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pinkrelish · 2 years

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲.

singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader

✶After a lifetime of questionable decisions, you moved from the big city to the sleepy town of Hawkins with your best friend, and took the first job you saw: answering phones for the most boring auto shop in the dullest place on Earth. It wasn't exactly the adventure you wanted it to be.. but attempting to win over the jaded mechanic who insisted on ignoring your existence proved entertaining.✶

NSFW — slow burn, eventual smut, strangers to lovers, flirting, mutual pining, angst, drug/alcohol mention/use, depictions of poverty, sort of grumpy x sunshine but eddie's just tired, reader and eddie are mid-late 20's

chapter: 1/20 [wc: 5.5k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11 / 12

AO3

Chapter 1: Surprise, Surprise

“Yes.” A simple answer which spawned as many awkward scenarios, as it did great ones. Your name was spray painted on the side of a bridge, you spent nights learning to tango on abandoned rooftops, the amount of tales you accrued of bad dates could fill a self-help book.

Whatever the question was, the answer was “yes.” Life was more exciting that way.

Well, your policy usually lended itself to exciting adventures, anyway.

Currently, you were sat behind a desk with your boss, Mr. Moore, who slouched on his black stool with his cheek propped on his fist, pointing a pencil at a customer’s pink invoice sheet in front of you, explaining who to call in the spiral-bound catalog for the parts to be shipped.

The tall counter top partially obscured the both of you from employees and customers alike, but as you soon realized, the number of employees was slightly above two, and the customers even less; and if any of them paid you any mind, you couldn’t tell from the disorienting mix of exhaust fumes, dirty oil, and grease wafting in from the glass door on the left.

Thus began the first day of your new job at David’s Auto Repair. Boring.

————

Your second and third days were hardly different. Arriving at the butt crack of dawn and beginning the routine that definitely wasn’t in the ad in the newspaper: clean the bathrooms (hey, at least they had two), start the coffee pot after scrubbing off years of neglect caked onto the inside, and organize the paperwork Mr. Moore left for you in his office.

Oh, and most importantly, after locking up your bike outside the front door, you made your way through the echoey workshop and poked your head out the back door to the parking lot–which, by all means, was a gravel alleyway with overgrown trees blocking your view beyond the sleek black car parked next to the dumpster.

“Morning!” you greeted the one employee who arrived early and stayed late. “Eddie, right?”

The man leaning against the gray brick wall didn’t bother acknowledging you. Didn’t lift his head from its dropped back position, nor open his eyes. Definitely didn’t take the cigarette out of his mouth to bestow you the gift of his chipper attitude, nor did he uncross his arms to offer you the bare minimum wave.

And much like the other days, you sat perched behind your desk and beamed up at him as he walked past you to the break room. And as usual, he slid his gaze to you. And like normal, he didn’t say anything.

But he did hold your eye contact for a fraction of a second longer, albeit, he looked a bit frightened when he did, as if he were suspicious of your smile.

You listened to the clunk of his heavy boots fade down the hallway, then return with him holding a mug of coffee.

This time, as he walked by, he remained vigilant, and your grin went ignored by his stupid big brown eyes surrounded by envious lashes.

Lucky you, the reception area was essentially a glass cage. Behind the black pleather seats for customers was the glowing blue sky, and beside you were floor to ceiling windows showcasing the artificially bright garage where the man in grease stained coveralls twisted gaudy rings off his fingers and placed them on a tray with his coffee, before picking up a dirty rag and popping open the hood of the car he worked on past closing last night.

“You’re welcome for the coffee,” you mumbled in a mocking tone, sneering at his red name patch–Eddie. “Jerk.”

————

Friday was different. You locked up your bike, chucked your backpack into your chair behind the desk, and made your way to the back of the garage for the routine, “Good morning.”

For some reason, you decided to reveal your whole self; more than your head stuck out the door, or rising above the countertop customers leaned on when trying to schmooze deals on parts–hell if you knew how to do that, anyway. You didn’t get paid enough to bargain.

You stepped onto the uneven gravel and surveyed the scenery, looking both ways down the alley to the major roads on either side leading to the heart of downtown Hawkins. Absolutely dismally silent. Void of life. Except for the small things you never noticed, like faraway birds, the hum of a distant motor, buzzing bugs before they disappeared for the cooler months. You felt the dew settling on your forearms, and swore you could smell impending rain on the cloudless day.

“Is it always this quiet?” you asked, face pinched in confusion as you took it all in. “I swear I can hear my own thoughts.”

Eddie may not have appreciated your joke, but he did surprise you.

He kept one of his arms crossed over his stomach, and took the cigarette from between his lips to flick the ashes. “You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked the dilapidated fence across from him.

Feeling cheeky, you schooled the thrill out of your voice from getting a response out of him, and said, “What gave it away?”

A drag on his cigarette was his wordless answer. Fair.

“I’m from New York.” The implied City followed without clarification. “Just moved here last week. My roommate’s from Hawkins, and she had to move back to help take care of her parents. They’re older and her dad has some health problems, and yeah, I couldn’t afford rent on my own, so you know, why not. Why not follow her to a town so small it’s impossible to find on a map.”

All your talking earned you a magnificent thing. Eddie finally opened his eyes, if only to pin you with a mild glare, and a skeptic pinch between his brows.

He said more to himself than you, “You must really like your roommate to come here.” The inflection at the end was both amusement and contempt, no doubt.

“We met in our first year of college and became best friends like that–!” You snapped. “Both theater kids going to school for acting, and we later made a comedy troupe with a few other people. When she asked if I wanted to move with her, I said ‘yes.’” Inclining your upper body towards him, you explained, “It’s sorta my thing. If anyone asks me anything, I say ‘yes.’ Obviously, I can veto shit that’s dangerous or crosses any boundaries, but it’s my policy to try everything. Life makes better stories that way.”

Your unique brand of wisdom furthered his obvious distaste for you.

Eddie inhaled his vice until the orange glow burned to the filter. Smoke fell from his mouth in a rush as if he were about to speak again, but he didn’t. He merely stared at you. And if he were having a staring contest, he won.

“Well, have a good day, then,” you said, spinning on the toe of your shoe.

You sat in your glass zoo for the day shuffling papers, making calls, and filling out forms. Most definitely not talking to the guy who appeared annoyed at your very existence.

Unfortunately for him, Hawkins was tiny and the pickings were slim.

Maybe it was his eyes, or the way the short layers of his choppy hair cut escaped his low bun to curl themselves in face-framing waves, or the fact he was twenty-years younger than the other two mechanics, but you took a liking to Eddie, much to his dismay. And due to your affinity for his annoyance, you noticed the subtle changes in his appearance sooner than you should.

————

Dark purple circles announced the lack of sleep under Eddie’s eyes before the bags could. Bloodshot and struggling to open past a sliver, he sucked down half his cigarette before the routine minutes of peace he carved into his strict schedule were interrupted by the newest knot in his muscles.

“Good morning!” you said.

“Morning,” he returned without thinking about it. Rookie mistake.

You stood closer this time, inching down the brick wall, approaching him as if he would startle like a wild animal to get a better look at the years wearing heavy on the fine lines etched into his face. Perhaps no longer ‘fine.’

“You good?”

He didn’t have the energy to put up his usual front. With his chin dipped to his chest, he kept his eyes closed, nearly drifting to sleep as he muttered, “Long night.”

“Ah.”

Your clumsy shuffling alerted him to your movement, and he reluctantly observed you standing a few feet in front of him, rocking on your heels. He filled his chest with an incredulous sigh before you even spoke.

“You seem like you could use some cheering up,” you beamed. “I could juggle for you! Should I do three or four?” Eddie’s jaw went slack, and the cigarette stuck to the wetness inside his chapped lips. You bent down to gather large rocks into your palms, opting for four when he didn’t answer.

You stood up and stepped back. Made a big show of tracing invisible arcs above your head with your gaze, readying your hands. Sucking in a breath. Building suspense while his expression slowly crept into one of tempered curiosity.

Tensing, you tossed all four rocks into the air, and made a genuine effort to catch them before they fell unceremoniously around you, bouncing off the gravel in your scramble.

Clasping your hands behind your back in feigned shyness, you announced, “I don’t know how to juggle.”

For a moment you thought he was going to continue to regard you as if you were a bug in his coffee.. Then his veneer cracked.

He snorted. The cute way, when someone’s trying to suppress it. A subtle shake in their shoulders, keeping their head down, and their smile hidden behind the heel of the palm.

Eddie hugged his arm tighter over his chest, and chastised himself, “Why’d I let that get me.”

And truly, when he flicked his gaze to you with the lopsided remnant of his grin, you were imprinted with the heat of his wonderment, and your body remembered that feeling. Sensing it later when you sat at your desk, tapping your pencil, rattling off a series of numbers and letters for engine parts, and you snuck a coy look over the phone at the exact moment Eddie turned around to ask Carl for a wrench instead of getting it himself from the tool box near the window.

And he felt your stare during lunch when you promised an irate customer their car would be ready by the end of business hours, and hung up the phone with the type of heavy-handedness one used when implying a ‘fuck you’ without stating it.

You pushed yourself from the desk and went to the fridge in front of the circular table in the break room, eyeing Eddie’s odd choice as you walked by. A bologna sandwich–fairly normal–but also a stained orange tupperware container with an array of dried out microwaved leftovers. A corner of spaghetti, pale instant mashed potatoes with three peas stuck on top, unidentifiable sludge that may have been beef stew at one point, and a handful of Kraft mac n cheese.

Pitiful amounts of food that most people would’ve thrown out.

Not that you should judge. Your lunch was the blandest rice-based meal your roommate’s mom made the night before. The woman had never heard of salt, much less other spices, but she was letting you live in their attic for free until you and Bobbie found a place to live.

Breaking your chain of thoughts, you smiled at Eddie on your way out.

He didn’t look up from his paperwork.

Wholly ignored.

————

Over the rest of the month, you learned there wasn’t a definitive pattern to which days of the week were hardest for Eddie, but it was clear when he was enduring the worst.

As the evenings grew cooler, you left the lobby door open, and in doing so, were wise to the bite in his words, the edge to his voice. The quick apologies to Carl when he let his frustration show. The fluidity of ‘fucks’ flying past his mouth, the way he wrung his nape while staring into the distance, and the lurking stress of bottled emotions causing his teeth to grind.

He approached you with concern spurned from the windows being painted black with night.

“You don’t have to stay behind, you know that, right?” Eddie got your attention in the doorway. You blinked at him, still seeing the words of the book you were reading swim past your vision. “I have a set of keys. I can lock up when I’m done.”

It was the most he’d said to you in two weeks. Three entire sentences composed of more words than he’d uttered if you added them all up since your juggling stunt.

“I don’t mind.”

A meager response which resulted in a standoff.

Eddie wasted no time bunching his shoulders at your defiance. He left streaky fingerprints on the door handle as he reached for his neck, and tucked his fingers under his collar to run his thumb along his chain necklace in a self-soothing gesture. A layer of grime coated his skin. His disheveled hair stuck to his sweaty, dirty neck. The front of his coveralls were blackened with grease, as was the white tank top he wore underneath, peeking above the unfastened top snap.

On the other hand, you overturned your palms and glanced around the barren room. “Is it really that much of a bother that I’m sitting in here being quiet?” you drawled.

“Yes.” Automatic irritation.

“It’s not like I have somewhere to be.”

“Don’t have a comedy routine to rehearse with your roommate?” he intoned in complete monotony.

“Ha-ha,” you replied, just as emotionless. You thought about correcting him in regards to you and Bobbie no longer doing stand up, but decided to grab your backpack and leave without putting up a fight. His concern about you staying late may not be genuine, but it was evident he wanted–or needed–you gone. You didn’t want to push his boundaries when he showed this level of discomfort, especially when the burden of fatigue wore beyond acceptable exhaustion, and he was ready to snap, no matter how hard he tried to quell it.

