the orange-haired navigator said as she took a seat beside Luffy, her plate containing a small portion of crème brulee with fresh berries and whipped cream atop it, “and did you manage to get the book on volcanic plate shifting?”

Luffy turned to her with a small smile, “some marine left her here, I think.”

“Marines are assholes,” Nami confirmed with a nod, sinking a small teaspoon into the bowl, breaking the solidified sugar layer and scooping a portion of the custard-cream beneath it, “and the book?”

“I don’t want the book,” Luffy nodded, turning back to the tray of meat in front of him, “I just want her.”

“And if she doesn’t want to come?” Usopp chimed in, looking at Nami’s dessert longingly, “not everyone dreams of sailing the seas, you know.”

“I don’t know,” Luffy shrugged, reaching for more of the shredded, smoked brisket and spooning a large portion onto his plate with a large ‘slap’, “something tells me she might.”

You had changed into some light travel clothes; choosing to bandage and strap your feet and ankles beneath laced and comfortable shoes to aid in the healing of your cracked and damaged feet. You showered, changed and arranged a cohesive arrangement of clothes over your body to meet with your new captain together with his crew for the first time. Holding every intention of travelling with the assortment of pirates, you decided to meet with them at the tavern to inform them of your intentions of travelling with them as their historian.

Walking down the stone path slowly, wincing a little at a subtle wrong step which aggravated your injured feet; you made it to the tavern and smiled as soon as your gaze fell to the straw-hatted captain sitting at a table with four others; who you assumed were members of his crew. You examined each of them, first starting with Nami; the only woman Luffy made mention of in the prior conversation.

The best part about being a book-smart individual was the ability to remember knowledge at a rapid and ever expanding capacity. Your eyes fell to a sword at the hip of a green-haired, tall man; your mind informing you ‘Zoro’. You travelled your gaze over to the bandana-clad man in front of Luffy, noticing placed beside him on the table was a sling-shot; “Usopp” rolling over in your mind. All that was left was-.

“Hello, beautiful,” a voice called at your side, prompting you to shift your focus to a tall, blonde man with a tailored black suit jacket fastened with brass buckles, a dark tie upon his neck.

“Sir,” you nodded your head at him, a polite smile rising to your face. You travelled your gaze over him, his air of confidence and flirtation rolling off of him in waves. Noticing his proximity to the travelling assortment you were planning on meeting, you determined this was the chef Luffy mentioned earlier.

“I’m S-,” he began, halting only as you spoke over him.

“-Sanji,” you smiled warmly now, reaching out your right hand to meet with his in a friendly welcome, “Luffy told me about you earlier.”

Sanji shook his head, taken slightly aback at your acknowledgement before promptly reaching down and grasping your fingertips within his right hand and rising it to his lips; placing a small kiss atop your knuckles.

“A pleasure,” he said, falling his grip from your hands while mirroring your smile, “unfortunately, I’m yet to join my crew for the evening meal, so I have no context surrounding you. Who might you be, love?”

“Your new historian,” you giggled, falling in a heavily sarcastic curtsey; prompting him to laugh in response, “and the pleasure is mine.”

At the large laughter, Luffy turned around from his seat at the table; his gaze falling to Sanji before floating his dark eyes over to meet with you.

“There she is,” he stated in a low tone, eyes widening before a cheery and triumphant laugh fell from his lips, “I knew she’d join my crew!”

“Where?” Usopp said, turning around and noticing Sanji interacting with you; his eyes equally widening, “she’s beautiful.”

“Right?” Luffy stated more in confirmation rather than question, turning back to Zoro, “isn’t she pretty?”

Zoro raked his eyes over your body, assessing the threat of you joining amongst the crew and noticing below your collar, red marks peppering your neck above your pulse and trailing down towards your clavicle. Nami noticed Zoro’s fixation and turned to acknowledge the interaction falling between you and Sanji.

“She’s stunning,” Nami said with a nod, “and you said she’s the librarian here?”

“Uh-huh,” Luffy nodded his head broadly, “she’s got so many books at her place, huge collection.”

“What were you doing at her place?” Zoro asked a little too quickly, his eyes falling from the red marks on your neck back to focus on the captain in front of him.

“Her feet were all cut up from running to catch the marine ship,” Luffy nodded again, reaching forward to take another glazed turkey leg into his hands and raise it up to his lips, “so I carried her back home and took care of her.”

Zoro hummed, turning his sights to the empty beer bottle in his hands and looking at the bar, “I’m gonna get another drink,” he declared, rising to his feet with a small grunt, “be back in a minute.”

“Sure thing,” Luffy said with a large toothy grin, “can you get me a juice while you’re up there?”

Zoro sighed, nodding in confirmation before turning away to walk towards the bar.

Sanji escorted you with his hand hovering at the small of your back, steadying you in your wincing hobble towards the table with the Straw-Hat pirate crew; sans swordsman.

“Hello Captain,” you nodded shyly, prompting Luffy to turn to face you; immediately rising to his feet at your approach.

“Hello historian!” he declared, placing his hands atop your shoulders and pulling you into a warm embrace, “I’m so glad you decided to run away with me.”

A warm blush rose itself to your cheeks at his unbridled declaration. You apprehensively placed your arms around his back, arching them up to cradle his shoulders beneath his circular grip. He sighed as he held you close to him, overjoyed at your acceptance of his offer.

“Meet the crew,” he whispered in a low hum into your cheek, slowly releasing you from his embrace, “this is-.”

“Nami,” you nodded to the orange-haired woman, “the navigator who wanted a book, I’m only assuming here, was about pressure plates on the ocean floor and volcanic activity close to the grand line?”

“Yes on both accounts,” Nami smiled, watching attentively as you reached into your satchel and retrieved a large journal for her.

“Then this little baby,” you began, reaching out your hand containing the book, “is specifically for you. Enjoy charting!”

Nami sighed a large release of air from within her chest, “finally, competency and intelligence. I am so glad you’re coming with us.”

“Me too, believe me,” you giggled before noticing the captain still remained one arm around your shoulders as he turned you to meet with Usopp.

“Usopp the sharp-shooter, I presume,” you smiled at him with a polite nod.

“That I am,” he grinned widely, basking in his acknowledgement and title.

“You really pay attention to everything, don’t you?” Luffy gawked at you in awe, before lowering his voice; praising you with, “so smart.”

The blush returned and held itself firm against your cheeks, nose and upper ears.

“All we’re missing now is-,” Luffy began, cut off by a cup being placed in his available hand by the green-haired swordsman, “-ah! Zoro! This is our historian.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” you politely nodded your head towards him.

“Pleasure’s mine,” he nodded in return to you and rose the brown bottle of liquid to his lips and took a quick swig of the liquid contents within.

“You hungry?” Luffy offered, unhooking his arm from your shoulders and reaching for a chair to pull out for you, “have some meat.”

You giggled before wincing as you shifted your weight uncomfortably atop one of the painful cut on your right foot, a hand immediately reaching up to catch yours to usher you to sit.

“I got you,” Luffy grinned at you, helping you to sit atop the wooden stool against the table, “just sit down and meet the crew. You’re family now!” he grinned widely and took a seat directly next to you, piling meat onto both his and your plate and began consuming it passionately.

Sanji noticed the dynamic immediately falling between you, arching his brow upwards towards Nami; who mirrored a similar expression on her face at the interaction. Whether Luffy noticed or not, he was absolutely smitten with you, and you looked similarly cursed with infatuation towards him.

Over the following few months, your feet had healed of their afflictions and the marks on your skin from the passionate encounter with the marine cadet had all but faded into a distant memory.

Although apprehensive to leave all of your beloved, aged books behind; the mayor of the town appointed an apprentice librarian to overtake your duties under the promise that it would always first and foremost be home to you should you desire your return. You managed to pack all of the necessities and a small collection of your favourite romance novels, and useful travelling information for your navigator alongside botany and herbal remedies for the chef.

You enjoyed sitting above the deck after completing chores and ships maintenance duties, reading whatever you so desired under the rays of the afternoon sun; basking in the warmth and truly relishing in the waves clashing against the hull. Although it took a few days to adjust to the sway of the ocean, you managed to make yourself comfortable enough to sleep atop a hanging bed within your crew quarters.

One thing you still remained missing in this sea-bearing adventure was the romance you so desired. You noticed first Sanji and how flirtatious he truly was, the first who you viewed as potential suitor; but you shot down the thought immediately as it crossed over your mind, his presence and demeanour reminding you too much of the marine who swindled a night from you.

Zoro was the next on your list, but you found his aura much too intimidating and harsh in his exterior. Although he eventually did warm to you, he felt like an older brother who perpetually looked out for you and the remainder of the crew as the loyal knight; a quality that you absolutely enjoyed.

Usopp was another story entirely. He spoke so highly of his first love, a noblewoman by the name of Kaya at Syrup-Village. He remained completely taken with her, relaying tales of his encounters with gusto. The tales were what smothered the developing feelings within your chest; lying was not a quality you particularly enjoyed, especially after the tussle with the marine.

Nami was a wonderful option to you, but she immediately made it clear to all around her that she was absolutely happy to flirt a little here and there; but never take it further than just that. You enjoyed flirtations, sure; but romance was what you were truly after.

After your assessments made of your entire crew, you began to apprehensively release your dream of romance on the high seas and attempt to find a new dream to cling to.

“I have another one for you!” your captain declared to you gleefully, waving a book in the air. You smiled, turning towards him and placing your novel on the wooden bench beside you.

You had been at sea for the past week and desperately required a layover to replenish your kitchen supplies. Each time you would dock at a new port, Luffy would bring you a book to add to your collection. Every book he brought you was completely different than the other; some were romance, some were collection guides to precious metals and mineral stones, some were even children’s books.

“Thank you, Luffy,” you beamed at him, rising to your feet and approaching him and the new book he had brought to you, “what is it this time?”

“I’m not really sure,” Luffy nodded with a downturned smile, “but Sanji said it was a good one for you. The pictures look nice?”

You nodded at him, looking into his wide caramel orbs with appreciation and adoration, before turning your attention to the book within his hands and immediately shrieked in complete shock. You were unsure how both the colour could drain from someone’s face but a warm, heated blush could also rise: yet here you were; a place somewhere between bewilderment, embarrassment and complete shock at the object he had brought to you.

When the small gifts started, it was almost apparent that Luffy was not completely illiterate; just blissfully ignorant of a few things, particularly when it came to the way he acted around you. He was beautiful, his soul was sincere and his expression was without inhibitions or restraint. You always knew exactly how he was feeling, him always approaching you if he needed clarification on a subject he wasn’t well versed in.

He would always find a way to touch you, reassuring both you and himself. Whether it be: under a gentle brush of your shoulder, taking your hand within the crook of his elbow to lead you around town, steadying your hips above the deck under particularly choppy waves, taking you by the hand and bringing you over to the mast of the ship if he saw a creature jumping above the sea to greet you. His touch was a comfort to both of you, and very welcomed in its receival.

You would be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t harbour feelings of romantic notions for your captain, but under his ignorance on the subject; you chose to not pursue engaging in anything more than comradery.

And now, he has brought you a graphic guide on intimate entanglements from the North, East, South and West Blues with accompanying pictures beside their written descriptors.

“A-and you said,” you stuttered, trying to collect your thoughts, “you s-said Sanji picked this out?”

“Yeah,” he nodded with a large grin, “although, I do like some of the pictures.”

Your eyes continued to get wider at the notion that he’s looked at the explicit material within the pages; “Luffy, this is-,” you caught yourself, attempting to choose the next words as carefully as you could, “vastly different than anything you’ve brought to me so far. The last one was a children’s story about a small mouse, and now-,” you inhaled, bringing your hands together in a palm to palm clap and raising your fingertips to your nose and the crease in your brow, “-you’ve brought me an in depth guide to intimate relations.”

Luffy quirked his head to the side, with a small “Hah,” sound. He turned the book to the side and furrowed his brows in thought, “I thought it was some kind of wrestling.”

“It is in some cases, Captain,” you sighed out a shaken, slow breath and rolled your shoulders back.

“You don’t say,” he said thoughtfully, bringing his free hand to his chin and scratching it deep in thought before asking suddenly, “so, you don’t want it?”

“I never said that,” you said all to quickly for your liking, shocking both yourself and Luffy, “I’m happy to add it to my ever growing collection of gifts from you, sir.”

“Oh, okay then!” he said, thrusting the book into your arms. You lifted your shaking hands up towards the book and clasped it gently within your fingertips; Luffy’s hand meeting with your two in the process.

“Thank you, captain,” you smiled through gritted teeth, still caught in your fluster while your captain remained delightfully ill-informed to his most recent gift’s implications.

“You’re welcome, historian,” he smiled warmly before turning back on his heal and walked away.

The first time that he kissed you, you were unsure if it was intentional or truly accidental.

You were walking along the coastal shore back towards the Going Merry, his arm hanging around your shoulders, while yours clasped lowly around his hip. He was relaying a small memory of his childhood, a man named Red-Haired Shanks often spoken amongst the happier memories. You giggled at one comment, Luffy puffing up his chest in perfect imitation of one of the members of the Red-Hair Pirate crew.

At the conclusion of your melodical laugh, Luffy arched his face into yours and pressed his lips affectionately against the apple of your cheek, uttering compliments of; “you have a great laugh.”

Your face drew into a beet-red colour as Luffy continued to chaperone you along the sandy shore. You couldn’t ignore the rapid pace of your chest, your heat beating irregularly in rhythm and a small tingle ran up your spine and coursed through your chest.

“Okay,” he declared gleefully, “now we’ve got the Red-Hair Pirate stories out of the way, let me tell you about Buggy the Clown.”

“Yes, Captain,” you replied shyly, holding firmer against his waist as he relayed memory about a blue-haired pirate captain who also happened to have similar Devil-Fruit abilities to Luffy.

After that first small taste of affection offered freely from your captain, you began to actively seek it out from him to test whether he did harbour romantic intention toward you or whether it was truly a hoax. You quickly found that, alongside his other need to feel you beneath his fingertips, that his lips also required your skin beneath them.

Cheeks, hands, shoulders, temple, forehead; everything apart from the one place you truly desired was met by the lips of your captain. It seemed he wished to remain platonic in friendship; which was slowly driving you to the brink of insanity. You were smitten, completely overtaken by the thoughts of romanticism with the Devil-Fruit user; yet not readily approaching him with the same manner of unbridled affection as he had been over the past few days. The way you decided to show him affection was to be a willing recipient to receive all of his needs and requirements to fill his cup of his need of physical touch and quality time.

This particular evening, he was reclining against you, laying his straw-hat covered head in your lap as you read one of your novels. He appeared to be resting his eyes, a small snore would fall from his lips every now and again, to which you responded with a small teetered giggle and absent-mindedly rested your hand upon his chest and soothed over the skin beneath it.

