In developmental psychology, a child’s self-concept is a mirror of their environment. For Hong-er, that mirror was shattered. Labeled the "star of misfortune," he was physically abused, neglected, and told his very existence was a curse.
When children are told they are inherently bad or unlucky, they often internalize this as an immutable truth. This results in toxic shame the belief that one is fundamentally flawed. As an adult, Hua Cheng’s "cocky" exterior serves as a sophisticated defense mechanism. By projecting an image of untouchable perfection, he ensures that no one can get close enough to see the ugly, unlucky child he believes still resides within him.
E-ming: The Physical Manifestation of Self-Loathing
The most striking evidence of Hua Cheng’s unresolved trauma is his relationship with his scimitar, E-ming. Formed from his own eye and fueled by his suffering in the Kiln, E-ming is more than a weapon; it is a sentient fragment of his childhood self.
The Mirror of Abuse: Hua Cheng’s tendency to scold or strike E-ming when the blade seeks affection from Xie Lian is a classic example of displaced aggression. He punishes E-ming for showing the very things Hong-er was punished for: vulnerability, neediness, and the desire for love.
The Rejected Inner Child:When E-ming trembles or "cries," it represents the emotions Hua Cheng has spent eight centuries suppressing. By treating the blade with disdain, he is effectively trying to "beat the weakness" out of his own soul, replicating the cycle of abuse he suffered as a child.
The Power Paradox: Ghost King vs. "Lowly Servant"
Despite possessing power that rivals or exceeds the gods, Hua Cheng’s self-esteem remains tethered to his identity as a "worthless" child. This creates a fascinating psychological dichotomy:
Devotion as Redefinition: To Hua Cheng, Xie Lian is not just a lover; he is the god who told a suicidal child that his life had meaning. Therefore, Hua Cheng views his vast power not as a source of pride, but as a **utility** to serve Xie Lian.
The "Lowly" Identity: When he calls himself a "lowly servant" or "trash," it isn't false modesty it is his core truth. In his mind, no amount of spiritual might can wash away the "dirt" of the star of misfortune. His power is a suit of armor, but underneath it, he still feels like the boy who is unworthy of touching the hem of a god's robes.
Trauma often freezes a person's self-perception at the age the trauma occurred. To Hua Cheng, Xie Lian is the only thing of value in a "monstrous" world. Therefore, by comparison, Hua Cheng believes his own worth is zero.
"To me, the one in the internal glory is you; the one fallen into the dust is also you. What matters is 'you' and not the state of you."
While Xie Lian says this to Hua Cheng (and vice versa), Hua Cheng struggles to apply this grace to himself. His philosophy is one of extreme external competence masking internal fragility.
Hua Cheng’s life is a masterclass in the survivor’s paradox. He has changed his name, his face, and his status, yet he carries his childhood scars as the literal source of his power. His cockiness is a fortress built to protect a child who still believes he is "ugly" and "cursed."
He does not love Xie Lian despite his trauma, but through it. Xie Lian is the only person who ever looked at the "Star of Misfortune" and saw a life worth saving. Until Hua Cheng can stop hitting E-ming until he can forgive the child he used to be he will always be the "lowly servant," forever trying to earn a grace he was already given eight hundred years ago.
The Price of Redemption: Penance, Pity, and the Ethics of the "Crematorium" Romance
(A Short case Study using The Husky and His White Cat Shizun (2HA)
Disclaimer : I Am not bashing The Husky and His White Cat Shizun (2HA) Novels, merely using it to explore a Danmei Trope, I actually enjoy the novels
The "crematorium" trope in fiction where a protagonist commits heinous acts against a love interest only to spend the latter half of the story in a state of agonizing repentance poses a profound ethical dilemma. At the heart of this genre lies the seminal work The Husky and His White Cat Shizun (2HA). The novel forces readers to grapple with two uncomfortable questions: Can suffering truly pay for the violation of bodily autonomy? And is it ever "right" to root for a couple built on a history of abuse?
The Weight of the Sin: Non-Consensual Acts in 2HA
To understand if forgiveness is possible, one must first look at the gravity of the offense. In 2HA, the protagonist Mo Ran (as the emperor Taxian-Jun) does not just mistreat his teacher, Chu Wanning; he systematically breaks him.
The scenes in the "Wushan Palace" of the first life are not merely "dark romance"; they are depictions of prolonged captivity and sexual violence. Taxian-Jun uses Chu Wanning as a tool for spite, explicitly stating that he keeps him alive only to torment him. When a character undergoes such total dehumanization, the narrative scales are tipped so far into the negative that many readers find the "debt" impossible to settle, regardless of the perpetrator's later change of heart.
The Logic of the "Crematorium": Suffering as Currency
The argument for forgiveness in 2HA relies on the "Redemption through Suffering" arc. Author Meatbun Doesn't Eat Meat utilizes several narrative devices to bridge the gap between monster and hero
The "Two Lives" Partition By reincarnating Mo Ran, the story creates a psychological distance. The "young" Mo Ran of the second life is often presented as a separate entity from the "mad" Taxian-Jun, allowing the reader to sympathize with his horror at his own past actions.
The Flower of Eternal Night: The revelation that Mo Ran’s cruelty was exacerbated by a magical curse (the Eight-Sufferings Long-Hatred Flower) complicates the concept of agency. If his "evil" was a form of induced insanity, the burden of guilt shifts slightly from his soul to his circumstances.
Extreme Penance: Mo Ran’s suffering in the second life is physical, spiritual, and psychological. From kneeling in the snow to literally giving up his life (and soul) to save others, the story posits that if a character suffers more than their victim did, a balance might be restored.
Rooting for the Victim's Choice
The controversy of rooting for the "Abuser/Victim" pairing often ignores the agency of the victim. In 2HA, Chu Wanning is not a passive casualty. As the truth of the two lifetimes unfolds, the narrative shifts from "Mo Ran deserves happiness" to "Chu Wanning deserves the love he has always craved."
Chu Wanning’s eventual forgiveness of Mo Ran is framed as an act of immense strength rather than weakness. He chooses to see the soul beneath the scars. For many readers, rooting for the couple is not about condoning the abuse; it is about supporting the victim’s right to find a version of peace that only they can define. However, this remains a point of contention: does "happily ever after" in such a context romanticize the idea that abuse is just a hurdle to be cleared on the way to true love?
Conclusion: A Personal Moral Boundary
Whether we should forgive characters like Mo Ran depends on our view of restorative justice versus retributive justice. If one believes that certain acts like non-con are "unforgivable" by their very nature, then no amount of "crematorium" suffering can balance the scales.
However, The Husky and His White Cat Shizun suggests that in the realm of fiction, forgiveness is not a statement of "it was okay," but rather a recognition of "you have become someone else." We root for them not because the abuse was earned, but because the story convinces us that both the broken teacher and the reformed monster have bled enough to deserve a moment of stillness.
The loft was quiet, but it wasn't the empty, hollow quiet that had defined Derek's life for so many years. This was a lived-in silence. It smelled of expensive coffee, old books, and the distinct, grounding scent of woodsmoke and cedar that belonged to Y/N.
Derek stepped through the heavy sliding metal door, his boots echoing against the concrete floor. He’d spent the day helping Scott deal with a minor territory dispute near the border of the Preserve nothing a few bared teeth couldn't fix but his mind had been miles away.
Y/N hadn’t texted back since noon. That wasn't like him, In the time they’d been together, Derek had learned that Y/N was a big communicator. Even if it was just a simple heart emoji or a "busy, talk later," the check-in was standard. The silence from his phone had felt like a low-frequency hum of anxiety in the back of Derek’s mind all afternoon.
Derek dropped his keys on the table. He didn’t call out; he didn’t need to. His nose told him exactly where Y/N was. He was, buried under a mountain of blankets.
He moved up the staircase, When Derek reached the lofted bedroom, he stopped. The sight was enough to make his wolf whine low in his chest.
Y/N was a small shape in the center of the king-sized bed. He wasn't wearing his own clothes; he was submerged in one of Derek’s old, oversized grey hoodies the one with the frayed cuffs that Derek usually wore for morning runs. He had a pair of Derek's basketball shorts on, too, the drawstring pulled tight to keep them from sliding off his hips.
He was curled into a tight ball, his knees tucked toward his chest, his face hidden in Derek's pillow.
Derek approached the edge of the bed, softening his footsteps. "Y/N?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble.
A muffled groan was the only response. Y/N shifted, a sliver of his face appearing from beneath the hood. His skin was pale, a fine sheen of sweat at his temples, and his eyes were squeezed shut in a grimace.
"Hey," Derek said, sitting on the edge of the mattress. The weight of him caused Y/N to roll slightly toward the center. "Talk to me. Is it a migraine? Or..."
"Cramps," Y/N wheezed, the word barely a breath. He sounded exhausted, his voice strained from hours of fighting his own muscles. "Bad ones, Der. Like... being stabbed from the inside out.My back is killing me."
Derek’s expression shifted instantly from concern to soft empathy. He knew that for Y/N, these days were a double-edged sword. There was the physical agony, but there was also the dysphoria—the frustrating reminder of a biology that didn't always align with the man he was.