You surrendered, “Bye, Eddie.”

No reply.

In total darkness, you unchained your bike and hopped on, pedaling past the mailbox when you heard the thunderous slams of the service doors being lowered shut.

And you made it to the edge of the trees before coming to a screeching halt in the middle of the empty street, cracking your neck at the speed of which you whipped around to gawk.

Your heartbeat skipped, then timed itself with the extreme drum beat and opening wail of a guitar accompanied by high-pitched screamed lyrics.

The music may have been muffled, and the inside fluorescent lights struggled to penetrate the dense fog from the upper warehouse windows, but it was as if Eddie was subjecting the desolate parking lot to his own personal Judas Priest concert, hearing be damned.

You didn’t even know the dusty radio in the shop worked. But whatever helped him blow off steam, you supposed.

————

Today was a good day.

Eddie liked Fridays. Most people working weekdays did, but when he came inside early from his morning cigarette, and you hadn’t finished sweeping the shop, he made a point to idle around the orange car at the center, seeking your attention and offering an apology. Not a spoken apology, mind you. But it was rare he initiated eye contact, and when he did it with the purpose of showing deference in his softened features, you understood.

You forgave him with a gentle lift at the corner of your lips for an incident yesterday afternoon, wherein he grunted at you to leave him alone when you were telling him about one of the plays you and Bobbie acted in. Sometimes you required your own reminder of when you were being annoying, and gave him an apologetic smile for bothering him. He nodded. All was right with the world. All was forgiven and now he could get to work.

He wiped his hands down the sides of his coveralls, and leaned his upper half through the open car window to reach the latch for the hood.

The perfect opportunity to mess with him presented itself in all its glory. But first, you couldn’t resist taking a long.. long look at his backside, head tilted, mouth more than a little hung open.

“Huh?” He nearly banged his head on the roof, rounding on you with the sharpest glare in the Midwest.

Under the guise of perfect innocence, you kept brushing the broom over his work boots and toward the dust pan. “Sorry, sir, just doin’ my job. Gotta clean up the filth.”

“An actress and a comedian, huh?” he posed, allowing his smirk to foster as he gripped the edge of the door. “Gonna tell me you were a clown, next?”

“Actually..” You were interrupted by Carl coming in, followed by the near-retired Kevin who worked two days a week.

You greeted them loud and proud, overdoing it in the joy department at the ripe morning hour. Asking about Carl’s wife, and Kevin’s dog; really laying it on thick for the purpose of sending a message to the looming ghoul behind you: I’m annoying you on purpose now.

Still, as you entered the lobby, you caught sight of the sneaky grin on his face before he turned his back to you. A tight-lipped thing he was clearly trying to rid himself of while pulling his hair back into a low bun, and taking the time to tie up a bandana to keep everything out of his face, thus losing his security blanket from the world perceiving he wasn’t in a permanent bad mood.

And of course, Eddie kept up his act through lunch. Stomping through the lobby in that way people did when they were so very obviously trying to appear aloof, and coming across as anything but. Eyes staring straight ahead, but too wide and too aware to not be soliciting a reaction from their periphery. Chest out, muscles flexed. Posture the very opposite of casual, causing them to walk in a stilted manner like a robot.

And his charade continued when he came back from the break room, rounding the corner with softer steps. Slower. Hanging onto the precious milliseconds where your back was to him, and he could absorb your image freely without being noticed. Then, he lifted his chin and returned to his project, pretending you weren’t there.