As you completed the final chapter in your novel, you closed the book and sighed in contentment; fantasising about meeting a romance such as the one you were just engaging with. You were wrong to seek out a marine: that was stupidity manifest on your part. Of course he was going to leave you, sailors always do. Pirates, however? None had yet betrayed your trust as much as the cadet had with empty promises of romance.

You groaned and brought your fingertips to your brow, smoothing over the headache in an effort to rid your subconscious of all memory of him. Your bleeding, hopelessly romantic heart yearned for that closeness; to feel it truly and deeply – that love you so craved and was met by complete emptiness: lust being the only mutual feeling shared between you and the military trainee.

“You okay?” Luffy asked you, peeking up at you through one of his eyes.

“Of course Captain,” you smiled at him, eyes always soft for him behind the melancholy you were feeling. He noticed the shift in your tone and sat up immediately, turning to face you with his legs crossed.

“You finished your book? Is that why you’re sad?” he asked you, his brows furrowing in the middle of his forehead while his beautiful brown eyes deeply searched yours beneath his long onyx eyelashes. You sighed and shook your head with a smile, “no captain, I’m not sad.”

“You’re not a good liar,” he said with a small smile, turning his eyes towards the wood below you, “you should save that for Usopp, although he’s not very good at it either.”

You chuckled lightly at that comment, Luffy instinctively seeking out your hands to grasp within his own as he continued to hold his gaze to the ground. His thumb circled over the skin on the back of your hand, carefully ghosting his digits along each of your knuckles slowly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked you, quirking his head up slightly to look shyly up at you, “my ears are yours.”

You sighed with an overburdened breath, feeling the weight release itself from your shoulders as you began to formulate the words within your mind.

“When you found me, I was at my lowest,” you confessed, “I don’t think I truly told you, or anyone, about what happened that night.”

Luffy chose not to speak, just nod in curiosity at you while you continued to relay your thoughts.

“Your dream is to be King of the Pirates,” you allowed yourself to freely express the words from within your chest, “and mine is just to love,” you nodded along in your confession, “and to be loved in return.”

Luffy circled your knuckles with the pads of his thumbs and inched himself closer to you, knees brushing against each other’s in the process of his closer proximity.

“I was looking for it, actively searching for it the way that we are searching for the One-Piece for you,” you continued, tightening your grasp around his fingertips as he held you within his own, “and when I fell for him,” you grit your teeth, “I thought I had found it. He was my knight, my rescuer,” your lips quivered at the thought, again opening your rage you hadn’t dealt with since the beginning of your quest.

“He was meant to be my love, Luffy,” you confessed darkly, “but he was just a channel for my lust, a syphon of my happiness, and nothing but an arrow to my heart.”

Luffy released your right hand from his left, hooking his right thumb to encase all eight of your extended digits within his firm grasp; falling his left hand to rest against your knee to further comfort you as you expressed your sorrow.

“I-I just,” you continued, fighting the pit forming actively within your throat, “I want it so badly, Luffy. When I think about it, I can’t breathe; I can’t speak. I want nothing more than to give my heart and have it cherished and to love passionately with every fibre of my being.”

You were searching all around with your eyes, avoiding meeting his gaze at all costs; truly relishing in the company he was providing to you, actively listening and hanging onto every utterance and confession that fell freely from your lips.

“And when I tried it with him,” your voice hitched within your throat, halting your thoughts. You gulped down the dryness in your mouth and continued to formulate the words, “I felt truly broken. There was nothing there, only emptiness and suffering.”

“What happened that night?” he asked you, quietly prompting you to speak the words you were trying desperately to avoid, “please. Please tell me.”

You released a stifled growl of anger, directed not at your captain but at the memory of the cadet, “I don’t particularly want to spell it out for you.”

Luffy rose himself to his knees, kneeling over you while removing the hand on your knee upwards to cradle your face beneath his warm palm.

“I don’t care,” he uttered darkly, “you need to tell me, and I’m waiting to hear it.”

“It was lust, Luffy,” you growled, still avoiding his gaze but welcoming his palm against your cheek with a small lean of your cheek against it, “lust disguised as love. Disguised as the beauty and purity of a lily, but truly the monster lurking beneath it ready to strike and devour in its wake.”

“And how did the monster strike you?” he asked, moving his palm down to your chin and rising your eyes up to meet his.

“It stole my dream from me,” you whispered against his flesh, “and left me blistered, bleeding and broken; all alone in the world with skin peppered with yearning marks openly displaying my shame.”

“I’ll tear it apart,” he uttered darkly, his eyes holding true to that promise, “I’ll help you reignite your dream.”

You felt the corners of your eyes begin to prick with the first tears you hadn’t felt overwhelm you since welding them shut all of those months ago. This was your captain, holding your body close to his and promising you with complete sincerity and truthfulness that he was going to help you achieve your dreams as you were searching to achieve his.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered bringing his face closer to your own, “I-,” he halted his words as they formed in his throat, “-I want to help you.”

You creased your brows in confusion at his statement, as he had already declared to you that he was actively going to help you achieve your grand, romantic dream of finding your greatest love.

“I don’t under-,” you began, halting your words as his lips were brought down to meet with your own. Your eyes were wide as you felt the gentle caress of his lips atop your own, his hand smoothing itself over your cheek and begin to lace within your hairline over your ear. Both of you were as shocked as the other, him immediately tearing his lips away from yours and pulling back from your embrace and close proximity.

“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes wide with concern, “I don’t know why I did that.”

“Captain,” you addressed him in a whisper, your eyes now releasing a small trail of emotion from the corners of your eyes. He brought his eyes back to meet with your own, floating his gaze between your irises and looking down to your lips once more.

“I want to be that,” he said, bringing his body closer to yours once more, “I want to be that for you.”

“Luffy,” you whispered again, your bottom lip quivering as your heart began to swell with emotion.

“From when you first touched me on the dock,” his smile returned to his face, “you bumped into me, you know.”

You shook your head with a small smile clinging to your lips once more, reaching your hands out to seek out his own.

“You bumped me when you ran towards the end of the peer,” he nodded, taking your hands within his once more, “and you tickled my interest. Your ferocity, your beauty. I wanted that.”

You giggled sorrowfully, looking down to the wooden deck. Luffy chased your gaze by lowering his head to be within your sights; a small laugh fleeing from both of you as he did so.

“Can we do that?” he asked, nudging your chin upwards with the top of his hair before pressing a small kiss against your nose, “can I love you?”

“I don’t know what to say,” your earlier words repeating from your lips, the memory of him asking you to join his crew eclipsing over your mind and memory.

“Say you’ll run away with me,” he whispered lovingly to you, echoing his words back to you with a wide intimate smile made just for you, “I’ll never let you go.”

Sucking in a final breath of determination and becoming overwhelmed with emotions, you propelled yourself forward into his arms; releasing his hands from within your own and lacing them around his neck. The sheer force of your jump pushed his body back and had you falling into him.

The knocking clumsily of teeth within the overwhelming joy of your embrace was the happiest you truly felt. Your heart swelled as your captain circled his arms not only around your back, but elasticising themselves to constrict your bodies together; lacing around his own back, wrapping around yours in the process. You squealed in delight as he held you closer, your smiles prohibiting you both from deepening the kiss further but enjoying the feeling of nearness all together.

Hoisting you into the air, he rose to his feet and spun you gleefully in a circle, continuing to press his lips firmly against your own in a passionate embrace. He placed you down carefully on the ground once more; unwrapping his tightly bound, elastic arms from your body as you trailed your fingertips beneath his straw hat and clutched at the curls at the nape of his neck. He groaned against your lips at the feeling of you massaging his scalp and pressed further kisses feverishly against your mouth.

He trailed his mouth over your cheek, down to your jaw and looped his arms around your waist, pulling you to rest flush against his stomach and chest as you accidentally knocked the straw hat from his head. The drawstring successfully held his hat dangling firmly from his neck and down between his shoulder blades, prompting another laugh to escape your lips.

Grabbing a hold of his cheeks and relinquishing his assault against your neck, you brought his face once more up towards you and trailed a warm and welcoming caress of your lips against his own. His brows furrowed at the intensity, choosing to suck in a sharp inhale of breath through his nose as he motionlessly held you against himself; choosing to feel every emotion rolling from you onto him.

Breaking from the kiss, you both gazed through half-lidded eyes at each other; true adoration and love being completely shared between the two of you.

“How’s this?” he asked you, pressing his forehead against your own and closing his eyes once more as he felt your breath and heartbeat echoing his own.

“This,” you began, closing your own eyes and feeling his love and adoration falling from him in waves, “is fine.”

“Oh, good,” he whispered, removing his forehead from your own and replacing it with a gentle kiss, “now let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”

#one piece #opla #opla fic #one piece live action #x reader #luffy x reader #monkey d luffy #luffy #luffy fic #angst #strawhat reader #straw hat pirates #one piece luffy #monkey d luffy x reader #luffy x you

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boycasanova · 8 months

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Guys. Vil did Ortho's make up with a regular brush and not an airbrush. I'm light headed thinking about Vil being affectionate with a first year who actually wants to reciprocate it.

Ortho wants to be acknowledged as a real boy and Vil gives that to him every single time. He would caress Ortho's skin because of how unnaturally soft it is. When Ortho looks a little peeved at the thought that a self learning automaton can't have soft skin, but Vil clarifies that he meant "for a 16 year old boy. He has soft skin for a 16 year old boy."

When Ortho misses film club meetings, idia tells Vil that he has a bug. Vil's not entirely clueless, he brainstorms with Epel things that he might enjoy while he feels better. They settle on a holographic soup that Ortho delights in downloading.

When he returns, Vil feels around his neck for any remnants of a fever or swelling, his so called "lymph nodes." Ortho finds it all pleasant, even if it is a weird sensation. Despite being built with touch sensors and complex coding to distinguish between touches, most people aren't aware of them. They try not to touch him.

Vil would also fall in love with Ortho's eccentricities. He loves that Ortho is outspoken with his own opinions, especially on the films they create. Vil would tell him that his little synthetic laugh is contagious, and makes him laugh too.

The problem with being created so human, with his own scarily similar humanity, is that he feels grief without the justification. Idia's bad moods can ruin his too, a lack of touch can make him lonely. Being excluded feels just like that.

The small ways that NRC boys, the 3rd years in particular, include Ortho leave me sobbing on the floor. Malleus referring to Ortho as Littler Shroud, using a name that he reserves for living things to address Ortho. Floyd and Jade strong arming Idia into making Ortho feet so he can wear shoes (LOL?) kjasdas post cancelled I can't stop laughing

#vil schoenheit #ortho shroud #littler shroud #twst #twisted wonderland #malleus draconina #floyd leech #jade leech #my babies #idia shroud #twst imagines #mw

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aphrogeneias · 6 months

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before dawn — one-shot

pairing: kas!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: it's been days since you watched your boyfriend die in the upside down, and since then, you can't sleep. things change when you encounter a visitor in your kitchen late one night.

word count: 3k

warnings: angst. themes of dealing with grief and loss. possession (kas in eddie's body). mentions of blood and injuries. a tiny bit of body horror. smut (+18). dubcon (reader is into it but still scared). choking.

author's note: this is based on an old, abandoned work of mine and inspired by the kitchen scene in "jennifer's body". it was also written for the prompt "spiritual possession" in my 2023 kinktober list.

The clock on your bedside table marked 3:03 AM when you decided trying to sleep was futile.

Outside your window, Hawkins still burned. The blue light of the witching hour bled through the curtains, bathing your room in darkness, but still tinged with the red that came from the ground, particles rising up the atmosphere. The city had been burning for days, shrouding everything in fire and smoke, turning your home into a ghost town, and your life into a living hell.

Grief and guilt ate on your insides like worms, which was only fitting, since you've been letting yourself rot in your room after the dust settled and everyone else seemed to move on with their lives.

You stayed at that upside-down, twisted version of the Forest Hills Trailer Park watching him die, over and over and over again. The scene played behind your eyes everytime they shut, and you could still feel his warm blood on your hands, his last words echoing in your ears. You never thought you would have to live without Eddie Munson, but having him be ripped out of your life in such a cruel way was more than you could handle.

Your friends made an effort to visit almost every day. When they were not volunteering at the shelter that was installed at the High School gym, Steve and Robin came over to keep company, and even though they were a little unsure, a little clumsy when trying to help you with keeping afloat, you were grateful for their company. Nancy and Jonathan came over often too, being better at helping you clean and making sure you were eating, always bringing something from Joyce, who had told you multiple times you could stay with them, but you politely refused each time.

The fact was that you could have left with your parents when they packed up and went to stay with the rest of your family across the country, but you couldn't bring yourself to leave. Not when you didn't know what was next, it was only a matter of time until he showed his face again.

Eddie had shown you enough horror movies for you to not know that the big bad never truly died at the end, not really.

The memory of him ached as you stared at the ceiling, swallowing back the tears that rose up your eyes. Images of him, lying beside you on that same bed, after staying up too late, watching those ridiculous movies full of gore he convinced you to watch — not that you could ever say no to him, especially not when he flashed you those puppy dog eyes of his. You knew that part of the reason he did that was because you got extra clingy afterwards, letting him cuddle you tight to his body until you fell asleep. Sometimes, if you let yourself go, you could still feel his weight on top of you, his steady breath on your neck, long hair tickling your skin.

You were dragged out of your trip down memory lane by a loud crash coming from your kitchen.

Gasping, you sat up, startled. You were already hyperaware, ready to jump into action at any time, and loud noises put you on edge easily — but this was coming from inside your house, downstairs. The noise didn't stop, clattering around, as if someone was fussing with the doors and cabinets.

It was impossible, since you'd been alone for a couple of days.

With the confidence of someone who had nothing left to lose, you stood up on shaking legs, trying to steady yourself. Trembling hands grabbed the baseball bat that was hidden behind your bed — a gift from Steve, who insisted you couldn't always rely on the butterfly knife you kept in your pocket — and made your way out of the door.

Halfway through the stairs, a voice called out your name.

You recognize that voice, you'd know it anywhere. It was the voice that you heard every night in your dreams, the voice that used to sing to you, to spin grandiose tales just to make you laugh.

Except that it wasn't real, it couldn't be.

Angered by whatever creature that was mocking the memory of your late boyfriend, you marched forward. You knew you could be walking right into a trap, and that one of Vecna's many specialties were his mind tricks, but at that point, you didn't care anymore. He had taken Eddie from you, and now he was dangling him in front of you like bait.

As if your heart wasn't already shattered into a thousand pieces.

You steeled yourself before fully coming into the kitchen, but nothing could have prepared you for what you saw.

Crouching on the tiled floor, covered in both dried and fresh blood, covering his chin and chest. was something that resembled your boyfriend. It had his body, still dressed in his Hellfire Club shirt, only now it was shredded, and black jeans, old white reeboks stained in black dirt and blood. It had his face, only now it was pale and gaunt, brown eyes completely gone, irises shining an unnatural shade of yellow.