"I've got you," Derek said firmly. He leaned down, brushing a stray hair away from Y/N’s damp forehead with a tenderness he rarely showed anyone else. "Don't move. I’ll be right back."
In the kitchen, he went through the motions with practiced ease.
He filled a large glass with water, before he went to He find the bottle of extra-strength ibuprofen Y/N kept in the third drawer. On the way back to Y/N, He grabbed the electric heating pad from the linen closet.
He returned to the bedside, setting the water and pills on the nightstand. He didn't ask Y/N to sit up; he simply reached under the covers and gently slid the heating pad beneath the hem of the grey hoodie, settling it against Y/N’s lower abdomen.
Y/N let out a long, shaky breath as the heat hit. "Thank you," he whispered.
"Sit up just enough for the pills," Derek coached, sliding an arm under Y/N’s neck to support him.
He held the glass while Y/N swallowed the medication, watching the way his boyfriend’s throat moved. Once Y/N was settled back down, Derek didn't leave. He kicked off his boots and shed his leather jacket, tossing it toward the chair.
Before Derek climbed onto the bed, maneuvering himself behind Y/N. He pulled Y/N back against his chest, creating a solid, warm wall of muscle.
Derek shifted, placing his large, calloused hand directly over Y/N’s lower abdomen, just beneath the edge of the heating pad.
Black veins began to creep up Derek's arm, stark and jagged against his skin as they spread from his fingertips toward his elbow. He felt the pain transfer a dull, hot, throbbing ache that pulsed. To Derek, it was manageable, a secondary noise in his system. But to Y/N, the relief was instantaneous..
Y/N’s entire body went limp. A long, shuddering breath escaped his lips as the sharp "stabbing" sensation dulled into a manageable hum. He leaned his head back against Derek’s shoulder, finally relaxing for the first time in hours.
Derek didn't respond with words. He simply shifted so he could press a kiss to the back of Y/N’s neck, keeping his hand exactly where it was. He could feel the warmth of the heating pad and the rhythmic rise and fall of Y/N’s chest.
"Derek?" Y/N’s voice was sleepy now, the medication and the lack of pain finally allowing him to drift.
"Yeah?"
"You're a really good boyfriend."
Derek felt a rare, genuine smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He pressed a kiss to the nape of Y/N’s neck. "Go to sleep, Y/N."
"Stay?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I love you, Der," Y/N murmured, his voice thick with oncoming sleep.
"I love you too," Derek whispered, tightening his hold just enough to let him know he wasn't going anywhere. "Go to sleep."
The humidity of Hawkins in July was thick enough to choke a man, but inside the First Baptist Church of Hawkins, the air was even heavier. It smelled of floor wax, old hymnals, and the sharp, acidic scent of collective judgment.
Y/N sat in the third pew, his back as straight as the wooden slats behind him. His hands were folded neatly in his lap, white-knuckled and trembling. At the pulpit stood his father, Reverend Miller, a man whose voice could shake the dust from the rafters.
“They are coming for your households!” the Reverend bellowed, his face flushing a deep, mottled red. “They hide in the shadows of the music your children listen to, in the games they play, and now, in the very core of their identities. This... gender confusion, this deviance from the path of the Lord! It is a rot, a corruption that seeks to turn the flock into wolves!”
Y/N swallowed hard. Every word felt like a physical blow. He felt the eyes of the congregation his neighbors, his teachers burning into the back of his neck. They didn’t know. To them, he was the Golden Boy, the Preacher’s Son, the one who led the youth choir and never missed a Wednesday night study.
“The Lord made man and woman!” his father thundered, slamming a fist onto the Bible. “And any man who seeks the company of another man in the way of the flesh is inviting the Devil into his bed!”
The Devil, Y/N thought, a sudden, vivid image of Eddie’s face flashing in his mind. Eddie, with his wild mane of dark curls, his rings that clattered against guitar strings, and that lopsided, crooked grin that made Y/N’s heart do a terrifying somersault. If Eddie was the Devil, then Y/N was already lost.
The sermon transitioned into a fervent prayer, the congregation bowing their heads in a synchronized wave of piety. This was his window.
Y/N slid toward the end of the pew. He moved with the practiced silence of a ghost. He slipped through the heavy oak side doors, the hinges groaning just enough to make his blood go cold, but no one looked up.
Once outside, the heat hit him like a physical weight, but it was nothing compared to the suffocating pressure of that room. He didn’t run not yet instead walking quickly toward the edge of the gravel parking lot where the shadows of the treeline began.
A low, rhythmic rumble vibrated through the air. Then, the flash of a dented metal side.
The van was idling behind a cluster of overgrown oaks. The side door slid open before Y/N even reached it.
“You’re late, Preacher Boy,” a raspy voice called out.
Eddie was perched in the driver’s seat, his hair a mess, wearing a shredded Iron Maiden shirt. He looked at Y/N, his dark eyes instantly softening as he saw the tension in Y/N’s shoulders.
Y/N scrambled inside, and the door slammed shut, sealing out the sound of the distant hymns. He was immediately enveloped in the scent of stale tobacco, Weed, and Eddie.
“Hey,” Eddie said gently, reaching over the console. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or, well, the Holy Ghost.”
“He was talking about us, Eddie,” Y/N whispered, his voice cracking. “Not by name, but... he hates us. He hates me.”
Eddie’s expression shifted a flicker of anger that quickly melted into aching empathy. He didn’t say "it’s okay," because they both knew it wasn’t. Instead, he reached out and took Y/N’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Eddie’s skin was warm, his rings cool against Y/N’s knuckles.
“He doesn’t know you, Y/N,” Eddie said firmly. “He knows a version of you he built in his head. But I know you. And you’re the best thing in this godforsaken town.”
Eddie shifted the van into gear, the engine roaring to life as they peeled away from the church, leaving the echoes of the sermon in the dust.
They drove in silence for a while, winding through the backroads of Hawkins until the trees grew thick and the light turned golden-green. Lovers Lake was still and glassy, reflecting the bruised purple of the approaching dusk.
Eddie parked in a secluded thicket where the van was hidden from the road. He climbed into the back, which he’d outfitted with a moth-eaten mattress and piles of flannel blankets.
“Come here, sweetheart” Eddie beckoned.
Y/N crawled back and sat beside him. The guilt followed him like a shadow, a heavy shroud draped over his soul. He’d spent eighteen years being told that his very existence was an abomination.
“I feel like I’m breaking every rule I was ever taught,” Y/N admitted, staring at his knees. “Every time I’m with you, I feel like I’m... I’m choosing hell.”
Eddie sighed, leaning back against the metal wall of the van. He pulled a crumpled pack of Camels from his pocket and lit one, the cherry glowing in the dim light. He took a drag and blew the smoke toward the ceiling.
“My old man wasn’t a preacher,” Eddie said quietly. “But he taught me plenty about guilt. Taught me I was a loser, a freak, a waste of space. It took me a long time to realize that just because someone yells something at you from a position of authority doesn't make it the gospel truth.”
He handed the cigarette to Y/N. Y/N took a hesitant puff, the harsh smoke burning his throat causing him to cough but grounding him in the moment.
Eddie patted his back gently, “Your dad talks about ‘the gays’ like they’re some invading army,” Eddie continued, his voice dropping to a low, melodic register. “But look at me. Am I an army? I’m just a guy who likes D&D, plays too much guitar, and happens to think you’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met. Does that feel like evil to you?”
Y/N looked at him, really looked at him. Eddie’s face was etched with a kindness that Y/N never saw at the pulpit. There was no judgment in Eddie’s eyes, only a fierce, protective devotion.
“No,” Y/N whispered. “It feels like the only thing that’s actually real.”
Eddie smiled that real, soft smile he saved only for Y/N. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of Y/N’s jaw. “Then hold onto that. Fuck the sermons, Y/N. They don’t get to decide who you are.”
Eddie leaned in, and the kiss was slow, tasting of tobacco and desperation. It was an act of rebellion and a prayer all at once. In the quiet of the van, the world outside the church, the Reverend, the suffocating expectations of Hawkins simply ceased to exist.
Y/N let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since he was six years old. For the first time all day, the weight in his chest didn't feel like lead.
“The son of a preacher,” Eddie murmured against his lips, a playful glint returning to his eyes. “Who would’ve thought he’d end up with the town’s resident Satanic panic poster child?”
“Maybe it was meant to be,” Y/N said, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through.
“Fate’s got a twisted sense of humor,” Eddie laughed, pulling Y/N closer into the blankets. “But I’m not complaining.”
The cabin of the van felt smaller now, the air thick with the sweet, skunk-like scent of weed and the cooling summer heat. Eddie didn’t pull away after his laugh instead, he lingered in the space between them, his dark eyes searching Y/N’s face for any lingering trace of the Reverend’s hatred or his Guilt. Finding only warmth, Eddie let out a low, grounding hum.
Y/N moved, his knees digging into the worn mattress as he crawled closer, shedding the stiff, Sunday-best persona he’d been wearing all morning. Eddie’s hands found Y/N’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest.
When their lips met again, the tentativeness of the first kiss was gone. This was hungry demanding, yearning.