Yep, so painfully obvious when he forgot reflections existed and you were surrounded by glass.

~~~

Fridays were the days he anticipated most. Work was grueling, and he had many things to finish before the break for the weekend, but he didn’t mind staying late. He preferred it.

Fridays meant he could rely on someone else handling the stressors at home, and he was free to earn his late hours at the garage, indulging in his loud music, and unwinding the constant state of tension lurking beneath the surface. It was the only way he knew how to cope. To stay sane.

Yeah, he loved Fridays. Until a surprise came running at him in her tiny pink shoes.

Eddie screwed his eyes shut and exhaled a long, hard breath through his nose.

“Sorry,” came Wayne’s earnest apology as his nephew wilted; shoulders sagging, head hung. Tapping the wrench he was holding on his thigh. Trying his best to keep it together. “Don’t mean to drop ‘er off on you, but work called me in, so I came here after picking her up.”

Turning away from the engine he was installing, Eddie assumed his authoritative voice, but it came out as a weary sigh. “Adrienne, you know the rules,” he warned lowly, “No running in the shop.” After a beat, he corrected himself. “I mean, no being in the shop at all!”

She giggled as she skipped away from him, sloppy pigtails bouncing with mirth, plastic glittery shoes slapping the concrete floor where a myriad of items she could trip on laid.

“Adrie!” He called out, but she was too busy opposing him to pay attention.

Lucky for her, a certain receptionist caught her by the shoulders before she crashed into a rogue tire.

“Whoa there, little Miss!”

You looked to Eddie for further instruction on what to do with the girl currently laughing up a storm at your feet, but he was frozen. A bit paler, and wringing the back of his neck. Unable to articulate any of the broken consonants on his tongue as he stared at you. You switched your gaze to the older man beside him, but he was equally confused as to why Eddie was having trouble speaking.

Addressing anyone who would like to volunteer an answer, you asked, “And who’s this?”

“This.. This i-is my daughter. She, I, Goddamnit–I’m sorry, can you take her inside? I swear she’ll be quiet. Right, Adrie?”

Seeing the pure desperation settle around his eyes, you assimilated into the role of babysitter, wanting to alleviate his anxiety despite the sudden surge of your own. You held your hand out for her to take, and she did so without a second thought, grasping onto you with her little fingers and standing up, being the one to lead you to your desk.

As the door closed behind you, you overheard the older man clear his throat under the strain of bad news. “The water heater is broken again, and I couldn’t– ..Before I had to leave.”

Their private conversation was sealed behind the glass. You didn’t care to eavesdrop. It was too heartbreaking watching Eddie frantically catch his fingers on his bandana before removing it so he could tangle his curls into his fist, tugging them over his face as he groaned in a fruitless effort to hide himself from the world.

But on the subject of his brunette waves..

His daughter had the same curl pattern. Almost the same cut, too. Clearly Eddie was the acting barber of the family. Something you’d find adorable if it wasn’t for the pang of rejection in your stomach.

Daughter. Family.

The words repeated themselves in your head as your eyes wandered to the black tray beside the tool cabinet. He wore several large rings. Lots of jewelry, in fact, but you couldn’t remember if any of them were a wedding band, and the embarrassment of developing a crush on a married man for weeks without taking two seconds to cross reference his left hand burned your cheeks hot.

“Hi,” his daughter said cutely, swaying from foot to foot while holding two of your fingers.

You crouched to her level. “Wanna draw while we wait?” She nodded, sucking on the tip of her thumb.

Steadying your spinny office chair while she climbed into it, you made sure she was comfortable before bringing out the black stool from Mr. Moore’s office, and sitting next to her. You opened your backpack, flipped to a clean sheet in your sketchpad, and presented it to her along with your colored pencils.

“Hmm, what should we draw?”

Adrie snatched the bubblegum pink color, and began her masterpiece. “Mrs. Teresa read us a book about a mouse.”

Thank God she said it was a mouse, because you didn’t want to be the one to guess what the two oblong circles on the page were.

Adorably, she filled you in on the parts of the story she remembered, and added a triangle of yellow cheese under the mouse, then waited for you to prompt another thing to draw. You followed the nocturnal theme and asked for an owl. She hesitated on what colors to choose, and you helped her pick out the shades of brown and tan.

“How old are you?” you asked while she inundated her bird with too many feathers.

“Four-and-a-half,” she said proudly. “How old are you?”

You raised your brows. “Certainly not four-and-a-half.”

At some point, your arm had wrapped itself around her. Maybe to help shift her closer to the desk. Maybe to collect her in a pseudo-hug when she completed her art. Maybe to let Eddie know everything was okay when he craned his neck to check on you while conversing with the man outside, and you put on your best face, grinning at the story his daughter reenacted about a cartoon she watched that morning at preschool.

“What next? What next?”

“Let’s see.. Can you draw me a bat?”

She was more sure of herself, grabbing the black pencil and outlining an entire colony of bats mid-flight with more attention to detail. “My daddy has bats.”

“He has bats?” you questioned, sweeping loose hair out of her face.

She pointed to her elbow.

Thinking on it for a moment, you perked up. “Oh! He has tattoos?” She recognized the word, nodding vigorously. “Interesting, interesting.”

She’d hardly begun to fill in their wings when Eddie opened the door, and held up the comically small backpack slung on his arm, signaling it was time to leave.

You helped her down from the chair, and she excused herself to the bathroom, which only contributed to the awkward silence when she disappeared down the hall and Eddie was forced to wait at your desk.

It didn’t have to be analyzed, nor stated. The reality.

He had an entire life outside of work.

Duh. Of course he did, but still. It was one he never shared with you. Not like you earned the privilege to know, or to be included in anything he didn’t want to divulge, but with how private he was, it came as a surprise.

Invoking the thousands of dollars you spent on acting classes, you moved on, and kept your tone light, “The butterfly backpack suits you. Not sure about the color, though. Bright pink clashes with your navy blue outfit.”

Tough crowd.

His sulky demeanor permeated in his dull gaze trained on his stained sleeves. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Dumping her on you like that. Normally my uncle has the day off work and can take care of her, but he’s gotta go in because someone called out sick, so, yeah..”

If it were at all appropriate, you would reach across the countertop to soothe him from picking at his torn cuticles. But it wasn’t appropriate. So you didn’t.

You locked your hands behind your head and leaned back in your chair. “Funnily enough, I worked a brief stint as a clown for children’s birthday parties, so I’m actually quite comfortable entertaining them.”

“I’m shocked,” he said, void of shock. Finding the strength to lift his eyes from the animals she drew on your sketchpad to the encouraging curve of your lips, he tried to match your grin, but it fell flat. “At least you can go home on time today.”

You sucked in a breath for a quick retort, but Adrie interrupted you in her tiny voice, “Daddy! I can’t reach the sink!” And maybe that was for the best before you humiliated yourself more.

Because, the truth of the matter was, you always had the ability to go home on time. It was only because Eddie stayed behind that you made excuses to sit at your desk past your scheduled hours, prattling off some nonsense about memorizing the catalog.

“C’mon,” he said to his daughter, supporting her on his hip. “Let’s get going.” His tone wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t exactly patient, either. The creeping exhaustion he kept under wraps was breaking through. Stress fractures in the mask he wore around others. The sanity he gripped for dear life for the sake of Adrie.

He caught the empathetic pinch between your brows, and used the last of his energy to turn so his daughter could see you. “Say ‘bye,’ and ‘thank you’ for playing, Adrie.”

She waved with the same enthusiasm as a golden retriever wagging their tail. “Bye! Thank you!”

“Bye, Adrie,” you laughed. “Bye, Eddie.”

Like usual, he didn’t respond. Today that was okay.

————

Eddie was on the verge. He was trembling, failing to loosen a bolt on the water heater to investigate why it broke–again–when his hair was yanked–again–and his knuckles scraped a bent piece of metal–again.

He was kneeling on his kitchen floor, craving nothing more than a shower to wash away the work week until his skin burned, but he was not afforded the simple luxury.

No relaxation. Not for him. No one to call on when Wayne was gone. This was his life to fix. On his own.

After repairing cars all day, he was exhausted. Touched out. But Adrie needed something from him, something he couldn’t understand with his tired mind. All he wanted was a break. All he needed was a break from her using his coveralls to scale his body. All he sought was the energy to deal with her pulling his hair.

But he was not spared the fortune.

“Adrie, please,” he resorted to begging. And when she didn’t stop, he withdrew his arms from the closet, and pried her hands off his hair, peeling her away and setting her on the floor.

She made to grab him again, but he used his waning strength to squeeze her arms to her sides, giving her his full attention she fought for.

“Can I get you a snack? Or put something on the TV? Do you want a nap?” He listed off anything, shaking and desperate.

“I wanna play with Daddy.”

Guilt amplified the shame.

He was a shit dad. He knew. He did his best and it was never good enough.

“I know you do,” the words fluctuated in the wake of water stinging his eyes. “I know you do, but Daddy needs to fix this. I can make you a snack and you can eat it in the living room. How ‘bout that?” Under normal circumstances, that wasn’t allowed. She had a penchant for dropping sticky food on the carpet–which was just another thing he’d have to get around to cleaning–but he was willing to bend the rules for the promise of a shower.

Adrienne thought about his offer for a long while, and settled on his deal.

And yet, it was hours.. hours until he was able to sit down.

The water heater required more service than he initially thought, and his daughter wasn’t entertained by herself for very long. She came to him in intervals of minutes, climbing up his back and hanging from his neck. He stopped caring. He didn’t have it within him. He made sure she was safe, and that was it.

He fed her a dreadful dinner, and she was so happy for her overcooked noodles in pasta sauce. He saved the leftovers. Put them in the nearly-empty fridge and took out two beers for himself, cracking the tops before sinking into the couch.

Adrienne stood between his legs while he wrapped her in her favorite blanket, and placed her in his lap. The top half of his coveralls were tied by the sleeves around his waist. No matter how dirty he was, this was how they ended the night. Him staring blankly at the TV, and her cheek on his chest, ear pressed to his white tank top, listening to his heartbeat. Curling her fists into her tattered quilt in response to him nuzzling the top of her head, and resting there in a content hum. Closing his eyes. Turning off his brain. Tipping back swigs of beer until he felt better, and giving her kisses until she giggled and squirmed.

The kisses were as much for her as they were for him, giving and receiving the only affection in his life. Apologizing for earlier when he couldn’t stand to be touched.

Her hug was small, yet powerful. Clumsy, but what he needed. Another person to gather in his arms and have their weight fall asleep on his chest.

He collected Adrie, and gave her a few more doting kisses while carrying her to bed.

“Stay, Daddy.”

Sometimes he did, just to have a real bed to sleep in, but with how long it took to fix the water heater, there was only enough hot water to bathe her. He’d have to wait until the morning.

“Not tonight, Daddy’s still dirty from work.”

It hurt to walk away. It hurt more to sleep on the lumpy couch. Hurt worse when Wayne came home to crash on the roll out bed, and the sun funneled through the windows, and the day started all over again.

Hurt the most when Eddie thought about the surprised look on your face when you learned he had a daughter.

Hurt the least when he imagined a world in which you wouldn’t care, and still flirted with him come Monday morning, because fuck, it was the only thing he looked forward to after Adrie’s meltdowns on the way to school.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie munson smut #mechanic!eddie #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #the yes policy

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billysgun · 5 months

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sneaking

billy the kid x cowgirl!reader |on a cloudy morning, you and billy sneak behind the barn to steal kisses from each other|

It's been something you two have been doing for a while now, sneaking out of the cabin at the break of dawn and running behind the barn like kids

you sway softly, looking up at the cloudy sky as the gray swirls above you and you think back to last night.

the gang went for a drink and you and Billy were "too tired" to go, it was true, but you two ended up having a wonderful hot bath, holding each other while he kissed you softly

"mornin' beautiful"

you turned and saw the gunslinger, messy hair, and rushed button-up as he cupped your face and kissed you softly.

this has been your routine for months, a make-out session before breakfast to keep you both sane from the lack of touching in front of the group.

"I almost snuck into your room last night 'cuz I wanted to see you so badly" he admitted on your lips and you giggled softly, the gang arrived much earlier than expected and your time together was cut short

the reason you both sneak is for your safety mostly, if the old outlaws knew you were with one of the men here, you'd be as worthy to them as one of the lady of the nights. and that would be putting your life in danger.

"why didn't you?" you giggled and he kissed your nose

"Jesse barged in right when I was gettin' up...we have a big job today apparently" he shrugged, arms wrapping around your waist as he stared into your eyes. you hummed a response as your lips turned down slightly

"wish the mornin' lasted longer" you whispered and he chuckled softly

"we ain't gonna be ridin' forever, love...I'll get my name cleared and we will get married...get a little cabin and everything" his eyes were starey as he talked about your future plans, you giggled and nodded along

"that sounds perfect, Billy!" you grinned, about to open your mouth until you saw smoke escaping the chimney and you knew at least someone was awake

