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word-wytch · 10 months

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Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 16

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 16/? 9k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ Frustrated by inconclusive endings, Eddie takes a seat behind the wheel.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

✏︎ Chapter CW: general angst, paternal angst, drug mention

Thursday, December 12th 1985

Before the first morning bell, Eddie gave Judy at reception his best impression of Wayne over the phone. He wasn’t totally lying, he was in fact, quite sick. Sick of all the taunting looks from meathead jocks. Sick of the way Ms. O’Donnell cleared her throat every five minutes. Sick of waking up so goddamn early. Sick of wasting his time. So after hanging up the phone, he stuffed a few essentials in his backpack and made for the door.

Like clockwork, Wayne always came home at around 8:10 AM, and though it would be far from the first time he’d skipped school, Eddie would rather not have to explain himself. Besides, he could use a change of scenery. There was no denying winter anymore, the ice he scraped off his windshield made sure to remind him. On a typical hooky day he would drive down to Lover’s Lake and toss open the rear doors, catch a breeze, light a joint, sit back and take in the ripples on the water and the rustling leaves. But that had all frozen over, so unless he intended to burn through his whole tank of gas, he would need to get creative.

That was how he found himself at Benny’s at 7:58 on a Thursday morning, setting up camp in a booth at the back of the restaurant. He ordered his usual — bacon, scrambled eggs, and a stack of pancakes in addition to white toast. Tossing his fourth emptied sugar packet beside the leaning tower of creamers, he sat back in the sticky, padded seat and took his first deep breath all morning.

The diner was bustling lowly, a handful of regulars perched on silver, spinning stools at the bar. From the frosted window leeching cool air beside him, he watched the funeral procession of headlights down Washington under a mournful sky. Just another day for the upright citizens of Hawkins, Indiana. From his cozy booth, Eddie sipped the top off his very full mug and smiled to himself.

Sprawling his belongings around the piping hot plates, he popped on his headphones, cracked open his monster manual, and got to work. The first hour flew by like his pencil across the graph paper. Between the bacon bits that had leapt from hand to page, a formidable lineup of foes was taking shape. Bottom line; the boys were in for a world of hurt tomorrow. He did his best to resign the grease to the flimsy napkins, but by the time he was finished, syrup tacked the gargoyle and gorgon pages together.

“Anything else I can grab for ya besides the check?” Sheri—according to her name tag—asked with a tired lean as she reached to clear his plates.

Eddie glanced down sheepishly at his freshly topped off mug. “I uh, think I might be staying for lunch.”

Sheri forced a hot pink smile, catching the fork with her decorated finger when it threatened to slide off the plate. “Y’ want me to get a room set up for you too?” she joked with a wink of her spidery lashes. “Just teasin’ sweetie. You just flag me down when you’re ready.”

Switching out his tapes, Eddie shut the cassette player and stared out the window as the men at the bar tossed their napkins and fished out their wallets. Snow was falling in lazy clumps, clinging to his windshield. Somewhere behind the overcast clouds, the sun was rising steadily. It was dismal, a fitting backdrop for the opening track of Black Sabbath’s Heaven and Hell. Of all the seasons, winter belonged to metal. Like it was made for cruising down a quiet, snow-covered street in the middle of nowhere. Made for drowning out Bing Crosby crooning from the speaker in the corner above him. Tinsel glittered on the small tree perched on a cloud of fake snow beside the cash register. Ornaments on swags swayed to the thump of footsteps passing. Eddie sighed and stared into the changing street lights.

Glancing at his watch he figured you were probably wrapping up the film with second period, knitting your brow and drawing your pen across the papers you were grading. He wondered what you’d think when the bell rang for fourth and you found his seat empty. Would you think he was upset with you? There was a small part of him that hoped so, and another part that hoped you would understand. After all, he was giving you the space you asked for, was he not?

Like a siren, your story—tucked between his notebook and the magazines he’d exhausted twice cover to cover—called to him. Cracking open the plastic spine, he dove headfirst into the typewritten pages.

For the whole narrow path into Rower’s End, Cybelle had sat in the front of the caravan, breathing the briny air unhindered by a barrier. Lazarus admired the brilliant fullness of her smile as she watched the seagulls soar overhead, under the clouds she had only ever seen from above. The sunlight had graced them then, beaming down in golden rays, glinting on the distant waves as they approached the sleepy seaside town.

Eddie could feel the corners of his mouth tug as Lazarus regaled Cybelle with a story of a time when he’d accidentally taken a crab home with him after spending a day at the beach, followed by an explanation of what a crab was. Cybelle seemed delighted with the prospect of seeing one, even more-so when he told her how he’d discovered the little hitchhiker when it pinched his rear in bed that night. Eddie noticed the way Cybelle leaned closer whenever Lazarus told stories, the way her hand came to shield her bare face with a giggle when he mentioned his rear. The way her delicate, copper fingers lingered over the soft skin of his forearm when she checked beneath his bandage. The wound was healing nicely — no sign of infection and not a thorn in sight. She warned that it might scar, but Lazarus did not appear concerned—rather the opposite actually—as if a strange part of him was pleased with the idea of having something to remember her by.

As they dipped over the final hill toward Rower’s End, Lazarus told her another story. A dream, rather, of a little cottage in Shantiglade with a full sized bed, and a garden, and a goose egg omelette big enough for two. A dream that would likely never come to pass. Cybelle seemed equally enchanted by it. Sitting back against the boxy, wooden seat of the caravan, she breathed in the salty air and imagined how good it would feel to do so every day. To experience the feeling of sand between her toes, of the ocean at her ankles, of propping her elbow against their shared kitchen table and gracing Lazarus with a naked smile before trying whatever an omelette was. It was good like this too — bumping along under a clear blue sky as Turnip plodded down the scarcely trodded path, watching the wind caress the wild grass and Lazarus’ even wilder curls, hearing his tales and his laughter.

Around the time he would be slumping into his desk in the back of your classroom, the bell dinged over the door of the restaurant. Eddie cranked the volume on his headset to drown out the chatter of a family of four clambering into the booth in front of him. The little boy had brought a pair of plastic drumsticks with him, beating a rhythm on the steel-rimmed table much to the annoyance of his little sister, who was clutching her book the way Eddie was yours. Dipping his few remaining fries into the smear of ketchup, he wondered why they weren’t in school on a Thursday afternoon. As he focused back on the type-written letters, he figured he should be the last to judge.

Eddie felt for Lazarus, he really did. The way he looked at Cybelle as she emerged from the cave, cradling the ghostfern like a pale, translucent child. The scene was as beautiful as it was somber — waves lapping at the rocky shoreline as the setting sun cast its deep orange hues on both of them. The rocks—slick with algae—had Cybelle stumbling, but Lazarus was quick to offer his arm. She accepted without hesitance, clutching the plant like a bouquet as her deep earthen fingers braced the pale angles of his. He lead her down the cascading stone as if it were a chapel aisle, slow and steady until they reached the flat edge of the water. There—in the golden remains of the day—seagulls dipped and soared over the glittering ocean, clasped hands swayed in the lapping wind, and for a moment, they had everything they came for.

After what seemed like both a small eternity and an aching second, it was Cybelle who broke away, tracing the ridges of his fingers as hers fell, stating out loud what both of them knew — that night was coming soon.

The journey back to Torgaard proved easier than the journey out, at least in terms of natural foes. No fenfinks or villainous vines, but the sky seemed to hang much lower. Dark, stormy clouds loomed overhead, casting its pale grey light over the moss curtains outside of Fenwood, over the verdant forests that shuddered in the gusting wind. There was a tension, a dread looming on the horizon that grew with each passing day. Even Eddie could sense it — the way Cybelle stared out into the swath of shifting green like she was attempting to soak up enough for the rest of her life. The way that Lazarus’ jokes were swallowed the creaking of the caravan. How nights that were once spent laughing over a roaring fire were now spent silently watching its crackling embers.

One day—just a few outside of Torgaard—the sky came crashing down. It sobbed in sheets, heavy enough to soak through Cybelle’s coat, to find the tear in her tent and make a lake of it. Lazarus ushered her inside the wagon, offered her a shirt that fit like a dress, offered to sleep on the floor. Assessing the size of the bed, and then the hard, narrow walking path, it was Cybelle who insisted they share it. She was small enough, or at least that was what she rationalized out loud. Lazarus did not argue. Her logic—unlike her tent—was water-tight. And so she climbed in between the soft linen sheets, tucked herself under the weight of the down blanket, and rested her damp, weary head on a pillow that smelled just like him.

Eddie glanced sheepishly around the restaurant, shielding the binder with his arm as Lazarus climbed in beside her. He hinged on each type-written word, lingering over the ones that stirred a fuzzy feeling. Written with careful attention to the way Lazarus’ chest rose and fell, how stiff their bodies were in hyper-awareness of the nearness to each other. How solid his shoulder felt under Cybelle’s cheek when the corner of pillow no longer sufficed. Slowly, they relaxed into the feeling. Not enough to sleep, but enough for Lazarus to free the arm that she was crushing. Enough to wrap it around her shoulder, to relish in the feeling of her cold nose in the warm crook of his neck.

It was good like this. Better when her fingers draped across the landscape of his pecks, felt his chest rise and fall like waves. Best when they awoke in the morning to the sun steaming in through the small, stained glass window above them. When their giggles shook the wagon. When their eyes met, closer than they’d ever been before. There, in the dim cocoon far outside the turning world, the smile that she had hidden for so long finally grew brave enough to capture his. And by the time they reached the towering stone walls of Torgaard, there was nothing more to hide from one another.

Eddie flipped the page to find only a black, plastic pocket. He rubbed it with his fingers to make sure it wasn’t sticking to another. When it failed to separate, he sat back and fumed. That was it. There was no more. No ending, no closure.

Sheri leaned against the top of the booth seat opposite him, hand on her hip, shifting between her dirty white sneakers with a tired sigh. “Listen sweetie, I’ve got ten minutes left of my shift. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, but I’ve gotta cash you out before I leave.”

Eddie glanced at his watch, almost 2:00. “Yeah—yeah, no problem. Sorry for the trouble.”

“’S no trouble, just the way it goes around here. Hope you enjoyed your stay,” she said with a wink as she dropped the check.

After six hours and two meals, Eddie had gotten his fill of watching the world turn through an old, frosted window. His head was spinning enough on its own. With a frustrated huff he peeled his graph paper and manual away from the sticky table before shoving them into his backpack. Slugging it over his shoulder, he grabbed the grease-stained check and made his way to the register. That was when he noticed it — the lonely, half-eaten omelette on the bar.

“Alright that’ll be ten seventy-five,” chimed Sheri.

Tinsel glittered on the tree. Red, metallic bulbs swayed in the echo of his footsteps. Judy Garland caroled on about a merry little Christmas and he wondered if your characters would ever enjoy anything over their shared kitchen table or if that dream would be abandoned for their duties as well.

“Sir?”

Snapping out of his trance, he fished for his wallet and palmed her a twenty. “Keep the change,” he muttered before turning toward the door with a hoist of his backpack.

Her jaw hung open. “Oh my word, are you serious?” she called to his back, but the bell above the door was the only answer she received.

______

Main Street Vinyls was a ghost town on a Thursday afternoon, and Eddie preferred it that way. Aside from Jerry at the counter, it was just him and his noisy thoughts, accompanied by the slow plod of his own heavy boots as they weeped against the carpet. At least in this store he could escape the onslaught of Christmas tunes. Jerry—old hippie that he was—at least had some sense. Sometimes even sense enough to play some halfway decent rock music, but today Eddie would settle for Neil Young over the jingle bell garbage blasting through every speaker in Hawkins.

Glancing down the rows of plastic cassette spines, Eddie perused the M section as he kicked himself for giving away almost ten dollars. There was an album by a new band he’d only read about in magazines called Megadeth. Turning the tape over in his hands, he examined the cover. Everything about it spoke to him — the skull with its mouth chained shut surrounded by knives and candles, the title — Killing Is My Business. Flipping it over to the back, the phrase continued in haunted red letters …and Business Is Good!

The change he gave away in a fit of blind stupidity would have easily afforded it and left him with some to spare. With a bitter sigh, he shoved the tape back in its slot, knowing for a fact that the cash register at Benny’s had eaten the last bill he had in his wallet. Padding slowly down the aisle, he began his calculations.

He had a few regular deals lined up this weekend but would need to dig into his “savings” in the bottom of an old tobacco tin and pay Rick a visit before any of that happened. He might make eighty bucks if he was lucky. Maybe eighty more over the course of the week between the deals at school. Nobody wanted to spend too much time outside this time of year, so the park bench location was always iffy depending on how bad it was. He would resort to other classic meetup spots, like under the bleachers or the back of his van.

If he networked enough he might have some left over after helping Wayne with the bills. Scanning past the Tina Turner and T-Rex tapes, he wondered how much Wayne suspected about his little business. Surely he had to have some suspicion. Gig money, odd jobs, and oil changes for neighbors couldn’t possibly afford the kind of gear he had, or the ink in his skin, or the cash he contributed monthly. Wayne was sharp, and though he was no saint himself, he shuddered to think what he would say if he discovered his nephew was straying down the same path his brother took.

Peering back over his shoulder, he eyed the Megadeth tapes again—only three in stock—lined up like gifts wrapped in cellophane. They were such tiny things. Small enough to hide beneath his palm, to slide into the pocket of his coat with room to spare. Glancing up at the angled surveillance mirror in the corner of the store, he saw Jerry at the counter, humming obliviously as he stuck price tags on a fresh shipment of tapes. Over the tall shelf that separated them, he expected to meet his own eyes, but instead saw another man. A man he hadn’t seen in quite a while.

Eddie remembered finding a G chord for the first time; how big the fretboard felt in his small hand, how awkwardly his fingers had to stretch, how a larger set of hands had helped him find it. He earned a broad smile when the chord rang out, one he would search for again and again with every strum.

Sometimes in the late evenings as he crept past Wayne with a lunchbox full of drugs while he was watching reruns of Bonanza on the couch, Eddie would tell himself that at least he wasn’t stealing cars, or drinking himself half to death, or rotting behind county bars. At least he was still in school, something Warren Munson couldn’t say even at sixteen. At least Eddie could say he was trying.

With a bitter shake of his head, he continued down the aisle, leaving the tapes behind for the record bins that lined the walls. Mindlessly he walked his fingers over the cardboard spines, glazing past titles he’d seen a dozen times. Nothing new. Nothing different. Few things ever were in Hawkins. Every day he’d wake up and slog himself to a different type of prison, sit in a classroom for eight hours and actively feel his brain rotting. He would crumple up his failed tests and shove them in his backpack, endure the stares from kids whose parents cared enough to give them a ride to school, day after day. And every day he would come home and see the twinge of pride on Wayne’s face for the fact that he’d gone at all.

There were a few perks to sticking around, like running his club, and saving lost sheep, and seeing his friends everyday. Like having a swath of potential customers all in one place. It was safe and familiar, like a cage. His little business might be dangerous and criminal but at least it could afford him one thing he valued even more than ink or gear — freedom. Time, for another thing. Flexibility. It sure as hell beat making three dollars an hour flipping burgers or having to answer to some corporate boot-licker telling him what to do. Eddie huffed sharply, wondering what you would think if you knew. You, with your tightly buttoned blouses and endless patience. You, the very last person he wanted to disappoint.

The last look he’d seen on you destroyed him when he thought about it; the pain in your eyes and bitter line your pretty lips became. You were just about the only reason he had left to show up to class anymore, and now that was getting in the way of the one thing that actually had potential in his eyes. Way more potential than a stupid piece of paper that says, congratulations, you’re a real member of society and not a complete disappointment.

You had asked him a question back when you’d first made the arrangement to help him, one that rattled around in his brain ever since. Why did he want to graduate? If his memory served him, he’d given a relatively bullshit answer: to prove all the assholes in this god-forsaken purgatory wrong. It still held a fair amount of truth, but when he glanced up at the surveillance mirror again and saw himself this time, the real answer was abundantly clear. But was proving a point worth the risk of losing you?

The smell of cardboard and cellophane kissed his face as air puffed between each record falling forward. Each a different picture, some repeats of the same. Rock gods wielding wicked weapons, bathed in holy stage lights somewhere in New York or Los Angeles probably. Somewhere important. Sometimes at the Hideout he would close his eyes and imagine he was on one of those stages, but when he would open them as the last note rung out, it was always the same — just Bill and Drunk Sam, maybe a couple of bikers perched at the bar with their backs to him. Empty stools and sticky tables. A weak applause.

Eddie stepped back from the record bin with a heavy sigh and glanced at his watch. He’d killed about thirty minutes in this store, which meant he had at least twenty more before he could return home without triggering Wayne’s suspicious questions. The walls were starting to close in around him — posters like windows into a world far out of reach. Every million dollar strum reverberating through the speakers like a mocking reminder. With a half-hearted wave to Jerry stocking shelves, he left the store. Empty handed.

The drive down Randolph was always dismal, especially in the bleak winter light. Storefronts with yellowing signs that hadn’t changed in twenty years selling mattresses and televisions. A gas station with a rusted awning, dusted with snow. Architecturally speaking, the church was about the most interesting building, but only because it was brick and made up of more than just four flimsy walls. Even that was being generous though. The most exciting thing to happen to Hawkins since the housing development over by Factory Lane thirty years ago was the shopping mall that opened this past summer. Thrilling.

No matter where he drove within a fifty mile radius, it was all the same — a tomb where dreams went to die.

Gripping the steering wheel, he watched the car in front of him make grooves in the dirty slush, hypnotized by the spray off the sides of the tires. It wasn’t until he saw the high school approaching in his peripherals that he even looked up. It always felt good to be on the other side, especially when he wasn’t supposed to be. He could almost see you in there; brushing the chalk off your hands, shifting between your tired feet as you glanced at the clock, gazing out the window with a longing he’d seen in his own reflection — caught sometimes at night in his drivers seat window as he cruised the highway, dreaming of where it could take him.

As the squat fortress faded in his rearview mirror, he pictured you five years from now. Ten. Twenty. Wasting away in front of that chalkboard. Rattling on about stories written by dead people while your own collected dust inside a closet. While your talent withered like the dead, crumpled leaves under the snow; buried and forgotten.

