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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 2: Choose Love Or Sympathy]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, extreme babygirl energy, violence, serious injury, Larys Strong, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), Crab Family lore.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "XO" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰💜

A moment of clarity, something he’s having more of lately: eyes glassy but open, voice husky, words slow. His vast bedchamber in the Red Keep always smells like honey and rose oil and the brackish golden air that blows in off the ocean. Sounds float weightlessly through the open windows like feathers on waves, music and shouts and creaking wagon wheels, gull cries and sails cracking in the wind. Late-morning daylight is an aisle across the stone floor, a river, a channel. Aegon’s bed has been moved away from the windows; when his wounds are uncovered, direct sunlight can ravage him in minutes, fresh blisters, thickening scars.

Aegon winces as you sit behind him and knead warm rose oil into his back and shoulders. His flesh is a grisly mosaic: pink and crimson and white, knots of burgeoning scar tissue, spots that are still raw and weeping. “It itches like hell, does that mean it’s infected?”

“That means it’s healing. Do you want more?” You mean the goblet of pearlescent milk of the poppy on his bedside table. It’s always there, and refilled frequently.

Aegon shakes his head, groggy, slumped, white-blond hair loose and disheveled. “I should probably be sentient on occasion. You haven’t been helping me piss into chamber pots or anything, have you?”

You smile. “No. You’ve got servants for that.” Although they report their findings to you; Maester Arthur of Claw Isle once taught you that organ failure is a common cause of death for burn victims, even if they survive the risks of shock and festering. All appears well enough on the outside, and then they start pissing blood or their skin goes yellow as their innards lose their secretive divine cadence, that vital rhythm, and then the poor soul is gone within days.

“Thank the gods,” Aegon says. “A speck of dignity remains. It’s tragic enough that I now closely resemble an overcooked meat pie.”

You chuckle as you massage rose oil into his wounds, keeping the scars moist and supple so they do not split open when he moves, so his joints are not locked in place. He will need them when he is out of bed again. He will need them if he truly is the king. “I don’t think you look that bad.”

“Because you’re used to sifting through guts and corpses all day. I’m an improvement. I’m only half dead.” And just weeks ago, he was pleading to be all the way dead. He glances back at you, brow knitted into thoughtful furrows; you can see it between the messy locks of hair that shag over his face. “What made you want to study something like this? It’s gruesome. It’s miserable, thankless work.”

“I was never good at anything,” you tell him. “My sisters were, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t dance, couldn’t sing, couldn’t embroider patterns unless they were humiliatingly simple, and even then I loathed it. My father grew so desperate he encouraged me to try archery with my brothers. I accidentally put an arrow in the foot of a squire and that was the end of my bowwoman career.”

Aegon laughs, then groans at the pain it causes him. He turns around so he can look at you, clumsily repositioning himself on the feather mattress, propping himself up on his palms. He squints down at his left hand where his ring should be: gold wings, jade eyes. You will have to remind Aemond to give it back to him. “I was never good at anything either.”

You can’t imagine that to be true, and yet it’s what you’ve always been told, that he was gifted at drinking and whoring and nothing else. You cannot reconcile those stories with the man in front of you. You keep trying, keep failing. You slather your palms in rose oil again the then begin massaging it into his chest. Aegon watches you with muzzy, drugged interest, eyes like cold ocean currents. “Then, five years ago, my brother…” You hesitate. A real name, an imagined one? You decide there is no harm in this small truth. Aegon will not remember the name of a younger son of a Crownlands house; he barely recalls the men of his own Kingsguard, who now spend their days trotting around the castle after Aemond. “My brother Everett was burned very badly, just like you were, although his wounds were mostly to his legs. And we all thought he would die. People advised us to show mercy by giving him enough milk of the poppy to kill him. They said it would be a sin to let him suffer so terribly. Yet our maester believed he could save him. My father and eldest brother had other responsibilities to attend to, and my mother and sisters could not bear the sight of Everett’s injuries. But I watched the way the maester worked on him, and I just…I thought it was the most captivating, beautiful thing I’d ever seen. The way a body can be taken apart or put back together like stones in a wall. Place one here, remove one there, and then like magic you’ve changed the course of someone’s life. Our maester taught me how to clean burns and change bandages, and when Everett was well again, he taught me about broken bones, fevers, childbirth, wolf bites, dry drowning. I read every book on the subject of healing in my father’s library. He kept having to order me more from the Citadel. I think I would have liked to be a maester myself, but…”

Aegon grins. “You have to go marry your mystery nobleman.”

“And women can’t be maesters.”

“They made me king of the Seven Kingdoms but you can’t be a maester? Fucking ridiculous.” He studies you as your fingers—tenderly, carefully—press rose oil into the red scar that creeps up over his right cheek. “Why won’t you tell me who he is?”

He means your betrothed. Aegon keeps asking about him in his moments of lucidity. You quip: “I don’t want you to have him murdered.”

“That would solve your problem.”

“I preserve life, I don’t take it.”

“I’ve noticed,” Aegon says with a soft, tired smile. Very slowly, he reaches up with one hand to pat at his silvery hair. “Can you give me my braid back? It seems to have been washed out again.”

“Of course.”

“Why did you start doing that?”

What is the truth? Something you can’t tell Aegon. No matter how often I touch him, I want more. “It’s a war braid. You’re a warrior. You’ve earned it.”

“So I am good at something after all,” he murmurs. You rebandage Aegon’s wounds and help him lie back down again. You give him a sip of milk of the poppy, which by now is badly needed; Aegon’s face is sweated and pale and agonized. Then you clean the rose oil from your hands and begin weaving a small braid into his hair. He gazes vacantly towards the open window, bright warm light he cannot walk into. “I assume Aemond is…handling things.”

“Yes, he’s…” How will Aegon take this? Is it a relief, or a slight? There was a great ceremony. You did not attend; you were here tending to the Greens’ broken king. It’s where you spend most of your time. “He’s been made Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm.”

Aegon nods, his expression unreadable. “How’s Sunfyre?”

“Still at Rook’s Rest and gaining strength. He was climbing the cliffs as of a few days ago. But I’ll ask Aemond when I see him today.”

Now Aegon smiles again. “Sunfyre is fierce. He is extraordinary.”

“You both are,” you say as you fashion his silver braid; and Aegon stares as if he couldn’t have heard you correctly.

Her steps are so light that at first you aren’t aware she’s entered the room. You see her out of the corner of your eye and immediately stand, moving away from the bed, from Aegon. You feel strange touching him this way—unnecessarily, self-indulgently, greedily—in her presence. She is his wife, after all.

“Your Grace,” you greet Helaena, bowing. She does not look at you. She looks vaguely in Aegon’s direction instead. She is wearing a turquoise blue dress and her long hair pulled back from her face. The servants have dressed her, or Alicent; she cannot do it herself anymore. In her hands she holds a large glass jar of sticks and leaves.

“Hello, Helaena,” Aegon says, more like a sigh than a welcome.

She scurries towards him and sets the jar down on his bedside table with a clunk, right next to the goblet of milk of the poppy and a number of other drinks, things you ply Aegon with to keep him hydrated. Then Helaena speaks, her eyes on the contents of the jar. There is something else in there, you see now: a fat wriggling green creature, a caterpillar inching along the length of an upright stick. "For you."

“It’s very nice,” Aegon tells her, in a tone like a parent losing patience with their child.

“It takes nourishment and then rests,” Helaena says. “It is wrapped in a cocoon and stays there for a long while. But when it emerges, it is not just well again. It is greater than it was before. And it can fly.”

“Oh, I understand now.” Aegon makes no attempt to touch her—not even her hand, not even for a moment—but his words are kinder. “I am the worm. Thank you, Helaena. This comforts me.”

She is satisfied. She turns to leave.

“Your Grace,” you begin, and hold out your hands to her. She does not take them. She does not meet your eyes; she stares instead into the golden luminescence of the open window behind you. You can hear crashing waves and the screeches of swooping gulls. “I wanted to express…I cannot even begin to tell you…I am so, so sorry for your suffering—”

She spins away from you and sweeps out of the bedchamber. You are left looking at the empty place where she stood, heartsick and sorry. What did I do wrong? What should I have said?

Aegon offers you an apologetic smirk, but his eyes are sad. “It’s not personal. She doesn’t really like touching anybody.” This is an irony, and one that must read on your face. A king and queen—by definition, by necessity—do an inordinate amount of touching. He invades, she endures, they knit heirs together out of threads of blood and sweat. “What we have between us, it’s not…romantic. It never was.”

This is not something he should be telling you. It is not a jest but a spilling of deep, sacred truths. “I didn’t ask.”

“No. But you were wondering.”

You were. You return to the bed and sit down beside Aegon, finishing his braid. You choose your words precisely before you speak. “I don’t believe I have a right to know certain things, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what you’re thinking.”

“Then let me unburden myself so there is no confusion,” Aegon insists, drowsy but fighting sleep. “There was no joy in it for me or Helaena. I tried to make it as quick and painless as I could, but still, her disdain for the task was obvious. It happened just often enough to conceive the children. And we haven’t even tried in months, not since…” He doesn’t need to say it. Everyone knows, Greens and Blacks alike. A son for a son. The murder of Jaehaerys, six years old and utterly powerless, in exchange for Aemond slaying Luke.

Do you think such a thing was just? No, of course not, how could anyone? Very few things that happen in this world are just. They come with passionate defenses but no mercy, no vision for a less violent future. The wheel goes around and around, and everyone takes their turn being crushed. “Aegon, I’m so sorry,” you tell him softly.

He shakes his head. He will not discuss it. Aegon’s remaining children, Jaehaera and Maelor, do not ask about him; on the rare occasion that Alicent brings them to his bedchamber, they do not seem to know who he is. In fairness, Aegon does not seem to know them either; he regards them with a dull sort of bewilderment, like one might peer down at a page written in a foreign language. In the hallways of the Red Keep, the children clutch at Alicent and Otto, and sometimes Aemond will take a few minutes to play with them, stacking wooden blocks or arranging cloth dolls in a miniature castle. But if ‘mother’ and ‘father’ are words the children know, you’ve never heard them spoken aloud. “Can I have some wine, please?”

“Did you finish your goat milk?”

“Resentfully.”

“Then yes. I’ll get it for you.” You pour Aegon a cup of red wine and then tilt it against his lips. He slurps the cup dry before his eyes dip closed. You set the empty cup on the bedside table, feel his forehead for fever—longer than you need to—and then rise to leave him. You are almost to the door when you hear him say: “Thank you for changing my mind.”

You turn back to Aegon, puzzled. “About what?”

“About wanting to be dead.” He grins and waves, a weak miniscule motion of his left hand. “Come back soon, angel.”

“I will,” you promise.