his eyes followed you and sighed, taking your hand to kiss it and you both began to walk

"I'll see you later, love" he mumbled before you went to the back door and he went to the front, you blew a kiss and walked in where you were just a single cowgirl, and him, a single cowboy.

an: i love you all so much thank you for all the support!! <33

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astrumark · 1 year

Text

── YOU GOT ME SLIPPIN', ACTIN' LAZY ★.

PAIRING: aemond targaryen x female reader.

SUMMARY: you see aemond with his hair up for the first time, and it is distracting.

WARNINGS: fluff, curse words, suggestive themes.

WC: 1.4K

You believe you are having a very vivid dream, that you are still wrapped in silky sheets and foolishly thinking you already started the day. This could mean you were late to your daily practices with the one-eyed prince, and that could simply not do. He would be beyond displeased. But the sight in front of you could have easily been the fruit of your imagination.

When you moved to the Red Keep after your betrothal with Prince Aemond for proper courting, you were astonished by his fervent desire for you to begin to train with the sword and to learn self-defense. Personally.

"I cannot have my future wife being defenseless, can I?" He said. "As much as I love protecting you, my darling, it's beyond my power to guarantee I will always be around."

You cherished it. Your first encounters as betrotheds, like is commonly done, to walk around the gardens or drink tea during the afternoon was filled with awkward silence and useless small talk, but not the training.

It was a lot more smooth since there was a purpose to your meeting. You moved your bodies around and got too occupied to talk beyond the necessary, and somehow, it seemed to improve your relationship more than any other activity you have tried before. It's a fun way to bond before the wedding and you felt yourself getting closer to the prince each day. The air between you rapidly shifted for one of mutual respect and slight teasing.

And it was rewarding as well, to test and improve your body and abilities. The soreness of your muscles became pleasant, and you have grown to feel more motivated and stronger, looking forward to it each dawn.

Your only complaint is that it was too early, having to be awake even before the sun was entirely up. To look at your window and see a gray sky was simply distasteful. Aemond claimed it was necessary to avoid undesirable attention and comments. Usually, it was only the two of you and very few passing servants.

And this is how you would always find yourself in the chilly training yard first thing after you'd awake, a mist often covering the spot in the early hour.

The same mist that makes you doubt your eyes, but when the tall man stops just a few inches away from you, there is no mistaking it. Aemond has his hair up in a ponytail.

And he looks fabulous. You are unable to avert your eyes, never have seen him with any other hairstyle besides the half-up one. His angled face full on display makes your stomach tingle with excitement.

You could almost visualize him in an extravagant armor competing in tourneys if only he liked it. It made him look like a warrior, but you also noticed the intimacy of it. You could see him with his hair in such a style in your private chambers during the morning as well, chest exposed and thin sheets wrapped around his waist after a passionate night. Warmth flooded your body, and suddenly, all your sleepiness disappeared.

"Good morrow, my lady," He says quietly. "Slept well?"

"Yes, my Prince, thank you. What about you?" You bring your attention back to the table full of throwing knives in front of you.

"As usual." He hums. "Would you like to try these first?"

"Yes, please."

"Choose one or two and come." He orders, already placing himself near the target.

You watch him from afar for a minute, completely amused, you don't think you have ever considered him as handsome as right now, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest any minute.

Aemond sets himself behind you as you position yourself as he taught you before, holding the other knife for you. You are grateful for his mercy since it was much easier to resist the urge to stare at him when he was out of your sight.

You aim the knife at the wooden target and it flies through the air, landing close to the center, but it trembles terribly and falls to the ground.

"It didn't stick because you're standing too close," Aemond explains. "When it spins, if the blade is angled down when it falls, it indicates you need to step back. Half of getting the knife to hit the target is about where you are standing."

You listen attentively and try a new stance. This time, the knife lands on the right of the middle and sticks. You grin.

"Good, now let's try something else."

Your face falls slightly. "Already?"

"You seem to handle the knives nicely, although you still need practice. But you are awful at hand-to-hand combat, and so it must be our priority."

"You flatter me."

"Come and fight me, my lady." Aemond teases going to the middle of the yard, bouncing on his feet.

"You won't be as thrilled for it once we're wed."

He rolls his eye, and you mirror his stance. But it's distracting, the way his ponytail swings with each of his jumps, almost hypnotizing.

The sudden punch in your jaw makes you stumble backward as you wince and rub your cheek.

"What was that?" Aemond's voice is thick and intimidating as his slender fingers tap lightly at your cheek as if to wake you up. "Are you still asleep?"

"No."

"Then pay attention, you didn't even try to block it." His voice lowers. "Did I hurt you?"

You shake your head. He never does, his blows are weak, but warning. You've hurt yourself more seriously falling to the ground or striking him than from receiving any of his punches. He's awfully careful.

You go back to your positions, and though you do not stand still as before, you know you are being slow. When Aemond spins, aiming to elbow you, the ends of his hair brush your face, and the smell of lemon verbena soap invades your nostrils, once more distracting you. Unfortunately, you lose the timing to move away and try to protect yourself from his strike in the clumsiest way, flinching as you do so. Not necessarily effective, and most definitely not what you have been learning for weeks.

Aemond says your name exasperatedly, sending you a bewildered glance. "We've been past this."

"I know."

"This has not been an issue for you recently."

"I know." You repeat with a grunt.

"What is happening?" He asks.

"Nothing is happening, my Prince."

"You are distracted," He affirms. "Leave these thoughts behind, focus only on the movements of your body. You will notice that with our practices your body almost knows what to do on its own if you permit it."

You try to follow his advice, and it works for a while. Your footwork becomes meticulous, avoiding Aemond's offenses gracefully, your arms solidly shielding your face and chest.

With the effort, beads of sweat start to cover Aemond's forehead and nose. And your eyes are drawn to his hairline, especially to the wavy little hairs sticking to his skin. Adorable.

You realize you have lost balance a second too late, the twat successfully tackling you to the ground. Your back hits the dirt floor with a thud, and you lose your breath for a second. He hovers over you, pinning both your arms with his hands. A displeased noise leaves his mouth.

Another perk of training is the proximity. In no other context, other than fighting would be acceptable for betrotheds to stand so close, to find themselves pressed like this. The touches always held more importance than they should, a taste for what's yet to come.

"Foolish mistake." He releases your arms. "What is it? What's bothering you?"

You don't answer, and your attention drifts to his hair once again, the ponytail is falling to the side and very close to your face. You cannot control the urge to touch it anymore and your hand moves, the strands are softer than you previously thought, but it's also thin. You twirl it around your fingers as concentrated as a babe with their new toy.

Realization crosses Aemond's eye, and he chuckles wryly, pressing his body even closer to yours, making you feel all the outlines of his body. You whimper. Cunt.

"Is it the hairstyle?" He asks teasingly.

You wet your lips, throat closing up. He holds your chin, making you look directly at his violet iris. "Do you like it?"

You nod. "A great amount."

He grins wickedly, and he leans his face dangerously close, your noses brushing. "Then I will make sure to wear it around you more often, wife."

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x you #hotd imagine #hotd x reader #hotd fanfic #aemond fluff

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theostrophywife · 8 months

Text

kiss with a fist | chapter two.

masterlist 💋 chapters 💋 playlist

pairing: theodore nott x reader.

song inspiration: baby said by måneskin.

author's note: i'd apologize for the filth, but i'm not actually sorry and at this point you should expect it from me. enjoy theo's cheeky mouth. he singlehandedly started the sassy man revolution.

A strange sense of deja vu washed over you as soon as you walked into the potions lab. Buried deep in the dungeons, the room had always made you feel a bit claustrophobic. You were used to the airiness of Ravenclaw Tower with its twisting spires, starry glass domed ceiling, and four story bookshelves. You couldn’t even see the sky from this far below.

But you supposed that the Slytherins preferred their dark and dreary viper’s nest.

Speaking of serpents, Theo slinked into the classroom with his eyes half-closed, nearly running into the wall. His hair was a tousled mess like he’d just now rolled out of bed. The faded emerald hoodie and gray sweatpants he had haphazardly thrown on looked considerably more casual than your cable knit sweater and plaid skirt.

“You’re late,” you scolded sharply. “How are you late? You literally live here.”

“S’too bloody early.”

Theo yawned lazily as he settled into the seat beside you. He cocked his head, dragging his gaze up and down your body before flicking a stray lock that had fallen out of your braid crown. You always kept your hair up since prefect duties had you running around the castle for the majority of your day. This morning, it was even more prudent to tie it back since you would be working with volatile potions and an even more volatile boy.

“Are you always so prim and perfect?”

“Are you always so sloppy and underwhelming?”

Theo snickered, unfazed by the comment. “Someone’s grumpy this morning.”

“You would be too if you woke up at the ass crack of dawn to nick a muffin from the kitchens.”

The sad looking pastry sat between you, partially crushed from being hastily stuffed into your book bag after barely evading the house elves.

All that hard work disappeared before your eyes as Theo devoured the muffin in seconds. The bloody git had the audacity to swipe your thermos off the table and tipped its contents directly into his mouth, crumbs and all.

His face immediately contorted into disgust. “What in the bloody hell is this?”

“Pumpkin spice latte.”

“Pumpkin what?”

“It’s a muggle thing.”

“It’s an abomination, is what it is.”

You snatched the thermos back. “No one told you to drink it. Do you even know how long it took for me to collect enough instant coffee packets to last the whole term? And here you are wasting it.”

Theo looked properly scandalized. “Why on Godric’s green earth would anyone drink coffee from a packet? You don’t have one of those—what do you call them—expression machines?”

“Espresso,” you corrected. “No, Theodore, I do not have an espresso machine because that would require electricity, which doesn’t really fit this castle’s medieval aesthetic.” You paused. “How do you even know about those?”

“I’m half Italian. How would I not know about espresso?”

“You called it expression.”

“Yeah, well, my nonna doesn’t have all of her teeth so sorry for pronouncing things incorrectly. If you don’t like it, take it up with that crazy old strega.”

You fought the urge to laugh. The little anecdote would not distract you from the mission. “Right, if you’re quite done insulting my taste in coffee, we should get to brewing.”

“You don’t have taste in coffee. That’s the problem.” You glared at him, causing Theo to sigh deeply. “That was for my countrymen. Go on, then. Show me what you’ve got so far.”

Theo watched silently as you lit your cauldron with a flick of your wand. Between you floated your advanced potions textbook, turning its own pages as you carefully followed the recipe. It didn’t matter that the instructions were so ingrained in your mind that Luna said that she’d heard you muttering it in your sleep. You were still going to follow the bloody book like it was your first brew.

The ingredients were simple. A sprig of wormwood. Two crushed newt spleens. Three blood slugs diagonally sliced with surgical precision. Four ashwinder eggs grinded into a fine powder. Most importantly, five crushed petals from the Angel’s Trumpet flower, which the draught derived its name from. Bring to a gentle boil. Wait precisely twenty minutes. Stir counterclockwise. Then clockwise again.

“It’s clockwise and then counterclockwise,” Theo declared, speaking for the first time in nearly half an hour.

“The book says the opposite.”

“I know what the book says.”

You brandished the ash stirrer in your right hand like a wand. “This wouldn’t be some clever ploy to take out your academic rival, would it?”

Theo rolled his eyes. “First of all, I prefer nemesis. Second of all, you’re the one more inclined to violence out of the two of us. If anyone should fear for their life in this room, it would be me.”

“Fair point. But how are you so sure the instructions are wrong?”

“Because this has never failed me.”

With that, Theo pulled out a small book from his pocket. It expanded as he touched it, nearly taking up half the table. The book was old, ancient even, with a worn leather cover that you highly suspected to be made of dragonhide. The title glowed with an eerie silver light.

Il grimorio della famiglia Marchesi.

The grimoire of the Marchesi family.

“Marchesi?” you asked in disbelief. “As in, the Marchesis of Triora?”

The Marchesis were an ancient wizarding family that traced their ancestry back to the small Italian village of Triora. The city of witches, they called it. Their most notable ancestor was Alessandra Marchesi. The young strega was much changed by the witch trials that had swept over her sleepy town during her childhood, but instead of shunning muggle influence, Alessandra embraced their queer traditions and used it to her advantage.

She tracked the inventions of her non-wizard counterparts diligently and reverse engineered it for magical purposes. The pages of her grimoire were said to be filled with invaluable knowledge. Alessandra invented potions, charms, and even hexes that helped shape the wizarding world as you knew it today. Her ideas birthed a sort of magical renaissance in the strenghe community.

Under her leadership, the Marchesi family produced some of the most powerful witches and wizards not only in Italy, but Europe as a whole. Some of them had even attended Hogwarts and were unsurprisingly sorted in your house.

Alessandra Marchesi was a visionary like no other and a legend amongst the Ravenclaws. Any one of your housemates would have killed to lay eyes on her grimoire.

