#i regret kinning them every day

[buckysunshine]

lost in the fire – house of the dragon

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader, Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (tho no threesome)

Warnings: Smut (18+) ! A/B/O dynamics (just the heat aspect there’s no official alphas or omegas), Unprotected sex, Bareback riding, Public Sex, A little dub-con (the heat making her decisions for her), Incest (Uncle and niece, Step-dad and step-daughter). You have been warned!

Even though this is pure smut I can’t help myself and wrote in romance. AKA I’m a sucker for intimacy and pining. 

Synopsis: The Targaryens is a special kind of house. The reason for their advancement stems from a family secret. Unfortunately for you, the mystery comes to light in the most wretched circumstance – while in captivity. 

(Basically reader goes into heat while in imprisonment by the Greens. Reader is a Strong bastard, but won the genetic lottery of inheriting silver hair. Daemon is not the reader’s biological dad! But Aemond is her uncle.)

Word Count: 4.4K

masterlist

Your visits to King's Landing were rare. The few times you went, you were always accompanied by your brothers or Daemon. As the only daughter, your mother, Rhaenyra, is awfully protective of you. Though, you understand your mother's protectiveness. The Greens weren't exactly kind to your family the time you lived there, especially now that you're just unofficial visitors to the palace the moment your house left for Dragonstone.

But this time, you went alone, and the one time you did by the Gods would have it – you were captured and taken as prisoner. 

It was your fault, really. It has been a while since you've met with your grandsire. You shared a special bond with the man. To everyone else, he was king, but to you, he was just your old man who enjoyed telling his stories for hours at a time. Until he got too weak to speak. The last time you saw him, he wasn't well, and it broke your heart to leave so soon. You wished to say your goodbyes before it was too late.

So you left on dragonback unescorted, only intending for a short visit. You had an inclination it was soon, but not this soon.

Now you're trapped and alone in King's Landing. A tool for the Hightowers to bargain with your mother. The only thing keeping you sane is the secret trips Daemon managed to sneak in every fortnight. 

"Princess."

Daemon ascends in his black cloak. He sheds it to greet you with a soft smile as always, and as always, you embrace him. You savored his presence. He had to travel in secret, leaving Caraxes behind, making the travel time painstakingly longer. Your rendezvous with him are the only time you experience affection in isolation. Something you regret taking advantage of. 

Daemon knew the secret passages hidden in the Red Keep, and the only place he could safely meet with you was a hidden chamber deep within the kingdom's walls at night. 

"Please tell me you're here to take me away now."

He pulls back from your embrace to cup your face in his hands. You frown at the familiar apologetic look he gives you.

"I'm sorry, princess. As per your mother's orders, it is not yet time."

Dismay spikes in your chest at the thought of being trapped here for other days at a time. Rhaenyra has kept you here for her plan to take back the throne. You know it hurt your mother more to leave you here, but with the persuasion from her council, her plans now involve you and your stay in King's Landing. They somehow turned your imprisonment into an unexpected advantage.

When news broke of your capture, war nearly broke out. It took great effort from the council, your brothers, and even Queen Alicent ensuring your safety to hold your mother and Daemon back from burning King's Landing to the ground. You trust your mother; deep down, you know she would never let harm come to you. And as her kin, you would do anything to support your mother's claim to the Iron Throne, even if it meant playing the role of the lonely prisoner.

"I've brought letters from your brothers." Daemon fished them from his satchel, offering them to you as a small comfort.

You fight back tears as you read the letters. Not a day passed when you didn't miss your brothers. Worry crept into your heart about their safety, especially now with the brink of war. You cherish every written word, for they always end up burned and destroyed to eliminate any trace of evidence. 

You flip through the papers until you reach a picture.

Daemon peers over your shoulder, chuckling at the appearance of the illustration. "Little Joffrey wanted to send you something as well. His writing still needs improvement, but he did his best with a handmade portrait just for his sister."

You clutch Joffrey's portrait of Tessaryon, your dragon. Ever since you've been captured, they have kept Tessaryon chained in the Dragon Pit, never to be seen again. 

The hole in your chest grows deeper each day, and it finally rips through you in salty tears.

Daemon comforts you, rubbing circles on your back. "Shh... I know, princess. If it were up to me, you would be long gone here and back home already. Even burn this place while I'm at it."

Amid your tears, you laugh at his constrained threat, and the sincerity gives you comfort. Daemon holds you a little while longer. Despite your want to stay like this until his leave, the need to speak about the growing concern that's been troubling your mind breaks your resolve.

Speaking of, you peel yourself away from your step-father, gathering the courage to speak on it.

Immediately, he senses your apprehension. "What is it?"

You clench and unclench your fists before finally muttering, "There's something wrong with me. Something's not right."

Daemon advances toward you, and instinctively you take a step back. His face dims at your retrieve. "Are you hurt? Do you need the maesters?"

"No, no." You shake your head, wincing at the thought. "All I need is my mother. I need to go back." 

Daemon sighs, uncertainty dreading down on him. "I can't help you if I don't know the problem, princess."

Chewing on your lip, you contemplate the best way to say it without painting yourself in the worst picture possible.

"Something is burning inside me." You begin to speak despite your voice coming out shaky. You rest your palm on your stomach to steady yourself. "Mother told me about it. If the fire inside me grows brighter than I could take, then I am to run to her. It's happening, Daemon. I feel it inside me, and I don't know how long I could hide it."

Your voice breaks at the last sentence. Head hung low, you dare peek at your step-father's expression. You fear it would hold fear, disgust, or even pity, but it only kept concentration and calm. If it was a mask, you could not tell.

He was quiet for a while, fingers toying with Dark Sister. Finally, he breaks his silence with a question. "What do you feel?"

"Hot." was your immediate response. Even now, you feel your temperature burning.

"And what more?" He adjusts his weight, hips shifting. 

Now you're the one who doesn't speak. If Daemon knew the extent of your symptoms, he would surely leave immediately.

"Tell me."

His tone was urgent but careful. The look he fixes on you is something you don't recognize anymore.

You swallow down your fear. "I feel hungry… for something I do not know."

"This hunger, show me where you feel it."

Unsure of what exactly he meant, you touch your heart. "Here." Then came next was your neck, "sometimes I feel it here," and lastly, your touch travels south to your core, "but I feel it most here."

Your hand only hovers over your clothed core, but even that is enough to produce slick. The thing you've been trying so hard to avoid for days now. 

"You're in heat." 

Daemon speaks decisively, taking slow, cautious steps toward you. "Chosen women in our family have them. It's nothing to be afraid of. Those who experience them birth the best of us. From them came our family's greatest kings, the most fearsome warriors. Your heat is a blessing."

With every word he speaks, your mind spins with the revelation.

He settles right in front of you, a distance smaller than usual. He reaches for your hand, pressing a kiss on your knuckles. "It's been decades since the last one. We thought they died out, yet here you are."

Confused about your purpose, you ask, "Then what do I do?"

"Do whatever you want." He drops your hand. "Whatever you think would help."

Daemon assumed you would use your fingers to alleviate the burning in your core. He'd watch and make sure you were doing it right. 

But what he did not anticipate is you taking his face in your hands.

Heeding his advice, you did the one thing you'd been craving for weeks. You touch his face. The feel of Daemon's skin gave you a sense of relief. The fire burning inside made you hungry for touch, and the skinship immediately made you feel better. 

Your eyes flutter close at the contact, ease setting in your bones at the feel of him.

Daemon's breath hitched at his throat, but he did not pull away. "That helps?"

You faintly nod. The relief was nice, but it didn't last long, and soon you were craving something more. 

Taking notice, he presses his temple against yours. A loving gesture he thought to be innocent. It was his little way of showing his affection.

You open your eyes and come face to face with Daemon's, and you’re overcome by the itch to touch more. Delicately, your thumb strokes his cheek, tracing his eyelid, which closes at your touch, the slope of his nose, and his bottom lip; you find yourself lingering at his lips.

"Princess…"

"Do whatever you want. Whatever you think would help."

And you did, so you leaned in to kiss him. Stunned, he tugs away, but you wrap your arms around his neck, blocking his escape. You slip your tongue inside, yearning to taste him, to feel him.

Daemon presses back until your back hits a wall, but you cling to him, kiss unbreaking and never heaving. His arm slams leaning on the wall, and the other finds its way to your waist. Any fight he had before dissolves at your determination, your heat affecting him as well. 

He bites your lip, from tasting your mouth to your neck. He licks a stripe underneath the slope of your ear. "Feel it here too?"

You nod feverish, back arching to give him more access. Impatiently, you grip Daemon's hair, take his hand, and lead it where you need it most.

Taking the hint, he ruffles your dress up, and soon his fingers slip inside your undergarments. You're a mewling mess now, moans escaping your lips willfully. He circles your soaked bud considerately, causing another strip of slick to wet your thighs before finally sinking inside you.

You hold on to his shoulders, legs shaky. He plunges his fingers in and out your cunt, and embarrassing sounds of wet flesh fill the empty chamber. You moan with every prod. 

With your release nearing close, you decided to reach for the stars – and you grope his cock. 

A decision that proved to be a mistake. 

With your touch, Daemon withdraws his fingers inside you and pulls away.

You cry out at the ruined climax. You were so close, and now you're back to zero.

Both breathing heavily, Daemon's actions still. His hands remain frozen. Confused, you lean in to kiss him again, but he only pulls away. You don't understand. He remains hard and, until now, willing to bed you, but now he can't even look at you.

Instead, he grabs your wrist, and you wince at the tight grip. He puts them at your eye level. "Use your fingers to help you with your heat. Like what I did."

He led them to your mound, urging you to try yourself. Hesitantly, you touch yourself, trying your best to mimic how he did it. It helped, but it was nothing to how Daemon's fingers worked for you. 

Frustrated, you whine, pulling out. "It's not enough. I need you, Daemon."

You reach to touch him again, but he backs away, putting distance between you. Your heart breaks at the space. Did you do something wrong? He turns his back on you in an attempt to collect himself.

"Daemon?" you called out, concerned.

He let out a mountain of curses in high valyrian before facing you again. He flips his black cloak back on his head. 

"Come." He holds his hand out, and you take it immediately. He starts walking, and shortly, he's picking up the pace, and you try your best to keep up.

"Where are we going?"

He doesn't answer. Soon you're somewhere away, but it wasn't somewhere new. Dread filled you at the sight of the familiar door.

"No. I'm not going back, not right now." You stop in your tracks, refusing to enter the room once more.

"You were gone too long. It's time to head back." 

Daemon opens the secret passage to your chambers – your prison. You resist, but he tugs you along anyway. 

He settles you on your bed. "I will return soon. For now, use your fingers to get through your heat. Do not leave your room. Do you understand me?"

He spoke with such force you felt fear of being left alone again. You frown, not responding and not looking at him, either. 

You know you don't have the luxury of time. Daemon's treading a fine line; you could be caught any moment now. 

In distress, he grabs your neck. "Do you understand me, princess?"

Shocked, you nod, tears swelling up again. Daemon's resolve softens at the sight, guilt weighing his heart down. He’s a fucked up mess now.

He removes his hands from you and gently wipes the fallen tears away. "The next time I return, I'm taking you with me." 

He sealed his promise with a kiss on your temple, and just like a flicker, he was gone. Disappeared within the walls of the castle.

You lie there dumbfounded, abandoned in the dark. The throbbing between your legs grew more prominent with the unfinished business. 

He really left you.

The disbelief turned into frustration and shame and soon festered into anger. You knew your fingers wouldn't be enough this time, and you'll be damned if you let Daemon tease you for nothing.

Despite his warnings, you leave the bed and wander the halls looking for the man. At this point, Daemon would be by Blackwater Bay about to board his boat, and getting through the hidden passages would only get you lost, so you settle on getting there through the main route. 

The darkness of the night cloaked your disheveled state, and your bare feet masked the sounds of your hurried steps. 

Frantic and mind clouded by lust, you find yourself in the godswood occupied by a lurking patron. You hardly noticed the figure hiding in the shadows until you collided with its solid chest.

You wince at the impact, holding out your hands to steady yourself. 

"Y/n."

The familiar deep voice reels you back into the present. Aemond stands tall with his hands clamped against his back, as usual, face annoyingly stoic. His intimidating stance makes you feel small in the dark.

"Uncle." You manage to greet back, caught off guard by his presence.

You should have known better. In addition to the dozen guards watching your every move, Aemond took it upon himself to personally keep you in your place. Always looking, constantly checking.

Despite his constant presence, you find it hard to look your uncle's face in the eye. The one eye is usually filled with contempt, but at this moment, it searches your face with intrigue and skepticism until it strays down to your bosom.

"Pray tell where are you off to at this late hour? And in such a rush, you forget your indecency." He tsked mockingly. 

Your face turns warm, and you quickly cover up your exposed flesh with silver hair. In your haste, you carelessly left your quarters with only your night shift, the thin fabric barely covering your figure.

"I… could not find sleep. I fancied a walk. That is all."  

You don't look at him as you say it. If you did, he'd see right through you. Instead, you stare off in the distance with your arms crossed, a piss attempt to somehow protect yourself.

He hums at your answer before stepping forward, invading your space. 

"You're lying." 

Without warning, he raises one hand behind his back and grabs your jaw, forcing you to look at him. You gasp at the sudden contact.

He leans in, sneering. "If you're going to lie, at least have the decency to say it to my face, or don't say shit at all."

You grasp his arm, clawing to get away from him. "Release me." You grit out.

"I'll ask you again. What are you doing?" His grip on you only tightens. It irritates you greatly that he can keep you captive with just one arm. "What is it that you're planning? Is your traitor mother here to get you? Planning to take the crown, hm?" 

You continue to struggle against him, concern increasing at the realization that the wetness between your legs is growing from the harsh touch of Aemond's skin.

Thinking fast, you recall Jacaery's training. You flip Aemond's elbow and quickly follow it up with a shove. And just because you're rarely presented with such an opportunity, you also hit his nose with your head. Hard. 

He stumbles, startled at the ambush. Still, a hint of a smirk plays at his lips.

You manage to get away, glaring at the imposing man. "Trust me, the crown is furthest from my mind right now." 

Before your mind is wholly overturned by your heat, you turn to flee, but with swift feet, Aemond seizes you. 

"You're not leaving."

He pins you against the large tree in the middle of the garden, wrapping his hand around your neck to keep you in place.

And with that, you all but lost control.

A moan escapes your lips. The pressure of his palm on your neck, coupled with his body weight leaning against yours, is enough to give your touch-starved body pleasure.

Aemond freezes at the sound, the noise echoing in the quiet garden. Bewildered, he pulls back to study your face. At this point, your eyes are fully dilated, breath coming uneasy and legs clamped tighter than a mangled knot. 

He presses on your neck once more, and unwillingly you let out another needy moan. 

"You're in heat." He realizes, disbelief painted on his features.

"Yes." You hissed out. "So either you do something about it or let me go find someone else who will."

For a moment, his perfectly practiced mask falls, and his grip on you loosens. Just when you thought you'd be free, he slots his thigh between your legs, pinning your bottom against him.

"Aemond." You gasp at the sudden pressure. You grip his thigh, unsure if you want to pull it away or ride it.

He leans down to take in your scent. "I thought they were only legends. A child’s tale. I read about them, the things the heat does to the woman and the greatness that comes after.” He presses down more, and you almost buckle to your knees. "You're never going to find someone who can properly take care of this, sweet niece."

Daemon. The thought grows more distant the more Aemond floods your senses.

With both hands, he lifts your face towards him. 

"Allow me the honor." He whispers, breath fanning your face. 

The pressure was too much to bear, and you couldn't take it anymore. You make a move and lean in to take his mouth into yours. He receives you immediately, tongue already slipping inside to greet yours.

Like him, his kiss is unrelenting.

Panting, you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders to pull him closer. His mouth traveled down to kiss your jaw, settling on tasting and nipping at the skin of your neck. Your back arch at the sensation.

You pull away just enough to mumble in a daze, "take me to bed, Aemond."

He lifts your legs to wrap around his hips, and you revel at the feel of his cock straining hard against his breeches. You nearly humped him right there and then.

You expect him to carry you into his chambers, but he turns the other way and settles you down to the ground underneath the shadow of the evergreen. He discards his coat and lays it beneath your back, protecting you from the sharp prickle of the grass.

He leans back to take you in. 

You lay there sprawled open to him. Only illuminated by the moonlight, you look ethereal. Your silver hair shines despite being scattered on the earth, and your skin glows with fever and anticipation. You look unworldly. Inhuman. Like an unclaimed dragon. 

Aemond had never seen something so captivating.

"What are you…." You reach up to feel him again, desperate for his touch.

His hands caress your legs, lifting your night shift further until your bottoms are exposed to him. He grips your inner thigh, blood pumping with excitement.

"No time. You need release now."

His slender fingers find you, and he plays with the wetness he finds there. Aemond's manhood nearly bursts at the feel of your supple skin. He wastes no time exploring your heat. You whimper at the intrusion, grateful for the sensation but yearning for more, for something bigger. 

He leans down to kiss you once more. "Patience, dōna mirre."

Before you know it, he dips down, head in between your legs and mouth on you. You stifle a scream that would surely wake the entirety of King’s Landing. Aemond groans against your cunt, mouth lapping at the continuous flow of sweet nectar. A taste no man could resist, driving anyone to addiction. It did not take long for you to reach your first release of the night. 

Aemond only ascends when you push his head away, skin still sensitive from fighting his incessant tasting.

He makes quick work of his trousers, taking his cock out. He strokes it as he watches you come down from your high. Slender arms cover your face, chest heaving at the impact of your release. 

Gently, he brushes a nipple, and instantly, it hardens.

"Gods."

With a tug, he reveals your breasts, ripping away at any fabric that dares cover you from him. You yelp at the quick removal, skin shivering at the cold air. While he's distracted by your naked body, you take the opportunity to take hold of the flesh poking your thighs.

He groans at your touch, hips thrusting for more. 

"So needy."

You bite your lip, wanting more. "Please, uncle."

He leans back, gaze fixed down to where his cock slides between your folds, slick coating every inch of him. "Is this what you want, sweet girl?"

"Yes, yes." You preen desperately. 

He remains sliding his cock on your glistening pussy, bud nearly aching at the little friction. He could do it. Slide right inside you so easily. With your wetness he wouldn’t have to fight any resistance. Just tight slick heat waiting to swallow him. 

But even with the sheer desire radiating off him, you sense a hint of hesitation holding him back.

"Aemond?" You call out to him, concerned.

His gaze snaps back to yours, face suddenly serious. "Once I break your virtue, no husband will take you. No husband means no allies. No allies mean no crown. Is that what you want?"

He speaks sense, and you should likely listen for your own good. But you find it hard to comprehend the future ahead of you. It might be your heat making you delirious, but all you want is now, and all you want is Aemond.

You take hold of his hand, placing a tender kiss on his palm. "Then wed me. Make me your wife," 

Aemond's heart sputters at the proposition. Everything his family has been building for would come crumbling down if he said yes; the war he's been fighting for would be for nothing, but all that didn't make the offer any less appealing.

You sense the pause your words had on him, so you continue speaking. "or just fuck me and forget me. Aōha iderennon, issa prince. "

With a curse, he makes his choice. He presses at your entrance, plunging deeper until he's satiated inside you. "Fuck." 

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as satisfaction finally seeps into your bones. Aemond's thrusts start slow and careful but soon gain momentum, until he's relentlessly pumping into you.

Aemond lifts your leg to hook to his hips, pulling you closer. Holding each other, your hands never leave his skin. His back, his behind, his hair. You were always touching him one way or another. He rests his weight by his arms, face buried in your neck. 

"Aemond.." you moan his name, wanting to see him, you lift his face from your nape.

For the first time, you faced him, and his eye held no contempt. Your breath is taken away at the sight. The once harsh lines of his face turned into something delicate, and the fixed frown he wore every day no longer tainted his handsome features. At this moment, he is beautiful.

You trace the prominent scar, mindful of his trauma. You remember the night it happened so vividly, and never would have thought it all would lead to this.

He flinches at your touch, head rearing back. He was still within reach, so you coax him back by stroking his jaw instead, coupling it with a flush of your hips and light kisses. He relaxes, and this time you reach for his eyepatch. You lock gazes with him, silently asking for permission. You wanted to see him in all his vulnerability. 

He only closes his eye, face stilling to let you remove the leather. And with a flick of your wrist, the veil falls to the ground.

In all his glory, you see Aemond Targaryen for who he is. 

The wounded eye was stripped of any skin on his left eyelid, leaving a bright shining sapphire eye in its place. You heard rumors of the one-eye second son and his sapphire eye. Only a few saw it; the majority that didn't deny its existence, but the ones that did spoke of its haunting beauty. 

But you did not see it for long. With only just a few seconds, Aemond hides his face back into your neck. 

Flashes of insecurity pierce Aemond's heart. He's never been this intimate with anyone, and he certainly did not foresee it to be with the sister of the man that maimed him. He's starting to fear he'll find himself far in the deep end, unsuspecting of the waters he plunged into. He plans to make you cum quickly, determined to distract you from his shame.

But you don't allow it. With a shift of your weight, you roll over, pinning him against the tree's bark. Now you're the one on top, and you hold his shoulders down, making him look up to you. Aemond's throat dries at the sight of you mounted on top of him.

“Y/n-”

"Look at me."

The power in your voice makes him obey. Once your eyes lock, you search for a hint of trust, and once you're sure he's not to pull away again, you start riding him. You roll your hips, moving to hit the spot inside you. He supports you with gentle touches on your back and tweaks to your nipples.

Aemond watches in awe, letting you chase your climax. In your state, he is clearly reminded that like him, you're a dragon rider. A rightful Targaryen. You move like you ride a dragon — confident, strong, and in control. 

It makes his cock hard.

Your movements grow frantic, the familiar high nearing close. Aemond starts meeting your thrusts, cock plunging deeper at the new position. You feel your cunt produce one last slick of wetness before constricting around him, body spasming with pleasure. Aemond quickly followed, capturing your mouth in one last kiss before finishing inside you. 

Satisfied, the fire inside you subdues, and you feel your body grow light, at ease. Exhausted, you fall into slumber. 

Not Aemond. 

He lays there with you in his arms wide awake. He clutches you in an embrace, shielding you from the nearing sunrise. If he could stay there buried inside you for the rest of his days, away from the war, all the scheming – he would. But reality is creeping up on him, and he's reminded of his choice.  

"Make me your wife, or just fuck me and forget me. Aōha iderennon, issa prince.”

Aemond has yet to grow old and wise, but even then he knew one thing – even if he tried, he could never forget you. He could conquer the earth and back, claim the mightiest dragon on land, and win the greatest of wars. In the end, he knows you'll still plague his mind, body, and soul. 

So he made a choice, and this time, he let the Gods decide his fate. 

-

dōna mirre - sweet thing

Aōha iderennon, issa prince - your choice, my prince

Fun fact! Tessaryon is inspired by Tessarion, the goddess of music, arts, knowledge, healing, plague, prophecy, poetry, beauty, archery, and booty — A god of old valyria.

[blueywrites]

turtle dove and the crow, part three

A 1940s Farm AU, featuring bsf!neighbor!eddie x fem!reader

story tags: 18+ (minors dni). smut; true love; unexpected pregnancy; angst, angst, angst; parental issues; corporal punishment; scheming, plotting, and betrayal; hurt/comfort; period-typical stigma regarding unwed pregnancy; angst with a happy ending.

chapter tags: 18+. p in v, unprotected sex, oral sex, angst, hurt/comfort.

masterlist | part one | part two | part three | interlude | part four | part five | epilogue | playlist

(I have not edited this yet, so please excuse any editing mistakes!)