And only then does he surrender to blessedly numb unconsciousness, the only place in the world that doesn’t hurt.

~~~~~~~~~~

You find Aemond in his own rooms. He is sitting in front of the large circular mirror on his vanity. His hair is long and straight and painstakingly neat, his tunic made of black leather. He is wearing the crown of Aegon the Conqueror. Rubies fracture the sunlight and scatter it against the walls; Valyrian steel glints.

Aemond marvels, knowing that you’re here: “It looks better on me than it ever did on him.”

“I need more rose oil.”

In the mirror’s reflection, his lone blue eye darts to you. “You always ask so politely.”

“I didn’t want to waste your valuable time. I can be more loquacious, if you prefer.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He stands, taking off the crown and placing it—gingerly, with both hands—on his vanity. “I’ll see that you have everything you require.”

“I am eternally appreciative.”

Then he does something that he thinks is amusing, a little joke you share. He grabs for your arm and you yank it away just before his fingers can close around your wrist. This makes him smile; it’s one of the only things that does. “Now follow me,” he orders, striding past you and through the doorway.

You hurry after Aemond, dashing through corridors and archways. You know where he is going; this has happened before. As you ascend a staircase, Alicent is leading Jaehaera and Maelor down to the gardens. She has one tiny hand gripped in each of hers; the hem of her emerald green dress drags on the stone steps. She keeps losing weight. You stop to scoop Maelor up and hug him—he giggles, squeezing at your cheeks as you smack kisses onto his face—and then turn your attention to Jaehaera. She has just learned the rules of curtsying and loves to practice. You bow to her, and then she does the same to you, and while her head is bent low you ruffle her silvery hair until it is in hopeless disarray and Jaehaera is laughing hysterically. Then you kneel down so she can sabotage your hair however she sees fit. She pulls strands out of your sensible low bun until you give up and shake it all loose. Alicent—large dark eyes, demurely veiled auburn hair, somber and suffering—gives you a grave, grateful smile. Aemond has waited at the apex of the stairs for you. When you rejoin him he continues onward to the council chamber.

Inside men are taking their seats and already beginning to quarrel: Criston Cole, Otto Hightower, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong, the knights of the Kingsguard. Sir Rickard Thorne pays no attention to you. Aemond once mentioned off-handedly: ‘Sir Rickard, I believe our healer is a distant relation of yours.’ The knight had glanced at you and produced some noncommittal reply, oh, indeed, sure, is that so. You had met before, you realized when you saw his face, years ago, at some event that brought together the houses of the Crownlands, a wedding or a funeral or a feast. He has a hazy recollection of you, but he cannot pin it down; he spent the evening with boisterous young men like your eldest brother Clement, while you had spent it with other noblewomen. Sir Rickard’s mother or sisters could probably identify you as a Celtigar. To Rickard himself, you can masquerade as some unimportant cousin he is ashamed to have forgotten. You assume your usual place in the council chamber: standing in a corner, trying not to be noticed, only there in case specific questions involving Aegon’s medical treatment arise.

“Is he dying?” Otto asks Aemond. “He must be. He has no interest in whores.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow at you. “Actually, I’ve been informed he is improving.”

Maester Orwyle beams at you. Upon your arrival in King’s Landing, he had confirmed to Aemond and Criston what you already knew: that while the Citadel’s guidance several decades ago was indeed pork lard or cow dung to treat burns, now there is a growing consensus that vinegar, honey, and oil for scar tissue are the best available remedies. You nod back. You are natural allies; the Greens’ king is under your joint care. You both have much to lose if he dies.

Now Otto Hightower addresses you. He is a stern, weathered, shrewd man. He reminds you of your father, though far more humorless. “When will he be able to fight again?”

“Fight?” you echo, stunned. “In battle? Months at least, my lord. Perhaps a year.”

“A year!” Otto bellows, then turns his wrath on Criston and Aemond. “I told you, I told you! I urged him to exercise caution, over and over again I warned him of the danger, and while I was penning letters to every possible ally you were pouring poison into his ears, convincing him that I wasn’t doing enough. Now look at him! Look at this goddamn fucking mess!”

“How fares the dragon?” Tyland Lannister says.

“I received a raven from Rook’s Rest today,” Aemond replies. “Sunfyre is eating well and ambulatory.”

“Useless,” Otto hisses. “Can’t fly. Can’t be moved. A waste of the livestock he’s being fed.”

“We may yet find a purpose for him,” Aemond says.

“Two dragons!” Otto explodes. “Can you count them?! We have two dragons capable of combat, and one of them is ridden by a fifteen-year-old. The Blacks still have Syrax, Caraxes, Vermax, Tyraxes, and Moondancer. And gods help us if they find someone to ride any of the other unclaimed beasts on Dragonstone. Seasmoke, Vermithor, Silverwing, Grey Ghost, the Cannibal…”

“I hope they try to tame the Cannibal,” Criston mutters. “If we’re lucky, he’ll eat them all.”

“My lord,” Larys Strong says to Otto, clutching his cane; he has a habit of lacing his fingers overtop the handle and resting his chin on them. Larys is a watchful, quiet man who speaks rarely yet with great consequence. He is the Master of Whisperers, he is the Lord of Harrenhal, and aside from that he is an enigma to you. “I hate to be the bearer of unfortunate tidings, however I must speak plainly. I have just obtained reports that the Blacks are pursuing precisely the course of action that you fear. Jacaerys Velaryon is offering land and knighthood to any man who can mount a dragon and join their cause. The realm is littered with Targaryen bastards, I’m certain it is only a matter of time until they find at least a few candidates suited to the task.”

Otto slams his fist down on the table. You startle at the noise; Aemond glances over at you. “No king. No Sunfyre. Dreamfyre in the Dragonpit, who Helaena cannot fly into battle. A fucking disaster.”

“We have Vhagar,” Aemond says confidently.

“She is worth two full-grown dragons,” Otto pitches back. “Not four or five.”

“Daemon is the real threat. If I can eliminate him, the war is over.”

“Daeron should be prepared for combat,” Jasper Wylde says. “He is travelling with Lord Ormund Hightower’s army in the Reach, but he can easily be called back to King’s Landing. He could assist Prince Aemond in his pursuit of Daemon and Caraxes.”

“I don’t need his help,” Aemond replies darkly.

“Then perhaps he could safeguard the city once you’ve gone.”

“We cannot sacrifice military strategy on the altar of personal vendettas,” Criston says. “Dragons are best used on the battlefield against soldiers and castles, not on meandering quests to find one lone enemy, that’s a needle in a haystack, it’s a misallocation of precious resources.”

Aemond counters: “But if I can kill Daemon, nothing else matters—”

“It does matter, Aemond!” Criston roars. “I matter, the armies matter, winning the confidence of the houses you hope to rule matters!”

“How is Corlys Velaryon handling all of this?” Otto asks Larys. “The defeat at Rook’s Rest, the death of his wife?”

Larys answers: “He blames Rhaenyra for the losses. He has taken it badly. It is my understanding that he intended to withdraw his support from the Blacks, and was brought back only by Jacaerys giving him the title of Hand of the Queen. I am under the impression that Corlys may be willing to reconsider his allegiance if the circumstances were right—”

There is a knock at the council chamber door, not a knock but a pounding, not a pounding but a frantic drumming like the marching of soldiers’ boots. Sir Criston Cole unlocks and opens the door. Alicent stands there with her face flushed and shiny with tears. Instantly, Criston is at her side asking what is wrong, one hand resting protectively her shoulder, the other on the hilt of the sword he wears everywhere he goes.

“Come quickly,” Alicent begs you, only you. “Please. It’s Aegon.”

You race with her to Aegon’s bedchamber, hearing the screams long before you reach him. This doesn’t make sense; he shouldn’t be in pain this severe, not yet, not for hours. You are aware that there are footsteps thundering behind you, Aemond and Criston rushing to see if the king really is dying this time. In his bed, Aegon thrashes and moans. He needs to stop moving so violently; he will split his scar tissue like burst seams. Already you can see blooms of crimson appearing on his bandages where the wounds beneath have reopened: his neck, his waist, his ribcage. He is out of his mind. He is destroying himself.

He is shouting for Sunfyre, for Aemond, for Criston. He is back at Rook’s Rest being roasted alive in his own armor. Not dying, then; just having a nightmare. You kneel at his bedside and smooth his hair back, his braid threading through your fingers, and whisper to him that it’s alright, that he’s safe, that he needs to wake up now. Alicent is weeping, both hands covering her mouth. Aemond and Criston are watching you, mesmerized, transfixed.

Aegon’s oceanic eyes fly open, wide and panicked. “Where am I?”

And you smile down at him, your palm cradling his unburned left cheek. “The end of the world.”

He blinks. He remembers. His lips stretch into a grin. “There you are,” he tells you, voice gravelly and low. “I dreamed everyone was gone and you were too.”

“I’m here.”

“You aren’t in a hurry to abandon me for your burly betrothed?”

Cregan Stark must think I’m dead. “No, Aegon.”

“You can’t leave without telling me.”

Everett, Clement, my father, my mother, Piper, Petra, Penelope, they must all think I was burned to ash on the battlefield or murdered and tossed into the sea. “I know. I won’t.”

“You can’t leave,” he says again, a half-awake whimper as he sinks back into unconsciousness. You give him more milk of the poppy, enough to make his sleep deep and black and dreamless.

You reclean and rebandage Aegon’s wounds. It takes hours. Aemond fetches Maester Orwyle to assist you. Criston comforts Alicent, wanting to do and say far more than he can. When it is done, only Alicent remains in the bedchamber with you. She visits Aegon frequently, but she does not know how to speak to him; she always stands there clasping her own hands together, praying and stalling, desperate to show him love and yet incapable of it.

“Thank you for what you’ve done for him,” Alicent says, tears glistening in her umber eyes. “Not just the hours, not just the medicine. For everything that you’ve done.” And she embraces you, and when she does you hold her like she wishes her own daughter could.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the night you see it repeating like a chorus of a song in the shadows that crawl across the ceiling: one year ago, stray snowflakes in your hair, stars in a black sky and air like metal.

The Celtigar fortune is older than the Targaryens’ conquering of Westeros, older than the Doom of Valyria. Where did the money come from? Friends of the Celtigars would say distinctively cunning maritime trade; their enemies would say piracy. Perhaps the two are not always so different. Is there any mechanism of accumulating great wealth that does not involve stealing in one form or another, of wringing out some other soul like a wet cloth until every drop of them disappears down your throat? Your ancestors did not tame dragons, but they had a different sort of gift: for every coin, they could find a way to make two or six or ten. Repeat that process for centuries and there are vaults filled to the ceiling with gold coins like pieces of the midday sun.

When Daenys the Dreamer had a vision of the Doom over a decade before it left Valyria a smoldering, fragmented wasteland haunted by demons and plague, only three Valyrian houses heeded the warning. Her own family, the Targaryens, relocated to Dragonstone. The Velaryons, having already long occupied Driftmark, resolved to stay there. And the Celtigars—merchants to some, pirates to others—crossed the Narrow Sea to settled on Claw Isle.

Crispian Celtigar served as Master of Coin to Aegon the Conqueror. Alton Celtigar was his Hand of the King. Edwell Celtigar was chosen to be Hand of the King to Maegor I, and later Master of Coin to Jaehaerys I during his minority. The Celtigars have never been far from the Iron Throne…though perhaps none were ever as close as you are now.

One year ago, your father embarked upon a trade mission to White Harbor. Never a man to squander an opportunity for new business, he added stops in Oldcastle, Cerwyn, and Winterfell, and brought along his four maiden daughters to stoke the desires of Northerner lords. Piper fancied a son of Lord Manderly, Petra caught the attention of a Cerwyn boy. But no offer was advantageous enough for Bartimos Celtigar’s liking; no deal could be struck.

In Winterfell, Lord Cregan Stark was already married. His wife, a childhood friend before she was a bedmate, trudged around the castle heavily pregnant and dragging layer upon layer of furs to guard her against the cold, often biting even in summer. Lord Cregan took little notice of your giggling, gossiping sisters, and even less of you…until he broke his sparring partner's arm in the castle courtyard. As the other women fled with nauseated faces back to their needlework, you asked Winterfell’s maester if you could watch how he set the fracture and managed the man’s pain. The maester was delighted—Northerners, as a rule, lack intellectual curiosity—and even allowed you to help bandage the wound once the split bone had been popped back into place. And it was only then, as you knelt there with your forehead creased with determination and blood coating your hands to the knuckles, that Lord Cregan Stark began to see you.

You have a fear of marriage, not a general aversion but a specific and powerful dread. When you were fourteen, you asked your mother if she enjoyed lying with her husband, and you had known as soon as she spoke with a careful sort of reticence—‘I enjoy feeling close to him, I suppose’—that the answer was no. When you were sixteen and your cousin Theodora married into House Bar Emmon, you went with the other noblewomen to inspect her bedsheets the next morning, and were horrified by how they chuckled at the large rust-like stain and recalled their own initiations into sex, this unavoidable rite of passage, this ultimate surrender. At breakfast, the men toasted wine and hooted and sang, while Theodora stared down with glazed eyes at her untouched bacon and duck eggs and said when Piper asked how the night went: ‘He wanted me three times. Is there anything I can do to make him stop?’ And you had thought: Aren’t unions like this supposed to be holy? What the hell do the gods have to do with it? Are they in the sweat, in the bleak resignation, in the linen of the sheets? Do they fill the man with blind lust like an animal’s, do they help hold the woman down?

Your eyes close as you lie in bed in the Red Keep, your room adjoining Aegon’s, and suddenly you are back in Winterfell again. You are making notes as the maester shows you the herbs growing in the Glass Gardens when Cregan finds you. He is tall and broad, made more so by the furs that engulf him like mist drapes the stony cliffs of Claw Isle. His voice is booming, thunderous, cataclysmically formidable. He is used to being listened to. He has never been expected to sit quietly as other men charted out his life like the route of a trade ship: here you will go, here you will be emptied of every scrap of value. He says he will give you a tour of the Library Tower. It is not an invitation; an invitation can be declined.

You walk together through the Godswood—dark water, blackberry bushes, crows squawking, gods you do not believe in—and Cregan tells you fond memories of his childhood. He likes hunting and archery. He spars in the courtyard for hours each day. He never stays still, he never goes quiet. He wants to know where you learned to marvel at the ghastly art of piecing broken bodies back together again. He wants to know why you are so different from other women. And he inquires with great fascination about the legendary treasures of your house, not just gold but rubies, jeweled cups, Myrish carpets and Volantene glass, a horn said to summon krakens from the sea, an axe made of Valyrian steel.

Winterfell’s library is sparse and dusty, cobwebs in shadowy alcoves. Cregan Stark thinks you will not notice. As he slips books about anatomy and herbology off the shelves to show you, you cannot help studying his hands, large and calloused and always stained with black patches of ink or soil or soot. They make yours look tiny and defenseless, skin of silk and bones like glass. You picture him claiming you, owning you, climbing into the marital bed knowing that you cannot refuse anything he asks for. You envision him forcing your thighs apart with those huge filthy hands, leaving smudges like ash. You imagine him tearing his way into a part of you that feels so small, so vulnerable; you imagine the suffocating burden of his interminable weight.

A moment of clarity, in the library beathing dust and Cregan’s scent, a woodsmoke musk, a wolflike wildness: I don’t know this man. I don’t trust this man. I’m glad he’s not free to marry me.

This was before the war began, before Cregan’s wife Arra Norrey died birthing their son Rickon, before Jace Velaryon arrived in Winterfell to forge the Pact of Ice and Fire. And when Cregan agreed to support Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne, and Jace pledged to marry his firstborn daughter to Rickon, the Warden of the North decided there was one last thing he wanted inked into the covenant. He wanted an ally in the South, bottomless wealth, his future children to have Valyrian ancestry. He wanted a woman with vigilant, unflinching eyes and blood on her hands.

He wanted you.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen x you #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #hotd fanfic

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poraphia · 9 months

Note

Maybe the soap opera drama has a tight grip on my braincells BUT

imagine siren with a love interest who keeps. Getting. Into. Bad. Relationships.

not BAD bad relationships, just— people that are kind of pricks. One guy accidentally leaves the door open and their cats escape (and he doesn’t give a single fuck, just keeps watching tv and when the reader comes home from work he’s like “oh yeah ur cats escaped a few hours ago”), another never shows up on dates, one is just an arrogant prick, the other is boring as hell and has nothing in common with the reader——

Just

that must STING for siren. Like—— he’s right there????? He’d never think that he would be ENTITLED to a relationship with the reader, NEVER— but why can’t he be your type??

10/10 angst for him id say

he can’t even convince himself that he would be BETTER for the reader because he’s a villain

idk

"i found your cat, not him."

➵ PAIRING! clinic!siren!wilbur x civilian!taken!reader

➵ CREATING! 12.17.23 | 3631 words

➵ CONTAINING! jealous wilbur, reader has a cat, reader has a bf, jester talking some sense into siren, heartbroken wilbur

➵ SAYING! this took some days to work on but look! it’s finally done! i had a lot of ups and downs and probably switched up the plot a couple times but here it is :D thank uuu @listenheresweaty for suggesting this honestly i was thinking about writing this the moment u suggested it and now i have free time so yippie. hope yall enjoy :D

My masterlist :)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

(y/n) had a reputation to have a terrible taste in partners. Whether it be a girlfriend that refused to take them on a date and made (y/n) plan all of the dates out, or the boyfriend they had now, who “accidentally” left the door open, letting their cat escape. Wilbur watched from the window as the desperate (y/n) approached any passerby, showing a picture of their feline, just to have any sort of direction as to where it might be.

Wilbur wasn’t a hero of any sorts. The clothes on his back were purchased with money robbed from the bank down the street, and the laptop he was using to do his work on was stolen from some tech store in the mall. And don’t even get him started on his body count that could fill a graveyard. His powers were venom dripping from his tongue, and he was nothing but a snake.

So what made Wil get up from his seat to tap the shoulder of a helpless (y/n)?

Maybe because this person was an interest of Wil’s for quite some time now. From seeing them inside the coffee shop from time to time, to even catching the glimpse of the back of their head as they boarded the bus— It was like this person was meant to be in Wil’s life. Though he just never had the excuse to go up to them. So instead, for weeks now, he has been admiring this person from afar, seeking for some type of opportunity to spark up a conversation.

“Hey.. Are you alright?” He asked. (y/n) turned around, a little out of breath from quickly speaking to anyone who approached them.

“Y-Yeah— no! No..” She sighed, breathlessly. They slumped against a nearby wall, almost defeated. “I— I lost my cat. She’s this sweet white ragdoll with a pink collar and big black eyes. My boyfriend left the door open and she just snuck right out! He said the cat’s been gone for a while now and he didn’t even bother helping.” They trailed off. “I know she’s here somewhere.. I don’t know..” They buried their face into their hands, frustrated with themself.

Wilbur looked at them with a tilted head and puffed up cheeks. Despite this being a stranger, he couldn’t help but feel a panging guilt in his chest. “Hey,” He placed a hand on their shoulder. “I think I might be able to find her.”

“..You think so?” They responded in a meek voice.

“I’m sure..” He replied in a gentle tone. “I usually work like really late in the city. Maybe I could find her on my way home? Just give me some form of communication and a picture and I’m sure I can find her.” He smiled reassuringly. (y/n)’s head perked up, and suddenly their face was beaming with hope. It was a look Wilbur wished he could screenshot with his eyes and keep it in his mind gallery.

“Thank you! You don’t know how much this means to me.” They gleamed. “Hold on— Let me give you my phone number. What was your name again?”

Something about this question made Wil freeze up a little. This complete stranger, telling him that he’s a good person, is also asking for his name? I mean, it’s not like its the first time someone asked his name. But being asked in such a kind and polite way, it almost took him back to when he first met Phil.

He shook his head, snapping out of his thoughts.

“Wilbur,” He finally said. “Call me Wil.”

After exchanging contact information they parted their separate ways. Wil decided to pack up his stuff and head back home. He took the train to his neighborhood and spent the whole ride staring at this picture of (y/n) with their cat he learned was named “Anvil.”

The picture was a selfie taken by (y/n) with Anvil pressing her fluffy face against her owner’s soft skin. It was a cute sentiment captured by their phone camera, and Wilbur knew it was a treasured picture of theirs. He took the time to admire the cat’s features. It had a mess of white fur, and would definitely stick out like a sore thumb in the midnight dark. The train came to a halt as it had arrived to Wil’s destination. It didn’t take but a fifteen minute to arrive home.

Wilbur inserted the keys into the doorknob before pushing the door open. He kicked the door behind him closed as he placed his coat and shoes by the shoe cabinet and dresser.

“Hey, Wil,” Phil called from the kitchen.

“Hey, dad.” He shouted back. Wil threw his bag onto the couch before sliding against the sleek wooden floor to the entrance of the kitchen. Phil’s wings were loosely hanging behind him as the man stir fried some ingredients into a wok. “What’s for dinner?” Wil asked.

“Oh, just some fried rice.” Phil shrugged. “Whatcha do today? Hang out at the cafe?”

“Ah, yeah, pretty much.” Wil said, leaning against the fridge. “I, uh, met someone today.”

“Oh?” Phil said, raising an eyebrow. “Someone, you say?”

“What— Hey! It’s not like that..” Wil rolled his eyes while crossing his arms. However that wasn’t enough to convince Phil.

“Well if you say so.” Phil smirked. “So, what happened?”

Wil turned around and grabbed a glass from the cabinet before pouring himself a glass of ice cold water. He took a sip before speaking. “Well, there was this person and— I’m not quite sure what it was about them but.. They had lost their cat, and I felt really bad, so I offered to help them. They sounded so kind and stuff, but like— Apparently their cat ran away because their stupid boyfriend decided to leave the door open?! And he didn’t ever bother to help—!” Wil took a deep breath before bringing the glass back to his lips.

“—Oi, what are you bitching about?” As if on queue, Tommy emerged from the stairs. His hair was a ruffled his mess and he stumbled a little as he walked as if he had just woken up.

“Oh, Wil is just upset about someone he just met losing their cat—” Phil tried to explain, but Wil was quick to butt in.

“They didn’t lose their cat! It was their damn boyfriend!” He corrected. “Like, for hours he even knew the cat escaped and he just let it happen?!”

“Uh oh, looks like big Wil over here is catching feelings!” Tommy snickered as he wrapped an arm around Wil’s neck.

“Ugh, stop—” Wil pushed him away, but Tommy was persistent with his teasing.

“Little Wilbur has a crushy wushy and will find that cat and propose to them OoOoOo!” Tommy chirped.

“—Dad! Tommy’s being a bitch!” Wil cried as he struggled to escape Tommy’s grasp. After enough pushing, Wil was able to shove Tommy away before forcing Tommy into a headlock.

“Hey! Agh— Get off me you big bastard!” Tommy exclaimed. But Wilbur stood firm as he restricted Tom’s limbs by embracing him tightly.

“Both of you stop playing in the kitchen! Now, go get Techno because the food is ready.” Phil ordered, sternly.

Reluctantly, Wil released his grip from Tommy. Tom rubbed his arms and gave a big side-eye look to Wil.

“Bitch.” Tom muttered.

“Tommy! Go!” Phil ordered again, leaving Wilbur a snickering mess as Tom did his walk of shame toward the steps.

After dinner with the Soots (and some convincing to the family that Wilbur was not in love with this stranger he had just met), Wil dressed in his disguise and entered the night as Siren, a profound villain known in L’manburg city. His first task at hand was to find Anvil in Eastside.

He sauntered through the night with his hands in his pockets and his eyes lurking the streets. The night was cold and quiet with only the hum of the streetlights occupying his ears. But his only goal was to listen to the sweet meow of a cat lost and frigid. Every alleyway he came across he made sure to go through it thoroughly, making sure that the cat wasn’t stuck in a garbage can or in a cardboard box.

“Fuck, where is this cat..?” Siren muttered under his breath. He began whistling, making any noise imaginable to summon the feline. To no avail, no cats came running his way. Instead, a rather confused Jester jumped down from a building and right in front of Siren.