He called your name again and you gripped harder onto the bat, holding it with both hands and brandishing it in front of you, a silent threat. Standing, he lifted up his hands, rings shining in the moonlight that came through the window.

"Whoa! That's not how I expected to be welcomed back, sweetheart."

You didn't answer. All you could hear was your own heartbeat, ringing in your ears as it threatened to escape your ribcage. Your whole body seemed to shake, but you stood your ground, determined to chase away the living nightmare in front of you.

"Don't be scared. I'm not gonna hurt you."

"You're not real." You gritted between clenched teeth.

"I am real! I promise I'm not tricking you. Just… put the bat down, okay? I'm not gonna hurt you." He repeated. "You know I would never hurt you."

Eddie — or the thing that looked like Eddie — took a tentative step forward, slowly. He looked as disturbed as you were, and a little sad even, his lips turned down into a frown. It was strange to think that, but he seemed fragile, hurt.

"Stay where you are."

"Baby…"

"Don't call me that! You are not real." You raised your voice this time.

"Let me explain, please?" He pleaded. It looked like he was restraining himself, as if he had to make a lot of effort not to go ahead and touch you. "I had nowhere else to go, and… and I missed you."

His voice trembled, along with your resolve.

Still holding the bat with one hand, you outstretch the other, signaling for him to stay away. He looked and sounded like your Eddie, but you didn’t know if you trust what you were seeing at all. Not after everything you’d been through.

“Stay here, okay? I’m gonna… I'm gonna go get some help. Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

He simply nodded, going further back into your kitchen, partly obscured by the darkness, which made his yellow eyes shine even brighter. You walked backward until you reached the kitchen entryway, and turned to run up the stairs and into your room, stumbling your way through the dark house.

You fell to the floor when you entered your room, dragging your trembling frame through the carpeted floor, trying to keep your breathing steady. Getting the walkie-talkie from your bedside table, you sat down, leaning your back into the side of your bed, and called out for anyone who might have been listening.

No one answered.

Dread filled your every nerve. Sepulchral silence filled the house as you made your way back downstairs, your limbs still trembling with every step. It was almost ironic — of course no one answered. Of course your undead boyfriend, or whatever thing was mimicking him, was yours to deal with alone.

It was a conflicting feeling. Eddie had never given you any reason to be afraid of him, despite what others believed about him. Now, the image of him made you sick as you saw him again, standing with his back to you in your kitchen.

As he turned around, you flicked the light switch, turning on the bright kitchen light. Not your boyfriend, but the shape of his eyes were the same, and his full lips, now pale after all the blood he lost, turned downward at the sight of you. You wanted to reach out and comfort him, but fear still coursed through your veins.

Tears burned behind your eyes as you addressed him once again, "Eddie?"

You realized he was really trying to keep his distance, staying with his back pressed to the counter, and keeping his hands where you could see them. "Yeah?"

"How do I know… How do I know that you're really you?"

It took a while for him to answer. His tired body slumped forward, his tangled hair falling over his eyes, eyes that never met yours as he started speaking.

"You were wearing this red dress the night I saw you for the first time, and I couldn't take my eyes out of you. I was too chicken to talk to you that day but I went and made you a mixtape. Even tried to have Harrington give it to you because I was too scared to do it, didn't want to see you reject me to my face. He convinced me to do it, and when I finally did you said…"

"...About fucking time."

Your lips trembled with raw emotion, and you could barely keep yourself on your feet as you lunged forward, and Eddie met you halfway. You dirtied yourself with mud and blood as you took him in your arms, and he squeezed you to him like you were the only thing keeping him together — you probably were, just as his solid presence pressed to your body did to you.

You both sobbed, kneeling on your kitchen floor, the cold tiles digging into your knees. You didn't let go.

The rest of the night was spent almost all in your bathroom.

Your mom's carefully picked floral tiles got stained with blood while you maneuvered Eddie around the small space, getting him out of his soiled clothes, and cleaning him to the best of your abilities under the warm spray of the shower.

You'd put a chair under it so he could sit, as he wasn't able to keep himself up for too long, but he was able to tell you, though still a little confused over the details, about what had happened to him.

Something pulled him out. He wasn't sure what, and he's sure it wasn't any of your friends — which you confirmed it wasn't, since Dustin was forced to leave him behind. He felt himself be dragged through miles until he was thrown out of a gate, one of the many that had been opened in the last few days, and when he was conscious enough to stand, he walked here.

You didn't have time or the energy to dig deeper into the logistics of it. The what and the how and the why. You'd do that after you finally got a good night of sleep with your boyfriend miraculously home for the first time in almost two weeks. Safe and sound, like he was supposed to be.

Relief deflated your previously tense body like a popped balloon. After you washed him and bandaged his wounds as best as you could, you got him in bed, and he passed out before you could even get him under the covers. It didn't take long for you to do the same.

Darkness was the first time you saw when you woke up again, a couple hours later. The second thing was a pair of yellow eyes, like a predator stalking in the night, right above your face.

A gasp left your lips as you tried to lift yourself from the mattress, but a hand pressed to your chest stopped you. "Uh-uh. Stay right there."

"Eddie?" You whispered, voice shaking with ice cold fear. "What are you doing?"

He tilted his head, and you could see him more clearly now that your eyes had adjusted to the dark of your room. Behind him, leather like wings unfolded, taking space in your bedroom. The hand pressed to your chest, and the one beside your head, had short, but sharp claws that weren't yet digging into your skin.

You whimpered and trembled under him, dread paralyzing your tongue.

"Not quite. A part of him, yes. He doesn't know it yet, though. It will be our little secret." He bent down, running his nose over the soft skin of your cheek. He still sounded just like Eddie, but there was a graveness in his voice you'd never heard before. "Can you keep a secret, dear?"

He didn't wait for an answer — whoever he was. The same hand that pressed your chest to the mattress beneath you rose up, grabbing your neck. "I asked you a question."

"Y-yes. Yes." You breathed out, closing your eyes. Still, you felt him smile against your face.

"Good. Good girl." His face kept going down, until it reached your exposed neck. He buried his nose in it, breathing you in, and humming deep in his chest at the scent of you. You could feel his lips there, barely brushing your skin, but still raising goosebumps all over your body.

His voice was right below your ear, then. "I just need one small favor from you."

"What do you want?"

"I've been hungry. Starved, darling. I imagine you know how that feels. Your boyfriend here hasn't been a good host, refusing to feed. A disappointment, really. I needed to take matters into my own hands." While he spoke, the thumb that rested over your pulse point caressed the skin there, stroking in slow motions, "I just need a taste. Something to quench my thirst, if you will."

A deep flush rose from your insides, heating you from your tummy all the way to your cheeks. Your blood, he meant. You knew that's what he was implying, but it felt surreal.

"You like that idea, don't you?" He brought his attention back to your face. When he smiled, his sharp canines made their first appearance. "You're an interesting one. I see what the boy sees now."

"Will that help Eddie? You… feeding? On me?"

"If I'm strong, the boy is strong. Trust me, you're gonna need that strength when the time comes."

"What do you mean…"

You weren't able to finish your sentence. His hand went to your jaw and held it in place, puckering your lips and impending your speech. He touched his forehead with his, and looked deep into your widened eyes, "All I need is a yes. That's all I need to hear from you right now."

Without thinking, you nod. You were lost in the unnatural color of his eyes, in the deep register of his voice. The world melted around you, and you stayed there, staring at your ceiling, as his face went back to your neck, and after a brief moment, his fangs pierce your skin, puncturing your pulse.

Everything stopped. Your back arched from the mattress at the feeling of it, and your whole body shakes. His tongue is there too, suckling the blood that falls from the twin wounds, and it didn't stop. Your vision was blurred, your mouth closed shut, no sound left your lips except for the small whimpers you were too scared to even release.

It was too much, and worse, it felt good. The invasion of his teeth into you, his tongue on your pulse, the adrenaline in your blood. You felt ashamed, but you felt alive. Almost involuntarily, your hips writhed on the bed, and your hand went to his hair, pulling it slightly.

He removed his mouth from you, but not before licking a fat stripe to collect the blood that pooled there. "It's okay, sweet girl. I'm almost done. Relax for me."

You had no time to respond. His teeth were piercing you again in a second, and this time you let out a moan, and you had no mind to be self-conscious about how loud it was, because one of his hands traveled under your shorts, but over your underwear, and cupped your mound, letting you grind on it.

Dizzy and lightheaded, and still, you came embarrassingly fast, flooding your cotton panties with warm, sticky slick, riding it out on his rough digits. He rose from your neck, but didn't remove his hand from you.

"That's it, love." He whispered, "See? Felt good, didn't it?"

You could barely keep your eyes open, but he was still above you, studying your face closely. His hand, the one still inside your shorts, moved to pull your panties aside, and collect the wetness there on the tips of his fingers.

He brought them to his lips, and moaned when the taste hit his tongue. "Thank you."

That was all you heard before you felt yourself slipping from consciousness. In those few seconds you were able to hold onto it, you felt his lips lightly touch your forehead, and then, nothing. Silence overtook your tired body.

Outside, the early birds began to chirp, but darkness hadn't ceased, yet. It was always darkest before dawn.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #kinktober 2023

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starry-bi-sky · 27 days

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my body's aching like a knock-down drag-out

and my poor heart is an open wound A Childhood Friends Au snippet that very briefly delves into Danny's life post-accident. CW: Mild Mentions of Blood, Violence, VERY mild gore ig. Danny briefly recalls getting impaled during a fight.

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What they don't tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it can hurt. That it can hurt more than when you were alive. That when you die, the emotions you die with stick with you like a leech that just won't let go. That emotions are ugly little thorns that stick their barbs into you and grow beneath your skin; or, at least, whatever’s left of it.

Danny is familiar with anger. It kept him warm in Gotham, when his parents weren't home from work and he and Jason were crowding Crime Alley with their presence. It kept him warm in Amity, when the fresh sting of moving was still needling into his heart and he wanted nothing more than to rip and tear into the closest person next to him.

He's familiar with violence. With fights. With death. He's seen people die in Crime Alley probably every day. From overdose, from gunshots, from stab wounds; anything that can kill, rest assured he's seen it. He's familiar with getting his own knuckles rough and bloody when other kids turn and bare their teeth at him and Jason; they're all just starving dogs stuck in a fighting pit, primed and ready to rip out each other's throats.

Black eyes, stomped hands, bloody noses. You name it; he’s had it. Gotham is paved with the blood of her children, and Danny likes to imagine that when he was born, the doctors handed his mother a file and told her; “Take it. He’s going to need it for his teeth.”

Danny’s mom (and dad, for that matter) was too busy trying to keep him and Jazz fed, so Danny stole the file from her drawer with Jazz’s help, and did it himself.

He’s familiar with anger, he thought he was getting better at it these days. It doesn’t come to him as easily as it did before. Of course, that was before Jason died.

Danny is less familiar with grief. Caring kills and Gotham kills the caring, so Danny cares very little about other people. Or he tries to. But grief hurts. His grief hurts. It hurts too much. It hurts like a bug trying to crawl out of his chest; like a rat chewing a hole through his heart. Some days he wants to dig his hands into his hair and split himself down the middle. Some days he just wants to scream.

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.

He wants the whole city to hear him wailing, some days. It sticks itself in the back of his throat like bile, and Danny is one wrong retch away from letting it loose. It sticks in his lungs like all the tar he’s smoked in since he was nine. It pushes and aches at his temples, in his head, like his brain is trying to swell out of his skull. His thoughts becoming so loud they threaten to commandeer his tongue.

He has no mouth, but he must scream.

Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it hurts more than when you were alive. Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it’s violent. That it’s bloody. Or as bloody as it can be when everyone has no blood.

Another thing they don’t tell you about being dead, is that it’s a lot like Gotham that way.

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies forget death itself. Blood comes easy, like water, and teeth are encouraged. Bring your own fangs to the fight. Dying is something you can just walk off.

Danny’s been dead for three months. He can’t say he’s been walking it off easy. He’s perfected the art of turning his nails into claws since his heart was still beating, but he can’t say he’s perfected fighting other ghosts.

Scrappy is just not enough.

He feels like he’s back in Gotham again. Back in her death-shroud alleyways, fighting someone bigger than him. But there’s no Jason to watch his back, and Danny has to get himself out of there alone. Or he might just not get up at all.

Black eyes, busted lips. It’s familiar to him like an old scent, Danny isn’t quite sure that he’s missed it. It’s more familiar than his fights with Dash.

But there’s no one else who can do it but him. Not Sam, not Tucker. He can’t lose them too. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. His heart can’t take another break, he already feels like he’s going insane.

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies fight like death themself. He learns why when Technus puts a street sign through his stomach one day. It pins him to the asphalt like a moth pinned by its wings.

Danny claws at the metal like how an animal caught in a trap chews off its leg, and every move is blinding pain. He thinks he was howling, but it’s hard to tell. He couldn’t recognize the sound of his voice.

He bleeds green. It mixes in black with the pitch blackhole in his heart, which throbs and twists and cries in time with his reckless panic. The finger-choking terror of dying again strangles out the air he doesn’t need. His blood evaporates, only to reabsorb into him. It just bleeds out again, cycling like a snake eating its own tail.

Danny breaks his nails clawing at the metal, and eventually gets it in his mind to pull it out. So he does, and the end drips ectoplasm green as he gets to his feet. In red-vision, Danny sends the sign back with snarling, vicious fervor. The pain is irrelevant in his rage.

Only after the fight does the hole the pole left start to close. Danny doesn’t shift human until it’s gone. Unlike other injuries, a scar stays behind. Ugly; mottled, it aches for a week with every twist and stretch his body makes. He hates it.

Being dead is agony.

Every part of him is in pain. Every step, every word he speaks, everything he does, it is prerequisite with pain. The body is temporary, but the soul is forever, and death has carved into it with its freezing green hands and left him with never-ending heartache. It has torn from him and stolen what of him it could, and in return it’s left him with sorrow.

His pain is his grief, and he’s sobbed in the safety of his room more times than he can count. It’s still as fresh as the day he heard the news of Jason’s death. He knows, instinctively, that it will stay fresh forever.

In his room, Danny shoves his hands over his mouth and shrieks in whatever, muffled way he can into his pillow. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. He needs to be louder. He needs to be heard. He refuses to be.

Being dead hurts.