PART THREE: WOLF LIKE ME (12.7K)

Feel me, completer

Down to my core

Open my heart

And let it bleed onto yours

Feedin' on fever

Down on all fours

Show you what all that howlin's for

Wolf Like Me - Lera Lynn ft. Shovels & Rope

Deep in the field, two roosts sit side by side. One is built of sturdy, weathered wood painted the color of bright red berries, with deep-set windows and a dark sloping roof that protects it from the elements. The other is made of wide symmetrical clapboards painted blue like the sky on a cloudless day, with knotted-oak shutters slightly worn from the sun and wind and bright white trim that shines in the eager summer light. They are separated only by a tall fence and a stump rotted through to the other side, through which the grasses of their yards mingle to become one. 

These roosts house different birds. One is a trio of turtle doves, a mated pair with a young hen still soft and brown-gray, though her iridescence is maturing now, subduing into adulthood. The other is a pair of long-bonded crows, though the younger spent its fledgling years in the care of another, who pecked and prodded and stole his sustenance until the young one fluttered finally away, seeking to shelter under the safe wing of his older kin. 

They may bear different feathers— one downy gray, one glossy black— but if one were to peep through the windows, one would see these young birds and note how similar they appear right now as they preen. Both turtle dove and crow are drawing their beaks along each feather to clear away the dust, fluttering out their wings in great stretches, and hopping about the expanse of their rooms, caught in restless preparation as the grandfather clock ticks its hand toward seven. 

The turtle dove adorns herself for the crow. She dresses in her Independence Day best, twisting to watch the ankle-length skirt swirl around her legs in swaths of dainty yellow gingham. She dances her fingertips along the hand-sewn embroidery that decorates the square neckline, feeling along the tiny white flowers and vines for the perfect spot. There, she pins two sprigs— one lavender, one jasmine— to nestle amongst the white threads she’d sewn with careful fingers, her first attempt at embellishing her clothing, ventured to celebrate the holiday in mid-July. With a careful hand, she ties a bow of white silk to the side of her head. Now smelling of flowers and gilded in homespun sunshine, she has finished her preparations.

The crow, meanwhile, focuses less on his adornments. He doesn’t possess his own Independence Day best; instead, he dresses in a collared, button-up shirt oft worn, paired with navy blue woolen slacks and a leather belt with a simple buckle. But he made sure to scrub his skin with soap 'til it shone pink over every inch of him— between his toes, behind his ears, on the backs of his knees and the nape of his neck. He has brushed out his hair and tamed the flyaways with pomade, twining the curls around his rough fingers to let them drop into careful coils, working with a delicacy that he feels near-embarrassed about despite not having been observed. Carefully, he picks the dirt from beneath his fingernails and trims them short and neat, though he’d been waylaid momentarily by regretful ruminations on the roughness of his palms. He swipes his thumbs impatiently along the callouses that cannot be softened with warm bathwater as if he might rub them away before giving up and brushing his teeth for the second time instead.

With one last ruffle of feathers and a careful appraisal in the mirror, crow and turtle dove descend their staircases in tandem at five to seven, filled with the flutterings of nervous, jittery excitement that precede such an occasion as this.

When you reach the bottom of the stairs, Mama and Pa are already loitering there; you hurry down the last few steps, swinging around with a hand on the banister to fling yourself toward the kitchen and avoid keeping them waiting too much longer. The pie you’d baked with apples from the tree out back is still wafting steam from its golden, flaky crust, but when you test the glass dish with a little pat of your fingertips, you find it’s cool enough to snatch up with a handtowel plucked from the towelbar beneath the sink. Carefully, you carry it back to your parents, stealing a quick glance at their faces as you group together with them. They’ve dressed nicely— though not quite as fussily as you— and their faces hold the same impassive pleasantness that had been there yesterday when the occasion had been proposed to them by the wild-haired boy next door. 

He’d stood in his muddy boots on the bristly mat, so adamant in his refusal to tell you what the matter was until your parents joined you that you’d had half a mind to think that something terribly grave had occurred. Your worry gave way to confusion once they arrived and Eddie, with uncharacteristic formality, extended an invitation to dinner at the Munson house for seven o’clock the following day. 

Though his delivery was strange, the whole thing was no cause for alarm because you and your family had dined with Wayne at least once each season since before you could remember. But when your parents accepted politely, and Eddie looked then to you, his eyes held a promise unspoken in their umber depths. They were lightened to honey in the sunshine, glossy yet still deep and dark like a pool of rippling water. You had an inkling of what might set this occasion apart from others previous, but you barely dared to think it lest you be disappointed. Still, even without that certainty, you’d taken the time to dress your best, to rouge your cheeks and lips, and set your hair more carefully than usual, just in case that inkling came to pass. And you’d insisted on baking an apple pie to bring over for dessert, prepared to fight had your mother put up any protest, which she had not.

The walk across the grass to the house side by side with yours has never felt so long as it does today. The August air is heavy but dry from the day's heat, wafting with woodsmoke and ablaze with the rhythmic chirping of crickets that are emerging, drawn by the deepening light. And it feels laden with something else, too, as you crunch along the gravel path that connects the front of your property with the Munsons’. Perhaps it’s the promise you think you saw in Eddie’s eyes that wisps along the breeze, ruffling the leaves of the oak trees that stand tall and proud behind that red house. Or perhaps it’s your own unspoken revelation, the one that bloomed in the goat pen those days ago, filling your lungs to swell anew behind your ribs. The heaviness of that unknowable quality makes the walk to Eddie’s house feel long, but it is, in fact, over with quite quickly.

He does live just next door, after all.

You carry your sweet offering up to his porch with eyes fixed on the sturdy, weather-beaten door. There you pause to wait for your parents, and when they join you, your mother raps the doorframe smartly with unhesitant knuckles. They flank you like sentinels as you wait, lips pursing at the faint ruckus you hear behind that thick wood. It’s Ed thumpin’ down the stairs, no doubt, you figure, and your supposition is proven correct when just a moment later the door flies open, quick at first before being slowed with a jerk to a more respectable speed.

You can’t pretend to have chosen the dress you’re wearing for any other reason than the fact he’d mentioned it that day at the creek, but the way Eddie’s face goes slack— the way his dark brows melt into softness and his plush lips part just slightly as he marvels at the sight of you��� makes it difficult to keep your composure in front of your parents. As does the sight of Eddie himself. Mama and Pa fade at the sight of him, and you can’t help but pause a moment to take him in, your eyes fluttering over his features like a gentle brush of wings. 

Eddie’s curls, dark and rich like wood stain, look as soft and shiny as liquid silk where they spill over his shoulders, and your fingers twitch with longing as you imagine drawing them through those coils. His skin is radiant, scrubbed noticeably clean, and its paleness makes his freckles stand out stark in contrast, like a dusting of spicy cinnamon across the bridge of his nose. He’s rolled his buttoned shirt up to the elbow, revealing strong forearms and broad, rough-hewn hands that are scrambling now to unburden you from the dessert you’d prepared. 

You allow him to take it, offering a grateful smile. He returns it before ducking to the side to peer around you. “Evenin’, sir. Ma’am.” Eddie greets your Mama and your Pa almost reservedly, and the absence of his typical manic edge or teasing rasp feels odd but also makes a strange thrill thrum in your belly. He explains, “My uncle’s occupied there in the kitchen; dinner’s about finished. Just gotta set the table,” he adds, almost to himself, and you hasten to offer your assistance.

With just a hint of too much sweetness for comfort, you tell Eddie, “I can help you if you like.”

“Thank you.” Eddie’s cheek dimples in a soft, crooked smile. “And for the pie.”

You wave off his regard to keep your cheeks from pinking. “S’nothin.”

You’ve been inside Wayne Munson’s house on occasion since you were small, as have your parents, but Eddie still leads you along the wide worn floorboards and through the archway into the sitting room. This room is as it always is: green paint faded from the westward setting sun on the far wall, Wayne’s sagging armchair nestled in the corner, a hand-hewn coffee table and the striped couch with the crochet blanket draped over its back in a cascade of the merry yellows and oranges you know Wayne is partial to on account of the sunflowers. There’s a pair of eyeglasses on the side table near the armchair atop a magazine that is clearly Wayne’s, but the boot poking from half-beneath it, strewn carelessly as if it had been kicked off in a hurry, is clearly not. A faint smile crosses your face as you spot it, though your father’s loud clomping footsteps draw your attention soon enough. The sizzling of the stove is overtaken by your father’s friendly shout as forges ahead to the kitchen; the gruff warmth of two men greeting one another accompanies you as you cross the living room to join Eddie in the dining room. 

You become mindful of what you’d offered when you see him clearing the runner and the simple centerpiece from the dining table, which dominates the middle of the room despite the tall hutch standing broad against the far wall. You hasten to help him, hovering nearby as he pulls open the hutch drawer. You catch your mother eying the dust on the ridge lining the hutch and prepare yourself for some remark on the matter, but in the end, she doesn’t comment. Instead, she merely watches you and Eddie futz with the silverware for a moment before leaving you to your work to survey the goings-on in the kitchen. You hear the conversation between the two men stall when she enters before continuing, making room for the new addition.

Eddie squats to retrieve the plates as you set out the placemats, lining them with spoons and knives side-by-side and forks placed carefully across from them, with space to nestle the plates in-between. You circle the table methodically, dropping piece after piece on your path as Eddie rotates in the other direction, crossing your path almost as seamlessly as if this is a practiced dance. It’s not something you’ve ever done together— meals typically don’t stand on such ceremony as this, and Eddie certainly doesn’t usually fold the linen napkins into careful squares before dropping them onto the white ceramic. But as you watch him nudge the fabric with the tip of his finger to straighten its crooked lines, his tongue tip peeking pink between his lips as he does, the chore feels distinctly domestic to you, like something that has happened dozens of times before and will continue again for countless more. That sudden uncanny inkling mixes with the feeling that swells up sometimes behind your ribs, which resurges when Eddie sidles up next to you and bumps you lightly out of the way with his hip. 

“Watch it, you,” he pretends to grouse, lips quirking as he drops the napkin square onto the final plate with a flourish. “M’tryn’a set the table here.”

“Oh, and I’m not?” you retort hotly, but when he pinches your waist quick and playful, you can’t help the giggle that squeals its way from your throat. He dances back from your jabbing finger aimed at his side, curls bouncing as his face lights with a smile. Not to be deterred, you snatch up the napkin he’d just put down, and as it unravels from its square to prepare to strike him across the ribs, the familiar gravel of a throat being cleared— aged and croaky with years of tobacco use— has you spinning on your heel and hiding the evidence of your childishness behind your back.

The sight of Eddie’s uncle is wholly more welcome than your own Pa at the moment, though you still want to squirm as he regards you with a squint and a quirked brow. “Hello, Wayne!” you say brightly. You’re fooling no one; it’s an obvious attempt to distract him as you plop the napkin back onto the plate, letting it drop behind your back. 

“Hello, y/n. It’s nice to see you.” Wayne doesn’t react as Eddie reaches slowly around you to fiddle the napkin back into a semblance of orderliness, though you swear his blue eyes— so different from Eddie’s in color but so alike in their expressiveness— are twinkling now as he carries the plate of fried pork chops to the table, setting them carefully down.

“Thanks for having us over for dinner,” you say, clasping your hands demurely in front of your lap. “It’s very kind of you.”

Wayne rasps a chuckle as he straightens, clapping a heavy hand on Eddie’s shoulder briefly before moving with characteristic creakiness toward the kitchen. “No need to thank me; it was all Ed,” he offers offhandedly before disappearing, unaware of how the comment stirs the hope within you to sweet and tender life.

The meal shared with your neighbors is pleasant. More than pleasant, in fact. The pork chops are crispy but tender, yielding easily to your knife; the sweet juice of the fresh corn snaps between your teeth as you bite into the cob, and the sliced tomatoes are buttery smooth and perfectly ripe. Wayne is seated to your right at the head of the table with your father beside you on the left, and you spend the majority of the meal eating and listening rather than speaking, more than content to let them bookend you with their familiar voices made more fervent in the company of friendly company not often seen. Eddie is seated across from you, and when you aren’t listening to the patriarchs reminisce about the drought of ‘36 and lament the inconvenience they’re suffering as a bridge repair forces them to travel in some roundabout way, you’re watching Eddie eat. You’re staring at him with a level of fascination that is almost unnerving, made clear as his brow furrows slightly when he catches your eyes fixed so firmly on him.

But you’re staring because it’s strange, the way he’s eating. You’ve seen Eddie eat many times, and he always does it with a certain disregard for common manners: borderline too-ambitious bites, mouth open more than it’s closed, fingers sucked of grease, crumbs everywhere. Yet, not so tonight. Tonight, every slice is cut to a reasonable size; every bite is measured and chewed thoughtfully; every swallow occurs before he speaks again. And Eddie is even using his napkin. It’s laid across his lap and, miraculously, lifted to his mouth every once in a while to neaten the corners of those plush pink lips before being replaced just as carefully 

The empty space where that napkin is usually balled to the side of his empty plate is not the most uncanny thing, though. What is the most uncanny thing is the way your mother is actively engaging him in conversation about the 4H fair next month. Eddie tells her he plans to enter Merlin as a showhorse, and she nods across to you, donning a soft smile as she says, “Y/n’s really been makin’ strides with her embroidery ahead of the showin’. I think she’ll be ready.”

“She’s gettin’ real good, from what I’ve seen,” Eddie agrees eagerly, bobbing his head maybe a little too wildly. “Did she show you the hoop she’s makin’ for my uncle? The one with our family name in the middle?”

“I think so…” Mama’s head tips as she considers it. “That the one that has sunflowers on it?”

“And chicory flowers, too,” you pipe up, meeting Eddie’s umber eyes across the broad table, watching them soften to honey. Your Mama makes a sound of recognition and keeps talking, and while Eddie nods, replying politely, his gaze doesn’t stray from yours.

When bellies have been filled, and plates have been cleaned of all but the tiniest crumbs, you decide as a group to retire to the living room before indulging in dessert. Your hosts lead the way, and Wayne takes his customary place in his well-worn armchair, sinking down with a bone-weary sigh borne partly of creaking joints and partly of a belly swollen by overindulgence. 

Your mother hovers near the archway, surveying the seating options demurely until Wayne notices and waves her easily toward the couch. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Ed’ll park his seat on the floor, won’t you, son?”

“Oh,” she protests politely, “I’m sure we don’t mind—”

But Eddie has already flopped himself down in front of the hearth, leaning back on the heels of his palms and stretching his lanky legs toward the coffee table, perfectly content. As his foot bobs back in an easy rhythm, Mama’s eyes dart to the hole in the bottom of his sock near the toes, the way the white thread is worn gray and threadbare on the balls and the heel. Quick as a flash, they dart away again as Pa encourages her forward with a hand at the small of her back. Together they take the couch, your mother perching on the edge with her ankles crossed and your father sinking back into the cushions, leaning one elbow comfortably against the arm and letting out his own sigh to match Wayne’s.

You’re about to join Eddie on the floor when you notice, peeking from the corner of the long hall leading toward the back of the house, curves of spruce that beckon your excitement. 

“Oh!” You make a sound not unlike your mother’s, though yours is borne of exuberance as you pick your way around Eddie’s legs. He grunts a light protest as you plant a palm atop his head to steady yourself while stepping over him, but you ignore it in favor of plucking the instrument from its hiding place, brandishing it in the air with wide eyes and a broad grin. “Look, Ed, it’s your guitar!” 

“Yes,” he says, half wry as you toddle towards him, awkward and unwieldy in your inexperience carrying it. “That’d be my guitar, all right. Why, aren’t you the clever one.” 

Your reply is quick and entirely cheerful. “You shush y’r mouth, Eddie Munson,” you say easily, depositing the guitar in his lap and taking a seat cross-legged beside him. In your peripheral, you can see Wayne leaning back in his chair, surveying you as his fingers stroke his grizzled beard, but your eyes are all for the man with wild curls and a teasing grin that stretches his plush pink lips as he glances over at you. “I was thinkin’ y’could play us some songs to pass the time before dessert.”

Eddie sighs beleagueredly, tipping his head back even while already lifting the guitar strap over his shoulders. “What next? Y’gonna ask me to sing too?” He slants another glance at you, chuckling as your eyes light up even further. You clutch his wrist, shaking lightly, only faltering slightly when you notice how hot and smooth his skin is underneath your fingers. The awareness tingles within you, and you snatch your hand back.

You play it off with characteristic banter. “D’you want some o’my apple pie?” you question him, quirking your eyebrows in challenge.

Eddie purses his lips, not quite pouting but close to it. “...Yes,” he replies, and you jerk your chin toward the guitar.

“Then get to singin’, mister,” you say hotly, though you can’t help but smile when Eddie pretends to clutch his heart and sway back as if wounded by your demands. A disapproving tut draws your eyes, and they widen when you see Mama’s narrow. She’s clucking her tongue in a way that means she is dissatisfied with your attitude and wants you to know it. 

Your spine straightens under her silent gaze, and a prickle of shame needles across your shoulders as you clasp your hands in your lap. You look back at her contritely until she finally glances away; if anyone else notices the nonverbal exchange, they don’t let on, and the shame fades as Eddie begins to pluck the first few notes of the song he’s chosen to begin with.

Your mother’s reproach is quickly forgotten as Eddie’s warm rasp fills the room to accompany the twang of the guitar’s strings. The sound is untrained, yet melodic and pleasant nonetheless as he sings, “Well, they tell me, my dear, that you’re going; I will miss your bright eyes and your smile. For with you, you are taking the sunshine that has brightened my life for a while.”

Red River Valley wouldn’t have been your first choice of song for the occasion, though you must admit that Eddie sounds quite nice singing it. And it’s pleasant to watch him play, too: his long lashes dust the pale of his cheeks as he looks down at his fingerwork, and your gaze slides down the slope of his nose to the soft end, then down to the valley between nose and lip, then finally to the pink of his full lips as they form the words. “I have waited a long time my darling for those words that you never would say” A lock of curls behind his ear slips to drape over his cheek, and though your fingers itch to tuck it back for him again, you force them still in your lap. “And alas now my poor heart is breaking for they tell me you’re going away.”

Eddie repeats the chorus one last time and ends with a flourish of strumming, a smile stretching his cheeks wide as your Mama claps politely and her eyes wrinkle pleasedly. Your father is less enthusiastic, though he does nod absently when he sees you looking at him imploringly. “S’pretty good,” he offers, and Eddie accepts it graciously, resetting his fingers on the frets to regale you with some improvised playing. 

He is quiet for a while as he plays, brow furrowed in concentration as he weaves chords and notes into a tapestry of story, not unlike the tales he’s long invented for you since you were merely children playing in the mud. You marvel for a moment at the fact that those broad hands, so rough and worn from labor, are able to create such sweet and delicate sound; you watch his long fingers dance along the frets, the way their strong calluses catch the strings and make them cry out in joyful feeling. His playing is unhurried and peaceful, but watching Eddie fills you with a thrumming sort of happiness that makes you want to join in— something you’ve never done before despite the many times you’ve heard him play. 

That feeling bubbles over as his song eases into a brief silence, and you take the opportunity to ask if you can make a request. Eddie’s brows jerk in surprise for only a moment before he’s nodding quickly, perhaps a little too wild in his effort to encourage you. And though he rolls his eyes lightly when you tell him what you want, a smile still tugs at the corner of his lips as he begins a tune more jaunty and sentimental than the one he’d been playing.

You watch as he plays the introduction, waiting for his eyes to flash to yours promptingly before you begin to sing. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray.” Your voice is not as practiced as Eddie’s— though his is barely so— but it is clear of tone and gains steadiness as you continue, “You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you; please don’t take my sunshine away.”

It becomes clear as you begin to sing this song why people sing songs. Which may seem an odd revelation in and of itself, but it’s something that you’ve just… never really done before. You may hum a tune to yourself as you complete your chores, or warble along with the record player, but that’s not the same as letting your own voice be the one to take the place of silence, to fill a room so full that you cannot be ignored. There is something vulnerable about that choice, and you feel that vulnerability in the itch at the base of your throat, where your skin is heating with the awareness that everyone can hear every crack or falter in your pitch. But as you sing the words out, emboldened by Eddie’s confident playing, you realize there’s a kind of wild disregard for perfection in the act, an impulsive freedom that feels very much like joy. And you see that joy echoed on Eddie’s face when he accompanies you for the final verse, his warm brashness husking up the clearness of yours in a way that sounds, not just good, but right. 

Another smattering of applause follows your performance, and you bask in it; your knee seeks the side of Eddie’s thigh, resting there lightly, and though you don’t glance down at it for fear of drawing too much attention, just knowing that he is warm, and solid, and connected to a small part of you makes happiness perch high in your heart.

“If I could make a request.” 

All eyes turn to Mama, who has now sunk back against the couch, not quite leaning against your father’s side but close to it. “How about ‘John the Rabbit?’ Used to sing that t’you when you were little. D’you remember that?”

Mama’s voice is just the same as it always is— even when it’s calm, the urgency of ‘get this done, knock it off, do this, not that’ is never quite gone. But her expression is buttery soft now as she gazes at you, and as you relax under its comforting weight, your body sags subtly toward the man sitting at your side. “Sure I do,” you tell her, “used to sing it to me in the mornin’, and that’s how I knew we were gonna tend the garden that day.”

Mama hums, beckoning you gently with her chin. “Why don’t you lead us in a round, hm?” She casts glances around at the men, adding, “All you gotta do is say, ‘Yes, ma’am.’”

“‘Til the last line,” you pipe up, “then y’say, ‘No, ma’am.’”

Wayne chuckles, rubbing his palms along his worn blue jeans. “I reckon we can handle it,” he assures her in his slow way, and with that, Eddie strums a simple tune fitting of a nursery school rhyme. 

You sing sweetly, “Oh, John the rabbit—”

“Yes, ma’am,” the rest call, and you smile through the next line:

“Got a mighty habit—”

“Yes’ ma’am.” 

“Jumpin’ in my garden—” you pause for the others, who oblige you readily, before continuing, “Cuttin’ down my cabbage…” and yielding them the floor.

The leader is meant to draw out the next line, to twang the words at the end, and you sway in your seat as you faithfully follow. “My sweet potatoes,” you croon at Eddie, and he leans toward you as he answers louder than the rest,

“Yes ma’am!”

With each successive line, the delight inside you grows, and it echoes through the room, repeated on every face— man and woman, young and old.

“And if I live… to see next fall… I ain’t gonna have… no garden at all—” You heave a great breath, grinning as you throw your head back and chorus with the others,

“No… ma’am!” 

Eddie strums hard and quick to end the song, and your giggle is joined by Wayne’s thick chuckle, and your mother’s polite humming, and your father’s hoarse bark of amusement. And when Eddie throaty, husky chuckles swallow up them all beside you, you think if you could bottle up this sound and keep it forever, you would. You certainly would.

When you return to the dining room, taking your seat beside your father, the air that fills the red roost is thick with the sweetness of shared company, almost enough to rival the flaky pie you’re all indulging in. It’s not the finest you’ve ever tasted, but it’s with a sense of pride that you watch the others enjoy it. Pa is gesturing widely with his fork as he discusses autumn arrangements with Wayne, how they might coordinate their harvests of hay and corn for mutual benefit. Mama is scooping up each bite slowly and chewing thoroughly, which you know means she is stalling to keep herself from devouring the whole thing in one fell swoop. Wayne is already on his second slice despite protesting, when he’d initially been served, that he couldn’t eat another bite. And Eddie…

Well, Eddie has eaten half his pie already, but in the last handful of minutes he’s been pushing the remainder around on his fork— not disinterestedly, as if he doesn’t enjoy it, but with a sort of jerkiness to the motions that belys some tension within him. You have half a mind to ask him what’s bothering him, but you don’t want to embarrass him in front of company. You bury down the tinge of worry, which is what must be kicking up your heart, what must account for the sudden tightness in your own chest, though it feels more akin to anticipation. 