And here it was, propped casually in front of you.

In the hands of Theodore Nott, of all people.

You stared at the worn yellow pages, eyeing the elegant script with such intense scrutiny that you almost went cross eyed. The writing was in Italian, but that didn’t stop you from devouring every word.

“I can’t believe that I’m reading the Marchesi grimoire,” you muttered to yourself. “Written by the Alessandra Marchesi herself.”

“I’m flattered that you’re so interested in my family.”

“The fact that you’re even related baffles the mind.”

Theo rolled his eyes and pointed at the bottom right hand corner of the page. Senso orario. Antiorario.

You knew enough Italian to realize that Theo was right. “Is this how you’ve been first in potions all this time?”

He gasped dramatically. “Your lack of belief in my skills is highly offensive, but not entirely unexpected, diavolina. The grimoire is helpful, but my nonna only recently bestowed this little family heirloom to me this past holiday. I’m afraid that I’ve been beating you with my own talents for years.”

You didn’t know if that disturbed or comforted you.

“Why share it with me?” you asked.

If the roles were reversed, you certainly wouldn’t. The grimoire gave Theo an edge that he could’ve easily kept to himself. As a Ravenclaw, your first instinct was to guard and covet knowledge in order to climb the academic hierarchy. There was very little you wouldn’t do to secure first place. Perhaps you were more similar to the Slytherins in that way.

“I thought the nerd in you might appreciate it,” Theo teased. “Plus, I didn’t want you to think that I was cheating. When I beat you once and for all, I want you to know that I did so out of my own superior abilities.”

“You’re incredibly smug, do you know that?”

“I’m confident in my skills,” Theo said nonchalantly, plastering on that ever snarky smirk. “In and out of the potions lab, principessa.”

He winked, which made you roll your eyes. “Now let the expert show you how it’s done.”

You tensed slightly as Theo approached from behind. He chuckled as his chest brushed against your back, effectively caging you in. “Relax, diavolina. I have no plans to ravish you in this lab again. At least not until the potion is properly brewed.”

A shiver skittered down your spine as you actively fought the urge to arch against him. Stupid hormones. Thanks to your ill advised romps, your body reacted to Theo’s touch against your will. You gripped the stirrer so tightly that it was one squeeze away from breaking.

“Gently,” Theo murmured as his right hand enveloped yours. He rested his left hand against your hip, rubbing soothing circles underneath your cable knit sweater. The action had the opposite effect. If anything, a different sort of tension brewed between you.

“Senso orario,” he said, reciting the instructions from the grimoire. Theo slipped his fingers between yours and stirred clockwise. Suddenly, the room felt much hotter than it had a second ago.

You were keenly aware of his fingers lightly gripping your waist and for a horrible, nauseating moment, you imagined what it would be like to have him strip off your skirt and rip the wool tights off your legs so you could feel those rough, calloused hands against your bare thighs.

“Antiorario,” Theo said after ten stirs. You startled, sweat dripping off your back as he reversed your movements. The mixture bubbled gently the more you stirred.

“Shall I put it in?” His breath fanned over your neck, making you feel even more overheated than you already were.

“What?”

Theo’s lips twitched. “The petals. Shall I put them in or would you like to do the honors?”

“I’ve got it,” you said rather quickly.

In your haste, you swiped the crushed petals off of the cutting board and dropped them into the draught. In the back of your mind, the instructions that you had so diligently memorized flashed like some horrible omen. Drop the petals one by one. You realized your mistake just as Theo pulled you towards him, shielding you from the cauldron. The entire thing roiled violently before spewing magenta down the back of Theo’s hoodie.

You watched in horror as pepto bismol pink dripped from his curls. “I mean, I know you’d do anything to be first in class, but blowing me to bits is a bit severe, don’t you think?”

“Oh my god,” you exclaimed, turning him over. “Are you alright?”

The back of his hoodie looked like Theo had been involved in a rather violent skirmish with a cotton candy machine, but he appeared unharmed otherwise.

He smirked. “It’s touching that you care so much about my well-being. However disconcerting it may be.”

“You shouldn’t have jumped in front of me, you idiot. That could’ve been so much worse. I will not have your death on my conscience, Theodore.”

“Funny,” he said as he pulled his hoodie off. It raised the shirt underneath as well, giving you an unfortunate glimpse of his toned abs. “I wasn’t aware you even had a conscience.”

“Fuck,” you cursed, completely ignoring his quip. “The grimoire.”

For an excruciating moment, your heart felt like it had dropped to your stomach. If anything happened to the grimoire, you never would have forgiven yourself. Fortunately, there seemed to be a protection charm over the entire thing, because it appeared completely unblemished despite the geyser that had spewed out of the cauldron.

“Oh thank Godric.”

“That old thing’s got about a million protective charms on it that are older than either one of us,” Theo reassured you. “The grimoire is impervious to your violence. I, however, am not.”

“Sit,” you commanded, pointing to a stool. “I’ll clean you up.”

“I’m perfectly capable of casting scourgify.”

You rolled your eyes. “Not everything has to be done with magic. Besides, I thought you’d jump at the chance to have me at your beck and call.”

“Fair point,” Theo said, settling into his seat. “I wouldn’t mind being fussed over.”

It took a few minutes for you to tidy up the mess on the table. Using magic would’ve been easier, but cleaning had always helped to clear your mind. Sometimes you spent an entire day scouring your dorm from top to bottom. Your housemates thought it was strange since a simple spell would’ve done the trick, but it was more a mental exercise than anything else.

When you cleaned, it felt like your mind was being refreshed. Clearing out old thoughts, polishing new ideas, vacuuming unpleasant memories. It was vital to your sanity. You and Luna had bonded over it during first year. She was the only one who was willing to roll her sleeves up and get her hands dirty. It reminded you of doing spring cleaning with your mum and dad, whom you missed dearly. You had never really been away from them for this long until you came to Hogwarts.

You suspected that Luna knew that the obsessive cleaning had more to do with your homesickness than anything else, but you always appreciated the fact that she never pushed you to talk unless you offered.

Despite what others might say, Luna was a stellar example of what a Ravenclaw should be. Clever, intuitive, and witty without all the pretentiousness that most of your housemates seemed to proudly parade around with.

You thought fondly of your friend, who just this morning shot you a knowing look as you slinked off to the dungeons before anyone else awoke.

Give my regards to Theodore, she said with a faint smile.

The suspect in question regarded you with mild curiosity as you approached with a washcloth and basin. Even seated on the stool, Theo towered over you. The back of his neck was splattered with bubblegum pink and it dotted the sharp line of his jaw and even the cut of his cheekbones.

Theo watched in silence as you wiped away the remnants of the failed draught. He wore a neutral expression, but his shoulders were tense and his eyes flickered over you like he was analyzing your every move.

“If you wanted an excuse to touch me, you could’ve just said so,” he teased with a slight smirk. “No need for the assassination attempt, Y/N.”

“Trust me, Theodore. If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

“Such a charming little bird,” he taunted. “Does that line work on the boys back home?”

You raised a brow. That was the second time he’d brought the subject up. “Why do you ask? Jealous that I might be directing my feminine wiles on anyone other than you?”

Theo scoffed. “No one else would be able to deal with your sparkling personality, diavolina.” Something flickered in those stormy eyes as you gently dragged the washcloth over his cheek. “I’m just curious as to what you’ve been up to this holiday. Haven’t you wondered what I was doing?”

“Contrary to your egotistical belief, I don’t spend every waking moment thinking of you. Besides, I figured you’d be doing something stereotypically rich like sailing around the Amalfi Coast and hunting dolphins for sport.”

“As opposed to spending the entire break memorizing Slughorn’s personal recommendations so you can recite obscure potion knowledge in class?”

You flushed, not bothering to deny the fact. Theo smirked. “I thought Uni was supposed to be more exciting than that. Shouldn’t you be getting smashed at pubs and taking strangers home?”

“Not all of us can afford the distraction,” you said with an eye roll. “Or venereal diseases. Why the sudden interest, anyways? Don’t tell me that you’re planning on applying to Oxford. I don’t think I could handle another three years of you, Nott.”

He wrinkled his nose. “If I were to attend university, it sure as hell won’t be at Oxford.”

“Gods, you sound like one of those posh snobs from Cambridge.”

“Cambridge is a world-renowned university with an excellent magical division.”

Your eyes widened as you came to the realization. “Merlin’s beard, you are one of those Cambridge snobs, aren’t you? I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Theo crossed his arms. “I’m not a posh snob.”

“Theodore, you live in a bloody manor. I hate to break it to you, but you definitely wouldn’t be considered blue collar.”

“I don’t live there anymore. Not since…” Not since my father was sentenced to Azkaban for being one of the Dark Lord’s top Death Eaters.

“Right,” you said rather quickly. “Sorry—I—didn’t mean to—”

Theo patted your hand and grinned. “Oh don’t look so distressed, Y/N. I assure you I’m not living in squalor. Despite my father’s imprisonment, the ministry was kind enough to allow me to keep a flat in London.” You noted the hint of bitterness in his voice. “Though if you ask my nonna, she’d tell you that an Azkaban sentence would be preferable to the dreary English weather.”

That made you smile a bit. “I suppose the rain and muck is rather offensive to someone who’s used to the Italian sunshine.”

“You have no idea,” Theo muttered. “You’d think I dragged her to the States instead of Primrose Hill.”

“Primrose Hill?” You asked, scrunching your brows. “I don’t remember there being a wizarding neighborhood there.”

“There’s not,” Theo confirmed. “And I quite prefer it that way.”

There was an edge to his voice that told you not to press further.

“So, I gather that you and your nonna are close?”

“More like I’m the only grandchild that hasn’t disappointed her so far. Hence the grimoire.”

“Is Cambridge her idea or yours? I heard that they have an excellent Potions program. Second to Oxford, of course.”

The corner of Theo’s mouth quirked. “My mother’s, actually.”

You knew that his mother had passed when he was young. Not much was known about the circumstances of her death, but it was assumed that Theo had witnessed it since he was one of the few students that were able to see the thestrals.

“After she graduated from Hogwarts, mum went on to study potions at Cambridge. She used to take me to campus during her alumni events. One time I begged her to buy me a jumper from the stores and I wore that damned thing down to its last thread.”

There was a faraway expression on his face as he glanced out of the dungeon windows. The sunlight was barely starting to spear through the Black Lake, spreading a mosaic of colors across the potions lab. Theo looked contemplative. Pensive, almost.

On the surface, his playful nature was very much on display, but somewhere deep within, you could see a hint of sadness bleeding through. It felt like you were intruding on a private moment. Witnessing something that you weren’t supposed to see.

It was highly unnerving to say the least, so you deflected. “You know, Oxford and Cambridge have a deep seethed rivalry. It would be sort of poetic for us to end up on opposing sides again.”

For a split second, Theo appeared to be analyzing you like some undecipherable code. Like he knew you were giving him an out. The scrutiny in his gaze unnerved you. Then his expression changed, that familiar smirk falling firmly back in place. He slipped on that cocky arrogance like a mask.

You wondered how many times he’s done it without you even noticing.

“More poetic than reenacting the very first detention that led us here?”

Without meaning to, you glanced at the supply closet in the back of the room. Nearly a year ago, the two of you had been arguing about the best way to organize the crate of vials Snape had left for you when you finally pushed Theo against the wall and kissed him in order to shut him up.

You swallowed thickly just as Theo’s slender fingers curved around the back of your thighs. The barrier of your wool tights suddenly felt oppressive even though you’d worn them for warmth.

“What happened to not ravishing me until a successful brew?”

“Seeing as you’re entirely hopeless, we might be brewing for the remainder of the day,” Theo said as he pulled you against him. His lips ghosted against the column of your throat, smiling when he felt you shiver underneath him. “And I don’t think I can wait that long without a taste.”

“What if I say no?” you quipped.

He pressed soft kisses along your jaw in response. “That may be an even bigger miracle than you brewing the damn draught, but go ahead, little bird. I’d love to see you try.”

The two of you stared at one another. You were going to cave. Theo knew it. You knew it. If you were capable of saying no to the insufferable git, you wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. Finally, you sighed.

“Fuck it.”

You pressed your lips against his, nearly toppling him over on the stool. He groaned against your mouth, walking you backwards to the supply closet. Theo lifted you up with ease and secured your legs around his waist, clearing the room in less than a minute.

A smirk tugged at your lips when he briefly pulled away to nip at your neck. “What?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against your skin.

“You taste like pumpkin spice.”

There was nothing but pure hunger in his gaze as Theo nudged the door open with his foot. He set you down against a wooden slab before kneeling between your legs.

You shivered when those hypnotizing eyes flickered back up to you.

“Don’t worry, diavolina. I’ll taste like you soon enough.”

If someone held you at wand point and forced you to say one nice thing about Theodore, it would be that the boy knew how to eat pussy. He probably authored the manual on it. Nott did things with his tongue that defied the very laws of nature.

You whimpered as he flicked his tongue over your clit, circling not once but twice before lapping up your arousal like a man starved. When his slender fingers joined the mix, you could’ve sworn that you’d transcended reality all together. Theo remained transfixed on you even as he brought you closer to the edge, his forearm keeping your hips pinned down to keep you from arching against his mouth.