“What.. Are you doing?” Jester asked. Though he was wearing his mask, Siren could already tell he was furrowing his eyebrows.

Siren scoffed before continuing to walk. “I’m looking for a cat.” He replied. “But I can’t find her anywhere. I’m supposed to get her before the morning so I can return it to its owner.”

Jester followed behind him, his hands behind his back. “And this is important because..?”

“I-It’s important to me!” Siren retaliated, but if anything, it made him seen more desperate.

Jester sighed before shaking his head. “Don’t tell me you’re doing this just to impress someone.”

“I-I don’t know man.” Siren finally admitted, though he continued looking left and right in an attempt to find (y/n)’s cat.

“Siren, you know we can’t be doing this— y’know, trying to date and all of that. We’re villains. What do we do if they find out, and the whole syndicate is reported? Plus, you know how we are. We’re ‘evil.’” Jester made sure to put the last word into air quotes. “At least to society we are. We have to face the truth—”

Though Jester’s words were going one ear and out the other, some of them still stuck in Siren’s head. Sure, this wasn’t the first time Siren wanted to form a close bond with someone outside of the syndicate— I mean look at Tommy. He adjusted comfortably. But I guess this time it was different. This was a complete stranger that he met as a civilian, and now he was out as Siren looking for their cat! The more Siren thought about, the more he felt foolish.

Suddenly, a loud meow could be heard from an alleyway just to the left of Siren. Jester ceased his talking and looked at Siren, who was staring at Jester right back.

“Is that the—”

“Shhh..” Siren brought his finger to his lips to quiet down Jester. Slowly, Siren approached the alleyway with Jester steadily following behind him. Lo and behold was Anvil, perched on top of a cardboard box that sat right on top of a garbage can.

“How’re you going to get it?” Jester whispered.

“Just watch.” Siren cleared his throat. He picked up a spare cardboard box that was lying around and held it up near ground level for the cat to easily jump into. “Anvil, come and sit in this box.”

A moment of silence passes between the three of them as the cat laid comfortably in her seat, not planning to move anytime soon.

“Uh, was that supposed to do something?” Jester asked sarcastically. I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion.

“What the.. Anvil, come here now!” I demanded once again. As if taunting me, the cat simply licked her paws in response. Jester couldn’t help but to burst out laughing.

“Are you telling me your powers don’t work on cats?!” Jester gasped between laughs. “That’s fucking hilarious! Hopefully the Heroes won't find out about this one!”

“Shut up, dude!” Siren fussed at him. It took a bit for Jester to settle down his laughter with hands up out of protest.

“Sorry, sorry.. I just think it’s way too fucking funny.”

“Help me get this fucking cat, dude!” Siren exclaimed, clearly annoyed now. Siren turned around, now facing the cat again. He decided to kneel down to ground level with the box now on the floor.

Siren whistled to grab the feline’s attention. “C’mere, Anvil! Come here, buddy!” But the cat simply ignored the masked man.

“Hm, do you have a picture of the owner?” Jester asked.

“Oh, uh, yeah—” Siren took out his phone and tapped on a few things before pulling up the picture of (y/n) and Anvil. Siren looked at it one last time before showing the screen to Jester. He studied the face carefully, even grabbing the phone himself for him to examine.

Then with a simple head shake, Jester transformed his face into (y/n). It was an uncomfortable sight seeing their head on Jester’s body, but it definitely sparked the interest of Anvil.

“Come here, Anvil, come here!” Jester exclaimed as knelt down. Even his voice was near identical to (y/n). Obediently, the cat hopped off of the garbage can and into the arms of Jester, purring gingerly as she snuggled into his chest. I gave Jester an amused look as he smirked smugly.

“So, am I getting paid for this?” Jester asked as he carefully placed the feline into the box.

“To be fair, you volunteered to help. I didn’t ask.” Siren replied.

“Touche.”

Siren and Jester walked together until they were able to change into civilian clothes to avoid any conflict. It was important for Jester to maintain the face of (y/n) to keep the cat as calm as possible. Despite Siren knowing that it was just his friend and business associate under that form, he couldn’t help but stare at the face of (y/n). How their hair flowed as they walked and how their eyes glowed even under the moonlight. It felt too enchanting to even be real.

“Hey, you good bro?” Jester’s voice was the only thing to throw Siren out of his delusions.

“Yeah— yeah I’m fine.” Siren muttered, looking away. Jester rolled his eyes before sighing.

“Dude, what did I just say about getting attached to anyone?” Jester lectured once again.

“I— I know.” Siren replied defeatedly. “I know..”

“It’s dangerous for you, and whoever this—” Jester pointed as his own face. “—person you’re so infatuated with. It would be dangerous for not only you, but for them too. Imagine how much trouble they would be in knowing that they’re in relations with a supervillain.”

“I know, Jester!” Siren cried. The both of them stopped in their tracks. Even the cat laid still in it’s box. The midnight crickets filled the empty air between the two villains. “I get it— it’s too dangerous for me. It’s too dangerous for them. I’m evil. I’m going to put them in danger— I just— ugh!” Siren tilted his head back in frustration.

As he bit the inside of his cheek to hold back any bitter words he had the urge to say, Jester stood there and stared at him. It hurt even more seeing the person of interest saying these words to him. Jester quickly transformed back into his regular mask and placed a hand on Siren’s shoulder.

“Look man, I’m sorry..” Jester apologized. “I’m just worried about you, alright? Don’t want anything happening to you, especially what went down this past year.” Siren tilted his head back to look at him, and though his eyes were shielded, he could tell they were full of sincerity and reassurance.

“Yeah..” Siren voiced. “I guess I’m just tired. I don’t know. Let’s hurry home soon.”

“Alright.” Jester agreed.

The two were able to change out of their villain disguises in an abandoned warehouse without anyone noticing them. They then made their separate ways, leaving Wilbur and the cat in careful silence on walk home. Once Wil made it to the front door, he was careful in making up the steps to his room where he would keep the cat. Thankfully, he didn’t have to worry about disturbing anyone’s sleep considering that Phil and Techno were at a meeting and Tom could be quite the heavy sleeper.

Wil shut his bedroom door behind him and placed the cardboard box next to his closet. Though the cat was sound asleep now, he made sure to tuck in the feline with any spare blankets he had lying around before changing into his sleepwear and laying down in bed.

Wil pulled out his phone and texted (y/n).

Wilbur Hey, able to meet me at the cafe sometime tomorrow morning? I have you cat :)

Surprisingly, they responded.

(y/n) OMG really?! Thank you so much! I’ll see you tomorrow x

‘x’? Don’t those usually mean kisses? They probably just meant it in a friendly way. Or maybe they’re showing an interest in Wilbur? Nah, that can’t be possible. But what if? What if they’re interested in Wilbur?

Regardless of what (y/n) intended when they signed off with that little letter, Wilbur only slept a mere two hours.

The next day, Wil was ecstatic despite his lack of sleep. It was as if in a blink of eye he was in bed, but then the next moment he was scarfing down his breakfast and bolting out the door with Anvil’s box in his arms.

After all this time, he finally was able to do some sort of action to get (y/n)’s attention. To finally place himself in their field of view, and maybe, just maybe, they would have some sort of interest toward him. The thought made Wilbur’s heart flutter, making him feel like his body lifted which each step he took.

Wil had finally made it to the cafe, and right on time for that matter too. The building was just up-ahead. Wilbur took a deep breath, his chest pounding from adrenaline, anxiousness, and maybe a bit of excitement sprinkled in there as well. He looked down at the cat, who was previously buried in a sheet. She was now looking up at the man with big beady eyes staring right back at him. The charm to her collar clinked as it waved side to side.

“Okay, Anvil, I’m gonna return you to your owner now, alright? I-I’m sure she’s missing you.” Though he was just simply talking to a cat, this was (y/n)’s cat. And he was returning (y/n)’s cat! He was! Not some other kind stranger, not her family, not even her dirtbag boyfriend. It was Wilbur who would be returning this cat. Without him, Anvil wouldn’t be safe and sound in someone capable to protect a feline from the treacherous night.

With a proud smile, Wil approached the cafe with confidence radiating off his strides.

This was it, he thought.

This was it.

But was it?

He looked in the window to locate (y/n), but instead he found a sight more displeasing. the sight made his heart drop and his knees weak, but it took all his strength and awareness that he was holding a cat to keep himself steady. (y/n) was huddled up next to what seemed to be their incompetent boyfriend. Their head leaned against his shoulder, but the boyfriend did not return the affection. Instead he sat with his hands both placed on his phone, seemingly playing some idle shooting game to occupy his absent mind.

It took (y/n) noticing that Wil was at the window for Wilbur to break out of his mind. Their face beamed at the sight of their cat, and immediately they got up and rushed out of the door to greet him and her feline.

“Anvil, sweetheart!” They exclaimed. The cat immediately perked her head to face her owner before jumping out of the box and into (y/n)’s arms. Wil smiled contently at the sight, however his brain felt all kinds of fuzzy. As if he wasn’t really there.

“Thank you so much! You don’t know how much this means to me. Thank you, Wil, seriously!” Something about (y/n) saying his name made him wince. It felt like a hug before a stab in the chest. Regardless, he pushed through.

“Yeah, of course. I told you I would get her as soon as possible.” Wilbur said.

“You’re an actual lifesaver! I’m sorry if she put you through any trouble. Can I buy you a coffee or?” (y/n) offered. Though the offer was tempting, he didn’t feel comfortable spending another second seeing him and them together. Especially at such a close proximity.

“I-I’m fine,” Wil quickly muttered. “I have to go somewhere in a bit. I’ll catch you later, yeah?”

“Of course! Thank you again, truly.” (y/n) smiled. He simply nodded before turning and walking away.

Though Wil could argue that the man (y/n) calls their boyfriend is a prick, it’s not like he would be any better. Just like Jester said. That man could sit on his ass all day, not care for their cat, not care for them, and yet, he would still be the better option between him and Wilbur.

Wilbur is evil.

Wilbur is a villain.

Wilbur has killed countless living people compared to that prick killing digital npcs for fun.

Though, the argument stapled in Wil’s mind.

Wil found (y/n)’s cat. Not him.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

a / n ~ poor lil baby siren he just wants love :(( mayb ill do a part 2? i loved this concept ngl. notes of all kind are super duper appreciated :)) thank u for supporting my writing!

#wilbur soot #wilbur soot x reader #wilbur soot fanfiction #wilbur soot oneshots #wilbur x reader #wilbur soot x you #wilbur soot x y/n #clinic!wilbur #clinic!wilbur x reader #siren wilbur soot #siren #siren x reader #wilbur fanfiction #wilbur soot fluff #wilbur mcyt #wilbur hc #sleepy boys inc #poraphiafanfics

152 notes · View notes

inksoakedparchment · 2 months

Text

Your best friend’s boyfriend

pairing: sebastin stan x fem!reader

genre: fluff x smut x angst

trope: strangers to lovers to forbidden love

word cunt: 1492

tw: smut, alcohol, drugs, my english

summary: you are the barista and you ask for his number, then that night you two accidentally meet in a club

a/n: i’ve been in love with him for years now so i decided to write a one shot about him

dividers by @adornedwithlight

The little bell above the coffee shop’s door starts to tinkle, which means a new customer arrives.

“Afternoon! I would like a black coffee, no sugar,” he says and you look up. Your jaw almost drops when you look in his bright blue eyes. This stranger is absolutely handsome.

“Excuse me, can you repeat your order?” you clear your throat.

“Black coffee, no sugar and takeaway,” he grins and you nod, then quickly make the coffee for him.

“Here you are,” you smile at him. “And my number,” you give him a little note with your number on it.

“Thank you…” he leans closer and reads your nameplate. “Ah, thank you, Y/N,” he smiles.

As he waves goodbye and exits the shop, you feel like he has cast a spell on you. Your mind becomes fixated only on him, making it impossible to think of anything else.

At night, you go to a club to let the stress out. You drink a lot and smoke weed - it’s not a habit of yours only smoke weed at parties - and you bump into someone and spill your drink on his shirt.

“I’m so sorr-,” you look up, your words stuck in your throat.

“Hey there, Y/N,” he grins. “I’m Sebastian by the way,” he takes your hand and gives it a kiss.

“Your shirt,” you swallow and take a puff from your joint.

“Don’t worry about it, doll,” he smirks, taking your cig out of your hand and starts smoking it.

“Doll?” you raise your eyebrow. You feel the alcohol and weed's effect on you. Your gates are down.

“You’re like a doll, and I wanna play with this doll,” he leans closer and blows the smoke into your face. He lets the stub fall and steps on it.

You reach for the collar of his shirt and pull him closer. You press your lips on his, and this smooch quickly turns into a heated make-out session. His grip tightens on your hips as you bite his lower lip gently.

“I have a clean shirt in my car,” he looks into your eyes with pure desire.

“Lead the way,” you take his hand and he pulls you out of the club to his car. He opens the Jeep’s back door for you and you climb in.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he groans as he shut the door behind himself.

Sebastian rolls your dress up and leans to your lips. He’s about to kiss you while his fingers slide in your wet pussy. You gasp and your head falls back.

“You’re so wet for me, doll,” he groans and starts fingering you like he’s fuckin’ Quicksilver.

“Seb, I'm so close,” you moan loudly.

“You’re not cumming yet, doll. When I give you the permission, you can,” he unbuckles his belt, unzips the zipper and pushes down his pants too.

“I’m on pills,” you lick your lips when you see his size. Thick and big. Perfect.

He towers over you and kisses you while he’s positioning himself. Without warning, he enters your pussy hard and leans his hand on the window as he’s fucking you mercilessly. The desire and lust in each other's eyes is something that nobody can take away.

You feel your orgasm reach you and you’re tightening around him. He groans your name while he also explodes.

“That was…” you pant into his mouth.

“Majestic, like you,” Sebastian nudges your face with his nose, then kisses you.

“Yeah,” you adjust your thongs and dress, he pulls his pants and trousers up. “It was the best fuck I’ve ever had, but I have to go now,” you smile at him and after the last kiss, you leave.

He climbs forward to the driver's seat and then goes home too. Sebastian can’t stop thinking about you and he feels guilty after the alcohol and weed left his mind. He cheated on his girlfriend. With you.

After a week the night is finally here. Your best friend, Alyssa introduces her boyfriend to you tonight. You meet them in a restaurant and when you sit down across them… you almost fall from the chair. Sebastian is holding your best friend’s hand and his face shows how shocked he is.

“Sebastian, she’s my best friend Y/N and Y/N, he’s my boyfriend,” she smiles.

You stare at him, like you see a ghost, and feel like a very shit friend. But you didn’t know he has a girlfriend and that gf is your best friend.

His hand extends for a handshake, and you accept it. The handshake seemed to last a lifetime, each moment unfolding slowly. Finally, you release his hand.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” you swallow and walk to the hallway.

“What was that?” Alyssa looks after you.

“I don’t know. Want me to check her? Maybe she has a problem with me,” he sighs.

“Yeah, it’s a good idea. Thank you, sweetie,” his face almost runs to a grimace when he hears the nickname, but he just nods.

You’re trying to slow your breathing down but fail every time. His face, his touch and his dick still haunts you, but in a good way. It was the best sex in your entire life.

“Y/N!” you hear his voice and you turn to him.

“What the fuck, Sebastian?! You have a girlfriend and you cheated on her! How could you do it?” you yell at him quietly. (a/n: it’s possible)

“I was high and drunk and you’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen in my life,” he points at you.

“That’s not an excuse! You’re a fucking idiot, a prick and a huge d-”

“Shut the fuck up, please!” he cuts you off.

“Make me!” your blood is boiling now.

He looks at you with passion in his eyes and presses you to the wall, making you shut with his mouth. Your lips are fighting with each other but it feels like a dance to your tongues. He somehow quickly takes out his dick and rolls your dress up.

“Not wearing any underwear, doll? That’s really nasty, you little brat,” he whispers.

With a fast thrust, he enters your vagina and starts fucking you, like he wants to reach your heart, with his cock. You can’t hold your moans back. You’re just enjoying his body towering above you, your legs around his hips and his hand on your neck, choking you. After a few minutes, both of you reach your top and cum at the same time.

You two swiftly adjust your clothes and hair, and then he looks at you.

“It’s a very good way to shut you up, don’t you think?” he smiles softly.

“We can’t do this, Seb. I just stabbed Alyssa’s back with a samurai sword, not with a knife. And now we were totally sober,” I sigh with guilt in my eyes.

“We can’t stop what’s meant to be,” he walks you back to your table.

You sit down across them and you look at Alyssa, who checks you with a suspicious expression. She looks at Sebastian too and the realization hits her.

“Please tell me, I'm wrong. Please tell me you two didn’t have sex in these fifteen minutes,” she says holding back her tears.

“Alyssa, please,” you look at her with a scare in your eyes.

“Y/N! He’s my boyfriend and you just… you’re the worst friend, I’m sure,” she stands up to leave the restaurant.

“At the first time, I didn't know he had a girlfriend!” you try to defend yourself.

“First time?!” her jaw drops.

“Y/N, you’re just making it worse,” Seb buries his face into his hands.

“So he cheated on me twice?” Alyssa points at Sebastian and you nod.

“We were drunk and high…” you look away.

“Oh my god,” she shakes her head. “And this? You’re on heroin or what?”

“I don’t know, Alyssa, okay?” you wipe away your tears which roll down your face.

She scoffs and rushes out. You lost your best friend because of a man. It’s unbelievable. You look at Sebastian with hate in your eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that, doll. It was our mistake, not only mine,” he hums.

Your shoulders soften defeated. He’s right.

a year later

“Come here!” you shout from the kitchen.

“A moment!” he yells back and you smile. “Yes, doll?” Sebastian looks at you with big puppy eyes, curiosity in them.

“My parents want to meet you finally,” I smile happily. His eyes lighten up and he hugs you.

Maybe you lost Alyssa, it hurt a lot for months and still hurts you, but you got a boyfriend - who’s your fiancé now, a best friend, and a partner in crime and it makes sense to you. You have new friends, you have a bestie, Cass who has your back from the start and it matters. Not anything else now. You have a happy life with good people around you.

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johnwickb1tsch · 9 months

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Young!John Wick x Model!Reader Imagine

Imagine you are the love of John Wick's life...

You meet in Paris when he’s a young man. You spend a mind-blowing night together, and watch the sun rise from Sacré-Coeur. He disappears, and you’re devastated because no one has ever made you feel that way, and you’re certain you’ll never see him again. But throughout the years he keeps finding you as you travel for work. He kisses you silly in the Gamla Stan of Stockholm, makes you cum on his fingers in a dark club in London, and when he leaves you utterly wrecked in Rome you know that you’re in love with this man. You don’t know exactly what he does for a living, but you’re not stupid. You’ve memorized every inch of his body, and you notice as his collection of scars multiplies over the years. You are half convinced he's a spy, but then there are the tattoos...ominous as they are captivating, they suggest membership in a darker world than the shadows of international espionage. You cannot reconcile it. How can this sweet man, this man who makes you laugh, who brings you joy and such exquisite pleasure, be a part of such a violent occupation? When you finally get up the courage to ask him he just shakes his head, and says it’s better you don’t know before kissing you in that way that utterly scrambles your brain cells.

-It all started in Paris with a broken heel... You nearly fell into traffic, but a strong arm around your waist snatched you back from death.

You hid against his chest for a long moment, even though he was a total stranger, because he felt so safe. You were in Paris for your first Fashion Week—and you were so lost. It’s the 1990s, a dark age in which we didn’t have handheld computers to pleasantly tell us where to go, and we used archaic documents to find our way known as paper maps...And you’d left yours in your hotel accidentally.

You look up to see kind brown eyes fixed down on you. “Are you alright?” You hate to think it, but you are so relieved to hear an American accent. You have been yelled at no less than three times in French that day, and even if you totally deserved it, you're a bit gun shy now.

“Yes. Thank you. Jesus, I...” You look at the traffic barreling by at breakneck speed, a chill running down your spine. “Thank you,” you say again. You look up at him, really look at him, and realize you're in the arms of the most handsome man you've ever seen—and you work in fashion.

“You're welcome.”

He seems as taken by you as you are by him, and for a stretch of long moments you just stand there staring at each other like moon-eyed idiots. He looks down, suddenly shy. It's totally endearing. “Sorry,” he apologizes, releasing you slowly. You teeter on your broken heel, and you can tell he is ready to grab you again if he has to. This protectiveness makes a surprising warmth bloom in your heart.

“Do you...need help getting somewhere?” he asks. You wonder if it’s that obvious you’re lost. Usually you'd be wary of that question from a stranger. You've dealt with so many creeps throughout your life. But somehow you sense that he’s sincere.

“I guess I'd better get back to my hotel.”

Sebastiano was going to kill you. You broke a $600 pair of heels...well maybe Gucci should have made them better, the lazy bastards.

“Can I get you a cab?”

With your broken heel, you guess you’re not hoofing it back. “Sure.” He hails one down, and you’re delighted when he climbs in with you, speaking to the driver in perfect French, bless him.

“Where are we headed?” You give him the name of your hotel, and he repeats it the way it’s supposed to be said. Oh. No wonder the previous drivers gave you such contemptuous looks… You took Spanish in high school, ok? You can read French but have zero experience speaking it.

When you arrive at the hotel your savior thrusts a wad of Francs through the window before you have a chance to even open your purse, and helps you out of the cab. You are totally leaning against his arm more than you have to. You can feel the hard curve of his bicep beneath the fine fabric of his suit, and it makes you a little giddy. Only once you’re safe in the lobby does he seem willing to release you, though somehow your hand has ended up in his, and you find you don’t really want to let go. “Are you doing anything later?” you ask boldly, before he can disappear back into the bustle of Paris and you’ll never find him again.

He pays you a melancholy smile that squeezes your heart for some reason. “Unfortunately, I have to work,” he says. You make a pouty face that draws his attention to your lips. The intensity in those dark eyes is thrilling. “Maybe if I finish early…I could join you?”

You know you grin like an idiot at this suggestion. “I’ll be at the Versace afterparty. I could…have your name put on the list?”

This seems to amuse him for some reason, his mouth twisting in a smirk. “I can find you,” he says, and your heart flutters. In fact, when he presses his lips to your knuckles, your heart attempts to flutter right out of your chest.

He turns to go but you call, “Wait!” He pauses. “What’s your name?”

The smile he pays you is heart stopping. “Jardani,” he answers quietly. “But everyone calls me John.” You bite your lip, nodding, very pleased with this new bit of information, sensing that maybe he’s told you something just for you. “I hope I get to see you later.”

He nods too, touching your cheek lightly. “You will.”

It sounds like a promise.

-You should be beside yourself with excitement because you’re walking your first runway in Paris, and this could be the moment that makes or breaks your career, but the real reason for your nerves is the hope that you’ll see him again.

-The show goes great. You kill it. Sebastiano, your friend and the designer you’d modeled for, can hardly contain himself. But you find you’re just watching the clock ticking down the seconds until later.

-John does find you later. You have a drink, and you dance, and from the adoring way he looks at you, you feel brave enough to ask if he wants to go someplace quieter. You go for a little walk, and even though it’s the wee hours of the morning you feel perfectly safe with this man. He kisses you on the Pont Alexandre, his hands in your hair, and your fingers curl in the lapels of his jacket to hold him to you. You ask if he wants to go back to your hotel, and he agrees. This man looks at you like you are something irreplaceably precious, and you don’t know how you’ll let him go.

-He is strong. In your hotel room he picks you up by your thighs and presses you into the wall, kissing you senseless before carrying you to the bed. His hands are calloused, but he’s so gentle with you. He touches you like you were made for him, like he was born knowing how to make you see stars. He claims you with his hands and his mouth and his big, beautiful cock deep inside you, and you know you’ll never be the same after this. You’ve been disappointed so many times that you almost don’t know how to handle an encounter going this well.

-When he stirs in the blue light of pre-dawn your arms tighten around him. You’re not even awake yet, but you don’t want him to leave. He kisses you behind the ear and you practically purr. “Want to see the second most beautiful sight in Paris?”

“Yes,” you agree.