So you eat your pie, and listen to your father, and glance back and forth between Mama and Eddie until the latter finally sets his fork down with a clink that somehow, despite the lack of force, cuts straight through the conversation between Wayne and Pa. It lapses into silence, and your heart pounds harder as you watch a pink tongue swipe at plush lips and an adam’s apple bob in a pale throat before the brash voice of your best friend fills the void.

“Sir,” Eddie says, looking at your father, and a lump grows in your throat as the word wavers just slightly before recovering. “I hope it’s all right, me speaking out of turn, but… there’s something I need to say to you.”

There is a brief pause as all eyes turn to your Pa. He draws his napkin over his lips, and its drag smooths the severe lines around his mouth for just a moment before they spring back up again into place. “S’your house,” your father replies, not unkindly.

Eddie’s eyes dart to Wayne for just a second, and you follow them to see the older man gazing back calmly. When they return to your Pa, Eddie lifts his chin, keeping his gaze and voice steady. “We’ve lived next door to each other for just about ten years now. And in that time, I’ve gotten to know your family well, and you’ve gotten to know mine.” His throat bobs as he pauses. “Y/n and I grown up alongside each other, and maybe my opinion don’t matter all that much in the scheme of things, but I tell you humbly that, well, I think you both done a mighty fine job raisin’ her.”

Eddie looks at your mother beside him, who offers him a slight nod, but he doesn’t look at you. And good thing, too, because that feeling is swelling up to fill your throat so hot and thick, it’s all you can do to keep your chin from trembling. “I know y’don’t need me to tell you this,” Eddie huffs a breathless chuckle, “y’already know how good she is. But I think it warrants bein’ said that there’s somethin’ about y/n that’s special.” His chest expands with a bracing breath, and in that pause, you see it all in Eddie’s umber eyes. In the line of his brow, the gentle slope of his nose, the light flush of his cheeks, the strength of his jaw— all that he could ever say is there, written plain as day across his beloved face.

“Special to me, s’what I’m saying,” he clarifies, and the way his brow furrows just slightly in the middle— tugged up into an expression of sweet earnestness— has your heart beating so wild and fast you think it might leap out of your chest and into the cradle of his arms. 

“Sir,” Eddie says, “I really care about your daughter, and I would like to ask your permission to court her.”

It’s what you hadn’t allowed yourself to hope for when you’d taken out the Fourth of July dress and adorned yourself in sprigs of lavender and rosemary. It’s what shone through Eddie’s eager smile when he opened the door to his home with his face scrubbed clean, waiting there for you. It’s the promise of forever stretched out over the expanse of a wooden dining table, where napkins were carefully folded into squares and pies were baked with fresh apples from the tree outside. Small acts of service committed by two sets of hands, each trailing love like fairy dust in their wake.

Pa clears his throat— not a sharp sound, more of a rumble of consideration as he leans back in his chair, gazing at Mama across from him. He nods his head slowly, thoughtfully, a gradual bobbing that continues as his tongue runs over his teeth behind his lips. It ends with a jerking of his brows and the smack of his lips opening as he replies,

“I appreciate your words, Edward, they’re very kind. But, no.” His eyes hold Eddie’s steadily. “I do not give you permission to court my daughter.”

Your father doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even sound particularly bothered. And yet the pall that settles over the Munson’s dinner table is so oppressive that you feel your shoulders sink under the palpable weight of the silence following his denial. That heaviness drags like a rotten hand down the back of your neck; it melts to viscous ooze, seeping over your clavicle, sinking through your gingham dress and coating the swelling behind your ribs in suffocating shock. 

Distantly, you hear Wayne stiffly ask your parents to accompany him into the living room. You feel your father’s chair scrape out beside you; you want to glance at your Mama’s face, but your eyes are stuck to the flakes of crust and the crystals of sugar dotting the linen napkin laid beside your plate. 

It isn’t until you’re alone with Eddie that the heaviness sloughs off of you to slap like dead meat to the floor. Then you can raise your head and meet the umber eyes of the man who sits across from you, motionless and hollow.

As soon as you see the expression on his face, the feeling shifts in you; with an impatient jerk of your chair, you stand to crane over the table and take up his cheeks in your hands. His head is heavy, his neck loose and pliant, and you hold him steady as you speak quietly and intently. 

“Okay, look, Ed—” You take a shuddering breath, letting it out through your nose, and it ruffles the soft curls that frame his jaw as he looks back at you blankly. You continue in an urgent whisper, “Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’ll put up a bit of a fuss, of course, but if I fight ‘em too hard, they’ll look at me cross, and we won’t get nowhere. By all appearances, we should look like we accept their decision, all right? That’ll buy us time to figure out what to do.” 

Eddie doesn’t react, really; nothing much on his face changes. But you know him too well, so you can see the subtle shifting there, how the dullness in his umber eyes edges into mournfulness. Defeat.

Your heart cracks.

His name whispers through your quivering lips. “Eddie…” Your eyes prick for him, for all the effort he put into making this night so perfect, and how it now had gone all sideways on him. On you both. 

You don’t think much about what you do next. It’s instinct when you surge forward to kiss him hard, pressing your lips to his with all the fervency and yearning and love that swells within your body. Your heart thumps when you feel him respond, when his lips pucker and seek yours, when his trembling fingertips draw lightly down your cheek. 

There is urgency and danger here in the dining room, but you hold the kiss as long as you can before your lungs begin to burn. When you pull away, gasping for breath, Eddie now looks more dazed than sad, and it both reassures you and feeds your fire. 

“I don’t give a hoot what they say,” you whisper fiercely. “I wanna be with you, Ed. We been good at sneakin’ around before, and we can do it now, too.” You search his eyes, panging with hesitation for the first time as you scrape your teeth across your teeth before blurting, “I don’t wanna stop seein’ you. Do… do you wanna stop seein’ me, now that this’s happened?” 

Eddie huffs— a small warm puff of breath that ghosts across your lips— and it’s wry and unbelieving but so incredibly soft. “‘Y/n.” His voice is a gentle rumble in his chest, earnest and hoarse. “Now that I had a chance to know you the way we know each other, I think it’d kill me dead to go back to how it was before. I could barely keep it together then. Can’t imagine doin’ it now that I’ve had you underneath me.” You shiver at the hot promise in his eyes. “‘Sides,” he adds, “I—”

The merciful floorboards warn you of the imminent return of your parents, and you fall back into your chair just in time to appear innocent as they reenter the dining room.

“Well!” Your father sighs the word in that tone people only use when closing something out— a conversation, a get-together, an engagement. You think he will continue, that he will turn to Eddie and perhaps offer an explanation, but that single word just lingers in the pause until your mother jumps in.

“Thank you for dinner, Wayne. Eddie,” Mama says politely, and Eddie manages to bob his head in a single nod to acknowledge her. Wayne has far more composure, accepting her thanks and exchanging a polite word about the next dinner.

Your father shakes Wayne’s hand firmly and then beckons you with a jerk of his head. “C’mon, missy, let’s leave ‘em to their evenin’.” 

It would be odd if it weren’t that you understood what must have happened in the living room— that your father had explained his decision to Wayne, and that they’d managed to come out the other side maintaining, at the very least, a level of friendliness befitting neighbors. 

So you follow suit; with as much decorum as you can muster, you rise primly and thank Wayne, casting one last glance at Eddie before you depart the red roost of the crows.

You wait until you’re back inside your own roost and your front door has closed behind you to turn on them, brow knit tight with righteous indignation. “Why did you deny Eddie, Pa?” you demand. “What’s wrong with him courtin’ me?” You can’t quite keep the heat from your voice; the outrage bubbling beneath the surface is too fresh, too hot as you remember Eddie’s beloved umber eyes, how the light in them dimmed.

Your father does not quail at your display; if anything, he grows taller, raising his chin and regarding you down the bridge of his nose. “Y/n, I’ve been acquainted with Edward for damn near ten years now, and in that time, he has proved himself time after time to be frivolous and uncouth. That boy is entirely lacking in discipline.” In a rare display of restraint, your father does not raise his voice at you in the privacy of your home. Yet he is no less hardened for it; his words fall like heavy stones before your feet. “Edward is downright wild. Your mother and I have let you indulge in this little friendship with him, above all, on account of our respect for Wayne. But he is not the kind of young man I want courtin' my only unwed daughter.”

You could tell them that Eddie’s wildness is what fuels his heart, what makes him so passionate and imaginative and enchanting. You could tell them that he bought you a ribbon and scrubbed his nails clean, that he takes you to wildflower fields because he knows you like them and invents stories to make you happy. You could tell them that you love him, that you always have, that when you envision what your life will be like with your own house and garden, you can’t see anyone but Eddie Munson by your side. 

Yet you fear to voice these things, to breathe life into them and then have them butchered just as quickly at your father’s hand. You glance at your mother, but her face is an impassive mask; you know appealing to her will get you nowhere, so you latch to the only thing you can think of. Despite telling Eddie that you will not fight hard for him since that will only make things more difficult, you find yourself unable to resist.

“But Pa,” you try for earnestness, “Ed is disciplined, don’t you see? Think of all he’s done for us ‘round the house, and with the fence and the kid. I think he’s been tryin’ so hard this past week to show you how serious he is about m—”

A curled lip is all the warning you get before being interrupted. “Never trust a man who acts just because he wants somethin’.” Your father finally snaps; his voice booms in the space between you. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what he done or how he acted this week. It don’t erase a lifetime of evidence to the contrary.”

And you know by the way your Pa’s severe face has petrified into the hardest stone, echoed though less harshly in the wrinkles that line your mother’s eyes, that their decision cannot be budged.

Edward Munson cannot court you, and that is that.

But the fact is, you don’t need Eddie Munson to court you. You’re already his, and you give yourself to him as such.

When you wake the next morning, it appears to your parents as if your ire from the night before was nothing but a feverish dream. You slink around the house with your tail held high, coy as a barnyard cat as you dine with them at the breakfast table, making amiable conversation with your Pa and complimenting your Mama’s cooking without a hint of sourness. You complete your chores without complaining— well, without any more complaining than is typical of you. You sew the buttons on your Mama’s dress with the utmost considerateness and drop kisses on your father’s cheek each night before retiring to bed. This awards you certain freedoms, freedoms that you certainly wouldn’t be gifted had you carried on about their rejection of Eddie the way you truly wanted to deep in your heart.

You keep it buried— the indignance, the sorrow, the swelling you feel when you catch glimpses of him through the cracks in the fence. You cover it in pleasantness and obeisance so that they won’t suspect, and when you visit the stump rotted through to the middle and find the papers wedged inside, you exercise the privileges you’ve won through subterfuge. 

“Nancy asked me to walk with her into town. She wants me to come with her to the dressmakers, so it might take a little while if that’s all right?” You ask your Pa as he’s repairing the sagging barn door, and his hammering pauses only long enough to tell you not to spend any frivolous money there. 

It’s quite easy to agree when you have no real intention of setting foot in the dressmaker’s shop.

Instead, you dip off the road and trail across the far edge of the Wheelers’ field, picking through a copse of trees to access the adjacent clearing that grows wild and unkempt. There, you find a patch of clear earth, and now, you are dropping to your knees to gather your skirt up around your hips. You arch your back shamelessly to expose yourself, presenting your pussy like a cat in heat to the man behind you. When you feel his broad hands ruck your skirt up higher, you press your palms to the earth and dip your cheek to the ground, just waiting to be mounted. When Eddie notches his fat head against your entrance, you teethe the plush of your bottom lip. He presses steadily forward until he pops inside, stretching you tight around his girth, and when you mewl, he hisses in response. In one long stroke— a motion quick and trembling like the tautness of a bowstring, as if he can no longer hold himself back now that he has notched inside you— Eddie presses his hips up tight against your ass and groans out his relief at your joining. His relief echoes your own, manifest in the way your body goes lax: chin dipping to take its rest, shoulders sagging as your breasts mold to the unyielding ground, fingers drawing through strands of green as if yearning for dark coils of ink but settling for second best. Eddie sleeves himself within the wet warmth that welcomes him, and your muscles yawn a sigh of relief even as you flutter and squeeze around that which splits you open.

There, in the dirt and grass, you give yourself to Eddie on your hands and knees. Your face grazes the earth as you let him pound into you from behind, let him grip your hips and claim you with the little imprints of his fingers that he squeezes into your skin. You and Eddie have done gentle; you know what it is to lie with him on the creekbed or in the wildflowers, where time seemed to stretch and bend, and every moment could be savored. But not so now, when the only occasions you can see one another are in moments stolen through lies and trickery. Now, your need for Eddie is dirty and ravenous. You take what he gives you, and you give freely for him to take in return. Each whimper and grunt, each harsh slap of skin against skin, each wet shlick of his cock sheathing in your eager heat sounds to you like a triumphant cry of defiance.

A wicked seed within you relishes in the fantasy of your parents seeing what you are allowing frivolous, uncouth Eddie Munson to do to you. You know your Mama would be scandalized— her eyes would pop out of her head. You know your Pa would be furious— his face would go purple with rage. They refused to allow Eddie to court you, and yet here he is, fucking into you with abandon as you whimper and tremble for him. And you like it; you like the way he spears you roughly with his cock, the way your ass bounces lewdly against his hips, the way your belly tightens with sinful pleasure as he plunges deep and holds himself there, pressing hard to grind himself inside you. Your walls flutter and squeeze around him as you circle your hips, seeking for something more. You angle and work yourself on his length until you jolt, having suddenly found what you sought. That feeling sparks like wicked fire, burning low inside you each time he grazes against that elusive spot inside, and oh, how you like it.

"Please, harder, Eddie," you beg him, whimpering into the earth. "Please— you feel so good." 

“Fuuuck,” Eddie groans, and the hoarse husk makes you shiver with pleasure. "Your pussy’s so sweet. So fuckin' tight and sweet for me, turtle dove. Fuckin’ love being inside your little pussy." 

You moan, long and low, rocking back to meet him as he starts to thrust again, hard and fast. You've learned that Eddie has a filthy mouth, and each dirty word that drips from his sinful lips is both so mortifying and so arousing at the same time. As his fingers tighten on your hips, and his breath harshens into desperate pants, urgency fills you— an urgency to feel him reach the pinnacle he is approaching. You want Eddie to spill inside you, or on your flank, or into the grass, anywhere so long as you can hear the way he whines and moans from the pleasure you’re giving him. “That’s it, Ed,” you encourage him breathlessly, “just like that, just— oh— j-just like that, mmm—” 

You pinch off a whine, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip as his rhythm becomes stilted, uneven, desperate— 

And then Eddie gasps raggedly, pulling out and spilling onto the earth between your spread legs. His hands leave you, and you scramble up to your knees, hole mournfully empty but heart so full. You turn as Eddie squeezes the last few drops of his seed from his flushed head onto the ground before catching you in one strong arm as you fall against him, cradling your cheek and kissing you deeply. 

But like the kiss you shared in his dining room those few days ago, floorboards creak in the back of your mind, cutting this one short. They’re reminding you that you will soon need to return home and pretend not to know the taste of Eddie’s lips and the feeling of his arms around you.

And frankly, by the end of the first week, you are already growing tired of having to pretend.

It’s not that you give yourselves away because you don’t. Eddie waves at your Pa over the fence and skirts his eyes from you— never cruelly, only in the way you both had planned— and your father doesn’t suspect a thing. When Eddie brings over a pail of milk so you can churn it to make butter, Mama’s face is carefree when you pass it to her. But your desire is no longer contained to fields and creekbeds; it rises up in the night as your yearnings bid you dip your fingers beneath your nightgown. You draw them through sticky folds and dip them inside the well of your arousal, seeking the smoldering fire that burns within. But you can never make yourself feel the way Eddie does, no matter how hard you try. 

So when you wake again in the middle of the night, this time, you light a candle, scratching a hasty message onto a scrap of paper. And the next morning, you fold your message carefully, tuck it beneath the waistband of your apron, and reach your arm up to the elbow into that rotted stump, leaving it there for Eddie to find.

The night air is heavy with humidity and the chirping of crickets and cicadas, but you leave the window open. You’re laying in your bed, breathing slow and even, staring at a thin crack in your plaster ceiling to keep your nervousness from overwhelming you. Your parents had retired to bed some time ago; you heard the creaking of the floorboards then, and now, if you concentrate, you can hear the chainsaw snoring of your Pa through both closed doors. 

He is sleeping, and Ma is sleeping, and so should you be. But you are waiting— waiting for your best friend to climb through your open window and join you in your bed.

You are waiting for it, but your heart leaps nonetheless when you hear scuffling at the bedroom window. You sit up, and all at once, he’s there, dark eyes gleaming in the faint moonlight. Eddie’s form is near shapeless as he creeps toward your bed, but you would recognize him anywhere; his weight has never dipped the mattress beside you, but it feels exactly as you would expect when one knee sinks beside your calf, only to be joined by the other in the next second. Slowly, feeling around in the dark, Eddie settles his weight on top of you. He is heavy and hot as he presses you into the mattress with his belly and chest; his curls tickle across your clavicle, smelling overwhelmingly like his natural musk in the stagnant air of your bedroom. When he kisses you hello, his mouth tastes slightly sour, as if the heat of the long day and the exertion of scaling the side of your house has dehydrated him. 

Eddie is heavy, hot, musky, sour, and here, here in your bedroom with you. 

It’s everything you could want.

When he breaks your kiss, it’s all you can do to keep from pouncing on him. “Eddie—” you whine, nuzzling the firm bridge of your nose against the side of his as your hands seek the bottom of his thin shirt blindly, tugging insistently though ineffectually. 

He shushes you gently, dropping a peck on your pouting lips before dipping to your neck to murmur against the soft skin there. “Shh—” his breath hushes warm and damp against your skin, and your head tips back of its own accord, begging for more. “You gotta be real quiet, turtle dove,” he whispers. “Don’t want anyone to hear us.”

Your breath deepens as his lips trail down to your collarbone, grazing kisses as he mosies his way down to your chest. In the humid dark, you feel his callused fingers pull down the loose neckline of your nightgown. Eddie says something, and you feel the vibrations of his words against the swell of your breast, but your heart which thumps wildly in your chest and the wooshing of your breath in your ears have rendered you effectively deaf.

 “E—” You manage only the first soft sound of his name before his lips close over your nipple for the first time, sucking firmly. Your hand flies to his head as your body goes rigid; your mouth falls open in a ragged gasp as pleasure jolts straight down to throb between your legs. You squirm against him until he presses your hip down with one broad hand to keep you from rocking the bed, working the nub with his tongue and teeth until your gasping breaks into a faint but audible whimper.

You are dazed when he releases you with a wet pop, murmuring against your breast a little more loudly now, “I guess Harrington was right about that, after all. That bodes well.”

You wrinkle your nose as Eddie crawls back up your body to settle over you. Your legs open automatically to accommodate him, but you’re too preoccupied to fully appreciate the feeling of his hardness pressing against your inner thigh. Frowning lightly, you hiss in a whisper, “What’re you doin’ talkin’ to Steven Harrington, of all people?”

“Never you mind that,” Eddie whispers back, and he heads off your protest with a warm palm cupping the side of your neck, his fingers cradling your jaw. “The conversation is too delicate to discuss with a lady, so I’ll just tell you that… well, he told me to do what I just did, and you liked it, right?”

Though embarrassed heat rushes to your cheeks, you nod your head jerkily, enough so he can feel it even if he doesn’t see it in the dark. “Okay, so… he also said there’s a spot.” His hand leaves your cheek to graze down between your bodies, ghosting lightly against the loose fabric pooled between your legs. “Somewhere I can touch you, down here, that’ll make you have a fit if I do it good enough.”

Your bewilderment rushes up in a tangle of sputtered and furious whispers. “Have a fit?! Ed, what on God’s green Earth makes you think I wanna have a fit?” 

Eddie huffs. “It’s a good thing, y/n. He said girls really like it.” 

Your skepticism is plain as you retort, “Oh, did he now?” 

“Yes.” Eddie is uncharacteristically earnest and solemn, and that’s what finally gives you pause. When you’re quiet, he whispers, “I wanna make you feel so good, my sweet girl. If you let me. Will you let me?” 

In the humid dark of your bedroom, with only the moon to glaze the side of Eddie’s pale face in cool, subtle light, you look into the darkness of his eyes and feel so many stirrings inside… anticipation, nervousness, desire. But in the end, it’s the deepest stirring of all that convinces you, the one that’s been growing slow and steady over the last ten years.

Trust. 

You trust Eddie, more deeply than you’ve trusted any other person in your life, and that trust is what draws you forward into a tentative kiss. 

Your lips part briefly from his before meeting again more firmly. Eddie rumbles low in his throat, and when his lips open to deepen the kiss, yours follow. You allow him to lick into your mouth, to draw his tongue across your teeth, to press closer until the way he’s kissing you is hot, deep, wet, and urgent. 

When Eddie breaks away, his eagerness is plain in the panting of his breath, the quivering of his arms when you draw your fingertips down his biceps, feeling the hot skin there. “That’s my turtle dove,” he hushes against your mouth, and he sounds so proud and pleased with you that you can’t help but whimper. 

Despite his eagerness, Eddie is careful when he climbs off of you to settle at your side, pulling you against him and turning you in his grasp so your back is to his front. Your head falls to the soft down pillow as you feel him work your nightgown up your body, pulling the fabric from where it’s wedged between you. There is the slightest relief from the humidity as your legs, then your hip, then your intimate places are exposed to the air, but you rush even hotter when Eddie’s lips find the shell of your ear so he can murmur, “Spread your legs for me, y/n.” 

Trembling, you lift your knee, and his fingers catch against the plush of your thigh, pulling it back over his hip. He presses a tender kiss to the corner of your eye. “That’s it; good girl.” 

Your breath shudders in your chest as Eddie’s fingers leave your thigh; you throb with anticipation as they ghost over your hip and tummy before dragging through the soft curls covering your mound. “Tell me when it feels the best,” Eddie whispers, resting the side of his temple on top of yours. The weight of his head is grounding as he begins to explore you slowly with one finger, dragging up and down with no apparent pattern to his movements. 

As the moments pass, you relax in his grip, settling into the feeling of his finger dragging through your folds. He doesn’t seem to intend to put them inside you, and what he’s doing feels quite nice, pleasant, almost soothing. The crook of Eddie’s elbow rests against the curve of your ribs, and as your eyes slip closed, you seek his arm with your palm, stroking softly down to his wrist as it moves slowly between your legs—

You jolt as he grazes against something that makes pleasure fizz in a sudden burst, leaving your belly feeling hotter, tighter. As your hips jump, Eddie pauses, his breath catching as he tries to replicate what he’d just done. When it happens again— when pleasure sparks suddenly so might brighter than anywhere else— Eddie’s arm tightens excitedly around your side. 

“S’that it?” his voice is a little too loud in his excitement, and you tightly clutch his wrist. “Sorry, sorry,” he whispers, though the urgency hasn’t left his voice. “That’s it, though, isn’t it? Feels better when I touch you there?”

“Yeah,” you reply, voice small and needy. Eddie dips his hand to draw a sloppy circle briefly around your entrance before returning to the apex of your heat— that place that had tingled when he licked you on the creekbed, you now realize, though the thought hadn’t crossed your mind until you felt that pleasure again. When he presses against it again, his fingertip glides much more smoothly now; it felt good before, but now it feels even better. 

Eddie continues moving his finger slowly and lightly at first as he waits for your reaction, but when you don’t tense or pull away, his actions become more confident. Your pleasure builds under his careful ministrations; he works you slowly but steadily up into a frenzy of heaving breasts, muffled whines, and writhing hips. You begin to arch your ass back against him, grinding slowly, your tender skin dragging against the soft cotton of his pants until you find that stiffness like a brand against your cheek. You press hard against it, rolling your hips only a few times before Eddie grunts and pulls his hand from between your legs, shifting back away from you. 