Eddie tasted like the cigarette they’d shared and the cheap cherry soda he kept in the cooler, but beneath that, he just tasted like safety. One of Eddie’s hands slid up from Y/N’s waist, fingers tangling deep into the hair at the nape of his neck, tilting his head back to deepen the angle.
Y/N let out a shaky moan into Eddie’s mouth, his own hands coming up to grip Eddie’s shoulders, bunching the fabric of the Hellfire shirt. He felt Eddie smirk against his lips, a vibration of pure, affection.
“You’re okay,” Eddie whispered against his skin, trailing kisses down to the corner of Y/N’s jaw.
Eddie shifted, leaning back against the side of the van and pulling Y/N down with him until they were a tangle of limbs and flannel. He began to trail his lips down Y/N’s throat, finding that sensitive spot right below the ear. Y/N’s head fell back, his eyes fluttering shut. In the darkness of his mind, the images of the stained-glass windows and his father’s pointing finger began to dissolve, replaced by the friction of Eddie’s denim against his legs and the steady, frantic thrum of Eddie’s heart against his own.
“Eds,” Y/N breathed, his voice a ragged plea. He didn't even know what he was asking for forgiveness, more, or just to never have to leave this van.
Eddie pulled back just an inch, his face flushed, eyes blown wide and dark. He looked like a man seeing something holy. He reached up, gently wiping a stray tear Y/N hadn't even realized had fallen from the corner of his eye.
“I know it’s hard,” Eddie said, his thumb brushing Y/N’s cheekbone. “I know that voice in your head is loud. But listen to me, okay? If there’s a God, and He made you... then He made you to be loved like this. He wouldn’t have put this much good in someone just to call it wrong.”
He lunged forward, crashing his lips back onto Eddie’s, his hands sliding up to cup Eddie’s face. The make-out session grew more frantic, more desperate to drown out the world. Eddie’s tongue swept against his, a rhythmic dance that made Y/N’s head spin. They rolled over on the mattress, the springs groaning in protest, until Eddie was hovering over him, his long curls creating a curtain that walled them off from the rest of Hawkins. Eddie’s weight was a grounding presence, his hands roaming Y/N’s sides as he leaned down to kiss him.
As Eddie’s kisses moved from his jawline down to the collar of his dress shirt, his fingers fumbling slightly with the top button, a sharp spike of that old, familiar panic flared in Y/N’s chest. It wasn't that he didn't want Eddie he wanted him more than his next breath but the ghost of his father’s voice, screaming about the way of the flesh, felt like a cold hand on his shoulder.
Y/N’s hands, which had been buried in Eddie’s hair, shifted to his chest, pushing gently. It wasn't a rejection, but a pause a plea for air.
Eddie stopped instantly. He propped himself up on his elbows, his chest heaving, looking down at Y/N with concern etched into his features. He didn't look frustrated or impatient; he just looked attentive.
Eddie’s expression softened into something so incredibly tender it made Y/N’s heart ache. He didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted his weight so he was lying beside Y/N, propped up on one arm, and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Y/N’s ear
“Eds,” Y/N whispered, his voice trembling. “I... I want to. I really do. But I’m not... I’m not ready for that. For everything. The stuff my dad says, it’s just... it’s still stuck in there.” He tapped his temple with a shaky finger. “I feel like if we go all the way, I’ll break.”
“Whoa, hey,” Eddie said, his voice a soothing, low honey. “Look at me. Look at my eyes.”
Y/N met his gaze, finding only warmth there.
“We're on Eddie Munson time,” Eddie said firmly. “And Eddie Munson time moves at whatever speed you want. You think I’m in a rush? I’ve got nothing but time. We’ve got the whole world, and if all we ever do is sit in this van and hold hands while the world ends, I’m the luckiest freak in Indiana.”
He leaned down and pressed a chaste, lingering kiss to Y/N’s forehead.
“No pressure. No 'way of the flesh' tonight,” Eddie teased gently, trying to coax the smile back to Y/N’s face. “How about we just keep it in the ‘extremely pleasant making out’ category? Low stakes, high reward?”
Y/N let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension draining out of him. “You’re sure? You don’t think I’m... boring? Or repressed?”
Eddie barked out a short, genuine laugh. “Boring? You? You’re the guy who sneaks out of a Sunday sermon to make out with me in a metal box. You’re the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me. And as for repressed? We’ll work on it. One step at a time.”
To prove his point. He started peppering tiny, butterfly kisses all over Y/N’s face his eyelids, the tip of his nose, the corners of his mouth until Y/N started to giggle, squirming under the ticklish affection.
“Eddie, stop!” Y/N laughed, his hands coming up to catch Eddie’s face.
“Never,” Eddie declared, grinning as he went for Y/N’s neck again, but this time blowing a raspberry against his skin instead of a deep kiss.
The heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the church was officially gone, replaced by the sound of their shared laughter filling the cramped space of the van. Eddie kept it light, keeping his hands above the waist, focusing on the soft friction of their noses rubbing together and the sweet, slow pulls on Y/N’s lower lip that made his toes curl without making his conscience scream.
The first thing Eddie registered was the overwhelming smell of antiseptic and the dull, rhythmic beep of a machine. It was a stark contrast to the thick, acrid scent of the Upside Down, the metallic tang of blood, and the high-pitched, frenzied shriek of the bat things.
He tried to open his eyes, but his lids felt weighted down with lead. A low groan scraped past his lips, sounding raw and unfamiliar.
“Eddie? Son, you awake?”
That voice. Deep, gravelly, and laced with a relief so profound it sounded like pain. Wayne.
Eddie managed to crack open one eye, then the other. The room was sterile and white, too bright for the headache that was already building behind his temples. He was definitely in a hospital, though it didn’t look like Hawkins General. Everything was too new, too… government.
Wayne was leaning over him, his face a roadmap of worry lines, but his eyes were shining with unshed tears.
“Uncle Wayne,” Eddie rasped, his throat feeling like sandpaper. “What the hell happened?”
“You happened, kid. You pulled a goddamn miracle, that’s what.” Wayne gently squeezed his shoulder, then leaned back to wipe his hand over his face. “You’ve been out for three days. You were… damn near gone, Eddie. They had you on a vent for a while.”
Eddie tried to shift, and a jolt of white-hot agony shot through his torso, making him gasp. He looked down and saw his chest and arms were crisscrossed with thick bandages, though the deep, ragged wounds left by the Demobats were now covered.
The memories hit him then: the roaring flames, the Metallica solo, the blinding pain, and the overwhelming, terrifying realization that he wasn't going to make it out. He'd gone out fighting, a hero's death, right? He remembered thinking of Dustin, of the others, of… Y/N.
His eyes scanned the room wildly. “Y/N? Where is he? Is he okay?”
Wayne nodded, gesturing toward the chair tucked against the bedside. “He’s fine, son. Exhausted, but fine. Been right there since they stabilized you. Wouldn’t leave for nothing but a shower and a change of clothes. He only finally crashed a few hours ago.”
Eddie turned his head slowly. Slumped in a hard plastic chair, legs stretched out awkwardly, was Y/N. He was wearing a slightly wrinkled ‘hellfire’ shirt under a black zip-up hoodie, and his usual styled hair was falling over his face. His arms were crossed tightly, and he was sleeping with the kind of deep, total exhaustion that only comes after severe emotional trauma.
Looking at him, safe and whole, was the first thing that truly made Eddie feel like he hadn't died. The sheer, protective wave of love that washed over him was overwhelming.
“He’s got some mouth on him, that boy,” Wayne muttered, trying for lightheartedness. “The doctors had to physically restrain him when you flatlined in the ambulance. Said some things that would make a sailor blush. But he didn’t stop fighting for you, Eddie. Wouldn’t let them call it until they got you back.”
Eddie’s vision blurred. Y/N. Always so blunt and sarcastic, always hiding that fierce, terrified loyalty behind a wall of biting humor.
A low, muffled sound from the chair made both of them freeze. Y/N stirred, lifting his head. He blinked several times, eyes adjusting to the hospital light, before focusing on Eddie.
His eyes normally sharp and sparking with mirth or dry disdain were wide, red-rimmed, and instantly filled with tears.
“Eddie?” he whispered, his voice thick with sleep and emotion. He scrambled out of the chair, nearly tripping over his own feet, and rushed to the bedside.
“Hey, Romeo,” Eddie managed, a weak, genuine smile splitting his pale face. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
Y/N didn't smile back. He gently reached out, his hand trembling, and touched Eddie’s bandaged forearm, careful not to put any pressure on his wounds.
“You absolute, self-sacrificing idiot,” Y/N choked out, the sarcasm finally making a trembling appearance, though it was utterly devoid of bite. “Do you know what kind of nightmare you just put me through? Three days of existential dread?"
He dissolved into quiet, racking sobs, burying his face in the crook of Eddie’s neck—the only part of him that wasn't covered in a cast or bandages—carefully avoiding the tubes and lines.
Eddie’s heart ached with a joyful, painful intensity. He managed to lift his good hand—the one that wasn’t punctured—and ran his fingers through Y/N’s hair.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Eddie whispered into his hair. “I’m so sorry I scared you.”