“Bring your camera.” You’d told him about your interest in photography. Maybe modeling was paying the bills, but you’d actually majored in fine art, and minored in literature. Naturally, your interests make for shit at paying bills.

Sleepily you get dressed. It takes a little longer than usual because you can’t stop kissing each other between pulling on garments. Soft, slow kisses that curl your toes. You sense deep down that every one of them is infused with apology, and goodbye. It breaks your heart, but greedily you’ll take every second with him you can get.He takes you to Sacré-Coeur in the heart of Montmartre, the very roof of Paris. You sit on the steps and watch the sun rise over the city, fiery oranges and pinks painting the sky and rendering the buildings aglow. It truly is beautiful, but you don’t lift your lens to try to capture it. You sit with your arm linked with his, and experience this moment with him as fully as you can. You want to remember everything.

“You didn’t take a picture,” he teases once the sun has cheerfully risen above the horizon.

You pull out the camera and frame him in your lens, his sleepy smile and bed-mussed hair. You feel something shift in your heart as your finger depresses the button. Click. You’re not sure if it’s the camera in your hand, or something settling into place in your heart that has always belonged there.

“Now I have the first most beautiful sight in Paris,” you say.

He laughs at that. “I meant that was you,” he insists, lacing his fingers with yours, kissing the back of your hand. He takes you to breakfast, and you enjoy dark coffee and delectably crafted pastries with your legs tangled together under the table. Afterwards he takes you back to your hotel, and in the gilt-appointed lobby somehow you know what’s coming.

“I have to go,” he says sadly. You actually believe his regret isn’t an act.

You nod, leaning into his large hand on your cheek.

“I’ll never forget you, y/n.”

A shuddering sigh escapes you, and you close your eyes. You are not going to cry.

“Likewise, I promise you.”

You don’t exchange any further information. You know that if it was possible to see him again, he would have offered it to you. There is something mysterious about this man. Something almost…forbidden, and a part of you knows that the little time you stole together was a precious gift.

He kisses you one last time, a passionate, soul-rending thing that leaves you utterly weak in the knees. He says nothing more, pressing his forehead to yours one final time before turning to go. You watch his tall, dark form exit the hotel into the Paris morning, and you know he’s taking a piece of your heart with him as he goes.

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tbc because goddamn this got long...

part deux >>

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #ok so maybe you are helen?#but its written from your pov so you're welcome lol #john wick x helen #keanu reeves #keanu x you #keanu reeves x you #keanu reeves x reader #ernff i just saw JW4 last week #that sunset tho #fucked me up

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icallhimjoey · 2 years

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Over Now

♥ ♥ rockstar!Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: In this sequel to "Only Now", you've moved away from Hawkins and it's something you should've done much sooner. It's the best choice you've made, it all works, until Eddie finds your address and stops by for a visit.

CW / disclaimer: 18+, language, fem!reader, smut, angst

Author’s note: a couple of you found my askbox and talked me into this after i answered an ask about Only Now, and with a little inspiration courtesy of @ghostinthebackofyourhead that kickstarted all of this, we find ourselves here. I hope you enjoy!

Wordcount: 9.6K

(find all four parts of this story here)

You wanted days to speed up. Have the sun travel across the width of the sky faster. Blink your eyes a few times and accidentally have a few hours pass you by entirely without you having noticed. If you could, you’d skip a full year. You envisioned yourself a year from now, and she seemed strong. Twelve months would be plenty of time for her to have gathered up enough strength to arm herself properly. She probably didn’t think about it every day. About him every day. She was probably happy. Strong, and successful and happy. You wished every day for time fast forward, just so you’d get to meet her sooner.

"You should leave," you whispered into the dark, hearing the city wake up outside of your windows, the hustle and bustle slowly picking up.

"Not yet," Eddie stated it so matter of factly that you didn't even feel like you could fight it. If Eddie decided to stay, you both knew he was going to stay. Eddie knew it was what you wanted, and Eddie knew you wouldn't fight him on it. But you had to be strong. Find the strength somewhere. Somehow.

At New Year's Eve, a couple of weeks after Eddie had left you with a little note that read "Merry Christmas x", you were doing a round of sharing your resolutions for the next year. You had decided yours on the spot and had blurted it out without having given it much thought.

"I'm going to move out of Hawkins."

And everyone had looked at you like it was the wildest thing they'd ever heard, laughed at you as if you were joking, like they had done when Dustin said he was going to start going to the gym. Not Steve though. Steve had hooked an arm around your neck, pulled you in so he could speak directly into your ear and said, "Coolest resolution of the bunch."

What Steve hadn't anticipated is that a mere two, two and a half weeks later, he'd be stood outside of the apartment building you used to share, ready to say goodbye and wave you off. You'd packed up all your belongings into your shitty car and were ready to get out of Hawins. Just, leave. For ever? Never to return? You weren't sure. You'd see.

“I know you have to leave, but, if you really think about it, what’s another week?” Steve tried, leaning his elbows in your open car window. It was too cold for it to be rolled all the way down, mid-January the temperatures were freezing, but you had something to say to Steve still, and you wouldn’t leave before you’d said it. Could you have told him inside? Absolutely. But it would’ve postponed your plans, and you had procrastinated enough. Years, if you really thought about it. You should've gotten out when Nancy and Jonathan had done, but, you know, you clearly hadn't.

“Shut up,” you completely dismissed Steve’s attempt at another week with you in Hawkins and he let his head drop in defeat.

“I need to say things to you,” you said, and Steve was quick to whip his head back up. You kept your engine running but slumped your shoulders and let your hands fall into your lap as you gave him a little pout.

“No, don’t,” Steve warned you.

“I have to,” you took a deep breath, and before Steve could block his ears with his fingers, you got the words out fast. “I don’t deserve you, you are by far the best friend, too good for this world, I can’t believe I’m leaving you behind- I love you!” all your words blended and built up in volume until you were practically screaming. They weren’t the words Steve was expecting, so when he lowered his arms, you snuck them in real fast: “Please come with me!”

“No!” Steve was too late; the words found his ears without any obstruction, and he waved his arms in frustration as he turned away from your car.

Your play back and forth of you begging Steve to join you, and him very actively avoiding every single talk you tried to have with him about it, had been going since the start. Ever since you dropped the comment that you should probably just get out of Hawkins all together, you’d been saying you should both go. He had threatened you at the start, “Careful, or I’ll do it!”, thinking it would make you stop the bit, but knowing there was a slight chance he’d actually consider it only made you press it more.

Steve took a few steps, circled back to your car, and pretended he was about to take a dive across you, aiming for your passenger seat. Just for a second, you thought he was actually going to go for it, and it made you squeal in panic filled laughter. Instead, Steve just leant through your window, found your shoulders with both his hands, and pulled you in for the most awkward hug.

“I’ll come visit soon,”

“Promise?”

“Of course, idiot.” Steve’s grip tightened. “I promise.”

A fresh start. New beginnings. New surroundings. It was what your mother said you’d needed for years. It was what Steve was hellbent on you getting for years.

You’d done enough scooping of popcorn into buckets at the movie theater, only to sweep up half of it two hours later from under the seats – a dead end job, but easy money made. Enough to pay rent, have a little fun and even save up a little.

You’d saved up enough to get yourself through two months of rent in the city, no problem. The urge to immediately find work wasn’t there, but when you moved into your new, much smaller, apartment above a bar that had a sign in the window that read BAR STAFF WANTED you thought, "Perfect.".

It was late February when Steve got word that Eddie was coming back into town. That’s soon, Steve thought. Usually, Eddie would leave much longer periods in between visits. Maybe they were playing somewhere close, and Eddie would just pop down for the day, he thought, secretly pleased that you’d decided to move away when you did.

Eddie didn’t even seem fazed when he walked up to greet Steve. Didn’t look around. Didn’t do a double take. And then, didn’t even ask, but just smiled and hugged Steve, patted him on the back and followed him inside.

Small talk.

Steve was astounded by the surface level of small talk Eddie made. Has the weather been good? Munson, it’s February. Of course not. It’s been grey skies and wet cold. Has he also been sick? Wayne told him a bug had half of Hawkins knocked out a couple weeks ago. Steve had a cough for a few days but was fine otherwise. Got all his fingers still? Eddie knew Steve liked lighting fireworks with Dustin, Mike, the others, anyone who would still come back from college, from jobs, had time to visit family over New Year’s Eve. Steve showed him all ten.

Then Eddie started talking about tour. The band. The gigs. The crowds. Steve loved Eddie’s stories, could honestly listen to him for hours, but he couldn't give him his full attention. Steve was listening to Eddie through your ears. Watching him through your eyes. It was like everything had to pass through a filter of you before it reached Steve, and it slowly built annoyance.

The last time Steve and Eddie had spoken, just the two of them, had been on the ice. When Lover's Lake had frozen over, Robin had taken you on a slippery, scary ride as she had run off with you and he'd stopped Eddie to ask him, was he even really aware of it? Of what he was doing? Did he ever stop to think what his behavior meant for you? Eddie hadn't appreciated Steve placing full blame with him; what Eddie's behavior meant for you. Not, what you were doing to Eddie.

Steve had told him to at least be mindful. When Eddie had scoffed, had said that he was being mindful, Steve revealed how a couple of months ago he had sat outside of your locked bathroom for hours. Listened to you cry silently in between echoing spasmed breaths and sobs. "Don't put her through that again, man." Steve's eyes shone with sadness. It annoyed Eddie greatly as he watched you and Robin laughing together, holding hands as you carefully made your way back to them over the ice.

Eddie didn't think he was doing anything to you. He was just being nice, wasn't he? Would hold you while you slept. Said nice things into your hair. Held your hand on walks. Squeezed your thighs underneath tables. Kissed you on the couch. These were all nice things; things you wanted, things you didn't shy away from, things you happily accepted from him. This is how you were together. Frankly, how you'd always been together. How much worse would it be if he didn't do any of those things at all? If he grew distant all of the sudden? If he just... stopped?

"Be mindful, s'all." Steve said just before you slid back into earshot.

And Eddie had tried for like, an hour maybe. Steve was a good friend and had come to him with difficult things to say, so Eddie tried. Even if he didn't like it. Eddie tried. Kept a little more distance. Didn't sling an arm around you as you walked back to Robin's car together. Called shot gun so he didn't have to share the backseat with you. Didn't use pet names. Didn't look at you and smiled until his eyes crinkled. And then they'd all felt it. They had all seen your angry glances at Steve. Had felt the mood shift. Had felt the sudden tension in the air. Had felt your complete rejection of whatever it was that Steve wanted for you. He wasn't meant to interfere like that, you thought. So when you'd reached for Eddie's hand when you'd gotten out of the car, Eddie had looked at Steve. Told him, I'm not doing anything, with his eyes. It's her.

So Steve was glad you weren't there. But Steve was annoyed that Eddie didn't even acknowledge that.

"You staying over at Wayne's?" Steve asked once Eddie let a silence fall. Eddie never stayed at Wayne's on his visits, but without prospect of staying over at your place, Steve thought he kind of had to.

"I guess," Eddie shrugged.

Steve waited. Still nothing.

"Speaking of, I should probably head over and go see my old man." Eddie spoke through a stretch, arms all up in the air, fingers interlocked, palms out. Then he sighed deeply and got up, went to get his coat from the hallway as Steve moved their used glasses to the kitchen. "Promised he'd make me more meatloaf since I didn't get to take any with me last time," Eddie joked halfheartedly and smiled at Steve when Steve met him in the hallway. Perfect moment to mention you, Steve thought. Yet still, nothing.

Steve followed Eddie on his way out, then decided he couldn't let Eddie just leave like that. Couldn't let him walk out after pretending you weren’t one third of their- your whole. Steve and Eddie had never been just two. Ever since they'd gotten closer as friends, you'd gotten closer in friends together. The three of you. Joined at the hip. Morning, noon and evening. Sun, wind and rain. Birth, life and death. Past, present and future.

"No? Nothing?"

"Huh?"

"You're not going to ask why she's not here? Come on, man…" Steve said, hoping Eddie would let his guard down, not pull it up more.

Eddie turned his head away, looking down the long corridor of apartment doors, hands in the pockets of his leather coat. Then he clicked his tongue and looked back at his friend in the door opening. "What's there to ask?" Eddie asked disdainfully, flicking his eyes down to Steve’s shoes and back up real quick.

Steve loved Eddie, really missed his friend all the time, and maybe even more so now you had moved away too, but this wasn't cool. Eddie didn't need to be so arrogant, act all haughty around him. They were friends. Two legs of this tripod they formed with you. Acting like you weren’t in the slightest bit important, weren’t an inherent part of them, vested in everything they were and weren’t together wasn’t okay.

Steve pushed his chin up, made his lips disappear and gave a small nod. "Say hi to Wayne for me." and closed the door on him. Eddie could go fuck himself.

When Eddie stepped into the trailer without knocking, Wayne took one look at him and told Eddie to walk back out. Eddie sighed loudly. Wayne used to do this all the time if Eddie came walking in like he owned the place. It would often happen when Wayne had worked double shifts and had left Eddie alone for too long. Wayne would make Eddie walk out and come back in, almost as if he was a polite guest, visiting his uncle for a special occasion. Put him in his place a little. Feel that, even if he was the one with his own bedroom between the two, the trailer was still Wayne's home first.

Eddie knew better than to not do as he was told by Wayne, famous rockstar or not, and stepped back out. He took a second, hand on the door handle still, and then he knocked and waited for Wayne to answer.

"Jus' a second," Wayne's low voice gruntled from behind the door, and Eddie huffed a laugh through his nostrils. Fucker was going to make him wait out in the cold, too.

When Wayne opened the door for Eddie, they grinned at each other and hugged.

"Come on, boy. Eat."

Eddie had been pushing the same bite of meatloaf around his plate for ten minutes, then sighed deeply and explained why he was going to have to stay over on the couch in the trailer that night.

"That why you ain't eatin'?"

Eddie shrugged, mentioned how Steve seemed upset with him about something too, not elaborating on why exactly that was. Wayne didn't push it, and instead focussed on the note Eddie showed him.

"And now she lives in the big city, huh?" Wayne said, reading the address.

"Seems like it," Eddie held the note in between his fingers, like he would hold a cigarette and stared at Steve's handwriting.

"Didn't tell you?" Wayne shoved his empty plate towards Eddie a little, signaling it was Eddie who was going to be doing the washing up. Eddie didn't fight him on it; Wayne cooked, so it was only fair Eddie did the dishes. Picking up the plates, his own barely touched, Eddie shook his head a little at Wayne's question.

"Didn't need to, it's her own life, isn't it? Makes her own choices," Eddie reasoned for himself. He hadn't told you about all the places he'd stayed at to write, to record, to rehearse and to play. Why should you have to?

It would have been nice for Eddie to have known, don't get him wrong. He probably wouldn't have come back to Hawkins so soon had he known you weren't there anymore.

"I never understood it," Wayne sighed, sitting back in his seat as he placed his hands behind his head, elbows sticking out wide. "You kids, not goin' together but holdin' hands all the time anyway," Wayne frowned and shook his head a little.

Wayne knew you and Eddie far surpassed innocent hand holding - walls were thin in his trailer - but hand holding was all the two of you had done openly in front of him. Everything else Wayne had caught, he'd pretended not to have seen or to have heard.

"Nothing to understand," Eddie shrugged.

"And she's not goin' with Steve either?"

"No," Eddie snorted, absolutely unable to even think of you and Steve as a couple.

"Hand me that towel," Wayne joined Eddie in the kitchen.

This was nice, Eddie thought. Just chatting with Wayne, in the trailer, hands busy with an easy task. Just the two of them, like old times. It didn't have the same effect as hanging out with you and Steve had on him, though. But it was nice anyway.

"Wouldn't have time for it anyway, would you?" Wayne said. "Not with all them girls waitin' outside after your concerts," There was a moment of eye contact where Eddie had expected a sly smile from Wayne, something a little playful, but was met with a set of stern eyes instead.

"I better not be hearin' bad things, Eddie," Wayne warned, and Eddie immediately took it to mean something malicious. Like Eddie was taking advantage of every single person that showed him any form of interest. Like it was Eddie’s fault that the band had groupies.

"What do you take me for?" Eddie mentally placed his foot against the gas pedal, ready to absolutely floor it if Wayne was going to say something else he didn't like.

"Don't forget who raised you, now," Wayne stayed calm, his voice not changing tone.

"Are you accusing me of something?" Eddie accelerated.

"Just makin' sure no one has reason to,"

Eddie just looked at Wayne a second before he contorted his face and threw the sponge he'd been scrubbing pots with loudly against the tiles behind the sink. The wet slap was loud and splashed dish soap suds onto dishes Wayne had already dried but had yet to put away. He silently watched his nephew grab his coat, feel around pockets for a packet of cigarettes and step out.

Had Eddie been 16 still, he'd have slammed the door.

Wayne wasn't stupid. He'd seen things on MTV, saw pictures in the magazines and, sometimes, if they were particularly bad, the newspapers. He'd even seen some girls with his own eyes when he'd been to see Eddie 'n the boys play when they'd been close enough for Eddie to put Wayne up on the guest list. He had never seen Eddie give them any real attention, but Wayne knew his nephew.

Eddie just needed to be mindful. Tha's all.

That night, Eddie and Wayne had gone to bed in silence. Eddie had refused to say another word, even when Wayne had sat down in his armchair and had put the TV on. Eddie was all passive aggression, rumbling stomach only adding fuel, and Wayne knew to keep quiet until Eddie would break, say something stupid, something that crossed a line, immediately apologise and then they'd be able to talk everything through. Old routines died hard. That, or Eddie would crack because he had to have been hungry, still.

Before bed, Wayne had placed bedding and one of the better pillows onto the couch next to Eddie before retreating to his own bedroom. Eddie's old bedroom. When Wayne had closed the door behind him, Eddie had looked at it and wished it was his bedroom still. With the same old posters still up, his favourite guitar on the wall and all his other stupid shit strewn around, messing the place up. Making it all his. His own little safe space where everything was so very his. Eddie almost resented his uncle for not leaving it the way it was back then, but knew that would've made no sense.

Eddie found himself on the couch, hours later, middle of the night, not being able to sleep at all. The blinking streetlight from out front illuminated the note Eddie held in his hand in flashes.

Should he just... call?

Could he? He couldn't remember the last time he talked to you over the phone. You never called each other. Not that you'd be able to reach Eddie anywhere - he was always on the move.

You hadn't mentioned moving out of Hawkins the last time you'd seen each other. Maybe he wasn't meant to know. Or maybe, you'd tell him later. Once you'd settled. You couldn't have been gone that long, could you?

Eddie didn't manage to stay until the morning. When Wayne woke up and went to find his nephew to talk things through over breakfast, he was met with an empty trailer. Eddie had left the sheets folded nicely up on the couch, and had left his uncle a little note on top.

"I'm sorry. Took the leftover meatloaf x"

It was busy at the bar. Too busy. It was Thursday, and Thursdays were never this busy. The band playing had done a little promotion beforehand, and clearly, it paid off. You were sure lots of them were friends and family, but you eyed some curious anticipation from what you assumed were strangers too.

It was busy, but work was fun. It was just you and your immediate boss behind the bar together, and you wanted to impress, still. Be quick on your feet. Get lots of tips for the two of you to share later. You'd only worked there for about a month, but you'd learned fast. And it was fun because you seemed to really have a good routine down. There was no bumping into each other - if you were about to reach for a glass, he'd have it ready for you, and if you heard someone order drink from a bottle closer to you, you'd hand it over before he could even ask. Work was busy, hectic, and chaotic, but it was fun.

Most people drank beer. Some would order whiskey. Very, very rarely, someone would ask for something else. You'd barely touched the vast array of liquor bottles that decorated the wall behind the bar. So when someone ordered anything you'd not poured before, your boss would help you, show you once, then keep an eye the very next time you'd do it yourself. But most people drank beer, so you'd gotten used to asking which kind, almost on autopilot, and would point at the different taps with questioning eyes. Until someone didn't ask for a beer, and threw you for a loop.

"Jack and coke, please?"

You heard him before you saw him. The visceral reaction within your body was unreal. Unfair. Maddening, too.

You thought you had it all under full control. You had it all tucked away, squeezed into a small cage, locked up behind bars, keys thrown away far into Lake Michigan, never to be seen again. You'd been so good. Would sometimes go days without thinking of him. Became an expert in occupying yourself, and it really helped that none of your surroundings were reminders here. You had all of his things hidden away in a shoebox, placed it deep into your wardrobe, underneath and behind other items, and you'd tried to do the same with all the memories inside your head. Found a shoebox in there too, placed every single little thing you'd come across into this box and would store it away, somewhere near the back of your head, close to the top of your cervical spine.

And it had worked. You'd done so well.

But the sheer sight of him... the first little glimpse you caught after hearing that voice... It broke that cage wide open. Bars snapped in half, brick walls crumbled down and your heart was free. Free at last. Beating fiercely, almost painfully fast inside your chest. It got to swell again. Gave itself more wiggle room. Grew three sizes and pressed tightly against your lungs which made it hard to breathe. It hurt, but it hurt so good.

Eddie was here.

Have you ever felt your brain short-circuit in real time? Felt fires start from sparks too big upon the sight of someone's smile?

"What... how did you..." There were no full thoughts, and you had no possible way of verbalizing anything coherent in the moment.

"Steve," Eddie shouted over the music.

Your eyes grew, doubled in size. Never. Eddie was lying. Steve would never. Eddie could see your disbelief, your disgust at Eddie placing blame with your mutual friend and knew he had to explain.

"I saw..." Eddie sighed deeply, both hands placed on the bar as he leant forward, eyes closed, about to disclose information he wasn't proud of. "There was a note, with your new phone number and your address. He left it on the side, and I couldn't..." Eddie reached into a pocket, pulled it out and showed you Steve’s handwriting.

"You took it?"

"Don't worry, you know Harrington, he's got it memorized by now."

Like Steve being unable to reach you was the problem here.

"Eddie Munson?" someone tapped his shoulder, recognized him, went in for a hug immediately. "Told you it was him!" you heard someone else call out from the other side. "Eddie!"

Too many things were happening at once and you were unable to process any of them. Eddie was here, under questionable circumstances, and you didn't even have the time to be angry with him, because you were at work. You were at work, and it had been going so smoothly. You'd been on a roll, absolutely in it, you and your boss fully attuned to each other. Eddie ruined it, fucked it all up, but you had to get back to it. There were people waiting, drinks to be served, tips to be collected. But you were kind of... frozen. Almost nonresponsive.

You could only give Eddie confused eyes. Judgmental eyes. What the fuck are you doing here eyes. Came to mess up my life again huh eyes. But mostly, your eyes just held a lot of bewilderment and simple shock. Uncomplicated. Things anybody could read.

An arm holding a drink came into your vision from your left, and your boss placed down Eddie's jack and coke in front of him. A little dazed, you looked at your boss, who gave you a look, eyebrows raised high, not in question, but in let's get back to work, all right.

You looked at the man next to Eddie, who searched for your attention with a hand, was holding money and pointed at the beer tap before holding up two fingers.