You know what comes next as you hear the rustling of his clothing; you take the opportunity to catch your breath as he works himself out of his pants, but the wind leaves you just as quickly when he presses back up against you, hard and silky smooth as he guides himself blindly, bumping against your wet, puffy lips. Suddenly overwhelmed with need, you lift your leg higher, whimpering breathily as you reach down between your legs in an attempt to help him. “Fuck’n… c’mon,” Eddie hisses, nudging first too high, then too low, and then— 

Then he sinks right in.

It’s the easiest glide, the sweetest stretch, and simultaneously you and Eddie moan as he slides all the way home. “Oh, baby, baby,” he pants desperately against your cheek, “fuck, that’s… oh, my God—”

You reach up over your shoulder to bury your fingers in his curls, and when he pulses inside you, your breath hitches with the force of your desire, your overwhelming need to have him move. “Eddie, please…” you whine, nearly beside yourself, and his hand clamps to your hip like a vice, holding you still as he pulls out and pushes right back in.

You sag with relief as he wastes no time in beginning to fuck you, splitting you open so deliciously on his cock. Eddie pounds you over and over again like he had those times before, but what you don’t anticipate is how that hand on your hip slinks down between your legs again. 

You strangle your cry in your throat as he finds that spot so easily as if he’d been drawn to it. You whimper through clamped lips as quietly as you can as Eddie presses tight little circles to your bud, pumping into you from behind. Your fingers wrench from his curls to clamp instead around his forearm; the tendons roll under your fingers rhythmically, and your pleasure begins to build so rapidly it’s nearly frightening. 

"That's it, baby,” Eddie encourages you, “You feelin’ good?" 

You nod frantically; something is tightening inside you, growing more than it ever has. "Gonna keep goin' til I get you there," Eddie promises breathlessly, panting out the words between his thrusts. "Don't care how long it takes. I got you, sweetheart. Want you to have a fit." 

"Eddie," you whine quietly, dumbly; only his name can spill from your lips now. "Ed, E-Eddie, Eddie—" 

Your pathetic sounds drive him to fuck you faster, and as he does, your pleasure tightens further, burning hotter, throbbing more and more until the urge to cry out overwhelms you. 

Abruptly, you curl your shoulders forward away from him, snatching up the pillow and burying your face in the soft down to muffle the sound of your moans. 

 You’re still connected where it matters, though Eddie pauses in his movements when you draw away before he realizes what you’re doing. Your sweaty back is exposed to the air for only a moment before he’s following you, unwilling to tolerate any distance— his chin hooks around your shoulder as his hips rut against your ass and his fingers press circles into your clit. 

  "Bein' so good for me,” Eddie rasps in your ear, “using your pillow to keep yourself quiet so your parents don't hear the way I'm fuckin' you in your bed." 

Your moans turn to quiet cries now, rhythmic and constant as your legs squeeze closed around his wrist. And he doesn’t falter; through the plush of your thighs, Eddie fucks you determinedly, thrusting into your fluttering pussy as you gasp and cry raggedly into your pillow. "My girl,” he moans. “They can't take you from me. No one can." 

As that feeling builds and grows, instinct in your body takes over, guiding you where it wants to go. Mindlessly, you begin to grind back on Eddie’s cock, rolling your hips; he pulls his wrist from between your legs, holding onto your hip as he matches the rhythm of your movements. Almost desperately, Eddie drags his open mouth across your cheek, panting out his earnest desire for you. "Come on, turtle dove. That's it—" 

With a soft, hoarse cry, you finally spasm around him. 

The pleasure gapes like a yawn inside you before tightening and bursting outward in a tingling rush, flooding you with mindless euphoria. The intensity of the feeling would be truly frightening had Eddie not been right there behind you, holding you against the solid comfort of his body, whining into your hair. He pumps into you only a few more times before pulling out, and then you feel him spill against your flank. The warm spread of his spend paints your skin, the graze of his cockhead like a hot brand as he squeezes out every drop.

In the aftermath, there is a moment of dazed silence. The only sound that fills your humid bedroom is the chirp of the crickets and the rush of your breaths puffing in unison. When you’ve recovered enough, you break that silence to whisper emphatically, "Oh, Christ on a cracker, Ed, what in the hell was that?!" 

Eddie snorts before burying his face hastily into your neck, muffling his chuckles against your skin as your cheeks rush with embarrassment. “Well, don’t laugh at me,” you insist, heating more when he lifts his head and snatches you up by the chin, smacking a firm, playful kiss to your cheek. 

“You’re cute,” he murmurs, following up his kiss with two shorter ones before letting you go to wipe your hip off with the bottom of the shirt he’s still wearing. 

Your body thrums with contentment, but when the mattress shifts as Eddie climbs carefully down to pull his pants back on, the moment becomes tinged with melancholy. Your eyes track the vague shape of his body for a moment before you whisper, “I wish you could stay, Ed.”

For a moment, all you hear is a heavy sigh, one that leaks with the sadness you’re both beginning to feel. “Me too, sweetheart,” Eddie whispers back. “Can I lay with you, just for a little while?”

The question transforms your sadness into a sharp and poignant swelling— pleasant but painful all at once. “Of course.” You reach blind fingers in the direction of his neck, and Eddie ducks closer so you can draw them through his curls— no longer silky like they were the night of the dinner, yet beloved even more for their frizziness. “I’d really like you to.”

As you laze with Eddie above your bedcovers, tucking your cheek against the side of his chest, sleep begins to swallow the pain of knowing Eddie cannot stay. Only vaguely do you notice when the bed shifts and the warmth pressed to your side unsticks from your sweaty skin, both a relief and a loss; you feel the brush of lips against your forehead and your closed lids, featherlight and delicate; you hear the scuffle of Eddie climbing back out the window to scale the side of your blue roost and return to his red one next door.

Sleep swallows the pain of knowing Eddie cannot stay. But, though Eddie cannot stay, a part of him is always with you, and it has been for some time now. The evidence of your love is nestled safe inside your body; it is an inevitability ten years in the making, now ten days conceived.

You wake the following morning with an overwhelming desire to have Eddie in your mouth. 

Maybe it’s an odd urge to have so suddenly, but you suppose after your adventurousness last night, your curiosity to try new things must be piqued. You glance around your room, and the only evidence of Eddie’s visit is that your bedsheets more rumpled than usual, so you straighten them out before tying your housecoat around your body and wandering downstairs.

There you find Mama in the kitchen, who is busying herself with the stove until she notices you’re awake. “Morning!” Your greeting is chipper, and she returns your greeting with a smile. As you breakfast together, all feels usual aside from the absence of Pa at the table; she explains that he’s been speaking with a rancher some towns over about possibly purchasing a new horse. You flash with worry, but she soothes it with a pat of her hand atop yours. “Don’t fret. We’re not replacin’ Guinnie, silly girl,” she huffs with some amusement. “We all know that Pa might’ve bought her, but that’s your horse. I told him it’s high time to get one of his own.”

You sag with visible relief, and Mama’s huff turns to a chuckle. “I’m goin’ into town this morning to pick up some things,” she tells you. “You wanna tag along?”

You open your mouth to say yes, but falter as your belly burns with the sudden realization of this opportunity— Pa gone, Mama in town, Eddie just beyond the fence with the stump in between.

“I was actually thinkin’ I could work on my embroidery this morning,” you reply instead. “Finish the hoop for Mr. Munson, maybe.” You smile innocently. “Then I can start on my 4H hoop!”

There’s no reason for Mama to doubt your sincerity, so she doesn’t. And when, an hour later, you wave your embroidery hoop high in the air from your rocking chair as she sets off down the road, she doesn’t question the call of the turtle dove, nor the cackle of the crow that answers.

The hay in the barn loft is soft under your knees, providing a pleasant cushion while you satisfy your desire with kitten licks along the fat head of Eddie’s cock, kneeling between his spread legs. He tastes as you would expect, though you’d only been thinking about the taste for half a morning. It’s salty, a little musky from the heat, the same way his dark curls smell. Occasionally, beads of liquid shine at the tiny slit at the tip, and when you lick them up, they’re more bitter than the rest. Not pleasant, but not unpleasant either, and the sounds Eddie’s making for you right now more than compensate for it.

When you flick your tongue against that dribbling slit, his breath hitches; when you lick a fat stripe up the underside of his cock, he moans. And when you swallow him down, engulfing him in the wet heat of your eager mouth, he gasps some strangled sound that makes you giggle around him.

Eddie’s hips jolt and squirm when you do, and your eyes pop open to find him looking nearly pained. “F— oh, f— shit,” Eddie finally settles on, and you would smile if you weren’t so full of him right now. 

You’ve been exploring him in this new way for a little while, so your curiosity has nearly been sated. Nearly, because you have one thing yet to taste— his seed. And you really want to know what it will feel like to have him spill onto your tongue, to have that hot flesh jerk and pulse within you, to have him feeling just as good as he made you feel yesterday.

So you begin to bob your head, sloppily at first, uneven until you figure out the right angle that keeps your teeth from grazing him and making him hiss. You hum apologetically around him, and his plush lips fall open as you take him a little further while making that sound. Eddie’s cheeks are flushed prettily, his hair like dark ink spilled across the hay as he moans for you. “Shit, baby, that feels so fuckin’ good.”

You rush with satisfaction, growing more enthusiastic as you bob faster, grasping the base to hold him upright so he doesn’t flop around so much. “That’s it,” Eddie pants, “That’s— oh—”

His hand finds the side of your head— not moving you, just resting there as you work him with your mouth and tongue, like he wants to feel the way you’re doting on him. You ignore the soreness in your jaw when his panting gets heavier, and your gaze flashes up to lock on his face— eyes hazy, brow pinched, skin flushed down his neck as he gasps, “Don’t stop, I’m… I’m gonna—”

You moan when he moans, and as you do, Eddie’s cock kicks within the wet heat of your mouth, spilling his seed. It’s thick and tangy, warm but not hot as it spurts to coat your tongue, and you wait motionlessly until the jerking subsides and his fingers relax against your hair. 

Pulling off is a little sloppier than you anticipate, and you chuckle as some of his release leaks before you can fully close your mouth. You catch it with a hasty palm, meeting Eddie’s fond, dazed smile with one of your own, albeit closed-lipped on account of your mouth being occupied. 

As you swallow him down, using your other hand to wipe your bottom lip, you hear the subtle creak of wood below you.

Your only thought is that you don’t want to look. But whether you look or not, it does not change who waits for you beyond the ledge of the hayloft. It was with a perverse sense of satisfaction that you’d imagined Pa’s face would turn purple at the sight of you with Eddie, but you knew, were it to actually occur, that the horror you would feel would leave you reeling.

Instead, you’re greeted with the sight of Mama’s features. They are pallid, so contorted with the force of her seething rage as to be near unrecognizable, and somehow, that is worse.

[luimagines]

Honor Among Gods

Ok. This is another purely indulgent thing.

Those who've been here a while would remember that there was once a character named Hesper. She is a demigod, daughter of Nyx.

My good friend @thesoftieanon made her and well... We went wild.

I'm not kidding. This is over 20 pages long. And I'm posting it not only to share one of my favorite short stories I've cowritten with someone since making this blog, but this is here for me because the formatting makes it easier to reread. XD

This is a universe where Hesper got paired with The Fierce Deity. It is naturally written in his point of view. Enjoy.

Masterlist

Content under the cut!

When he was able to open his eyes again, he was undeterred by the sight of monsters and battle. He got right to work to take care of the problem, knowing that his host was desperate at best to eliminate these pests.

These monsters were stronger than he knew his host could handle. It didn’t take a genius to conclude this was why his help was required. 

The boys around him were familiar forces at this point. He could feel them from a distance but now he had faces to the forces he could only remotely feel. 

Except for one.

A young woman traveled with them at this point. She fought valiantly, growling back at the beast in front of her. She fought like none other he had ever seen before. She wore dark clothing and nearly rivaled his own height without the restrictions of his host. He couldn’t see her face from the cloth that covered every part of her body.

There was an energy about her. Something that called for his respect and devotion. She was nowhere near as overbearing as the Great Ones, but surely, unmistakingly one of them.

He was so distracted by the sight of someone new and different, that the monster, despite bleeding profusely from multiple gashes across its body, proceeded to knock her off her feet and drive its weapon into her shoulder.

The Fierce Deity sprang into action and body-slammed the creature without a second thought, finishing the beast with a solid swipe to the neck. He turned and pulled the weapon out of the girl. In retrospect, he should have been more gentle. He regrets his rash actions immediately. 

She yells in pain but it gets stuck in her throat at the sight of him towering above her. His own breath gets stuck in her throat. She surely belongs among the Great Ones. Her eyes are filled with innumerable stars. There’s a depth and alluring presence to them. He’d dare to stare for longer had another cry of anguish not catch his attention. 

The battle continues to rage on around him and his work is still needed.

The Fierce Deity continues to fight, leaving the young goddess behind. As the fight comes to a close, his host removes him once more and he has returned to the world of darkness around him. As darkness falls on the outside world, his host rests for the day. It is here that the old god decides to ask about the maiden from before.

“Hero.” He calls into the mind of his chosen.

He feels the body wither and groan in response.  Exhaustion plagues his mind and body heavily, but his curiosity runs deeper than the needs of mortals. “Yes?” 

“Tell me about the Great One’s kin.” He says, because he’s not entirely sure if she herself is one of the Great Ones or merely a Lesser One. He is sure, however, about her status among mortals is not one and the same.

“The what?” The once boy replies.

“The young woman.” He feels himself growing impatient. Who else could he be possibly talking about other than one of the most breathtaking individuals he has ever seen among the sixteen realms?

His host groans once more. Vaguely, the cursed one can feel the sluggish mind of his host put the dots together to whom he may be talking about. “Woman…. Hesper? Are you talking about Hesper?”

A soothing balm covers his irritation in an instant. He hums and echoes the name pleasantly. “Hesper. So that is her name… Divine, indeed. Tell me more.”

“No.”

“Boy-”

“No. It’s three in the morning. I am trying to sleep.”

That does not dissuade the old god.

It takes the course of multiple days, but the Fierce Deity eventually gleans information about the girl and her kin. She is from a distant realm beyond their borders of reality. She is in fact a daughter of the Great Ones- but of her own realm. There appear to be many Great Ones where she is from. She is a daughter of a goddess named Nyx- a goddess and personification of night, and mother to many monsters and other Great Ones. 

However, Hesper herself is not a Great One, much to his disappointment and displeasure. She is half-mortal. There are many like her in her realm. Such one travels with the group as well. A young boy no older than seven. The Deity is told that the boy cannot speak with his tongue and rather uses his hands much like another boy he used to know. He is the opposite of his half-sister. She is dark and of the night. The boy is bright and of the day. To his knowledge, the boy was abandoned by his mother for not sticking to the code of her other children.

The Fierce Deity feels an indignant twitch in his eye once he is told but he cannot speak against such ones for his own sake. Hesper, however, does not seem to mind. The boy, named Sol, is very much her kin and responsibility.

When asked about her attire, the Deity was told that Hesper was born with a curse and natural susceptibility to sunlight. She cannot be touched by it or she will suffer.

Knowing all of this only causes the old god to want to know more about her.

Those eyes that he stared into haunt with every waking second. And for an immortal being without any need for rest, he has a lot of time on his hands to think of her. Should it come to it, he would fight by her side. He would devote himself to her. He would be her sword and her shield so she wouldn’t ever have to come near danger ever again. He cannot bear the thought of such a wondrous creature falling in the path of another blade. He still remembers her scream of pain. It is maddening.

Curiously, one day, the young boy Sol finds him among the hidden weapons and masks belonging to his host. The Fierce Deity is vaguely aware of the boy’s spirit. He is energetic and flighty- prone to joking with seemingly never-ending mischievous intentions.

He picks up the mask and studies him. The god doesn’t know of the boy’s intentions with his prison but he wonders how he passes the guard of his host. This is not a normal occurrence.

The boy drops the mask and something falls on top of it- cracking the visage.

The chains rattle around him and the Fierce Deity can feel the power of the prison slipping away as the seconds pass. It takes only a moment for him to find the weakest link and strike through it.

He is free.

His body forms from under the rubble and the boy stares up at him with what can only describe as shock and awe. It appears that while he dropped the mask, many things fell over as well, falling on top of the mask to strike just where it needed to. A lucky strike, so to speak.

His old host stands next to the boy, equally shocked and on edge. Any words he may have intended to say to the youngest die on his tongue once his eyes land on his imposing figure. His old host is no longer the boy he once knew. Pride swells up in him to see the man he has grown into. But neither of them are the one he wishes to see the most right now.

As if summoned by the commotion, Hesper herself comes from the woodwork, instantly b-lining for her young brother.

As soon as she nears, the deity drops to his knee, bowing toward the daughter of night.

She freezes at the sight of him, looking between him and his former host. She takes a step back. Hesper clears her throat and looks away from him. “... Is this normal?”

The Fierce Deity is unfamiliar with the emotions causing his heart to race but he knows that she is worthy of the honor and respect he gives her. “All others shield themselves from the morning sun- yet it is the starlight’s beauty that gains the admiration of mere men. I finally understand where they meet their folly."

Her jaw falls softly. Although it is covered by the cloth to shield her from the afternoon rays, he can see the shock drape over her face. She spins around, trying to find some sort of response to his words but no one is able to help her. She gulps. “I… thank you?”

His former host gains his sense of self first. He walks toward the two of them, putting himself in between. “Hesper, I’d like to apologize on his behalf-”

“Do not apologize for me.” The Deity growls. “I’ve waited for millennia. I refuse to wait any longer.”

"Millennia for what?? You- who are you?" Hesper blinks, completely perplexed. She then squints, recalling a time she'd gotten messed up on the battlefield no less than a week ago. "Wait... it's you. The deit- why are you bowing to me?"

Her recognition of him is exciting. The Fierce Deity straightens in his pose, keeping his knee firmly on the first floor. "Because you are the most exquisite jewel among mortal men."

Hesper gulps again, taking another step back. A hand raises, and a finger points towards her as if to question if he’s truly talking about her. As if he’d say that about anyone else. It’s a soft look. Her eyes widen, and a blush peeks out from under her mask. "W... what?"

"You are a daughter of the night." He says easily. "The jewels of the heavens are your birthright. And I am forever at your beck and call, my queen."

The Fierce Deity is too taken by the young woman in front of him to notice that the camp has gone silent. They are watching the interaction with intense interest. Sol looks around the group, not quite understanding what is transpiring.

Time’s jaw has dropped as well. Something compels him to attempt to regain control over the situation. Before he can act, however, Sol tugs on his sleeve. He signs. ‘Is he bad? Like the gods at home?’

Time sighs and shakes his head. "Yes and no. But I think you and your sister are safe."

‘Okay... why is he saying all that stuff about Hesper?’ Sol lights up suddenly. ‘Does he like her?? Is that what he meant by jewel?’

Time is fighting back the second-hand embarrassment as much as he can. "It appears soooo… He's always been more on the poetic side of prose."

He is not going to tell Sol that FD tried to farm him for information about his sister.

‘Oh, I see! Well, hopefully he doesn't just like her for her power, she hates that.’ Sol turns just in time to make eye contact with FD and waves with a grin.

The Fierce Deity smiles back in kind, making even Time take a step back. He waves and beckons the small child closer.

Sol runs up, no hesitation, and Hesper tenses. ‘Hi, I'm Sol! You like my big sister, huh?’

The old god’s face softens at the sign. The boy looks a lot like Link did when he was little. He reaches out to ruffle the hair of the younger one. "I've been bewitched by her splendor, little one. There is little who can compare. Are you the protector of this maiden?"

‘Yeah! If you wanna date my sister, you can't just use fancy words! You gotta pass my test!’

"Ah, Sol-" Hesper starts, alarmed.

The Fierce Deity grins. "Of course! A maiden of her caliber cannot be won alone by fanciful speech."

He reaches over, picking him up effortlessly and puts him on his shoulders. "Tell me, child, what quest is in need of pursuing?"

Sol grins back. ‘Well, to start, what do you like about her? Is she just a jewel to you?’

Hesper keeps her hand against her heart, watching the interaction with bated breath and a hand on a blade. Her heart is pounding in her chest.

"A jewel is more than its shine and splendor." He says easily, holding his hand out for her to take as he makes his way into the middle of the camp. It wouldn't look well on his part to leave her behind, now would it.

"I was enamored by her wit." He admits. "And her fortitude."

Hesper takes it after he says that, keeping the other readily on her blade.

‘Fortitude? What's that mean? Sounds cool!’ Sol, however, is unbothered by this hulking man, singing the praises of his older sister. He is very quickly gaining his approval.

"It means to take courage despite the pain." The old god whispers, looking at her reaction. There's no mistaking that he's smitten with her. Something that the rest of the group are quick to clue in on.

As well as the young woman. Despite her unwillingness to instantly trust this man, his face speaks of nothing but genuine emotion and intention. Does… he truly mean what he says?

The grip on her blade loosens.

Sol keeps signing. ‘Wow, you know her really well! How long have you been in love with her?’ 

"Sol!" Time cuts him off, mortified on Hesper's behalf. "I think that's a conversation for them to have."

"No way, this is getting good!" Legend waves him off.

Time pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're all horrible."

Sol tilts his head. ‘I'm just saying! He's obviously known her for a while, but she doesn't know him at all!’

"That's... why it should be a conversation between us." Hesper says quietly.

‘Oh? So you're okay with him?’

"... For now." She decides, releasing her blade entirely.

‘Okay! Good job, you passed for now!’

Even more pride swells within the chest of the deity. He finds himself standing straighter and smiles at the young boy on his shoulders. He feels as if he is beaming. “My many thanks.”

Sol clambers off him to go play with Wind, leaving his sister behind and thoroughly embarrassed. The deity watches his interest. He’s admittedly always had a soft spot for little ones. 

Hesper on the other hand has succumbed to her embarrassment, covering her face with one of her hands.  Her voice is quiet and strained. A mere squeak of its usual glory. “Oh my gods…”

The Fierce Deity sees no problem with this. He turns to her once again, bending at his knee with his head down. "My queen."

He awaits her direction.

"Ah- you don't have to bow, standing or sitting or- whatever you want to do is fine!" Hesper puts her hands out in an attempt to stop him from showing the proper respect she deserves. He does not understand why she attempts this. He can only assume that she's not used to this kind of treatment. Although he cannot imagine why.

Something about that level of innocence ignites his wicked streak. He smirks a bit. "And if I want to do this?"

"For crying out loud, don't make it harder on the poor girl." Time groans.

"... That's fine." Hesper barely manages to squeak out. She can't look at him. The deity hadn’t even thought it was possible for her to appear bashful. It’s an endearing look on her.

The Fierce Deity reaches out, brushing a bit of hair out of her face. "Beautiful... What a lovely shade you don, dearest.”

"I-I'm going to patrol-!" Hesper yells, taking a step back into the shadows and disappearing in a blink of an eye.

He blinks as he stares into the space where she once had been. Shadow travel? Exquisite. Is there anything she isn’t capable of? Curse aside, of course.

"Awwww..." Sky pouts. "She left before it got good."

Time is internally screaming. This has already gotten out of hand. He can't do anything to reel him in and he knows it.

Hesper is on her own, he decides. Which is unfortunate for her, but entertaining for everyone else.

Sol somehow has the sense to sign 'Hey mister, I think you overdid it.'

Wind nods along with him. "She's not used to compliments, take it from me. I called her pretty once and she hid her face again!"