With a hard right onto Prospect, he set out on the final stretch towards home. Sometimes he liked to imagine what might happen if he just kept going, just drove into the sunset and only stopped for gas. He had a vague idea from the movies and the maps that swayed in the wake of Ms. O’Donnell’s lumbering footsteps. Sometimes in the height of his boredom he would lose himself in them, imagine he was at a diner in the desert on his way to a gig with an actual sound system. Because somewhere out there—beyond the flat horizon—there were mountains, and canyons, and cities where names couldn’t follow.

______

“How does it end?” Eddie asked you on Friday between the fourth and fifth period bells. You glanced up from the stack of papers on your desk, cocking your head with narrowing eyes. “Your story,” he clarified.

“Oh.” Blinking, you sat back to ponder. “You know, I don’t think I ever fully decided. Cybelle is in a difficult position. The whole reason she set out on this adventure was to save her brother. I imagine she would want to fulfill her quest, but if she returned to Myrne, it may be difficult to leave again. Plus, she may receive some sort of punishment for leaving in the first place. I had written the laws to be quite strict, if I recall. And then if she chose not to return, her mother would lose two children. No matter what, she loses.”

Eddie furrowed his brow, shifting between his boots with a pained sigh. “I would hardly call a life with Lazarus losing. She seems happy with him.”

“Right, well, of course that would be ideal, but…” you tsked, “it’s complicated, and honestly that’s partially why I abandoned it. I really wrote myself into a corner. Well, that and student teaching started to eat up my time. Then it was finals, and moving, and then after that I met…” you trailed off with a bitter shake of your head. “Anyway, I guess life got in the way. It has a way of doing that, I’ve noticed.”

Eddie looked at you, really looked. You, in your cable knit sweater with pen on your hand and sandbags under your eyes, casting them down over your work with the same amount of hope he’d seen from players rolling threes with even fewer hit points to spare. He racked his brain for something he could offer—a dramatic death speech or a new character sheet—but you weren’t playing and he wasn’t prepared. Any words of comfort forming on the tip of his tongue were swallowed by the ringing bell, and he exited your classroom feeling the same as when he entered; unsatisfied.

______

It was starting to close in around you — the colored lights and ornaments, the mall Santas and fake green swags draping from shop windows. It was the first Christmas you’d truly spent in Hawkins since you graduated college, outside of day trips for visits. Surprisingly little had changed, the main thing being the fact that there even was a mall for Santa to post up in. Duplication must have been one of his many powers because he was still at Sears too, at least he was on Saturday when you dragged yourself out of the oppressive quiet of your apartment and into the bustling chaos.

You had no idea what to get your relatives for Christmas. You never really did, but this year it seemed insurmountable. This year you had no one to bounce ideas off of, and the constant mental chatter left little to no room for inspiration. As you scanned the shelves of cookware and appliquéd dish towels with snow men and reindeers, nothing really seemed to jump out at you.

What did jump out at you—or rather, jumped out at his sister—was a little boy across the aisle hiding in a circular rack of women’s bath robes. Pressing apart the terrycloth like curtains, he would retreat into his makeshift cave to the complete oblivion of his mother, who seemed more preoccupied with the price tags on a set of lingerie than with the whereabouts of her children.

A fantasy tugged at the corners of your mind, more sinfully indulgent than the one you had in class last week involving your desk and Eddie’s tongue. This time the set was the same as the scene before you, only the little boy had a mess of dark curls and Eddie was diving in after him. Not to scold him, but to play. You could almost see those fraying knee holes widening from contact with the carpet. Almost hear the giggles and the shushes and the click of his rings against the metal pole in the center of the rack for balance. You could almost turn around and see them popping out at you, feel the laughter ripple up through your very full belly and into the corners of your eyes as you feigned surprise to both of their delight. You could almost feel the glares from the other shoppers, the regular people eager to get on with their Saturday in peace, same as any other. It wouldn’t matter though, not in your little world.

The real mother in the real world did eventually turn around, grabbing the boy by the wrist and demanding he stay by the cart. Turning a dish towel over in your palms, you lowered your eyes to the machine-embroidered stitching of a corn cob pipe and a button nose as the fantasy disintegrated. You left the store shortly after, your cart just as empty as when you’d arrived.

On Monday it was hard to look him in the eyes. It was easier to meet Diane’s. At least this week you could hold a conversation without crumbling like Ms. Click’s half-eaten fruitcake up for grabs in the teachers lounge. But the coffee was bitter on your tongue, like a lie you were telling yourself.

In accordance with your wishes, there had been no rap of knuckles on your door frame after school, no screeching of chair legs dragged across the tile, only the dull thud of folders sliding into your bag, the surprising click of a magnet under the flap.

On Wednesday you left behind footprints in the parking lot before it had even half cleared, only to be swallowed by the emptiness of your apartment. You filled the space with what you could manage — an early dinner, and an early bedtime. Sleep seemed to be the only thing that quelled the battering ram thoughts, the scales tipping back and forth so much it made you queasy. You would lie there and dream of swirling smoke and plush lips, of arthritic fingers punching numbers on an office phone as you sat and accepted your fate. You would toss and turn, back and forth until your sheets became a tangle, and when you faced the mirror Thursday morning you barely recognized the person staring back.

When the final bell rang on Friday, the hallways cleared out like someone had yelled fire. A mass exodus of students and staff, flowing into the parking lot like a tidal wave outside your classroom window. You watched them as snow fell in clumps, as bright colored backpacks disappeared into the back of sedans, as cars peeled out like a parade into the street.

Assessing the paper mountain range framing your desk, you made an educated guess at how you would be spending your two week break. In hindsight, it might have helped to make the due date for the senior creative writing project last Friday instead, but deep down you knew you would have hardly made a dent by now.

When Ms. Click popped her head in to wish you a merry Christmas on her way down the hall, she seemed surprised to find your hand still moving across paper, not swaddled in mittens like hers. You brushed it off with something casual, the type of thing any regular person would say before the holidays. That it was too much to take home. That getting work finished now would leave more time with your family. You omitted the more personal details like how empty your apartment felt and the small, naked tree your mother brought over last weekend. This seemed to placate her, and with a cheery wave she left you in the silence of your classroom with only the ruffling of paper for company.

It was eery how quiet it was, but it afforded you a small hill of graded papers in the last hour, double what you would typically accomplish in front of the television. Thumbing through what remained of that stack, you counted each staple. Five, six, seven… you stopped when a certain name jumped out in MLA format.

Eddie Munson American Literature — 4th Period 20 December 1985

No title.

Papers fluttered to the desk as they fell from your hands, leaving only his. You held it gingerly between your fingers, as if it was alive. As if it could feel you, or rather, you could feel him through every type-written letter, through the thumb-sized grease stain in the top righthand corner. You could almost hear him too, shifting into a deep, dramatic narration.

Mount Myrne loomed on the horizon like a dark omen. Towering over the bustling docks of Torgaard, it disappeared beneath the ominous clouds with a formidable presence. Merchants scattered about, hauling their wares in heavy crates and barrels onto the many zeppelins.

This was where Lazarus first met Cybelle. In his mind’s eye he could almost see her stumbling about in her clean silk boots and glimmering gold coat. But her appearance today told a different tale. Her boots were caked with mud, her coat was splattered with muck and tattered by claws, her mask hung crooked on her face. Those large eyes that once glimmered with hope and wonder now stared off into the distance with oppressive sadness at the looming mountain.

This was where he was supposed to leave her. This was what they had agreed upon many moons ago. Cybelle just stood there, shifting back and forth between her tired feet as she dug her thumbs under the straps of her heavy knapsack that now held the rare and precious ghostfern. She finally had what she came for. Any moment now she would be moving those muddy boots toward the docks and use what little coin she had to barter a one-way trip back home.

That was the plan anyway..

Cybelle was frozen though. Fearfully, woefully, bitterly, she gazed upon her gold gleaming home in the sky with a sadness that was only dwarfed by Lazarus looking down at her. He looked at her beautiful face like it was the last time he was ever going to get the chance to. He memorized it in his mind as he shuffled his own dirty boots against the cobblestone. He didn’t have eyes for anything else. Not the zeppelins, nor the merchants, nor the mountain. Only her. After a moment that felt like an eon, Cybelle took a step forward.

“Wait.” said Lazarus. Cybelle turned around with surprise but also a hint of relief. “You don’t have to do this.”

Cybelle looked up at him with a mournful frown. “Of course I do, my brother will die if I stay here.”

Lazarus shook his head bitterly. “No, he will die if the ghostfern stays here.” he said.

Cybelle sighed as she looked out across the docks, “But how is it going to get there if I do not deliver it? No one is allowed within the city walls if they are not from Myrne.”

Lazarus furrowed his brow as he watched the merchants at work, hauling their wares aboard the large, formidable aircrafts. Suddenly he had an idea. “There are docks in Myrne, correct? And Myrnish merchants who take goods into the city?”

The gears were starting to turn in Cybelle’s head. “Yes, there are.”

“Well then, can we send the plant with like, a note or something? Some instructions and directions for the merchant to take where it needs to go?”

Cybelle thought for a moment. “I do know a few of the merchants by name. Arturo and I grew up together. He was my neighbor for a long time. He would know where it needs to go, and my mother would know what to do with it.” The brightness in Cybelle’s eyes dimmed suddenly as she had another thought. “But… I would never seen them again. My family.”

“Never say never, Cybelle.” Lazarus said. “Do you know that for a fact?”

Cybelle frowned heavily, “The laws in Myrne are very strict.”

“What if in the letter you told your family to meet you on the docks some other time? Perhaps in another moon or two once your brother has recovered?” Lazarus offered.

Cybelle sighed bitterly, “Only merchants are allowed on the docks. It is strictly prohibited. I was only able to come here because I snuck inside a crate. It was a miracle that they didn’t notice me.”

Lazarus kicked a stray pebble and huffed. There was a long pause before he spoke again. “I cannot tell you what to do, Cybelle. Only you can make that choice. But what I can do, really the only thing I can do, is tell you how I feel.”

All of a sudden there was a knot in his stomach. Because if he was going to say anything he knew that this would be his last chance..

“All my life I’ve dreamed about that cottage by the sea with the garden, and the bed, and the omlet. When I saw that pendant you were wearing I knew that it would be my only shot at ever getting what I wanted. Magic tricks are….. not exactly lucrative. And actually, if I’m going to be totally honest here, I figure you should know the truth about me. The whole truth.” Lazarus sighed, swallowing the bile creeping up his throat at the mention of the truth. He was going to be honest though. Maybe for once in his whole life. “This is difficult for me to say, but I owe it to you if nothing else. I’m a thief, Cybelle.”

Lazarus winced at his own words and Cybelle’s fallen expression, but he bravely continued..

“I confess that for a moment when I first saw you I thought about stealing that pendant, but once I heard your story and saw so much of my own I simply couldn’t. There is a goodness in you that I admire, how selfless and pure your cause is. Over the course of the last few moons I have had the privilege of spending with you, I have come to discover how beautiful the woman beneath the mask truly is. How kind, and curious, and patient you are. I have been all over this land. Traveled far and wide, through forests and over mountains. I have swam in lakes and oceans and gazed out over countless valleys. But never has the world looked quite so hopeful than when I saw it through your eyes. It made me believe that if you could see the beauty there, if you could see the goodness in me, then perhaps I can as well.”

It was startling — the tear that leapt over your lash line. Violently enough to hit the page, to blur the Os in goodness.

“If you choose to stay I promise you that I will never steal another coin or pocket watch. It may leave me poor for the rest of my days but if they’re spent with you, then I would be the richest man of all. It is all that I can offer you. My honesty, and a promise that I will show you more beaches, more mountains, more of the world than you could ever imagine. And since I intend to keep my promise, here is my honesty: I love you. Regardless of what you decide.”

With a trembling hand, you turned the page only to discover there was nothing on the back. Sitting back in your seat with a ragged sigh, you stared out into your empty classroom. Your nose stung, fluorescents flaring in your tear-blurred vision. Separating the pages with your thumb, you flipped back and read it again. The last paragraph. The last two sentences. Those three type-written words. Over and over, wedging in the cracks of your armor as your sniffles echoed off the tile.

The sun was dipping below the treeline, flooding the near-empty parking lot with a wash of somber pink. The snowfall had ceased, settled into the footprints and tire tracks. Glancing up at the clock and back down at the papers, you tried to imagine lifting another, scanning over sentences and writing in the margins like you hadn’t been completely upended by the one that trembled in your grasp. You couldn’t.

Tears dripped down your cheeks as you donned your coat, as you shuffled overstuffed folders into your satchel and slung its weight over your shoulder. You swiped at them with your scratchy wool sleeve, flicking off the lights and shutting the door.

The soft pink had cooled to twilight blue when your boots met the blanket of snow, leaving tracks in the clean, fresh powder. Your breath trailed behind you in heavy clouds. It was quiet here too, barely a scattering of cars in the parking lot. Not even the wind disturbed the limbs of the orderly saplings between the curb and sidewalk, dusted with a glittering powder.

Your hands found your keys, and the key found the hole, and soon you were sliding into your frigid leather seat, tossing the weight of your satchel on the passenger’s side with a dejected thump. You sat there a moment with only your breath for company before flicking your wrist at the ignition.

Nothing.

Stomping on the break, you lurched forward with conviction this time, as if you could convince it you were serious. All it awarded you was a weak, persistent click. It’s fine, you told yourself through gritted teeth as you lunged again, snapping your wrist with a startling anger, like the seal had been cracked on a two liter pop bottle that had rolled around in the trunk for a week and a half. Still, nothing but a pathetic click. A split second thought crossed your mind—that the ferocity of your stomp might actually damage the car—but the logic was quickly snuffed out by your rage. The hard plastic key bit into your numb fingers. Over and over — stomping, twisting, cursing. Cursing yourself most of all for being stupid enough to let this continue for months. You were paying for it now.

The tears were already waiting, primed behind your eyeballs, hardly dried on your cheeks when you left out the back door. They spilled over again, cooling as they dripped past your lashes, down the slope of your nose. One more time, you begged. Just one more time and I’ll be good, I swear. But the white Chevy Nova sat unmoved, offering only a vacant whine where there should have been a roar. You tossed back in your seat and huffed, chest heaving, filling the cramped space with the furious steam of your breath.

Snowflakes glittered in the floodlights, shining like flares through the blur of your tears. It might have been beautiful on any other evening — one where the engine was warm, and your mind was clear, and your heart didn’t sink like a pit in your chest. It was hard to notice anything outside your bitter sobs, most especially the shadow that appeared in the window beside you. The rap of rings on the glass had you jumping, whipping your head to face the set of eyes you’d been avoiding most of all.

“Need some help?” Eddie offered, bracing his knees in a crouch, eyes brimming with concern.

Your stomach twisted with relief, then embarrassment, then a million other things rolled into one, sick knot. Wiping the evidence from your cheeks with a futile swipe of your sleeve, you cranked down the window with your left hand. You must have looked like an absolute basket case, jerking your arm in tight circles as the barrier lowered with the urgency of a tortoise. When where was enough space for him, Eddie braced against the top of your door and ducked his head inside.

“Hey.” The warm sigh of his greeting kissed your cheek, thawing the sting of the cold.

“Hey,” you mimicked, sounding just about as stable as you felt when it came out. “W-what are you doing here so late?”

“Hellfire,” he stated simply. “You know, I could ask you the same question.”

Despite how true it was, it still felt pathetic when the answer left your lips. “Just… trying not to take so much work home with me.” You said it as casually as you could muster, but your voice betrayed you. Your cheeks were still cooling from the remnants of your tears, framing the heat from your dripping nose.

Eddie suddenly looked very serious, splintering your armor with his softness. “You ok?”

You gestured dejectedly at nothing, offering a hollow laugh. “No.”

Eddie filled the cabin with his sigh, eyes narrowing like he wanted to lunge through the window. Instead he just thumbed at the rubber and tipped his head closer, creaking your chest plate with the weight of his gaze. “You know, I could hear you clear across the parking lot,” he joked softly. “The car—I mean. Mostly. You leave your lights on or something?”

You shook your head. “It’s been doing this for months, ever since it started getting cold. I should have taken it to get checked out, but it usually starts after a couple tries.”

“Sounds like it might be the battery, or maybe the starter. I won’t know unless I try and jump it. I’ll swing around—if—if that’s ok.”

The wind ushered a curl toward his lips, and you clenched your hand to subdue it. “Yeah, it’s ok,” you sighed. “Thank you.”

With a nod, Eddie ducked out of the window and pivoted swiftly on his heels. From your side view mirror, you watched him make tracks in the blue snow with his heavy boots, hands shoved in his pockets as he glanced left and right, the ghost of his breath trailing closely behind. The seat creaked as you sat back and blinked like the cursor on a computer monitor; processing. One glance in your rearview mirror told you how disheveled you looked. Even in the twilight there was no masking the puffiness around your eyes, the mascara bleeding toward your cheeks. You swiped at them again, this time with a napkin from your glove box.

With a yank of the frigid handle, Eddie slid across the plaid and pleather padding into the drivers seat of his van. He froze for a second, glancing in his rearview mirror toward your small white sedan. Butterflies tore through his stomach, churning like a tornado as he flicked the ignition. Out of all his ridiculous fantasies, he hadn’t entertained this one. Not exactly anyway. One where you were the damsel in distress. One where he got to be the hero.

The parking lot was vacant enough to drive across the lines. Ploughing through the naked patches where cars had spent the afternoon, he rumbled up beside you. Your stomach did a summersault when he stepped out, plodding around to the front of your car with jumper cables slung under his arm.

“Can you pop the hood for me?” he asked.

The summersault rippled south through your abdomen. Reaching down under the console, your fingers found the leaver and obeyed. You felt kind of useless, just sitting there while he propped the hood onto the stand, shielding him from vision. Before you could form another thought, your hand was moving on its own, finding the plastic leaver of your door and opening it to the cold evening air.

Eddie gave a shy look from behind his curtain of curls before stepping back with a nod. “Well, good news, there’s no monsters,” he joked.

A smile cracked across your face, so genuine it almost felt foreign. You tucked your hands into your pockets, stepping closer to assess the engine like you knew what you were looking at. Your aura prickled with proximity, like his heat could thaw you even from where you stood. Eddie’s glance was soft and quick before procuring a small flashlight from his inner coat pocket. He held it in his teeth, flipping up the red and black plastic covers on the battery terminals.

“I have hands too, you know,” you said with a smirk.

With a playful side-eye, he clamped the appropriate cables onto the terminals. Removing the silver torch from his mouth, he made room for his retort. “Mmhm, best keep ‘em warm. It’s uh, kinda chilly out.”