"Coming right up," you snapped back into work-mode and smiled. You had to get back to work and pretend Eddie wasn't there. It was too busy at the bar not to. So, you ignored him, tried your best to not let your eyes find him, and focused on the work at hand. Work was busy, and it was fun, you sternly told yourself.

After a while, when the band was done playing, the bar started to feel more like a regular old Thursday inside. There was still enough work to be done, but nothing that overwhelmed you.

“Dude's still here, that okay?” Your boss eyed Eddie who was stood talking to two of the bandmembers. They seemed excited Eddie had seen their set.

You already knew Eddie was still there. You'd watched him all night. Corner of your eye. Peripheral vision. Like your body knew there was danger lurking, and you couldn't not keep an eye out for him.

“I'm working,” you shrugged. “If he wants to talk, he can wait.”

And you silently and secretly wished that he did. Fucking Eddie. What the fuck did he want? You’d last seen him in December, which for Eddie’s terms must have felt like just a week ago. Why had he been over at Steve’s?

“Is um… is he who I think he is?” your boss carefully followed up, making drinks right next to you as you kept busy rinsing glasses.

You gave a small smirk, but didn't answer, kept your eyes down. Eddie had been the talk of the night, obviously your boss knew the dude that seemed to be waiting your shift out was Eddie Munson of Corroded Coffin fame. But the way the two of you had interacted, before the murmur of people whispering his name had started, told your boss you weren’t just shocked to see him because he was Eddie Munson. No, you knew each other. There was some sort of history there, he could sense it, and he silently commended you for only letting some of it show for half a second. The rest of the night you’d been perfect bar staff. No regrets in hiring you.

"Could you... do you think you could get Corroded Coffin to come play a little gig here?" your boss joked, and you couldn't help but huff a laugh through your nose. "Give us a little show? No?" you got a nudge in the shoulder and a playful smile when you looked at him.

"I'll ask, but I can’t make any promises," you said, making your boss laugh loudly. Corroded Coffin played huge venues, had insane mosh pits, full light shows with smoke and pyrotechnics. The bar you worked at fit the genre, sure, but was small. Tiny. They would tear the place down, and if not the band themselves, then definitely the people coming to see them.

“Let me know if I need to kick him out, because I’ll do it. Don’t care what name he carries.” And with that, your boss picked up drinks to carry over to the other side of the bar to whoever ordered them. You silently berated yourself for having waited so long to move to the city. People were nice here. What had held you back so long? The second you thought it, you hated that the answer to that question sat down on a barstool right in front of you.

“So when does your shift end?”

You were prepared for questions from Eddie. All throughout the evening you'd thought about what things you would tell him. What things you’d be honest and up front about, and what things you’d avoid telling him. You didn't owe him anything, but you imagined Eddie had questions anyway.

What you weren't prepared for was the magnetic pulling you felt in your stomach when you saw Eddie standing in the middle of your small, new apartment.

What you weren't prepared for was Eddie kneeling down in front of you as you'd sat down on your couch to take your shoes off.

What you weren't prepared for were Eddie's hands that found the outside of your thighs and used his fingernails to slowly scratch up and down the sides of them slowly as Eddie leant back on his heels.

You kind of couldn't really do anything but watch his hands move slowly along your legs and your breath shuddered as you felt your ribcage expand and tighten simultaneously. You frowned when you recognized where you were emotionally. You were in your bed, in your old apartment still, and had just found that stupid fucking note Eddie left on his pillow. You were back in December in the exact moment where all you could feel was loneliness and the strongest yearning you'd ever felt for Eddie.

And now, Eddie was here.

"Eddie,"

Your eyes locked, but what were you going to follow up with? Ask him why he was there? Ask him why he had visited Hawkins so soon after his last visit? Why he'd taken that note with your details from Steve's place? Were you going to tell him about why you'd left? Tell him about those days after he'd left without saying goodbye, again? You didn't really want to do any of those things. Because Eddie was touching you, and you kind of didn't want him to stop.

You hesitated for too long and saw Eddie's dark eyes move between yours before he sat up on his knees and moved in close. Close enough for your noses to touch, to dance around each other for a brief moment, to move like you were kissing. Close enough for your breath to hitch, throat working, as you saw Eddie's eyes roam your face.

"Can I kiss you?"

Eddie had never asked permission like that before, and you didn't need asking twice.

You only needed to tilt your head a little for your lips to touch, and it could've been soft, and slow, but it was none of the sort. You smashed yourself into Eddie, held onto him, arms winding tightly around his neck to pull him into you and keep him there. You kept feeding pressure as your faces swirled, tongues exploring each other, making sure they recognized each other still. You had to feel as much of Eddie as you could to make sure he was really there. That he was real.

Eddie kissed you back just has fervorous, like he was surprised that you'd granted him permission for it. Like he thought that maybe he had asked a question you would've easily said no to.

Thinking back to what Steve had said, he wouldn't have been surprised if you did.

You kissed each other, inhaled each other and tasted each other until Eddie suddenly noticed how your breathing grew erratic at an alarmingly rapid rate. Your hands started clambering behind his head, then on his back, your touches increasing in desperation. Your lips pressed against his hard and it started to become uncomfortable. Eddie reached for your hands in a bid to loosen your grip and broke your kiss.

"Hey,"

Eddie tried for eye contact, to see if you were okay, but you were quick to dig your face into the crook of his neck, escaped into his hair, and hooked your arms under his to tightly squeeze him. Your pressed your chests together and hugged Eddie tensely. You hugged him like you'd never let him go, clung to him like you were scared he'd get up and walk out, your chest heaving heavily still.

"Hey, are you–" Eddie stopped talking when a sob escaped you and he felt your body shake against his. It startled him for a moment, but it only took a second for him to hug you back.

Emotionally, you were there, in your old bedroom still, alone, blinking tears from your eyes at that stupid note Eddie left on your pillow. Eddie had walked out and hadn't even said goodbye.

"Shh, it's okay," Eddie turned soft, found the back of your head to caress and gently stroked his other hand up and down your back.

You cried, and Eddie was gentle. You cried over Eddie, because of Eddie, and let Eddie comfort you. It was an agonizing loop you found yourself in, realized you'd been in, that somehow also felt like it spiraled down with the weight of everything growing heavier each time. You'd be pushed further down each time. You'd have to rise up higher each time, gain new unprecedented levels of strength each time. It had only been a few weeks, and you hadn't even properly began the painstaking process of putting yourself back together again since you'd last seen Eddie. You had just ran from it. Hid from it.

But now, Eddie was here. He had left you alone in your bed a few weeks ago, but now, he was here.

"You always leave," you spoke through broken sobs, letting out the words you felt were hurting your heart from the inside out.

"I'm here," Eddie softly reassured, his voice kind, but flat, almost void of feeling. "I'm here."

You heard it – lies – and knew he emotionally wasn't here at all, but you could pretend he was. Needed to pretend he was. You could feel him, smell him, taste him and could pretend he was here, just like he said he was.

"Do you want to go lay down?" Eddie whispered after a little while. You had calmed down, but were holding on still, and he'd been sat on his knees in front of your couch too long.

Eddie felt you nod your head on top of his shoulder, and you expected him to move back, away from you, in order to stand up. Instead, Eddie moved your legs to hook around his waist, said, "Hold on tight," before gripping onto your waist and hoisting you up from the couch as you clung onto him.

Lowering you down onto the bed, Eddie got a look at your face and saw the mascara streaks he'd been responsible for. When he wiped a thumb across one, you realised what he was doing and were quick to wipe at your own face with your hands. You were sure that whatever Eddie was looking at, wasn't very charming.

But then Eddie grabbed onto both your wrists, stilled your hands and moved them away slowly. Replaced them with his own. It felt like the least thing he could do, to slightly make it better a little. He licked one of his thumbs like your mother used to do, and used soft strokes to wipe the make-up stains away as you stared up at him. Eddie's touch was careful and tender, and you melted under it, relaxing deeper into your bed.

Eddie didn't have mascara splotches to wipe at, but you wanted to touch his face in the same ways he was touching yours. You reached up, cupped his cheeks, rubbed a thumb along a line in his face and got a smile out of him. Eddie moved his head, kissed one of your palms, then straightened up and looked at your jeans.

"Can I take these off?"

What was with all the asking for permission? It was new. You didn't mind it, but it was... different. You nodded and let Eddie undress you.

He removed your jeans, your socks, your top, your bra too, and you waited for his roaming hands. Waited for his touches, his squeezes, for Eddie to grab at you, with soft or harsh fingers – you didn't care.

Eddie then removed his own T-shirt, and instead of discarding it onto the floor with the rest of your clothing items, he moved it around in his hands, found the neckline and said, "Sit up a little." before helping you put it on.

Eddie dressed you in his own T-shirt, the one he'd worn all day and overwhelmed your senses with all things Eddie. It was the smoothest of moves that caught you entirely off guard, and you had to take the deepest of breaths to not burst into tears again.

When Eddie slipped into bed in just his boxers next to you, you noticed that you were secretly pleased that he hadn't latched onto you the second he'd seen you naked. This was much nicer. Eddie was about to get comfortable on his back, was about to pull you in for cuddles, but you stopped him.

"Lay on top of me,"

Eddie froze a second, covers held up in his hand, facial expression a little confused.

"I want to feel you on me," you felt raw and vulnerable, all up in your emotions and had shared them with him too. There was no use in hiding what you wanted from him now.

"Yea. Yea, okay." and Eddie scooted down a little, found your chest with his head and carefully relaxed until you were pressed down into the mattress by his full body weight.

Eddie listened to your heartbeat, felt himself rise and fall with your breaths and dozed off the very second he knew that you'd fallen asleep as well.

You woke up in the middle of the night when you felt Eddie roll off of you, to get more comfortable, you imagined. He laid down next to you and the loss of his warmth, his weight and his contact made your hand search for his so you at least had something, still. You were needy and clingy and knew it was unattractive and overbearing, but you didn't care. When you found his hand and interlaced your fingers with his, your felt him squeeze a few times which was enough reassurance for you to drift off again.

Eddie woke you up in the morning by placing a hot mug of coffee on your bedside table.

"Morning," Eddie sat down next to you on the bed and leant over you, one arm planted either side of you. He bent over for a kiss, and you groaned, "morning breath," and tried to avoid him getting too close. But Eddie was Eddie, and he held your face to kiss you anyway.

"Couldn't," another kiss, "care," more, "less." and then deeper too. Until Eddie murmured, "You're out of breakfast," and you groaned loudly as you squeezed your eyes shut tightly.

"Yea, I need to get groceries."

"So let's go have breakfast somewhere and get you some groceries."

You still didn't know why Eddie came to visit you. Why he had been in Hawkins, why he'd been over at Steve's. But Eddie sort of behaved in the same way he always did and you were about to plummet into domestic bliss together which you enjoyed far too much to confront him now. You'd get the answers to your questions later.

You found a little cafe to have breakfast at and sat by the window. You let Eddie choose your breakfast from the menu for you, but only because you had just told the waitress what Eddie was going to get. When your plates were put down in front of you, you both looked at the food, then at each other and both reached to switch meals because you'd chosen for each other what you really wanted to have yourselves. It was stupid and it turned you into grinning idiots, sharing dopey smiles as you ate. You missed Steve a little, thought he would have probably made some golden side comments had he been there, but you didn't mention it. Afraid it would ruin whatever it was that you and Eddie had going. Out of the confinements Hawkins held for you, where people had fully formed ideas of who you were as a person, and who you and Eddie were as friends, you got to just be... be yourselves, more. Be a little more coupley, without familiar judging eyes or the feeling you were going to have to explain to someone later that, no, you weren't actually dating, this was just what you were like.

Now, this was just who you got to be, almost without repercussions, and it made you want to up the level of it. Be a bit more of it.

And Eddie let you.

In the supermarket you noticed how flashy Eddie looked compared to every single other person in there. You realised that, when in Hawkins, Eddie definitely toned down this whole look he had created for himself. In Hawkins, Eddie was more the Eddie he'd been in high school, which, for small town terms, was pretty out there already anyway. But here, away from home and away the people that would still probably treat him as the town's freak, Eddie let some of his stage persona shine through in his outfit. Kind of made you feel a little underdressed, almost. He looked more confident, a little more removed from you, and sure, he looked very sexy, but it wasn't Eddie Eddie.

"What's chelse?" Eddie said, squinting at your shopping list. "Is this something fancy we don't have in Hawkins? That us simpletons have never heard of?" Eddie acted like he was the one stuck in Hawkins still, and that you were the one with a broadened worldview. Very obviously, that was clearly the other way around.

"Shut up, idiot. That says cheese."

"Excuse me, where do you keep your fancy chelse?" Eddie asked a teenager stacking shelves whose eyes grew with recognition for him.

"Oh my God, Eddie," you hissed under your breath, but couldn't withhold your giggles as you pulled Eddie along on your way to find some regular cheese.

Back in your apartment, Eddie started putting food away in all the wrong places, so as he placed items into random cupboards, you stood next to him and reorganized everything without saying anything. You just smiled, and when you snuck a look at Eddie, saw that he'd seen what you were doing, because he then placed bananas in the oven and a packet of uncooked spaghetti in the fridge. You were being dumb smiley idiots together and it was so cute, you imagined how Steve would say something along the lines of, "Well, at least you think this is fun." and he'd be so totally right.

"I start work soon," you said after letting yourself fall onto your couch, like you'd just ran a marathon.

Eddie copied you, hair flying as he landed against the backrest, sighing dramatically. Made you laugh.

"You can come sit at the bar, or... I don't know, stay up here, see what's on TV," you didn't want Eddie to leave, yet. You held out a hand and Eddie took hold of you, swinging your arms back and forth playfully.

"I'll have a shower, then call China... see what they have going on," Eddie joked.

"I'll send you the phone bill, so make every minute count," you joked right back, happy Eddie hadn't mentioned anything about needing to leave, about needing to get back to the band. It irked you a little too, unexpectedly, because you still didn't know why Eddie was here.

"What?" Eddie saw you frown as you looked at your hands that were still sort of moving around, drawing shapes in the space between you from your swirling elbows. You decided you were just going to be up front and ask the exact question on your mind.

"Why are you here?"

A beat.

"What made you come visit me?"

You turned to look at Eddie, who was staring at your hands just as you'd been doing.

"You weren't in Hawkins," Eddie shrugged and looked you in the eye briefly.

Your frown deepened, because that wasn't really an answer. It didn't explain anything, but just left you to put dots in places in order to connect them yourself. A dangerous game, because what if you put the dots in the wrong places and made the wrong connections?

"Missed ya," Eddie followed up, said it nonchalantly, Wayne's words echoing in his mind. He moved the hand he was holding up to his mouth to kiss it, easing the crease between your brows slightly.

No word on why he'd been back so soon. No word on what happened at Steve's for him to need to steal a note that held your details. You could imagine, sure, but those could be the wrong dots, and Eddie not elaborating only made you feel like he didn't want to talk about it. So, you didn't press it further, even though you really wanted to.

"Why did you let me in?" Eddie asked.

Oof.

You thought of all the cells in your body that all called out to Eddie at every second of every minute of every hour of every day, and about how having Eddie with you silenced all of them.

"Could hardly turn you away, could I? Leave you out in the cold?"

It was just as much of a non-answer as you'd gotten from him, and Eddie tutted, just about scoffed at you and you saw his brow furrow. You didn't take offense immediately, but were very ready to step into that box if Eddie didn't guide you away from it.

"Why do you... why are you doing this to yourself?"

Eddie instead pushed you straight into it.

"Excuse me?" you couldn't quite believe what you were hearing.

Eddie sat up, let go of your hand, used the both of his to rub his face and then turned his head a little to look at you.

"If it hurts you so much," Eddie started, but you weren't going to let him finish that sentence.

"Me?!"

Eddie just stared, blank faced.

"I'm the one who's doing this?" you challenged him.

"I mean–" Eddie raised his eyebrows and you knew he was going to have several examples ready to throw into your face. You very much didn't need to hear them.

"Why do you think I moved here, Eddie? Why I got the fuck out of Hawkins?"

Eddie just looked at you, and you could almost hear him think "you ran away", and you could feel the stinging of upcoming tears behind your eyes. The frustration of how easily emotion got hold of you again only angered you more, triggering the waterworks even more. You weren't strong enough yet. It hadn't been long enough since you'd last seen Eddie, and now here you were, a weak mess of a girl, about to drive away the person you wanted to keep close the most.

"I can't run away from myself… I can't run away from my past, from my actions, from choices I've made..." you had been able to run away from Hawkins, and so, that was what you'd done. It just hadn't worked as well as you would've hoped, and you realised it didn't work at all now that Eddie was here.

"You did… run away, I mean, didn’t you?"

Eddie said it with so much disdain, like it was the most cowardly thing you could've ever done. Like moving out of Hawkins was the absolute worst possible thing a person could ever do in their lifetime. Like you were faint-hearted. Weak. Spineless.

"You don’t get it." You got up to find the shoes you'd taken off earlier, wiping your hands harshly across your face to rid yourself of tears, annoyed that none of this seemed to touch Eddie at all. "Physically I had to," that was easier to say with you back towards Eddie, who was still sat on your couch. "But you think I can escape my own mind, Eddie? I’m in there, 24/7 - you are in there. It’s all the time, never ending, just... always there. How do I… how am I supposed to…" you started stumbling over words as your lips trembled, starting new sentences before ending the previous ones, thoughts overlapping and spilling out faster than your tears did.

"Hey," Eddie got up, but you were quick to hold out both your hands, palms facing him.

"No. I've got work." you turned around, grabbed a jacket and opened your door.

"Maybe you shouldn't be here... when I get back." and before Eddie could say anything, you stepped out and shut the door behind you.

You worked a grueling shift, and Eddie had been able to hear loud voices and live music thump in your apartment. It was late when you finished work, and you were exhausted, but you'd tried all night to build yourself up. Handed over beers whilst simultaneously mentally stacking bricks to build up walls in order to shield that weak mess of a girl inside, make sure she was still safe in there.

And then, Eddie was still there when you got back.

Hatred knotted in your stomach, because Eddie was still here and you liked it. Relief washed over you when you saw him, sat in the dark, still on your couch, and you wished it had been something else. Not relief. You wished that instead you would've felt ugly things. Mean things, exclusively.

You looked at each other in silence as the door clicked shut behind you and you noticed Eddie seemed sad. However, you couldn't allow yourself to dwell on it. Because feeling bad for him wasn't going to help you. You knew exactly what was going to help you, though.

"Say something horrible to me," you sounded exhausted, voice flat, not enough energy to muster up anything more for him.

Eddie immediately frowned in confusion.

"Tell me I'm your worst mistake," you stepped closer as you let your jacket slide form your shoulders.

"Say something to make me hate you,"

"Baby," Eddie got up.

You winced at the pet name, closed your eyes and breathed heavily, tried your best to pretend you didn't hear it.

"Tell me you fuck every single girl that throws themselves at you and that they do you better than I ever will and,"

"What are you..." Eddie tried to interrupted, but it just made you speak louder over him.

"That you'll never stop because they're just, too, good," you couldn't help but let your voice slowly build anger as you avoided any and all eye contact with Eddie.

Eddie slowly got closer, confused and concerned. This isn't how he had envisioned the two of you to make up after your shift had ended.

"Say that you think I'm annoying, that you hate the way I laugh,"

Now stood right in front of you, Eddie reached for your face with both his hands and he tried to find your line of sight to make you look at him.

"I don't," Eddie started, and you were quick to interrupt. "Then lie." you said sternly.

The air felt tense, but only because you were shooting daggers, glaring at Eddie with dark eyes, trying to win the staring contest you'd started with him the second you'd made eye contact. You won, because Eddie looked at your mouth for a second, and you wondered how you were going to murder all the butterflies that sprung up in your stomach.

"Ruin us, Eddie," you tried so hard to be strong. "Please." but it was difficult, and Eddie upped the ante when he kissed you.

For a second, you let him. You let Eddie kiss you, and it was immediately hot, and heavy, and you liked it. But you were strong, God damn it. You hadn't spent all hours of your shift building yourself up for fucking nothing. You were strong and were going to protect yourself, because clearly, no one else was fucking going to.

In a bid to take back control, you bit Eddie. Harshly. It made him pull back immediately.

"Give me reasons to hate you," you pleaded, breathing heavily.

"You're a mistake," Eddie said before crashing right back into you. There was nothing kind about the way you kissed each other. Forceful lips, pressing mouths, scraping teeth mixed in with unkind words, because Eddie obliged and started giving you what you were asking for.

"You're the worst thing that's happened to me in my lifetime," Eddie started guiding you backwards towards you bed.

"I hate the way you laugh," his tongue licked at your lips as his hands started to undress you.

"I hate the way you look," he said it right as he got your bra off of you and used a hand to push you back, making you fall and bounce on the mattress.

"I'm gonna keep fuck..." Eddie stopped, sighed a small breath, like he was unable to get it out of his mouth.

"Say it," you ordered.

"I'm gonna keep fucking every single girl that wants it," and with that, Eddie let himself fall on top of you. You were used to him at least pretending that, whenever you had sex, it was about you first. Not tonight. And maybe that was exactly right, because it drove home all the words he said and made them land in your brain.

Eddie didn't care about you.

But then, inches deep inside you, Eddie panted sudden sweet words.

"You've no idea what you do to me,"

His words dripped with lust and adoration, and you could've cried, but you didn't. You were strong, remember?

"No, more things you hate, t-tell me," Eddie's pace was fast, made it hard for you to speak. "Tell me more things that make me hate you,"

Eddie grumbled, grunted, let himself fall onto you as he kept going and chased his own orgasm.

"I think," Eddie started, but was cut off by himself as he came fast. He shuddered and spasmed on top of you, moaned loudly, then softer, until everything eventually stilled. "I think we should just stay friends."

And with a kiss on your cheek, Eddie climbed off of you and disappeared into the bathroom.

When Eddie came back out, you were silently crying in your bed. Eddie slid back in, nestled under your covers, but you jolted when he tried to touch you. So Eddie turned around, and you slept in your bed the way you'd never slept in a bed together; back to back, without touching each other, like two strangers forced to share a blanket.

But, asleep-you and asleep-Eddie, weren't confined by the same things awake-you and awake-Eddie were confined by, and your bodies had found each other in the night.

You woke up the next morning with Eddie's arms around you, the little spoon to his big spoon, and for a moment, you let yourself really feel it. Feel Eddie with every fibre of your being.

You deserved to win, you thought. Because with Eddie, you’d come in first place every single time, ask anybody. But Eddie hadn’t awarded anyone in years. There wasn’t a shortlist for you to top. There was just a long line of pretty girls who waited by stage doors and by tour buses, and you didn’t want to be in that line. You wanted this; Eddie in your bed, cuddled up to you, breathing in your neck, his hair or yours tickling you with every exhale. You wanted all of this just for yourself, for ever.