“Louder, principessa. I want to hear those pretty little moans when I make you come.”

The sound that came out of your mouth sounded nothing like you. “Oh god, oh my fucking god—“

“You can just call me Theo, you know.”

You laughed hoarsely as you pulled his hair. “Twat.”

“Oh, I’m quite enjoying yours at the moment.”

Whatever retort forming in your mind died on your tongue as his fingers curled inside of you, touching that spongy spot that had you seeing stars. The orgasm was a blinding light, an exploding supernova that incinerated your nerves as Theo brought you to the edge. When you came with a cry, he gave your clit a harsh suck and crooked his fingers until you felt overstimulated. Theo had no intention of slowing down even as you spasmed underneath his touch.

“You didn’t think that was it, did you?” Theo teased, his mouth glistening with your arousal. “We’re just getting started, darling. I went a whole summer without tasting you and I’m warning you now. I’m fucking ravenous.”

“I can’t—I can’t take any more, please.”

He chuckled darkly. “I do love it when you beg, but I know you can take more. I’ve seen you do it. I want your legs to shake so badly that you won’t even be able to stand before I’m done with you, diavolina. Then and only then will I consider stopping. Do you understand?”

Your throat felt dry, but you nodded all the same. “You’re a sadist, Nott.”

“And you’re my little masochist," he said, smirking between your thighs. Danger flashed in those watercolor eyes. Theo was far from finished with you. "What a twisted pair we make.”

A shiver skittered down your spine as he yanked your hips towards him. “Now be a good little witch and spread those legs wide, dolcezza. We’re about to find out how many licks it takes to make a Ravenclaw scream.”

Taglist: @annaisabookworm@marina468@yaraasthings @the0doreslover@bubybubsters@moony-artemis @natasha887@lucyysthings@criesinlies @bunnymallowo@niktwazny303@letmedownslows @siriuslyalovergirl@wordsarelife@clairesjointshurt @daydreamingabthar @mishtay @cherry-hoe @littlebookbengal @maybefoxysouls @nomup @aliensknowmyillusions @cinderellawithashoe @starsval @kalulakunundrum @lucyysthings @siriuslysmoking @purplegirls-posts @unstablereader @lqclercs @whatsupb18 @rikirritated @psychedeliccc

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#ugh he's so filthy i love him so much #theodore nott #theo nott #theo nott smut #theo nott fic #theo nott x reader #theo nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott x reader #theo nott imagine #theo nott x you #theo nott fluff #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott smut #theodore nott imagine

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fanfoolishness · 20 days

Text

the waves flowing, the dawn blooming

Hunter and Crosshair have a heart-to-heart, after their girl takes wing. Set directly after the epilogue, stuffed full of soft Dad Batch feels, lots of healing, and Hunter and Crosshair being close again <3. I cried all through the back half, sorry not sorry. ~1900 words.

Beach-crickets shivered the last of their evening songs as Hunter and Batcher wended their way back to Lower Pabu. The house wasn’t far from the cove, and a brisk walk would have done it in ten minutes, but they took their time. Batcher was eager to follow her favorite smells along the beach, and Hunter waited patiently for her. His back and knees had warmed up with the walk, but there was plenty to think about.

Their kid was gone.

He didn’t know what to call this feeling in his chest: a deep and full-bodied sorrow, mingled with the fierce pride he always felt every time he looked at Omega, tangled with joy and worry and the longing for more time. He grappled with it as they followed the familiar path back to their little home, as the stars shimmered among the slowly lightening sky.

Batcher whuffed softly as they approached the gate. Light from the kitchen glowed gently through the side window, and Hunter smiled, catching a faint scent of caf. Batcher scampered up to the door, morning stiffness long forgotten, and trotted inside as it opened. Hunter followed, slipping off his boots and heading to the kitchen.

“I wondered when you’d be back,” said Crosshair, raising his eyebrows at Hunter. He sat at the kitchen table with a pitcher of caf and two mugs. One steamed merrily before him, and he cradled it in his left hand to take a sip. He never wore his prosthetic first thing in the morning.

“Well… she’s off.” Hunter drew up a chair and sat down at the table.

A small smile creased Crosshair’s face. “You caught her?”

“You knew?” he asked. “Ahhh, of course you did.” He waved an annoyed hand at his little brother.

“Said her goodbyes to Wrecker and me last night. Swore us to secrecy.” Crosshair shrugged, taking a sip of his caf. “I can’t say no to her. Never could.”

Hunter chuckled. He remembered a time, long ago, that that hadn’t been the case; it felt like another lifetime. “She let me catch her. She acted like I’d found her out, but she could have hidden her tracks if she’d wanted.” He sighed. “I know I was hard on her.”

”You’ve always protected her. She knows that’s all it was. Though she did complain about it.” Crosshair smirked, wearing the same punchable little half-grin he’d perfected in their brief cadet years. “‘Doesn’t he know I’m not a kid anymore?’”

Hunter groaned, rubbing his face. He reached for the pot of caf and poured himself a cup. “I deserve that.”

”Mm-hm.”

He took a sip of caf. It was bracing, strong, just how Crosshair always brewed it. He savored it, letting it swirl over his tongue, so much richer and fuller than the stim drinks they used to have in their rations. He closed his eyes, lost in thought.

The war had never ended. It just took on a new name.

This is my fight, Hunter.

Why did she have to have one, when she’d already fought so hard? Didn’t she deserve the peace they’d won so dearly?

”Are you all right?” Crosshair said in a quiet voice, breaking his reverie.

Hunter blinked, glancing over at his brother. Crosshair regarded him with that cool, observant gaze, the weight of it familiar and steady.

It was the same look he used to give him in the Marauder on missions during the Clone Wars; but the face giving it was older, softer. Crosshair’s narrow cheeks had filled in somewhat with the years, rounding the sharp angles he’d once carried. His gray hair had grown out and gone fully white, curling gently at his forehead and the nape of his neck, except at the old scar at his temple where it had never regrown. His short white beard held a hint of the same curl.

You can wear it how you like, you know. We’re defective. Nobody cares as long as we complete the mission.

Grow it long like yours? I don’t think so. These blasted curls are a nightmare. Give me that trimmer, I don’t know how you stand it.

It’s the headband, obviously.

Sure it isn’t cutting off circulation to your brain?

Hunter stifled a laugh. They’d been so young. Things had changed so much since those days, and Crosshair was different now… yet still the same as ever.

They all were, he supposed.

“Just feeling thoughtful,” Hunter said. He sighed. “I don't know where the time went.”

“We’re clones. We never had very much of it to begin with.” Crosshair’s eyes softened. “Tech should have had more.”

Hunter nodded slowly. “He should have.”

He thought of Tech’s goggles, safely stowed on Omega’s little ship, where she could see them with every pitched turn or hyperspace leap. It was the right place for them, a testament to all he’d taught her. His breath caught in his throat.

“She told me this was her fight,” Hunter said. “But she shouldn’t have to have one. Not again.” Tantiss was a victory -- and a cruelty -- that should have been enough for one lifetime. It tore at him, thinking of her taking on another brutal fight, one with no guarantee of victory. They hadn’t been blind, these years on Pabu; he knew what she was up against. He rubbed at his chest, taking a deep breath.

Crosshair poured himself another cup of caf. “It’s not the galaxy we live in, Hunter. It never has been.”

”When did you get so wise?”

Crosshair ducked his head in one of his rare guffaws, the laugh echoing sharply in the kitchen. “That’s not wisdom. That’s just living.”

”I’m not sure the two aren’t the same.” Hunter took another drink of his caf, but it had cooled significantly. How long had he been musing?

“You’re worried about her.”

”And you aren’t?” Hunter asked skeptically.

Crosshair raised an eyebrow. “Of course I am.” He gazed down into his mug, tracing his thumb over the top of the cup. He rubbed thoughtfully at the side of his face with his stump. “Of course I am,” he said again. “But — I trust her, Hunter. If she has to do this, I have to let her.” He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, they were bright. He blinked rapidly.

Hunter reached out, taking him by the shoulder and nodding. For a moment, it was hard for either of them to speak.

Crosshair cleared his throat, and Hunter let his hand fall. Crosshair tilted his head towards the back door. “Maybe you should join us.”

”You and Batcher?” Hunter asked. He did, sometimes. When memories of Eriadu, Kamino, Tantiss crept in; when his senses jangled, when it was hard to sleep or think. It wasn’t often that he needed it, but it did help, he’d had to admit. And he’d seen the changes meditation had wrought in Crosshair through the years, a calm held deep within, so different from the twisted guilt and painful memories that had once defined him.

“An open invitation,” said Crosshair. He swallowed, and Hunter could tell he was thinking of Omega, sunny and centered, always happy to join him when she wasn’t sleeping in or off with friends.

”All right, then,” Hunter agreed. “If there’s room on that patio for another old man.”

”Who are you calling old?” Crosshair snarked, getting to his feet with an audible creak. Now it was Hunter’s turn for a sharp, short laugh.

”Both of us, brother,” Hunter said fondly.

They shuffled out to the back patio, Batcher at Crosshair’s heels. She curled up in her comfy bed on the patio, knowing the routine. Crosshair pulled out the stack of pillows piled against the side of the house, tossing two down. The ground had somehow gotten a lot harder in recent years than it used to be, and the pillows helped.

They settled down beside each other, their folded knees brushing. The dawn was rising, blushes of faint pink and orange and gold nipping at the edges of the deep inky blue. The beach-crickets had quieted their songs, only to be replaced by the sweet tittering music of the saltbush sparrows and the sandcatchers and the buzzing starthroats.

Hunter gazed out at the lightening sky, eyes straining as if to catch the glimmer of a ship’s lights. But there was nothing out there besides the glow of pre-dawn, no lights making their way home. Omega was gone, and he knew she’d had to go, knew she had to follow what was right just as she always had, and he hung his head, his breath stuttering.

What were they going to do without her? Her laughter echoing through the house with Wrecker’s booming joy, her tinkering with Gonky or parts from her little ship at the kitchen table so like what Tech used to do, her wicked banter and her kind understanding with Crosshair --

The soft, trusting way she’d look up at him, when she was small?

Cut had tried to warn him, once. Tried to tell him what it meant to love a child, to give everything for them, to do what was best for them even when it was so, so hard. Hunter had thought he’d be able to figure it out. Turned out he’d had no idea.

He rubbed at his eyes, trying to master his breath, and looked out at the sea. The dawn was in full bloom now, gold lining the flowers along their patio and glittering in the suncatcher standing at the east boundary. Hunter relaxed as the light danced around him, reflecting off the mirrors twirling slowly in the morning breeze. He remembered when Crosshair had shyly shown him what he’d made, his old mirror pucks strung together with shells and colorful stones, shimmering beacons of art instead of cold devices of war.

He glanced at Crosshair out of the corners of his eyes. His brother sat with his eyes closed, head slightly bowed, his hand and his stump resting atop his knees. The lines in his face had softened, his expression calm, grounded. Peaceful. His breath flowed in Hunter’s ears like waves on the shore, in and out, in… and out.

Tears pricked his eyes again, and Hunter smiled, nodded, bowed his head, and let his eyes fall closed.

His brother was right. If she has to do this, I have to let her.

He knew it, as much as he knew anything.

She knows what to do. Of course she did; they’d taught her, hadn’t they, Echo, Tech, Wrecker, Crosshair, all of them. She’d come through floods and fire, destruction and capture and all-out war, and she’d never stopped hoping, never given up, never stopped loving all of them through everything. Part of them would always be with her in the emblems on her jacket, in her treasured Lula-doll, in Tech’s goggles, in Hunter’s old headband. And after that, she’d have the memories, long after they’d breathed their last and gone to join their brother.

Tears dampened his face, but he didn’t mind: a small price to pay for a love this fierce and good. He breathed in, and breathed out, his breath matching Crosshair’s, melding with the sounds of the waves below.

She’d be brave, just like they’d taught her, just like she’d always been.

He hoped the galaxy was ready for her.

#the bad batch #the bad batch spoilers #the bad batch finale #tbb spoilers #hunter bad batch #crosshair bad batch #omega bad batch #the dad batch #my batcher fic #seriously tears just dripping down my face writing this #not in a sad angsty hurty way #but in a soft my heart a splode way #hope y'all like it <3

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sprout-fics · 8 months

Text

Rotes Mädchen: Chapter 8

(Werewolf! König x Red Riding Hood! Reader)

(Art by the lovely @zwienzixes)

(Masterlist)

Word count: 5.7k Rating: Mature Tags: Werewolf! König, Fairytale AU, Monster Hunters TF141, Witch Laswell, Traditional German Fairytale setting, World Building/Lore, F! Reader, Mating/Claiming Bites, Witch Hunts, Angst, Whump Warnings: None

The tick of the hours until sundown echoes in your ears as you near Laswell’s cottage.

Normally you’d stop just shy of the clearing to breathe in the familiar scent of burning birch, of the nearby stream, relishing the sunlight that feels brighter here than in the village. Now, sunshine hardly escapes the damp cover of gray that obscures the sky, making the afternoon already feel so dark. The sun has passed its zenith, and soon darkness will descend on these woods, ensnaring the souls that live here as the monster lifts its blood-streaked muzzle to the hanging, yellow moon.

You’re running out of time, and now the lives of you, of Laswell, and König all hang in the balance.

The witchers’ mares nicker anxiously as you trot the remaining distance to the cabin, tied to a post and already saddled. From behind them appears Soap, fully adorned in his armor, sword at his side.

“Hen!” He breathes with a rush of relief, closing the distance between you and sweeping you into an embrace before you can protest. “Price was about t’ send a search party for you. Thank goodness yer alrigh’.”