Y/N pulled back just enough to look at him, his face wet, but his eyes blazing with that familiar, intense blue fire. “Don’t you dare apologize. You saved those little nerds. You saved the world, practically. You’re a moron” He sniffed loudly, scrubbing at his face with the heel of his hand.
Wayne, ever the tactful uncle, cleared his throat. “Alright, I’m gonna go find a nurse and tell her you’re up, Eds. And I’m gonna grab a coffee. Give you boys a minute.” He clapped Eddie on the leg and gave Y/N a knowing, grateful nod before slipping out of the room.
The hospital door clicked shut behind Wayne, leaving Eddie and Y/N in the quiet, antiseptic bubble of the recovery room. The rhythmic beeping of the monitor was the only sound besides their breathing.
Y/N sat back, his expression tight. He was still pale, and Eddie could see the faint, fading purple of a bruise high on his cheekbone, a casualty of his own brutal fight against Vecna’s forces alongside Nancy, Steve, and Robin.
“I’m trying to decide whether to hit you or kiss you,” Y/N said, his voice low and dangerously even. “And since you’re currently patched up by the U.S. government, hitting you seems impolite, even for me.”
Y/N shifted to burying his face in Eddie’s shoulder, right where his neck met the sterile white pillow. He was careful to avoid the bandages.
“You scared me, Eds,” he mumbled into the scratchy fabric of the hospital gown. “You scared me half to death.”
Eddie awkwardly wrapped his good arm around Y/N’s shoulders, pulling him as close as his injuries would allow. He held him tightly, pressing a kiss into his messy hair.
“I’m so sorry,” Eddie murmured, rocking him gently. “I’m here now. I’m right here.”
Y/N pulled back just enough to look at him,. He reached up, his movements hesitant, and gently cupped Eddie’s face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the edges of his jaw.
“I love you,” Y/N breathed out, his eyes searching Eddie’s face as if trying to memorize every detail.
“I love you more,” Eddie replied,
Y/N leaned in, his lips finding Eddie’s in a careful, desperate kiss. It was dry and chapped and tasted faintly of antiseptic and coffee, but it was the most real thing Eddie had felt since he was staring up at the Upside Down sky.
Just as the kiss deepened, a loud, frantic voice echoed in the hallway, followed by the squeak of sneakers against the linoleum.
“Wait! Did you say *awake*? Like, awake and talking? Move, man, move!”
The door burst open with unnecessary force, smacking against the wall.
Standing in the frame, wide-eyed, slightly disheveled, and radiating pure, unadulterated excitement, was Henderson. He skidded to a halt, his chest heaving, his eyes locking instantly on the scene before him: Eddie and Y/N, locked in a tender embrace on the hospital bed.
Dustin’s jaw dropped. “Oh. Holy. *shit*.”
Y/N instantly pulled back from Eddie, leaning his head on Eddie’s chest, but he didn’t remove his arm from around Eddie’s torso. He sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes fondly at the ceiling.
“Well, there goes the moment,” Y/N muttered, loud enough for Dustin to hear. “Less than five minutes of peace. This is why we can’t have nice things, Munson.”
Eddie chuckled, wincing again, but the sound was joyful. He reached out and ruffled Y/N’s hair. “Can’t fault the kid for enthusiasm, sweetheart. He just saved me from having to talk about my feelings for too long.”
Dustin, his initial shock wearing off, rushed to the side of the bed, forgetting any pretense of propriety.
“Eddie! You’re alive! You’re actually alive!” Dustin’s face was glowing with relief. He practically vibrated with repressed energy, looking like he wanted to tackle Eddie, but paused, seeing the bandages.
“Hold it right there, Henderson,” Eddie warned, holding up a hand. “I’m still technically fragile. You try to hug me and I might actually die this time.”
“I don’t care!” Dustin sniffed, tears welling up rapidly, though this time they were happy tears. He leaned down to hug the older boy carefully, Eddie's arm wrapped around the boy returning the hug.
Y/N stood up completely, moving to stand beside the bed, giving Dustin room. He reached over and clapped the boy gently on the shoulder.
“He’s alright, Dustin,” Y/N said, a genuine smile finally breaking through his fatigue, his voice soft. “He’s a pain in the ass, and he’s an idiot, but he’s here.he’ll be back to terrorizing Hawkins High with D&D campaigns in no time.”
“I love you too, kid,” Eddie replied, his voice husky. “Now come here and tell me everything. Start with how Nancy Wheeler is doing, because I swear I saw her wield a shotgun like a seasoned veteran.”
The air in the trailer park was thick and still, carrying the stale scent of burnt sugar and damp earth. Inside the cramped, metal box that Eddie called home, the atmosphere was slightly cleaner but far more charged. The only light came from the flickering, bare bulb in the kitchenette and the pale, hesitant moonlight filtering through the dusty window.
Eddie was perched on the edge of the closed toilet lid, his brow furrowed in a mixture of concern and exasperation. He was carefully dabbing a bloodied washcloth against a gash just above Y/N’s left eye. Y/N, meanwhile, was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, shirtless and sporting a symphony of fresh bruises—a deep, blossoming purple on his collarbone, a scrape along his ribs, and the bright, angry cut Eddie was currently attending to.
"You know, for someone who claims to have *seen* more horror movies than me, you really don't seem to grasp the concept of self-preservation," Eddie murmured, his voice low, his usual theatricality softened by genuine worry. He pulled the washcloth away to examine his work, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Y/N hissed softly as the antiseptic wipe came next, a brutal, stinging successor to the gentle dabbing. "Ow. Jesus, Munson, you trying to kill the germs or the patient?"
"Both, if you don't stop moving," Eddie retorted, though he eased the pressure. He tossed the used wipe into the sink and reached for the tube of antibiotic ointment. "And don't change the subject. Self-preservation, Y/N. Remember it? It's that little voice in your head that says, 'Hey, maybe don't punch the basketball player who outweighs you by thirty pounds and has the collective IQ of a damp sock.'"
"Ah, but that little voice was drowned out by the slightly louder, much more morally sound voice that said, 'That guy just called you and your boyfriend a homophobic slur, so you should probably rearrange his face for him,'" Y/N countered, leaning back slightly to let Eddie apply the ointment. He watched Eddie's focused expression—the dark curls falling over his forehead, the delicate way he handled the wound, a contrast to the metalhead's usual wild energy.
Eddie sighed, a sound heavy with history and frustration. He uncapped the ointment and began to spread it carefully across the cut. "Morally sound, huh? And how morally sound is it when you’re bleeding all over my favourite Dio shirt because Tommy Hagan decided he wanted to be the biggest Neanderthal in Hawkins today?"
"It’s a sacrifice I was willing to make for the sake of free speech... specifically, the right to tell Tommy Hagan to go choke on a jockstrap," Y/N said, a flicker of his usual humor returning. He winced as Eddie pressed a gauze pad over the cut and secured it with medical tape.
Eddie stood up, stepping back to eye the bandage critically. "Well, your free speech is gonna cost me a box of medical supplies. And probably a week of worry until that bruise on your rib stops looking like you wrestled a orc." He crossed his arms, his expression finally settling into the soft, disappointed gaze that Y/N knew and hated more than any angry yell.
"Don't give me the 'disappointed Dad' look, Eds," Y/N grumbled, trying to make light of it.
"I am not giving you the disappointed Dad look," Eddie immediately refuted, his voice rising slightly. "I'm giving you the **terrified boyfriend** look! What part of 'don't engage' do you not understand? This isn't D&D, Y/N! Tommy Hagan is not a level one goblin you can just casually dispatch with a well-aimed punch. He's a walking, talking concussion hazard!"
Y/N felt a familiar defensive heat rise in his chest. "So what was I supposed to do, Eddie? Just stand there while he shouts that filth at us? While he calls you that stuff? I can't. I physically *can't* do that. You just... you just ignore it!, Eddie. I see red."
Eddie's shoulders slumped. He walked over to the closed door, leaning his head back against the cool wood, and stared up at the ceiling. The silence stretched taut between them, thick with the unspoken understanding of what it meant to be different in Hawkins, Indiana.
"You think I don't see red?" Eddie’s voice was barely above a whisper, raw and weary. "You think I don't hear every word, every sneer, every whispered slur that follows me around this goddamn town? The Freak. The queer. The one who leads the impressionable youth to damnation." He pushed off the door and turned back to Y/N, his eyes blazing with a suppressed fire.
"I hear it. Every. Single. Day. But I can't fight them all, Y/N. I can't. Because if I fight one, they all come. They come with their fists, and they come with their parents, and they come with the sheriff. And then they come for who I love, And I can't let them take Wayne, or Hellfire, or this trailer—shithole that it is or you because I threw a punch that felt good for three seconds."
He took a step closer, his eyes softening as he met Y/N’s gaze, the intensity of his confession giving way to a desperate plea. "I choose my battles. I choose the ones I can win, and I choose the ones that matter. And Y/N, what was today? Tommy yelling some vile, predictable garbage in a parking lot. That’s a battle we *never* win by trading punches. We win by outlasting them. We win by being better, smarter, and still being here when they're all just sad, washed-up middle-aged men clinging to their past glories."