But you couldn't.

Because Eddie always left.

And you had ran away from him.

"You should leave," you whispered into the dark, as the city woke up outside your windows.

"Not yet," Eddie said. "Go back to sleep."

You shifted back a little, more into him, pressing your back against his chest more as you abandoned everything that happened the night before for a second. You understood that the very moment your feet would touch your floorboards and you both got out of this bed, it'd all be real again. And then, it'd all be over.

So you snoozed, and stretched out time and pretended for a moment that you were 17 and in Eddie's old bedroom in the trailer after a weird night of crossed boundaries. You pretended to snooze until Wayne would loudly knock on the door and tell you to come and clean up the mess you left in the living room. You pretended to snooze until you were no longer pretending and you just snoozed until you woke up hours later and found yourself alone again.

Alone but for one of those stupid little notes.

"Love you x"

You read it, crumpled it up and threw it across the room before burying your face back into your pillow.

It was over now. Eddie was gone, and it was over.

-----

Read the follow up: Then Again

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#over now #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson angst #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson one shot #stranger things 4 #munson #only now #sequel #angst #smut #fluff

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iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia · 1 year

Text

The Arcana HCs: How you hurt the M6

~ I want to be clear again that when hurt people hurt other people, it's not a sign of closeness, it's proof of a need for growth. Healthy relationships will take those signs seriously instead of brushing them off - brainrot ~

This is the sequel to

How the M6 hurt you

TW for angst, yelling, accidental food shaming, saying things you don't mean, and watching your loved one be deeply hurt by what you said or did

Julian

You don't know when last you were this emotionally exhausted. It feels like all week has been nothing but listening to other people unload their burdens while you barely have a moment to yourself

It also hasn't helped that Julian's picked up one of the viruses going around and has been bedridden for the last three days

At least, he should be staying in bed. But he keeps getting up because he doesn't like giving you extra things to worry about, only to make things worse by overexerting himself and defeating his own cause

At this point you've had it up to the nose with other people's problems. Do you like helping? Yes! Do you like helping as much when people don't even stop to ask how you've been or if you have time? No! And especially not when you're starting to catch Julian's sniffles too

Against all the odds, you've managed to finish everything early and you're just getting ready to go to bed and get some much-needed rest and alone time when Julian appears in the doorway

Just the sight of him not in bed where he should be adds to your frustration, but you take a breath and meet his sorrowful gaze

"Why are you up, Julian? Are you alright?"

And he, not noticing the bags under your eyes or the vein popping in your forehead, begins his lament

How sorry he is for burdening you like this, how terrible it is of him to expose you to sickness like this, how you don't deserve to live like this, all while he remains the only thing literally standing between you and the sweet, sweet rest of your shared bed

You nod sympathetically and begin to step around him, hoping he'll follow you back to bed to sleep, but then he's placing both hands on your shoulders to hold your attention as he tells you why you shouldn't have to waste said attention on him. It's the last thing you need to snap

"Dammit, Julian, I'm already worn down because of you! If you wanted me to be happy you'd leave me alone already!"

You're regretting your words as they're leaving your mouth, but you don't realize the broader implications of what you've said until you see the look of horror and hurt on his face

"I-I'm so sorry, Julian, I didn't mean it like that, I meant -"

"I understand what you meant." He's shrinking away from you, fever-chapped lips trembling as he goes to the door to put on his coat. "I'll leave you alone so you can be happy."

You're left standing in an empty house, struggling to keep your mind awake enough to figure out what to do next. It takes longer than you would like for you to snap out of it and rush out the door after him, wondering where he would go in the early night

He's not at the Docks. He's not at the Rowdy Raven. At this point you're too panicked to keep thinking so you run over to Mazelinka's, hoping for direction and advice. She doesn't look very impressed to see you when she opens the door

"Before I let you in. Tell me what you did to that boy to make him knock at my door instead of sneaking in through my window."

And with tears on your face and panicked, shaky breaths, you tell her what you said and how it happened and how you don't need to know where he is right now, just make sure he's alright, please

When you finally stop talking she turns away from the door and address the trapdoor in the floor that's ever so slightly cracked open. "Well? Are you coming out now or are you sleeping down there?"

Julian slowly emerges, puffy-eyed and shaky, and meets you at the door with a quiet "Let's go home." You nod and get ready to follow him down the sidewalk when a wooden spoon appears across your chest. You look over into Mazelinka's steely gaze, reminded all at once that her grip is that of a pirate more than a cook

"You hurt him like this again," she murmurs, "and the Devil gets a kinder fate."

Julian is quick to forgive, but it takes much longer to silence the angry words you sent ringing into his head

Asra

Living without any memories from before three years ago is hard

It's like joining a class with only six weeks left in the school year. Everyone around you has history - either with each other, or from somewhere else that they get to share over a dinner table and find ways to bond over it. But you've got nothing

It doesn't help that everyone around you knows more about your past than you do. They remember how you ran your shop before the plague, they remember the catchphrases and jokes you'd use to chat with customers, they remember more of you than you do

And nobody wants to tell you

You know that you have friends. There's Selasi, the baker, Nadia and Julian and Portia, Asra's parents Aisha and Salim, and even Muriel seems to be warming up to you begrudgingly

But the silence in your neighborhood is loud when you walk through it, even if it's become fond after your efforts to stop the Devil. You're tired of the quiet - you want to hear someone talk to you with answers and stories already!

You've been stewing on these thoughts for several hours now, starting from a particularly silent customer and continuing through shop closing and clean up. Asra walks in the back door in time to see you grumble and give the counter a particularly harsh wipe

"Did the counter do something to offend you, my love?"

You huff and shake your head, trying to distract yourself with something less irritating. You watch them set their bag down in the corner, full of mysterious parcels. "How was your day?"

"Better now that I'm with you." He's peering at you fondly from under his eyelids, and you ignore the flare of frustration at the typically vague response that doesn't answer your question

"I see you did some shopping, where did you go?" Give me something, you think, give me anything that's present and real to think about

They falter slightly, the way they do whenever they're about to reference a place or person or thing you used to know, and then smoothly sidle up to you. "Oh, you know. Here and there."

You flinch away when he reaches for you, your frustration crashing across your brain as a wave of anger. "Here and there? Just like all of the other places you've been? All the places I don't know about because nobody will tell me?"

You see the hurt pooling in their face, and knowing that half of it is their empathy for your own pain somehow makes it worse. Especially when their only response is silence. Damn the silence

"Why does nobody tell me anything? Why don't you tell me anything? You brought me back all on your own, why don't you try addressing the problem for once? Or are you just going to leave me alone, without anything to help me, again?"

You're stunned by the words coming out of your mouth. You knew that what you were saying wasn't true, you knew that every word would wound him, and somehow you couldn't stop until that accusatory again merited its own silence

You can see them bracing against their need to turn and walk out, and you're hoping for their sake they do, but instead they're dragging their feet one step closer, eyes on the floor

"I'm not going to leave you alone again," he mumbles, voice cracking, "Not unless you want me to." And five seconds later he's putting his arms around you, ignoring his own hurt to take care of you - again, even though you can feel him shaking from your anger

"I'm sorry," you tell them, "I'm sorry, I was wrong. That's not true. I didn't mean to hurt you, I'm so sorry -"

"It's okay," he's telling you, even though he's not. "It's okay for you to be angry at me. You didn't ask for any of this, and I failed you."

No! you're screaming in your mind, it's not ok! because you can feel the pain twisting under their ribs at your stinging accusations and you know they're doing everything they can to hide that from you

Asra's love for you is steadfast, but he doesn't trust lightly and it'll be several weeks before he's able to tell you how badly you hurt him

Nadia

You know that you're not stupid. And you know that, technically, nobody else really thinks you're stupid. You know for certain that Nadia would tell you all about your attractive intelligence given the chance and the hours on end that she would require

You know all of this, and yet

Sometimes Nadia's desire to provide for your every need translates into keeping track of every project you're working on and every problem requiring a magician that you're in charge of fixing

And her way of helping is offering her thoughts and opinions and advice. Which, granted, is always helpful when you ask for it. But most of the tips you've been getting recently are unsolicited

Half the time her advice is to do the thing that you were already planning on doing, which after a while is enough reason to not want to do it anymore

But you keep biting your tongue and nodding along, because you love her and the last thing you want to do is talk to her like you think she doesn't have anything helpful to offer

It's mid morning and the work day is in full swing. Nadia's touring around the palace and grounds today, overseeing basic building maintenance, and you're hunched over the intricate blueprints for the Flooded District, figuring out where magical aid is needed

You're just circling a ramshackle bridge which would make the ideal spot to control water flow from when two silky arms wrap around your torso from behind and you're surrounded by her floral perfume. "And how is my darling magician this morning?"

You're getting ready to respond when you feel her shift and focus on the papers in front of you. Don't do it, you think in annoyance as she leans away in order to get a better look, Don't say that -

"That bridge would be a good location to direct water flow from. You should consider utilizing it in your plans, MC."

You rein in your annoyance and nod. "That's why I have it circled."

"Oh!" She laughingly traces your pencil marks. "So you do." She turns to you, smug approval radiating from her cocked brow. "I hadn't noticed. My magician is even sharper than normal today."

The irritation flares up even stronger than before. Maybe if you stopped butting in you'd realize I'm always this competent, you think, but you bite it back at the last minute

She's turning back to keep studying your materials, her angle effectively blocking you from being able to see what she's looking at, and you're trying not to say anything, you really are, but then she's straightening up and asking "Have you thought of -"

"Yes," you interrupt her, frustration bleeding into your tone, "yes, I have." The reprimanding look she gives you only makes it worse. "Or at least, I'd have the chance to think of it if I wasn't being constantly hijacked."

Nadia frowns and raises her chin. "You've implemented every piece of advice I've given you. I fail to see how that counts as hijacking."

"It's not advice if I'm already planning on doing it!" You're blurting out all the things you haven't said now, louder and angrier than you would ever intend to. "You haven't even asked if I wanted your help, you just keep assuming you know better! I don't want your help!"

Her face drops all expression and her eyes grow cold. "I see," she says quietly, and then "I'll take my leave, then."

It's not until she doesn't join you for lunch that you begin to realize how badly you messed up. After all the hurt she harbored from her older siblings treating her like she couldn't do anything, your own words were the confirmation of her worst doubts

You don't want to force her to listen to you, but you know the longer you leave things the more she'll internalize what you've said. You spend your afternoon writing your detailed apology instead of working on your plans, and give it to Chandra that evening

Nadia joins you on the terrace after dinner, her presence alone bearing the promise of her forgiveness. The hurt you've caused, however, is going to take much longer to heal

Muriel

You've been unusually hungry recently. Days in the woods are already cooler and damper than they are in the crowded Vesuvian streets, and now with winter coming on your body has been begging you for the calories it needs to stay warm

There are multiple things you've failed to account for as the one who usually does the grocery shopping. First, your own increase in appetite, second, Muriel's increase in appetite, and third, the cold front that had appeared out of nowhere five days ago

Muriel himself has expressed surprise at how much he's been eating recently, but you can see it as the outcome of him learning not to deprive himself of good things in order to not take up space

You've spent all morning busy in the woods while Muriel does his rounds, and your stomach started rumbling an hour ago. It doesn't help that your clothes are too thin for the weather - that's another item on tomorrow's shopping list

The trees are rushing by as you hustle back. You've been saving a stewed meat pie in the back of the cupboard for a hangry day, and with the way you're getting annoyed at every root that trips you up today is the day to toast it up and eat it

Inanna's alone in the hut when you walk in, so you begin chattering to her mindlessly as you head to the cupboards to pull out your lunch. Your mutters get more and more frustrated as you open cupboard after cupboard, letting the doors bang shut

"I swear Inanna, I'm so hungry right now it's starting to hurt. Where in all the realms did I leave that damned -"

And you look over at the table to see an empty plate, speckled with familiar pastry crumbs. You laugh humorlessly, speaking completely unfiltered to the wolf on the bed

"Of course, Muriel ate it!" You're not mad at him, you're glad if anything that he felt free to eat what you bought, but you're ticked at having to wait another hour to forage and cook something.

"Why even bother buying something for later if it won't even be there? I get that he's a big guy, but does he really need to eat so much? I'm going to starve if this keeps up!"

You're almost shouting at this point, finding a strange joy in your exaggerated performance, until a whine from Inanna's direction causes you to pause. It's that second of silence that lets you hear the shuffle of a large pair of feet not knowing where to walk to next

You spin around, horrified, in time to see Muriel's shoulders hunching down and turning away from the open door. You're scrabbling to catch up to him in the clearing and manage to grab his sleeve

"Muriel, I'm so sorry, I -" How do you begin to explain this? Even worse is the way he refuses to look at you, head tilted down and away in an expression of shame, guilt, and regret. You take a breath and start with what you want him to know most

"I don't think you're too big. And I don't think you eat too much, and I'm not mad, I promise, I love you much more than pie."

His mouth twitches and he turns his face to look at you, which you take as permission to continue your confused explanation: "I was - I was just ... joking?"

His face falls into a scowl before you can blink, and he yanks his sleeve from your hand. "Don't lie to me," he grits out.

"I'm not lying! I wasn't even that hungry, I was just frustrated, and -" you're cut off by your stomach making a loud growl. Muriel's face twists in something akin to pain and he stalks off, head and shoulders hunched down as tight as the day you met him

You know you don't have a chance of catching up to him on an empty stomach, so you watch hopefully as Inanna melts into the trees after him and turn to the nearby woods to forage

The afternoon passes slowly. You have nothing to do but wait for him to return - if he returns at all, and the hut is cold and dark without him

You're able to greet him with a better apology and the biggest, heartiest hot meal you could make in one afternoon, but it's a long time before you see him eat without hesitation again

Portia

You love Portia's optimism. It's easily the steadiest, most uplifting thing in your life and she can turn any daunting or overwhelming situation into the start of a grand and exciting adventure

It doesn't matter what you're facing down, she's right next to you, rolling up her sleeves with a can-do attitude and plowing ahead

Some things, though, have a degree of complexity that require more than a can-do attitude and a determination to move forward no matter the obstacle. Some things are complicated, tedious, painstaking, and drawn out so long you forget why you're doing it

The puzzle you're working away at is one of those things. Since you've started traveling the world with Portia, you've encountered all kinds of magic that you'd never heard of before, and it's given you a hope that she's pushed you to pursue

You're trying to get your memories back

And it's exhausting. It's been month after month of researching and documenting, staying up late into the night brainstorming with new leads until your creativity feels strained enough to be as sore as a pulled muscle, all for tiny pieces of the solution

Portia's been your star, staying awake with you and doing her best to follow along on a subject she's never been taught, always giving you a pep talk to push just a bit farther

But that push is starting to feel like pressure. After months of keeping at it, all you want is either a breakthrough or a break

Portia walks in on your little meltdown, in time to see you lean back in your chair, sigh, and then groan as you begin to pack away your notes and samples and books

"Uh-uh!" She's tugging on your elbow cheerfully, nudging you to sit back down. "Come on, MC, I know you can do this! We just need -"

"To push a little harder?" You finish her sentence for her, letting out a tired laugh and rubbing at the ache behind your eyes. "I don't think so. Not today, at least."

"What?" she asks teasingly, "are you just giving up? Don't tell me I need to give you a good kick in the ass like my brother."

You feel your eyebrows scrunch together, plagued by both your discouragement with your project and the feeling of failing to be the exciting, brilliant magician Portia has so much faith in

"I can't do this anymore, Portia. The answer's been at the edge of my brain for weeks, and I still can't find it. I need a break."

"No, you don't!" There's so much hope and excitement in her voice it makes you feel sick. She grabs your shoulders and leans in so close you can see the spark dancing in her eyes. "You just told me it's right there, so reach for it! Maybe you have everything already, maybe you just need to make yourself remember!"

"No!" The overwhelming hopelessness and shame claw their way out of your throat as aggression. "No, it won't work. Do you even know what that does to me? Do you have missing memories?"

She falters, smile fading. "No, but ... no, I don't."

"Then how could you understand?" You see her frown as you start to gesture wildly at the months of research. "You don't even understand most of this, much less what I'm dealing with! I'm sorry I can't live up to your expectations, but I can't just fix this!"

She's scowling now, chin wobbly, but her stubbornness wins out. "I don't expect you to be perfect, MC, but I'm not letting you give up. I know us. When you're with me, I can do anything, and I know you feel the same way about me too."

"Not about this." You slump in your seat, staring listlessly at your mess. "I know what I'm dealing with, I know what I'm doing, and I know I'm not enough." You see her getting ready to start studying your notes and try to make sense of them for the hundredth time, and lay a hand on her wrist. "And you aren't enough either."

She freezes, yanks her hand away, and storms out the door with a broken sob. It's not until you see her reaction that you realize the extent of what you've said to her and seek her out to apologize

She's quick to forgive you when you admit you were wrong, but it's a long time before she joins you at your research again

Lucio

It's been exciting to watch him grow and change. You know that every time he shows a little more patience or acknowledges a mistake, it's a hard-earned victory. Changing yourself requires effort, and you've watched him put in the blood, sweat and tears

It's especially beautiful to see the way he connects to other people now - before, his desire for friendship led him to bribe masses of people to his side. Now, all he has to do is find a common interest and everyone at the tavern table is drawn to his enthusiasm

On a night like this, though, it's harder to hold onto your admiration of him. The two of you encountered a group of young mercenaries on the road, and what started as advice from someone older and wiser became a swap of war stories

He's yelling excitedly about the adrenaline rush of sending his blade through an enemy's ribs, instructing the younger mercenaries on how to aim for the heart, and you feel your own sink

His smile looks crueler in the flickering candlelight, his laugh harsh and grating as one of his new friends shares their own gruesome torture suggestions, and you soon give into the compulsion to stand and make your excuses to retire early

It's hard to look at his face when his eyes show concern for your quietness, and you miss the way his gaze follows you out the door

You lie in bed, tuning out the raucous laughter from the tavern, and try to sleep. You're spiraling into the past, all of the evidence of his cruelty and selfishness overshadowing the man you've shared your life with for the last several years

Long before the Lazaret became a funeral pyre, he was just like the brutes fawning over him now, delighting in battle and bargaining away the living hearts of others for his own gain

You flinch when you hear him bang open the door to the room you've rented for the night, matching the motions of the Count of Vesuvia to the sounds of him removing his armored gauntlet and preparing for bed

"Did you hear those kids?" His voice breaks the stillness when he notices your open eyes. "Little idiots, just 'cause they got some blood on their knives, they think they're the best of the trade. Don't worry baby, I showed them."

He bends to kiss your cheek as he climbs into bed next to you, and you turn to face his shadow in the dark. "Show them what? How to kill more effectively?"

"Yes?" His voice comes floating back confused. "I did? Gotta aim for the heart if you want a clean kill."

"A clean kill?" You can hear the disgust bleeding into your voice, but you can't stop. "What else did you tell them about?"

"Oh, you know, just the deals I made, and the plague, and the masquerade." He sighs wistfully. "I thought they should know what they were really aiming for."

You snap and sit up in bed, taking the covers with you. "I can't believe you! You - why? Why would you lead even more people to their deaths? Do you even care at all about what happened to Vesuvia? To me?" You ignore the sounds of him shuffling frantically around, crossing your arms over your chest. "You really haven't changed at all, have you?"

Click

The sudden flare of the lamp by your bed shows Lucio's expression, one arm reached out to give him light to see you properly, his face a frozen mask of fear at your icy disapproval

"MC - I didn't - I thought if I told them about my oopsies they would know better." You see him swallow and fight back the tears at the corners of his eyes, brows furrowed in concern. His voice is small and hurt. "You really think I haven't changed at all?"

You can see his doubt, his hope in your faith in him being hurled back in his face, and you rush to apologize

He forgives you once he sees your regret and hears you admitting your mistake, but he doesn't bring his past up again so easily

#the arcana #the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #ask arcana brainrot #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #the arcana game #the arcana angst #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

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cottonlemonade · 7 months

Text

Confessions After Hours

word count: 1124 || avg. reading time: 5 mins.

pairing: Akiteru x chubby!Reader

genre: fluff, friends to lovers

warnings: like one time swearing

synopsis: Akiteru accidentally confesses to you

You looked outside the café windows for the fourth time in the last 5 minutes, it was past closing time, all the cleaning was done and your fellow part-timers had already left. So you just tried to find some busy work to have a somewhat legitimate reason to stall. The rain was getting worse and by now you were pretty sure Akiteru wouldn’t come.

It’s not like it was an actual plan, you reminded yourself, it was just kind of implied that he wanted to walk you home but no one could expect him to go out in this weather.

And so you hummed to yourself while carefully brushing down mint leaves and edible flowers with egg whites and sugar.

Your mood dropped a little when you checked the clock again. You had been looking forward to spending time alone with Akiteru.

Of course, you had little hope that he was interested in you romantically but that didn’t stop you from dreamily staring at him during study sessions or making a fool of yourself whenever possible - like running into a glass door when he smiled at you like last week.

When you laid the sugar coated decoration out on a baking sheet, a familiar figure caught your eye.

He stood on the other side of the road, waiting for a safe crossing. Quickly you walked over to the front door to unlock it and let him in.

“Ugh, wet.”, he commented, waddling in.

“Why didn’t you bring an umbrella?”, you asked incredulously when he pulled back his drenched hood and shook his soaked hair like a dog.

“We only have one and one of the others got it tonight.”, he explained as if that was normal.

You swallowed the start of what would probably be a rather long discussion about why it wasn’t smart that 4 roommates shared a singular umbrella and so instead opted for “You should get out of those wet clothes before you catch your death.”