#tw mild gore #cw mild blood #cw mentioned violence #dpxdc #dp x dc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dpxdc crossover #dpdc #dp x dc crossover #dead on main #dp x dc au #dp x dc fanfic #cfau #cfau danny #obsessed with the fact that danny just has the WORST fucking time after jason dies and baby i can make it worse #*kills you and makes you a banshee and puts you in an irrevocable state of grief*#delicious angst. danny is having the wORSt time ever lol. lmao even #was originally meant to explore the idea that danny can survive lethal injuries as phantom. which briefly got mentioned.#but i got away from myself. leaning reaaal heavy into the fact that danny's a banshee. At 19 he's got a pretty good handle of himself #but imagine being a fresh out the gate banshee. usually they get time to themselves in the zone to cry until their heart's content.#sorry danny. you have school tomorrow and family sleeping in the bedroom next door #kinda proud of myself. you can kinda see how Rath would've occurred here.#danny is going through it rn #was gonna add a snippet about the city's thoughts on phantom but couldnt fit it in

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dustymeadows-if · 3 months

Text

Dust particles flow in the air, shimmering with golden light of the sun. They rise to the sky, equally golden and hazy. Your mind is empty. There is no single memory in your head. Only one thought is ringing in your brain.

You must walk forward. Walk until your feet begin to bleed. Walk until your shoes fall apart.

And for some reason you can't oppose this thought.

This is your road to Damascus.

Dusty Meadows is a short interactive story set in post-WW1 world. It's a small psychological adventure that will take you through the scarred European fields. Wander the abandoned trenches, scorched forests, poisonous valleys and silent, deadly no man's land.

You don't remember anything. The feelings, however, still linger. Feelings like pain, grief and bitter longing. Your body is mutilated, but you feel no physical pain. It's your soul that aches. It's as if an important piece of it was heartlessly ripped off. This pain urges you to go forward. The answers might lie just behind the next hill or river. Your life depends on returning. Returning your soul. Returning your memories. Returning your life. Returning home.

That is, if there's anything left for you to return to at all.

Customizable MC: choose your gender, appearance, personality and name (if you can remember it, of course).

Meet the cast of various charachters: you're not the only one wandering and seeking these desolate lands. Talk to other wayfaring souls, listen to their stories. Maybe even share the same road and experience strangely deep bond with some of them...

Return your memories: remove the shroud from your past. Remember how you got here. Remember what hides behind the scars on your body. But be wary: some memories are forgotten for a reason.

Explore different locations: travel through the remains of war, learn what happened there and remember what binds you to these places.

Maintain your sanity: nobody said that battlefields are safe even after the war. Your mind is as scarred as your body, and sometimes memories crash like tidal waves. Whether you'll hold the line or succumb to the dark depths - is up to you and you only.

Tired Infantryman - Basile (M)

This man could be a definition of word "apathy". Everything about him is grey: both literally and figuratively. Dressed in grey-bluish trenchcoat, covered in grey dust, he looks at you with dull grey eyes. Even in his dark brown hair you can see grey strands, although he's still pretty young. He doesn't seem to be interested in anything around him, except for his cigarettes. His left arm is missing, and you can't help but wonder what's the story behind this.

Frozen Operator - Johann (M)

He is... a weird man. Tall and muscular like someone working in the fields all day long. But at the same time his skin is the palest and the coldest you've ever seen, and his eyes are sunken as if he was spending many sleepless nights doing paperwork. He's also the only one without any visible wounds, which is very unusual to see in this place. Johann seems like a kind and outgoing man, but he hides something deep in his heart.

Blind Journalist - Gelsomina (F)

Upper half of her face is covered with bandages, but even so you can tell she's a very beautiful woman. Dark blood stains over the place where her eyes were never seem to fully dry. She is much alike that blood: restless almost to despair. This woman will either find peace or die, and the least seems to be most likely. Losing her eyes was a hard hit: she can't see, she can't write, she can't do her job which had always meant life for her. She lost every reason to live, but the fire of her stubbornness is blazing hard, keeping her alive and eating her from inside at the same time.

Wayward Nun - Jolan (F)

She is a strange sight. Dressed in nun robes which covers her whole body, she also wears a gas mask which she refuses to ever take off. This woman is like a walking fortress of her own, cutting off every direct contact with the outer world. She barely speaks, preferring simple gestures, or rather, not communicating at all. You don't know what she looks like, what she sounds like, but here's one thing you know for sure: guilt is seeping through every crack of her thick defense.

Demo - TBA

#interactive fiction #interactive novel #interact if #if wip #dashingdon #choice of games #hosted games #dusty meadows

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mycurrent-hyperfixation · 2 years

Text

The Pizza Girl: Eddie Munson x Reader (One-Shot)

Summary: Surfer Boy Pizza’s expansion into Hawkins brings delicious delivered pizzas to Eddie Munon’s front door. It apparently also brings a very attractive delivery driver that might also happen to be Eddie’s past crush.

Masterlist

Word Count: 5.5k

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Reader

Tags: fluff

A/N: The stage of grief I am currently in after watching vol. 2 is denial so Eddie shall live on in all my fics. This takes place after vol. 2 where everyone is HAPPY and SAFE and ALIVE and I will hear no criticisms cause idc. Go check out my last fic The Record Store cause I’m still completely obsessed with it and more people need to read it. Also big shoutout to @alicetweven for being the first person to ask to be on the taglist. Thanks for the support lovely. If anyone else wants to be on it lmk. Enjoy!

Surfer Boy Pizza’s conquest across America reached Indiana in the summer of 1986. 

Whilst such an expansion was expected, their latest branch in the small town of Hawkins was viewed as quite the unfavourable choice of location. Hawkins was quiet, Hawkins was quaint, and the last time a major conglomerate chose Hawkins to expand, it ended in a mall fire.  

Eddie Munson, however, was simply happy to be able to order pizza delivered to the trailer park.  

The day was hot; so painstakingly hot that Eddie could not quite fathom wearing clothes. He wore his swimming shorts partly for modesty—he did have guests over after all—and partly because Dustin and Lucas had managed to find a small paddling pool that he was currently lazing within. He barely fit, his legs hanging predominantly over the side, but the contraption at least succeeded in cooling him down. 

“Shove over, Munson. I’m melting out here,” Dustin whined.

Eddie opened his eyes and glanced at Dustin over the rim of his sunglasses.  

“Patience is a virtue, little Henderson,” Eddie responded before closing his eyes once more, laying his head back against the plastic rim. 

Dustin, unsatisfied, simply forced his way into the pool, shoving Eddie to the side until he practically fell out. Water spilled over the rim as Eddie steadied himself before turning to glare at Dustin.

“I’m hungry,” Mike whined from the shade of Eddie’s trailer porch. The younger boy seemed to burn so easily that it was simply common sense to slather him in sunscreen, wrap him in a towel and confine him to the limits of the shade.  

“That sounds like a you problem, Wheeler,” Eddie lazily mumbled. 

“We should get pizza!” Lucas exclaimed. 

“Yes!” Max agreed. 

“With who’s money?” Eddie questioned. 

“Well, you do owe me $20,” Dustin said. 

“Since when?” 

“Since you bet that I couldn’t roll two twenties in a row last week at hellfire.” 

Eddie, remembering the event, groaned dramatically.  

“I told you not to doubt my skills,” Dustin added. 

“Yeah, yeah whatever. You’re ordering though.”

“Lucas, go inside and order,” Dustin said. 

“Why do I have to do it?” 

“Because I’m wet.” 

Lucas groaned before begrudgingly getting up from the lawn chair he had been lazing within and made his way inside.  

“No pineapple,” Mike ordered as Lucas passed him on the porch. 

“No more than two pizzas!” Eddie hastily called. “And get me something with a lot of meat on it.” 

As Lucas disappeared into the trailer, Eddie laid back within the paddling pool and sighed. He could feel the skin on his face growing hot but he could not quite bring himself to get up and apply more sunscreen. He wasn’t quite sure when Lucas came back nor how much time had passed since he ordered. The sun was causing his eyes to feel droopy and his breathing to become deeper, the cool touch of the water around him lapping against his skin. He was quite certain that at some point during his relaxation he must have fallen asleep, for one moment the sun was blaring against his eyelids, and the next they were shrouded in shadow. Eddie opened his eyes slowly.

Eddie told himself that the sudden scream that erupted from his mouth was purely because he had not expected to see you. Or perhaps it was because the last of his morning joint was wearing off and it was making him jittery. Either way the interaction was wholeheartedly embarrassing as he leapt upwards, greatly disturbing the water in the pool so that soon Dustin was screaming as Eddie drenched him in the water that flew from his body. 

Eddie couldn’t tell why he was panting as he looked down at you, nor could he tell which one of the boys was snickering at him. But he could not dwell on the thought, for you were standing before him in your Surfer Boy shirt and your Surfer Boy visor and some denim shorts that gave Eddie an unobstructed view of your legs.

“I have a pizza for Munson,” you said with a smile that Eddie so very wished was not at his expense.

“Y-yes, that’s me!” Eddie hastily spoke, stepping out of the paddling pool so that he was standing before you. For just a second, he thought he saw your gaze flick down his chest, but then your eyes were looking into his once more and he dispelled the idea from his mind.

“Great,” you continued. “It’s just the Meatlovers and the Hawaiian-”

“Lucas! I said no pineapple!” Mike interjected.

“It is delicious and I’m going to make you see that,” Lucas calmly responded.

“Fruit on pizza is simply wrong and-” Mike continued.

Eddie sighed as he turned his attention back to you.

“Sorry about them,” he said, flashing a smile at you.

You smiled back brightly. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen this debate play out many times.”

“Oh?” Eddie said, quirking an eyebrow. “So what’s the verdict?”

The arguing of the boys grew louder so Eddie leaned closer to you so as to make his words clearer. A heat grew steadily up your cheeks and you hoped that the summer sun would disguise it.

“If it’s on the pizza I’ll eat it but I’m not going out of my way to have it,” you shrugged, trying to act nonchalant.

Eddie smirked. “Looks like we’re on opposite sides of this debate then.”

“Is that so?” you smirked back.

“A pizza should not be tarnished by something so colourful. Even vegetables are a stretch sometimes.”

You let out a laugh and Eddie couldn’t help but smile at it. The boys, their argument having slowly dwindled away, turned their attention to you and Eddie.

“So I take it the Meatlovers is for you then?”

Eddie leaned ever so slightly closer until he was practically towering above you. “Would you like a slice?”

You smirked back, unwilling to pull away even as your heart began to race.

“We at Surfer Boy Pizza pride ourselves on the best customer service,” you said in a tone you usually reserved for more uptight customers. “I don’t think they’d appreciate me taking a slice of someone’s pizza.”

Eddie leaned down now so that he was whispering in your ear.

“They don’t have to know.”

Eddie thought for just a moment that maybe leaning so close to you was a bad idea. For surely at this proximity you were bound to be able to hear how hard his heart was thundering against his chest or were sure to notice the way his hands were shaking slightly. He could smell your perfume this close, he realised, something sweet and smoky and wholeheartedly intoxicating.

“Even if I wanted to, Munson,” you paused, smirking up as Eddie pulled away slightly to look at you. “Barbeque sauce is disgusting.”

Eddie couldn’t quite help the strangled gasp that escaped from his throat, his hand flying to his chest in shock as he flung himself dramatically back from you. A large smile spread across your lips as you tried to stifle a laugh.

“Blasphemy!” Eddie cried so loudly that a couple who were lounging outside their caravan several lots away looked over in concern. “Guys, she must be a witch. We’ll have to burn her at the stake.”

The laugh that you were stifling finally erupted from your throat; so sincere, so genuine and so breathtakingly beautiful that Eddie felt the air suddenly leave his lungs as he simply looked at you. Your hair was tied up, most of it swept back by your Surfer Boy visor, yet with a few strands having come loose to frame your face elegantly. The sun, which now hung lower in the sky, cast a warm glow across your skin that had Eddie itching to reach out and brush his hand along the curve of your jaw.

“Well that’ll be $15.50,” you spoke up, your brows slightly furrowed at Eddie’s change in demeanour.

“Oh, r-right,” Eddie stuttered, a deep blush coming up to cover his cheeks. “Lucas could you run inside and grab my wallet?”

“What am I? The butler?” Lucas groaned as he begrudgingly got up from his lounge chair once more.

“So, Eddie, how’s life now that you’re graduated?”

Eddie’s gaze shot up towards you, his brows furrowing deeply.

“You-” he hesitated. “You remember me?”

“Of course I do,” you said, your voice so serious and so sincere that Eddie’s breath hitched within his throat. “Do you remember me?”

Eddie let out a scoff in surprise. “Are you serious?

Eddie could not quite fathom the question. You; who was known around Hawkins as one of the nicest people. You; who was friends with everyone. You; who had never once called Eddie Munson a freak, who had never once not looked upon him and smiled, who had—many times before—defended him and those like him against rude comments and mean statements.

You; quite possibly the most beautiful person Eddie had ever seen.

“How could I forget you? You were like the knight in shining armour that defended us freaks.”

“Don’t call yourself that,” you responded instantly.

Eddie opened his mouth to respond but before he could utter any words something hard collided with his chest. He reached out instinctively to catch it as it fell, only to find his wallet clutched within his hands. He looked up and glared at Lucas who at least had the decency to look slightly apologetic.

Eddie pulled out $20 and held it out towards you. The transaction was awkward as you tried to take the money from him whilst also passing him the pizzas which had begun to grow cold in your hands. In the end Eddie made contact with your arm twice and your hand three times, each touch causing his heart to jump just a little.

When the transaction was complete the two of you continued to stand, neither quite knowing what to say.

“You...uh,” Eddie hesitated, casting his gaze to the ground. “You can keep the change…for your tip.”

“Thanks,” you said.

There it was, your smile was back.

“Well I should probably head out. I’ve got other deliveries to make,” you said after a long silence had lingered between the two of you.

“Y-yeah, of course! Don’t let me keep you.”

You smiled up at him.

“Don’t be a stranger, Munson.”

Eddie’s breath hitched in his throat.

And then you were walking away and Eddie couldn’t quite seem to quell the disappointment he felt at the sight of it. He watched on as you hopped back into your car, wasting no time in turning the key in the ignition. Before you left however, you turned to face Eddie one last time to flash him a smile and to offer him a wave. Eddie, wishing his hands were not full of pizzas, was unable to wave back but smiled nonetheless.

And then even when your car had retreated down the road, even when he could no longer see your figure in the front seat, he could not quite seem to bring himself back to reality.

“How could I forget you?” Mike mocked as Lucas and Dustin burst out laughing.

Eddie turned to them, a violent blush creeping onto his features as he scowled at the boys.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, throwing the pizzas down onto the porch of the trailer.

“Wait was that Y/N L/N?” Dustin questioned.

“Yeah,” Eddie said back cautiously.

“The Y/N L/N that you had a huge crush on last year?” Dustin added, a wicked smile creeping onto his features.

“Shut up.”

“You should have asked her out,” Max said.

“Yeah I think she was kinda into whatever version of flirting you were doing,” Lucas added.

“I was not flirting.”