You wrap your arms around Soap’s middle eagerly, pressing yourself to his front with an unsteady exhale. You can feel your heart hammering in your ribs unevenly, and with each beat you feel the minutes thin until your world is irreversibly changed.

“Laswell-” You gasp, clutching at the metal bracers on his forearms. “Where is she?”

Soap’s brow furrows deeper in worry, eyes glinting with confusion at your sudden frantic energy.

“Inside,” He responds quickly. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head, push past him towards the door, Soap’s concerned voice trailing after you. You all but burst into the cottage, finding Price and the others bent seriously around a map splayed across Laswell’s kitchen table. They look up with surprise at your abrupt entry, taking in the sight of you with your chest heaving and eyes wild.

“Red?” Laswell asks, straightening and turning towards you, her wise gray eyes alight with anxiety at your frazzled state. “What-”

She’s cut off as you take two large strides towards her, wrapping your arms around her slender frame and breathing out a shuddering sigh. Laswell makes a small noise of surprise, stiffening before she forces herself to relax and return the embrace.

You swallow thickly, throat dry as you try to reassure yourself. It’s alright. Laswell is safe. The others are here, they won’t let the villagers hurt her. They’ll keep you both safe.

Laswell pulls you back so she balances you by your forearms. Your eyes feel too warm, threatening tears as you struggle to find the words to explain the panic inside you.

“You need to leave.” You tell her at last, voice shaking. “The others- the ones in the village, they’re- tonight, they said-”

“Hey, hey, slow down.” Gaz urges quietly as he appears at your side, a featherlight touch at your shoulder. “Deep breath.”

You nod, face warm as you heed his words and force yourself through a trembling exhale. You look up at Laswell once more, feeling the grip on your arms tighten as you speak.

“They’re going to burn us both.”

Silence descends upon the cabin.

You see the fear dawn in Laswell’s eyes, and feel it shake it to your core.

Laswell is never afraid. Worried, yes, in her quiet way where she’s analyzing, considering, lifting her face to the wind to understand its direction. She always has a plan, always has a way out, a secondary escape. To see this, to see fear...

“Kate-” Price tries as Laswell wobbles on her feet, allowing you and Gaz to help her into a nearby chair as she presses a hand to her face. Price hovers at her shoulder, lays a hand there as the wise woman bends her head in distress.

“I knew there were murmurs in the village.” She confesses at last, voice hoarse. “There’s always been murmurs, but-”

You kneel at her side, red cape spilling across your form as you hold her hand. She turns it over, curls her fingers around yours in a wordless acknowledgment. She looks up at Price, and you see his pinched expression as a mirror of her own.

“I thought perhaps summoning you all would prove to them I’m an ally, not an enemy. It seems I was wrong.”

You clutch her hand tighter, and Kate turns her gaze to you, lifting a hand to pet at the hood of your cloak.

“You too?” She asks, and despite the fondness there’s a grief, a heartache. “Even though you’ve lived here all your life?”

You clasp her hand to your cheek, relish the warmth against your frigid skin.

“They never wanted me, Kate.” You whisper with a sad smile. “They never will.”

Kate’s eyes are full of sorrow.

“Come with us.” Soap blurts out, still standing near the open door, allowing cold air to sweep inside. “After we kill the wolf. We can keep you safe, take you somewhere else.”

Yes. Leave with them, travel alongside these men you’ve come to trust, enjoy the company they keep. Go with Laswell towards a new horizon, have her keep you as the family she’s always been to you. Perhaps learn her trade, take over her craft and grow into the same woman you’ve always admired. Stay somewhere safe and keep a hearth warm for the traveling knights who have become your friends.

Yet your words from naught but a few hours before linger tight in your throat, an oath that tangles around your heart like the quiet interwoven braids of a daisy chain.

“Then, once it’s over, we’ll leave these woods. Together.”

Leave him? After everything?

Your face falls. Kate’s hand stills.

“Red?” She echoes cautiously, and you bend your face to her lap, gripping the folds of her skirt, feeling your eyes warm.

You close your eyes, force yourself to swallow down the grief in your throat and at last sway to your feet. The motion loosens the hood from your head, gently pooling onto your shoulders. Cool air washes across your nape, and you shiver, staring down at your boots as you try to collect yourself before you speak.

Before you can, you feel a presence shift behind you, hear a small suck of air as a gloved hand reaches out to graze your skin.

"What is this?" Soap asks suddenly from behind you, and you stiffen under his touch. His hand grazes aside the fabric of your cape, revealing the tender flesh of your shoulder where the bruising indent of Konig’s teeth lays against your skin. "...Red?"

The bite mark.

You slap a hand over the bruise before you can stop yourself, eyes wide with surprise at being noticed. You turn to look up at Soap, only to catch the fright that etches clear across his expression.

"Wh-what-" He tries in his shock, and the room goes silent.

"Red?" Laswell asks from beside you gently, cautiously, reaching forward to lay a reassuring hand on yours.

You draw back as if you've been burned.

It's too obvious, but you can't help it. Soap looks at you with something in his eyes akin to fear, gaze flickering desperately between your face and your hand covering the bite.

"Lass-" he tries, but his voice is a croak in his throat.

"Soap."

Five sets of eyes, including your own, turn to Price. He's halfway risen out of his chair at the head of the table, eyes staring not at the Scot but at you.

"I-it's a bite." Soap manages, gesturing to you, looking lost.

“I-I can explain.” You stammer, eyes wide, backing up to put distance between yourself and the group, even as Soap gently stretches a hand towards you. Warmth burns across your face, mortification at being revealed as the temptress you’ve been accused of.

The group is silent, wide-eyed as they watch you hesitate near the hearth. There’s worry and fear there- but beyond that there’s trust, a conviction that you will confess to them the truth.

“There’s something I haven’t told you.” You admit, eyes traveling to each of the men in turn. Kate’s eyes are kind even though she does not yet know the secret waiting in your chest. Ever loving, ever accepting, Kate. Your beloved friend.

“I-” You try. “There’s someone waiting for me.”

Confusion fills the faces of the four men gathered around you. You look at them, then to Kate once more.

“His name is König.” You begin. “I found him in the woods, injured. He was bitten by the wolf. I took him in, nursed him back to health, and I-” The words come tumbling forth, a secret at long last revealed. Yet you pause when you get to the confession of your love affair, the feelings you harbor for the man who slept with you in his arms.

“He was bitten?” Ghost cuts you off, voice urgent, grave. “When?”

“Weeks ago now.” You clarify. “He’s- he’s deformed. I mean, I haven’t seen his face, but he wears a hood to conceal his face. He was hiding in the woods because he couldn’t come close to town. He was afraid of the villagers.” You blink, look down towards the floor with a mirthless smile. “I can hardly blame him.”

“I found him the day after you arrived. He was injured, could barely walk because of the bite on his leg. I-I couldn’t just leave him there. He would have died.”

The group around you is silent, weighing your words. it’s almost eerie, the way there’s no questions. Looking down as you are, you can’t see the looks exchanged between them, a silent conversation unfolding before you.

At last, Price steps closer, closing the distance so he gently balances you by your forearms. He holds you there, tucks a gently gloved hand under your chin so you look up into his eyes.

“You kept this a secret.” He murmurs, and you grimace at his tone. Stern, comforting, but beneath it- hurt. There’s a pain in his eyes that stabs at your chest, and you recall his gentle hand at your back, the way he’d secured your arms around your middle as you rode with him, his soft entreaty towards your safety. The kindness of his words then haunt you, cast in sharp contrast to his current voice.

“I...was worried you’d hurt him, chase him away.” You answer softly. “He’s a vagrant, a traveler. He’s been chased from villages before because of his deformity. I was afraid you’d do the same, and...and leave him to the mercy of the wolf.”

“I...couldn’t let that happen.” You go on, voice hardly a whisper. “You haven’t met him yet, but he’s gentle and kind. He’s protective and strong and we can talk for hours about all things. He’s told me about his travels, about stories he’s heard. He’s caring and sweet and makes me feel safe and warm and-”

Price stiffens, swallows.

“You love him.” He states, and it isn’t a question, but you nod all the same, ducking your head to avoid watching the hurt blossom deeper against his gaze. Guilt clenches sharply inside you, sours your mouth into a grimace of despair.

“He bit you.” Gaz observes quietly from the other side of the room, voice full of a grief you don’t understand. You turn to him, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing to try and explain. Yet all that escapes you is a small agreement, a confession in hardly a whisper.

“Yes.”

“Price.” Ghost says suddenly, and Price turns from you to his second in command, hands leaving you. Ghost stares intently at his captain, and you watch Price drag a weary hand over his face before he adjourns your conversation to approach Ghost in low, hushed tones you don’t hear.

“Red.”

Your attention is instead brought back to Laswell, who stands, draws near and gently gathers you closer to her, tilting your head to examine the bruise along your neck. Her hands tremble as they ghost over the mark, and you watch the way her smile of reassurance doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Did it hurt?” She asks soothingly, and you pause, shake your head.

“No- well, yes, but not too much.” You answer plainly, and it only deepens the worry in her eyes in a way you don’t understand.

“You agreed to it?” She asks, tone firmer.

“Yes- Kate, what is this?” You ask with a mixture of confusion and concern, but before she can answer you only shake your head instead. “Never mind that. Kate, König is sick. He has a terrible fever. He was all but delirious when I left, he couldn’t even stand. You have to help him.”

Kate pauses at that, and then shifts so she grips you by your arms with sudden urgency.

“Where is he now?” She asks sharply, and you blink at her, startled by the sudden fixation of her gaze upon yours.

“I-In my cottage, in the village.” You stammer. “Wh-”

“John.” Kate speaks, moving away from you, and you make to follow, only to pause as Ghost turns from them both and towards you instead. There’s a heavy set to his shoulders as he steps forward, and it feels all for the world like a promise of danger. You flinch away from it, hand once again raising towards your neck, something instinctual forcing you to conceal the evidence of König’s claim on you.

Ghost pauses where he stands, instantly freezing at your response. When he approaches again it's softer, gentler, as if he's trying to tame a trapped, scared animal. He doesn't speak as his hands stretch an inch forward, just enough to placate you as you tremble, legs weak with uncertainty. You can barely see the darks of his eyes from behind his mask. Yet his posture radiates gentleness, a beckoning of trust, safety, allowing him to come closer.

"You're alrigh'." He murmurs softly as his hands smooth up your shoulders, gently tugging the tie of your cape so he can scoot it to the side. You try to refuse him when his grip gently pries away your hand covering the wound, but Ghost offers you a graze of his thumb on the inside of your wrist, making you go lax against his touch.

He doesn't make a sound when the bite is revealed, doesn't move to touch the bruise lest it hurt you. All he does instead is continue to rub a gentle circle into your wrist, offering a little hum of reassurance before he turns, looks at Price.

He nods. Price’s face falls open with a despair you long to understand.

You look up at Ghost, meeting his eyes through his mask. There’s questions left unspoken in your gaze, but you know from his eyes alone he won’t answer them. You try to understand why the group is suddenly so grim, why Laswell, Soap, Gaz and Price whisper to themselves and cast furtive glances in your direction. Why the secrecy?

You’re so tired of secrets. You’ve been keeping your own for so long, only to find König keeping his in turn. Now that you’ve confessed, your friends have only turned away from you, discussing amongst themselves in words you can’t hear. You want to raise your voice, bat at Ghost’s chest, demand answers that they will not yield. The forest holds all things quiet, a hushed, damp softness that curls within the morning mist, obscuring shapes shifting between the trees.

Price sighs from the council gathered in the corner, rubbing his face once more before speaking.

“Right.” he announces, voice suddenly filling the cottage with an authoritative declaration. “We’re going back to the village. The werewolf will likely attack there after dark. Laswell will see to Red’s vagabond. Soap, Gaz-” He looks towards his second in command. “You’re with me. Ghost, I want you with Laswell and Red. I don’t want a single person that isn’t in this room to set foot inside Red’s cottage, understood?”

“Understood.” Ghost replies firmly and settles a hand on your shoulder in a silent reassurance, a promise of protection.

Laswell shoots the younger man a warm smile at the gesture, but you can only nod, thoughts once more drifting to the feverish man writhing in your bed back in the village.

“I want everyone geared up in five minutes.” Price goes on, arms crossed, letting his gaze weigh on each of you in turn. “We are leaving, and we’re going to slay this monster once and for all.”

He turns then, reaching for his sword that lays across the map on the table. He pauses for just a moment to look at you once more, mouth a grim, thin line before he vanishes outside into the growing mist that keeps all secrets, even those in your heart.

----

Four sets of thundering hooves race through the trees as the six of you bolt back in the direction of the village. The sun hovers near the horizon, and with every growing moment it dips closer towards darkness. The moon is already rising, obscured by the trees but hanging heavy in its fullness. The mist of the dim forest swirls around you as the horses gallop down the same path you once saw this monster, with its towering stature and gleaming golden eyes. Then, like now, you had clasped tightly to Price’s back, casting terrified glances over your shoulder to find the shadow that lurked just beyond the tree line.

As nighttime falls, you wait for a lachrymose howl to carve up into the sky.

You lift your face towards the wind, will the mares impossibly faster, urging them into a sunset flight as the hour darkens, as König lays waiting in your cottage. Helpless, feverish, perfect prey for a monster to claw through the door, lift him to its waiting, dripping jaw.