He gave you an overly dramatic look of shock, clutching his soaked collar like a Victorian lady.

“Oh, grow up!”

Together you peeled him out of his hoodie (his t-shirt underneath was dry for the most part) and you considered the dripping bulk of fabric for a second, before making a decision.

Wringing out as much of the excess water as possible over the kitchen sink, you then opened the still warm oven from the banana bread you made earlier and placed the black hoodie on a baking sheet inside.

Akiteru watched you with crossed arms and then asked in complete earnest, “How long do you think it needs?”

“I don’t know, Akiteru. I have never baked hoodie before. I’d give it like 5 minutes and then I’ll turn it over. We’ll see.”

To warm him up you brewed him a big mug of coffee in the already cleaned machine. A gesture that didn’t fail to impress. “I have never felt this special in my life.” He wrapped his large hands around the steaming cup and breathed in the cozy coffee scent.

“Don’t get used to it.”, you said, smiling, taking a sandwich and a bowl of fruit you had prepared for him earlier out of the fridge.

“This café has such excellent service. Thank you.”

You pulled a folder of various papers from a shelf, turning pages as if to check things - he didn’t need to know that you were just pretending. “So, how is the Kei situation - still hating the club?”

“Not so much hating, I’d say indifferent, which somehow is almost worse.”

“How come?”

“At least hate would indicate a strong emotion.”, he said wisely, plopping a grape in his mouth and feeding you one, too, while you were “busy” tapping something on your phone’s calculator and writing gibberish numbers on a slip of paper. When his fingertips accidentally brushed your lips in the process your brain came to a full stop.

“But the spring tournament is right around the corner and I am almost sure he is actually starting to enjoy himself - a little.”

Another grape.

He took a sip of coffee and sighed.

“Your coffee tastes like a hug.”

Your eyes lit up. “I… that is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me. You mean, like a good hug though, right? Not one of those half-assed one armed thingies.”

He spluttered into his mug and coughed to clear his throat.

“Yes, a good hug. Both arms, full body contact. I am talking full-on cocoon.”

With a bragging smile, brain still fried, you said “I’ve been told I give pretty amazing hugs like that.” proudly pushing your chin up.

“Oh yeah? Well then let’s see what you got.”

You thought for a second, then dropped your highly important paperwork back on the counter. “Let’s have a look at your hoodie first, don’t want it to get too dark.”

A moment later you stood across from each other stretching as if getting ready for a fight. “Alright, little one. Give it your all.”, he said and opened his arms.

He had been ready for a lot of things. He had held your hand before, when navigating through a crowd (only as friends of course), so he was no stranger to the tingles your touch sent through his body.

What he hadn’t been ready for was your head to be leaning against his chest and your hands gently stroking over his back. He returned the hug immediately, placing one hand on your back and one gently cradling your head, resting his cheek against your temple. A perfect fit. It was better than he had ever imagined. Where did they even make people as soft and heavenly squishy as you? For many hasty heartbeats he held you like this. Then you gave the smallest sigh and actually snuggled even closer to him. He couldn’t take it. It was too much. And so without thinking in one quiet breath he let out, “Shit, I’m so in love with you.”

He felt you stiffen in his arms and prepared for the worst. You lifted your head to look at him, your eyes sleepy like you had been about to doze off.

Akiteru loosened his arms so you could pull away like you undoubtedly were going to. But you didn't.

"I'm... I'm sorry that was really stupid.", he said quickly.

"Don't worry, I accidentally tried freezing a cucumber last week. You're good.", you said in a drowsy sort of way.

"What?"

He didn't know what to do. You hadn't pulled away. You weren't screaming or running away or hitting him. Instead, you got on your tip-toes, a hand on his chest and smiled, before you set the softest kiss against his surprised lips.

#tsukishima akiteru x reader #Akiteru x Reader #haikyuu x chubby reader #Akiteru x chubby reader #tsukishima akiteru fluff #Haikyuu Akiteru #Haikyuu tsukishima Akiteru #tsukishima akiteru #chubby reader #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x reader #hq fluff #haikyuu x curvy reader

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bingbongsupremacy · 10 months

Text

Forget Me Not Pt. 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: I haven't seen any of the marvel movies in a while so this is my own made up version of the tower and all of that. I don't remember it haha.

Summary of Series: After an unexpected encounter with HYDRA, Bucky is left without memory of who you are.

Fic Summary: Bucky is finally released from the hospital and back at the tower. No matter what you do, you can't seem to avoid him.

*Not Proof Read*

*****

It's been a week since Bucky got back. Steve's been with him the entire time. I just don't know what to do.

Did I make the right decision not telling him who I am? It's less complicated without a partner, right?

It's been hard to avoid him. Our rooms are literally down the hall from each other, and he's usually in the main rooms with Steve when he's not busy working out.

I've had to completely change my schedule, now going to the gym in the middle of the night just to avoid an accidental encounter.

It's not that I'm upset with him...I just don't know what to say. It's like we're starting all over again. How can I do that? I know everything about him already. His passions, the things he loves most in life. I know his deepest secrets and regrets, his hopes and dreams.

And he...well he knows nothing about me.

All those late nights spend talking while staring at the stars, completely gone from his memory. All the city dates we went on, completely in the past.

How am I supposed to just look at him and start over? I guess I did this to myself, insisting that no one tell him about us. I deserve the pain I'm getting from this. I chose this.

A knock at my door pulls me from my thoughts.

It's four in the morning, who in the hell is up?

I pull open the door and am immediately met with two pairs of eyes. Of course they'd be up at four in the morning, they're probably working out.

" Steve? " I question, trying not to let my gaze slide over to the waiting brown haired man.

" Y/N, I need to ask you a huge favor. " Steve's eyes are wide with panic.

" What is it? " I ask, shifting to my other foot. I tap the door handle nervously.

Steve begins to explain. " There was an attack in Manhattan yesterday, We need to head there as soon as possible. I figured since you're on temporary leave...maybe you could help Buck out? "

My heart begins to pound faster. " What? "

Steve lowers his voice so the man a few feet behind him can't hear. " He's still so confused about everything. He doesn't even know how to work the Elevator by himself. " Steve lets out a sigh. " I can't leave him by himself, not until we're sure HYDRA didn't reactivate him. " He explains. " Please, Y/N, I wouldn't be asking this unless I absolutely had no other choice.

I glance over at the other man. His attention was quickly turned to the huge window a few feet away.

" Steve, I don't know. " I begin.

" Please, Y/N. It'll just be for a day or two. Just until we get everything calmed down. People's lives are at stake, Y/N. " Steve's expression is filled with worry.

I let out a sigh. " Fine. Two days. "

______

I stare at the screen ahead, flipping through channels. News about the attack in Manhattan flood just about every channel, each with a different news caster telling the story.

" Can I try? "

I turn my head in the direction of the familiar voice. The voice I've heard for years. " What? " I ask in confusion.

Bucky's eyes glance down at the remote in my hand. " Can I try changing the channel? " His voice sounds...nervous. Unsure if I'll let him.

I nod. " Yeah, of course. " I hand the thin item over to him. " Just press that to change it. "

Bucky nods, a small hint of relief on his face. He flips through the channels.

We sit there in silence, nothing but the buzz of noise coming from the tv making a sound.

" Are you hungry? " I ask, finally acknowledging the ache in my stomach.

" Yeah, actually. " Bucky nods. " I just, uh, I don't know how to get to the kitchen. "

I let out a small smile. " It's alright, I'll help you. " I lead him towards the elevator. I explain the different buttons to him, letting him press the right one to take us to the kitchen.

Bucky looks at the elevator with intensity, trying to take in all the technicalities. When it dings to signal we're on the right floor, he takes his time leaving.

I lead him to the kitchen where we finally figure out what to eat, deciding on simple sandwiches.

Bucky pulls a knife from the drawer, pulling the plate closer so he can cut it.

I let out a small laugh.

He's very picky about his sandwiches.

Bucky's eyes turn to me, confused. " What? "

I shake my head. " Nothing. I just didn't know the sandwich thing stemmed back from when you were younger. "

" Sandwich thing? " He asks, still confused.

" Yeah. " I nod, taking a bite from my own sandwich. " You cut off the crust and slice it into triangles. "

Bucky lets out a small smile. " Uh, yeah. My mom used to cut it for me that way. I guess I never really stopped, huh? "

I don't respond, continuing to eat my sandwich.

" If we're friends, why do you always ignore me? " Bucky's voice breaks through the silence.

" Oh. " I didn't think he noticed. " I've just been busy I guess. "

Bucky nods, not quite believing me. " Yeah...okay. " He doesn't push it.

He asks another question a few minutes later. " Can you tell me about us? "

I freeze. " What? "

" About our friendship. "

I feel my body begin to untense. " Oh, yeah. What do you want to know? " I avoid his gaze.

Bucky turns to face me. " I'm not sure...How did we meet. I mean, you know how I eat my sandwiches, so I'm assuming we were close? " He takes a bite of his food.

I nod. " Yeah, I guess you could say that. " I set my plate in the dish washer. " Well, " I begin. " We met the day Steve found you. He brought you back here. I was the one who helped you get everything you needed to live here comfortable. I don't know, I guess we started hanging out? " And making out. " And yeah...that's really it. " Fucking lie. We spent months going out before we finally decided to make it official.

" Really? So you helped me. "

I nod again. " Yeah. I made sure you felt comfortable here. I mean, you came from such a bad environment...I don't think you knew what an actual bed felt like. You insisted on sleeping on floor no matter how many times I tried to get you to try the bed. It took months of convincing before you finally tried it. " I let out a laugh at the memory.

Bucky is silent.

" I'm sorry. "

My head turns towards him. " What? For what? " I ask.

" For not remembering you. I'm sure this is annoying, having to teach me everything again. You already did it once. It must be hard not having the same Bucky around. " He admits.

" Hey, It's not your fault. " I gently place a hand on his arm. " I don't mind, seriously. You're still the same you...just with less memories. "

Bucky doesn't respond.

I try to change the direction of the conversation, failing miserably. Tension sits heavily in the room.

" Why don't I go show you how to play on an X Box? "

#fanfic #fanfiction #reader insert #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #james bucky buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #marvel x you #marvel x reader

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magnolia-among-the-stars · 1 year

Text

dear august (bradley bradshaw pt. 1)

Summary: You and Bradley have been best friends since college and when he was stationed in North Island, you were thrilled that he would be back in your life. When things start to sour with Bradley's girlfriend and she breaks things off, Bradley comes to you for drunken comfort. What happens when an accidental hookup brings along an unexpected positive pregnancy test threatens the state of your friendship?

part one / part two / part three / part four / part five

Tropes: friends to lovers, unexpected pregnancy, unrequited feelings

Word Count: 1600+

The days were getting longer, and you didn’t know how much more glitter glue you could handle. The blazing heat on North Island burned hotter each day as Summer starts to approach and school days tick down. Throwing the remaining markers into the bin on the craft table in your classroom, you smooth a hand over your hair.

Your forehead was glistening with sweat on that Friday afternoon and the school had done nothing to fix the damn AC in the window, promising school would be out before the need to run them all day. This left you with a barely breathing fan, pumping room temperature air around as you finished cleaning up the classroom from your bratty and darling first graders.

A ding alerts you, the sound of your phone pinging on your desk causing you to rise from your knees and drop the copy of Goodnight Moon onto the bookshelf. Glancing at the incoming text message on the screen, a feeling bubbles up in your lower tummy at his words. It’s Bradley, messaging you too quickly after his day at base wrapped up, asking for you to come meet him at the Hard Deck.

You love your best friend, sometimes more than you are willing to admit even after three tequila shots at the military bar, but you’re also exhausted from a week of relentless rangling of children. You had spelling tests to grade, a lesson plan to get a head start on and a well-deserved nap on your cozy couch directly in front of the AC fan in your living room. The phone begins to ring loudly before you have a chance to craft a rain check text.

“You must’ve had a rough day, not even waiting for my text back,” you breath out as you answer, tucking to phone between shoulder and ear as you move to erase the whiteboard for the day. It’s a bitch when the marker settles into the glossy board.

“Come have a drink with me,” Bradley’s voice is raspy, a mix between a grumble and a plea. You can almost see him now, hand clutching the wheel of the Bronco as he heads down the scenic beach street to his cute two-story house stacked right on the sands. “I’m too tired to beg.”

“That makes two of us B,” I tell him as I finally collect the papers I need for the weekend and grab my tote. Locking the door to the classroom, I don’t bother stopping by the faculty lounge on my way out of the building. The lunch untouched from the busy day would be perfectly fine to eat Monday…I hope. “I don’t think I can muster it up tonight for you, what about Hangman?”

“You’re trying to pawn me of on Bagman?”

“Pawn feels like a strong word,” you mutter as you push the door of the building open, waving goodbye to Jeanine, the very nice secretary at the front desk. “I just…” your voice trails off as you come face to face with Bradley. He’s leaned up against the blue bronco’s hood, large frame slouched slightly as he crosses his arms over his chest. Bradley’s a glowing tanned god with his perfectly kept curls and matching mustache.

“Hi,” he smiles sheepishly, hanging up his phone and pocketing it.

“What’s happened?” you ignore his greeting, stepping toward him slowly with a look of concern etching into the worry lines on your forehead. “You never come to school.”

“I can’t just come pick up my favorite lady?” You stare at him heavily and he bends like a freshly cooked noodle out of the pot. “I think she’s going to break up with me.” His voice is gentle, his eyes avoiding yours as he glances down at his boat shoes, scuffing them against the black top. Your shoulders sink a bit, trying your best to contain the small point of glee rippling through your toes.

Her. The woman who has had your best friend in a bind for seven months. Her who played hard to get for two more months prior and wrote him only one letter on his three-month stint out at sea. Jenny, who had Bradley wrapped around her finger like she made the moon. Jenny, who wasn’t you. But you shake that thought away, play the part of dotting best friend.

“That can’t be right,” you shake your head and adjust your bag on your shoulder. “She loves you.”

“She’s pulling back Dais,” He uses your nickname, pulling on your heart strings. No, no, no, don’t do it. “Please come have a drink with me, you always make me feel better.” Don’t do it, tell him to call Javy and Jake. Tell him they’re better suited for girl troubles tonight.

“Bradley,” you start but he looks up at you and you see it. The glossy look in his bright green eyes, the tremble of his lower lip trying to maintain composure in the emptiness of the teacher’s lot. “One drink. Just one,” he knows he has you before you even get the full sentence out, knowing that you wouldn’t let him down. You never had and that’s why he came to you. He’s tugging your bag off your shoulder and ushering you into the passenger side of the Bronco.

It’s early enough at the Hard Deck when he pulls up to the front porch, his sunglasses hanging off the loose neck of his white tee shirt. You should’ve known how bad it was by the look of him. His usual Hawaiian shirt collection missing from his broad chest and he’s not wearing his dad’s watch. Bradley rushes to your side to help you slide out of your seat onto the rough pebbles. You wobble as you land on your feet, Bradley’s large hands wrapping around your shoulders for stability. He leaves them there as you walk together in step inside of the bar, his touch burning through the straps of your dress until it’s all that you can think about.

You greet Penny who is leaning over the counter restocking the napkins, waving with a small smile as she takes in the sight of the man’s arms around you tightly. The older woman cracks a smile with raised brows, and you shake your head slightly. Luck for you, she questions nothing when you take a seat on a spinning bar stool. Bradley nestles himself beside you and huffs out, “Can I get a glass of whiskey Pen?”

Shaking your head, you clear your throat and roll your eyes. “No, no,” you start, turning to look at the woman. “We’re not doing that. Can we get two coronas please?”

“No.”

“Bradley, you want me to have a drink with you?” you give the man a pointed look, so sharp that he pouts. Penny is deeply amused, watching the two of you silently. “We’re not having whiskey.” You stare up at Bradley, scanning his face and his worn scars across the skin of his neck.

“Fine, two coronas it is,” he digs dramatically in his pocket, tugging his wallet out and slinging it onto the table. “But I’m buying.”

It takes an hour before the rest of the friend group comes rolling through the swinging doors into the dimming light of the bar. Bob and Nat roll in with Mickey in tow, early goers dressed in civilian clothing and sunkissed to the gods. Bob tugs you into his side as the others place their first orders of the night with Jimmy. The patrons being to arrive to the increasingly loud bar, and someone has cranked on the jukebox as he asks about work.

“I would love to come in for another reading day before the end of the year if you would have me,” Bob tells you lightly, taking a sip of his bottled water.

“Bob, you know we don’t have to go in anymore for the year,” Bradley calls, his hand returning to your shoulder as he takes in the close distance of your face and Bob’s. It’s more for comfort of volume, the two of you being such soft-spoken individuals but Bradley doesn’t need to know that. It’s not his business.

“I know that.” Bob’s elbow comes down on the sticky surface of the bar top. “I like hanging out with the kids Rooster. Don’t you love seeing Daisy in action? She’s so good with kids.” The comment causes you to flush, cheeks warming as you thank the Weapon Systems Officer.

“That’s so sweet Bob, I’m flattered.”

“You should be, Dukes,” a thick Texan accent rings from behind you and you crane your neck to notice the bright pearly whites approaching. “Seeing you with kids actually makes me consider settling down and having a family.”

“Now that’s the biggest compliment,” a wicked grin crosses your features as you lean back to rest your head against the blond’s hard chest. Jake wraps his arms around your front to hug you tightly. “Bagman considering a family for me…what an honor.”

“Only for you Dukes,” Jake’s deep tone rumbles through his chest and reverberates in your ear. Bradley groans and you suddenly remember his presence and before you know it, he’s prying Jake’s hold away from your body.

“No touching my best friend,” he’s whining, “No family making.” With your hand in his squeezing grip, you realize who he is and why you both came here. You remember her, that has his heart twisted in her hands. That has him on the edge of his seat, begging for love and affection. The thought kills you, but you tug your fingertips from him.

“It’s time for some pool people,” Nat calls from the pool tables behind you all, waving frantically as she has finally claimed your usual space for the night.

“Bradley, you should call Jenny,” you tell him truthfully, waving Jimmy done for you and Jake. “I’m sure she’ll want to join us, and things will clear up.” Your encouragement of his relationship has him frowning, a confused expression showing itself as you tug your fingertips away. “It’ll be fine,” you promise as Jake orders your drink from behind you.

Right?

Taglist:

@luckyladycreator2

@ceilingfann

@rosiahills22

@child-of-sunshine

@callsign-scully

@hopefulinlove

@cevans-winchester

@double-j

@blue-aconite

@callsign-hummingbird

@romanoff13-blog-BLOG

@rosiahills22

@kajjaka

@sylviaes99

@chaoticassidy

@child-of-of-the-sunshine

@memoriesat30

@seresinsweetie

@genius2050

#top gun #top gun maverick #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x y/n #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw fic #rooster imagine #rooster imagines #bradley bradshaw imagines

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canarydraws · 2 years

Text

Darkness Falls

Recently Lucéena got a bit of a rejuvenation in the form of dying. Yea I know how that sounds, let me explain. Looong story under the cut

After some adventures, the party had been given a week’s worth of free time to do a bit of shopping and get some much needed rest. So we all split up. We all had errands we wanted to run, including Lucéena. At first she’d gone shopping you know, nothing exciting. But then she decided to go back to the Shadowfell portal we’d discovered earlier in the campaign, and after a bit more deliberation, she decided to jump through alone. Not the smartest move on her end lmao.

Quick little recap, the last time the party had been in the Shadowfell was when we’d been hired to steal two magical simulacrum (that weirdly looked like our warlock of the party) from the Queen of Shadows, accidentally drove her insane in the process, and left with guards on our tails. We’d also learned the realm was suffering from a curse that was turning it’s inhabitants into stone and Lucéena had also met her biological dad in the castle. While her feelings on him are… mixed at best she was still concerned enough about his well being that she wanted to check in on him. Time doesn’t run at the same rate between realms. Every hour in the Shadowfell is roughly 4 in the material plane and the party kind of had their hands full with other things. We haven’t had the chance to return since we made that huge mess and time in the Shadowfell was juuuust starting to reach a point where Lucéena was concerned with what was happening. She though this bit of down time would be the perfect opportunity to go in, send a messenger to him and leave without going to the most dangerous parts of the Shadowfell or endangering/inconveniencing her friends.

Unfortunately… she hadn’t predicted the Shadowfell queen to be waiting on the other end with warriors by her side. After a brief exchange of words combat started and it became painfully obvious Lucéena was outnumbered and outclassed. She was chased up the tower this side of the portal was housed within and after fucking up her attempt to hide, the queen found her and used command to make her fall out of the highest window, straight to her death.

Cutting back to the material plane, the others had realized Lucéena was missing and after sending spells not going through and asking for guidance from a powerful wizard friend, they eventual did figure out where she’d gone.

Once through the portal they saw signs of a struggle but no one was around. They eventually climbed all the way up the tower and then looked out the same window Lucéena had fallen out of and saw her laying there, dead. They quickly ran to her, but by now it was long past due for a typical revivification to work. And then just as they were beginning to discuss next steps, the queen showed up and she started puppetting her body into fighting them D:

While this was happening the dm and I had an aside and to help the part out we’d agreed that I’d come back as my last campaign’s character: my stupid beloved cleric/ranger, Zachriel. I’m not sure how helpful it was, but it was fun interacting with everyone as the dumb guy they got to play with before! After the queen was defeated I even had the weird opportunity to try and resurrect my own character with raise dead! Only it didn’t work.

There was a presence blocking the magic. One that was celestial in nature. That was all Zachriel was able to tell about it and Eclipse, our main cleric, was all out of spells. At this point, our warlock Fenix pulled himself aside, and reached out to his patron. He ask them to heal her, to “put her back” and he would pay any price. His patron heard him. Upon that request, Fenix cast true resurrection on Lucéena and disappeared in a flash of white-hot light…

…and Lucéena opens her eyes. Both of them. As part of true resurrection, the target of the spell receives outstanding rejuvenation. Any missing limbs/organs are restored and any disease present at the time of their death is cured. So upon the spell being cast Lucéena’s scarring was healed and her damaged eye was replaced with an orange-pupiled one, just like Fenix’s.

Fenix’s spell not only brought back Lucéena. All of the people that had been turned to stone were bright back as well! We could hear people down the halls, confused, wanting to know what was going on. And for the first ever time in the Shadowfell we could hear a full city of people outside.

#art #dnd #dungeons and dragons #elf #fighter #shadar kai #Lucéena #gosh #now I know why leaving the party is a bad thing I guess I had to learn the hard way #I tried it keep that breif but that’s really hard to do when so match happened #this all happens over the course of 2 games #and it was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in dnd lmao #at least my mistake came at a semi-convenient time.#the warlock’s player couldn’t keep playing with us and was going to leave one way or another #so at least they got to go out ina very cool and worthy way #still feel bad that my one impulse decision caused all that mayhem #oof

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wastemanjohn · 1 year

Note

You KNEW my prompt was gonna include pregnancy lmao but I’m gonna say samdean accidental pregnancy — your choice if Dean or Deanna, your choice which season but I wanna see Dean(na) confessing to Sam that s/he’s knocked up!