He reached out and gently rested a hand on the side of Y/N’s uninjured cheek, his thumb brushing over the faint stubble. "Look at you. You're beautiful, and you're brilliant, and you're the only person who can match me on a good day. And now you're bruised and bleeding over something so *petty*."
Y/N leaned into the touch, a heavy lump forming in his throat. He hated that Eddie was right. He hated that the unfairness of the world forced them to make these miserable, cowardly choices.
"It wasn't just about the words, Eddie," Y/N admitted, his own voice hushed. "It was... seeing the look on his face. The pure, unadulterated *hate*. And he was looking at *us*. I just... I wanted to wipe that expression off his face. I wanted him to hurt."
Eddie nodded slowly, his expression full of understanding. "I know that feeling, man. I know that feeling down to my bones. It’s a rush, right? That little surge of righteous anger. But you gotta think of the fallout. You got suspended for a week. Your dad is gonna ground you until Christmas. And what did Tommy get? A fat lip and bragging rights that he 'took down the queer freak.'"
"I got a few good hits in," he mumbled
"You did," Eddie conceded, brushing back Y/N hair from his forehead "But a few good hits aren't worth the risk. What if you'd broken your hand? Or your pretty face."
He sat down next to Y/N on the edge of the tub, their knees touching. The scent of antiseptic, and cheap body spray mingled in the small space.
Just as the serious moment began to settle, the thin wooden door of the bathroom swung inward a few inches. Wayne Munson, Eddie's uncle, stood framed in the doorway, a weary sigh escaping his lips. He'd been washing dishes in the small kitchen and the sounds of the boys' subdued conversation, combined with the occasional hiss of pain, had been impossible to ignore.
He was a man who worked hard, worried constantly, and loved unconditionally, even if he didn't always understand the strange, long-haired path his nephew and his nephew's peculiar young man had chosen.
Wayne looked from Eddie, sat on the toilet sit with a look of deep-seated concern, to Y/N, sitting bloodied and battered on the bathtub lip. He surveyed the scattered cotton swabs and the open medicine cabinet, then simply shook his head.
"Eddie, you got the bleeding stopped?" Wayne asked, his voice low and gravelly.
"Yeah, Uncle Wayne. Just cleaning up the scraps now," Eddie replied, a flash of defensiveness in his tone.
Wayne stepped into the room, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, his gaze settling squarely on Y/N. He didn't ask what happened; he rarely had to. In a town like Hawkins, with a boy who looked like Y/N and a nephew like Eddie, trouble always had the same basic ingredients.
"Y/N," Wayne said, and the boy tensed slightly, expecting a lecture.
Instead, Wayne simply reached out and gently rested a large, calloused hand on Y/N’s uninjured shoulder. It was a comforting weight.
"You've always got a good heart, son. You're a loyal kid," Wayne said, his eyes filled with a familiar, paternal warmth that never failed to surprise Y/N. "But you can't be fighting every battle that comes your way. It’s not worth the wear and tear."
He squeezed Y/N’s shoulder once, a gesture of quiet support.
**"Be more careful, son. Please."**
Wayne’s simple plea, devoid of anger or judgment, landed harder than any of Eddie’s scolding. It was a clear, direct worry from a good man who was already burdened enough.
Y/N nodded slowly, a lump forming in his throat. "I will, uncle Wayne, I promise."
Wayne let out a long, shuddering breath, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of years of trailer park life and small-town prejudice. He gave both boys a final, assessing look.
"You clean him up, Eddie. And then you two need to sit down and eat something. There's half a meatloaf left over. Get some strength back."
With that, Wayne turned and walked back to the kitchen, leaving the bathroom door ajar.
Eddie let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He gathered the medical supplies and tucked them back into the cabinet, his face thoughtful.
"See?" he murmured to Y/N, reaching out to gently touch the edge of the swelling bruise. "He worries, man. We gotta try not to give him more reasons to. He's been through enough."
He stood up, pulling Y/N off the bath lip and into a careful, tight hug, mindful of the bruises. Y/N buried his face into the warm, familiar scent of cheap cologne and old patchouli on Eddie’s shirt.
"I love you, Ed," Y/N whispered into the denim.
"I know you do," Eddie replied, running a soothing hand over Y/N’s messed-up hair. "And I love your stupid, brave, reckless face, even when it looks like a busted pinata." He pulled back, his eyes dancing with affection. "Now come on. Let's go eat"
He put an arm around Y/N's shoulder, guiding him toward the kitchen, the earlier tension finally beginning to dissipate, replaced by the comforting, familiar rhythm of them.
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The first thing Steve registered was the light. It wasn’t the harsh, blinding light of a fluorescent bulb or the direct glare of the afternoon sun, but the soft, diffused amber of a late-morning in early autumn, filtering gently through the gap where his curtains didn't quite meet.
The second thing he registered was the weight.
It was a familiar weight, now, though one that only recently had become a fixture in his king-sized bed. A solid, warm arm was draped possessively across his chest, the fingers curled just below his collarbone. A head of hair was nestled against his shoulder, and a steady, deep breath feathered the skin of his neck.
Steve blinked, his eyes adjusting, and slowly turned his head.
Y/N.
He hadn’t meant to stare, but he couldn't seem to look away. Y/N’s face, usually animated by a quick, sarcastic wit or a challenging smirk, was completely relaxed in sleep. His mouth was slightly parted, and the deep shadow of his eyelashes rested against his cheekbones. He looked younger, softer, stripped of the layers of well-worn wit he presented to the world.
A soft, almost silent chuckle escaped Steve. Steve had woken up next to plenty of girls. Plenty. But those mornings were usually characterized by a mutual, slightly awkward realization that they would need to sneak out before Mrs. Harrington woke up (in the rare instances his parents were even home), followed by a quick, transactional goodbye. It was fun, fleeting, and utterly lacking in... Feelings.
This morning, the air didn’t feel thin or hollow. It felt thick, saturated with the faint, lingering scent of sex, and something else—something warmer, heavier, and undeniably right. It settled in Steve’s stomach like a perfectly cooked meal.
He shifted slightly, careful not to wake the sleeping boy, and gently nudged the arm off his chest. Y/N mumbled something incoherent that sounded vaguely like a complaint, burrowed deeper for a second, then settled back into a heavy sleep. Steve took the opportunity, easing himself out of the bed.
He winced as his feet found the cool hardwood floor. He was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, and the slight chill of the morning air raised goosebumps on his arms. He quickly grabbed a discarded t-shirt—definitely not his—from the floor and pulled it over his head.
He glanced back at the bed. Y/N hadn’t moved. A slow smile spread across Steve’s face. Quietly, Steve made his way out of the bedroom, down the hall, and descended the grand, carpeted staircase. The Harrington house was too big, too quiet, and often felt too empty, but this morning, the stillness felt expectant, not lonely.
He headed straight for the kitchen.
If Y/N was going to stick around and Steve sincerely hoped he would then he needed to be fed. Fighting off interdimensional monsters was hard work, but he had found that simply existing in Hawkins lately, with the constant threat of some new doom, required a decent breakfast.
Steve, despite his reputation as a pampered jock, was surprisingly competent in the kitchen. When his parents were away—which was most of the time—he’d been forced to figure out the basics. He pulled out the Family-sized carton of eggs, reached for the thick-cut bacon, and located the waffle mix he kept hidden for Dustin and the gang.
He put a record on the turntable—a Tears for fear album that wouldn't wake the dead—and the kitchen slowly filled with the smell of sizzling bacon and melting butter. Steve cracked eggs into a bowl with the practiced ease of someone who’d made breakfast for too many hungry teenagers over the years, whisking them until they were light and fluffy. He poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter, watching the bacon crisp up on the stovetop.
It was a good morning. A really good morning. It was one of those rare moments where the world felt blessedly, perfectly normal.
Twenty minutes later, Steve was just pulling the waffles off the iron, golden-brown and steaming, when he heard a slow, dragging sound from the hallway.
“Do you know what time it is? And why is it so bright?” a voice groaned, thick with sleep and irritation.
Steve turned, a smile already forming, and nearly dropped the spatula.
Y/N was standing in the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame, looking like a glorious, exhausted disaster. He was wearing one of Steve's favorite navy blue sweatshirts—the thick, soft one—which hung loosely over a pair of Steve's black athletic shorts. The clothes were a little too big on him, making him look smaller and younger than he usually did, and the combination was utterly, ridiculously endearing.
His hair was sticking up at odd angles, and he rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand.
“Well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living,” Steve said, his voice softer than he intended, a smile creasing the corners of his eyes. He poured the eggs into the pan, careful not to let them overcook. “Sleep well, Sleeping Beauty?”
Y/N pushed off the doorway and shambled over to the counter, still moving with the slow, deliberate pace of the recently awakened. He stopped next to Steve and sniffed the air dramatically.
“Mmm. Bacon. That’s a good smell. But did you have to turn the lights on?” He squinted at the perfectly reasonable amount of natural light flooding the kitchen.
“My delicate senses can’t handle it.”
“Suck it up, buttercup. Coffee’s right there.” Steve nodded toward the pot. “And yeah, I woke up, and unlike you, I don’t hibernate until noon.”