You shook your head as a laugh escaped your nostrils in a plume. Sauntering over to his van like a dark knight, Eddie leaned in the door to pop his own hood. Your boots made tentative tracks in the snow, drawn like a magnet as he hoisted the metal. From the light pinched in his teeth you could see the expanse of the massive engine, the shadow of his furrowed brow as he unscrewed plastic knobs. What you saw more than anything though—like a filter laid over the scene—were three type-written letters. The hands that typed them fumbled with the cables, squeezed around the thick, jaw-like clamps. When they bit right where he wanted, they released; tendons flexing, knuckles pinking from the freezing air. Reflexively, he wiped them on the chest of his black hoodie peeking out from his open coat.

It might have just been the cold, but even in the twilight—in the absence of the flashlight he was tucking into his pocket—you could have sworn his cheeks flushed when he caught you staring. “Alright, um, go ahead and start your car. I’ll do the same.”

Following the tether that joined the two vehicles, you did as he told you. Nothing came of it though, just more incessant clicking. Exasperated, you tossed back in your seat before slumping out of the car once more.

“Shit, it must be the starter. Probably cracked, that’s my guess anyway by the sound of it,” Eddie explained as he stepped around to face your engine again. Clicking his flashlight, he peered into the compartment. “See, if you follow the positive terminal line all the way down, that’s where the starter will be. Only problem is it’s tricky to get to without a lift.”

You followed his grease-stained finger down the dirt-dusted tangle of tubes, drawing nearer under the subtle guise of interest in your engine. You stopped just inches from his solid leather frame, close enough to brush him with your elbow. “You seem to know your way around a car.”

He huffed, shaking his head as he muttered. “Wish I didn’t.” But before you could comment, he was shutting the hood. “I’m sorry, but I think we’re gonna have to call a tow truck.”

Your defeated sigh rose toward the clouds as you glanced at the squat school building. The lights were off. Judy’s car was absent from the lot, as were all but a handful, including the two of yours. Glancing at your watch under the floodlights, the big hand tipped past the golden dot where a five should be.

Eddie stepped closer, filling the gap with a heavy exhale before meeting your eyes. “You know I could, um—” he scratched the back of his neck, words evaporating quicker than his breath. What could he do? What could he really do about any of this? For most of his life he’d been a leaf on the wind, scuttling across the pavement toward the gutter, struggling to steer himself away. But you were stranded, and if there was anything he was good for, it was a ride. “I could—I could take you back to your place. If you’re ok with that, I mean. We could—fuck—I mean you could call from there a-and I could—”

There were chinks in your armor, cracking with each bumbling word. You looked at him, really looked. Eddie Munson, with grease-stained hands and eyes that pierced like arrows in their pleading. Straight through to the softest part of you, the place between your ribs that cries I want. And oh, how desperately you wanted. Wanted to soothe his worried lips in yours again, to feel his pounding chest again, to be thawed by his heat again. But you just stood there, frozen.

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his open coat, he shifted on the balls of his feet as he searched for more words in the snow. “Look, I know you said you wanted space, a-and it probably seems like—shit.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, releasing with a sharp sigh. “I just want to help you. Will you just let me help you? Please?”

Your chest plate clattered to the concrete, gauntlets falling in a heap beside your greaves. There was no white flag to wave. No sword to relinquish, or shield to discard. Your surrender was nothing but a soft “okay,” barely heard above the howling wind.

______

A/N: After over a year and 100k words, the smut chapter is finally upon us! Thank you for coming with me on this very long journey and sticking it out. I have no idea how long this next one is going to take me to write, but I can promise you that when it’s finished you will experience every moment in exquisite, delicious, poetic detail.

You might have noticed that I’ve pulled a few small details like character names and places from Flight of Icarus, but I will not be retconning any of Eddie’s backstory.

Also random, tumblr decided to make that one paragraph bold once I changed it to chat font with no ability to unbold it, but that wasn't intended. It kind of worked though so I'm not mad.

Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @raccoonboywrites @storiesbyrhi @trashmouth-richie @keeponquinning @munson-blurbs @blueywrites @alottanothing @bebe07011 @idkidknemore @alizztor @godcreatoreli @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @mrsjellymunson @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @big-ope-vibes @barbiedragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi @sllooney @lunaladybug734 @callingmrsbarnes @ajkamins

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson older reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x teacher!reader #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson angst #don't stand so close to me #dssctm

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myfictionaldreams · 11 months

Note

Hey :) i would love to ask for a spicy Lucius Malfoy x Reader ☺️ something like Reader is a young Teacher in Hogwarts and Lucius and her are having an (very serious) affair (takes Place in the chamber of secrets).

The School Governor //Lucius Malfoy x Fem!Reader

A/N: Thank you so much for the request! I've never written Lucius before, but hopefully, you'll enjoy it!

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, infidelity/cheating, secret relationship, rough sex, creampie, fingering, squirting, tension, praise kink, size difference, Narcissa bashing (sorry!), kissing, fluff/angst

Words: 2.8k

my masterlist 📚

AO3 Link

“Are you sure you’re supposed to be here at this time of day, Mr Malfoy?”

The corner of the man’s lip twitched up like he was trying to smile but attempting to conceal it by remaining stoic. You were then faced with his signature sneer, those piercing grey eyes wandering over your appearance as if he was assessing whether he even wanted to waste his time. “It seems I’ve become lost on my travels around Hogwarts. Might you show me the way out?” Lucius asked with disdain thick in his voice

“Of course, Sir. Just this way”, you pointed in the direction you’d just walked from. No one even blinked an eye in either of your directions as you led him away from the grouping of students who were all on their way to bed as the night drew closer to curfew.

Your head remained forward, not once looking over your shoulder to check if he was following as you knew that he would be. You thanked Merlin for having an office so far away from students and other professors as the main offices were already lived in. You were new to the school, recently hired to assist Madam Pomfrey with Herbology, as she was too busy trying to attend to the Mandrakes.

The job may have been due to the recommendations of the man following closely behind you, his cane clicking against the stone floor and billowing close, switching the dust in whichever direction he turned.

As you both approached further towards the greenhouses and, thus, your office, there was a blossoming of heat and anticipation spreading from the centre of your chest to the tip of your toes. This was always something that your body seemed to do whenever within arms reach of the school’s governor. Moreover, he always seemed to be at the school nowadays, stating that he was there on school business, especially with the latest attacks on the students.

This is just an excuse, however, pretending to look around the school to catch the Headmaster in a scheme, but really, he would be sneaking to your classroom, office or meeting in the Forbidden Forest.

It was wrong. More than wrong. He had a wife, whom he was incredibly unhappy with, having been forced into a marriage as soon as he’d finished his time as a student at Hogwarts. All to abide by the pure blood status and traditions without any sort of say in the matter. Forced to live a life of misery, reproduce and have heirs and then die in a loveless marriage.

This was the only reason you had continued to meet with him. The ache in your heart quickly succumbs to his negative life. You knew he was manipulative, quick-tempered and had questionable ideologies on the dark arts. But when it came to Lucius Malfoy, it was as if your mind purposefully ignored these warning signs, mainly because he never discussed or acted in a horrible way around you.

You were always his peace and tranquillity, his little saviour in the dark before the world's realities came crumbling down around him. There you were, gifted with the raw, passionate, and incredibly loving man who held your hand when walking past, stroking your cheek to catch any slipped tears when it was time to say goodbye for a few more weeks.

It was a complex relationship to have and made even more so when you were now having to teach his son, Draco, who seemed to be a smaller copy of his Father, to be even more arrogant at his young age. It meant that you could give him additional help to boost his grades and, therefore, please his father, which, in turn, helped bring positivity into the secret relationship.

As you were greeted with the view of the long corridor that led to your office, your steps slowed as Lucius snapped, “Dobby. Check the area is clear for any prying eyes”.

With a flash out of the corner of your eyes, Dobby appeared and disappeared, apparating further down the corridor in multiple positions to check if the two of you were truly alone.

“The area is clear, Master”, Dobby approached before disappearing completely. You and Lucius rushed the remaining way to the office. You opened the door wide enough for him to follow through and slammed closed. As your wand waved in front of the handle, thoroughly locking the two of you in, a hand gripped your hip, turning your body so that your back met the door's wood.

A leathery gloved hand then cupped your jaw, tilting your face back so that Lucius could kiss you with as much desperation and urgency as you felt in the centre of your chest. It almost hurt with how much pressure his face was applying to yours, his warm breath fanning across the apple of your cheeks with where his nose was pressing. Your hands lifted to grab any part of him and ended up clinging onto the opening of his cloak, harshly tugging him even closer until there wasn’t a gap between your bodies.

Releasing a soft moan from your throat, this seemed to begin moving further, both gloved hands now cupping both of your cheeks in a safe cocoon as his thumbs caressed careful circles against your skin.

The coldness of the material wasn’t enough to satisfy your need for him as you dipped your head to free your mouth. “Off! I need your clothes off!”

Lucius’s baritone laugh burst across your face as he stepped back to give the two of you some room. “Such a demanding little thing, aren’t you?”

“I am when you’re wearing so many layers! Take them off!”

He chuckles at your reaction once more but finally begins to remove the cloak from his shoulders and gloves from his hands, next attempting to undo the luxurious vest jacket that he wore. The buttons running down the middle were taking too long for him to undo, so you quickly gripped either side of the best and pulled hard, surprised by your strength as the buttons began to pop off and tumble.

“Do you know how expensive this was?” he asked incredulously, but humour still danced behind his bright eyes.

“I’ll fix it at the end”, you say breathlessly, wrapping both arms around his neck and pulling him in for another heated kiss. A perfect mix of lips, teeth and tongue, all moving together, nipping, licking and sucking. Neither mouth pulled apart from the other, making the actions more frantic and chaotic with the attempts to remove more of the clothing articles. Soon, you both became frustrated by the barriers and settled for the basics.

Leaving your jumper and skirt on, you kicked off the shows, tights and underwear you’d been wearing as Lucuius kept his white shirt on but undid his leather belt to loosen his trousers and boxers until they were around his knees.

Lucius pulled back from the heated kiss first, but only so he could turn you around and push you face-first against the door. You huffed at the impact but soon were groaning in pleasure as he lifted your skirt and began to rock his dick against your folds, teasing you with gentle pressure before finding its home in your warm cunt.

“Silenco”, Lucius whispers, waving his hand as the atmosphere becomes dense as the spell renders the area soundproof. With the safety of the spell, your mouth fell open, and a barrel of dirty moans left your lips as you didn’t hold back from telling him how good it felt to be stretched by his cock once more.

Lucius dipped his height so that his forehead could rest against your cheek, breathing heavily as he thrust hard and deep. The pace was bruising to the side of your face, resting against the door, but nothing in the world would get you to stop at that moment. To be able to feel his thick length fucking hard into your pussy was something you craved every day.

As your hand reached the back of his head, gripping his silky white-blond hair, you gasped, “I’ve missed you”.

Lucuius groans as he nuzzles into your neck, biting the skin just below your ear as his arm moves around your waist, angling your hips so your arse is sticking out slightly so he can deepen the thrusts.

“I’ve missed you too, little witch. So much more than you could ever know”. Your heart could have stopped at his words, falling even more in love with him than you had before, which tightened your drenched walls even further around him. “I know you’re close. I want to feel you cum around my cock Darling, cum for me like the good witch I know you are”.

As he praises you, the arm around your waist slips beneath the front of your skirt so that he can roll your clit in circles, matching the pace of his hips. Your thighs tremble, fingers clenching his hair until it hurt, but Lucius didn’t stop until you were crying out in pleasure, cunt clamping in spasms around his length, and he, too, joined you through his own orgasm.

Lucius didn’t stop rolling his hips until you were sated and calm from cumming, and his seed had soaked as deep as he possible, caressing your cervix and then dripping out down your thighs. The two of you sighed in contentment, staying together, pushed against the wall, and just appreciating the moment you had tangled against one another.

“I didn’t expect to see you for at least another week. Have you come because of the attacks?”

“I feel as a good Govenor; my answer should be yes”, he whispered against the shell of your ear, nipping the lobe with his teeth, causing goosebumps to rise down your arms. “I can’t deny, however, that it was you that brought me here. I meant it when I said I missed you”.

Even with his softening cock still inside of you, he knew how to make your knees tremble as you blew out a long breath as you asked, “Can you please stay?”

You could feel his shoulders dropping and knew his answer before he’d even begun to speak, and sadness spread through your body, replacing the euphoric sensation. Lucius gently kissed the back of your head as he carefully eased himself away from you, “I’m sorry, my love, you know I can’t”.

Smiling to hide the upset, you turned to him, “I know. I’m sorry I always ask; I just hope that one day you’ll be able to say yes”.

His warm hands cup your cheeks delicately as you do the same for him, carefully moving some of the messy strands behind his ears. “I’m sorry”, he says earnestly.

“Could you stay for a drink at least?”

“I would never say no to a drink with you”. Lucius began to dress, looking significantly more chaotic than before but always looking crisp before leaving. All you managed to do was pick up your discarded clothes and shows, straighten your jumper and wait for him to wave his wand between your legs, cleaning up the mess he had created with a smile.

Walking further into the office, you entered through the hidden door at the back of the room leading directly into your living area. The fire sparked to life as soon as you stepped onto the roof, instantly filling the vast space with heat and an orange hue. Pouring the both of you a hefty glass of dark liquid, you both cheered the glasses together, taking a deep swig of the alcohol that burned your throat deliciously and then settled into the sofa.

You sat remarkably relaxed with him, leaving your bare legs thrown over his lip as his arm settled around your shoulders to keep you close as you watched the fire lights dancing with the flickers of the flames.

“He’s nearly top of the class, but I think he’d have a hard time trying to best both Longbottom or Granger”, you explained sometime later as Lucius asked how Draco was fairing in your class. The man scoffs, only earning him a slap to his chest, “Hey! They’re my students; stop that”. Thankfully, he held his tongue and didn’t prattle on his biased opinions on pure-bloods or traitors, which he had quickly learnt was nothing you were particularly focused on. “Could I ask about what the governors are going to do about the attacks? I don’t want them to close the school, but it feels so dangerous now that students are being attacked”.

Lucius’ arm tightens around your shoulder as his lips press against your temple. “Nothing will harm you, Darling, and I’ve told you this already: I can’t speak of the Governor meetings. We’re sworn to secrecy”.

“It’s not me I’m worried for. It’s the children. It means - aren’t you worried about Draco?”

Your head tilts back on his arm so you can look up into his effortlessly handsome face, expecting him to be worried. However, he only appeared to be as calm and in control as ever, his grey eyes dancing with yours and the bottom lip you’d tucked between your teeth.

“Not at all. He’s in the safest house with the safest blood. I have no worries for my son”. His answer confused you, but you’d just put it down to his many prejudices and superiority complex. Reach up to stroke the smooth sin of his jaw, and you can’t resist the temptation to lean closer and kiss him deeply, tasting the alcohol on his tongue that matched your own.

“What’s it like?” you ask between kisses, unable to stop yourself from asking. “At home, I mean, what’s it like? Do you have any happiness at all?”

“You know I’m not happy and never will be with her”, he answers abruptly, to look at you with a questioning gaze.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I know you hate her”. You refuse to say her name both from shame and jealousy. “Do you have anything else that brings you joy? I hate the thought of you being alone in a big house with no one to give you any positivity”.

The hand lazily resting across your calves begins to draw circles into the skin as he contemplates his answer. “Without Draco there, I have no one. Narcissa and I may eat meals together, but that’s as far as it goes. We never talk; we even sleep in separate rooms. Everything is always for show, which is why these moments with you, where I get to be with someone I genuinely love, mean the most to me”.

You shake at his words, feeling the edges of your eyes water as you cling to him with even more desperation. What's more, the hand on your calf was beginning to slowly creep up the sensitive area of your inner thigh, distracting you from continuing the conversation as your legs automatically parted, giving him more room.

“Lucius”, you pleaded, eyes following his long fingers, the thick silver ring with the ‘M’ wrapped around his thumb adding extra sensitivity with the coolness of it against your skin.

“Shh, I’ve got you, little witch. Just relax for me”, he whispered against your temple as his fingers finally reached their goal. Your head tipped onto his shoulder as your back arched. All of your thoughts were centred on the skillfully trained fingers as he explored your dampening folds, spreading them with ease to give his middle finger the path to your eagerly awaiting hole.

You were a mewling mess as he eased two fingers into your cunt, coating the digits in your juices and rocking them in and out carefully. Lucius began to move the arm around your shoulders, relaxing his hold so he could lie you down on the sofa as he leaned over you, his mouth hovering just above yours.

“Are you going to be good for me, my Darling?” he asks, his warm breath teasing you once more as your legs try to clamp his hand in place.

“Yes!” Your shout was abrasive, but only because he’d already caused you to become a pathetic mess. Lucius smiled against your lips but didn’t move to kiss you properly as he applied more pressure with his fingers and thumb and stroked your clit.

You could feel his soft hair falling around your face as he began to curl his fingers inside of you, pounding that one spot within you that had you seeing stars. You weren’t able to say a coherent word as moisture squirted from your cunt, coating his fingers and wrist as he continued the action at a hard and fast pace.

The sloshing noise was obscene to your ears as he made you squirt over your thighs, sofa and his black trousers. You weren’t even sure you’d came as everything went from 0-100 with how intense his fingers had made you feel.

When he slowed his curling digits, you were a gooey mess in his arms. A grin erupted across your face as he sighed into the cushions, leaning further into his chest as he kissed your temple, allowing you to catch your breath.

“I must go; it’s getting late. You know I love you, my little witch”.

“I love you too, Mr Malfoy”.

#lucius malfoy #lucius malfoy smut #lucius malfoy x reader #lucius malfoy one shot #harry potter smut #hp smut #mine*

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jessybarnes · 1 year

Text

Forbidden Love

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Severus Snape x Reader

Rating: 18+ Only

Word count: Over 5k

Tags: Acromantula, mentions of blood, death of a mythical creature, gore, angst, fluff, smut, bullying, broken bones, hippogriffs, unicorns, fluffy, centaurs, syringes, major character injury, near-death experience, age gap, teacher/18-year-old student relationship, unprotected sex, fingering, begging, forced reveal of feelings, forbidden forest, family drama, and I think that’s it.