“Well whatever it was,” Dustin said. “You did make her laugh a lot.”

“That, dear Henderson, is because I’m hilarious,” Eddie responded, a smile curling his lips upwards. He turned his attention back to Lucas. “And she was working, Sinclair. She’s probably that nice to all of her customers.”

“We should order something else!” Max blurted out. “You know, to make her come back.”

“Why? So Eddie can scream again when he sees her?” Mike responded.

Eddie glared at him.

“Just pass me a goddamn slice.”

---

Eddie and his uncle did not often receive phone calls at their trailer.

That was at least what Eddie told himself as a way to justify how much he jumped at the sound of the phone ringing. With a sigh, he unfolded himself from his comfortable position on the couch and made his way over to the landline.

“Hello?”

“Eddie!” Dustin screamed excitedly so that Eddie had to pull the phone hastily away from his ear. “Good, you’re home.”

“Where else would I be?” Eddie questioned, and then before Dustin could answer, asked suspiciously, “Why do you care?”

“N-no reason,” Dustin stammered. “Have you seen Y/N again yet?”

Eddie furrowed his brows at the question.

“Where on earth would I have seen her?”

“I don’t know, I thought maybe you had manned up and went to ask her out.”

Eddie sighed, bringing one hand up to rub at his eyes.

“Did you seriously call me just for this?”

Eddie could hear something being mumbled, as if someone were far away from the phone.

“Who are you with?” Eddie asked suspiciously.

“N-no one!” Dustin hastily replied. “I gotta go, Eddie. My, ugh, my mom’s calling me.”

“Wait, but-”

Dustin hung up.

Eddie groaned and put the phone back on the receiver slightly harder than was strictly necessary. He reclaimed his seat upon the couch and turned the movie he had been watching back on.

As the movie progressed, Eddie could feel the lids of his eyes growing heavier. He struggled to force them back open every time they closed, trying to concentrate back on the television but failing miserably. Eddie’s eyes closed once more and this time he did not fight to open them. Instead, he let his head fall comfortably onto the pillow behind him as his breathing grew deeper.

Eddie practically jumped out of his skin as a loud knock resounded throughout the trailer. His heart pounded loudly in his chest, his breaths ragged as he brought one hand up to rub at his face in an attempt to wake himself up more.

“Dustin!” Eddie shouted as he hauled himself back off the couch. He made his way begrudgingly to the door. “I swear to god if you’ve come to give me more cryptic messages, I’ll-”

Eddie closed his mouth swiftly as he opened his front door to find you standing on his porch, the lights from inside his trailer the only thing illuminating you within his doorway.

“Pizza for Munson,” you said with a smile, your brows slightly furrowed at Eddie’s shocked expression.

For some time, Eddie could not quite bring himself to speak. His heart was racing once more, but it was no longer from shock or anger. He knew in that moment that he must look ghastly; hair mused from sleep, pyjama pants topped with his hellfire shirt. But your expression did not shift from a smile, and for that Eddie was immensely grateful.

Finally, Eddie thought it quite pertinent that he should say something.

“I, ugh,” he stammered, trying to collect his thoughts. “I didn’t order a pizza.”

The smile dropped from your features as you furrowed your brows deeper.

“No, I swear it’s for this address.”

You hastily opened the bag that held the pizzas inside and ruffled around for the slip of paper that contained the order. Once having found it, you scanned its contents hastily.

“Ha!” you said triumphantly. “One pizza for Eddie Munson at the Forest Hills Trailer Park.”

You turned the docket around so that Eddie could read it. Eddie leant forward, squinting in the darkness.

“Hmmm,” Eddie hummed. “It would appear you’re right. Maybe I’ve started ordering pizzas in my sleep.”

You tilted your head back as you let out a laugh. Eddie’s heart skipped slightly at the sight of it.

“I can take it back if you don’t want it,” you said.

“Woah-woah-woah, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Eddie hastily said. “What kind of pizza is it?” Eddie leaned forwards even further, trying to pry open the lid of the bag that you still held upon your hip. You pulled it away.

“Nope. You’ll have to pay first,” you said back with a smile.

“Is it Surfer Boy Pizza protocol to withhold critical information from a customer?” Eddie said, smirking as he leaned over you.

“I don’t think the protocol covers sleep-ordering pizzas.”

Eddie couldn’t quite stop the laugh that erupted from him. When he looked down upon you once more, his smile grew slightly wider at the sight of your cheeky grin.

“Well, you’ve intrigued me now. Let me grab my wallet.”

Eddie turned around but hesitated before he disappeared through the door. He looked over his shoulder at you, not quite trusting himself to turn back around lest you see the small blush that was creeping onto his features.

“You can, ugh,” Eddie hesitated. “You can come in if you want. You’ll melt out here and I’ve got a fan going so it’s a bit cooler inside.”

You smiled up at Eddie’s figure in the doorway.

“Okay,” you said before traversing the porch and following Eddie inside.

Eddie had initially thought the invitation to be a good idea—a great one even—for it would succeed in prolonging his interaction with you. But upon re-entering his home he quickly came to the realisation that he had in no way prepared his trailer for the presence of a guest. The small table that sat in front of the television was littered with glasses and plates, the dishes in the sink balanced precariously high.

And yet although he wholeheartedly regretted his decision to invite you in, his stomach twisting in embarrassment, when Eddie turned back around to apologise for the mess he found you simply staring right back at him, a beautiful smile spread across your lips. His breath hitched in his throat, and for just a moment he forgot what exactly he was meant to be doing.

“Wallet?” you questioned with a smile after Eddie had lingered confusedly for several seconds.

“Wallet!” he exclaimed, his blush deepening. “Right, sorry.”

You watched on as Eddie scrambled around the trailer in search of his wallet, a soft smile encompassing your features. After Eddie had reappeared from his bedroom for the third time with no success, he quickly stuttered, “Y-you, ah, you can take a seat if you like. Sorry. I swear I left it in my jeans but it’s not there.”

Eddie promptly disappeared back into his bedroom as you took a tentative seat upon the couch. You sunk in further than you expected, surprised at how comfortable the furniture was. It smelt vaguely of smoke mingled in with whatever cologne Eddie wore and it altogether had you feeling quite tired. You leant your head back and closed your eyes briefly.

Eddie was quite certain that his wallet had been in the jeans he had unceremoniously thrown on the floor that afternoon. But after checking the pockets—and every other pair of pockets in every other pair of jeans upon the floor—he felt like groaning in annoyance. He checked his bedside table, his chest of drawers, and the pockets of his leather jacket. He checked under his bed and in every drawer and even in his drug box. Lastly—partly because it was the only place yet to check and partly because he felt like throwing something—Eddie violently shoved his bedsheet up and off his bed. His head perked up when something thudded against the floor.

Just as Eddie’s eyes came to land upon his wallet which had been flung near the door and just as he was about to yell in triumph, he looked up to where he could partly see you sitting upon the couch. Slowly, he made his way towards the door, absentmindedly bending down to pick his wallet up on the way, before coming to stop in the doorway.

Eddie couldn’t quite help the smile that spread across his features at the sight of you; eyes closed, breathing soft. Your hair was tied up again today although this time you were missing the visor. It was slightly messy, stray strands falling out in places where you had been too lazy to fix it. And even though there were bags under your eyes, even though your cheeks were slightly sunburnt from so many deliveries throughout the sunny day, Eddie’s heart still skipped a beat at the sight of you.

“Long day?” Eddie questioned from the doorway of his bedroom.

Your eyes flew open as you rushed to stand up.

“Sorry!” you blurted out.

“No, no!” Eddie hastened to say. “It’s fine. Really. Make yourself at home.”

“No, I’m sorry, that’s so weird. I’m here to deliver your pizza not nearly fall asleep on your couch!” you began to ramble.

“Y/N,” Eddie closed the distance between you, bringing his hands up to rest upon your shoulders. You turned your gaze to look at him. “It’s fine.”

You opened your mouth to say something before seeing the look on Eddie’s face and hesitatingly closing it once more. You continued to stare up at him, seemingly unable to tear your gaze away from his. It was only when Eddie’s hand outstretched towards you that you finally looked down. He was holding a $10 note.

“Oh,” you said, surprised. “Right.” You took the cash from his hand.

“So do I finally get to know what it is that I apparently ordered?” Eddie asked with a smirk, easing some of the tension from your body.

“I didn’t tell you before because I knew you wouldn’t pay if you knew what it was,” you responded, unable to stop your own smile that spread across your lips.

“No,” Eddie said, his smile fading, his face suddenly scared. “Please don’t tell me it’s-”

Eddie bent down to extract the pizza from the bag, instantly flipping the lid of the box up. He let out a dramatic groan.

“Not Hawaiian!”

Your smile grew wider.

“I did think the order was odd when it came through.”

“You should have known me better, L/N,” Eddie said turning his attention back to you as he placed the pizza upon the coffee table. “You should have known that I was obviously being held against my will and to call the police immediately since someone was impersonating me.”

You tilted your head back and laughed.

“Next time you order anything with even a vegetable on it I’ll be sure to bring in the military.”

Eddie leaned in with smirk. “Good girl.”

He wasn’t too sure why he said it nor when he had actually made the decision to do so. It was as if the words fell from his mouth of their own volition, lingering in the air between you, echoing relentlessly around the room. A violent blush crept up to Eddie’s features and yet he did not turn away. For just a moment he thought he saw a similar heat appear upon your cheeks. You were close now, closer than you had realised as Eddie looked down upon you. A silence engulfed the two of you; so thick and palpable in the air that it made it hard to breathe.

“I should...ugh,” you practically whispered. “I should leave you to your pizza.”

“You should, um,” Eddie breathed back. “You should stay. Help me eat this monstrosity.”

Neither of you moved as Eddie waited with bated breath for your response. When it was not provided instantly, Eddie couldn’t quite help the pit of disappointment that erupted within his stomach. He turned his head away.

“But you probably have to get back to work. Sorry, that was a stupid suggestion.”

“No,” you hastily responded. “No,” you said again, slower this time, “You were my last delivery of the night...so...I’ve got time.”

Eddie tried to stop the smile that threatened to erupt onto his features. He did not succeed. Unceremoniously and quite ungracefully, Eddie threw himself backwards onto the couch. The sudden movement startled you slightly until you couldn’t help but laugh at the boy before you. Eddie patted the spot on the couch next to him encouragingly.

“Great! I need someone to help me pick off the pineapple anyway.”

You laughed slightly as you took the seat next to Eddie, misjudging the distance between the armrest and the boy so that your leg brushed against his. However, you did not move away.

“I will do no such thing,” you said as Eddie leaned forward to swivel the box before you, opening the lid with a flick of his wrist.

“So I offer you half my pizza and you won’t even help me make it edible?” Eddie said, turning back to look at you with a smile.

“Nope,” you responded with a smirk before leaning forward, extracting a slice from the box and shoving practically half of it into your mouth, pineapple and all. You were quite certain that you looked wholeheartedly unattractive in that moment—your mouth full, a stray sliver of sauce adorning your upper lip—but you could not quite bring yourself to care as Eddie scoffed at you with a smile.

“That’s disgusting,” Eddie said, and upon seeing your face drop slightly, hastily added, “I shall be removing the pineapple like a civilised person.”

Your smile returned and Eddie let out a small breath of relief. He turned back to the pizza and began slowly picking off each piece of pineapple, flicking them onto the cardboard.

“Says the person who likes barbeque sauce.”

“I refuse to respond to that, witch.”

A laugh erupted from your lips. When his half of the pizza was finally free of pineapple, Eddie removed a slice and brought it up to his lips. A silence sat between you as you ate. It was comfortable, you realised, being here with him like this.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you,” Eddie said after he had finished his slice.

“For what? Room temperature pizza?”

“No,” he said, chuckling slightly. “For high school. For...I don’t know...treating me like a human being.”

“You shouldn’t thank me for that, Eddie,” you said, the smile faltering from your features. “That’s like the bare minimum for being a decent person.”

“Well, I want to,” Eddie said back, his voice softer now as he turned on the couch to face you. “It made a difference to me and...well, I just wanted you to know that.”

“I should have done more then,” you said, mirroring Eddie’s movements so that the two of you now faced each other. His arm came up to rest on the back of the couch beside you, making him inch slightly closer. “I think we would have been good friends if I’d tried harder.”

“I always wanted to talk to you more,” Eddie breathed out. “I just never worked up the courage.”

Eddie wasn’t quite sure which one of you had inched closer, nor did he particularly care, too consumed in your scent and the way your leg was resting next to his. He was unable to bring his racing heart under control as he dug one hand into his lap to stop you from seeing how badly he was shaking.

“Was I that scary?” you responded with a smile.

“Oh yeah,” Eddie smirked back. “The scariest.”

“I never once thought that about you, you know?” you said, practically breathless.

“Is that so?”

“I always thought that behind all the hair and the rings and the satanic worshipping-”

Eddie barked out a laugh.

“I always thought you were a big softy deep down.”

Eddie looked upon you now with something very close to adoration. In that moment he was sure that he had never been seen so clearly by anyone before.

And because he was quite certain that you could read his mind anyway, he breathed out, “I always thought you were...perfect.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. Your lips were inches from Eddie’s now so that you could feel his breath brush against your nose, his scent lingering all around you. It was like the two of you were suspended in time, neither of you closing the small distance that still remained between you. Your gaze looked up from Eddie’s lips to find him staring right back at you, something dark lingering behind his eyes.

And because Eddie had spent so very long staring at you from afar and because he could not quite believe that you were sitting so close before him, he decided it was time that he did not run away for once. He was quite certain that the two of you would linger in your created limbo all night if he did not do anything, and the thought oddly terrified him.

When he leaned forwards, it was slowly, partly because he was half expecting you to pull away and partly because he simply could not bring himself to go any faster. When his lips brushed against yours, the touch was so soft and so fleeting that at first he thought he might have dreamt it. But then you were kissing him back and it was firmer, more solid, more real. You brought your hands up to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer. Eddie brought his hand that had been resting on the back of the couch up to graze along your jaw, his other hand coming to rest at your waist, itching to pull you into him.

And then he could taste you, but whether it was because he had deepened the kiss or you had, he couldn’t quite tell nor did he particularly care. You tasted so heavenly that he thought in that moment that he would never taste anything so delicious ever again. There was the saltiness of the dough, the flavour of the sauce, and just faintly, the sweetness of the pineapple which was surprisingly a very welcomed addition. Not that he would ever admit that.

You were so soft and so warm and so breathtakingly beautiful that Eddie thought if he were to wake up from a dream he would not altogether be surprised. You seemed to fit so well against him, your scent intoxicating as you consumed each other.

And then you were pulling away, panting heavily, and Eddie had to refrain himself from chasing your lips. He kept his eyes closed for just a little while longer, revelling in the memory of your lips against his. When he reopened them, he couldn’t help the smile that spread across his features at the sight of you—still there, still real—before him.