The Fierce Deity frowns. "Is there such a thing? How could she not get compliments? She's one of a kind. A daughter of the Great One.... does she not have suitors?"

Sol shakes his head. 'Everyone back home thinks she's scary... at least that's what she said.’

Wind slowly nods along, wincing.

The old god glares in the space beyond the group. "Unacceptable.”

'I mean they're scared of Momma too, but I dunno why.' Sol shrugs. 'They're not scared of me.'

Sol does not understand that many fear such creatures of the night no matter what their size or shape. Their intentions and actions do not matter to the creatures of the day. However, that is of little excuse. The Fierce Deity doesn’t understand it either.

"Cowards."

The old god takes a deep breath. 

Sol shrugs and goes back to playing with Wind.

It isn’t long until Sol returns and all but tackles the deity. ‘I have a question.’

“And what is it you intend to ask, little one?” The Deity turns to look at the young boy. He allows him to crawl over him, digging into his sides and his armor to perch himself over his shoulder.

‘Are you going to marry my sister?’

“If she’ll have me.”

Sol nods sagely. ’You’ll need an apple.’

“An apple?” Another thing the deity does not understand. “Is such a thing required for the hand of maidens where you’re from?”

Sol nods once again, more enthusiastically. ‘You have to throw it to her. If she catches it, she’ll marry you.’

The Fierce Deity remembers this and allows the child to get off of him as he returns to playing around with the other boys. He knows he must win over the young woman first but such knowledge is useful for the future.

Hesper doesn’t return until the break of twilight. The Fierce Deity had been attending and entertaining the younger ones when Sol had all but collapsed against him. Hesper collects the child without missing a beat and prepares his bedroll in a moment.

The old god is panicking on the inside but he's outwardly looking confused. "...I wasn't aware he was that thoroughly exhausted."

"He's not. It's his curse." Hesper picks up her brother's body, which appears limp and lifeless. "He can only be active in the light of day. No light; it's like he's dead. But he's just sleeping."

The Fierce Deity shudders at the thought, but it's quickly replaced by thinly veiled rage. "Who would dare put a curse on a child?"

"The gods of our world." Hesper says it so calmly... and then she looks at him. "They're afraid of what we'd do without them there."

"Well as I recall, they're not here." He growls. "Can this be undone?"

"It took a god to do it, so I'd imagine it'd take a god to undo it." Hesper goes through the routine of putting Sol to bed; arms over his blanket so he'll wake sooner in the morning. "Nothing else I've tried has worked, anyways."

The old god stares after the sleeping child.

"...A god you say..." He whispers, running his hands over Sol's bangs. He takes a knee once more and bows his head toward the young woman. "Is that all there is to it?”

"... It was the king of the gods who did it." The word 'king' is bitter on her tongue. "His word overpowers all others in our world. I know most of you are god slayers, so that might not even matter, but... be careful."

The Fierce Deity hums; already aware such things would come with a price and gently puts the back of his finger on Sol's cheek. The child is cold.

Something is stirred within him. Ancient. Primal.

"I'll find a way."

"I know. I could see you thinking about it as soon as I mentioned gods." Hesper sighs, already cluing in to the fact she can't sway him. Still, she makes him look at her. "I mean it, though. Find your way if you want, but don't be reckless. Please."

The Fierce Deity stills- the storm in his mind clearing as she pulls him from his thoughts. Her hands. They're on him. She's touching him. Willingly.

He backs down to step to her level. 

"Yes... As you wish, Jewel." He whispers, unable to deny the look in her eye. His heart is pounding in his chest. What is this feeling?

"Thank you." She nods, checks on Sol one last time, then makes her way around the camp, checking in on the boys and seeing them off to bed.

... She can't believe she did that.

He can't believe she just did that.

He could have touched her back. He could have held her. He could have held her hand. He could have felt her skin and its warmth, its tone, its smooth silk-like quality.

A rare creature- both alluring and captivating. To humble him. To excite him.

He's never felt like a man until this point.

His eyes follow her as she moves through the camp.

This child means the world to her.

He'll protect them for the night.

Hesper looks back at him after a moment- Time does as well.

"Will you be sleeping?" She asks their shared question. She isn't sure if he needs sleep, but it never hurts to ask.

It takes a moment for the deity to register that she was speaking to him. When it hits he looks ashamed of not answering her sooner.

"No." He says. "You may rest for tonight. I have no plans for slumber."

She nods, then says goodnight to Time, returning to her brother's side. Instead of lying on a bedroll, she leans against the tree by his head, just shy of the deity's reach. If she’s sleeping, she’s in no hurry to do so.

The temptation the deity didn't know he'd have to restrain. He steadies himself to look away from her and the child, looking instead to the rest of the group and beyond.

He could do it. He could give in to everything he desires.

But she ran from mere words.

He would never live down pushing her away.  So he sits still. Like a statue.

And behaves himself.

Even if he allows himself to fantasize in the meantime.

Hesper, for her part, glances at him, out of the corner of her eye.

He's really not that bad, she's decided. He's just... not used to people, she thinks. Yeah... not used to people. That made two of them, really.

She looks back into the forest, letting out a quiet sigh. Part of her is nervous. The last time someone took an interest in her, it was… It went bad, to say the least. She doesn't want that again.

But so far he seemed good. ...Overwhelming on the compliments, but good.

Oh gosh, the compliments. How could someone find that much to compliment her on? And not one thing about her power.

Courage.

Of course that's what he liked.

... It was cute, in a way. He's... he's pretty cute.

She'll admit that to herself. She can allow that.

She’s smiling a little when she nods off.

Seeing the faint smile on her face puts the deity a little more at ease. Time explains to the others (as they all tuck themselves in for the night) that they have nothing to fear from the old god and with time, they all turn in for the night as well and sleep peacefully.

Time gives one last glance at the large male before he also puts his head against his bed roll. The deity has seen him grow from boy to man- his old host has done much for him. The main one being his restraint- or rather- his desire to not abuse his power while he was imprisoned. 

He will look after all of them. All of them. These young heroes of courage deserve to worry less about their journeys.

But as for Hesper...

He looks back to the child beside her.

The Fierce Deity vows that he will take care of that one, especially.

Hours pass and Hesper wakes with a start, as usual.

Dawn is coming. She checks to ensure she's properly covered, then gets up to check around the camp. She's so into her usual routine she forgets there's now a deity for a moment until she sees him.

"... Oh. Morning."

The Fierce Deity has already checked the perimeter and has returned from his second round. He bows to her. "Good dawn, Jewel."

She huffs in amusement. "You know, I’m not sure how I'm supposed to address you. Do you have a name or title you want us to use?"

Here, his cool confidence falters.

"I am known as the Fierce Deity. A war god. Protector of Termina......Cursed by the goddess to the form of a mask....and.... I have no other name."

"No other... ?" Hesper's eyes show she's frowning. "That's... horrible. I'm sorry to hear that."

The Deity flushes. "Gods of no honor receive none."

Demise is a name the Hylians gave him but he is known as The Demise. Or The Void. Titles are given when they have either fulfilled or gained their intended purpose. In which they are shortly after disposed of in one way or another.

Demise didn't approve of that and sought vengeance. 

The deity himself fought back and was cursed.

But he was never meant to be loved. So he has no name. He knows this.

"I have accepted this."

"You have more honor than any god I know." She blurts. She's... surprised by how quickly it comes out. But she keeps going. "You... you deserve a name.”

His head snaps up to meet her head-on. "... I wouldn't dare… presume...."

"What name would you want? If... if you had one." It's not fair, Hesper laments in her heart. He should have one. Screw the regulations. He's done so much, for so long. She can see it on his face. He's earned a name. She'll name him herself if no one else will.

The deity looks to the ground. No one had ever asked him that before. He didn't think it would have been worth considering.

He looks at the boys. They all share the same name. It would be strange to take it for himself.

He frowns, feeling frustrated for not being able to give his queen an adequate answer. "I never gave it much thought. It was never of importance. I don't... I don't know..."

"That's okay." She assures him. "I... you don't have to take it if you don't like it, but... what about Thárros? It's... it's in my mother tongue, but... it means Courage."

"Thárros..." The name rolls off his tongue smoothly. 

"Hesper..." He says her name for comparison. Frankly, he finds that her name is much sweeter on his tongue. But the note that the first name was chosen by his queen, in her maiden tongue no less, fills him with an indecipherable warmth. He's never been exposed to this sort of warmth before. He takes ahold of it.

"Thárros." He echoes himself. "You may call me that. If you desire, Jewel."

Her eyes crinkle, glimmering a little, and she nods. "I will. It's a pleasure to meet you, Thárros. And... you can call me Hesper, if you want. But Jewel's fine, too."

Dawn peeks over the horizon, and Hesper steps into the shade. The light makes contact with Sol's arm and a moment later he opens his eyes, once again full of life as he sits up and yawns. 'Morning...'

Wild sits up in another part of camp, going to make breakfast.

Thárros lets it rumble around his brain. It's a nice name. He smiles, smiling wider when Sol awakens. "Good morning, little one."

Time and Warrior both wake up soon after, getting ready for the day as well. They both send him nods of acknowledgement. He returns them with ease.

'Morning, Mister. How'd you sleep?' He yawns again, still not enough sunlight in his system yet. 'Oh! Did Hesper miss the sun today?'

"Yes, Sol, I'm over here." Hesper answers the last part for him.

"Miss the sun?" The Fierce Deity, now known as Thárros, looks over and tilts his head. Strange. But she is of the night.

"I didn't sleep." He responds to the child's earlier question. "I have no need for it."

'Oh, that’s cool. Yeah, Hesper wears so much clothes because she's allergic to the sun. It'll hurt her really bad if it touches her skin, so I always check.' Sol signs his understanding, but it doesn't take too much to decipher Sol processes Hesper's curse as an allergy. 'She’s only not missed it once, though, she's really good about it.'

Something in the old god’s heart breaks. That’s right, they’re both cursed. Forever shunned from either side of the day. How can they remain a family this way?

He nods in understanding, ruffling Sol’s hair in the process. "She must cherish you greatly. It's good that you look after her the way you do."

He'll break her curse too. He swears by this as well.

'Uh huh, we're really close! Even if she can't run around and play tag with Wind and I around camp, she's really good at hide and seek in the forest! She'll find me, sneak under my feet and toss me in the air! It's super fun! ' As the sun keeps rising, he gains more energy and signs faster. 'And we'll sit close during meals and after dinner we'll make up stories if I'm not playing with Wind and she taught me how to use a dagger and sneak and-!'

"Breakfast is ready!"

'Oo, breakfast! I'll be back with a plate for you, sis!' And off he runs.

Hesper laughs. "Ever the energetic one~"

Thárros shakes his head. "Most are at his age."

He then points to his old host, who's too busy trying to give out the food in an organized manner. "He was just as bad, if not worse."

Hesper chuckles. "I believe it. Though I'm willing to bet Sol can be energetic much longer than he ever was."

He hums. "....No. Not quite.  The boy would stay awake for days on end. Never ceasing his quest for justice… I'm afraid Sol could not have done the same. Not with the curse upon him."

"Oh, I almost forgot he was a child hero." Hesper sighs. "I can't stand those... why must they fight so young?"

"Why indeed?" Thárros’ hand flexes over his knee. "I suppose the heroes all have their own curses to bear... It is the same with your Great Ones."

Well, I wouldn’t call them all great. Not when they treat the world as some toy they can toss away when it bores them." The glint in her eyes darkens briefly, then she looks up as her brother starts running back. "... Don’t tell Sol I said that."

The deity nods, even further fascinated by the woman next to him.

"I am not allowed to call The Great Ones anything but." He murmurs. "But it appears we aren't as different as I originally thought."

"Is that so? I suppose I should be nicer to them, but... well, I'm only nice to the gods I respect. Outside my family, that's just you." Hesper smiles as Sol reaches them, offering food. "Oh, I see you have three plates. You got one for Thárros too?"

Sol makes the connection quickly and nods, offering the deity a plate. He does not question the name.

Thárros subtly smiles and eases the weight off of the little one. "Thank you."

The deity begins to eat the strange meal. He's never had someone cook for him before either. He wasn't entirely sure he needed to eat. But the smell was kind and the other took no heed in questioning the methods behind it.

He takes a bite.

'You're welcome!' Sol plops down, separating the best slice of meat from the rest of his meal and eating the rest. Notably, Hesper does the same.

Naturally, the deity notices this, but he doesn't understand. There's many customs he hasn't needed to learn and so he has no reason to believe that it's anything strange to do. Not to mention they grew up with separate Great Ones to dictate the manner of conduct.

He makes no comment on it and simply eats like he's seen his old host do.

They both finish except for that one piece, and Sol turns to get Hesper's plate, sliding her remaining portion onto his. He walks over to the fire and scrapes them both in, signing 'For Mama.'

"... Nyx and Thárros." Hesper murmurs quietly.

Sol goes about collecting plates and helping them get clean while Hesper starts packing up.

That takes him by surprise.

An offering?

For him, no less.

If it was for their mother, he would understand more but for him? He's a lesser god. An ant of a divine being. He's no better than they are. Why would they offer something to him? 

They pack up relatively quickly and make their way through the forest once more. He stays close to the back of the group, keeping quiet to not disturb the others as much as he can avoid. It appears Hesper is of the same train of thought, although she still isn’t quite sure what to make of him.

Hours turn to days turn to weeks turn to months. They are no better off finding the cure to their problem than he is finding the cure to the curses of the divine ones within the group.

The lack of progress is maddening. Thárros, as he is slowly beginning to grow accustomed to being called, has always considered himself a man of action and of results. To have nowhere to begin and no direction to follow is not in his nature.

However, that does not stop him from doting on Hesper whenever he has the time. And should the boys permit it, Sol takes it upon himself to use his body as his personal climbing gym. It warms Thárros’ heart that the boy is so welcoming of his presence. Link as a child was curious and desperate at best, but still wary. 

It is a moment where he finds himself alone on patrol that he feels something shift in the air. He instantly puts his hand on the hilt of his blade. It is the middle of the day and he is in a clearing. Only someone foolish enough to not know who he is would threaten him here.

"... You're Thárros, yes? My sister speaks fondly of you."

The man spins on his heel, coming face to face with a woman he has never seen before but his confidence is shaken. A Great One. Her power is beyond his own. She stands as the dawning sun. Warm and giving, hopeful to a fault but dim. She does not stand in the direct light but she glows in the way a divine being can. He knows not who she is but respect has always been given until taken away.

His battle mask comes on.

He nods to her, bowing for good measure. "I am quite fond of her as well. May I ask of your name, Great One?"

"Yes, I can see it." Her smile is warm towards him, much like Hesper's. “I am called Hemera, goddess of the dawn and giver of days. Your loyalty to my sister is clear... You even wish to break the curse on her, from what I hear. I believe I can help with that."

Thárros' attention snaps to her. He takes a step closer despite his better judgment. "How?"

"I have crafted a bracelet for her... with it, she can walk in whichever light she wishes." She produces the item, offering it to him. "All it needs now is the touch of a deity from this world to be finished. I trust you wouldn't mind?"

He drops to take a knee. "It would be my greatest honor.”

Hemera is pleased. "Yes... you two are indeed a good match, just as I thought. May you live long lives together."

He nods, tenderly biting his lip from the inside. He cannot show weakness. He cannot fail.

It's never been this easy before. Truly there isn't any other catch to this.

Hemera presses the bracelet into his hand with a nod and a smile. It gains a shimmer to it; so quick it almost didn't seem real.

"I'll leave you to it, then." She stands and turns to leave. "... Thank you, Thárros. To you and your boys; for taking care of them when we can't."

He looks down into his palm and tucks the bracelet into his chest. Should he push his luck?

"And the boy?" He asks tentatively. "The child is cursed as well… Is that your domain? Can you help?"

Hemera looks sad at that. "I would help Sol if I could, but... we are both at the mercy of night. I'm afraid I can't help him."

Thárros stands. "...Is there a Great One who could?"

He refuses to only have one solution. He had promised Hesper to help her little brother. He has to push a bit further to make headway on his vows.

Hemera thinks about it. "... My father might. Erebus, the darkness itself. But... he has no love for either of them. He will not give you a solution as freely."

He nods; body rigid with pure determination. "I am willing to pay any price for either of them."

"Careful what you vow, Thárros." Hemera warns. "I have no doubt he'll use it against you if he can. ... Good luck on your quest. I hope you can free him."

His grip on the bracelet tightens. "I'm well aware."

He sees her off and looks back to the token in his hands.

He knows the Great One would rather have him sacrifice himself. But he was already imprisoned once. Worse case scenario he must cease to exist.

For Hesper?

He'd take that plunge.

His world has long grown out of a use for him and the Great Ones above him care not for his fate.

He'd do anything.

Thárros returns to camp quickly. He finds Hesper relatively quickly. She had fallen asleep in the shade of a great oak, a rare break she has given herself. He kneels beside her and regrettably shakes her shoulder gently. She rests so few and far between… but this, he feels, is beyond a moment of reprieve. 

Hesper's eyes open and she stretches, grunting.

Not her most comfortable sleep, but better than none at all.

"Good dawn, Thárros." She’s started keying in when he's around, but she still blinks twice when she realizes he's closer than she thought. "... Did something happen?"

He bows toward her again. "I've had a visitor, Jewel."

He keeps his head low, waiting for her reaction. "A Great One by the name of Hemera."

"Hemera was here?" There’s a lightness to her tone; delight at hearing about her sister. "I didn't think she could get here. How is she? Just checking in?"

He smiles at her tone. There's trust there. He visibly relaxes. "Yes. She brought a gift."

"A gift?" Hesper chuckles. "For you or Sol?"

"For you." He whispers, bringing the bracelet into the light.

She pauses, not expecting that. 

"... For me?" She reaches out, fingers just grazing the bracelet before she draws them back with a gasp. "What- what kind of magic is that? It's so warm."

"A protection." He urges her to take it. "From the light, Jewel."

He gulps, beginning to second-guess himself. The feelings he's never experienced until he met this woman scare him. "It cures your curse."

She looks at him. In disbelief. In shock. But then the stars in her eyes start to shimmer with hope.

Carefully, she takes the bracelet and puts it on. As it clicks around her wrist, it shimmers again, and she can feel the warmth spread through her whole body.

"... I can't believe it." She says softly. "After all this time... I can really..." She looks up from the bracelet, pulling down her mask just as the tears fall. "Thank you."

He panics and reaches to wipe her tears as gently as he can. "Why? Why thank me so? I have yet to help the little one."

Not to mention he can't really take credit for this. If anything, it means they would have gotten help sooner but no one cared enough to offer it. Even those that could.

But she seems overjoyed, so he won't ruin it for her.

"Yes, but you brought my hope back. I was certain-" She decides not to finish that, reaching forward and hugging him tight without a care in the world. "Thank you, Thárros. For caring."

Thárros shivers when she says his name. It's a power she has over him. It's exciting yet humbling. 

He gulps, wrapping his arms around her as well. "I will help the child. Thank me not, yet. My work isn't finished."

But he tucks his nose into her hair. "However, I'm glad that you are taken care of."

"One thing down." Hesper exhales in agreement, relaxing against him. He's so warm... She feels safe like this.

Wild coughs, and it gets Hesper's attention. "Uh... good morning? Have a nice nap?"

Hesper goes pink and attempts to slowly pull out of the hug, despite a part of her screaming to just shadow away. "... Good afternoon, Wild."

Thárros doesn't let her go. If anything, he holds on tighter. He calls the young hero his affection-given name. "Good afternoon, Cub."

He turns his head to look at the young man. "Has the meal been prepared?"

"Working on it." The young man replies.

... Hesper is fine. This is comfortable. She's not-

Oh, who is she kidding, her growing appreciation and attraction are so obvious right now! Still, she doesn't move. In fact, she indulges herself and tucks her head in the crook of his neck. If he insists on keeping her here, she'll just get more comfortable.

Thárros nods towards Wild, turning his attention back to the woman in his arms. He holds her close, tucking her against him. He dare not ask for more from her.

He tenderly trails his fingers through her hair. But words fail him.

She tilts her head into his touch, trying to encourage him to continue.

This is nice. She likes this, earlier embarrassment aside. Sol sits up now that the rain clouds have passed, yawning with eyes half open. 'No... wanna go back to sleep...'

Hesper chuckles. "Afternoon, Sol. Did you enjoy your nap as well?"

'Hello. Sleep was ok...' He turns, blinking blearily. '... Your hood is off... Hair pretty. You like it short?'

"Easy to manage, I suppose."

Sol nods slowly, the gears in his brain turning slowly. '... Wait... hood off... no sunburn?'

Hesper shows him her bracelet. "Magic sunblock."

'Magic... sunblock? So you can...' It hits and he perks up. 'You can play tag?'

"Yes." Hesper snorts as Sol stumbles out of bed, running to tackle Wind and get a game started.

The deity chuckles, brushing Hesper's hair away from her face. "How do you feel, Jewel?"

"... Warm." She smiles. "The kind of warmth night can't replicate... it's nice."

"Ack- Sol, what- ... WHAT?!" Wind's shout catches the attention of several other Links, most of them confused and unimpressed. "Guys, Hesper can be in the sun!"

Wild looks up from his pot, blinking, then it clicks that Hesper and Thárros are in the sun and he mouths 'oh'.

The fierce deity smiles, grinning even. But instead of letting the others see it, he hides his face in the crook of her neck. "I'm glad."

He pulls away, teasing a kiss to her cheek. "You shouldn't need to hide from now on."

She giggles, even as her cheeks turn pink. "Aw, but sneaking around is fun!"

The rest of the camp is thrown for a loop; especially Time.

"It's only fun when it's voluntary." He whispers. "I feel as if I'm finally seeing you for the first time."

He pulls back, looking her over now that she can have her face out without any concern. He hums quietly, ignoring the other boys. "Typically the sun would overpower the light of the stars… but dare I say you appear even more bedazzled than usual, Darling."

She flusters more, attempting to pull her mask up. "How? I haven't done anything-"

He stops her, poking her nose with his. "Don't. I'm not done admiring you yet, Jewel."

"F... fine." She accepts her fate, embarrassing as it is. "If you insist..."

Warrior coughs from the sidelines. "I didn't think he had moves."

Time pales. "Honestly.... neither did I."

'Her stars are pretty, so it makes sense he wants to watch them.' Sol grins.

"Stars?" Wind blinks.

'Yeah, Hesper has stars in her eyes!'

"Oh, like how you have the sun-shaped birthmark."

'I think so? Yeah!'

Thárros takes the moment to study her. He finds it fascinating. Her eyes are full and deep and beautiful. His are flat, plain, off-putting.

He kisses her again, on her forehead, unable to hold himself back. Then he moves to her other cheek and her temple. Then onto the other side.

He kisses the tip of her nose and seemingly moves to her lips but pauses. 

"Dearest... I would travel through hells for you..." He whispers. "I merely wish for you to be honored as you deserve. Whether it be with me... or another..."

But he's not too fond of the latter idea.

"... You act as if I'd choose someone else." The idea that he even considers that... annoys her. "I've let you this close, haven't I? Isn't it obvious by now, Thárros?"

His grip on her tightens as he goes completely rigid. His jaw clenches and he gulps. "...I'm afraid I am unworthy. For you... your name... your legacy...your family..."

He closes his eyes, brushing his nose against hers, taking her presence in. "I... am a selfish man. But I cannot fault you, should you choose another."

Hesper huffs, warm breath fanning over his face. "Seriously?"

She kisses him, right there, in front of the whole camp.

A choked noise comes out of him, clearly taken off guard.

His hands fly upwards, caging her in and holding her closer. One hand on her cheek, the other entangled in her hair.

He gives in to his desires at last.