Beta: @winecatsandpizza

A/N: This is a repost from one of my old Tumblr accounts. I altered the timeline a little to make this flow better. I realize that Gilderoy lost his memory during the Chamber of Secrets era. I also realize that Severus didn't take on the DADA teaching position until Harry's 6th year. I just wanted to make that clear for everyone. :) Enjoy!

"Hmm…difficult, very difficult. Mmm yes, lots of ambition and very loyal too. A hint of creativity, but you seem to mask it well with your bravery...”

As the sorting hat’s voice echoed throughout the Great Hall, your mind began to flood with the past week’s events.

It was the day after your eighteenth birthday when you discovered your Hogwarts letter. Your grandmother had been a great witch and even taught at Hogwarts after she finished her seventh year. From the moment you were born, she knew you were destined for good things. Your parents had forbidden her from using magic around you and even went so far as to hide your letter of acceptance on your eleventh birthday. It wasn’t until you were going through some of your childhood toys in the attic that you came across it.

The letter was stuck to the back of an old photo album, and the writing had nearly faded completely. You ran your fingers over the yellowing parchment, the tip of your index finger raising slightly as it slid over the sealing wax. You recognized the symbol immediately. Your grandmother had it all over her house, and you’d thought it to be your family’s crest. The wax gave way easily and you pulled the letter out as carefully as you could. Your heart began to race and your breath caught in your throat. The letter was for you! You had been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

You blinked and brought yourself back to reality, the hat seemed to be finishing up his assessment.

“...better make it...Slytherin!”

The table full of students to the far right of the hall erupted in cheer as you walked towards them. You took your seat and after the rest of the first years were sorted into their houses, the Headmaster approached the podium. He raised his hands and without saying a word, the whole room went silent.

“Welcome! Welcome, everyone! It is my great pleasure to start off a new school year with a few minor changes. As many of you know, Gilderoy Lockhart is no longer capable of teaching. It seems a memory charm backfired and he’s lost all memory of who he is. Be that as it may, I am very pleased to announce that our own Severus Snape will be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

Your eyes scanned the teachers at the head table and stopped when they landed on a man who looked slightly younger than the others. He stood and nodded ever so slightly before taking his seat again. Your gaze lingered on him as Professor Dumbledore continued on with his speech.

“Thus it’s only fitting that the one and only Professor Horace Slughorn takes Severus’ place as Potions teacher.”

Another professor stood up from the table and smiled as a round of applause reverberated off the walls.

“Now that we’ve determined who will be teaching what subject, I have an additional announcement to make. All students will refrain from entering the forbidden forest. Anyone who isn’t experienced enough to handle themselves will most certainly die a very horrible death. Now, without further interruption, let the feast begin!”

With a wave of his hand, the empty plates filled with a delicious-looking meal. You ate quietly as the other Slytherins talked and carried on. Every so often, you turned to look at the mysterious man with the all-black attire. Mysterious didn’t even begin to describe him. Even though it wasn’t classified as magic, you had always found yourself skilled in reading people.

He looked particularly confident, his shoulder-length, black hair bouncing slightly as he talked amongst the other teachers. There was just something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. Was it pain? The very moment you thought the word to yourself, his eyes snapped up to yours. Horrified that you were caught staring, you quickly turned your attention to your plate. Had he read your mind?

Deciding not to dwell on it any longer, you continued eating your meal thinking about the new chapter in your life. Though you didn’t know much about Hogwarts and the world of magic, you did know that this house, in particular, had a bad reputation. Your grandmother was a Ravenclaw, and would sometimes divulge knowledge about the other houses. The one thing you remembered about Slytherin was that its founder believed only certain people should be allowed to attend this school and practice magic.

Purebloods.

You were the farthest thing from being a pureblood. In fact, you were what other witches and wizards would call a Muggle. That was another thing you learned from your grandma. Muggle was a term used to describe someone who had non-magic blood, or the less liked derogatory name, mud-blood. The fork in your left hand scraped across your plate as you pushed your food around aimlessly.

Why on Earth would the sorting hat put you in Slytherin?

Soon, dinner was over and the prefects led the students back to their respective common rooms. You followed the other female students to the girl’s dormitory and found your trunk and owl had already been brought in. Nova chirped and tilted her head when she saw you, and you couldn’t help but giggle.

“Miss me already, sweetheart? Well, I missed you too.”

The soft feathers on her head slid between your fingers while you talked to her. Even though she didn’t talk back, it was always nice to feel like someone was listening.

You settled on your bed and began drawing in your sketchpad as the other girls in your room talked amongst themselves. Their conversation hardly registered with you, your focus solely on the drawing of Nova you were currently working on. It wasn’t until one of the other girls tapped you on your shoulder that you noticed they were talking to you.

“Hellooo? Were you even listening to us?”

You set your sketch pad next to you on the bed and looked up at the three girls staring at you intently.

“S-Sorry, I didn’t realize you were talking to me. I was um … I was focused on my drawing.”

The girl closest to you rolled her eyes and huffed impatiently.

“I said, why aren’t you eleven like the other first years?”

There it was, the question you knew would be asked eventually. You just didn’t think you’d have to answer it this soon.

“My um… Well, I suppose it’s because my parents hid my acceptance letter from me.”

The one with the blonde hair began to laugh.

“Why that’s absurd. Why anyone would hide a Hogwarts letter from their child is beyond me. Unless… wait… are you, not a pureblood?”

A sudden feeling of shame overtook you and your gaze wandered to your lap, a loose string on your blanket became instantly more interesting.

“I-I… Well, no… I’ve got non-magic parents actually.”

The third girl scoffed. “Daphne, can you believe they let scum like this into our house?”

Blondie, who you presumed to be Daphne, snatched your sketchbook off the bed and tore it in two, and laughed. “Serves her right. Mud-bloods don’t belong in Slytherin.”

She drew her wand and pushed the tip into the skin of your throat making your whole body quake in fear.

“Listen up you vile little wretch, you’d better not lose us any house points if you value your life at all. Understand?”

Tears pricked your eyes as you nodded quickly. “Y-Yes… Yes, I-I understand.”

She removed her wand and the two other girls followed close behind as they left the room. Closing your eyes, you took a few deep breaths trying to slow the rapid beating of your heart. A few minutes later, you let out a shaky breath and began to clean up the remnants of your sketch pad. Luckily, this was a brand new one and Daphne hadn’t torn up anything too valuable.

Once you were finished, you slipped on your shoes and held out your arm to Nova. She chirped happily and sidestepped to your shoulder. Staying in your room anywhere near the other Slytherin girls was the last thing you wanted to do, so you decided to explore the castle grounds a little before bed. After all, it was only Friday night, and classes didn’t start for another two weeks.

The crisp, fall air licked at your skin the moment you stepped out into the courtyard. It felt good to breathe the fresh air and you suspected that Nova felt the same. She immediately took flight and let out a happy screech. Part of you envied her. Being able to soar as high as the clouds away from all the negativity was something you could only dream of doing.

You wandered around the castle grounds until you spotted a hut nestled at the edge of a tree line. The stone exterior and the pointed roof reminded you of the fairytales your parents used to read as bedtime stories when you were little. Light grey smoke billowed out of the chimney and you could faintly hear someone humming. Curiosity got the better of you, and you soon found yourself at the foot of the steps.

Before you could knock, the front door swung open and none other than Hagrid looked down at you.

“Why ‘ello there, lass! Teh what do I owe yeh the pleasure?”

You’d only known him for a few hours, but you could tell that Hagrid had a big heart and good intentions.

“I just needed some fresh air that's all. Things are… a bit much in my house.”

Hagrid studied you as you spoke. It didn’t take a genius to know something was bothering you, and he saw right through the fake smile plastered on your face.

“Why don’t yeh come in fer a spot of tea? I can tell something is troublin’ yeh.”

It became a sort of routine, the evenings you’d spend with the Hogwarts groundskeeper. After Hagrid had learned the way the other Slytherins were treating you, he’d made it clear that you could spend the night in his spare room any time you needed to. You insisted on paying him for his hospitality, but he always refused. All he had ever asked in return was help taking care of the mythical creatures. Most would probably view it as a chore, but you found it extremely therapeutic.

Friday evening before school started, you noticed Hagrid was missing from the teacher’s table. After dinner, you jogged along the path to his house and noticed the lights inside his hut were off.

Hmm...that’s weird, you thought to yourself.

Normally, he’d be making a pot of tea right about now. Tentatively, you walked up the steps and lightly knocked on his door.

“Hagrid? Hey, are you home? It’s Y/N…” You tried the door, and it opened easily. “Hagrid? I’m coming in…”

Fang peeked at you over his paw and yawned lazily. Other than the glow of the fire, nothing showed signs that he was home. As quietly as you could you walked to the back towards his bedroom. There, wrapped up in blankets and looking beyond miserable, was the half-giant himself.

“Oh, Hagrid… what’s the matter? You look like you feel awful.”

He coughed and sneezed a few times before blowing his nose into a hankey. His skin was clammy, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“I’m sick, lass. Yeh shouldn’t come near me if ye know what’s good fer ya.”

Out of instinct you put the underside of your wrist against his forehead and grimaced.

“Hagrid, you’re burning up! Come on! We have to get you to Madame Pomfrey.”

You helped him stand and carefully started to lead him toward the castle. It took nearly fifteen minutes, but finally, you were able to get him to the hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey motioned to a bed and helped you lay him down. She insisted that she keep him overnight so she could monitor him, but Hagrid was having none of it.

“No! Absolutely not! I can’t stay ‘ere overnight. Who’ll feed Fang an all me other beasts? Buckbeak ain’t the nicest Hippogriff when he’s missed a meal yeh know.”

Your hand came down to cover his as you looked him in the eyes.

“Hagrid, please...stay here and let Madame Pomfrey take care of you. I’ll take care of feeding them tonight, okay? It’s not like I haven’t helped you make your rounds for the past week and a half.”

The groundskeeper sighed with defeat and nodded.

“Alright Y/N, I’ll stay an let yeh take care o’ my pets, but yeh have ta promise me you’ll be careful.”

You gave him a soft smile and stood to smooth out your robes. “Don’t worry, Hagrid. I’ll be quick and efficient just like you taught me. I even made myself a list so I remember which animal eats what as well as where they’re all located. I’ve got this!”

Before he could change his mind, you hurried out of the room and back to his hut to grab what you needed. According to the list, you had five different species to feed tonight. The unicorns, Buckbeak the hippogriff, Fluffy the three-headed dog, the centaurs, and Aragog the acromantula.

None of these mythical beasts ever acted like they were harmful, but they weren’t to be taken lightly either. Not to mention you were with Hagrid every time you’d fed them before. After loading up the bags with their food, you made sure you had your wand before approaching the edge of the forest. It didn’t matter what time of day it was, the shadow from the trees always made the forest dark and a thin layer of mist lingered near the forest floor.

Fluffy was first on your list. His doghouse was about fifty feet within the forest. Brandishing your wand, you cast Lumos Maxima and took the trail to the west. A few minutes later, you could hear light snores echoing off the trees. Making sure you had the three slabs of meat at the ready, you whistled to get the giant beast’s attention.

"Fluffy! I got you some dinner!"

The dog's left head yawned enthusiastically and you couldn't help but chuckle.

"Alright, that's enough sleeping. It's time for some yummy meat!"

The middle head began to growl and bare its teeth at you while the one on the right shook its head back and forth violently.

"There we go, nice and easy…" You slowly got closer and gently set the slabs of meat within his reach before backing off."

You stuck around long enough to make sure he saw the food and then walked north towards the part of the forest where unicorns made their homes. It surprised you to learn that they preferred witches over wizards. Hagrid had told you that they were very fast, so much so that they could outrun a werewolf.

Instead of trying to seek them out, he set up feed pails around their homes and filled them with food. As you were filling the pails, you saw a golden blur out of the corner of your eye. It startled you at first, but then you remembered Hagrid telling you that unicorn fouls were gold in color.

Staying completely still, you waited until it poked its head out from behind the tree.

"Hi, sweetheart. You want some food?"

At the mention of food, the foul whinnied and slowly approached your outstretched hand. It broke your heart that these beautiful creatures were nearly extinct. You gave light scratches to the tufts of fur behind its ears, the serene moment nearly making you forget where you were.

After hand-feeding the baby for a few minutes, you quickly filled the rest of the pails before heading towards the centaurs. Hagrid always made sure you remembered how proud the centaur breed was. They didn't like to be classified as "beasts" along with thestrals, merfolk, or werewolves. They also ate both human and equine food.

It was a good thing you remembered to grab both types. You didn't want to upset them at all, let alone do so without Hagrid around to protect you. As you approached their den, a familiar face came to greet you.

"Good evening, Y/N."

Firenze stood tall as he looked down at you, his unwavering gaze making you a bit nervous.

"H-Hey! Sorry, it took me a bit to get here. Hagrid isn't feeling well, and I had to take him to the hospital wing."

The creature nodded and uncrossed his arms.

"That's quite alright. I see you brought my colony dinner."

You offered a smile and held out two big knapsacks of food. "I did! I wasn't sure what you would prefer so I came bearing a variety of things...I-I hope that's okay."

Firenze chuckled and placed one of his large hands on your shoulder. "That's very kind of you, Y/N. Please give Hagrid my best. I do hope he recovers quickly."

With a nod and a wave, you watched him until he was out of sight.

Adjusting the bag on your shoulder, you turned east and walked in the direction of the area Buckbeak frequented. You’d come to love the Hippogriff ever since Hagrid introduced you to him. It only took you about five minutes to navigate the trail before you could hear the excited bleats coming from a group of trees. Making sure to stop the moment you crested the hill, you made eye contact with Buckbeak and bowed low.

The Hippogriff turned and tilted its head momentarily and then bowed in return. You took the dead ferrets out of the bag and tossed them in the air for him to catch. When you ran out he nudged the side of your face and chirped happily.

“Yes, I love you too, Beaky. You’re a good boy!”

Kissing his beak sweetly, you bade him goodnight and walked south toward the heart of the forest. Time to feed the final species on your list.

Aragog.

Even though they were capable of human speech, acromantulas were the one beast you had a fear of. As you approached Aragog’s lair, hundreds of tiny spiders crawled on the ground next to you. Taking a few deep breaths to compose yourself, you crept into the pitch-black den with your senses on high alert. At the heart of it sat the beast himself.

“Who dares to come into my home?”

With a shaky hand, you reached into your bag and quickly pulled out a dead fox as an offering.

“A-Aragog? It’s um…it’s Y/N, the one who has been coming with Hagrid to feed you. I have umm… I have some birds and foxes for you.”

The large arachnid stalked closer to you, its eyes like black holes as it seemed to stare into your soul.

“Yes… the young fleshy girl who claims to be a friend of Hagrid. Tell me, where is my keeper? What have you done to him?”

The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end and your fight or flight instincts began to kick in.

“I-I-I didn’t do anything to him. He… he isn’t feeling well and I told him I’d come and bring you dinner…”

You hadn’t realized you were backing up until your heel caught a crooked root poking through the ground. Pain shot through your ankle as you fell against the floor of the den. Aragog clicked his fangs together and you flinched as his voice boomed around you angrily.

“I don’t believe you! I’ve known Hagrid for over fifty years, and not once has he missed a feeding!”

As graceful as your sprained ankle would allow, you scrambled to your feet and dumped the dead birds and foxes on the ground in front of you.

“H-Here’s your food… I… I’m just gonna go…”

The venom from his fangs began to drip on the ground as he moved even closer to you.

“Go? Oh, I don’t think so, friend of Hagrid. Those foxes and birds may sate my son's and daughter's hunger, but they won't satisfy me."

Ignoring the throb in your injured foot, you clambered out of the den as fast as you could. Branches swatted you in the face as you sprinted toward Hagrid's hut. Aragog was hot on your heels as the castle grounds became more and more visible. Just a few more feet and you'd be safe.

A rotted tree trunk caught your eye, but it was too late for you to avoid it. You hit the ground with a sickening thud, your wrist that broke your fall was surely broken. Turning to face the fastly approaching acromantula, you pleaded for him to stop.

"Aragog, please! ….I...I didn't do anything to Hagrid… please don't hurt me!"

The giant spider loomed over you, its fangs clicking together violently.

"Goodbye, friend of Hagrid…"

You let out a blood-curdling scream as its pincers tore into your flesh, the moonlight fading away until you slipped into unconsciousness.

Nights were usually the time Severus took to think. It was his free time, save for the occasional disobedient student wandering the corridors. He'd just walked past the open courtyard when a small owl flew down to land on his shoulder.

"Get off me you insolent bird!"

It let out a screech and circled him before settling on his other arm.

"Merlin’s beard, what is it that you want?!"

Just as he was about to send it away, he noticed a small charm bracelet attached to the owl's left leg. Curious, he cast Lumos and read the inscription.

Name: Nova Jane

Property of: Y/F/N Y/L/N

"I see...you're the property of the new Slytherin girl. Go on then! Go back to the dormitory."

Nova nipped at the buttons on his sleeve and screeched loudly. Just as Severus was about to scare it off, your scream echoed throughout the castle grounds.

"Take me to her! Now!"

Nova took flight and soared in the direction of the Forbidden Forest. Severus ran as quickly as he could, his robes flowing behind him like a cape. His heart thundered against his chest as he broke through the treeline.

The moment he saw Hagrid's acromantula towering over you, he drew his wand and aimed for its head.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The spell sent Aragog catapulting backward, its body falling lifeless against the base of a large tree.

Seeing you lying there motionless made his blood run cold.

"Oh, Merlin…no no no..."

He sank down in the mud and put two fingers against your neck, a breath of relief falling from his lips when a faint pulse fluttered against them. His eyes scanned your body, worry prickling his skin at the number of deep cuts you had. He knew you wouldn't survive if he didn't act now.

With a shaky hand, he pointed his wand to the deep gash in your abdomen.

"Vulnera sanentur…"

A glow illuminated from it and within seconds it was as if the wound never existed. He did the same for the other large wounds as well as your wrist and ankle before lifting you into his arms. He may have stopped the bleeding, but you still had the acromantula's venom flowing freely in your veins. He only had a few minutes to reverse the toxins.

Closing his eyes, he apparated to his sleeping chambers and gently laid you on his bed. Severus worked quickly to mix up the antivenom. Once it was mixed properly, he used a syringe to inject it into all of your main arteries.