“You thought I was perfect?” you said.

Eddie furrowed his brows. “What?”

“That’s in the past tense. You don’t think it anymore?”

He could tell that you were joking, a lazy grin spread across your features.

“Well I’ve come to learn some crucial information about your opinions on barbeque sauce which are a bit of a red flag if I’m hones-”

You connected your lips to his once more, just briefly.

“I might be able to overlook that though,” Eddie whispered.

A silence lingered between you.

“I have to get back to the store before we close,” you said, smiling softly up at him as you stood up from the couch slowly.

“Can I see you again?” Eddie asked as he walked you to the door.

“I’d like that.”

You lingered on the porch as Eddie leant against the doorframe, glancing down at you with a soft smile. Turning back around, you quickly stood on the tips of your toes to connect your lips to Eddie’s one last time. He unfolded his arms and placed them firmly upon your waist, pulling you subconsciously closer towards him.

“Maybe it’s not such a bad thing you order pizzas in your sleep,” you said with a smile.

“Oh, I’m certain I didn’t order that pizza.” Eddie turned his gaze upwards to look at the trailer that sat across the dirt road. Four heads and one pair of binoculars stared at him through the open window, all four of them quickly scrambling away as Eddie looked up. “But I have a feeling I know who did.”

“Well thank them for me,” you responded.

Eddie didn’t take his eyes off of you as you descended the steps of his porch and headed to your car. His breath hitched slightly at the smile you flashed him before you drove away. It was only when your car had crested the small hill and disappeared that he finally moved, making his way down the porch steps and crossing the dirt road that separated his trailer from Max Mayfield’s.

The door was open when he tried it as he instantly burst into the trailer. Four kids ducked for cover behind the couch. Eddie chased them, his hands coming to rest upon the shirt of the curly-haired one.

“Don’t kill me!” Dustin screamed.

“Hawaiian?! Really?!”

Taglist: @alicetweven

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #stranger things #season 4 stranger things #dustin henderson #max mayfield #mike wheeler #lucas sinclair #joseph quinn #Joe Quinn #Eddie Munson fluff

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sky-kiss · 5 months

Text

A/N: Blatant Asmodeus propaganda. After betraying Raphael in the HoH to save Baldur's Gate, they steal his corpse back from Meph and entreat Asmodeus. Also. A Dracula gif. To push my agenda.

Raph x GN!Tav: A Pact Struck, A Contract Sealed

Ages have passed, and empires have risen and fallen since a mortal last attempted to bind his Aspect. Asmodeus feels a tickling in the back of his psyche, barely a drag at his near-infinite energy. His awareness fragments and then shifts, searching for the source of the petition. The words come second, the feelings first.

Desperation. Pain. A soul-deep grief. Physical hurt, too, but it's a stinging afterthought. The Lord of the Nine Hells cocks his head to the side, eyes closed. They are petitioning his avatar. They whisper in the darkness. A chill winter breeze howls around them, bowing the branches of dead trees. How fitting, he thinks, that this little creature should surround itself with such things. They wear death like a shroud.

He is not in the habit of entertaining such low-hanging fruit…but there is a touch of something in their desperation, a sweetness Asmodeus has not sampled in many years. It amuses him. And he is not above indulging his amusement—the Archdevil motions with his right hand, passing a fraction of his awareness to the Aspect. The darkness of his throne room fades in favor of a moonlit night—the sickly sweet tang of blood colors the air.

Ah, and there is his petitioner. They sit with their back pressed to an ancient white birch, skin badly frostbitten. Cania's stink lingers across their skin, brimstone and hellfire marrying together. They curl around their prize, clutching a badly mangled figure to their chest. Asmodeus hums, kneeling. Its wings are broken. So many bones shattered.

"Tell me, child." His voice is low and pleasant in the chill air, a warmth chasing along the baritone. "Do you know whose name you have called? The attention you would court?"

They nod, grip tightening on their prince. Tears cut through the mess of dirt on their skin. Crying, he thinks, and what a charming little oddity. Who shed tears for a devil? How curious. How delightful. "Lord Asmodeus, Prince of the Darkness. Lord of Lies."

"Indeed, I am. Pretty titles, aren't they?"

"I thought…" they catch themselves. Asmodeus notes the tremor in their right hand and the way they struggle to stay upright. His presence is overpowering at the best of times; the wounded little creature is fighting valiantly not to succumb to darkness, mind breaking under the weight of his Aspect's attention.

"My apologies, little one. It has been some since I treated with your kind. Allow me." He reaches out with one clawed hand, tapping his nail to the center of their forehead. The ward will protect them from the worst of it. They blink at him. "Continue, please."

Their right hand tightens in the corpse's dark hair. "My Lord, I had hoped to make a deal with you. I know…I am beneath your attention…"

"Most are. The benefit of being a god, I suppose. But it has never stopped me in the past."

Despite themself, they smile. Shuffling, the adventurer turns their burden outwards. Though badly burned, cheekbones shattered, he recognizes the features—so much of the father in the son, an agony to both parties. Mephistopheles' boy stares blankly forward—a hollow shell of himself, a waste of potential.

It pains the Prince to see so promising a resource wasted.

"I made a mistake. I…" they swallow. "There was something that had to be done. And it came at a cost. Raphael…”

"The boy is known to me, child. If I may?" They hesitate. Asmodeus forces his temper down, the air around them heating. He is a god and not in the habit of being denied. But the Hero of Baldur's Gate relents, shifting their burden into his arms. The Lord of the Ninth cups his hand over the pretender-king's mouth, his forehead. Asmodeus shuts his eyes. "Such a waste."

"Can you help him?"

"Do you doubt me, little one?" They shift back, dropping their eyes at the sharpness of his tone—a warning, barely veiled. "Mephistopheles has devoured that which he gave—the infernal. The mortal soul…is uncontested. Lost somewhere in Avernus. It could be located…for a price."

"Anything."

Asmodeus chuckles. He is not ignorant of the sudden rush of color in the little creature's cheeks or how the sound makes them avert their eyes. This guise is pleasant, after all, tall and angular and dark. The wind catches in the blackness of his hair, the long strands falling well below his shoulders. "How dearly naive. I've half a mind to take advantage of such generosity." They shiver under the force of his stare, reality undoubtedly going dark around the edges. He hums. "But…the alternative could prove a more pleasurable distraction still."

The Lord of the Ninth stands, holding out his hand. The hero, Tav, sets their palm in his. He helps them to their feet, settling his other hand on their shoulders. So close, he can feel the weight of their exhaustion and desperation rolling off them, an ambrosia. The depth of their affection for the boy-king. Interesting and useful. Asmodeus touches their cheek.

"I will treat with you, little one, and more fairly than I ought. Your dear one's potential: a few more centuries, a stern hand, and Raphael might have made a powerful piece on the board. His sire is…" Asmodeus tapped his chin. "Increasingly irrelevant. Immutable and tiresome."

Tav stares up at him, such a little thing. And there is potential there, too, the ability to warp and mold this boy-king into something suitable to his grand design. He touches their cheek with a claw. "I will give the means to locate Raphael's soul. In retrieving it, you will prove your worth and dedication. I have no use for the faint of heart. Is this clear?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Clever pet, very clever." He smiles, chucking them under the chin. "You bring the boy to my court in Nessus, where he shall be given the means to decide his fate. Is that clear?"

"Yes."

What an amusing twist of fate. He bends, collecting the Prince's mangled body in his arms. Tav looks ready to protest, to fight for their dear one (and again, how delightful; Asmodeus cannot help but feel charmed), only to remember what precisely stands before them: a god in truth, the Lord of all the Nine Hells. Asmodeus smiles at them, bowing his head. "I shall keep him for you, little one. You have my oath. Collect his soul, and we will meet again."

He leaves them without another word, a touch of the dramatic, a hint of mystery to whet their palette. Asmodeus inspects the corpse in his arm.

Sweet Prince, broken and bloodied.

Asmodeus will make him whole again.

#bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #d & d asmodeus #asmodeus #my writing #bg3 fanfiction #longfic #by tumblr standards #Tav: i sacrificed my loved for the greater good #Asmodeus: Cool story fam would you like to go on a quest to get him back? We stan some love. Like. For my own gain but.#raphael x durge #Gonna fight the desire to make this a whole ass story lol

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asumofwords · 8 months

Text

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Hello my babies!!!! Holy fuck. Wow. I actually can't believe it. I may or not be crying a lil bit because here we are. Here is the final chapter of Smoke, Fire and Ash (besides the Epilogue that is coming tomorrow!). I really can't believe it. This has been such an insane journey to be on. I started writing this fic for my best friend, just emailing her updates, and then she convinced me to post online, so in January (thats how long this thing has been going lol) I started posting with you all!!!

I really cannot thank you guys enough for all the continuous love and support you have given me with this fic. All the memes and laughs and theories and messages, I have absolutely adored talking to you all and getting to share this with you! ARGHHH. I could say so much more, but I shant.... nay.... I wont. haha, so again, thank you all so much, and I hope that when the Epilogue is posted tomorrow, that we can all close this story together neatly! Can't wait to keep writing new stories for you all.

ENJOY! <3

FINAL CHAPTER 109: Through Smoke, Fire and Ash

There was no singular way to describe how you were feeling.

No singular way to explain the confusion of grief and both elation that swirled within you. You supposed, this was how Rhaenyra must have felt when she had her hasty coronation on Dragonstone.

How does one see the light when they are shrouded in so much darkness?

How is one supposed to smile through all the losses?

Because the shadows outweighed it all, much heavier than the Conquerors Crown you had worn, the weight of the world sitting atop your shoulders and spine, pushing down on your vertebrae with a force that could buckle your knees. One wrong shift and the fragility of your bones and muscle may cause it to crack, collapsing beneath you.

It had been days and yet, it still felt as though it was yesterday when you had driven your dagger into his neck. You could still feel the way it had felt when it pushed through his muscles and tendons, how his body had resisted it. How he had tensed beneath you jolting, how his eye had opened wide in pain and shock.

How he had looked at you.

How it had smelt, the iron of the blood on your hands, your body, in your hair.

All of it.

And at times, during those days that passed you, you would wake in a cold sweat, drenched in perspiration as you dreamt of doing it over and over. Dreamt of watching the light fade from his eyes. Dreamt of the smell, the blood.

And each time you would wake, tears falling down your cheeks and heart rattling against your ribs, your eyes would fall to your hands and a small cry of horror would leave your lips.

Each time, your hands were covered in his blood.

The first few nights that it happened, you would race to the basin beside the bed, desperate to wash the blood away, clawing at your skin with your nails as you scrubbed them raw, sobbing loudly in the chambers.

And each time, Ser Darke at your door would alert the Queen, and Rhaenyra would rush to your chambers in her nightgown, gripping your hands as they dripped with water, not blood, and would whisper to you that it was okay, that it was over, that you were clean.

Each time she would pull you away from the basin, hands raw and sometimes bleeding from your own nails, and would take you to bed, laying down first to clutch your head against her chest as she would hold you, and you would sob.

But after the eighth night of your new and horrifying routine, you woke and looked at your hands.

Blood again.

But this time you did not scream, this time you did not race to the basin to try and wash it away. This time you sat up against the back of the bed and stared at your hands until the sun had risen into the sky, and the maids came to get you ready for the day.

And it was much the same.

For many days after.

You would dine with your family, and there he would be, in the corner of your eye watching you.

Always watching you.

And each time that his shadow would catch your eye, you would know to not react when your eyes would catch glance of your hands, covered in his blood once more.

As though he was punishing you.

Your mother and father, if you suspected that she had told him, were the only ones to know about your crumbling stability. But as the days passed, and almost a moon had turned, it got better.

Easier.

You could now look at your hands without recoiling, and some nights you would not dream of him. Some nights you would not dream at all, and would sleep the entire night through.

And when you did wake up, the smell of blood beneath your nose, you would hold your stomach, the smallest of swells beginning to show, and soothe the skin with your palm, hushing the babe inside of you as you whispered to yourself that it was all okay.

But by the time the moon had turned, you had begun to make your peace with it. Begun to understand that this was your penance for such horrors. That this would be your atonement for what you had done.

A punishment that you would not deny.

This morning however, was different.

Today you would put on a brave face for the realm, not just for your family, who treated you with with such exceptional kindness and patience that it often brought you to tears.

Today the mask of impassivity, the mask of strength and triumph would be slipped over your face for all to see. As was your duty. As was always your duty.

Saria and Aella brushed their gentle hands into your hair as they braided it back against your skull in intricate twists and weaves that lifted it from the nape of your neck completely, whilst Joanna and Amala tended to tightening your gown at the back.

Your reunion with your two maids had been a tearful event, but smiles were shared after all eyes were red and raw from broken sobs and shared stories, minor tales of survival.

You held your hands at your front, observing yourself in the vanity of your old chambers, unwilling to enter Aemond’s again, not knowing if the stench of blood and memory of the past would be the last thread to be pulled, and your crumbling resolve would snap, and you would be lost to madness like Helaena had been, the weight of it all sinking you into the ground.

The necklace in your hands had warmed in your palms and fingertips, as you pressed the pad of your thumb into the chain, feeling each ridge of the Valyrian steel beneath it, using it to ground you, attempting to count each notch in the chain to help quell the rising tide within.

When Saria and Aella finished their braiding, they moved to place the headpiece atop your hair.

It had been old, far older than you or your parents.

The Valyrian steel had been a relic, a thick band that wrapped around your skull like a crown, that then had four similar bands that smoothed over the top of your scalp, meeting at the top of your head.

Pressed into the Valyrian steel were round and square cut rubies, and dragon glass all the way along its surface, glimmering in the light, with small coils of gold that were nestled between each jewell. Three emeralds were newly laid amongst the rest, one at each point at your temple, and the last at the back of your head.

It was not heavy like the Conquerors Crown, but it had a weight to it, pressing down onto your head as the girls adjusted it to fit. Adjusted it to look weightless. But there was the invisible weight of it too, and that squeezed at your ribs causing you to be breathless.

Saria moved to stand in front of you, looking at the chain that you held in your palm.

“Your Grace, might I?” She asked, a hand reaching out to offer to put the necklace on.

You nodded at her and gave her a small, yet stiff smile as she took it from your grasp, watching yourself in the mirror as she came to move behind you, hands fiddling with the clasp as she draped it across your neck.

The gown you wore was the last piece Aemond had made for you, and one you had not worn yet. But today you would. Today you would carry him with you as you took yourself down to the throne room.

It was a deep red, almost the colour of blood when it would begin to dry, with gold and black dragons and flames embroidered at the cuffs of your wrists, making their way up your forearm. The bodice of the dress was tight, and in its centre, a gold, beaded dragon, marked with black shivering beads that looked like scales.