Hesper makes a point to kiss him for a long moment, both to prove something and because it felt good to kiss him. When she finally draws back, however, it's softly, and she's cradling his face like he's as precious as he likes to say she is. "... I... choose you. Understand? No one else, Thárros. I love you." 

He keeps her close though- not allowing her to be too far away from possibly being kissed again. Thárros gulps and nods. "I have already chosen you… My Love."

The frustration mixed with her look of adoration slips away, and she huffs in amusement. "Good. Glad we're on the same page."

"... Lunch is ready." Wild hesitantly breaks the moment, the first to find his voice in the shocked silence of... everyone.

The one… previously known as The Fierce Deity was overjoyed for the longest time. He was no longer bothered by their lack of progress. To see the Jewel of the Sixteen Realms laugh and play in the sun as she’s always yearned warmed his heart. It seemed as if there was a hole that was filled from that point on, both in Hesper and in Sol.

And to finally kiss her.

It only solidified his determination to help where he was needed. Surely, there would still be battles to fight and a war to win, but this purpose had a higher meaning now.

If he had to lay his existence on the line for the sake of one little boy, he would do so without a second thought. While he would miss his Jewel, and he knew now, that it would pain her for him to leave. If it was called for, he would give. And give and give. She deserved to live happily. She was robbed of the light and of the pleasures of day. And as a consequence, she was robbed of her brother and his childhood. 

And her brother deserved to have his big sister by his side to protect him- not to watch him from a distance where she cannot go. Sol should know the wonders of the night and beauty of the stars. It is the realm of his mother and his sister. The darkened skies are a peace to mankind. He should know those as well.

A family must be whole.

He says none of this to Hesper, for fear she should convince him otherwise. But he has never broken a vow before, nor does he plan to begin to do so.

It is once again, when he is alone on patrol that another Great One from the other realm visits him. This time, however, the world shifts around him and Thárros is enveloped in darkness. He sees no body either in front of him or around him.

He need not introduce himself. The darkness speaks to cut to the chase. "Hemera says you wish to break a curse. That requires a test, does it not? Sure you can wield the sword and ‘protect’... but I know your kind. Savage. Rough. Beastly. Prove yourself capable of restraint and maybe I'll help the child." 

“Erebus.” The Fierce Deity bows in the darkness. A Great One of the highest regard should be treated as such, no matter how savage he considers them to be. The Great One gives him no such respect in return.

"Do not move from where you stand, boy. What you are going to see has already transpired. Try to help her-" The omnipresent form before Thárros grins wickedly, a smile that promises pain.  "And I will send you back to where you came from in failure."

Thárros growls, hate and wrath already burning in his stomach.

The Great One laughs. "This would be interesting to watch. Begin."

The darkness shifts, forming a room. A man stands before him, holding a wailing baby. It's- her arm has been touched by sunlight, smoke curling into the air from the contact. Hesper turns into the man's shadow, melting away and into a darkened corner of the house, still crying. The man gasps.

"What the- what kind of demon are you?!" The man grabs a knife, face twisted in disgust as he starts towards her. "Nevermind that! Go back to wherever you came from, you little devil!"

The man swings towards Hesper and-

The scene changes.

The once Fierce Deity tenses considerably, but makes no move.

She's older now. A man sits with her, a weaker demigod, holding the arm burnt in her childhood and examining the scars it left behind.

"It never healed?"

"Not really." She says softly, pulling her arm back. "That's why I wear the cloak... to protect me from the sun. Until I find something else, at least."

The man nods, something glinting in his eyes. Something dark. "So... it really can kill you."

She doesn't see it, standing from the table. "Yes. That's why I visit at night... I really should go, Lityerses. Hemera is coming soon."

Something crashes to the floor. A mirror, sending shards everywhere.

"Lit?! Are you alri-"

"Hemera." 'Lit' grasps the edge of a curtain. "Is already here."

He rips the curtain down, sunlight flooding the room and reflecting off of all the shards. Hesper screams in pain, retreating to a corner and hiding behind her cloak. "Lit, what are you doing?!"

"I'm sick of you leaving." He pulls down another curtain and another, ignoring her cries for him to stop. "I'm starting to wonder if you even love me."

"I do! Lit, please-!"

"That's not good enough." He pulls down the last curtain, looking at the cloak wrapped so tight he can only see the shape of her. "I don't want you to leave ever again. You're mine, Hesper. Only mine."

Then he took the curtains and left.

Leaving her to sob.

Thárros can feel the need to conjure his sword bubble under the surface of his skin. He studies the face of the man intently, but makes no move from his spot.

The memories with Lit continue. There’s days worth. Months worth. Years worth. Every time he appears through the door, Thárros has to remind himself there's an end to this. Somewhere, eventually, this ends. He stops screaming at her. He stops abusing her. He stops demanding things he has no right to demand. She stops crying.

It takes another year’s worth of memories before he hears a second man. Not Lit. The small form in the corner shifts.

"... Don't." She hisses to the second man. "Don't eat, don't drink. It's a trick."

She flinches as Lit kicks the door, but she keeps going. "He intends to slow you so you can't beat him."

"Beat him in what?" The man replies.

"A harvesting contest!"

"SHUT UP!" A harsher kick, and she goes quiet again. But the man stands.

"Who is she?"

"A foolish woman who can't keep her mouth shut!" Lit throws open the door, intent on getting her, but the second man pulls him back outside.

"You can deal with her after you beat me."

Lit laughs. "Alright, fine! I've never been beat before, I won't start now!"

Thárros felt great satisfaction when Hercules took his head off.

He watched on as the scenes went by faster; near hits, near kills, threats, all while she gained more scars and better equipment to deal with the sun.

Then she was at a camp. A camp full of demigods. She watched them at night, through the shadows of the woods. She protected them, kept the monsters in line.

And she was utterly alone.

They were frightened of her, of her power. They didn't even know her name. They gave her no thanks. No offering.

Did they even know what she did for them?

Even the children of her brother, Hypnos, avoided her.

... And she protected them anyway.

Tharros was glad that he had picked up from the mortals on how to control their emotions. Something he didn't think he had the discipline to learn.

He had gleaned bits and pieces of her past from their conversations, and from what the others would say and from what Sol would say but he never imagined it so vividly.

It was maddening. Blood boiling.

The only thing he could focus on was how he would have changed it all. How he would have made them worship her, how he would have protected her- treated her like the goddess she is. She would have never wanted for anything or would have worked a day in her life.

FD bit his tongue on multiple occasions. The slight metallic tang in his mouth wasn't enough to deter him from calming down. But it did keep him in place. It kept him from moving. It kept him from going to and destroying them all.

He had clenched his fists so hard that he was sure that his nails had pierced his skin.

Hesper would no doubt question him about it later.

But this is for her brother. Her kin. The one she loved so dearly.

The only other to love her as completely as he did.

It was due.

He would not compromise himself or the child.

He would. Not. Move.

"... Hmph." The Great One huffed, breath ruffling his hair. "I commend you, boy. All that pain to your beloved, and still you refuse to move."

Erebus pauses, watching as a black blood throws Hesper to the ground, driving its weapon through her shoulder. The day Thárros first saw her.

Erebus laughs.

"I fail to see what you do in that pitiful wretch, but I will admit, your loyalty is quite amusing."

Instead of feeling more rage at the scene before him, he calms. He is reminded of what he saw in her, why he fell so hard for her.

He’s reminded why he's here.

He ignores the Great One's sting to her. He takes a breath. "It is I who sees it. You need not concern yourself with it. All I endure is so that you keep your end of the bargain."

"... Enough." Erebus scoffs, and it all ends. "You know the rest of it, so I won't bother making you relive it. Your point is made, and your trial passed. As agreed, I will undo what has been done to the boy."

The Fierce Deity only tenses up more, afraid of ruining this. He nods and bows once more (despite his distaste for the Great One in front of him) for good measure. "My thanks."

"Yes yes, be on your way." Erebus grunts, waving him off into the familiar shadows of Hylian forest. It appears that hours have passed since he has left the group. Night has recently fallen. The last simmers of the sunlight are barely holding onto the horizon. As Thárros walks, the Great One speaks one last time. "... I'm impressed, boy. No god here would do as you have this day. Tell me, who is it that has passed my trial?"

... He's asking for his name?

"I am the Protector of Termina." He settles for a neutral title. "But I am called... Thárros by the daughter night."

"Thárros..." A laugh bubbles out of the primordial being. "Yes, courage indeed... So you will be known by me, Thárros the Protector."

Something alights within him with that. A new purpose. A god with a name.

A god worth honoring.

He bows once more in respect. 

Then he turns to leave.

Erebus' presence leaves him and back towards camp Hesper releases a startled yelp.

"Ah! Oh my gods- Sol, you're awake! I- I'm sorry, I'm sorry, yes I know it's late-"

Thárros starts running to the camp.

He stops by the edge, watching Sol sign as quickly as he can, both in confusion and fascination. The young child keeps poking and checking his skin- as if he's expecting to start burning like his sister does.

Relief? Love? Acceptance? He doesn’t know what emotion explodes within him. Whatever it is causes tears to roll down his cheeks and he drops to his knees. 

He did it.

He actually did it.

Both siblings turn to him at the sound of his collapse and run to him.

"Thárros? What happened? Are you alright?" Hesper asks as Sol reaches up and wipes his tears away with warm, tiny hands.

Words fail him.

He leans down for Sol to reach better and kisses the boy on the forehead. "Enjoy your blessings, child."

He runs his hand over his hair before turning and picks Hesper up, spinning her around in circles. He peppers her face in all the kisses he can before he dips her, kissing her soundly.

When he pulls back, leaving her dizzy and breathless, he finally finds it in himself to speak coherently. "I told you I'd do it."

"... Oh my gods." Her eyes widen, sparkling as she looks from Sol to him again. "You- oh my gods!"

She laughs and pulls him in for another kiss. Sol has no idea what's happening but he runs around grinning.

He kisses her back happily.

No one else knows what's happening. They're still wondering why Sol hasn't fallen asleep yet, or rather, why he woke up.

Thárros pulls away first, hooking Hesper's legs around his waist. "Be my woman… Please..."

Hesper laughs again as she holds his shoulders to steady herself. "I thought I already was."

"Officially..." He whispers. "I believe Sol mentioned an apple is typically involved."

Hesper went pink, words lost as her lips parted. Slowly though, she smiles, stars warm with light. "... Yes. I'd love to, Thárros."

He smiles back and rests his forehead against hers. "Then it's decided then."

He steals a kiss, running his hands through her hair. "You will want for nothing, I swear by it."

Hesper giggles, brushing white locks from his face. "Of course not. I already have all I could need."

"I would believe a roof is in order, first." Thárros teases, feeling overjoyed and boyish and whole.

"Stay with me." He whispers. "You and the boy."

They could all be together. He would protect them all. His woman, the child-....

Could they start a family? He doesn't want to get his hopes up. But the thought of little ones running around, excites him now that there's little for him to fear.

'Yeah!' Sol somehow wiggles his way between them both. 'I wanna stay with Thárros!'

"Well, if we're all in agreement." Hesper laughs, ruffling Sol's hair along with Thárros'.

Sol chuckles, letting her do as she pleases.

This is it. He's going to do everything in his power. If anything would touch a single hair on their heads... He would have to be personally brought into hell itself for him to cease the rains of fire.

The name placed upon him is Thárros. His old title means nothing now. He is no longer the honorless Fierce Deity but rather Thárros the Protector. He is alight with a new purpose and will remain with his name until his purpose is completed.

He will always have his purpose, for now and forever.

"No one is going anywhere then. You're safe."

[sevencolorsatlast]

Archons Reacting To Their Creator Singing Pt. 1

Hello, peeps! This is my first SAGAU post! :)

Part 1 [Venti, Zhongli, Ei and Nahida] (You're Here!) || Part 2 [Furina]

Author's Note: The Creator is singing this song specifically (or any of The Crane Wives' songs, honestly). It's such a good song.

Also, I had a few headcanons of mine thrown here and there. You can figure them out as you go and feel free to take inspiration! :D

Author's Note 2 (8/26/23): I'll be adding Furina soon!

Author's Note 3 (11/12/23): Added Furina! :D Check the link above! I also fixed minor things here!

Content Warning(s): None

Other Notes: Default SAGAU / GN!Reader / Drabbles - Different Scenarios / 1.9k+ Words / Ao3 Link

[ Venti ]

" This house says my name like an elegy

Oh my, oh my

Echoing where my ghosts all used to be

Oh my, oh my "

After a long day entertaining your followers and finally alone, the Traveler takes you to Windrise for you to rest and bid farewell as they used the Statue of the Seven to teleport who-knows-where. You remember they prefer working on commissions late at night but you worry they aren’t getting proper sleep.

You sigh, tiredness caught up to your body, but your mind is wide-awake. A crystal fly perches on your shoulder, basking in your presence. Its glow never ceases to amaze you; you can feel your eyes twinkling as you gently caress it with your fingertip.

A distant tune chimes in your mind - like the gentle light of the moon and the soft earthy smell of the ground. You hum the song's intro quietly; the crystal fly takes flight to join its kin, circling you from the air with their slow elegance. 

You start singing, your peripheral missing a certain bard stopping in his tracks when he hears your voice and hides in plain sight. The grass sways beneath your feet, and the fireflies glow brighter as you gain the confidence to sing a little louder. He floats by and rests his feet on one of the tree’s branches, adoring the sight below him.

As a bard, Barbatos wants to play along but doesn't want to interrupt you; that would be impolite of him. He pays attention to the lyrics you’re singing and makes sure to ingrain them in his mind and inspire him to make another tune similar to yours. He knows it doesn’t match your divine, but he will try to please you with his hymns. The God of Wind can see you smile while singing to yourself, and your surroundings dance in delight, making his heart skip a beat.

Due to his starstruck mind, he didn’t realize that you had finished singing, and you glanced up to see the crystal flies; your eyes met his. You suddenly feel conscious, heat rising on your cheeks. He drops from his hiding spot, kneeling on one knee when he lands.

“Your Grace,” He looks up at you, slight regret upon his emerald eyes, “I apologize-”

You’re honestly tired of your followers apologizing to you for every little thing they do.

“It’s not a big deal, Venti.” You say so casually, your tone firm yet smooth as silk, “As I said before, treat me like any other normal Teyvatians. Or like a fellow Archon.”

He is quiet for a while as he contemplates, which is highly unusual for him. You mentally take a note before he stands up, manifesting his lyre, and smiles at you.

“Well then,” He says, his fingers plucking the strings, “Can you teach the song of yours to a poor ol’ bard like me, Y/N?”

You can’t help but grin when he says your name. “With pleasure.”

[ Zhongli ]

“ All my aching bones are trembling

And I may yet fall apart

Won't you stay with me, my darling

When the war starts in my heart? “

It is a hot afternoon when you visit Nantianmen, with Zhongli accompanying you since he knows his region at the back of his hand. He built it from the ground to impress you and continuously fight off threats to prepare for your arrival.

But he never thought you would arrive after his "death", yet he welcomed you when you sought him out at the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. You agreed to have a contract with him that states that you will never expose his true identity as Morax. After all, you know his lore and backstory, so you stir clear from Adepti territories as much as possible despite the condition not written on the contract.

His gaze never leaves you as you hum and randomly point your finger to something new; he willingly gives you its story and you listen to him intently, eyes sparkling with curiosity. As he finishes, both of you stand before the area where Azhdaha was imprisoned.

You sing your tune while brushing your hands against the flowers, blossoming under your touch. His golden eyes widen, turning to you as your surroundings come to life. The leaves sway to your melody; the sunlight emits a glow that Zhongli himself cannot explain. The birds chirp along, and the rustle of the grass compliments your melodies.

The song's lyrics are breathtaking enough, and your voice is divine to his ears. He is more than happy to have you sing in his presence.

He realizes he is holding his breath after you’re done singing; you turn to him and smile bashfully.

“I hope you liked it.” You say, “And I may have messed up the lyrics a little.”

“I enjoyed it, Your Grace.” He says to you, pleased, “And, I assure you, I will not mind if you explain the ly-”

“Oh boy, I’m really glad you can lend an ear, Zhongli!” You beamed. “You have no idea how much I want to discuss the lyrics with someone!”

He blinks in surprise, his pursed lips melting into a genuine smile. “I'll be listening, Your Grace.”

[ Ei ]

“ Every word I say is kindling

But the smoke clears when you're around

Won't you stay with me, my darling

When my walls start burning down, down, down “

Beelzebul is built for fighting. You are well-aware of that.

But, as a Creator, you are bold enough to ask her if she can sing, and she turns to you with a dumbfounded look. You didn’t mind if she didn’t answer your inquiry, but she insisted anyway. Of course, she can, but some of her notes are off-tune. Regardless, you’re impressed that the Electro Archon herself can sing and that's enough information for you.

Ei didn’t tell you how embarrassed she was when she tried to sing in front of your divine presence. She airs this predicament out to her dear friend Yae Miko. The sly Yokai obviously never going to live it down. 

Weeks later, you are invited to a gathering where you need to entertain people and can’t deny the request since you are this world's Creator. You are looking for someone to get comfortable with singing the tune in your head. You do not feel as safe with any of your followers except with Ei but she already has a nation to deal with, and you don’t need to disturb her from her endeavors. 

Even without speaking, Yae takes notice of your behavior and notifies Ei as soon as possible. Knowing that sly Youkai, you had no choice but to rehearse in front of the Archon since you would rather hide behind Ei while she deals with a Thunderhelm Lawachurl than Yae shooting you cunning looks and teasing you despite you being her Creator.

You temporarily borrowed the Traveler’s Serenitea pot; they don’t mind since they are taking bounties and finishing their remaining commissions. There’s a kitchen inside the teapot, so you had prepared her favorite dessert as a token of thanks for her presence. She says there’s no need for you to be so polite since you are her Creator but you insist that you appreciate her having her schedule cleared just to see you sing.

You take a deep breath, calming yourself before starting to sing. Ei’s eyes widen when she hears you sing, stopping her from eating the dessert she’s holding. The sky above you delightful showers you with its light, and your hair glistens radiantly. The water from the nearby waterfall matches your tune, and a gentle breeze hugs your body.

She just stares in awe after you’re done singing.

“Uh, how was it?” You ask her awkwardly, her gaze unchanging. Her purple eyes remain on you as if she is studying your stance.

She gains back composure a second later after registering your question and clears her throat, “It’s impressive, Your Grace. And I wouldn’t mind if you could sing for eternity.”

You freeze at that thought as she chuckles at your reaction.

[ Nahida ]

“ This tired old machine is a-rumbling

Oh my, oh my

Singing songs to the secrets behind my eye

Oh my, oh my “

Nahida is a gentle and intelligent god by nature.

Meanwhile, you are already an intense person in your world to protect the weak. As a Creator of this world, you want the Sages to pay like any other sane person and punish them accordingly and mercilessly. They will face your wrath like any other enemies who dared to lay a finger on your favored acolytes.

But she begs you not to, and you have no choice but to comply with her wishes. She’s the God of Wisdom… and an adorable one that you can't resist her pleading emerald eyes. Despite your rough facade, Buer sees through you and appreciates you - as her Creator - wanting to protect her. You huff and glance away, saying she deserves more than being treated like nothing for hundreds of years.

You wonder how such a god can be kindhearted; you even acknowledge quietly that there’s not even a bad bone in Nahida. You trade your knowledge with her about your world, and she trades off the knowledge she learned from the Irmunsul and Dottore. She does this in order to distract you from your violent tendencies - you will give a piece of your mind to whoever bad mouths her and your followers.

One day, she accompanies and leads you to a place where small creatures live to ease your mind from harming the Sages. They call themselves the Aranara, and they are… tiny. Tiny and cute creatures, you thought to yourself. You notice they speak in such an odd manner, but you don’t mind.

One Aranara requested if you could sing for them, and you blinked rapidly at the sudden request. What kind of question is that? You look confused and turn to the Dendro Archon, who encourages you to answer. You sigh before saying that you can, but you warn that they should not expect your voice to be pretty and all.

The Aranara in front of you tilts their head and gives it a little scratch with its tiny hand; they said they haven’t even heard of your voice. You finally cave in and straighten your back to sing the first song that comes to your mind.

The forest around you lights up as if cheering and basking under your divinity. The Aranara around you follows your tune, and they are good at picking up the notes even when they aren’t familiar with the song you’re singing. 

Nahida watches you out of curiosity, and admiration, relieved when you finally let loose, and she grins when she sees you smiling. She claps along when you hit the second chorus of your song, humming along with the tunes she’s familiar with.

When you’re done singing, the Aranara folk cheers. One floats above you to put a flower crown on your head. You feel slightly embarrassed with all the attention you’re getting and you see Nahida clapping her hands in delight.

“That was delightful, Your Grace.” She says, coming down from her projected swing.

“It’s nothing, really.” You lied but, surely, she had already seen through you.

Nahida chuckles and hands you her signature dessert, “Have a snack! I’m pretty sure you’re hungry from all that singing.”

You let out a small, amused laugh, “...Thank you, Nahida.”

Damn it, you’ve grown a soft spot for this gentle god. 

And both of you know that you wouldn’t stop protecting her when the time comes, no matter the cost.

[blingblong55]

Are you there? -141

part 1 is here

This is based on a request:

Reader goes missing on a mission

F!Reader, angst

R/L/N, R/N

Status: MIA

Callsign- Grim

Age: 26

Next of kin: N/A

It's been 8 weeks since you have been missing. Laswell has considered you MIA, this is after the last part of your plan hadn't worked. You were supposed to give her and only her a signal that you were still alive, this signal was suppose to occur 2 days after you had disappeared, but nothing. Now she has begun to worry, she understood why you had taken the sacrifice, but a part of her was now regretting it. Maybe if she had told Price of the risks, you'd still be around. There were so many what if's surrounding her everyday. Many emails from the team that she hadn't responded to. She knew 141 could find you, but their emotions could get the best of them and she couldn't lose another person, not under her watch.

After Price knew the injury Gaz sustained was stable and he would have a fast recovery, he and the others started to secretly plan on going back to where they last saw you. They decided to not call for backup, just so Laswell wouldn't know about this 'mission' of theirs.

Its currently T-30 before the men head out to the helipad and wait for a good old friend of them, Nikolai, he'd be the only person to know what they'd be doing, no one else. Price was a man of his word, that was for sure, so when the only person he'd let into his life as a daughter and his closest buddy was missing, he made a promise to bring you back home. Alive or dead.

When the team had marked you missing for a full week, Price walked back to his office, asking for no one to bother him. It's said that those that passed by his office heard him cry and throw things around the room. But not one person dared to check on him, not because they didn't care about him, but because they all understood who you are to him. After he had calmed down his range, he sat down, a cigar in one hand as the other caressed a portrait that had you in it.

It was you as the rookie of the team, your first week with the men. You at the time didn't know, but Price was already watching over you like a father figure. Soap had started to tell others how he had replaced Gaz with his newest best mate. Gaz, of course was upset, but once he and you made so many jokes and cried from laughing so hard, he knew why Soap was calling you his best mate, and secretly you were too Gaz's mate, a his little sister.

Ghost, although usually perceived cold, had gotten to used to Soap's bullshit, that when you came around, he grew fond of you rather quickly. He was the one that kept a picture of you, in a shit version of his mask, on his vest's pocket. No one else but you two had a matching tattoo. Which by the way was his way of knowing you two, secretly, considered the other family, something he hadn't fully enjoyed before 141.

----

The men were all now in the helicopter, making their way to hopefully you. The way there for them was rather longer than usual, maybe it was because their minds were running everywhere, or maybe they felt so anxious and scared for what they could face, which would be new to them, since in the past they had been so ready for it all.

Once they touched down, they quickly ran to the entrance of the building. After making sure no one was near or at least innocent civilians, they threw smoke grenades into the building and rushed inside.