Y/N reached for a mug, his movements slow and methodical. “I’m a growing boy, Steve. I need my rest. Especially after… certain activities.” He leveled Steve with a tired, but pointed, look that made Steve’s cheeks flush a little.
“Right. Well. There’s no rest for the wicked. You want me to plate you up?” Steve asked, turning back to the stove. The eggs were perfect now—creamy and soft.
“Please, King Steve,” Y/N sighed, leaning his hip against the counter. “My energy reserves are at 10%. I might dieif I have to lift a fork myself.”
Steve chuckled again, shaking his head. “Drama Queen.” He grabbed a clean plate and began carefully arranging the food. He put two slices of crispy bacon down, then the golden waffles, and finally, a generous scoop of the fluffy scrambled eggs.
He set the plate in front of Y/N. “Here. Eat.”
Y/N’s eyes widened slightly at the presentation. He picked up the fork, took a bite of the eggs, and made a soft, appreciative noise.
“This,” he said around a mouthful, “is amazing. I mean, I already knew you were good with your hands, but this is a whole new level.”
Steve rolled his eyes, but he couldn't hide the pleased grin. “I try.” He plated his own breakfast—slightly less extravagant—and sat down opposite Y/N at the large kitchen island.
They ate in a comfortable silence for a minute, the only sounds the clinking of silverware and the soft music. Steve watched Y/N, still amused by the sight of him swallowed by the sweatshirt, his hair a mess.
Then, Y/N paused, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“So, quick question,” he started, his voice back to its usual sarcastic lilt, though still carrying the early-morning rasp. “All the other girls. Like, all of them. Did they get this treatment? Full breakfast service? Waffles, eggs, perfectly crisp bacon?"
Steve froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. The question was a total Y/N move—disarmingly casual, but loaded with a deeper curiosity about where exactly he stood. It was an indirect way of asking for a comparison, a metric.
He took a bite of his waffle, stalling for a moment, letting the sweet maple syrup and warm butter coat his tongue. He had to be honest. He’d built his reputation on lies and superficiality, but he’d sworn off that with Y/N.
“No,” Steve said simply, meeting Y/N’s gaze across the island. He put his fork down. “No, they didn’t.”
Y/N raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Aha! I knew it. So I am special. Good to know my efforts are rewarded with carbohydrates.”
“It’s not about being special, jerk,” Steve countered, the endearment slipping out easily. He leaned forward a little, his voice dropping slightly, serious now. “Look, with... with them? It was always just... that. Hooking up. We both knew the score. They’d usually leave pretty quick, or I’d make them toast. Maybe. If I was feeling generous.”
He paused, glancing at the plate in front of Y/N, then back to his eyes. He took a deep breath, and the words just tumbled out, honest and unfiltered.
“This… this spread, the whole thing?, me waiting to eat with you? That’s reserved for... I don't know. Boyfriends. Or girlfriends.”
The statement hung in the air, heavy and immediate, cutting through the soft music and the smell of breakfast.
Steve watched as Y/N’s small smirk completely vanished. His eyes widened a fraction, and he stopped chewing. The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife, filled only by the internal monologue screaming inside Steve's head.
Did I just say that?
Oh my God. I just said that.
They hadn't talked about it. Not once. Their weeks of late-night movie dates, whispered secrets, hand-holding under the table at the local diner, and the incredible, fiery hookups—it had all been a glorious, unlabelled mess. They hadn't dared put a name on it, afraid to break the fragile, perfect thing they were building. Steve had just blown up the whole operation with a casual declaration about breakfast standards.
He scrambled mentally, already formulating an escape route, a backtrack, a stammered, 'I mean, I just meant close friends who hook up a lot! Definitely!'
Before he could utter a single word of panicked retraction, Y/N slowly lowered his fork. He picked up his coffee mug, took a long, slow sip, and set it down with a delicate clink.
He looked Steve dead in the eye, his expression completely unreadable for a moment. Then, his face cracked into a slow, utterly devastating grin—the kind that made Steve's stomach flip over.
Y/N picked up his fork, scooped up a large, creamy mouthful of scrambled eggs, and chewed deliberately. After he swallowed, he leaned back, the collar of Steve's sweatshirt falling slightly off one shoulder.
“Well,” Y/N drawled, his voice a smooth, satisfied purr, “in that case, I have to say, you’re an excellent house husband, Steve Harrington.”
He winked, then happily dug into his waffle, leaving Steve completely dumbfounded.
Steve just stared, his mind racing to process the implication. House husband. That wasn't a denial. That wasn't a freak-out. That wasn't even a clarification of status. It was... an acceptance. He'd not only acknowledged the implied 'boyfriend' status but had immediately went along with it.
A slow, incredulous laugh bubbled up in Steve’s chest,“ Shut up, you asshole!” he managed to get out, before bringing his folk to his mouth “I am not your house husband!”
“Mmm, but you are,” Y/N insisted, still focused on his breakfast. “You woke up first, made a gourmet meal, and You’re practically wearing a frilly apron, baby.”
“I’m wearing a t-shirt and boxers!” Steve protested, throwing a napkin at Y/N, who leaned out of the way slightly.
“Details, details. The spirit is what matters,” Y/N replied, chewing happily. He paused again, looking at Steve with that familiar, warm sincerity that always lurked just beneath his layers of irony. “Seriously though, thanks. This is... nice. Really nice.”
Steve’s smile softened. All the bluster and sarcasm dissolved, leaving only the honest truth of the moment. “Yeah,” he said quietly, picking up his coffee mug “It is.”
He watched Y/N eat, the morning sun catching the colour of his hair. He picked up a piece of bacon and chewed, A House husband. Maybe he could learn to live with that. Especially if he got to keep waking up to this.
“Hey, by the way,” Steve said, casually. “I’m making lasagna tonight. You interested in staying for dinner, honey?”
Y/N swallowed his eggs, his eyes sparkling with challenge. “Oh, I’m interested, sweetheart. But I'm doing the dishes.”
“Deal,” Steve agreed instantly. He knew a fair trade when he heard one.
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All links, Masterlists and rule page has been updated and redone, I'll be updating and changing some fics to ensure they're all properly tagged, lay out correctly and are correct.
Dae 🤍🩵
P. S : I'm currently rewatching stranger things to get ready for vol 2 of season 5, so send me your asks and Prompt ideas for stranger things.
Pairing : Billy Hargrove x Male reader
Tags : Drunken kiss, Internalised homophobia, slight soft billy ( a small amount)
CW: None
Word count : 3153
beta read : No
The air in the living room was thick and vibrating, a claustrophobic mix of cheap beer breath, stale smoke, and the relentless, driving rhythm of Mötley Crüe tearing through blown-out speakers. Billy leaned against the archway, nursing a plastic cup of something vaguely alcoholic that tasted like cough syrup mixed with regret. He watched the masses of Hawkins High—the jocks preening, the cheerleaders giggling like wind chimes, and the losers and freaks trying desperately to look like they didn’t care about any of it.
He hated parties. He hated the lying, the way everyone was trying so hard to impress him, the new king of the hallway, without daring to actually meet his eye. It was all a lie, and he was exhausted from playing his part: the swaggering, untouchable god in denim and leather.
He needed a minute. His jaw was starting to ache from the perpetual sneer he wore, and the bass was rattling his teeth.
He pushed off the doorframe, letting out a low grunt as he navigated the sea of bodies, his shoulders brushing against sweaty arms and hips, Billy navigated the throng, ignoring the half-hearted attempts by a trio of sophomores to grab his attention as he searched for the bathroom.
He found it, eventually, tucked away past the kitchen and through a poorly lit hallway. The door was ajar, the light inside a dim, sickly yellow. He nudged it open with his foot, ready to brace himself for overflowing toilets or projectile vomit – standard party fare.
What he found was Y/N.
The guy was slumped against the cool tile of the bathtub, knees drawn up, head lolling to the side. His eyes were half-closed, unfocused, and a faint, sweet-and-sour stench clung to him, a cocktail of cheap booze and something vaguely acidic. He was practically passed out, a crumpled heap of denim and flannel.
Y/N was an anomaly in Hawkins, and perhaps that’s why Billy tolerated him. He wasn't a jock, but he could talk sports with the best of them. He wasn't a confirmed ‘freak’ or D&D nerd, but he could hang out with the weird kids without getting mocked, And surprisingly, he and Billy didn’t actively hate each other. He seemed to float above the social strata, universally liked, universally non-threatening, and currently, universally wasted.
Billy shut the door, plunging the room into relative darkness, only a sliver of hallway light filtering beneath the jam.
Billy stepped over him, surveying the surprisingly clean toilet – a miracle, given the state of the party. He zipped down his fly, relief washing over him, and then glanced back at the boy on the floor. Still out cold.
When he was done, he rinsed his hands, water running cold over his knuckles. He considered just leaving Y/N there. It wasn’t his problem. This wasn’t his house, this wasn’t his friend, and he sure as hell wasn’t anyone’s caretaker. Let someone else deal with the lightweight. Let him sleep it off. He probably deserved whatever he got, passed out like that.