The memory of your dream, of König’s scream slicing through the midnight forest and urging you to run, run pulses in tandem with your heartbeat, a wild canter just with the deafening fall of hoofbeats against the woodsy, damp earth.

König reaches for you again, and the warning he calls out to you is muffled by the thunder of your heartbeat. You catch his eyes, his gaze bright with fear. Gone are the soft green irises that speak to you with warm familiarity, replaced down with an eerie, glowing, gleaming gold that mirrors the light of the moon above.

“John!” Laswell’s voice cuts through your reverie, and you cling tighter as Price urges his horse to a halt, the others steadying their own mounts to a stillstand. Laswell gazes out from behind Gaz, brow drawn tight beneath her own dark cloak.

“What is it?” Price prompts quickly, voice dragging in a gruff growl as his mare circles uneasily under you both. You cling tighter to his waist, fingers clenching uneasily against the leather straps of his armor.

“Look.” Laswell gestures, and the five of you follow her outstretched hand up above the trees, where a wisp of dark smoke snakes a tendril against the gray sky. You blink, lips parting as the acrid smell of smoke suddenly floods your nose. It’s not uncommon to smell chimney smoke as you enter the village, but the heavy, charred scent of something burning seizes sharply in your lungs with a cold wash of fear.

“The village.” You breathe, looking to Price with wide, startled eyes. “The village is burning.”

Price looks down at you, and there’s only a momentary flash of surprise before his expression once more settles into a grim resolve.

“Hold tight.” He announces to you, and then to the others: “Quickly!”

Once more he urges the mare under him into a full gallop, and you cling helplessly to his back, your only anchor from the rock of the horse under you. You scrunch your eyes shut, thoughts racing alongside the sprinting hoofbeats as you imagine the town engulfed in flames, of a pyre awaiting you and Laswell, the sparks floating up towards the moon.

Clouds lurk darkly against the horizon, warning of a coming storm. As you all race towards the village, the wind begins as a gentle breeze, only to rise to a full howl as it rustles through the trees. Inky dark clouds obscure the orange haze of sunset like charcoal, and the horizon is painted with embers that you pray you don’t find of the town you once loved.

The village comes into view as you round the final bend, just as Price and the others did all that time ago when they first came to you. Atop their dark steeds, they’d gazed down at your scarlet form, and had chosen you to guide them through the woods.

"Go on then, Rotes Mädchen."

How long it has been since then. So much has happened. The wolf, König, the villagers, the promise of a burning hellfire, and now the full moon rising as an abraxas curse above you all.

König waits for you in the burning village, and you pray once more to the Gods that he’ll honor his oath, that he’ll be there once you return, whole and safe.

I promised I would go with you. You whisper inside the gale of your thoughts. Don’t make me break that promise.

At first glance the village appears whole and intact, the houses boarded with their shutters closed, hastily made barricades sheltering barns and stables. There’s not a soul that peeks from the windows as the six of you circle in the town center near the well, and it isn’t until Soap’s despairing, quiet murmur that you understand what’s truly wrong.

“Oh no.” He whispers, barely audible above the nickering of his mare. “Oh, Red.”

You follow his gaze, and feel your whole world turn to ash.

“NO!!” You scream, quickly sliding from Price’s saddle-

and bolting in the direction of your home set ablaze.

Laswell calls after you, but you heedlessly disobey her warning, legs pumping under you, hood flying from your head as you run in the direction of your burning cottage. There’s a crowd gathered just beyond your front gate, and among them are men holding pitchforks, hoisting them high and chanting a curse towards the clouds that roil dark and mysterious against the rising moon. As you near one of them turns, shouts to his compatriots. You ignore them, trying to push them aside to run up the path to your home, to the place you left your beloved resting fitfully in the bed where he had embraced you.

“NO!!” You shriek as one of them catches you around your waist, an arm stretching out in the direction of the cottage. Flames erupt from the windows, smoke billowing from the ceiling, and your own scream is muffled by the cracking of wood, like bones breaking inside the fragile cage of your heart. “KÖNIG!! PLEASE, NO!!”

He’s inside, he’s trapped. They’ve secured him there, no doubt, sent him to burn in your stead when they could not find you. He’s waiting for your return as he promised, waiting for you to find aid and embrace him once more, say the words you wish you had spoken sooner.

“Let me go!!” You scream as you’re hauled off your feet, shouts echoing in a frenzied cacophony around you. “Please- he’s inside, I need to save him-!!”

Your hands are caught, hauled upwards as someone calls for rope, and you scream then, a wordless, terrified cry just as tears blossom against your vision.

He’s dying, he’s dying, please-

You sob hysterically as you thrash in the unyielding grip of your captors, fighting against them like a feral, trapped animal and screaming, screaming for your beloved, for them to release you so you can throw yourself into the flames and rescue him or at least kiss him once more before the both of you drown in flames.

“Please-” You cry, throat thick with tears as the hunter’s son approaches you with your bindings-

Only to be stopped by a sword at his throat.

The men holding you freeze, not yet releasing you, but staring up at the towering witcher who’s eyes gleam darkly behind his mask.

“Release her.” Ghost growls, and you watch the blood drain from the young man’s face, his sinister sneer changing instead to a pale look of terror.

“I said.” Ghost announces once more, tilting the sharp of his blade so it nicks a shallow, red slice against the man’s throat. “Release her.”

The hands holding you vanish, and as soon as you’re released you bolt in the direction of your cottage once more, cape flaring out behind you. Yet before you can make it past the gate, another arm snakes around your middle, hauls you back against a broad chest.

“No Red!” Soap cries above the crackling of the flames that glow against your face. You struggle in his arms, chest heaving erratically as you claw at him to release you. Soap only grips you harder, prevents you from taking another step with his admirable witcher’s strength.

“I have to save him!” You gasp desperately, stretching towards the burning silhouette you once called home, even as the eaves begin to buckle. “Soap, please!!”

“He’s gone.” Soap mutters hoarsely into your shoulder. “Hen, he’s gone.”

A sob cracks your throat, and you slump against his hold, exhausted, grieving as tears stream openly down your face. You chant desperate pleas against him even though you know it’s too late, even as the roof finally caves in, burns down the only place you ever called home. You cry out in a wordless despair, your voice cutting through the silence that has engulfed the crowd behind you, kept at bay by Ghost and Gaz atop their dark mares.

“Please.” You beg once more, cradling your face in your hands as tears slip through your fingers. “König...”

“Rotty. Beloved Rotty.”

You loved him. Truly. Endlessly. Now he’s gone.

“Red!!” Laswell cries from behind you, and at once she’s at your side, arms around you as Soap releases you into her hold. You sob openly into the embrace, cling to her like a child in your despair. Laswell holds you, rocks you, but then at last holds you at arm’s length.

“He’s not there.” She tells you in a rush, eyes open with desperation. “The villagers said there was nobody inside. He’s alive.”

You stare at her through wet lashes, feeling the heat of the flames lick at your cape like the pyre that beckons you. It takes a moment to process her words, but when the realization dawns at last you clutch at her, face open with hope and terror.

“W-where is he, then?!” You beg, voice cracking. “Is he safe?”

Laswell’s face pinches in an expression you don’t understand.

Then, she looks to the woods.

It’s in that moment that a howl splits the sky.

Silence falls over the village as you all tense, looking towards the misty tree line just as the full, yellow moon appears atop the trees.

You’re out of time.

It’s Price’s voice then, that cuts through the silence that follows.

“Listen!” He calls out, voice thunderous, drawing all eyes towards his towering figure atop his anxiously prancing mare.

“The werewolf will be here soon, and when it comes it will tear this village to shreds. None of you will be safe when it does. Not unless you listen, understood?”

You watch the villagers look at each other anxiously, murmuring to themselves until a voice cuts through the crowd.

“Feed the witches to the wolf! It’s the only way!”

“Shut it!” Gaz snaps venomously from beside Price, unsheathing his sword from its scabbard- only for Price’s hand to shoot out and stop him. He nods at the younger man, who simmers with anger, his eyes dancing with fury in the light of the fire. Price turns once more to the crowd.

“These two women are under our protection!” His voice booms, gesturing to you and Laswell, Soap just before you, bristling with his teeth bared at the threat before him. “If anyone dares to lay a single hand on them, I’ll slice it off and feed you to the wolf. You will die a bloody, agonizing death, I promise you that.”

You watch the man who shouted the threat take a step back, aghast at Price’s words.

“It was Laswell who summoned us here to kill the monster.” Gaz interjects, seething. “and Red who guided us through the woods in search of it. You owe them your lives, you ungrateful swine.”

He urges his horse forward a single step, just enough to make the crowd step back, as Price barks at him to get back in line before turning towards the villagers once more.

“I want everyone in the village hall!” He declares, voice rough, overshadowed by the sudden shattering of a beam behind you as your house folds in on itself. You flinch into Laswell’s arms, feel her hold you tighter protectively, tucking your head away from the sight of your ruined home. “All able-bodied men are to grab a weapon and meet me in the square!”

The group hesitates as the bravado of some of the men evaporates in the face of the threat the wolf poses, muttering between themselves and sharing furtive glances. Price waits for them to come to an agreement, and when they don’t his voice carries over them once more.

“We were called here to protect you!” He announces, voice rising towards the inky clouds that roil past the moon. “If you wish for us to leave we will do so right now and leave you to the mercy of the beast.”

You watch a shudder run through the group, hear several gasps as they protest. It seems to settle Price, who nods with resolve before nodding towards the village hall.

“Go!” He bellows, voice thunderous. “There isn’t much time. Women and children inside. Men outside. Now!”

The townsfolk finally heed Price’s words and scatter in the direction of their homes to grab belongings, children, weapons. Price watches them, and once more casts a long look at the tree line before turning to the rest of you. You break from Laswell then, rush forward to grasp at the captain’s stirrup in desperation.

“Price.” You gasp, throat still not clear of your cries. “König- he’s in the woods. The werewolf will kill him. You have to go help him. Please.”

Price looks down at you, and you freeze at the sorrow in his gaze, the grief he unfolds for you.

“I’m sorry, Red.” He tells you, voice quiet. “It’s too late.”

You freeze, face falling open with your horror as you process his words.

He’s leaving him to die.

“N-no-” You try, voice cracking, grasping harder at his saddle. “No he’s- he’s somewhere nearby. He couldn’t have gotten far. We just need to look for him, I-I can’t leave him-”

“We need every person here.” Price tells you gravely. “The wolf will strike where there’s the most blood to be found. We cannot risk a search party, not with so many souls gathered here in the village.”

You stare at him, tears once more obscuring your vision as a plea dies in your throat. When Price pulls away, you jerk back as if you’ve been burned. The motion sends you straight into Laswell’s arms once more. She hauls you to her, pressing from behind you and cradling her nose against the bite mark that still lays against your skin.

“I’m sorry, Red.” She whispers. “There’s nothing more we can do.”

There’s a protest of despair that flutters helplessly in your chest, and you want to scream, to shout, to cry out for all things gained and lost in the pale moonlight cast down upon your lonely figure.

Memories surface unbidden as you stand stiffly, gazing at the sky.

König, frightened and injured, hid in the hollow of a tree. König, who had accepted your aid, offered you his name in a gesture of trust. König, who had gently placed his palm in yours, had offered quiet companionship near your hearth. König, who had snuck longing gazes at you, eyes glinting from the flames. König, who had held you safe from the world, who had cared for you so tenderly and protected you so fiercely. König, who had pressed you into bed with endless murmurs of devotion, who had called you by his name for you, who had laid claiming marks into your skin to show you were his. König, who had promised to stay so you would never be alone again.

“Laswell.” You speak in a raw whisper, watching the others gather in grave conference with their backs turned towards you. “I can’t leave him.”

Laswell tenses at your back before she at last releases you, turns you to face her. Her hair catches the glow of the flames, gray eyes soft and burning as they peer into the depths of your heart. She holds you there, hands clinging tightly to the cape she once bestowed upon you as a gift of her affection towards you.

“There’s one more thing.” She tells you, and in her voice you hear prophecy, the magic she keeps in careful concealment. It winds around you like brambles, a protection for the soul inside you striving towards something you’ve desired all your life, something which remains so close and just out of reach, residing in the woods you’ve always called home.

Laswell gathers you to her, and whispers words in your ear you don’t yet understand, holds you tight like she would a daughter. You think for a moment she’ll refuse to release you, will prevent you from the terrible act you are about to commit.

She releases you, gray eyes gleaming. She looks towards the turned backs of the witchers you’ve come to befriend, the ones who will now abandon you in your greatest time of desperation.

“Go.” Laswell whispers, and you take a step back, resisting the urge to throw yourself once more into her arms. Instead, you turn towards the forest, towards the cradle of the woods that has kept you safe your entire life. You turn towards the groves that hold secrets and danger, the woods that now hold your beloved as a prisoner, awaiting the fatal bite of the monster that haunts your nightmares.

You run for the trees, and you don’t look back.

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