Guns in hand as they cleared the first floor. Gaz and Soap heading to the floors below while Price and Ghost made it to the top floors. Every door they kicked, they called out for you, but after much search, they didn't find you. In the midst of finding you, they, for a second loose Gaz, only to find him sitting where he last saw you. Soap slowly approached him, Gaz looked up, he had been crying.

"I lost her, it's because of me that she isn't around." His voice low, full of regret.

"We are a team, we lost her, it's not just on you son, this happened on my watch and we will find her." Price put a hand on his shoulder, hopefully giving him some comfort. For hours and hours, they walked along the nearby village, trying to ask if they had maybe seen you. Until by some miracle, a little boy pointed to a building on the outskirts of the village.

The men, cautiously walked to it, making sure there were no active threats to them or any civilians. With much luck, they once more threw a flashing and smoke grenade, running in as soon as possible. Their guns aimed at a small group of men.

"Where is she?" Price asked the men, one oof them pointed to a room. The man had a sinister smile, grinning as Gaz and Ghost went into the room.

"She's in here!"

Price and Soap made them men get on their knees, tying them up. Nikolai, who was still waiting for them, much nearer now, called to them over radio.

"Bravo 0-6, how copy"

"This is bravo 0-6, whats the matter"

"Did you find target"

"yes, Gaz and target will go to you."

"Roger that"

Once Gaz had a steady grip of you, you two made way to the helicopter. Nikolai took you both back to base. While you were making way home, the three men stayed behind to give the men who captured you a taste of their own medicine.

For nearly 2 hours they tortured them, making them beg for mercy. And when Nikolai had informed them he had returned for them, they shot the men, killing them all and going into the helicopter. The ride back was quiet because although they were victorious, you hadn't seemed so great. According to Ghost and Gaz, it was as if you were already dead.

You had been tortured for days on end, your skin once soft, was now full of dry blood, cuts and bruises. You couldn't speak, not even a simple word came out of your mouth. The jokes that Soap would make, only had you smiling, but even that hurt to do. The machines and nurses at ever minute, panicked Price. Why were they here in your room so much?

Yes, you were injured but this many times that they had to come in was alarming. The men all took turns to take care of you. Except Gaz, no one could make him leave your room. He needed a shower? He'd shower in the one that your hospital room had. Hungry? Food would be ordered. Bored? he made sure to talk to Soap over the phone when it wasn't Soap's day to come over.

It took 2 surgeries, countless amount of medicine and many more to get you to finally recover. You were now back in your room, watching some shit show on your phone when the team knocked on your door.

Price opened the door, but didn't peak in. They were all coming back into your room. Wanting more cuddles and to watch shit shows with you as they all fought for a place in your bed, or on your couch.

"Hey kiddo, are you there?"

A/N: I hope this is the ending you guys expected:)

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Tags: @sesshomaruwaifu

[fioreofthemarch]

kin

Fandom: The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom Pairing: Link/Zelda Words: 1270 [✨this is a companion piece to repast and yearnings]

When at last Zelda was returned to the present, it was all she could do not to dwell on the past.

The memories of her time as a dragon were gone, but the subconscious remained. She felt unsteady on her feet, disliked being cooped up without a view of the sky, and often dreamt of flying, always waking with a lingering sense of loss. 

It was a guilty feeling. She had gotten everything she’d wanted. The Demon King was gone, Hyrule was saved, and Link - Link! - he was alive and they were finally free to go about their lives in long-awaited peace.  

And yet?

“You look as though you’ve forgotten something,” Purah had said to her when they’d last spoken in Lookout Landing. Zelda agreed, but couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was. 

An answer came to her in Hateno, while she and Link were visiting their house by the river. Link had built them a new home in Akkala, and was sure that Zelda would enjoy rearranging it to her liking, if she didn’t mind moving house. So there in Hateno, while Zelda was sorting through her things and trying to decide what to take, something bright and blue caught her eye – a dragon! A spirit of cool, calm wisdom, passing silently overhead. 

At that moment, what was forgotten became clear. She burst from the house, arms waving, crying – “Sister!”

But the dragon never slowed, only kept on as sure as the wind. Then she was rounding north, slipping down towards the horizon, and then she was gone. 

Zelda sank down onto the grass, hands clasped tight and catching tears she didn’t know were falling. Naydra no longer knew her; they’d shared the skies for millenia, and yet! 

“Maybe she just doesn’t recognise you,” Link said upon finding her like this, his voice a steadying presence, as were his sure hands leading her back inside. “You’ve changed since she saw you last.” 

“For the better, right?”

He grinned, “I loved you just as much either way.”

After this Zelda tried, earnestly, to let life go on. The Akkala house was perfect, and only needed some nicer furnishings, maybe a painting or two, or a bigger garden. When not working on that, Zelda found her thoughts returning to the dragons – she charted Dinraal’s path over Akkala, drawing it on a map she kept in her study. Then, when the need arose to travel to Hateno, she did the same for Naydra, and later Farosh too, when she and Link travelled south to visit the Gerudo. Once the map was complete, it occurred to her that the three dragons formed a distinct triangle, each guarding their own corner of Hyrule. And that’s when knew what to do. 

“I was here for longer than I can even say,” she explained to Link, after convincing him to take her to the Great Sky Island. “The three dragons visited me here every day, at the centre of the Kingdom.” 

They stood on the roof of the Temple of Time, where Link had landed the ballooncraft he had made them. The skies were clear, and all of Hyrule could be seen below. He asked Zelda what exactly she planned to do, and she admitted she didn’t really know. She just had to try something. Link gave her an understanding nod, and stepped back to let her proceed. 

Zelda clasped her hands at her chest. She focused, felt all the yearning and regret, all the nostalgia for younger days, and let them flow from her like a lighthouse beacon – a single wish that cascaded from her very soul. Her secret stone, still worn around her neck, began to glow hot against her skin, in concert with the ancient royal mark on her right hand. I am here. Come to me!

How long she stood like that she did not know, but eventually she felt the air grow hot and cold all at once. 

The sight when she opened her eyes was all but beyond words; three great and immortal dragons, servants of the very Goddess herself, gathered together before the Temple. Their bodies flowed like rivers, irridescent scales scattering light, long horns shimmering with diffuse elemental power. Summoned here, the dragons hovered in place; Dinraal to the left, Farosh to the right and Naydra in the middle. 

Zelda bowed. She shook from nerves. Did the dragons hear her call? What was their answer? There was silence, except the wind, until at last Zelda heard a voice.

Sister, the dragon Naydra said, you are changed. 

You have become small and fragile, said the dragon Dinraal. 

You have joined the swordsman as a mortal, said the dragon Farosh. 

“You know me?” Zelda said, barely able to breathe. Behind her, Link stood tall and firm, though his body was tense. It was no small thing to treat with the gods. 

You were not easy to spot, Naydra said. Your light however was very familiar.

A great power summoned us here, sister. We are impressed, Dinraal said. 

As are we curious, Farosh added. Speak your command. 

Still Zelda did not know why exactly she had called them. There had to be something that she had wanted to say…

“Zelda… are you okay?” Link said, with a hint of fear in his voice. It was enough to steel her. She couldn’t tarry here. Immortal though her sisters were, she did not want to waste their time. 

“I am okay,” she answered, and she knew why.

Turning to Naydra, Dinraal and Farosh, Zelda bowed again, long and low. Rising, she said, “I was no one, adrift in an open sky, until I awoke in your company. I had done something terrible and forbidden, but you accepted me as one of your own, and stayed with me until my task was complete. And even now that I have left you, you remember me. This kindness…” she brushed tears from her cheeks, composing herself. “I must thank you. I wish there was a way to repay your generosity.” 

The dragons hovered, eyes bright and piercing. Zelda felt foolish; sentimental words probably meant little to them. But then, together, they bowed their heads in return. After a long moment, they broke formation and began to move through the air once more, silently circling the Temple of Time in a spiral of ice, flame and static.  

“Was that ‘offer accepted’?” Link asked with a nervous laugh. 

Dinraal departed first, heading north for Akkala. Then Farosh followed, turning south for Gerudo. Only Naydra remained. She flew down towards the roof of the temple, and landed on its parapets gentler than a feather. Placing her head down so that her and Zelda’s eyes were level, she blinked slow and calm. 

Beloved sister, she said, things done for kin need never be repaid.  

Then, a single tear falling from her eye, the dragon Naydra ascended from the roof, and flew east. Zelda watched until she disappeared from view, her own tears falling free. Not all memories were lost, she realised, but the past would always be the past, and that was its own kind of loss. 

Still, the future was calling. It came in the form of a warm and gentle hand – Link, threading his fingers into hers. “Home?” he said. Zelda nodded, knowing what he meant, but feeling that she was already there as he wrapped his arms around her. 

“Good, I’ve got an apple pie in the oven that you might like.”

With a laugh she returned his radiance, fresh but happy tears falling. “I think I might,” she said. And so they went, leaving the sky behind. 

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Soft Cuddles

Today is my wedding day, yes, really.

Whatever, here is today's Novemberstory because I am nothing if not obsessive <3

Characters: Glorfindel and a whole lot of other people

Words: 1 655

Warnings: many cuddles, little sad, cultural differences

Glorfindel had learned a good many things that others could never even imagine—he had wrestled a Balrog, he had known death and re-embodiment, and he had met the mighty Valar after the Great Sundering of the Doom of the Ñoldor.

Dark and terrible were many of his experiences and haunted his wisdom, but—on some days—he considered them a welcome price to pay for the immeasurably beautiful pieces of knowledge that were his own.

“Come here,” he whispered and slung his arms around Erestor who was in a particularly foul mood on this misty morning.

As soon as the solid warmth of his strong body seeped into the tender flesh and delicate bones of his lover, Glorfindel felt him relax against his chest and released a shivering, relieved sigh of his own.

“How did you—” Erestor murmured, ashamed now of a need he did not share with most of his peers.

“I once had the honour of watching over Eärendil,” the golden-haired revenant explained in soothing accents. “I myself was raised in a gaggle of elflings—kin and friends—and we grew too fast and were too carefree in our blessed serenity to ever cling to our parents overmuch.”

Picking his temperamental colleague up, Glorfindel carried him over to a window to cradle him on his lap while whispering his most precious confessions into his perfectly shaped ear.

“Eärendil was the first child I had seen in a long time, and he was different. He yearned to be held, carried, hugged, and Eru knows, I was eager and happy to comply. I seem to recall now that there must have been days when I did not set the boy down for a single moment—I’d even hide from his parents just so they could not snatch him away from me.” He gave a heavy sigh of regret and longing at the bittersweet memory of the soft hair and pealing laughter of his little protégé.

“Those were different times, and the safety of the Hidden Kingdom was a fraught, ever-threatened dream,” he went on in a voice that grew increasingly hollow with pain.

“Later, oh so much later, I came here to find that Elrond—my very own darling prince’s son—harboured much the same needs and desires as his father, and so did his children in turn.”

“Glorfindel,” Erestor gasped. “Are you telling me that you sneak around hugging not only children but grown Elves? Our Lord? His formidable sons? His noble daughter?”

Shrugging sheepishly, Glorfindel adjusted his hold on Erestor’s frame and settled his chin against the crown of his dark-haired head tenderly.

“I have the arms for that,” he said, a hint of insecurity and guilt sneaking into his tone. “You cannot imagine the relief and the joy I’ve drawn from the knowledge that the strong build that makes me an excellent fighter also allows me to offer comforting embraces. We all need redemption sometimes.”

“You are indeed very good at this,” Erestor mumbled sleepily. “I feel unafraid and soothed by the way you hold me tight. Maybe, we should make this a generally accepted behaviour, so you don’t have to do it in secret, and I don’t have to feel so embarrassed about enjoying hugs so much?”

“That is a stellar idea,” Glorfindel replied and smiled blissfully at the empty room.

“Safe travels!” Elladan and Elrohir stood at the gates, smiling brightly at Glorfindel as he led his horse by the reins.

“Erestor will be insufferable,” Arwen groaned, her beautiful face puckered with dread. “He always is when you’re away.”

Leaning closer to her until his cheek touched hers ever so lightly, Glorfindel whispered into her ear that she should try hugging him every now and then.

“Does he not smell like dust and death?” Elrohir joked but regained his composure immediately when a hard, unamused glare hit him.

Smiling wickedly, Arwen seemed to consider that new-found piece of information for a moment and then nodded slowly.

“Yes,” she said, “that, I can do. I remember quite well how you used to rock me in your arms, singing songs that were highly inappropriate but eminently entertaining for an elfling such as I was.”

“Don’t let your father hear you,” Glorfindel squeaked, and—sweeping the tall, graceful lady into his arms—he threw her into the air until she was breathless with laughter.

“You,” she wheezed, “are one of my best childhood memories.”

“And ours,” the twins added; they were checking Glorfindel’s pack and saddle like they always had, and he gave them the same serious, grateful smile they remembered from the time when he still had had to hold them aloft so they could tug at various straps and nod ponderously.

“Your childhood,” he replied as he hoisted himself onto the back of his trusty steed, “is one of my most cherished recollections as well. Be kind to Erestor, and I shall be back before you even have time to miss me.”

As he looked back at the proud descendants of his dearly missed Eärendil, his heart was full, and he whistled a wistful song as he rode out to honour a promise he had once given.

“Welcome to our—my father’s realm,” Legolas laughed, scratching his head sheepishly.

“Have you been back long?” Glorfindel asked, interested, and beamed when a burly, stout frame moved into view.

“The Lord of the Glittering Caves,” he exclaimed, genuinely happy to find Gimli in good health; they had conversed but very briefly before the Council in Imladris, but Glorfindel had listened to his tales with rapt interest.

At that time, he had also been invited to visit the Greenwood Realm—after the threatening shadow had been vanquished—and Glorfindel had ever been one to honour the word he had given.

The trees were different here, he thought, dark, old, and—if he was not very much mistaken—as ill-tempered as his very own lover could be at times.

“I shall have a small repast brought up,” Legolas cheered, excited to share the much-doubted and abnegated hospitality of his native kingdom with honoured guests.

Waiting in relaxed expectation, Glorfindel soon found out that Lord Gimli had as many questions about the Elven folk—he apparently only believed half of what Legolas told him on pure principle—as Glorfindel had about the elusive Khâzad.

“Are you all as stuffy as his father?” Gimli asked, jabbing a well-spiced drumstick forcefully into the quiet, fragrant night air. “I know my friend here is quite a jokester, but is the average Elf more like King Thranduil or more like Legolas?”

Glorfindel’s eyes grew round with surprise, and he cocked his head—making the small, festive bells braided into his hair jingle—and gave the matter some thought before answering.

“As you can clearly see,” he said, giving his hair another merry toss, “not all of us are very stern and dignified. As for the average elf—”

He fell silent and shuddered. “There—thankfully—is no such thing. I would say that King Thranduil can, at times, be the most formal and pompous of those who remain, but, then again, most of the High Lords and Ladies are undoubtedly very impressive.”

“Legolas—”

“Has time to become all that,” Glorfindel interrupted kindly. “At the same time, I’ve lived a very long time, and it has never happened for me, so don’t take my word for it.”

As the evening progressed, and the wine flowed, Glorfindel was soon overcome by a flood of longing when he thought of his loved ones in Imladris.

“Is he sad? Will he die now?” Gimli asked Legolas in a slightly alarmed tone.

“No,” Legolas laughed. “I dare say Lord Glorfindel is homesick.”

“Aren’t you pointy-eared tree-huggers always melancholy and yearning for some lost place?” Gimli commented dryly, scratching his beard and setting aside the wetting stone he had been passing over his axe in practised, regular movements.

“Can we help, Lord Glorfindel?” Legolas then inquired politely, ready to sneak into his father’s private reserve to fetch some of the rarer and more precious treats this Kingdom had to offer.

Startled by his words, Glorfindel was quick to wave aside their touching concerns.

“D’ya need a hug, Elf?” Gimli asked after having observed Glorfindel for a moment in contemplative silence. “I know your kind usually does not hold with that kind of physical affection—drastic, they’d call it, I am sure—but you look like you could do with one.”

To his surprise and delight, Glorfindel eagerly accepted that offer and extended his arms to welcome the strong, densely muscled arms that were slung around his midriff like ropes of braided steel.

“I…I find that I have been changed by the people around me,” he explained with an apologetic smile; even though he was not typically one to feel uncomfortable or even ashamed about the way he led his life, he felt nevertheless that he owed the prince of the realm an explanation for his highly unusual, nay even inappropriate, behaviour.

“Oh,” Legolas chuckled. “No need to justify this to me. After the tragic loss of my mother, my father would hug and cuddle me often, and I do not hesitate to admit that Gimli and I quite enjoy exchanging physical gestures of affection.”

“Skinny as a twig,” Gimli muttered good-humouredly. “All skin and bones.”

“Yes,” Legolas added, nodding wisely. “My dearest friend also insists on feeding me well—he is inordinately worried about my well-being.”

Eyebrows rising in bewilderment, Glorfindel wanted to object that—if anything—it was incumbent on Legolas to tend to the various vital needs of a being so woefully prone to illness and death, but his host almost imperceptibly shook his head.

“We all have our ways of expressing affection and support,” Legolas said and stretched out on the soft forest floor with a deep sigh. “And I, for one, think all of them are wonderful!”

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November (by @cilil)

[dreemurr-skelememer]

Okay I keep getting confused on this and I hope u can give me an answer in a very simple, digestible, understandable way

How did Gin die?

after tantan (an au flowey, to clarify if you didnt know) possessed him and wrecked the place, gin was in recovery for a while

and it seemed like he was getting better. to the point that all his new cracks healed and he could safely move around again

but in the midst of hanging out w his brother, he suddenly just. started deteriorating without warning.

the thing is, he knew this was gonna happen. his father knew this was gonna happen. his brother knew this was gonna happen. they just didn't know when.

so yeah, ever so slowly, all of gin's close friends and family quickly came over to say their final goodbyes and he was gone.

:)

thanks for sending the ask!!! i'm completely willing to take any more asks explaining or clarifying anything about gin..i could literally talk about him all day, so if any of u have any more questions.....u know..........i could blabber about him all day..............

anyway i actually have an unfinished oneshot of me fully writing out gin's feelings as he was dying. i doubt i'll ever finish it so i'm gonna put it under the cut freely for you all to see. enjoy!

---

The world had felt like everything broke apart at that very moment.

It felt like a crack of lightning in a storm with a clap of deafening, resounding thunder as if it was too close for comfort. The kind that would send a jarring shiver and jolt around anyone nearby, ringing in an eardrum as if everything was destroyed at that very moment.

The Omega Timeline seemed blindingly bright and sunny on that day that it had happened, right outside the house that Gin settled in himself when he had first arrived in the area. He scoped it out meticulously, a piece of ground that reminded him just like home. It was in the middle of a forest with a bit of clearing around it, enough space for a yard for him to run around and play.

The memory was shut away as quick as it appeared, as Kin’s horrified screams rang out to the surrounding area. It was hard, shrilling, pained, and surprised all at once.

Gin’s eyes slowly attempted to open with that sound, yet a painful and sharp sting was prominent on the right side of his face.

He hissed greatly, wincing as his phalanges aim to rub against it. The pain was familiar, seething, and sharp. The familiarity reminded him of a faint feeling in the back of his mind, something foggy but not clear enough for him to visualize in his mind.

Gin’s face was shattered with cracks once more. He knew this.

His vision was as cloudy and as blurry as ever, staring at the tips of his fingers seeping blood. The blood glowed slightly, another familiar sight to him. But this time, he didn’t have time to process it, and nor did he care enough to. Quickly, footsteps began to circle him and his brother.

Ah, right. His brother… was here.

He finally looks up towards the person holding him ever since he fell over onto the grass underneath them through his hazy eyes. Kin’s face was warped with dread, dumbfounded and mortified at the sight of Gin shattered like glass once more. The scared expression on Kin’s face slowly started melting into an expression of sorrow, utter regret, as he processed what was happening at that very moment.

Every single vision that Kin saw, visions that he could never describe to anyone else. All the sights and dreams that only his father knows, ones of seeing his brother dead, were all finally making sense in his head.

It was always inevitable. He knew this, but why now? When everything was finally okay?

Such is fate, he assumes.

But I don’t like fate, he cried.

Fate gives me nothing but suffering.

Gin’s vision cleared up slightly as he began to reach up to his brother’s cheekbone, face immediately concerned. He’s crying. He shouldn’t be crying so much. Why was he crying so much? He still could not see as well as he wanted, but the tears dropping onto his own cheek from above said just as enough.

He had known the difference between the rain and tears, but either one, he’d wanted them to stop.

"...pap…" Gin managed to mutter out, his weak thumb brushing whatever tears poured out of his poor little brother's sockets. "...why are you crying..? Don't cry…" He continued on, the ringing and the sobbing getting a little louder.

"YOU'RE HURT!" His brother said, hands gently caressing Gin's newly formed cracks as not to hurt him any further.

"YOU'RE HURT AND I…and I…" A sniffle.

"...and I-I knew this would happen and yet…"

Gin felt a small squeeze on his free hand.

"...you didn't want it to happen, did you..?" Gin speaks a little more.

The cries grew a little bit louder.

The hand that squeezed Gin's held on a little bit tighter.

"Papyrus…" Gin's voice was airy, clearly a little bit out of breath. "I'm sorry, Kin…I should've taken care of myself a little better…" His already foggy vision started to get even mistier, feeling tears pool at the corners of his sockets. "I shouldn't…have been so naïve…"

---

thereare some things i'd definitely change, but here it is unaltered from the doc

[symphonyofsilence]

While I totally understand the appeal of imagening post-captivity Gwindor & Maedhros as friendly & bonding over their trauma if they ever met because Ulmo knows both poor boys deserve group therapy and an understanding friend, one thing that must be remembered about Nirnaeth Arnoediad is that in that battle the plan was that Maedhros would march with all his might in the open to lure all the forces of Morgoth out, and only then Fingon would attack with his army from the other side and Melkor's army would be crushed between them. But the orcs tortured & then killed Gwindor's brother, Gelmir in front of Fingon's army so Gwindor, despite Fingon's many warnings & beggings for everyone to keep their cool in front of the obvious bait, lost his calm and in a fit of rage lunged forward and forced Fingon's army to attack full force before Maedhros' army was anywhere near.

And I think most probably for Maedhros causing Fingon's death however indirectly, would take precedence over sympathy, Gwindor paying dearly for his mistake, Gwindor's rage at that moment being understandable, Maedhros himself being an older brother, etc...even in his best days, and pre-Nirnaeth Maedhros was far from his best days. (Pre-Nirnaeth Maedhros would laugh in the face of Thingol's obvious insult and keep his cool and invite others to do so, too, he would attend feasts, go hunting with his cousin & brother, was hopeful, and would keep lines on the borders that would have been lost in the hands of anyone else or take back what has already been lost, he would plan to defeat Melkor, he would never kinslay, post-Nirnaeth Maedhros kin-slayed thrice, regretted his kin slaying, felt the burden of the oath & kin-slayed again, lost his brothers, always talked grimly & had lost all hope.)

(And I think Maedhros blames himself for Fingon's death, too. Because Nirnaeth was his project, because the traitors were in his army, because he fell for the house of Ulfang's deceit and didn't arrive on time to save Fingon, and most importantly because after the Nirnaeth the Noldor clearly remembered and believed the Doom of Mandos to have named that battle the battle of unnumbered tears, and part of that doom was that "On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also." And Fingon sure followed him. And when he couldn't kick his own ass, he could kick Gwindor's ass.)