But as he turned to leave, he hesitated. Leaving him here meant he’d either wake up covered in vomit or get found by some idiot looking for a laugh. With a sigh of irritation, Billy drew his foot back and gave Y/N’s shin a short, not too hard kick.
“You alive, moron?” Billy grunted.
Y/N stirred, a low moan escaping his lips. His head rolled, and his eyes blinked open, huge and glassy, trying to focus on Billy’s towering form. He mumbled something incoherent, a string of slurred syllables that sounded vaguely like a question, or maybe a complaint about the light.
Billy scoffed, shaking his head. “Thought so.”
Billy cursed under his breath, a low, guttural sound. "Goddammit, Y/N. You are such a pain in the ass." He crouched down, grabbing Y/N’s arm with a grip that was less gentle and more firm. "Alright, pretty boy. You’re not dying on Jason’s bathroom floor. Get up."
Y/N groaned again, a sound of pure misery. His eyes fluttered open, dark and unfocused. "Billy…?" he slurred, a hint of confusion in his voice. "Didn't know you were… here…"
"Yeah, well, surprise," Billy retorted, pulling Y/N’s arm over his shoulder. Y/N was heavier than he looked, a dead weight, all rubbery limbs and uncooperative muscles. "Lean on me, you idiot. Or I swear to God, I'm leaving you."
"M'kay," Y/N mumbled, trying to comply but mostly just flopping against Billy, smelling faintly of stale beer and something vaguely sweet, like cheap wine. His head lolled against Billy’s shoulder, his breath warm against Billy’s neck. Billy felt a strange, uncomfortable jolt. Too close. This was too damn close.
"Watch it," Billy grumbled, adjusting his grip. Y/N’s coordination was non-existent. Every step was a stumble, a near-fall. Billy had to practically drag him out of the bathroom, bracing him against the doorframe, trying to avoid making eye contact with anyone as he wrestled a seemingly unconscious Y/N through the throng of dancers.
They finally made it outside, the cool night air a welcome reprieve from the stifling heat of the basement. Y/N immediately shivered, leaning even harder into Billy. "Cold," he whined.
"Yeah, well, that's what happens when you drink enough to kill a horse, Einstein," Billy said, guiding him towards his Camaro with a firm hand on his back. The car, a beacon of chrome and muscle, stood out in the sea of beat-up sedans and station wagons.
Getting Y/N into the passenger seat was another Herculean task. Y/N kept trying to face Billy, to talk, to wrap his arms around Billy’s waist and rest his head on Billy’s chest.
"Just get in the car!" Billy growled, practically shoving him into the seat. He slammed the door shut, then leaned against the hood for a moment, taking a deep, ragged breath. His shirt was rumpled, his hair a mess, and he felt a primal urge to punch something. Anything.
He got in the driver's seat, the leather warm beneath him. Y/N was already slumped against the window, breathing heavily, but still awake. "Billy the best driver," he hummed.
"Damn right," Billy muttered, starting the engine with a roar that usually thrilled him but now just felt like an extension of his own frustration. He peeled out of the driveway, gravel spitting from beneath his tires.
The drive was agonizingly slow. Y/N was a constant stream of slurred nonsense. He pointed out constellations that weren't there, sang off-key snippets of pop songs, and at one point, tried to offer Billy a non-existent cigarette.
"You really gotta stop talking, man," Billy said, trying to keep his voice level, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
"But… I like talking to you, Billy," Y/N said, his voice surprisingly soft. He turned his head to look at Billy, his eyes wide and earnest, even if still unfocused.
Billy didn't know how to respond to that. "Where do you live, anyway?" Billy asked, trying to steer the conversation back to practicalities.
"Uh… big house," Y/N said, gesturing vaguely. "By the park. White fence. Lotsa… flowers."
Billy knew the general area. It was a nice part of town. He navigated the streets, the glow of the dashboard lights illuminating his tight jaw. "That isn’t an address, Y/N. Street name? House number?” Y/N had gone quiet again, either finally passing out or just resting. Billy hoped it was the former.
He pulled up in front of a neat, two-story house with a carefully manicured lawn and a pristine white picket fence, just as Y/N had described. All the lights were off. Great.
"Alright, we're here," Billy said, nudging Y/N’s shoulder.
Y/N jolted awake, blinking slowly. "Oh. Already?" He sounded disappointed.
"Yeah, 'already'," Billy mimicked, a sarcastic edge to his voice. He got out of the car, slamming the door, then opened Y/N’s side. "Come on, let's get you inside."
As Y/N stumbled out, leaning heavily against Billy once more, Billy realized the house was completely dark. Not a single light on, not even a porch light. "Your parents home?" he asked, a knot of irritation tightening in his stomach.
Y/N squinted at the dark house. "Nah. They're… uh… out of town. Business trip. Back Sunday."
Billy stared. "You're telling me you’re home alone?"
"Yup," Y/N chirped, completely oblivious to Billy's rising anger. "Party at my place!" He giggled again, then started to sway.
"No, no party at your place, you moron," Billy grumbled, catching him before he could face-plant onto the lawn. He found the spare key under a potted plant – of course Y/N would have one of those predictable hiding spots – and unlocked the front door.
The house was quiet, meticulously clean, and completely dark inside. It smelled faintly of lemon polish and something homey, like baked goods, even though it was empty. Billy guided Y/N through the living room, past tasteful furniture covered in white sheets.
"Where's your room?" Billy whispered, aware of the silence of the house.
"Upstairs," Y/N mumbled, pointing vaguely towards the staircase. "Left."
The climb upstairs was even harder than getting him out of the party. Y/N’s legs kept buckling, and Billy had to practically carry him up the last few steps. He found Y/N’s room – surprisingly neat, with posters of bands Billy barely recognized and a well-stocked bookshelf.
"Alright, bed," Billy said, guiding him towards the twin bed in the corner. He pulled back the covers, the sheets cool and crisp.
Y/N sank onto the edge of the bed, a sigh of pure relief escaping him. He looked utterly exhausted, his eyes barely staying open. Billy moved to help him lie down, pushing him gently onto the pillows. As Y/N shifted, trying to get comfortable, his hand accidentally brushed Billy’s arm.
"Th-thanks, Billy," Y/N slurred, his voice barely a whisper. His head was on the pillow now, his eyes fluttering closed, but he was still trying to look at Billy. There was a genuine, almost childlike gratitude in his gaze that caught Billy off guard.
Billy grunted, not knowing what to say. It was foreign, this feeling. This… being thanked for something beyond a cheap thrill or a punch.
Then, before Billy could pull his hand away, before he could process what was happening, Y/N’s hand reached up, surprisingly steady for a drunk, and cupped the back of Billy’s neck. Y/N pulled him down, just a little, and pressed his lips to Billy’s.
It was soft, unexpected. A fleeting brush of warm, slightly chapped lips. It tasted faintly of sweet wine and something else, something uniquely Y/N. It wasn't aggressive, wasn't demanding. It was just… there. A simple, bewildered press of lips.
Billy froze. His blood ran cold, then hot. Every muscle in his body tensed. He felt a jolt, an electric current that wasn't entirely unpleasant, running through him. The world seemed to tilt on its axis.
Just as quickly as it happened, it was over. Y/N's hand dropped, his eyes closed. A soft snore escaped him. He was out cold. Literally passed out just milliseconds after the kiss, leaving Billy standing there, frozen in time, his lips tingling, his mind a chaotic mess of static and disbelief.
He slowly, carefully, straightened up. He stared at Y/N’s peacefully sleeping face for a long moment, his own face a mask of utter confusion. A kiss. Y/N had kissed him. A guy. Y/N.
His hand instinctively reached up, touching his mouth—the spot where the contact had been made. It felt numb, but the ghost of the pressure was still there, the lingering taste of whatever horrible liquor Y/N had consumed.
What the hell.
What the hell was that?
It hadn’t been a joke. Y/N was too far gone to be malicious, and besides, Y/N wasn’t malicious. It was an impulsive, drunken mistake.
But the confusion raging in Billy was not about Y/N’s intentions. It was about his own reaction.
He hadn't shoved him away immediately. He hadn't reacted with disgust, merely shock. The shock had frozen him, and now, the aftershock was burning through his veins.
He looked down at Y/N, who was perfectly still, oblivious in the deep crater of alcohol-induced sleep. He was vulnerable, utterly dependent, and slightly ridiculous, draped in the mismatched bedding.
Billy had kissed girls—lots of them. He had made out furiously in backseats and darkened halls. But those kisses were calculated, aggressive, and part of the performance. They were about conquest and control.
This was none of those things. It was a fleeting moment of intimacy gifted without expectation, without demand, and instantly forgotten by the giver.
He felt heat rising up his neck, a sharp, unfamiliar wave of mortification mixed with something he couldn't name—something that felt dangerously close to the feelings he had buried all his life.
He backed away slowly, deliberately, as if a sudden move would shatter the silence or wake Y/N. His eyes never left the figure on the bed.
He finally reached the door frame, gripping it so hard his knuckles turned white. He had risked his pride and his car interior to get this idiot home. And the reward for his charity was this messy, confusing, stupid moment he couldn't explain.