It became a waiting game. You'd lost a lot of blood, nearly too much, and all Severus could do now was hope you'd wake up. He found himself pacing, checking your pulse every so often to make sure you were still breathing. Eventually, the adrenaline in his body wore off, and it made him realize how tired he was.

He shed his robe, toed his shoes off, and with a snap of his fingers, a fire began to crackle and pop in the fireplace. He sat and pondered to himself. What was he supposed to do with you? It wasn't like he could take you to Madame Pomfrey now. Not after he'd healed you the best he could. Plus, he was sure the other Hogwarts staff would question him on why he took you back to his chambers. Honestly, he wasn't even sure why he'd done it. He acted on pure instinct.

His gaze wandered over to where you were laying. Severus felt himself relax upon seeing your chest rise and fall. He'd done it. He'd saved you. His eyes began to get heavy as he listened to your soft breathing. Unable to stay awake any longer, he let sleep consume him.

The smell of tea filled your nostrils as you tried to recall where you were. Last night's events flooded your mind and your eyes immediately snapped open.

Scanning the room, your brows furrowed in confusion. This wasn't the hospital wing, and it definitely wasn't Hagrid's. You sat up, your back against the headboard, and scanned your exposed skin. Other than a few bruises, there wasn't any sign of injury on you at all. Had it all been a dream?

The sound of the door opening brought you out of your thoughts. Your eyes widened at the sight of your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher carrying a teacup and saucer.

"Oh, you're up. Good." He strode over and set the cup down on the nightstand next to you. "Drink this. It'll help you feel better."

You blinked up at him, your eyes staring into his obsidian ones. Even though he wore a scowl ninety percent of the time, your professor wasn't bad looking. In fact, you found him quite attractive. His form-fitting robes with all those buttons and his confidence drew you in almost immediately.

It was then that you remembered he'd spoken to you. Forcing your brain to form words, you stuttered out a response.

"I...um…th-thank you, Professor…"

His stone-faced expression didn't waver as he sat down on the comforter next to you.

"Why, Y/N? Why would you put yourself in danger like that?! You could have been killed! Merlin, if it wasn't for your insolent bird, you would have been!"

You focused on your lap, your cheeks red with shame.

"M'sorry… I was just t-trying to help Hagrid fe-"

You slapped your hand over your mouth and internally cursed yourself. Hagrid made you promise not to tell anyone you were helping him, and here you've almost told none other than Professor Snape!

"Go on…"

Shaking your head, you moved to get off the bed.

"I… I can't… Thank you for saving me, Professor. I'll just be going…"

His firm hand came to rest on your thigh and with little force, he pushed you back down onto the bed.

"Listen to me, Y/N. I'm your Head of House. Either you tell me what you were doing in that forest, or I'll make you tell me."

The demand in his tone sent shivers down your spine. It really should be a sin to have a voice like his.

"I-I...um…"

Severus rolled his eyes and stood to walk across the room. He came back with a vial, with a small amount of liquid in the bottom.

"Know what this is?"

You shook your head.

"This is Veritaserum. Three drops of this, and it'll make you spill your darkest...of secrets…"

You watched as he poured the small amount of liquid into a glass of butterbeer.

"Drink…"

Instead of obeying his orders you grabbed the teacup off the saucer and swallowed its contents.

"Thank you, Professor, but I’m no longer thirsty and I don't like butterbeer."

For the first time since you arrived at Hogwarts, his lips gave a hint of a smile.

"It's no matter. What do you suppose I did with the rest of the serum, hm?"

All the color drained from your face, your mouth opening and closing like you were a fish out of water.

"The tea…"

Your professor chuckled, "Yes, the tea. Now, tell me, what were you doing in the Forbidden Forest after curfew?"

You couldn't stop them. It was as if you were possessed. The words came flowing out of you on their own accord.

"I was helping Hagrid feed his mythical creatures. He's in the infirmary sick and I offered to do it so he didn't have to."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "How long have you been doing this?"

You swallowed thickly. “Since the first day of school. Some of the other Slytherin girls were bullying me so I went for a walk. It was then that I formally met Hagrid. He offered me his spare bedroom, and I’ve been sleeping there ever since…”

He rose to his feet and began pacing again, his hands behind his back. “And he lets you stay...for free?”

“I can stay as long as I help him tend to the mythical creatures that live in the forest. He taught me everything he knows and I help him with feedings.”

Severus stopped and turned to face you. “Did you ever think of coming to me for help with the bullying? I am the Head of Slytherin you know.”

Oh, how you wished you could hold back the words threatening to escape. No matter how hard you tried, it was no use.

“I was too nervous to come to you, Professor.”

He raised an eyebrow, his hands fidgeting out in front of him. He knew his presence intimidated most of the children attending Hogwarts, but he decided to use this to his advantage.

“Obviously...And why, do you suppose, I make you so nervous, Y/N?”

“I suppose it’s because I’m in love with you.”

Your response came out just above a whisper, but he still heard every word. Out of every scenario in his mind, Severus did not expect you, a young woman, to say that. For a rare moment in his life, he was rendered speechless. It took him a moment to collect himself, but once he did he noticed your face was buried in your hands. Merlin, help him, you were crying and it was all his fault.

He slowly moved to where you were laying and sat down so he was at your level. Without giving it any thought, he pulled you into his chest and began rubbing small circles on your back to soothe you.

“Merlin, what was I thinking? I shouldn’t have forced the truth out of you like that. Please...forgive me.”

You clutched at his robes and moved your tear-filled eyes to his.

“I forgave you the moment it happened, Professor.”

A few silent moments passed between the two of you and he continued to hold your gaze. Severus was the first to move. Ever so slowly, he leaned down to capture your lips.

His mouth melded with yours perfectly, and he didn’t stop until his lungs demanded it. Your eyes closed, your forehead coming to rest against his.

“Professor I-”

He silenced you with another chaste kiss. “Severus…Call me Severus, Y/N.”

“Please Severus…make love to me.”

His resolve broke the moment the plea fell from your lips. Severus gently laid you back and gently rid you of your tattered robes. His calloused hands slid over your smooth skin making your breath hitch. He peppered kisses down into the crook of your neck, his path moving to the space between your breasts.

“S-Severus...please…need you…”

He nipped playfully at your jaw and sat up slightly to take his shirt off.

“Patience, Y/N… I’ll take care of you.”

Once he was bare before you he made his way between your legs. His touch was tentative, his fingertips brushing your folds gingerly. He circled your clit making you arch off the bed.

“Oh, Merlin!... Fuck!”

Severus chuckled and slid two of his fingers inside you curling them upwards.

“Bloody hell, you’re soaked, Y/N…”

He easily found the sensitive spot inside of you, the coil in your core winding tighter and tighter with each passing second.

“Please! Oh…shit… Se-Severus! M’gonna cum… please… please make me cum!”

His cock twitched at your words, precum leaking from the tip.

“Let go, Y/N...cum for me…”

With a cry of his name, you fell over the edge. Your chest heaved as you pulled him up for a heated kiss.

“Need you, Sev. Need you inside me. Please…”

As carefully as he could, Severus lined himself up and pushed into you.

“Merlin, you’re so tight!”

His thrusts were steady and his kisses were fervent as he made love to you.

“Oh, fuck! Sev! Oh, you’re so good… so good, baby…”

Both of you wanted it to last, but it was clear you both needed the release more.

“Y/N, I won’t last much longer like this… you feel amazing...so amazing.”

You slid your fingers through his thick hair and pulled his mouth down to yours. “Cum with me, Severus…”

A moment later, both of you soared into bliss together. His lips rested against your own and his body shook as he spilled into you, your walls clenching around his cock. Severus was spent as he settled behind you, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist.

“Y/N, I need to know you’re okay with this...with us…”

Threading your fingers with his, you planted a sweet kiss on the back of his hand.

“Severus, our love may be forbidden, but I’d choose you no matter what it cost me. I’ll take you as you are. Your highs, your lows, all of it. I’ll love you until my last breath.”

He turned you in his arms and cupped your cheek.

“I never thought I’d ever love another. Not after Lily, but seeing you in the forest like that sparked something in me. Something I haven’t felt for nearly fourteen years. I’ll spend forever protecting and loving you.

As your eyes grew heavy, you felt a new sense of worth. Coming to Hogwarts was something you’d only dreamed of growing up. The moment you found your acceptance letter, you knew your life would change. You never thought you’d find someone to love here, but for once you were happy, and that’s all you’d ever wanted.

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writingforstraykids · 9 months

Note

"One of us is going to end up with a broken heart" -> them saying no to adopting/fostering a cat or kitten, so probably Min, you can make it a runt of the litter if you want to sprinkle some angst, but only sprinkle! I can't handle being drowned 😭 Honestly this feels self indulgent now, but we ain't gonna dump now, no sir-e

Just a fluffy time with the "no we can't keep it" dad trope (dad? I mean if you wanna, I won't say no 🙈) then them being the reason its kept, always a sucker for this ugh, gen.neutral would be fine, see no reason for specification on this, go ham, cause I kinda did lol whoops

Aww I love this thought so much, I finished it immediately after you sent it in🤭 I do hope you like it💕

Pairing: Minho x gn!reader

Warnings/tags: pure fluff

Word Count: 767

“Minho, no,” you shake your head firmly as you realize where your husband is so eagerly taking you this cold December morning.

“You don’t even know what I-” he starts protesting but gets cut off quickly by you.

“Min. We’re not adopting another cat!” you groan softly.

Minho parks the car in front of the animal shelter and turns to you with a big pout and the best puppy eyes he can muster. “But-”

“Minho Lee, I said no,” you shake your head, thinking of Soonie, Doongie, and Dori, who had just gotten familiar with the newest addition, Cookie, a small brownish-grey goofball who’s been keeping you busy this past month.

Minho sighs softly and looks at you, utterly heartbroken. “Baby, listen, we agreed ‘no kids yet,’ but…I have to share my love somehow.”

Your jaw drops, and you try to stifle a laugh. “Minnie, you have four kids already, five if you count Felix as your fifth kitty.” That makes him laugh as well. “You can practice being a dad of five, do we really need a sixth kid?”

“Look at him, isn’t he sweet?” Minho asks, voice growing all gentle and sweet like you know him around cats. In the small basket in front of you, there’s a little black kitten staring at you with big brown eyes. Your husband turns toward you in search of agreement, and suddenly, you’re faced with two brown-eyed kittens staring into your soul.

“He is,” you nod, eyeing him suspiciously as he pets his head softly.

Minho looks back at the kitten and makes a soft sound, his smile widening as he kneels down, and the kitten makes a few wobbly steps towards him. Minho picks him up after checking with the employee and rubs his forehead against the kitten’s head. “He looks like Channie, doesn’t he? All in black and those sad eyes.”

You chuckle and roll your eyes at him fondly. “Ah, that’s why; you miss your hyung so much you want to adopt a kitten looking like him.”

Minho shoots you a playful glare and shakes his head. “Obviously not.”

“Minnie, come on,” you sigh softly and shake your head. “It’s too much.”

“Cookie needs a little brother, that’ll make him responsible,” he says so seriously it makes you laugh.

“Min.”

“Seriously, Y/nnie,” he sighs and makes eye contact with the kitten. “Always the same with them. One of us is going to end up with a broken heart at this rate,” he tells him.

“Minho, seriously,” you laugh and smack his head playfully.

“You’re such a meanie,” he pouts.

“And you’re forbidden to take another step into an animal shelter in the next five years at least,” you shoot back, and his head spins toward you.

“Five years?! Honey, are you crazy?” he gasps and sets the kitten back down. “I’m so sorry, Channie, I would’ve taken you in any day. I would’ve made sure you had a cozy spot, delicious food and you’d be our new maknae kitten.”

Oh, for fucks sake.

“Cookie, look, you got a little brother,” Minho announces cheerfully and sits down, keeping your sixth kid in his lap. He makes a happy sound and wiggles from side to side as Cookie nuzzles his face against the newcomer. “Soonie, Doongie, Dori, come here,” he calls out for the rest and holds up the black kitten above his head. “Say hi to your baby brother, Channie.”

“No, he won’t. He’ll kick your ass if you tell him the reason for it,” you snort.

“Minho,” you crack up. “You can’t seriously call him that.”

“Why not? He’ll love it,” he grins smugly.

“He’ll never know,” he shrugs and sets down Channie on the floor. “Never,” he announces and looks at you firmly.

“Come on, I said yes, let me at least choose another name,” you laugh and sit down next to him. “I don’t want to wake up to you calling out for beloved hyung in the morning.”

“Fine~,” he sighs and side-eyes you with a light huff.

“Oh! I know something, we’ll call you Lixie,” you say proudly after a moment.

“And that’s supposed to be better?” he asks sarcastically, ruffling your hair. “I can’t name two of my kitties the same.”

“You call him Yongbokie either way. Shut up,” you giggle, and he pokes your side.

“You shut up,” he giggles and presses his lips firmly against yours. “I love you so much, baby,” he beams at you.

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

“Yeah, yeah, anything to satisfy my beloved cat dad,” you snort and ruffle his hair, giggling softly. Gosh, you love this idiot.

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

Taglist: (Please let me know if you want to be added to/removed from the taglist!)

@kai-lee08 @mal-lunar-28 @malfoygalaxies @soullostinspaceandtime @brownieloved @rebecca-johnson-28 @euphoric-univers @hyunniebunni @galaxycatdrawz @aaasia111 @channieaddict @kthstrawberryshortcake

#stray kids #skz #skz drabble #minho #minho drabble #minho x reader #minho x gnreader #minho fluff #minho fluff drabble #fluff #stray kids drabble #requests open #lee know #lee know drabble #lee know fluff #lee know x reader

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moorishflower · 4 months

Text

Tower and Rose (Dream/Hob Beauty and the Beast fusion, Explicit)

Tower and Rose || Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling || Complete - Posting twice a week until it's done || 85k

Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Mystery, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fairy Tale Elements, Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Threats of Violence, Alternate Universe - Medieval, How many more AU tags can I fit in here, Falling In Love, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Dream of the Endless | Morpheus is Bad at Feelings, Dream of the Endless is Kind of a Dick, Plucky Mercenary Hob Gadling, Dreams vs. Reality, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Minor Violence, Dream of the Endless Can Have Whatever Genitals He Wants, Queer Sex, Nominally PIV Sex But Who Knows With Dream, Anal Sex, Hostage Situations (Technically Hob is being held hostage)

After being dared by his friends to take a single rose from the garden of the dark tower outside of London, Hob Gadling discovers that he has inadvertently run afoul of the tower's keeper, a man who calls himself Dream, and who wields powerful magics. To prevent the deaths of his friends, Hob offers himself as a hostage: to be Dream's captive and confidant for all eternity, trapped together in the dark tower. However, once there, Hob discovers deeper and deeper mysteries with each passing day. What is the significance of the roses? What is the beast that roams the gardens at night? Why will Dream offer him no answers, and why can none of his servants speak of the tower's past? And why has Dream forbidden Hob from entering the topmost floor of the tower?

Thanks again to apocryphal for the beta work! You're a rockstar!

Read it on AO3 here!

#the sandman #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #my fic #dream/hob #dream of the endless/hob gadling

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veronicaphoenix · 2 months

Text

the unmaking of a warrior | part eight

Pairing: Ronin!Noah x Princess!Reader Series masterpost here ✨ Word count: 6.4k Tags & trigger warnings: forbidden romance, angst, implied anxiety and panic, descriptions of violence, blood, mentions of death, mentions of gods, mentions of sex, implied sexual scenarios that are not described in detail, cliffhanger.

Additional useful info: - Kami: japanese word for a deity, divinity, or spirit. - Omamori: good luck charm meaning to protect.

THE UNMAKING OF A WARRIOR

PART VIII

Noah’s arms immediately seized me by the waist, pulling me back as I fought against him, trying to reach my father.

“Let me go,” I hissed.

Noah’s hold was strong and firm. I knew it was futile to fight against him. Nevertheless, I couldn’t contain the urge of throwing myself at my father as I saw him approaching so nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t encouraged Noah to kill himself in front of hundreds of people merely three days ago just because he was in love with his daughter.

“No. You will not solve anything like this,” Noah whispered, keeping his arms locked tightly around me, securing me against his chest as I fought against his restraints.

His comment just ignited my anger. Noah had just threatened a man with his katana and had liver-shot him until he was on the ground, struggling with his own breath. And now he had the audacity to say that throwing myself at my father wouldn’t solve anything.

“Daughter,” my father spoke.

He stopped in his tracks a few yards away from us, his armor shining under the afternoon sun. The Samurai standing at his sides remained frozen but attentive to any move around them. Noah had been one of them seventy-two hours ago. Now he was standing on the other side of the line, where Rei, Maura, and many other residents of the community stood, watching at the scenario threatening to turn into a battle at any time.

“I see your intentions remain the same,” my father started to say. “By the way he is restraining you, I would say you have turned into more of a savage in a matter of days.”

I was done being embarrassed at his words, at my mother’s, at Ren’s. I would throw myself like a lioness at anyone that threatened Noah or my future with him.

“However, I am not here to discuss your behavior,” he continued as Noah tried to disentangle my fingers from his katana. He muttered a forced ‘let go’ against my ear, and I finally relented, my breathing ragged as I remained in his lock.

Everyone must have thought I looked like a feral cat at that moment, but I couldn’t care less. I hated that my father still chose to talk with such diplomacy, especially with me. I could see now that I was not his daughter anymore. I was just something that had belonged to him, and he was here because, one way or another, he believed that he could take it back and make Noah pay for the mistake of taking me away—as if he had taken me by force.

I had no agency whatsoever in front of my father, or Ren, for that matter. No matter how much I told them Noah hadn’t forced me to do anything just like I hadn’t forced him to do it, either. I didn’t think I would be able to restrain myself if Ren appeared at my father’s side in the next few minutes. I would find the first bow laying nearby and shot him straight through the heart, if he had any.

“I am here to address the matter at hand,” the Shogun said, his eyes on Noah. “You have eluded me for far too long, Ronin,” he didn’t mean the three days we had spent on the run. He meant all those years Noah found a way to meet his daughter in the dark and make sinful things to her, “but now that we stand here, we must put an end to this situation.”

Noah’s arms fell slowly to my side, taking the katana from my grasp. I felt the heat emanating from his body, but at the loss of his touch, I felt my blood go cold.