So I think if Maedhros ever saw Post-captivity Gwindor he would somehow remind him that he has managed to get the High King of the Noldor killed. He should be proud of himself. Melkor had a price on the High King's head for centuries and didn't manage to do what Gwindor did. To which Gwindor (who is quite an upfront person with notable truth bombs like "The doom lies in yourself, not in your name.", "fuck the day I met you, Turn Turambar <3", Turin's identity reveal to Finduilas) would reply that not every brother is like Maedhros' brothers to see their brother tortured in the hands of the enemy and still stand aside and do nothing.

And then either they would remember that they're noble lords of the Noldor and can't beat the shit out of each other and can at most only exchange biting words but still with acceptable, respectable vocabulary, and storm off, OR they'd beat the shit out of each other.

But yeah, no group therapy for them.

[slenderverseagainsthate]

A serious post,

Today is the fifth anniversary of my son's death. His name was Wilson, after my favorite character on House M.D. He was only three years old, and had just recently celebrated his birthday. I will not disclose his cause of death, as the memories are much too painful. The grief doula I visit is helping me to unpack them, as I have locked many of the memories behind painful walls. Kinning Lee, and moderating this blog, brings me comfort. I know that if my son were to have lived longer than those short, few, precious years, he, too, would have become a blogger, just like his father. Maybe he would have taken over this blog as I became older and infirm. I would appreciate kindness, patience, and messages of love at this time. I miss Wilson every day of my life, and gravely regret all of the ways in which I failed him as a parent. Thank you, - Mod Lee “Man always thinks about the past before he dies, as if he were frantically searching for proof that he truly lived.” – Cowboy Bebop

[blueywrites]

turtle dove and the crow chapter three

will be released on Friday, April 14th at 7pm EST.

Get ready for the holy trifecta in this chapter: fluff, smut, and angst. Not necessarily in that order. 😉

Wanna take a gander at what our two love birds're up to? Aw, who'm I kiddin' - 'course you do. 😘 Check it out below!

Deep in the field, two roosts sit side by side. One is built of sturdy, weathered wood painted the color of bright red berries, with deep-set windows and a dark sloping roof that protects it from the elements. The other is made of wide symmetrical clapboards painted blue like the sky on a cloudless day, with knotted-oak shutters slightly worn from the sun and wind and bright white trim that shines in the eager summer light. These roosts are separated only by a tall fence and a stump rotted through to the other side, through which the grasses of their yards mingle to become one. 

These roosts house different birds. One is a trio of turtle doves, a mated pair with a young hen still soft and brown-gray, though her iridescence is maturing now, subduing into adulthood. The other is a pair of long-bonded crows, though the younger spent its fledgling years in the care of another, who pecked and prodded and stole his sustenance until the young one fluttered finally away, seeking to shelter under the safe wing of his older kin. 

They may bear different feathers— one downy gray, one glossy black— but if one were to peep through the windows, one would see these young birds and note how similar they appear right now as they preen. Both turtle dove and crow are drawing their beaks along each feather to clear away the dust, fluttering out their wings in great stretches, and hopping about the expanse of their rooms, caught in restless preparation as the grandfather clock ticks its hand toward seven. 

The turtle dove adorns herself for the crow. She dresses in her Independence Day best, twisting to watch the ankle-length skirt swirl around her legs in swaths of dainty yellow gingham. She dances her fingertips along the hand-sewn embroidery that decorates the square neckline, feeling along the tiny white flowers and vines for the perfect spot. There, she pins two sprigs— one lavender, one jasmine— to nestle amongst the white threads she’d sewn with careful fingers, her first attempt at embellishing her clothing, ventured to celebrate the holiday in mid-July. With a careful hand, she ties a bow of white silk tied to the side of her head. Now smelling of flowers and gilded in homespun sunshine, she has finished her preparations.

The crow, meanwhile, focuses less on his adornments. He doesn’t possess his own Independence Day best; instead, he dresses in a collared, button-up shirt oft worn, paired with navy blue woolen slacks and a leather belt with a simple buckle. But he made sure to scrub his skin with soap 'til it shone pink over every inch of him— between his toes, behind his ears, on the backs of his knees and the nape of his neck. He has brushed out his hair and tamed the flyaways with pomade, twining the curls around his rough fingers to let them drop into careful coils, working with a delicacy that he feels near-embarrassed about despite not having been observed. Carefully, he picks the dirt from beneath his fingernails and trims them short and neat, though he’d been waylaid momentarily by regretful ruminations on the roughness of his palms. He swipes his thumbs impatiently along the callouses that cannot be softened with warm bathwater as if he might rub them away before giving up and brushing his teeth for the second time instead.

With one last ruffle of feathers and a careful appraisal in the mirror, crow and turtle dove descend their staircases in tandem at five to seven, filled with the flutterings of nervous, jittery excitement that precede such an occasion as this.

[profoundbondfanfic]

do u have any favorite canon compliant / "missing scene" fics?

Hello there! Yes, here are a few suggestions with fics that include extra scenes like the 'fanfiction gap' and add something new to Cas and Dean's relationship.

a kiss for every season (literally) by sobsicles [Explicit, 22k words]

The first time Dean and Cas kiss, it's not really even a kiss at all. It is not, however, the last kiss that they share. ~~~ Dean doesn't think about it. Not about what it means, not about what it makes them, not about how it affects him. This life—that's not how things work. It's just this, these "in the moment" moments that always slip right out of his fingers because he lets them. He doesn't try to hold onto them, and neither does Cas, and maybe they shouldn't. Cas kisses him like no one else does, like no one else ever has. Dean absolutely does not think about it unless it's happening to him, and then he doesn't have the ability to think at all. What does it say about him that he occasionally kisses his best friend, who's a man? Dean doesn't know, and he doesn't really want to find out, either. 

All This Happened, More or Less by ceeainthereforthat [Mature, 88k words]

Dean had no idea that inheriting John Winchester's Impala was only the beginning of the destruction of his life. That Sam's dreams were more than just the consequences of late night pizza dinners. That angels looked like slightly rumpled tax accountants. And he's not ready for any of it.

Fracture Mechanics by Rend_Herring [Explicit, 43k words]

Admitting it won’t make Dean any more inconsolable than he already is, and he’ll never feel Cas’ absence any more or any less acutely than he does in this exact moment. “He’s gone,” Dean finally admits, because it seems like the only thing left to say. When the terrible, swollen vacancy of the room offers no recourse, Sam says, “I know.”

Home by FriendofCarlotta [General audiences, 2k words]

This is the story of a car, and the boy who loves it so fiercely, it becomes a home. As the boy grows into a man, his car is the one constant in his life. Until, one day, he meets an angel, and "home" takes on a new meaning.

If I Could Change One Thing by 2Minutes2Midnight [Explicit, 13k words]

Spoilers through Season 5 finale. When Dean gets sent into the future where he refuses Michael, he vows to change one thing, if nothing else. He must prevent Castiel from becoming human. No matter the cost.

Revisions by zeppazariel [Explicit, 127k words]

From the beginning, Dean and Cas continue to find their way together over and over. Chuck keeps erasing it.

That Wasn't Supposed to Fucking Happen! by anyrei, queerwerewolf [Explicit, 66k words]

What if it all wasn’t just subtext? Individual, subjective interpretation? What if we’re only seeing a fraction of what’s going on with the Winchesters? What would happen if we saw what was actually happening off-camera? Destiel might not technically “exist”, but that’s because the cameras haven’t captured it. Now that the fourth wall has been broken, subtext may become explicit text. Explicit being the operative word here. Season 12 Ongoing Fix It from 12x09 through 12x23.

The Sum Of My Regrets by LoveIsNotAVictoryMarch [Mature, 20k words]

“A quick trip to the past, that’s all. Look Cas, I know we can’t do anything about all the innocent people getting into the crossfire of our battles, but this I can do. Let me rescue this child and give Lily Sunder back her life. What can possibly go wrong?”  In which Dean Winchester travels through time, learns a thing or two about best laid plans and falls in love with an angel – all over again.

these masks we wear by deansnuggles [Mature, 24k words]

These are the things you hide, when you’re John Winchester’s oldest son: A feather Sammy found and gave you. A piece of satin you cut from a nightgown you swiped from the thrift store. You like to keep it in your pocket and rub it between your fingers. A romance novel left behind in a motel. You tape the cover of a Stephen King novel on the front. A picture of Robert Plant hidden under the fabric on the bottom of your toiletry bag. A cassette of Queen, a cassette of The Beatles. You like to draw. Knights and dragons and cowboys. A mockingbird. A lily. A boy in your class. You rip that one up and burn it. We follow Dean through important times in his life as he slowly learns to accept who he is and figures out what a happy ending means for him.

this ain't for the best (but i want you) by jewishdeanwinchester [Explicit, 8k words]

Five times Dean and Cas fucked, and one time they made love. Or, times Dean and Cas could've been but weren't. (Until they were.)

You can also check our coda tag for fics that follow along with specific episodes.

[eschercaine]

After King Viserys’ second marriage with Lady Alicent Hightower produced a son, his resolve to maintain Rhaenyra as his successor started to crumble. But little did he realize that Rhaenyra already knew what he was about to do.

Or: A one-shot fic in vignettes that is occupying my mind, but unsure if I’m ever gonna publish it. What I’m posting right now is just a draft.

“I intend to marry…” Viserys’ voice wavered, and his gaze shifted to the right. “Alicent Hightower before spring’s end.”

Since that day, her personality had changed abruptly, leaving the people around her in shock. Her indifferent attitude was rarely accompanied by a smile, and her sharp words often left others feeling degraded. She retreats from the world, refusing to speak to anyone except her maidservants, who attends to her every need. She immerses herself in books and flies with her dragon, her only escape. Her purple eyes gradually grew darker, never regaining the glimmer they once had.

Her clothing made the most dramatic impression. The princess used to dress in a kaleidoscope of colors, but now she only wears a single hue: black, with a Valyrian steel ruby necklace to break the monotony.

Soon, people began to slyly comment and whisper amongst themselves, dubbing her the “Black Princess.”

Viserys noticed the change in his daughter, but he kept quiet, his gaze lingering on her.

On the day of King Viserys’s wedding to Lady Alicent, neither the Arryns, the Velaryons, Prince Daemon, and, surprisingly, the king’s own daughter were present at the festivities.

The Vale was not pleased when the news of the king’s second marriage reached them, for it was rushed and disrespectful towards their kin, the late Queen Aemma.

Daemon and Lord Velaryon were holding a war council to discuss the disposition of the Stepstones. After ridding the Stepstones of its pirate infestation, the Westerosi lords were happy to pay the Triarchy’s tolls for safe passage. However, the avarice of Craghas Drahar and his Lysene and Tyroshi co-admirals had driven up the tolls to outrageous levels. Lord Corlys was most hurt by these tolls, and he was determined to defeat the Kingdom of the Three Daughters.

As for Princess Rhaenyra, she quickly departed to Dragonstone a sennight before the wedding, eager to undertake the responsibilities she would inherit as heir; it was an excuse, however imperfect it may be.

Otto was livid with the lack of respect shown towards his daughter, the new queen. But King Viserys swiftly comes to their defense, seemingly realizing the effect of his actions.

He later comforted his friend, assuring him that they would one day accept Alicent as their queen.

On Prince Aegon’s first nameday, there were feasts and tourneys that lasted for several days, and Rhaenyra attended both for the sake of appearance.

And as the nameday celebration drew to a close, the king gathered every lord and lady in the Great Hall. His deep voice was filled with regret as he spoke of his shortcomings and pledged to do better, ultimately leading to her disinheritance.

Then, he stood up from the throne and declared Prince Aegon of House Targaryen as his new heir, and the air filled with the sound of thunderous applause and cheers.

Through the corner of her eye, Rhaenyra glimpsed Otto’s victorious smirk while Alicent shifted uncomfortably as the clapping became louder.

With trembling lips and slumped shoulders, she walked away, seemingly accepting her defeat. But the moment she left the room, her lips curled into a smile and her joyous laughter filled the hall, echoing off the walls.

Rhaenyra, who had grown weary of Westeros and its outdated laws, was filled with anticipation as she left King’s Landing for Dragonstone, her cloak swishing against her in the night wind.

Once she had her dragons and her possessions gathered, she took to the skies and soared to the Stepstones, where her uncle Daemon awaited.

If I look back, I am lost.

She did not look back.

If the lords of the realm won’t accept a woman to rule the Seven Kingdoms, then so be it.

She will establish her own kingdom, with its own customs and laws.

[cowbok]

I have 2 main AU's for COTL

First one is "Between Life and Death" that's less cannon compliant to the game as it focused mostly on Narilamb

Where Lamb was once the god of Life and the sixth god to survive the purge, being part of the Old Faith for a while but not quite fitting in with the rest of the bishops.

Everything turned out south after Narinder and them fell in love, as the very action of two gods falling in love was forbidden, even more so gods of completly different realms like them. Shamura holded this value.

Specially after Narinder crafted ressurection as a gift for the Lamb.

Thousands of years after Narinders imprisionment and Lamb's persecution. They don't remenber who they were anymore, reincarted in a mortal's body. When they first saw Narinder they couldn't remember a thing or why the cat was acting so sad with them.

They still help Narinder and in the process, maybe some of their memory will come back. Or maybe not.

Second AU is "Kindness Doctrine" where is basically the lamb taking the most humane, kind and good-hearted rute in the game (This is more Cannon compliant to COTL)

Even allowing the bishops a form of mercy by letting them confess regrets and make peace with their deads.

The lamb tries so hard to choose kindness in a world that makes them want to choose Corruption every single day.

All in the name of the one and only thing they remember about their kin, the sheep-folk. The only lesson that stayed with them after so long, even after they forgot their family's faces.

"Don't you know why gods crave our blood the most? Its because ours is the most kind, pure blood to ever touch this lands.

Why does a sheep overgrow their wool? Just to share with others that are cold.

Little lamb, may the wolf hidding inside that fleece, be as kind hearted as the lamb wears it"

A song. A rhyme. The only thing they have left after the genocide of the lambs.

Even when everything tells them to go the villain route, they decide not to. They decide to care and nourish this cult instead, and show them love.

"And so, when i ascend into godhood, you and your brothers will be ridiculized! I'll show them that you can ascend without the need to spill innocent blood" -Lamb

(This AU also has Narilamb because i love Narilamb, don't bother me lol)

[bridgetotheskyyy]

Yearning | Four. |

masterlist.

Chapter Summary: The past and present are both bittersweet for Itachi. Chapter Warning: no smut, smut next chapter lol, ALL angst, family drama, conflict between Itachi and Fugaku, Itachi makes Fugaku's blood pressure go up lmao Word count: 1.2k A/N: I'll be crossposting this entire series over to tumblr over the next few days so please be patient with me!

Read on AO3 here.

“The clan is what is most important, Itachi.” 

“You will help to ensure the strength of the Uchiha clan, Itachi.” 

“The clan —” 

A lump formed in his throat every single time he was forced to suffer these lectures.

 I know. I know. 

It held him down in a vice he was sure would suffocate him, was sure would be with him for the remainder of his life, however long that was. 

And now there was another problem:

You … were not an Uchiha.

Which was all well and good but — Itachi had learned long ago — the Uchihas would accept nothing that did not offer them power. And you did not offer them power. 

You offered nothing. Except, for him …

When he was with you, he was free. Surely, that would matter to the Uchiha head — to his father, Itachi thought with clenched fists —  and leader. Surely, the prospect of him seeing someone that brought him joy would be of interest to Fugaku. But Itachi knew better; someone outside of the clan with no recognizable kekkai-genkai would be shot down almost before he finished tell him about you, the thought.

Surely, the two of you would be found out, no matter how sure Itachi was of his abilities, his skills; he was still surrounded by his kin, and they were a suspicious, xenophobic lot if there ever was one. 

He’d sit at the edge of the bed, sometimes, in darkness. He’d close his eyes, eliminate any further light by placing his hands over them, and dream.

He’d imagine you and him, Sasuke, Shisui, somewhere — by the lake, strolling the streets of Konoha, he didn’t care. As long as it was somewhere with the four of you and away.

Away, away, and away.

And in his quieter, more intimate moments, he dreamed of you. 

In these dreams, you were always alone with him, in some sort of pocket dimension he had created, untouched by time, by duty, by obligations. Somewhere where his spirit could mingle with yours, free to pursue and feel what it wanted, go wherever it wanted. 

The mere thought of you, soft and inviting, made the edges of his mouth turn up, twitch with the accompanying sense of peace.

“(Y/n) …”

Then he would close his eyes and allow himself to be unmade.

V

“Big brother? Father wants you.”

Itachi lowered his chopsticks. Uchiha matriarch, Mikoto, who had been previously piling more rice on to Itachi’s plate (”You never eat enough, Itachi, geez, you’re so skinny.”) stopped as well. 

She faced her son with a quizzical expression. “Hm? Itachi? What’s this about?”

Itachi forced himself to loosen his grip on his chopsticks, frustration rising in him, loud and harsh as a snake’s hiss. He thought he knew what this was about.

Don’t let Sasuke see, he thought with eyes closed.

Fugaku — father — always needed him. Always. 

For something. 

What is it this time?

“I’m sure it’s nothing, mother,” Itachi graced Mikoto with a reassuring smile and began to rise from the table.

And before he could allow himself to think something he would immediately regret, he offered Sasuke the same smile and answered him:

“Thank you, Sasuke. I’ll be there in just a second.” 

V

As expected, Fugaku Uchiha was stationed in his personal quarters.

Itachi slid the door closed once he came through, fearing the worse. 

His father sat at the center of the room, watching as Itachi drew closer. He simply couldn’t wait for Itachi to sit before — 

“I’ve heard some troubling rumors, Itachi,” Fugaku said. 

Ah, so it was what he thought. Itachi met his father’s eye, allowing for his expression to remain as inscrutable as he could manage.

“You shouldn’t believe rumors, father.” 

Itachi saw his father’s eyebrow twitch.

This was meant to be a standoff, and if so, Itachi was sure to give nothing. 

“Don’t play the fool, boy,” Fugaku continued, voice rising. “You know what this is about. Where were you last night? And don’t say training; none of the others saw you at the usual grounds.”

Itachi resisted the urge to clench his fist. It's come to using spies? “I was training. And I don’t use the usual training grounds; you know I mostly train alone.”

Fugaku’s expression had not changed, was of stone. “Who is she?” 

“Who is who, father.”

Fugaku stood then and began to approach Itachi. 

“If you insist we speak as men, then we will, Itachi,” he said. 

Itachi sighed internally, rising himself. “It’s nothing you should concern yourself with.” 

“I would hope so,” Fugaku searched Itachi with his eyes. “But I’m not too sure about that.” 

“If you refuse to believe anything besides what you want, then you make it certain you won’t.” 

Silence. 

Fugaku lowered his voice, after a while, to say, “What is wrong with you, child?” 

Itachi felt a heat rise within him.

You. You are what is wrong.

Itachi looked away at last. “May I go back to the table with Mother and Sasuke?” 

A dissatisfied grunt was his only reply.

Itachi turned to go, feeling a heat rise within him as he slid the door open.

“You will not fraternize with the likes of that girl if you want to be apart of this household, Itachi,” Fugaku said as the door began to slide closed. “This will be your last warning.” 

V

The memory of that meeting rose, every once in a while, to set fire to his insides and torment him.

He loved Sasuke.

He loved you.

But what am I?

The only reason he could kiss you, touch you, hear your voice, know you, was because …

Because …

The way we think is different, but I'm still proud of you… You truly are a gentle child.

“Itachi?” 

The sound of his name brought him away from the past and into the present; he saw you rear the corner, offering him a smile. 

"Are you leaving?" You asked.

"Yeah," Itachi replied. "Did I wake you?" 

You shook your head and came toward him, pinching a bit of his Akatsuki cloak between your fingers to pull him forward.

You will not fraternize with the likes of that girl if you want to be apart of this household, Itachi.

He leaned toward you — 

— Father was right about a great many things — 

and he kissed you.

[lizhly-writes]

hi there. this is absolutely not what i meant to post buuuuuut i didn't finish what i actually wanted to post, so have this (which I also didn't finish) instead. haaaappy late valentine's day.

“So?”

“...I don’t know why you want to hear this kind of thing.”

“But you’ll tell me anyway, right?”

“I’d rather not.”

“But...?”

“Yes, fine, whatever.”

...

Yang Haoran honestly wished that he had a less accurate recollection of how his first ten kisses went, primarily because saying that he remembered exactly how his first ten kisses went made it seem like he was the kind of person who sentimentally and obsessively kept count of every time someone locked lips with him.

It was, he felt, an inaccurate representation of how he was as a person. After all, it was easy to remember your first ten kisses if 1) they were all with the same person 2) they happened pretty much all at once.

...Well, in any case, his first kiss had gone like this: he had been studying in his room, the very picture of a dutiful high school student. At some point, Jiang Mingxi had walked in.

"Hi, Mingxi," Yang Haoran said. "Hey, do you know if --"

"Kiss me," Jiang Mingxi demanded.

...

"Seriously?" Chen Lihua said, in a way that would probably break her fans' public perception of her if they ever saw it. Her image was pure, sweet, wholesome -- there wasn't really much room for maniacal gleefulness.

"Seriously," Yang Haoran said dryly.

Chen Lihua leaned in, eyes bright, chin propped on her hands, the very picture of an eager gossip. "She really just said that?"

"It was the first thing she said to me all day."

"Wow. No lead in, no build up, no mood. Aren't you supposed to have some kind of romantic atmosphere for this? Ah, wait, you two were already engaged at that point, right? So were you already in a relationship or --"

"That would make sense, wouldn’t it."

...

Yang Haoran blinked. He blinked again.

But no matter how hard he blinked, Jiang Mingxi was still standing in his doorway, the echo of her words still lingering in the air. Arms crossed, jaw tensed, expression belligerent. She look like she was ready to kick his ass. She did not look like she wanted to kiss him.

And yet.

He marked his place in his workbook and closed it, since clearly nothing was going to get done with Jiang Mingxi occupying his attention like this. "I didn't know you were interested in this kind of thing.”

They were going to get married. That was a fact. That was also years in the future. Any romance in their relationship was hypothetical at best. Their current relationship could be accurately described as "childhood friends mostly because their parents were friends and kept pushing them together".

The most romantic thing Jiang Mingxi had ever told him was that his face looked "okay, I guess".

Yang Haoran thought about it. The obvious answer occurred to him near-instantly. "Did you lose a bet or something?" he said cheerily.

"No," Jiang Mingxi growled. "Why would you think I lost a -- am I not allowed to be interested on my own?"

"Interested in... kissing," Yang Haoran said skeptically. “You think about kissing people?” Jiang Mingxi had, to him, always seemed like she was gearing up to be one of those strong independent women who didn’t need men. Even that seemed like an understatement. Jiang Mingxi rarely showed interest in anyone at all, man or not.

“Who’s people, I think about kissing you,” Jiang Mingxi snapped, and then immediately looked like she regretted saying anything out loud at all. She was starting to turn red. On other people, this might have been cute. On Jiang Mingxi, it could be cute, but also probably meant she was going to commit violence sometime soon.

“... Me, in particular?” Yang Haoran ventured. “Regularly?”

I think and not I was thinking. The first implied a pattern; that Jiang Mingxi considered kissing him more than once --- that she apparently thought about it often enough that she had to bring it up with him outside her mind to excise it.

He was feeling...some kind of way about this.

Jiang Mingxi crossed her arms. "You're my fiance, am I supposed to be kissing anyone other than you?"

...Oh, well, now he was feeling back to normal about this.

Yang Haoran propped his chin up on one hand. "So you're saying it really could have been anyone, but I'm actually your only real option because I’m your fiance."

"That’s not--” Jiang Mingxi made a frustrated noise. “Why are you saying it like that. Why are you making it sound so bad.”

“I’m not making it sound bad.”

...

“You made it sound bad,” Chen Lihua said.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Yang Haoran said.