A homage to the first dragon you had claimed, and lost.

From each shoulder, sat a large golden clasp, holding a set of three chains that hung across the neck. But they were not usual chains, instead, they were made to look like stems from a rose bush, pointed thorns all around its length, sharp and menacing.

Placed atop the gown by the help of Joanna and Amala sat the black and gold cloak your mother had worn many years ago for her coronation. It still smelt of her.

Saria finished clasping the necklace at the back of your neck, and stepped back, all the maids looking over you one last time to ensure that you were perfect.

They deduced that you were.

From behind you in the mirror, you could see the figure of Jacaerys as he entered your chambers, adorned in a vision of red and black, the colours of your House.

You spun to look at him, his eyes roaming over your body with the softest of smiles on his lips. His hair had been brushed back and away from his face, curly brown locks tucked behind his ears by small falling braids, gold clasps at their ends to hold them together.

“You were born for this.” He whispered, stepping towards you to take your hands in his, “Are you ready?” His thumbs brushed against your knuckles softly as he watched you.

You swallowed.

Were you ready?

Would you ever be?

No.

But you had to be.

“Yes.” You lied.

His large calloused hand moved to cup your face before pressing a kiss to your cheek lovingly, a habit that he had inherited from your mother, and something that he no doubt pressed against Baela’s furrowed brows and cheeks when needed.

Jacaerys' gaze dropped to your neck, and then back to your face as he blinked but said nothing, instead offering an arm to you to walk down together.

Resting against your neck, warmed by gentle hands that had held it, atop the cloak for all to see, was the necklace that Aemond had given Alys.

That your mother and father had then given to you.

And which you had plucked the emeralds from, not wishing to wear them around your neck, instead placing them within the piece that sat atop your head. A reminder.

At the centre of the Valyrian steel, the chain flush against you, was a steel dragons claw that hung from its centre, and in its grip a large spherical sapphire.

Taken from the ashes, as a reminder, as a lasting piece that you could have and hold.

The last piece of him.

Aemond’s eye.

"Shall we?”

You looped your arm in his and made your way down to the Iron Throne chambers together. Always together. Through thick and through thin, you shared the blood of Old Valyria, and the both of you had shared a womb, nothing could seperate you.

Your hand pressed against your necklace as you walked, feeling the weight of it with every step. Feeling his presence despite not being visible to your eye.

It helped to calm you strangely, helped to give you strength, to give you some sort of hope and feel as though he approved. You hoped that he would. You thought that he would.

He would.

In no time at all, you stood before the two large doors at the entrance to the Iron Throne. Jacaerys stilled, unlinking his arm from yours as he brushed his sweaty palms against his robes. Another habit the two of you shared.

You frowned at him, worry beginning to burrow itself in your chest. You stepped forward to cup his face in both hands, “Do you hate me? For what I am about to do?”

Jacaerys' lips pulled into a lopsided grin, hands coming to grasp yours, “I could never, not now, or in any other lifetime, come to hate you. You are my sister, and I have always held firmly in my beliefs that it should be you to sit the Iron Throne. How could I hate you for taking something that was never to be mine?”

You felt your eyes well with tears, relief pouring from you.

Jacaerys shook his head softly as he chuckled, towering over you, “Don’t cry. You’ll look a mess.”

A laugh bubbled up your throat and you tapped his cheek lightly.

“They’re waiting for me. Actually, waiting for you.” He breathed, stepping back, looking at you one last time as his fingers brushed the necklace, touching the orb that sat against your chest.

Jacaerys breathed deeply as he looked at it, gnawing at it his lip as he held it softly.

You watched his face as he thought for a moment, eyebrows twitching, but then breathed his thought aloud.

"He would be proud.”

You could tell it had taken a lot of Jacaerys to say that.

And yet he did.

You blanched, and the tears that you had tried to hold at bay trickled down your cheeks, hot trails dripping down onto the stones below.

Jacaerys frowned, head dipping down to your level, “Please don’t cry. Mother will have my head.”

You chuckled wiping the tears away with the back of your hand.

“Away with you then, the sight of you brings me to tears.” You half laughed and half sobbed.

Your brother swiped up a stray tear that had escaped your eyes before he gave a deep and mocking curtsey to you, his curly brown hair flopping against the sides of his face, “At once, Your Grace.” And with that, Jacaerys slinked into the chambers, announced loudly by Ser Erryk inside.

The doors shut behind him as you heard the crowd inside slowly quieten. You straightened your posture, heart beating against your chest with every breath.

But there would be no waiting, nor halting of what was to come. No moment of stilling for just a breath more to catch your bearings. Because if life had taught you anything, it was that the world does not slow for anyone, and it shall continue to move forward without you, even if you are trapped in the past.

And so forward, you went.

The doors were pulled open, and you felt each and every eye in the throne room turn to you. All Lords and Ladies from across the realm, Heads of their Houses and knights, watching as you made your way towards them. But your eyes were solely on your parents.

Queen Rhaenyra was seated upon the Iron Throne, dressed head to toe in black and red, gold crown of her father, the crown of King Jaehaerys before him, seated atop her skull and pride in her eyes.

Your father, King Consort Daemon Targaryen, stood at the bottom of the throne, hands in front of him as he grinned ear to ear, watching as you descended the stairs and walked towards them.

Atop his head, the Conquerors Crown.

Just as you had told him to wear.

‘This is yours now.’ You had told him, and he had argued, but you had insisted, ‘Return it to me when I sit the Throne.'

“Princess Y/n Velaryon, First of her Name, Daughter of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.” Ser Erryk’s voice boomed into the chambers, and you had to suck in a stiffening breath as you felt pangs of fear wind through you.

It was almost like the days you had been brought before Aegon, the strange feeling of remembrance racing through you icily. Remembering how it had felt to be presented to this throne twice before.

But it wasn’t the same.

There was no danger here, only love, and care, and trust. But this did not stop your mind from racing, or your heart from jumping in your chest as you stood before your mother, looking up at her.

Rhaenyra looked out at the sea of Lord and Ladies who stood in the Hall, all having travelled from their lands to come to the Red Keep for you.

All who had sworn themselves to her.

All who were willing to do it all again.

“Let all who stand here today, who have travelled across the Seven Kingdoms, who have sailed the seas and ridden to Kings Landing,” Her voice boomed across the room, steady and even, “Bear witness to the naming of Princess Y/n Velaryon as my successor for the Iron Throne.”

You smiled softly at your father before turning around to face the room, looking out at all who stood present, and had come to declare for your mother.

For you.

Some faces you recognised, others you did not. House sigils were pressed or stitched into robes and cloaks or armour, House colours adorned on shoulders and skirts. Men and woman of all kinds filled the chambers of the Iron Throne ready to swear their fealty.

Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys were the eyes you found first, standing at the front with your half sister Princess Rhaena beside them. All had their heads towards you, Rhaena grinning widely, whilst Rhaenys dipped hers in a subtle nod, the tiniest of smiles on her lips.

Lord Corlys however, did not smile, nor nod, but looked at you in appraisal. In pride. He had always treated you as his granddaughter, and despite you knowing the truth about Laenor, it did not take away that he had been a father to you, and Corlys, a grandfather.

At the sides of the chambers, your brothers stood and watched, and it took everything within you to not cry as one head of brown was missing.

You swallowed thickly as Rhaenyra continued.

“Your loyalty to the true heir of the Iron Throne has not been forgotten. Your sacrifices to regain the throne are not forgotten. All Lords and Ladies who stand before the throne today have shown their loyalty, bravery, and defiance in the face of turncloaks and usurpers. Have shown support of my cause, and my claim as the rightful heir and ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. So today,” She breathed behind you, “I, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, ask that you to do so again. Pledge fealty to the throne and its rightful heir before the Old Gods and the New. Promise your faith, and know that if it is broken, there will be no mercy given to those who go against it.”

You breathed again, feeling your hands begin to sweat.

This was all you had ever wanted.

This was all that you had ever dreamed of.

But there was so much missing from it.

So many missing.

It was a dream that you had thought was lost. Gone with the marriage, gone with Lucerys. Gone to Jacaerys. Gone with the war.

But here you were, before the eyes of the Heads of the realms Houses, having your succession be named before the Gods, and their fealty sworn to you.

“Step forth now, and make the pledge.”

The first to move, was the silver locks of Lord Corlys Velaryon. He moved with no hesitancy, with a speed that had rivalled all others, moving to stand before you, slowly lowering himself to his knee as he bowed his head.

Ser Erryk announced him to all present, “Lord Corlys, of House Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark.”

Corlys lifted his head to look at you, his deep voice moving through the chambers, “I, Lord Corlys Velaryon, Lord of the Tides and Master of Driftmark, promise to be faithful to Queen Rhaenyra and her named heir, the Princess Y/n. I pledge fealty to them, and shall defend them against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the Old Gods and New.” The Lord stood, moving back to his wife and granddaughter, where he kept his eyes upon you, a small nod tipped towards you and the throne.

Warmth bloomed in your chest as you smiled at him softly. He was still, in your eyes, your grandfather.

The elder Lord Staunton was next, stepping forward to the middle of the aisle of people, bending his knee down slowly until it rested against the stones, bowing his head.

“Lord Simon Staunton, Lord of Rooks Nest, and Head of House Staunton.”

“I, Lord Simon Staunton, Lord of Rooks Nest and Head of House Staunton, promise to be faithful to Queen Rhaenyra and her named heir, the Princess Y/n. I pledge fealty to them, and shall defend them against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the Old Gods and New.”

Lord after Lord, Lady after Lady, Heads of Houses, young and old, stepped forth to kneel before you and pledge their allegiance and fealty to you, naming you as the successor to the Iron Throne.

All you could do was stand and watch, pride and vindication blooming in your chest warmly.

The last man stepped forward, but his robes were far different to those who stood amongst the rest. You watched in interest as he bent his knee.

He would be no older than Aemond had been. His hair was a dark brown, long and pulled away from his face by a clasp at the back of his head.

As he bowed to you, Ser Erryk Cargyll announced him to the throne room, voice loud behind you, icy grey eyes lifting to meet yours.

“Lord Cregan Stark, Wolf and King of the North, Lord of Winterfell and Head of House Stark.”

Lord Cregan Stark had a long face, not in the way that Aemond had, but Cregan’s thicker, and fuller. Cheeks wider and more muscular, and lips that were dutifully kept still. Furs lined the neck of his robes, and large silver wolf heads clasped it together in a chain at the front.

“I, Lord Cregan Stark, Wolf and King of the North, Lord of Winterfell and Head of House Stark,” His was voice was deep and smooth, his accent lilting upon every word he spoke, “Promise to be faithful to Queen Rhaenyra and her named heir, the Princess Y/n. I pledge fealty to them, and shall defend them against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the Old Gods and New.”

The entire time he spoke, he kept his eyes on you.

You blinked as he stood, towering taller than most men in the room, and watched as he moved back to his place, feeling a pull towards him in your chest.

There was no denying that he was handsome, a certain roguishness to him that only men in the North had. His shoulders were broad, and he looked to be a seasoned swordsman with large hands that he clasped at his front.

He did not smirk at you as Aemond would have when he caught you staring, and instead bowed his head out of curtesy and respect.

You swallowed and looked away, turning to finally face your mother, who sat upon the throne, crown atop her silver hair, and large blade at her side, hand rested on top of the hilt. She looked down at you with bright and violet eyes.

You bowed your head to her, momentarily looking down at the stones, where stains of red sat beneath your feet.

It was clear there had been an attempt to scrub it free, but the blood of Aegon Targaryen had sat at the foot of the throne for too long, and its viscousness had sunk deep into the porous stone.

When you lifted your eyes back to your mother Rhaenyra, she stood, looking out at all those present. All who had stayed loyal, all who had sworn their loyalty again. To the Houses that had sacrificed men in the battle for the throne, a mere moon before. To the Houses who had stayed true to their loyalty.

And then, to you.

To the one person who had made it happen. To the one person who ensured her seat. Months in waiting, months of torture and depravity. Months of sheer will to complete what she had started.

The realm knew you as many things.

The People’s Princess. The Bastard Princess. Survivor at Storms End. The Merciless. The Realms Despair. The Kinslayer. The Claimer of Two. King Maker. Queen Consort. Wife to the One-Eyed King. The Broken Queen.

King Slayer.

Queen Maker.

And a Queen for a Day.

But now you would be known as something that was rightfully, birthright and earned, yours.

“I, Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, and the Roynar, and The First men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do hereby name, Y/n Velaryon, Princess of the Realm, the Heir to the Iron Throne.”

Heir to the Iron Throne.

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sixhours · 2 days

Text

Remnants

Everything that’s left of her broken dreams is standing at the counter, returning her smile.

Rated: PG Length: 1k

Notes: Post-episode for Per Manum

Originally posted on AO3 1/6/2016

~*~

The apartment is shrouded in gray when she returns, the last of her hopes printed on an appointment summary in her coat pocket. Upon seeing her face, he wishes he’d thought to turn on a light, so she wouldn’t have to come home to more darkness, his slumbering form on the couch not enough to fill this newfound emptiness.

“It didn’t take, did it?”

Disappointment shines in her eyes. Forehead to forehead, he waits until her breathing is calm to offer something more substantial than a promise, but the warmth of her skin under his fingers disarms him, gives him pause.

His hands cradle her face as their lips touch for only the second time, her arms wind around his neck like an anchor, pulling him down into her sorrowful sea.

~*~

Dr. Parenti’s delivery was kind, but she felt the news like a gunshot. It’s worse than Emily, this intangible loss. Failure hasn’t washed away the image of a young girl with auburn hair and almond eyes, or a boy with a shy, quirked smile.

She loves them, the ghosts of her unborn children and all they represented: The intimacy of family life, ringing laughter and a mantle lined with photographs.

A child’s cry cutting through the night, hushed lullabies and the love-drunk smell of a downy newborn head.

Saturday morning cartoons followed by pancakes and bacon, spilled milk and syrup-sticky fingers.

The stillness of reality plays a harsh contrast to her imagination as she listens to the silence of what could have been.

~*~

He wants to punch a hole through her pristine apartment wall. He wants to hunt down the faceless men who did this to her and kill them with his bare hands, until he’s bloody and sore and near death himself. He wants to run, to put miles and years between them, until his bad luck can’t touch her any more.

Sometimes he wishes he’d never followed when she tried to resign from the Bureau, that he wasn’t so chickenshit as to ask her to stay after paying the price for her loyalty several times over.

He’d signed away his rights, but the thing that makes his face burn and his stomach clench with shame, is that he’d wanted this for himself as much as her. Selfish bastard, he thinks. Still a chickenshit.

So he steels himself, grits his teeth and holds her until she pulls away. He takes her hand, leads her to the couch, offers to make tea.

He’ll stay, because he doesn’t have the courage to let her go.