He didn’t deserve any of this. Noah deserved to be laid on a bed, be cherished, loved, let to rest, enjoy a slow day as he pleased. But my father was not ready to give him that. He would never be; that I knew. And the news of him having something to say to Noah, —say, not fight— frightened me. What could he have to say to Noah at this point? What would there be in words that could change how things were?

“You defied me, dishonored me,” he began, each of his words deliberately punctured “dishonored your own family’s name, and worst of all, you tainted my daughter’s name and her body,” it cost him something to say those last words out loud, in front of all that people. He avoided looking at me, but I guessed that the reason why he exposed that was just to throw more shame over me. He actually didn’t care about what Noah had done to my body. What angered him was that I preferred Noah to a life of luxuries and obedience.

I expected for him to continue, to throw something worse at me and Noah, but his silence was taken as an open door for Noah, who spoke with a calm and confidence that astonished the audience.

“I am aware of what my actions have caused. I am aware that I should not be here,” he should be dead, “but I am. I am sorry for the pain I have caused you and your family, but my love for your daughter is honest. My loyalty belongs to her now, and always will. I do not regret any of my choices.”

My father didn’t expect Noah to overtly express his feelings and exude such confidence. I saw a muscle in his jaw ticking.

“That is precisely why I have come to you. I have a proposal,” he announced, raising his voice a higher note.

All my senses went on high alert. I was still fuming, my heart drumming in my chest, my skin prickling.

“Here,” he opened his arms, “in this sacred place where you’ve been welcomed and where kami watch over, my authority wanes, but beyond these sanctified borders, my power remains the same. I am the Shogun, and I decide the fate of those like you, who have transgressed written laws. Once you step beyond this place, my warriors shall be poised to reclaim what is rightfully mine. Fear not, Ronin, for you have wielded your blade with unmatched prowess in my service and might perish with admirable skills. However, for her...” his eyes fell on me, “it is a different tale. No matter how much you try to protect her, every time she dares venture beyond these walls, her very existence will be in danger. I perceive the trepidation etched upon your face and the square of your shoulders now, as you envision the dreadful prospect of cradling my daughter’s lifeless form in your arms, the consequence of a momentary slip in your focus.”

A solemn hush lingered in the air, pregnant with the weight of my father’s threats.

“Reality is grim, indeed,” he continued, his chin raised. “But here is the proposition I came to offer: my life, offered in exchange for yours—and hers,” he declared, his expression resolute, indicating his daughter, me, with a regal gesture. “I extend this challenge to you, Ronin. A duel between the two. A duel to death. Should I defeat you, my daughter will be reclaimed into my kingdom as the princess she is meant to be. Yet, if you emerge victorious, I will allow you and my daughter to live your lives in peace, free from my rule.”

My retort burst forth unbidden, fueled by the flames of indignation raging within me, incensed by his audacious display of authority and his presumption that he could dictate the course of our fate. He dared to threaten Noah once more, to imperil his own daughter.

Shame on him.

“Your proposition holds no sway in this sacred place,” I countered, raising my voice, which caused birds to startle in a nearby tree and fly away. “You cannot desecrate this sanctuary with a conflict that only you want to be a part of,” I declared vehemently, my voice a tempered blade cutting through the air.

“You are right, my daughter. It holds no sway unless he accepts the duel.”

“He won’t,” I replied fiercely.

But then, my world fell apart when Noah said, “I accept your challenge.”

A string of murmurs and gasps filled the air.

I turned to him with wide eyes, my heart threatening to escape my chest, my blood turning cold.

“Very well. Let it be done, then,” my father replied.

“No, you can’t do that!” I screamed, taking one step forward to emphasize my words, ignoring the hand from Noah that tried to grasp my wrist. “He can’t do that!” I shouted again, looking at Rei and Maura, expecting them to say that this was not allowed in this place, that it couldn’t happen.

I didn’t like the look of sadness and pity in their eyes.

“If Noah agrees to the challenge, we can do no more than letting them do.”

“That’s not…” My heart started spinning. “No,” I muttered looking at Noah, my eyes starting to fill with tears at the prospect of what this meant. A life-or-death challenge. Either him or my father. “You can’t do that! You can’t!” I screamed at my father, and when I tried to lunge back at him, two of his Samurai raised their katanas in a cross shape to keep me from reaching him. Noah also managed to grab me by my wrist and pulled me back to him.

“Today, at dawn,” my father announced, louder, “we shall meet on the training grounds. May the best warrior prevail.”

With that, he retreated.

I turned around to face Noah, time seeming to stand still, my throat dry.

“What did you do?” I didn’t recognize my own voice. My entire being was at the mercy of shock and fear. “Noah, what did you just do?”

Around us, the crowd dispersed. If anyone mumbled words of encouragement or sympathy, they didn’t reach my ears, as all my attention was on Noah and the way he looked at me with his beautiful brown eyes; a look that said there had been no other choice.

But that wasn’t true.

There had been choices. He just hadn’t considered them. He hadn’t considered me, and he had closed a deal that ended with his death or my father’s.

The pounding of my own heart blocked my ears and made me feel dizzy, the scents in the air only intensifying my disorientation.

“It’s the only solution,” Noah said.

Before I said anything again, I started shaking my head, my eyes watery. I swallowed hard.

“Now it is,” I managed to say, my voice constricted by the lump in my throat.

If Noah didn’t consider the consequences of his public decision the moment he closed the deal with my father, he did now when he saw my expression.

Looking around one last time, when we were practically alone in the square and people’s voices were once again filling the space but from a distance, Noah took me by the elbow and directed us both to a more secluded and private place, behind some small houses that seemed uninhabited but neatly tended by the community.

“I know this scares you, but it’s the only way we can be together and free. Otherwise, your father is always going to be there, just waiting for—”

“You know that?” I asked, cutting him off. “Do you know how scared I am of what you just did? Do you really know, Noah? Because if you do, why did you do it?!” I couldn’t contain my emotions, my heart breaking at the thought of the fate that awaited me when night fell.

“Don’t cry,” he demanded, but I pushed his hand away from my cheek as soon as he made a move to wipe away my tears. I saw a rush of pain cross his features, but I had no right to succumb to such emotion because he was the cause of such.

“What else am I supposed to do when the man I love has just given himself to death?”

“That’s not what I’ve done,” he tried to appease me.

“No, it isn’t. You have made a deal with my father, the Shogun, in which only one of you will get to see the sun rise tomorrow. If it isn’t you who perishes tonight, it will be my father at your hands. What were you thinking of? You know I would choose you above all things, but I don’t want my father’s death. I don’t want his death at your hands!”

Noah spoke my name softly, his hands again reaching out to touch my skin. I recoiled, my back meeting the wooden wall of the house.

Noah took a breath of air, his chest swelling as his eyes scanned my expression and as he struggled between what to say and what to do. I knew that expression all too well. It was one that said he was aware of the damage he was causing, but that nothing and no one would change his mind. It was the expression of the martyred and at the same time, the implacable Samurai.

“He is your father,” he began, “but he was also my teacher. His determination is uncompromising. I know how persistent and ruthless he can be, especially with his enemies.”

And at that moment, Noah was his number one enemy. The one who had stolen the most valuable thing he had: his daughter.

The hope that had filled me in the preceding twenty-four hours now lay shattered on the ground, fragmenting with each fleeting second. It forced me to confront the unsettling notion that perhaps Noah and I had no future together. Or worse, yet: that our love, so pure and bright, was transient because it may never bear fruit in the form of a family and the adventure of growing old and grey together.

“He won’t let you win,” I said. Though my tone was soft and low, my desperation echoed in the stillness around us.

Noah’s response was stoic. “You’re underestimating me. I’m the best warrior he’s had since my father perished on the battlefield.”

“Being pretentious won’t help you win, Noah.”

“I’m not being pretentious, or confident. I’m being earnest and practical.”

“My father has thirty years more practice with the sword than you,” I allied, being earnest and practical. “He is the Shogun. He can play dirty, and he will, because he considers your honor lost, so he won’t mind playing without honor against you.”

Noah sensed the pain and fear in me, which consumed me with each passing second. I was so close to accepting an impending tragic future that this time I let him touch me.

His fingers caressed my chin.

“Baby…”

“Nothing can ensure your victory,” I whispered, “and even if you do win, it will be at the cost of my father’s death at your hands,” my throat dried up as I spoke those words again.

How had we ended up there? Hadn’t I been able to think about the consequences of running away with Noah from my father’s estate? Was it my place to blame Noah for making that decision when, perhaps, I’d been the one to make a mistake when I ran away with my warrior?

“There had to be another way to do things. Perhaps between the two of us, we would have found it. I could have talked to my father at another time, under different circumstances, make him understand...” I said, the words escaping quickly from my mouth. I knew well that nothing would have served to convince my father. For his daughter to have fled with one of his soldiers was probably the most dishonorable thing that could happen to the family’s name. But even aware that my chances with my father would have been minimal, I couldn’t conceive the fact that Noah had made such an impulsive decision without even considering me. “But now there’s no turning back,” I said, looking up at him. “You’ve made a life or death deal with my father in which I wasn’t even allowed to say anything about it. In a few hours,” I continued, “it will be my father’s lifeless body lying on those grounds—or yours,” I pointed to the earth with a trembling finger. “I may not agree with my father’s plans for me, with the life that was written for me without allowing me to choose, but that doesn’t mean I want to see him dead. And I certainly don’t want to see you die. How could you accept his challenge without thinking about the consequences? Without considering me? You didn’t even allow me to say a word, Noah! Do you realize what you’ve done?! How you’ve behaved?! Like them; like my father, like my mother. Like Ren.” My voice rose to a fever pitch, resonating in the quietness around us and startling the nearby deer. Noah’s expression fell, realization dawning in his eyes as my words pierced through his resolve.

“I wouldn’t have accepted if I wasn’t confident in my abilities.”

“You’re the most formidable warrior I’ve ever known. You are my warrior. But I won’t cling to that when your life is at stake. When your life depends on my father’s,” I put a hand to his chest. “As much as I admire the Samurai you are, I will never accept the oath that says you have to give your life for those you serve or love.”

“Listen to me,” Noah said, his tone tinged with sadness and frustration. “Your father will never be okay with you being with me. He will never accept that his daughter chose a ronin over the royal family. If I don’t do this, we can never hope to be together; to be free. How can I ensure your safety outside these walls? You heard him. He threatened you, his daughter. I will not take it.”

“I’m not some helpless maiden, Noah,” I countered fiercely, my spirit rising against his attempts to shield me. “I may be a princess, but I know how to wield a bow and an arrow, and you know damn well how skilled I am with a sword because you taught me. Do not treat me like I’m defenseless.”

“That’s not what I am doing,” Noah insisted, but his words fell short in the face of my mounting fury and pain.

“Is it not?” I shot back, the sting of betrayal coloring my words. “Was it not when you made your decision in front of everyone, robbing me of any say? Was it not every time you spouted that Samurai bullshit about making your own choices while disregarding mine? It’s not just about you, Noah. It’s about you and me! And I refuse to accept a future where you’re not at my side!” My voice cracked as I pushed against his chest, feeling a rage against him that I had never ever felt before; not with him. Not with my warrior.

With a trembling sigh and on the verge of giving up, I continued. “But I won’t accept any other future if you take my father’s life, either.” The bitterness in my tone softened, my tear-filled eyes boring into his beautiful brown ones. “How could I bear the touch of the hands that have taken my father’s life?”

Silence stretched between us.

I made attempt to leave, but he seized my wrist, calling my name once more.

“I need you to be there, at dawn.”

“Do not ask me to be a witness to either of your deaths.”

I wriggled myself out of his grasp. With a flash of pain and fury crossing my features, I walked away.

I found myself wandering away and into and open expanse of field where a congregation of deer grazed serenely, bathed in the golden afternoon sun. With trembling hands and tear-stained cheeks, I approached them, drawn by the silent companionship they offered. I tried to feel a sense of calm as I reached out to stroke their fur. They nuzzled against me, and I let out a small teary laugh at their playfulness.

As they searched for food in my hands and nuzzled me with their muzzles, I pondered the cruel twist of fate that now threatened to tear my world apart. Merely two weeks ago, I had lain on the mattress in my grandmother’s little house, with Noah adoring my body as he entered me over and over, promising to make up for all the nights we’d spent apart. That night felt so distant now. I had so much hope for us back then—even when I had no idea how to escape the tangled situation we were in.

Now I wondered, was there ever truly a life of peace and freedom awaiting Noah and me, or were we destined to be torn apart, to fulfill the duties imposed by a world constricted by societal structures and rules?

With each tear that fell, I whispered silent prayers to the heavens, pleading for a reprieve from the tragedy that was about to take place. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the meadow, I knew that my fate couldn’t be freed from the resolution of that dawn’s duel to death between my father and the man I loved.

I went back to the house.

I couldn’t bear the thought of being out there, enjoying such green scenery, hearing the birds chirp, and watching the deer stroll peacefully, knowing that come nightfall I would either have to deal with my father’s death or return with him to his residence, never to be in Noah’s arms again.

As my steps brought me closer to what I had thought would be our home for years to come, tears threatened to spill over once more.

I only allowed myself to cry when I found myself in the temporary comfort of that little house, where Noah and I had woken up in each other’s arms that morning, being interrupted by children’s laughter that one day could have been our own.

Aware that we had only just arrived and things were far from stable, I had allowed myself to believe that the fairy tale I had dreamed of living with Noah since I was a little girl would come true. I envisioned us living in an idyllic place, surrounded by a generous and kind community, doing what we were passionate about. I imagined what it would be like to live together without clinging desperately to the evening hours because Noah would no longer be there in the morning. I pictured us spending hours lying in bed, with Noah between my legs, whispering sweet nothings in my ear.

Standing in the middle of the room, I looked around, taking in the details, and for a moment, I entertained the dreadful thought that all of this was, in fact, temporary, that it had been temporary from the moment we set foot in this place. Anger and sadness took hold of me. When my eyes fell on the bed where Noah and I had spent the night and then on the pile of clothes Rika and her husband, Kenzo, had offered us, I had the urge to tear it all to shreds, to set it on fire.

Instead, I angrily and carelessly tugged at the knots of the dress I was wearing, cursing how delicate Noah had been in tying them and the thoughts he had awakened in me, making me believe we might enjoy a few intimate hours in the coming days, succumbing to each other, my hands bound and my body at his mercy.

I dropped the dress at my feet and wrestled with the remaining clothes on a stool until I found a simple kimono in sweet, delicate colors. I locked myself in the washroom, letting a few more tears fall as I clung tightly to the sink.

I don’t know how long I stood there, Noah’s words replaying in my head, along with my father’s and the consequences of that duel. I thought about the possible outcomes and where they would leave me. Could I forgive Noah if he killed my father? Could I let the same hands, stained with my father’s blood, touch me?

Worse yet... Could I live without Noah?

A sob escaped, filling the silence. I put a hand to my mouth.

By the time I opened the bathroom door to return to the bedroom, my tears had dried. Instead, I wore my heart on my sleeve, and finding Noah in the room only increased my misery. Hanging from one of his arms were pieces of clothing I immediately recognized as a combat suit.

He paused at the sight of me, his expression marked by conflict that quickly turned resolute. He was experiencing a sense of ambivalence that I now understood. On one hand, I felt fear and sadness for the decision he had made, knowing its consequences. On the other hand, after meditating about it, he was right; as much as I despised his decision, it was necessary for our happiness and our future.

He picked up my dress from the floor and placed it carefully on top of a drawer, his actions ever so slow and delicate, as if he weren’t about to spill blood on a battlefield.

“If I could, I would hate you right now,” I said, my voice breaking as I reached the end of the sentence. “But I can’t. Because I only learned the meaning of love when I was with you, and that’s all I’ll ever feel for you.”

Noah opened his mouth to say something, tilted his head to the side slightly as if my words had just cracked his heart a bit more.

He extended his free arm towards me and I took his hand.

I took slow thoughtful steps towards him until I was at arms reach and placed my free hand on his chest, right where his heart was caged by his ribs.

“I can’t live without you. I understand why you accepted. I do. I understand,” I repeated in his arms, “but I can’t conceive the idea of losing you, of living without you. I feel like everything I’ve done so far—everything I’ve been waiting for, has been to be with you, to grow old with you, and I can’t think that it all could be snatched from my hands in a few hours.”

His features hardened, but the tenderness in his eyes persisted.

“I promised myself that I would fight for our freedom until the end of days—but especially yours. I can’t break that promise.”

My fist clutched the fabric of his shirt. I was angry but I refused to cry again. I gazed at him with my lips pressed tightly together and my jaw firmly set.

“Make another one,” I demanded. I had no more options. “Promise me that this won’t end as it’s supposed to; that no one will die tonight.”

He kissed me, his large hands cradling my face, the combat suit dropping to the floor. His kiss was a promise—a vow that his love would defy the laws of this life and surpass the universe. But it didn’t carry the assurance that he would return to me after the combat, or that my father would return to his estate.

“I love you,” he breathed against my lips. He was warm and strong. He was home.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“It sounds like you’re saying goodbye. Don’t say goodbye. I beg you.”

“I’m not saying goodbye. And even if I were, you and I will meet in the next life, and in the one after that if there is one.”

The sun was setting on one edge of the horizon, casting a golden hue over the training grounds where people gathered, hushing to each other. My father, the Shogun, stood with his katana unsheathed, its blade shimmering like liquid silver on one end of the grounds. Across from him, Noah stood with his own sword, the blade catching the last light of the setting sun.

Onlookers formed a perimeter around the grounds. They murmured, their voices blending with the rustle of the wind. Most whispers were expressions of sympathy for Noah—and for me. Nobody wanted bloodshed in that sacred place, in the sanctuary protected by gods and ancestors. Yet, the presence of my father’s army and Noah’s decision had left no other choice.

I stood on the left side, flanked by Rika and Milla. Their pity and worry grew with each sideways glance they cast my way, but I couldn’t acknowledge them even if I tried; my focus was solely on Noah.

Determined not to waste a moment with him, I had walked him by the hand to the training fields once he had changed, his hand exerting pressure on mine. When we arrived, he backed me into a corner, out of sight of the others, and rested his forehead against mine. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he whispered, “I shall return to your side, no matter what the heavens say. I belong to you—you’re the keeper of my heart.” He kissed my cheek quickly, not giving me a chance to respond. Then, he let go and stepped into the battleground.

Since then, I had blocked out the presence of everyone around me. If I didn’t walk back to the house that night with my hand in Noah’s, then nothing here mattered; no one did.