here you go mate <3 (sorry for sneaking my deanna and david bowie headcanon in here but i had reason to believe you wouldn't mind xD - and exploring this pushed me nicely out of my comfort zone so thank you for the prompt!)

The skies over the salvage yard are pink with shepherd's delight clouds. The evening breeze has a little bite, and the air smells like rotting oil and dead leaves. The latter scent is one Sam associates with shoplifting school supplies, with the good coffee shops opening up on campus again. It's an awkward nostalgia, but it comes to him anyway as he buttons up his shirt for warmth and makes a start on staking out the boulevard of broken cars, armed with two bottles of El Sol and a mental note of all the phrases he's learned not to say. Deanna's gotta be out here somewhere.

The thing is, Sam thinks as he passes the nearly restored Impala, it had seemed like his sister was doing a little better. She's still sharp tongued and irritable, but she's not been spending 12 hours a day doing god knows what under that hood. She's been hanging out with Sam and Bobby more in the evenings, not really saying much, but sometimes she smiles with her whole face at something someone says, and Sam's always a little surprised at the force of his relief. She's even been talking a bit about getting out on the road again, even if she never directly mentions Dad; but Sam's caught her quietly leafing through his journal now and then lately. Not that he's said anything about it, because that's just asking for trouble; and anyway, regardless of any improvement, Sam still has no idea what's going on in Deanna's head, really. She feels very far away.

She went out this afternoon. For hours. Didn't say where she was going; but it's got to be the first time she's left Bobby's place in weeks. She left her phone behind on the nightstand, in this way that Sam couldn't help but suspect was intentional, because there had to be something about that; had to be something in the way Deanna caught Sam's eye through the window as she was coming back, coming all slow down the path with Dad's jacket over her shoulders and this tight expression on her face. Something in the way Deanna had sharply changed direction at the sight of him, veering off until she faded into the salvage yard and Sam couldn't see her anymore. And it's not that Sam meant to be hovering near the front of the house at the exact moment of her return like a worried parent, but shit happens.

Let her be, son, Bobby had said, without looking up from his scotch and that leatherbound demonology book he'd been annotating all day. Harder you push, the more she's gonna clam up.

It bothers Sam when Bobby talks like that, like he knows Deanna better than Sam does or something. As for letting her be - well, if Bobby knows Sam at all, he's got a strange way of showing it.

As Sam goes deeper into the yard, he can hear music. Tinny, faint; but Sam recognizes David Bowie. He spent enough time being subjected to every single tape the guy ever made, even the really out there ones, over and over again as a kid to know that voice anywhere. That had been one of Deanna's more intense phases. Sam thinks she finds him comforting now, maybe; familiar, well worn, like an old blanket. She'd deny that, of course, the way she always denies shit that she thinks sounds girly, or maybe just vulnerable - but it hadn't been lost on Sam over the past year, how Deanna would play those tapes during nearly every overnight drive they took. Her hands always a little too tight on the steering wheel, Dad's unknown whereabouts breathing down the backs of their neck like a spirit.

Sam follows that bustling piano, ch-ch-changes, until he finds his sister. She's sitting on the floor, leaning against the dented door of an eighties truck with a mangled hood. The windows are down. The music is coming from inside.

Dad's jacket is so big over Deanna's shoulders. It practically drowns her, looks kind of ridiculous, if Sam were to be mean about it; still smells like Dad's cigarettes. Deanna doesn't look up, when Sam approaches, but she doesn't hide her face or snipe at him to fuck off either. Which means this is already going well.

"Hey." Sam says it cautiously. "What are you doing out here?"

Her eyes roll up at him. "Making bacon and eggs, jackass. What's it look like I'm doing?"

Sam doesn't know, actually. Still, he takes the sarcasm on the chin. He holds one of the beer bottles out to Deanna; she glances at it, then shakes her head.

It surprises Sam, but he doesn't push. "You look like crap," he offers.

Deanna snorts. "Well. Don't you know how to make a girl feel special."

There's no bite in it. That tells Sam they're okay. She does, though; look like crap, that is. Tired; washed out. She's been sleeping in the day a lot. Bobby says it's the grief, that she needs it. Sam could believe that. He wonders, though, if Bobby's heard Deanna throwing up in the night lately. Not just one of her tactical upchucks to stave off a hangover, because she's not been drinking all that much lately; but these real hacking puke sessions that jolt Sam out of sleep in the early hours of the morning. She never comes back to her bed afterwards. And Sam has his suspicions about that too, like with the left behind phone; it's Deanna's way of not giving him a chance to pry. She knows how thin the wall between the bathroom and the spare bedroom is.

"Can I sit?" Sam asks.

Deanna shrugs. It's as good as permission.

Sam lowers himself down beside her, gets comfy on the rough gravel. He puts down the beers; doesn't feel much like drinking by himself.

They sit in silence for a while. Puts Sam on edge; but it's hard to know what to say to Deanna most of the time these days, which isn't a position he's ever been in before. Then again, they've never been in the position of losing their father before, so there's that. It still doesn't feel real. It probably never will.

"Keys were still in the ignition," Deanna says, nodding up towards the truck. "Tapedeck works. Engine's salvageable. Bobby's way too quick to junk these babies. Upsets me."

Sam smiles. "Dare you to say that to his face."

"Hey, maybe I will. If he gave me half a day with this death trap I'd get her purring again. Turn her into a whole new woman."

She folds her arms, tilts her head back against that dented door. Her eyes are kinda pink and bleary.

"You should see the tapes in the glove compartment," she adds. "'S a fucking goldmine.

"Is this Hunky Dory?" Sam asks.

Deanna raises an eyebrow. "Wow. And there I was thinking you weren't paying attention all this time."

"You didn't exactly give me a choice. You only played this album every day for like ten years."

Deanna grins. "I'm proud of you, Sammy. I knew you'd learn to love it eventually."

"Love is a strong word," Sam replies.

Deanna snorts again. Something like affection passes over her face. Sam hasn't seen that in a while.

"I lost this album years ago," Deanna says. "Think it ended up with Dad, maybe. You know how our stuff used to always get mixed up."

Sam's a little stunned. And maybe it shows, because Deanna narrows her eyes at him. "What?"

"Nothing." He swallows - "Just that you, uh, mentioned Dad."

"Yeah. So?"

It's quick, defensive enough for Sam to know to shut up. He's getting good at that kind of thing.

Deanna's scowl fades; she grins, lightly punches his thigh. "You creep. Quit staring at me."

Sam didn't realize he was. But if they were a different kind of people, maybe Sam would tell Deanna how pretty she looks under the dying sunlight, under those pink, glowy clouds; but he wouldn't really know how to put something like that, and Deanna would never let him live it down if he said it aloud anyway. So he keeps it to himself. Instead, he watches Deanna pull at a spooling thread from her shirt sleeve peeking out from beneath Dad's jacket.

"You know," Deanna says, "being out here always reminds me of us being kids. Bobby letting us play in the yard until the sun went down. Bringing us lemonade. Do you remember?"

Sam smiles. "Yeah, Dee. Of course I remember."

Deanna carries on like she wasn't expecting an actual response. "We'd never had homemade lemonade. Remember how I used to try to make it for you when we got back on the road? Mine always kinda sucked, though."

Sam feels a little on edge, hyper aware of everything his body is doing, like he's trying not to spook a wild gazelle. This is the most Deanna has spoken in weeks. "You tried," he offers, because she did, Deanna always tried so hard with stuff like that. He hasn't thought about Deanna's crappy lemonade in years. With Bowie warbling about life on mars on the stereo, and the memory of Deanna's sticky too-bitter attempt alive on his tongue, it feels like it's 1992 again.

Deanna keeps pulling at that thread. "You know, back when I used to watch you - I was, I dunno, maybe ten or eleven. And you were so - you were so damn innocent, you know? Just really cute, I guess."

"Cute?" Sam echoes.

"Yeah." There's this tight, half-smile on her mouth that Sam can't quite read. "You were so curious about shit all the time. Always wanting me to tell you stories. Always getting yourself scraped and bruised because you couldn't stop fucking climbing stuff."

Sam isn't sure what to say. There's something about remembering himself as a child that makes him uncomfortable. Maybe it's the idea of being so small and so helpless; or maybe it's the memory of that hard-to-place unease that lived inside of him like blood from the moment he was fully sentient, that gut-deep sense that something about his life - his family, his barely present Daddy - just wasn't right.

"You were a pain in the ass," Deanna continues, with this fond chuckle. "Asking me questions all the time. Wanting to know how every little thing in the world worked. If I didn't know the answers, I'd just make 'em up. You believed everything I said." She clicks her tongue. "Man, do I miss that."

Why are we talking about this? Sam nearly asks. But that runs the risk that Deanna will snap shut like an oyster, and Sam will never get the answer at all. So he keeps his mouth closed. He lets Deanna carry on.

"Sammy, I used to -" She trails off, looking weirdly sheepish. "This is so so fucking weird, but like - when I was watching you, I used to wish you were actually my kid. And you - you kinda were, you know? Felt like you were mine... mine just as much as you were Dad's."

Dad, again. Sounds so unfamiliar in Deanna's voice now that it takes Sam a moment to process the revelation that came before it. "You did? Seriously?" is all he manages.

"Yeah." She's looking at her lap. Still that tight half-smile. "Seriously."

And Sam struggles to know what to do with that, what it means. Because it's hard, lately, for Sam to be angry with his father about much; makes him feel almost empty, actually, after a lifetime of nursing this near-addictive resentment over things he never fully understood. And of those things, Deanna - getting her stuff mixed up with Dad's, being so intertwined with him, resembling her martyred mother so much Dad could never stop commenting on it - Deanna seeing Sam as her own, apparently - well, he doesn't know. Sometimes Deanna just says shit. He probably isn't meant to read into it.

And besides, Sam doesn't know anything for sure. Always felt like he never really wanted to. And as he's already made his choice to love his father, he needs to keep it that way.

Deanna shuts her eyes, then. They're puffy under her lashlines, kissed with gray. "I mean," she says, "Don't get me wrong. You annoyed the crap outta me sometimes." She shrugs, hard, like a defence to an attack Sam hasn't made. "I - I do know that, Sammy. I know there was times I coulda been nicer to you." She looks a little pained.

"We were just kids Dee," Sam offers. "Not like either of us were exactly saints."

"I keep remembering," Deanna continues, in that way, like Sam hadn't spoken again, "There was this time Dad kind of - got caught up in something. Still don't know what. But he wasn't home when he said he'd be. We were running out of everything. Food, money. No one was answering the phone. And you - you were driving me insane, Sammy."

Deanna says the last part a little too quietly; her head bows, hair covering her face. And Sam thinks he knows where this is going. He's getting a little uneasy.

"You just - you kept on and on with your damn questions. 'Where's Dad? What does he do while he's away? When's he coming back?' Then you - you asked about Mom."

"Deanna-"

She shakes her head, cutting him off. Something bitter on her lips, not quite a smile. "Who punches a five year old in the face, Sammy? I can't believe I -"

"You were only nine, Dee." Sam reminds her, when she doesn't finish the sentence. "You didn't know any better."

And it's true; Dad made sure of that, with his shoot first, ask questions later manifesto. But Deanna would never see it that way. She just laughs, colorless, bitter. "Yeah. I did. I shoulda, at least. I just -" She huffs. "Sometimes it feels like I just - I couldn't stop screwing up."

"You were doing it all by yourself." As the words leave his mouth, Sam registers how they sound. Like something you'd say about a single mom, some divorced thirty something with three kids, working two jobs to keep everyone fed and clothed. Not a nine year old.

"I guess -" Deanna sucks in a breath. "I just think about that a lot. That's all."

There's this dread growing inside of Sam as he watches Deanna's mouth twist up; she blinks, angrily. "Are you - crying?"

"Shut up," she mumbles.

She turns her face away a little. Draws her knees up to her chest. And it's strange and unsettling for Sam to see, like a horse walking on its hind legs or something; because Deanna doesn't cry, crying is for girls, and anatomy aside, she doesn't much like being seen as one of those. Even before Dad's pyre she stood, solemn and silent, breathing slow, composed. A hell of a lot more composed than Sam was, anyway.

"What's going on, Dee?"

She shrugs. That's very different to I'm fine.

And if things had been in any way close to normal over the last couple of months, Sam might touch Deanna's hand right about now. Lace their fingers; cup her face. Kiss her, maybe, the way she hasn't let him kiss her in a long time. Not since - well - not since the night they let Dad go. Sam can still remember the heat from the fire on his face, the way Deanna's hair felt grainy with ash; how her lips had tasted earthy and swollen, how she felt so small and fragile in his arms, more than she ever had. Still his big sister. Still the person he wants when he's scared and spiralling and doesn't know what to do but grab onto her, and hold on and on and on.

Deanna sniffs, loudly. "I just - I had so much on my shoulders, you know? Dealin' with you... dealin' with Dad..."

Her voice cracks a little. Sam says, "It was - it was a lot. I know."

A lot. So much summed up in those two words, but it's not like Sam's had a lot of practise in talking about this.

Deanna laughs down at her folded knees, all thick. "You don't know, Sammy. You don't know at all. And I'm - I'm really glad you don't."

Sam isn't sure what to say to that. Partly because he can't gauge Deanna's tone, and partly because that feels like one of the most honest things Deanna's ever said to him. And now he's really worried.

"I just - I always wished I had another chance, you know? A chance to do over all those screw ups I made."

Tentatively, Sam reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder. It tenses a little beneath his fingers; but she doesn't pull away. That's good.

"I don't know where all this is coming from, Dee," Sam admits.

There's a pause, and Deanna seems to blink for a little too long. "It's - Sammy, I just keep on thinking. Dad's - Dad's gone."

It's the first time she's actually said it. Sam swallows; throat feels a little thick. "Yeah. I know."

"And I was just getting - you get used to things being one way, you know?" She runs a hand through her hair, shiny with grease like oil slicks. "It's always like that. You start getting used to things, and then - then some other shit happens. And suddenly things are a whole new way. Before you can even fucking -"

"What do you mean?"

"Sammy, I knew something was wrong. I - I think I knew all along. But - today..."

Sam does everything in his power to keep his growing anxiety out of his voice. "Where did you go today, Deanna?"

Her lips press together. She's still looking at her lap.

That dread expands, curdles, in Sam's gut. "Tell me."

Her hands are shaking against her thighs. "I - I went to the doctor."

That's absolutely the last thing Sam expected. "Since when do you go to the doctor?"

"I kinda had to."

Sam watches the little quiver of her fingers; and with that, he thinks back to the puking, the tiredness, how not right his sister looks. He thinks about Jess, how they were talking about what color to paint the living room 24 hours before she went up in flames on the ceiling. He thinks about Dad calmly sending him off for coffee before he…

Things are one way. Then suddenly they're another. Before you can blink, before you even remember your own name.

"Are you - are you sick?" Sam tries to keep his voice even.

Deanna isn't looking at him. "Kinda."

Sam thinks about Deanna hooked up to wires and machines. The miracle; how miracles don't happen. He's been harboring a little fear that there has to still be something wrong. A lacerated organ. A foreign object. Something they must have missed. But he thought - hoped - it was just that - a fear.

Sam sucks in a breath. "Okay. So - so what..."

Deanna smiles grimly. "Turns out I've got a parasite."

He watches Deanna shift. Her hand move towards one of the pockets of Dad's jacket. She keeps her eyes on her lap as she passes a small slip of paper to Sam. Small, rectangular. He takes it.

It's a moment or so before he realizes what he's seeing. Kind of like a photograph; a fuzzy sepia. Odd shapes that slowly begin to make sense.

"Ten weeks," Deanna says, her voice a little hoarse with disbelief. "I'm - I'm ten fucking weeks pregnant, Sammy."

Sam stares numbly at that ultrasound still. At the shapes, like two beans stacked on top of each other. Faint, fuzzy lines. Tiny arms. Tiny legs. He stares at them until they blur.

Ten weeks. Ten weeks since -

"So it's - " Sam can't finish the sentence.

"Yeah, Sammy. It's yours."

Her voice sounds very far away. And Sam can smell ash and fumes, traces of hospital grade body wash on Deanna's skin, skin that was bruised all over from cannulae and wires; and Sam couldn't catch his breath because Dad was gone, the last of him was just yards away on that burnt out pyre, gone; and Deanna's hands were on his face, tangled up in his hair, forehead pressed against his, and she was straddling his lap in the Impala's backseat, her eyes shut, muttering ssh, ssh over and over, maybe to Sam, or maybe to herself, but she kept saying it, even through the long kisses she kept pressing to his mouth; and Sam remembers he could barely see, he felt like he was choking on that ashy air, but he had Deanna, and he needed Deanna, he'd never needed her so much in his entire life. And Deanna understood, the way she's always understood things like that; and Deanna had kept on with her kissing and ssh-ing as she moved on top of him, fast, desperate, and Sam had clung onto her waist and met each roll of her hips, fast, anguished, because he couldn't get close enough, deep enough; and Deanna had been making these pitchy, breathless sounds like she was in pain, but she didn't stop Sam, and the whole time her eyes were wide and fixed on his face; and Sam remembers tangling her hair around his fingers like rope, he remembers arching up against her as he came, his body going through the motions, his senses numb to it. That numbness hasn't really left him since.

"Sammy, say something."

Deanna's voice, strained, cuts through the memory. Hauls Sam back to the present; Bowie, rotten oil, dead leaves. That autumnal breeze. His sister's face, tight and worried. Sam recognizes that pallor a little more now: shock.

It's passing through Sam as well. Of all the things he expected - this was nowhere on the list. Nowhere close.

"Alright," he manages eventually. Amazed at how calm he sounds. "What do you wanna do?" Because that's the thing to ask, right?

Deanna's lips twist again. "I mean - like, right away, I thought about just - you know - going off and taking care of it. Not even telling you. Just - "

"You wouldn't have told me?"

"I said I thought about it, Sam." She clicks her tongue; another rough wipe of her eyes. "I'm telling you now, aren't I?"

Sam keeps staring. Staring, at that image. That tiny, tiny baby.

"Is that what you want?" he manages, eventually. Hoarse as Deanna. "To - take care of it?"

Deanna's pause seems to roll around the length of the yard. Then, her eyes stray to her lap again. "You know, Dad used to lecture me about this shit. Made it very clear how disappointed he'd be if I ever accidentally got myself knocked up."

Sam says, "Really?"

"Yeah. All the time." There's something acidic in Deanna's voice. "And you know why he harped on about it so much?"

"Why?"

"Because he said it wouldn't be fair to bring a kid into all this. Into the life." Deanna laughs, this flat, one-note thing. Something sharp flashes through her eyes; something gone too quick for Sam to fully identify. "Can you believe he said that to me? After everything he..."

She stops. And Sam watches Deanna's face reset, as if she hadn't expressed something like anger towards Dad for the first time ever. Something like what Sam has been saying, feeling, thinking, ever since he was old enough to understand. Everything Deanna always denied.

"It wouldn't have to be the same." It comes out of Sam's mouth before he can catch up with it. "You know. The same as we had it."

Deanna keeps on looking at her lap.

"You -" Sam takes a breath. "You know that, right?"

Deanna sighs. More like the breath whipping out of her body. "I'm not gonna stop looking for the demon, Sammy."

She says it like she expected Sam to insist on it. He clarifies: "I'm not saying we do. I'm saying we make it work."

He has no idea how. No fucking idea. His brain hasn't quite absorbed what's in front of him yet, the news undigested; but he's certain, somehow, of that.

Deanna gives that odd laugh again. Sam isn't sure what it means, this time. "It's also..." She picks at that thread on her shirt again. "I mean, the doctor said it looked healthy. But what if it comes out and it's like, a cyclops or something?"

"Why would it be -"

Deanna's shoulders rise. "You've seen Deliverance, right?"

Oh.

Sam swallows. His eyes stray back to the picture. Not that he can see much; not that there's much to see. But there's enough there for Sam to think it looks absolutely perfect.

"There are risks," is all he can think to say. "But it's - you know. It's not completely inevitable."

Deanna narrows her eyes. "You've already looked this stuff up, haven't you?"

She says it in this accusatory way. Sam runs his thumb delicately across the grainy image. "There was always a chance this could happen, Dee."

Always a chance. They've never done much to mitigate it, really. There's not enough space in Sam's brain right now, to wonder why that is.

Deanna skips over it too. Runs a hand through that greasy hair. Her lips twist.

"I just think," she says, after a while, "even if it comes out with three heads, playing a fucking banjo... would I care? You know?"

She's still not quite meeting Sam's eyes. Sam prompts, "Would you?"

"I mean. It's not like it'd be the only freak in this family, right?" A smile spreads across her mouth. "Sammy, you know I wouldn't care. I'd -I'd love it no matter what."

"Me too." It comes out thick; Sam's never been more sure of anything in his life.

He hands Deanna back the picture; takes her hand, deceptively delicate and cold in his, as he watches her eyes fog up with tears again. She doesn't hide this time; leans in to press her forehead against Sam's, just like that night ten weeks ago, just like they've come full circle. And fuck, it feels like forever since Sam's been touched like this, touched by anyone; he's just wondering if leaning in for a kiss would be pushing it, when he feels Deanna's plump, dried out lips brushing his. They feel a little sticky, and there's this malodor to her breath, but Sam barely registers it. It's like coming home.

I missed you, he doesn't say; can't, when Deanna's mouth would smother it anyway. When Deanna would only screw her face up and call him a big girl, and he'd rattle with guilt about feeling a little humiliated by that, but he'd feel it anyway.

Deanna pulls away first. She's a little flushed, and Sam can faintly see the capillaries in her face, like pink lines on a map under her skin; she squeezes his hand, laces their fingers. Moves them together until Sam's palm is flat against her stomach, the warmth of her body underneath that worn flannel.

"I keep thinking I can feel it," she whispers. "Now I know it's there."

Sam watches their interlaced hands dumbly. Overwhelmed. He can too.

"I kinda hope it's a girl." Deanna's voice has that hoarse quality again. "So I can - so she can have a Mom. So she can have what I didn't have."

She says it at the exact moment Sam finds himself hoping it's a boy. His reasons are similar. But for someone who doesn't like to talk, Deanna's always been way better at articulating stuff like that.

"You'll be a great Mom, Dee," he says, firmly. You were to me.

"Alright. You don't need to kiss my ass." Deanna ruffles his hair, like she did when she kissed him goodnight as a kid.

It takes Sam a moment to find his voice again. "I mean it, Dee. We'll make it work." He says it with this conviction that rises up from somewhere deep. "And I'm gonna be here for you, alright? Every step of the way."

Deanna groans. "Jesus Christ. I knew you'd be like this."

But she's smiling. And Sam allows himself to as well.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

“You know Dad would kill us, right? But man, do I wish he was here right now.”

She says it with a laugh in her voice, her face all twisted up; and Sam can't help but remember how he and Jess had talked about kids, vaguely, sometimes, kind of like a concept, a distant dream. How Sam had thought to himself about Dad a lot then, too, the way he never really stopped thinking about Dad and Deanna. He remembers wondering to himself whether Dad would be proud. Whether he'd even want a grandkid; if he'd want to know at all. Back then, Sam genuinely toyed with the idea that Dad wouldn't even care. Never come back, Sam.

It's not the same, now. Holy fuck, this is not the same, and it can probably only be a good thing that Dad's not here to know about this; so Sam pushes away the thought. He puts his arms around Deanna's waist and pulls her as close as he dares.

"It'll be okay," he says again, because he can't think of anything else. Because it has to be.

Deanna's looking at him kinda intently. "Sam, do you think this is Dad's way of like - you know - coming back?"

"Uh - what?"

Deanna shrugs. "Dunno. Just - hormones talking, I guess." She squeezes Sam's hand against her stomach. "Forget I said anything."

Sam's not sure he can. They don't say anything after that.

#asks #prompts #samdeanna #johndeanna if u squint #my writing #yes I know I literally always play in this part of the Canon sandbox #but whatever i invite you to sue me #cw discussions of abortion #cw childhood trauma #cw intergenerational trauma #cw incest #this came out very soft by my standards lol #well apart from all the incest and trauma #it's so heavy on the incest lol

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