He’ll stay, because he doesn't have the right to mourn what was never his to lose.

~*~

Mulder is opening cupboards, running water. Sleeves rolled to the elbows, he washes the dishes and waits for the kettle, then swipes at his forehead, leaving a trail of suds across one cheek. The sight brings an unexpected smile to her lips.

Her heart sinks with the enormity of her grief and the weight of too many unspoken words. Everything that’s left of her broken dreams is standing at the counter, returning her smile.

~*~

He settles on the opposite end of the couch, letting the mug warm his hands. She stares into hers for a few minutes before taking a slow sip, closing her eyes. When she opens them, she’s looking at him with an expression he’s seen only once before in real life, and too many times to count in recent fantasy.

“I love you.”

He blinks. His mouth must hang open, because she’s smiling at him now, a sad, tired smile.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she murmurs, hiding what’s left of her pride in her cup.

~*~

“What would you have done?” she asks. If it had worked, she doesn’t have to say.

“I’d have asked you on a date.”

She pauses to steady her cup on the coffee table, the tea sloshing in her startled hands. “A date?”

“You know—nice clothes, awkward conversation, an expensive wine list, at one of those places that mixes the salad dressing while you watch.”

“Really.”

“Really,” he returns, ducking his head.

“You’d ask your newly impregnated, platonic friend and colleague on an honest-to-goodness date.”

His smile is embarrassed enough to be convincing. “Yeah. I, uh…I thought…if I could give you…give you that…”

He stops, frowns. Her throat is tight when she finally breaks the silence. “Give me what?”

The tea goes cold before he can answer.

~*~

He wakes with a sore neck and Scully’s nose pressed into his hip, a throw tangled around her shoulders. The Late Late Show plays in the background, casting muted shadows on the walls.

She stirs when he stretches, blinking up at him from beneath sleep-addled lashes, as if seeing him for the first time. He wonders if this is what it’s like to hold a newborn; heart filled to bursting with terrifying awe.

“Mulder?”

“I’m here,” he murmurs, stroking the hair from her temple. “Sorry I woke you.”

“Mmph,” she says, her breath warming his abdomen through his t-shirt. “S’OK. I should get up, anyway.”

He nods in agreement, drawing his thumb gently along the plane of her cheek, but neither of them move for a long time.

~*~

She emerges from the bathroom just as he’s finished washing the mugs. Bare feet peek out from oversized silk pajamas, and she surprises herself, wrapping her arms around his waist before she can lose her nerve.

“I’ll stay, if you want,” he murmurs, and she loves him for offering so she doesn’t have to ask.

She loves him for so many reasons. Someday she’ll count the ways, line them up, and tuck them away; programmed, categorized, and easily referenced.

“I’d like that,” she says instead, words muffled by the thrum of his heart.

~*~

She fits perfectly in the circle of his arms, the way he always imagined she would. He times his breathing to the rise and fall of her chest and whispers a blessing into her hair.

“I wanted more for you, Scully.”

Her arms tighten around him, but she doesn't answer.

He holds what little hope is shared between them, and prays that it's enough.

~*~

cc @today-in-fic

#the x-files #mulder x scully #fanfic #per manum

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temptingfatetakingnames · 8 months

Text

The Last Steve Harrington Part 7

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Between one blink and the next a distortion appeared, hovering in the air in front of him. It was daylight on the other side and Eleven stepped out. She looked… different. There was a large scar above her right eye that cut across her face to her left cheek, long ago healed but still angry looking. Her clothes were baggy and her hair was short. Only her eyes were familiar as they speared into him. She was staring at him, completely awestruck.

This must be another Eleven – come looking for the last Steve Harrington.

She leapt towards him suddenly. Instinctually, he took a step back but she latched on to him and held him tightly. Her arms went around his back and clutched at his sweater with desperation. Huge gasps and sobs wracked through her small body. Unsure what else to do, Steve held her close to his chest and ran his fingers through her hair in a soothing gesture. The portal closed in front of him, shrouding them in darkness.

“Steve,” she sobbed against him. “I am so glad you lived.”

He remained silent but continued to hold her close as she let out what seemed to be an endless amount of grief. She felt too small in his arms, just skin and bones. She wasn’t eating enough. He picked her up easily and moved them both away from the edge of the cliff. Trying to set her down was hopeless as she continued to hold his sweater in a death grip so he ended up sitting on the grass with her in his lap. It took a long time for her to start calming down, her breaths starting to hitch and slow as her crying eased. He didn’t know what her Steve had done to earn such grief.

“I miss you,” she said into his chest. “I miss you so much.”

“I’m sorry, El,” he apologized on behalf of her Steve – who he knew had left her.

He hoped it was what she wanted to hear. It would be what he wanted to hear if their positions were reversed. She let out a deep breath and released the tension in her body, collapsing fully against him. They stayed like that for a few moments, Eleven resting and Steve gently rubbing her back before she sat up and wiped her eyes. When she was done, she glanced up at him with a small smile.

His eyes were drawn to her scar. He couldn’t see it well in the light of the moon but he could just make out the three lines of a claw mark. It was healed, but the skin looked tight and painful. Her hand came up to her cheek, covering it. She wasn’t smiling anymore and her eyes were down. That wouldn’t do. Steve reached for her hand and gently took it away from her face.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Demodog,” she said and shrugged like it didn’t matter.

Steve knew it did matter. A teenaged girl with a scar across her face. All the pain she went through – everything she overcame – only to have a permanent reminder of it etched into her skin. Steve knew what that felt like.

“Me too,” he said and pulled at his sweater to show her the scar on his shoulder.

He didn’t want to offer her empty platitudes. He knew it was something that she was going to struggle with. He struggled with it and his scars were mostly hidden, hers weren’t. She looked at his shoulder for a long moment before finally meeting his eyes again. He met them unflinching and a silent understanding passed between them. She nodded at him and her smile returned. After another deep breath, she crawled off his lap and sat beside him. She reached out and grabbed two of his fingers. His chest tightened.

Echoes, Dustin had said.

Steve didn’t know what to do now. Eleven had interrupted him right at the moment he was about to step off a fucking cliff and had thanked him for being alive. What was he supposed to do with that? How long was she going to stay? She seemed content to just sit beside him, but he was starting to feel jittery. He looked over at her – noticing again how small she was, she needed to eat something.

He could always kill himself later.

Decision made, he got to his feet and pulled her up using the two fingers she was still holding.

“Let’s go,” he said and started leading her down the trail.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Back to my place. I’ll make you some food.”

It was a bit of a hike from the quarry back to the Hopper-Byers’ place and if she wasn’t hungry now, she would be when they got there. As they walked, Eleven kept glancing over at him and he knew that she wanted to talk about her Steve. He just didn’t know if he had the strength to learn about another Steve Harrington so soon. How could he deny her though? Of course, she would want to talk about Steve with him. Who knew how many parallel universes she had been to looking for him?

“Tell me about him,” he finally said after they had been walking for a few minutes. He could handle it. He could handle it for her.

“Steve was –” she started and stopped. “Steve was…”

Her steps slowed as she thought of what she wanted to say.

“He took me in,” she said slowly, “when he found out I did not have a family or anywhere to go. He took me home. He made me dinner and bought me clothes and drove me to school. He was with me through everything. He protected me and cared for me. His parents were not around very often but they eventually found out about me. They told him I had to go or they would kick him out. He did not hesitate. He packed our stuff and we left together.”

“He sounds great.”

“He was the best.” She let out a little chuckle. “But he was also so stupid. He did not understand me, had no idea what he was doing most days… but he tried.”

“How did he die?” Steve asked even though he already knew the answer.

“He saved us by distracting Vecna long enough for me to kill him.”

He nodded. Another Steve dying like a hero, he expected nothing less. As they walked, he looked up at the stars and tried not to let his feelings overwhelm him. The wind rustled through the leaves and the ground crunched beneath their feet and his heart pounded loudly in his chest. Eleven had gone quiet beside him – she probably blamed herself for Steve’s death.

…Dustin probably did too. The thought hit him suddenly.

Fuck.

“It’s not your fault. You know that, right?” he asked.

She turned her head sharply to look up at him.

“He loved you. He wouldn’t want you blaming yourself – he made a choice and I’m sure if he was here now, he would tell you it was worth it. He’d want you to be happy, El.”

She didn’t seem to know what to say to that but she squeezed his fingers tighter. He knew that those feelings of guilt and blame wouldn’t just disappear for her, but he hoped his words helped a little. He thought back to the conversation he had with the kids when he first came through the portal. What had Eleven said?

Don’t you think your Eleven or your Dustin would be happy you lived? That you made it back to us?

Emotion tightened the back of his throat. Of course, they would want him to be happy. They loved him.

…Oh.

His eyes burned but he fought back the tears. He couldn’t handle this realization right now. He tried to squash down the hope that started fluttering in his chest. Stubborn thing.

“Tell me more,” he said, needing the distraction.

They talked the whole way back. Mostly about Steve, but the others popped in too. She told him stories, some that made her laugh and some that made her cry. Steve learning how to bake a cake for the day they decided was her birthday, Steve freaking out because he had to buy tampons, Steve fixing an old bike so she would have her own. Steve being an all around good… father. It blew his mind.

The house was still dark when they got back and Steve let out a relieved breath that no one woke up and realized he was gone…Again.

He turned to Eleven before he opened the door. “We gotta be quiet if you don’t want to meet your alter ego.”

“You live with me? With Eleven?”

“I live with the Hopper-Byers’ – Joyce, Hopper, Will and Eleven.”

“That sounds nice,” she said quietly.

“Who do you live with?”

She shuffled from foot to foot. “Me and Max take care of each other now. We live at the trailer park with her mom.”

Sixteen. They were only sixteen. Alarm bells started ringing in his head. Two sixteen-year-old girls living with Max’s mom – who worked too hard and wasn’t home very often – at least if she was anything like his Max’s mom.

“Eddie helps. He and Wayne have us over for dinner when Max’s mom is working.”

His shoulders sagged in relief. That was good. Eddie and Wayne would keep them safe. They would take care of them. He opened the door and led her into the kitchen. What could he cook for her that wouldn’t make a lot of noise? He hadn’t cooked anything in a long time, didn’t know Joyce’s kitchen or what was in it. He opened the fridge and stared at the ingredients like they were a puzzle that would magically form a meal if he stared at them long enough. He closed the fridge with a quiet sigh and opened the freezer. There was a box of Eggos right at the front. If there really were echoes like Dustin said, Eleven and Eggos would be one. He took them out and shook them in her direction.

Eleven smiled, big and bright, when she saw what he had. He heated them up quickly, two for each of them. He set them down on the table with a bottle of maple syrup and they dug in. They devoured their food quickly, both hungry from their long walk. He wished he could have made her a real meal, though she seemed happy enough with the Eggos. He put the dishes in the sink and then led Eleven back outside to the porch swing so they could talk without having to whisper. They sat quietly for a moment, Steve using his feet to swing them gently.

“Thank you, Steve,” she said suddenly.

He looked over at her. “For what?”

“For living.”

He stopped swinging, planting his feet firmly on the porch. He didn’t understand her gratitude, didn’t understand how his living helped her. Her Steve was still gone.

“It is enough to know that somewhere you are alive and happy… that somewhere you made it. Even if you are not with me. I will tell the others. It is enough, Steve. Thank you.” She paused for a moment, thinking.“If other Elevens come to my universe looking for you can I tell them you are here? They will want to know… and visit, too.”

Steve’s heart thundered and his pulse pounded loudly in his ears. If he said no, he would be an irredeemable asshole. If he said yes, he couldn’t kill himself. Couldn’t let an Eleven who thought he was alive and well and happy in this universe come to visit only to find out he had fucking killed himself. How many Elevens were out there looking for him right now?

Fuck.

He could say no, he could be an asshole – Eleven was looking at him intently, wide eyed and knowing. Criminal, those eyes. It should be easy to say no.He wanted to kill himself…didn’t he? If he said yes, he would have to stay and live and try…But it was too hard, and it hurt. He didn’t want it to hurt anymore. All he had to do was say no.

No.

“Yes.”

Shit. He never could say no to any of them. Eleven grinned at him, and it was heart-achingly beautiful to see his Eleven’s smile on her face. He felt heavy, his mind weary. He still didn’t know how he was going to live in this world, but… he would try. He said yes, and that meant he would stay. Eds definitely would have kicked his ass if he had jumped off that cliff… Dustin too. All of them would have kicked his ass. Fuck. He missed them – he missed them so much.

“I should get back,” Eleven said standing up. Steve got up too. She hugged him tightly and he held her back just as hard.

“I never called him Dad,” she said into his chest. “Never told him I loved him. He did not know.”

“He knew, El. Dads always know.”

She smiled up at him and she looked lighter, brighter. Steve dropped his arms as she stepped back.

“Good-bye, Steve.”

“Good-bye, Eleven.”

She held her arm straight out and after a moment of concentration a distortion formed into a small ball in front of her. It grew steadily until it burst wide – sunlight blasting through. Steve shielded his eyes with his hand and watched as Eleven walked up to the portal. She turned around and waved before stepping through quickly. It pulsed once before closing, casting the world back into darkness. Steve closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sky, letting out a deep breath.

---

When he got back to his room, he noticed the backpack that Dustin had brought back was sitting against the end of his bed. It was heavier than he expected it to be when he picked it up. He opened the Zipper and peered inside. There were snacks on top – Pringles, bubble gum, trail mix, and licorice. Steve took them out and set them aside. Underneath them were books. Lots of books. They were well taken care of but had the signs of constant re-reading. Cracked spines opening to favourite pages. He grabbed one – The Princess Bride – and checked the first page. ‘Property of Dustin Henderson’ was written in the right corner.

After putting the books on his bedside table, he reached into the bag to see if there was anything else. He grabbed a metal cylinder and pulled it out.

He held it in his hands and couldn’t help but laugh.

Farah Fawcett Hairspray.

Dustin really was always right.

Echoes indeed.

@just-a-tiny-void @mx-jinxous @child-of-cthulhu @goodolefashionedloverboi @awholedamnmesstbh @phoenix0bird @queenie-ofthe-void @bookworm0690 @estrellami-1 @hbyrde36 @a-gae-af-racoon @nailbatandfreak @newtstabber @novelnovella @meela86 @lenathegay @vampireinthesun @penny00dreadful @questionablequeeries @espressopatronum454 @r0binscript @seths-rogens @fruity-nerd @sani-86 @n0-1-important

Hello my loves! Thank you all so so much for you comments, reblogs and likes - it truly means the world to me that my story is being enjoyed. I'm not really sure how to engage with you all on Tumblr (I'm new here) but please feel free to reach out and message me about anything and everything! I hope this chapter heals a little of the trauma I put you through last time.

Part 8

#steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #el hopper #steve x eddie #multiverse #slow burn #angst with a happy ending #the party

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