I had spent most of my life avoiding the spotlight. As the daughter of the Shogun, expectations had been thrust upon me; I was a princess, and I should act like one. From an early age, my every action was scrutinized and interpreted according to others’ desires. Standing in the training grounds that evening, it felt as though I could never escape that lie. It was suffocating; it felt like a noose tightening around my neck with each passing second.

Had I been delusional to think that everything would be okay after Noah and I ran away?

Despite the weight of the murmurs and glances directed at me, most eyes were fixed on the two figures standing opposite each other. My father exuded a powerful aura of authority, not because of his prowess as a warrior but because of the position he was born into. Noah, however, stood there because he had earned his place through relentless training and dedication. The determination in his eyes masked his anger and ruthlessness, but it was palpable in his entire stance. His gaze never wavered from my father’s, and I could sense his thoughts racing with the dread of the Shogun taking me back to his estate and forcing me to marry Ren, turning me into the obedient wife I never wanted to be.

My father’s Samurai stood impassively by his side, like silent sentinels, while on the other side, the members of the community who had so warmly welcomed Noah and me were visibly conflicted. I could hear some murmuring prayers, others discussing the inevitability of the conflict between Noah and me and my father, and a few, touched by the love that had sparked this strife, hoped for Noah’s victory. Rika and Milla stood close to me. When one of them touched my elbow in an attempt to comfort me, I flinched and pulled away.

I was so consumed by fear that I didn’t realize the combat had begun until the clash of steel shattered the night’s stillness. When my focus cleared, I saw my father moving with the precision of someone assured of his power. Noah’s fighting was different from the training sessions I had seen; he fought with a fierce passion, driven by the will to survive and our love. His movements were both fluid and desperate, parrying each attack with the same determination my father had relied on for years, trusting Noah with his life.

How ironic that his best swordsman was the one who could bring him down today.

A growing heaviness filled my chest, and I could barely bear to watch as each clash of their swords echoed through the air. Around us, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying the collective breaths of the spectators and my own.

The outcome of this battle would shape not only my future but the destiny of all who witnessed this clash of love and duty. If Noah fell, my father’s power would increase, but if Noah prevailed, the family’s name and reputation would be forever tarnished. Not that it would matter, for my father would be dead at the hands of the Ronin he despised.

As the duel continued, Noah’s movements became a dance of lethal precision. His katana sliced through the air with a grace that belied the gravity of the conflict. Each strike was deliberate, each parry executed with a finesse honed through years of intense training. I watched in awe and fear as Noah deftly maneuvered around my father’s attacks. Despite his age and experience, my father struggled to match Noah’s agility and mastery of the blade. Noah’s strikes were swift and purposeful, aimed not so much at defeating him but at keeping him at bay. He was trying to hurt him, but not to kill him—while simultaneously fighting to survive.

In a sudden, fluid motion, Noah managed to land a cut on my father’s arm. The Shogun grunted in pain, his face tightening with a mix of fury and surprise. Yet, the battlefield was unforgiving. In a moment of distraction, Noah’s concentration wavered just enough for my father to seize the opportunity. With a lightning-quick maneuver, my father retaliated, landing a deep cut on Noah’s thigh. The blow drew blood, staining Noah’s clothing.

I held my breath, doubts gnawing at me. Despite Noah’s prowess and his love for me driving him forward, my father’s stature as the Shogun and his decades of experience cast a long shadow over my hopes. I had seen my father’s authority and martial skill throughout my life—his disciplined demeanor, his unwavering commitment to tradition. Noah might have been his finest soldier once, but now, my father’s hatred ran deep, fueled by Noah’s betrayal and the loss of honor as a samurai.

My doubts crystallized after what felt like an eternity of relentless combat, the clashing steel and strikes offering no respite to either of them. In a moment of fierce intensity, my father closed the distance with two swift steps. With a precise and brutal strike, his blade sliced deeply into Noah’s chest. The combat suit tore apart, unable to withstand the force of the blow, and blood welled from the wound. Noah’s anguished cry filled the air, echoing in my ears. Drops of blood splattered onto the ground, marking it with the gravity of the duel.

I watched in horror, frozen in place, as Noah staggered back from the impact. His hand instinctively went to his chest, fingers probing the deep gash where his lifeblood flowed freely. The pain etched across his face mirrored my own torment, and his eyes locked briefly with mine, conveying a silent plea for understanding and forgiveness. Across from him, my father stood with a mix of pride and cold fury etched on his features.

A wave of fear and helplessness crashed over me. The sight of Noah wounded, his life slipping away in a crimson stream, was unbearable. Panic seized my chest, constricting my breath as tears welled in my eyes. I knew then that I couldn’t stay and witness the potential end of everything I held dear.

With trembling hands and a heart heavy with dread, I pushed past people. Their murmurs and gasps of shock faded into distant echoes as I fled the scene, unable to confront the reality of Noah’s mortality. Anxiety clawed at my throat, and tears blurred my vision as I stumbled away from the battleground, each step carrying me farther from the agony and despair threatening to consume me.

I didn’t realize I had gone from walking to running, my rapid strides taking me as far as possible from where Noah’s blood stained the ground. Panicked, I glanced around until I spotted the temple perched on the rocky hill overlooking the village.

The path to the temple was steep and winding, each step a battle against exhaustion and despair. My feet stumbled on the uneven stone steps, the pain in my chest matching the ache in my heart.

As I ascended, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the village. The first stars began to twinkle in the darkening sky, while an eerie glow fell over the cobblestone streets.

The temple’s silhouette loomed against the fading light. Reaching the entrance, I could almost feel the walls whispering tales of generations past. I pushed open the heavy wooden doors, revealing a cool, musty interior scented with incense and the weight of history. Shafts of dwindling sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, casting fragmented patterns of color across the ancient stone floor. Flickering candles illuminated statues of gods and ancestors, their serene faces watching over me with timeless wisdom.

As soon as I crossed the threshold into the temple, I collapsed to my knees. My sobs blended with the resonant tones of singing bowls, as an elderly woman performed rituals nearby. The tranquility of the temple was disrupted by the torment in my heart. Tears flowed freely, unchecked and raw, as I silently pleaded with the spirits for guidance and strength. The echoes of ancient prayers seemed to fill the air, mingling with the soft murmur of my own desperate pleas.

I felt utterly lost, overwhelmed by the belief that I would never see Noah, the love of my life, again. The thought that my father might kill him on the battlefield was unbearable. Just as despair threatened to consume me, the elderly woman approached quietly. She knelt beside me with a gentle grace and placed a small Omamori in my hand, urging me to hold it. Slightly confused, I watched her through blurry vision.

The old woman then set a Daruma doll beside me, on the floor, its one eye painted in. It was similar to the one my grandmother had given Noah for luck. I recognized the familiar symbol of perseverance and hope.

I closed my eyes, clutching the Omamori tightly. Holding the amulet close, I prayed with all my heart, my fragile thread of faith hoping that somehow, Noah would survive.

Taglist:

@girlfromrussia-universe | @kankuurohs | @somebodyels3 | @missduffsblog | @respectfulrebel

@badomensls | @darling-millicent-aubrey | @moreyoulove-moreyouknow

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bellaxgiornata · 1 year

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Bella's Masterlist of Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Michael Kinsella, & Sam Winchester Series & One Shots

I am currently working on multiple series and fics for Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Michael Kinsella, and Sam Winchester. I've updated my Masterlist so that each link will bring you to a separate, organized Masterlist for each specific character because there are just so many now! There's also some "bonus" characters I write for listed at the bottom of this Masterlist (Henry from Eat Locals and Daryl Dixon from The Walking Dead). Always feel free to chat with me about any of the fics or characters I'm writing for. Y'all know I'm chatty!

I post new fics/updates multiple times a week and all of my stories are available fully on tumblr and my AO3. If you'd like information on my tag lists you can find that here.

**I do not currently accept story requests because I have too many ongoing projects at the moment!**

Bella's Tuna-Tober Masterlist [Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, and Michael Kinsella]

Collection of Short Blurbs [Baby related one shots & blurbs featuring Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, and Michael Kinsella]

Masterlist of Matt Murdock Fics and Series

Masterlist of Frank Castle Fics and Series

Masterlist of Michael Kinsella Fics and Series

Masterlist of Sam Winchester Fics

Masterlist of Daryl Dixon Fics

Additional Characters:

Henry (Eat Locals) x Fem!Werewolf!Reader Mini Series

Forbidden Love [Installment List]

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strangerthingsbigbang · 2 months

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Title: Wonderstruck

Author: Buckysgrace Artist: @floredaqueen Beta: Sadhours Characters: Billy Hargrove, Original female character, Eleven/Jane Hopper, Neil Hargrove, Eddie Munson, Tommy H, Billy Hargroves Mother, Relationship(s): Billy Hargrove/Original Female Character, Billy Hargrove & Neil Hargrove, Billy Hargrove & Eddie Munson, Eleven| Jane Hopper and Billy Hargrove Warnings: Blood and Violence, mentions of drug use, Physical abuse Rating: Explicit Additional Tags: Smut, Fluff, Angst, Fae and Fairies, Billy Hargrove needs a hug, Alternate Universe, Blood and Violence, Forbidden Love Wordcount: 25,267 Summary:

Billy's village is gloomy, covered in thick black vines and full of prowling monsters. All because of them. The Fae. The Fae are supposed to be monsters; hideous creatures that are full of tricks and full of brutality. He learned a long time ago to kill them before they got too close. He's done it before, it's easy. So, he accepts the challenge of bringing a pair of interesting ears back; a souvenir. He has the perfect creature in mind too. Only to find out that the obstacle isn't quite as possible as what he once thought.

Wonderstruck by Buckysgrace

#stranger things #stranger things big bang #stbb: 2024 completed works #Billy Hargrove #Billy Hargrove x Original Character #Billy Hargrove x fem!OC #Billy Hargrove smut #Billy Hargrove fluff #Billy Hargrove angst

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novaursa · 19 hours

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The Price of Fire (Final Chapter)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: This is the final chapter for this story. I had to cut a lot from the original one, since it's a very, very long story. And Tumblr is not built well for that. If you have a feeling something is missing, this is why. I may in the future expand the story with additional short chapters to fill the gaps. But I'll leave it as it is for now.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: 18

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy @hajmola-vs-aamchaska

The chamber in Sunspear was filled with the low, hushed voices of healers and the flickering light of candles as you lay exhausted on the birthing bed, your body still trembling from the effort of bringing new life into the world. The air was heavy with the scents of sweat and herbs, but all of that faded away as you looked down at the tiny bundle in your arms.

Your son, with his shock of pale blonde hair and eyes of vivid violet, looked up at you with a serene, almost knowing expression. Tears welled in your eyes as you gently traced his delicate features, your heart swelling with an overwhelming, indescribable love.

Arthur knelt beside you, his gaze locked on the infant with a look of wonder and pride. His hand, strong and warm, rested on your shoulder as he leaned closer, his eyes never leaving the face of his newborn son. “He’s perfect,” Arthur murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He brushed a soft kiss against your temple, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You did so well, Y/N.”

Your lips curved into a tired smile as you looked at Arthur. “We did,” you whispered, your voice hoarse but filled with joy. The exhaustion and pain faded into the background, eclipsed by the small, precious life cradled against your chest.

Arthur’s hand moved to gently stroke the baby’s fine hair. “Aegon,” he said softly, almost reverently, as if testing the name on his tongue. “We will call him Aegon, after your ancestors. A name for a king.”

You glanced at him, a flicker of apprehension in your eyes. Aegon—a name that carried with it a weight of history and expectation, a name that would forever tie your son to the legacy of House Targaryen. But as you looked down at your child, your heart steadied. He would be more than just a name. He would be your son, the embodiment of everything you had fought for, everything you had risked.

“Aegon,” you repeated, the name rolling softly off your lips. It felt right, like a promise for the future. “Yes. Aegon.”

The door to the chamber opened quietly, and Rhaegar stepped in, his face etched with a mixture of relief and joy as he looked at you and the tiny bundle in your arms. He moved to your side, his eyes softening as he took in the sight of his nephew. “He’s beautiful,” Rhaegar murmured, his voice filled with pride. “You have given our family hope, Y/N.”

You reached out, taking Rhaegar’s hand in yours. “He is our future, brother,” you whispered. “No matter what happens, he is our hope.”

Rhaegar nodded, his expression turning solemn as he glanced at Arthur. “We’ll protect him. We’ll protect all of you,” he promised quietly, though there was a shadow in his eyes, the weight of what he knew was coming.

Oberyn entered the room a short while later, his presence a stark contrast to the tender moment that had just passed. He glanced at the infant in your arms with a faint smile, though his eyes soon shifted to Rhaegar, the look in them calculating.

“Congratulations are in order, I see,” Oberyn said lightly, though there was an edge to his tone. “A healthy boy, and a name that will certainly stir the winds of fate.”

Rhaegar’s gaze met Oberyn’s, a flicker of unease passing over his face. “What do you want, Oberyn?”

Oberyn shrugged, his smile widening. “Only to discuss what comes next, Prince Rhaegar. Your sister has just brought a new Targaryen into the world, and yet we still have much to settle, do we not?”

Rhaegar’s expression tightened, his shoulders stiffening. “This isn’t the time, Oberyn.”

But Oberyn was undeterred. “There’s no better time. You’re leaving soon, aren’t you? Varys has prepared everything for your departure to Essos. But there’s still the matter of our agreement.”

Rhaegar frowned, his jaw clenching as he looked back at you, then at the baby in your arms. “You mean the marriage alliance,” he said, his voice hard.

Oberyn nodded. “Yes, you were to marry Elia in exchange for Dorne’s support. But now you’re leaving. So, what of our arrangement?”

Rhaegar’s gaze hardened. “I won’t be able to honor that promise. You know that. Our only concern now is getting Y/N and our mother to safety.”

Oberyn raised an eyebrow, his expression thoughtful. “If you won’t marry Elia, then perhaps there is another way to secure our alliance. The child,” he said, his voice casual but his eyes sharp. “Young Aegon could be raised here, as a ward of Dorne. He would be safe, far from Robert’s grasp, and when he comes of age, he could marry into House Martell. It would solidify our bond.”

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a dangerous tone. “You know Y/N will never agree to that.”

Oberyn shrugged, a slow smile spreading across his face. “She may not have a choice. If you want Dorne’s continued support, the boy must stay. Otherwise, what reason do we have to aid you when you’re gone? Aegon would be the perfect link between our houses.”

Rhaegar’s expression darkened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I’ll find another way. But I won’t take my sister’s child from her. I won’t do that to her.”

Oberyn tilted his head, his gaze thoughtful. “Do you think I want to separate a mother from her child, Rhaegar? I understand the pain of loss, more than you know. But we are talking about survival. We are talking about securing the future of your family—and mine. Y/N may not like it, but she will have to accept it. She will have to trust that this is the only way to keep him safe.”

Rhaegar glanced back at you, his heart aching as he watched you cradle your newborn son, your eyes filled with love and hope. He knew what Oberyn was saying made sense, but the thought of taking Aegon away from you was unbearable.

But as much as he hated to admit it, he knew that the time for choices was quickly running out. Robert’s rebellion was growing stronger by the day, and the safety of his family was hanging by a thread. He had to do what was necessary, no matter how much it hurt.

“You underestimate my sister’s resolve,” Rhaegar said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “But I’ll speak to her.”

Oberyn nodded, his expression turning serious. “Do that. The boy’s life may depend on it.”

And as Rhaegar turned back to you, watching you hold your newborn son, he knew that the days ahead would be filled with difficult decisions—choices that would shape the future of their family, and perhaps, the very fate of Westeros itself.

You sat beside Arthur, your son Aegon cradled in your arms, his tiny breaths steady and peaceful as he slept. The past day had been a whirlwind of emotions—joy at your son’s birth, anxiety over what lay ahead, and now, uncertainty hanging like a storm cloud over your family.

Rhaegar stood before you, his expression troubled, his eyes filled with a mix of guilt and determination. He had been pacing the room, his frustration palpable, but now he stopped, facing you and Arthur with a heavy sigh.

“Oberyn has made his position clear,” Rhaegar began, his voice steady but lined with tension. “He wants Aegon to stay in Dorne as a ward, to secure our alliance. He believes it’s the only way to ensure Dorne’s support, especially after we leave for Essos.”

Your heart clenched, the thought of being separated from your newborn son filling you with an overwhelming sense of dread. You held Aegon a little closer, his soft weight a comforting presence against your chest. “No,” you said firmly, your voice shaking with both fear and resolve. “I won’t leave him. He’s just a baby, Rhaegar. I can’t—I won’t—be separated from him.”

Rhaegar’s gaze softened, but his expression remained resolute. “Y/N, I understand how you feel, truly, but Oberyn’s right. Aegon will be safer here than anywhere else. Robert’s forces are closing in, and once we’re gone, the Dornish won’t have any reason to stand against him unless there’s something—someone—binding them to our cause.”

You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes as you looked down at your son, so small and vulnerable. “Then I’m staying too. If he’s going to be here, so am I.”

Rhaegar’s face tightened, his frustration breaking through his calm demeanor. “You can’t, Y/N. You’re not safe here. None of us are, not truly. But with Varys’s help, we can get you and Mother to Essos. Once we’re there, we can find a way to bring Aegon to us later. But right now, we have to think about what’s best for him.”

“What’s best for him is being with his mother,” you replied fiercely, your voice trembling with the force of your conviction. “I won’t abandon my child. I can’t.”

The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of your words hanging between the three of you. Rhaegar’s gaze flickered to Arthur, who had remained silent, his expression unreadable. Finally, Arthur stepped forward, his voice steady, though you could hear the strain beneath it.

“If Y/N can’t stay, then I will,” he said quietly, his eyes locking onto Rhaegar’s. “Aegon needs one of us with him. If I stay, I can protect him, ensure he’s safe until we can all be together again.”

You turned to Arthur, your eyes wide with shock. “Arthur, no. You can’t. You’re the only reason we’ve been safe this long. If you stay—”

Arthur’s hand covered yours, his touch gentle but firm. “I will not let our son grow up without one of us, Y/N,” he said softly. “This is the only way. I’ll stay with him, keep him safe. You need to go, get to safety. For both of you.”

Rhaegar nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he looked at Arthur with a mixture of gratitude and sadness. “It’s not ideal,” he admitted. “But it’s the best option we have. With Arthur here, Oberyn will have no reason to doubt our commitment, and you, Y/N, will be out of reach.”

You shook your head again, struggling to find words. The thought of leaving Aegon—and Arthur—behind filled you with a deep, aching despair. “I can’t... I can’t just leave you both.”

Arthur squeezed your hand, his voice gentle but insistent. “You have to. You have to trust me, trust Rhaegar. This is the only way to ensure Aegon’s safety. We’ll reunite, I promise. But right now, we need to think of the future.”

Rhaegar glanced between the two of you, then stepped back, his expression pained. “I’ll leave you to discuss it,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But know that whatever you decide, it’s for the good of our family. We’re doing this to survive.”

He turned and left the room, the door closing softly behind him. The silence that followed was almost suffocating, the reality of what you were facing settling in like a lead weight in your chest. You looked at Arthur, your heart breaking at the thought of leaving him, leaving Aegon.

Arthur reached up, brushing a tear from your cheek. “I know it’s hard,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “But we’re doing this for Aegon, for his future. I’ll be here with him, and you’ll be safe. We’ll find a way back to each other. I promise.”

You nodded, your tears falling freely now as you looked down at your sleeping son, your heart aching with a fierce, protective love. “I’ll hold you to that promise, Arthur Dayne,” you whispered, your voice breaking.

“I wouldn’t dream of breaking it,” he replied softly, his hand resting gently over yours, his gaze steady and filled with unwavering love. “We’ll be together again. No matter what.”

You held his gaze, the depth of your feelings for him, for your son, nearly overwhelming. But you knew he was right. You had to be strong—for Aegon, for the family you hoped to have, one day, when this nightmare was over.

The air in King’s Landing was filled with the stench of fear and smoke as the city braced itself for the final siege. Outside the walls, the banners of Robert Baratheon’s army flew high, his men battering at the gates with a relentless determination. The sounds of war echoed across the streets—clashing steel, the shouts of soldiers, the desperate cries of the people trapped within.

In the Great Hall of the Red Keep, Aerys Targaryen sat hunched on the Iron Throne, his fingers drumming erratically against the cold steel of the swords that forged his seat of power. His once-bright eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, his face twisted into a mask of brooding anger. The rejection he had faced from his daughter still gnawed at him, a festering wound that refused to heal. She had chosen his son over him, defied him in front of his own armies. Even now, the thought of it sent waves of rage coursing through his veins.

The doors to the hall swung open, and Varys, his silken robes whispering against the stone floor, approached with a careful, measured step. His face was inscrutable, his gaze watchful as he took in the sight of the king slouched on his throne, brooding like a caged beast.

“Your Grace,” Varys began, his voice soft but urgent. “Lord Tywin’s army has arrived outside the city walls.”

Aerys’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “And why should that concern me, Spider?” he hissed, his voice cracking with the strain of sleepless nights. “Tywin is the Warden of the West. He’s come to defend the city.”

Varys hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly to the empty space around them, as if he feared invisible ears might be listening. “There are… troubling reports, Your Grace. It appears that Lord Tywin has betrayed you. He is not here to aid you, but to join forces with Robert Baratheon.”

The words hung in the air, a cold, brutal truth that seemed to freeze the very breath in the room. Aerys’s face contorted with disbelief, and then with fury. He surged to his feet, his robes billowing around him like the wings of a maddened bird. “Lies!” he screamed, his voice echoing through the hall. “Tywin would not dare! My servant! He would not betray his king!”

But even as he raged, the doors to the hall opened again, and Grand Maester Pycelle hurried in, his face pale and drawn with fear. “Your Grace, the reports are true,” he stammered, his voice trembling. “Lord Tywin’s forces have joined with the rebels. The city gates are under attack. They are trying to force their way in.”

Aerys’s eyes went wide, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as the reality of the betrayal crashed over him. The walls of his world were crumbling, and there was no escape. But then, slowly, a manic grin spread across his face, his eyes gleaming with a feverish light.

“Burn them,” he whispered, the words barely audible. He turned, his gaze fixed on the shadows lurking near the hall’s edge, where Wisdom Rossart, his chief pyromancer, hovered like a dark specter. “Burn them all!”

Rossart stepped forward, his expression grim but obedient. “Your Grace?”

Aerys’s voice rose, his madness filling every corner of the hall. “Burn them! Set the wildfire ablaze! Let the flames consume them all! Every man, woman, and child in this city—let them burn!”

Varys’s eyes widened, his calm facade slipping for the first time as he realized the full extent of the king’s madness. “Your Grace, please,” he urged, stepping forward. “There are still loyal subjects in the city. Innocent lives—”

“Silence!” Aerys shrieked, his face twisting in rage. “They are all traitors! Traitors and thieves, every one of them! Set the wildfire! Burn them!”

Rossart bowed, his face a mask of resigned obedience. “It will be done, Your Grace.” He turned, making his way toward the door, but before he could leave the hall, a deafening roar shook the very walls of the Keep.

Terrax.

The sound of the dragon’s bellow echoed through the castle, rattling the windows and sending shivers through every soul within. Aerys froze, his eyes wide with shock and something like twisted delight. “Terrax,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “He’s come back to me. My dragon—he knows!”

The great doors of the hall shuddered as the roars continued, closer now, the sound a terrible, piercing wail that seemed to carry with it the fury of the gods themselves. The courtiers and guards scattered in fear, their eyes wide with terror as they looked to the sky, to the terrible shape of the dragon circling above the Red Keep.

“Burn them!” Aerys screamed again, his voice raw and desperate. “Burn them all! Set the fires now!”

But before Rossart could obey, before the orders could be carried out, there was a flash of steel—a quick, terrible blur of motion—and the blade of Jaime Lannister’s sword drove deep into Aerys’s back.

The king’s eyes went wide with shock, his mouth falling open in a silent gasp. He stumbled forward, his fingers clawing at the air as if trying to grasp something unseen, his gaze fixed on Jaime, who stood behind him, his face grim and resolute.

“You—” Aerys choked, blood bubbling on his lips. “You can’t… I am… I am the king…”

The words died on his lips as Jaime twisted the blade, the king’s body convulsing before he collapsed to the floor, his blood pooling around him, dark and spreading across the cold stone.

The hall fell silent, the echoes of the king’s final screams lingering in the air like the dying notes of a dirge. Jaime stood over the body, his sword still dripping with the blood of the man he had sworn to protect.

And then, another roar, a mournful, soul-wrenching cry that shook the very foundations of the Red Keep. Terrax, high above, screamed a sound that seemed to tear the sky apart, his anguish and fury echoing through the city below. The dragon’s cries reverberated across King’s Landing, and then, as if heeding some unspoken command, Terrax turned, his massive wings beating against the air as he flew away from the Keep, away from the madness and death below.

The last anyone saw of the dragon, he was a dark silhouette against the sky, flying east, toward the distant lands of Essos, his roars fading into the distance, leaving behind only silence and the smoldering remnants of a shattered city.

The waves rocked the ship gently as it sailed through the dark waters of the Narrow Sea, the distant coastline of Westeros fading into the horizon. The vessel bore no sigils, no banners to mark its allegiance—only a silent promise of escape, of safety beyond the chaos and bloodshed. But even as the ship cut through the waves, an unseen storm raged within you.

You stood at the bow, staring out at the endless expanse of water, your hand resting on the wooden rail. The breeze, cool and salty, brushed against your face, but it did little to soothe the ache that gnawed at your heart. You had left so much behind—your child, your love, and now, it seemed, something else had been ripped from you.

A sudden, sharp pain lanced through your chest, so intense it took your breath away. You doubled over, clutching at your side as the agony radiated through you, each pulse a reminder of something irrevocably lost. Images flashed behind your eyes—fragments of flame and shadow, glimpses of your father’s twisted smile, and then darkness, swallowing everything whole.

You knew, in that awful, gut-wrenching moment, that Aerys was gone. Your father, the man who had once been your protector before madness took hold, was dead. His life snuffed out like a candle in the wind, leaving behind only the bitter ashes of memory.

Despite all the horror he had wrought, the cruelty, and the madness, he was still the man who had held you as a child, who had once whispered stories of dragons and glory in your ear. And now, he was gone—forever. A sob tore from your throat, raw and painful, as you sank to your knees, the weight of loss crushing down on you.

Rhaegar and Rhaella rushed to your side, their faces etched with worry. Rhaegar knelt beside you, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, his voice urgent but gentle. “Y/N, what is it? What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words to express the hollow, aching void that had opened up inside you. Tears blurred your vision as you looked up at him, the pain in your eyes telling him everything you couldn’t say.

Rhaella knelt beside you, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch your cheek, her own eyes filled with anguish. “What is it, my sweet girl?” she whispered, her voice breaking. “What’s happened?”

“Father…” you managed to choke out, your voice barely more than a whisper. “He’s gone. I felt it—something broke inside me.” Another sob escaped you, your body trembling with the force of your grief.

Rhaegar’s face tightened, his jaw clenching as he exchanged a troubled glance with Rhaella. He knew, even before you had spoken, what had happened. The bond between you and your father, twisted and painful as it was, had been severed in the most brutal of ways.

“He’s dead,” you whispered, the words falling from your lips like stones into a deep, dark well. “My father is dead.”

Rhaella’s hands covered her mouth, her eyes widening with shock and sorrow. Despite everything Aerys had done, despite the terror and madness, he had still been her husband, the father of her children. Now he was gone, and even the deepest wounds couldn’t erase the grief of losing him.

Rhaegar’s grip on you tightened, his voice low and filled with regret. “I’m here, Y/N.” He held you as you wept, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Above, the sound of wings cut through the air, the familiar rush of wind as Terrax’s shadow swept over the ship. The dragon circled overhead, his great wings beating steadily as he hovered, his golden eyes watching you from above. You looked up, your breath catching as you felt the familiar, disjointed thoughts of the dragon brush against your mind.

"Father is silent like the Stranger."

The words echoed in your thoughts, strange and fragmented, but the meaning was clear. Terrax, too, sensed the loss, the absence of the man who had once bound you both through dark, unnatural magic. Aerys’s death had sent a ripple through the connection, a final severing of the twisted bond that had tied you all together.

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you clung to Rhaegar, your body trembling with the force of your grief. It wasn’t just your father you mourned—though that pain was sharp and unyielding. You wept for the family you had left behind in Westeros, for the child you had been forced to leave in Dorne, for Arthur, who had stayed behind to protect him. The ache of their absence was a constant, throbbing wound, and you didn’t know if it would ever truly heal.

“I left them,” you whispered brokenly, your voice barely audible over the sound of the waves. “I left Arthur and Aegon. How can I live with that?”

Rhaegar pulled you closer, his own grief mingling with yours. “You did what you had to do, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “To protect Aegon, to protect yourself. You did what was right.”

“But it doesn’t feel right,” you cried, burying your face against his shoulder. “It feels like my heart is breaking.”

Rhaella stroked your hair, her touch gentle, soothing, though her own voice trembled as she spoke. “We’ll get them back, my sweet. We’ll be together again. I promise.”

The words were meant to comfort, but they felt hollow in the face of your grief. The distance between you and your family, the uncertain future that stretched out before you, seemed insurmountable. All you could do was hold on to the hope that, somehow, you would find your way back to them.

Terrax let out a low, mournful cry, the sound carrying over the sea, a haunting echo of your own sorrow. You looked up, watching as the dragon wheeled through the sky, his massive form silhouetted against the pale light of dawn. He, too, had lost something, and in his cries, you heard the echo of your own loss, the shattering of everything you had once known.

As the ship sailed onward, bound for the distant shores of Essos, you held onto Rhaegar and Rhaella, clinging to the fragile, flickering hope that one day, the shattered pieces of your life might be mended. But for now, all you could do was mourn—for your father, for your family, and for the life you had left behind.

From the History of the Targaryen Exile and the Return of Dragons

Written by Archmaester Aenys, Conclave of Maesters, Oldtown, in the Year 305 AC

In the years following the fall of King’s Landing and the tragic death of King Aerys II, the remnants of House Targaryen were scattered to the winds, hunted relentlessly by the Usurper King, Robert Baratheon. His hatred for the Targaryen name was unquenchable, fueled by the bloodshed and betrayal that had marked his ascension to the Iron Throne. Yet, even as Robert Baratheon sat in his stolen seat, his nightmares were haunted by the specter of Targaryen vengeance.

Unknown to the new King, one crucial secret had eluded him—a child of royal blood, a dragon who yet remained hidden in the shadow of the world. Aegon, the son of Ser Arthur Dayne and the exiled Targaryen princess, Y/N, had been spirited away to safety even as the fires of King’s Landing consumed the last vestiges of his family's power. Born in Sunspear under the watchful eye of Prince Doran Martell, Aegon was raised in secrecy, his true parentage known only to a trusted few. Under the guise of Young Griff, he would later emerge, seeking to reclaim the throne stolen from his ancestors.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Targaryen line struggled to survive in the uncertain lands of Essos. Rhaegar Targaryen, his sister Y/N, and their mother, Queen Rhaella, lived in a state of perpetual vigilance. Ever wary of assassins sent by Robert’s hand, they found temporary refuge in the Free Cities, moving constantly to avoid the reach of the Usurper. Despite their best efforts, they could never truly escape the shadow of the Iron Throne. Robert Baratheon’s spies were ever-watchful, and the gold of Westeros was sufficient to turn even the most loyal against them.

In these years of hardship and flight, the bond between Rhaegar and his sister grew ever stronger, forged in the fires of shared loss and unending danger. Both were plagued by the haunting visions known as dragondreams, prophetic in nature and disturbing in their vivid clarity. These dreams spoke of a darkness gathering in the far North—a night that would never end, a Long Night that threatened to consume all life. It was this shared dread, this knowledge of an imminent doom, that drove them to a fateful decision.

For the sake of the prophecy and the survival of their bloodline, Rhaegar and Y/N chose to have children together, ensuring that the Targaryen line would endure. From this union were born two children, Viserys and Daenerys, both blessed—and cursed—with the burden of prophecy and the legacy of their house. Rhaegar, ever the scholar of ancient lore, believed that in them lay the key to fulfilling the prophecy of the Prince That Was Promised, a savior who would stand against the coming darkness.

Their exile was not without its defenders. Terrax, the great black dragon with eyes like molten gold, remained a fearsome presence in Essos. Bound to Y/N through the dark ritual that had marked his birth, Terrax was more than just a beast of war. His mind, fragmented and strange, was linked to Y/N’s in a way that no other dragon had ever been to its rider. Through him, Y/N could see glimpses of distant places, feel the stirrings of the world beyond her reach. He was her guardian, her shadow, and in many ways, a part of her very soul.

When assassins came—and they came often, in the dead of night, in the open streets of Braavos and Pentos and Lys—Terrax’s wrath was swift and terrible. Fire would rain down from the skies, and those who sought the blood of Targaryens would find only death. The presence of the dragon became both a warning and a promise: the blood of the dragon was not so easily extinguished.

The years passed, and in the Free Cities, whispers began to spread of the exiled dragonlords. The sight of Terrax circling over distant Valyria sent ripples of fear through the hearts of even the most hardened sellswords. Rhaegar and Y/N moved carefully, gathering allies where they could, seeking those who still believed in the Targaryen cause. Yet, the dreams never ceased—the vision of the Long Night loomed ever closer, and Y/N, haunted by the knowledge that her son Aegon was far across the Narrow Sea, struggled with the weight of her destiny.

Queen Rhaella Targaryen, the last true queen of Westeros, endured much in her final years. Driven into exile alongside her children, the specter of madness and sorrow ever lingered over her. Haunted by the memories of a husband turned monster and a kingdom lost, she spent her days in Essos with the hope that her family would one day be restored to the Iron Throne.

But her strength, worn thin by years of suffering and grief, could not last forever. In the year 284 AC, mere months after the birth of her granddaughter Daenerys, Rhaella passed away in the city of Lys. It is said that she died quietly in her sleep, her last breath a soft whisper of relief, finally free from the torment of her memories.

Her death was a devastating blow to her children, Rhaegar and Y/N, who buried her in a modest grave overlooking the narrow, restless sea. Though her body rests in foreign soil, far from the land she once ruled, her spirit remains tied to the fate of her house. For even in death, she was a Targaryen—bound by fire and blood.

In the courts of Westeros, Robert Baratheon grew more paranoid with each passing year. Despite his victory, his rule was not as secure as he would have liked. The North remained distant and cold under Eddard Stark’s rule, and the Reach, ever ambitious, whispered of rebellions to come. When Robert finally learned of Rhaegar’s survival in Essos, and of his sister’s continued presence, the fury of the Usurper was rekindled. Assassins were dispatched with greater frequency, golden promises of wealth sent to any willing to bring back the heads of the dragonspawn.

Yet, for all his efforts, Robert remained ignorant of the most dangerous threat to his reign—the hidden prince, Aegon, growing strong and wise under the guidance of the careful tutors chosen by his father, Arthur Dayne, and the Martells. As Young Griff, he was trained not only in the arts of war but in the delicate balance of diplomacy, learning the ways of the courts and the intricacies of ruling. His identity, once revealed, would send shockwaves through the Seven Kingdoms.

It was in the year 298 AC, with the winds of winter blowing from the North, that Aegon Targaryen, under the guise of Young Griff, made his first move toward reclaiming his birthright. Landing in the Stormlands, he began to gather support from those disillusioned with Robert’s rule, those who remembered the true king. The storm of his coming was swift, his campaign precise. With the backing of Dorne and the secret alliance of the Golden Company, he captured key fortresses, proclaiming himself the rightful king, Aegon VI.

Meanwhile, across the Narrow Sea, the children of Rhaegar grew under the shadow of prophecy. Viserys, ever bitter and ambitious, struggled with the burden of being a prince with no kingdom. Daenerys, however, found strength in the stories of her forebears and the teachings of her mother. Terrax remained their constant guardian, his presence a reminder of the power that had once been and could be again.

As the drums of war beat once more in Westeros, Rhaegar and Y/N knew that their time in exile was drawing to a close. The Long Night was approaching, and with it, the need for the return of dragons. The Three Heads of the Dragon—the true Targaryen legacy—would be needed to face the darkness that threatened to engulf the world.

And so, with Terrax at their side, they prepared to return to the land of their birth, not as exiles but as conquerors, to take back what was theirs and to stand against the night. The story of House Targaryen was far from over, for fire and blood could not be so easily extinguished. The dragon’s roar would be heard again, its flame lighting the way through the coming darkness.

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