He turned and walked down the stairs, not running, but moving with a controlled, predatory speed.
He had to get out. He had to breathe.
He slammed the front door behind him, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet street, a sharp, angry punctuation mark to the end of the evening.
When he reached the Camaro, he unlocked the door, slid into the driver’s seat, and sat for a long moment, staring out the windshield at the dark, silent neighborhood.
He didn't start the engine right away. He just sat, letting the cold seep into the vinyl, letting his breath fog the glass.
He ran his tongue over his mouth again, tasting nothing but the faint residue of his own nervous energy.
A kiss.
It meant nothing. It was liquor talking. It was a mistake.
But as he finally jammed the key into the ignition and the V8 engine roared into the night, demanding attention, Billy felt an unsettling tremor beneath his carefully constructed surface. It was the feeling of a boundary crossed—a soft, careless boundary that he hadn’t realized was there until it was gone.
He pulled away from the curb, tires screeching in a defiant, unnecessary squeal. He drove fast, maybe too fast, needing the physical risk to overpower the psychological mess Y/N had left him with. He needed the noise of the engine to drown out the silence, and the silence only contained one thing:
The memory of a slight touch, and a moment of total, bewildering vulnerability.
Billy spent the rest of the ride trying to convince himself that he was only angry because he had been messed with, because his time had been wasted, and certainly not because the contact had felt... like anything at all.
He reached his own house, parked the Camaro quietly, and walked inside. The house was dark. Max was asleep. Neil was probably still out.
He went straight to the bathroom, He stared into the mirror, his reflection tight, wired, and dangerously confused.
He splashed cold water on his face, attempting to wash away the exhaustion and the alcohol, but the cold only seemed to sharpen the memory.
He stripped down to his jeans, tossing the denim jacket onto the floor. He couldn't shake the image of Y/N’s earnest, drunken face, nor the light warmth of his touch.
Sliding into his bed, the sheets felt cold and foreign. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, the relentless energy of the night refusing to drain away.
He knew he would see Y/N in school on Monday, probably pale, shaky, and mortified when he realized he was alive and intact. Y/N would definitely not remember the kiss.
That realization was both a relief and a strange form of disappointment. Billy didn't want to deal with the fallout, but the idea of that fleeting, stupid moment existing only in his own memory, unacknowledged and unexamined, felt like a silent accusation.
He turned over, burying his face in the pillow, trying to suppress the sound of his own ragged breathing.
He punched the pillow, the muffled impact doing nothing to relieve the pressure building behind his eyes.
Every fibre of his being, every lesson Neil had brutally hammered into him about what it meant to be a man, what it meant to be strong, screamed that this was an abomination. A mistake. Something that should be met with immediate, violent disgust.
But the disgust hadn't come. Only shock. And then... the confusing, electric heat that had run through him.
"You're a sick son of a bitch, Hargrove," he muttered into the stale darkness, the words a familiar, self-inflicted lash.
He tossed onto his back, staring at the ceiling again. He needed to find a clean, simple explanation for the tightness in his chest and the jittery energy under his skin.
It was the booze. It was the surprise. It was a fluke.
He would deal with this tomorrow.
He had to see Y/N sober. He had to see his face when the memory—or the accusation—was brought up.
If it had been a stupid, drunken prank, a final, mean-spirited gesture before passing out, Billy would make him regret it. He'd find him in the halls, back him against the lockers, and deliver a harsh, brutal lesson that Y/N would never forget. He'd stomp out the humiliation with a kick to the gut and a public dismantling of Y/N's reputation. It would be over, solved, and buried.
But...
If Y/N’s gaze in that dark bedroom, right before the kiss, had been genuinely earnest—if that soft, brief contact had been driven by a messy, confused, but real impulse on Y/N's part, an impulse that Y/N hadn't been sober enough to control—then Billy had a different, infinitely more dangerous problem.
If it hadn't been a joke, and Y/N had actually wanted to kiss him, Billy would have to deal with the sickening, terrifying fact that he hadn't immediately, violently rejected it. He would have to deal with the part of his mind that was quietly, dangerously replaying the feeling on his lips. He would have to deal with his own goddamn feelings for Y/N, the ones he'd successfully ignored, categorized as simple tolerance or irritation, but which now felt like a thick, choking rope tightening around his throat.
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Could you do a fic with Aegon II Targaryen x pregnant Omega male. Where the omagh water breaks whilst Aegon is in a meeting (or whatever its called). So he as to abruptly leave to be with his omega.
Feel free to add Angst, but ending in fluff. Sorry if this is too much.
The First Heir
Pairing : Aegon II Targaryen x Omega Y/N
Tags : Established relationship, birth, omega Y/N, Omega verse, alpha Aegon
CW: references to a baby being stillborn
Word count : 2941
The scent of parchment and stale ambition hung heavy in the Small Council chambers, a suffocating counterpoint to the brisk sea air that sometimes managed to breach the Red Keep’s thick walls. Aegon slouched slightly in his heavy oak chair at the head of the table, his gaze distant, He traced the rim of his goblet with a listless finger, the liquid within it swirling like his own muddled thoughts.His Grandsire,Otto Hightower, ever the diligent Hand, droned on about the precarious balance of trade with the Free Cities, his voice a monotonous rhythm that Aegon had long since learned to tune out. Beside him, Lord Lannister, Master of Coin, fidgeted with a quill, awaiting his turn to dissect the kingdom’s dwindling coffers.
Aegon’s gaze drifted to the window, where a sliver of sky promised a far more interesting day than the one unfolding before him. He’d rather be flying Sunfyre, or even better, in bed with Y/N. The thought brought a small, private smile to his lips, a warmth spreading through him that even the chilled stone of the Keep couldn’t penetrate.
Y/N. His husband, his omega who was currently,swollen,heavy with their first child. The Maesters had predicted the birth to be weeks away, but Y/N had been particularly restless these past few days, his scent growing sweeter, richer, Milkey. Aegon, despite his outward indifference to many kingly duties, had been eager for the birth of their pup.
He found himself wondering what the child would be. A boy, strong and beautiful like his omega father, a future king, Or a girl, beautiful and cunning, a true Targaryen princess ,He hadn’t given it much thought before, but as the days dwindled, a strange, nervous anticipation had begun to coil in his gut, replacing his usual self-pity and boredom with something akin to… Excitement.
“—and so, Your Grace, the Crown’s treasury would benefit greatly from this realignment of the eastern trade routes.” Otto’s voice cut through Aegon’s reverie, sharp and precise as a freshly honed blade. "Do you concur, Your Grace?"
Aegon blinked, forcing himself to focus. "Concur with what, Grandsire?" he drawled, feigning indifference. "More coin for more ledgers, I presume? Can we not simply command the gold to appear?" He’d meant it as a jest, but it fell flat, earning no more than a collective sigh from the council.
Otto’s expression tightened imperceptibly. "With respect, Your Grace, the realm's coffers require more than mere command."
Aegon rolled his eyes, a flicker of irritation sparking within him. Always lectures, always demands. He was the King, not a schoolboy. The weight of the crown felt like a physical burden, heavy and suffocating. He longed for the quiet solace of Y/N’s chambers, the soft skin, the sweet scent, the promise of something real and uncomplicated.
Just as Tyland Lannister opened his mouth to drone on about supply lines, the heavy oak doors of the council chambers burst open with a crash that made every man jump. A young kitchen boy, face streaked with soot and sweat, stood panting in the doorway, his eyes wide with terror and urgency.
"Your Grace!" he gasped, bowing clumsily, almost tripping over his own feet. "Forgive the interruption, my lords, but…It is Queen Y/N, Your Grace."
Aegon’s blood ran cold. The languor that had enveloped him moments before vanished as if by magic. "What is it?" he demanded, his voice suddenly sharp. Every eye in the room was now fixed on the terrified servant.
"His water broke, Your Grace!" the boy blurted, barely coherent. "His maidservant says it happened a few moments ago in the Royal Gardens! They've carried him to the birthing chambers!"
The words hit Aegon like a physical blow, scattering the fog of boredom from his mind instantly. His blood, a moment ago sluggish and cold, now surged through his veins, hot and alert. Y/N. Labour. His child.
His chair scraped loudly against the stone floor as he shoved it back, rising to his feet with a sudden, forceful grace that belied his usual slouch. The goblet clattered, forgotten, to the table, spilling its crimson contents across the maps and ledgers.
"The council is dismissed!" Aegon barked, his voice carrying an authority rarely heard. He was already striding towards the door, ignoring the shocked gasps, the hurried whispers, the rising protests.
"Your Grace! But the tariffs—" Tyland began.
"Damn the tariffs!" Aegon snarled over his shoulder, his eyes already fixed on the hallway beyond. "My husband is in labour!"
He didn't wait for a response, didn't spare another glance for his stunned council. His long legs carried him swiftly through the doorway, leaving behind a bewildered assembly of his council.
His mind was a whirl of conflicting emotions: fear, fierce protectiveness, a burgeoning excitement that threatened to overwhelm him. His child. His omega. He would not be absent for this.
He could already smell it, a faint, sweet, panicked scent carried on the air from the direction of the royal apartments – Y/N’s distress pheromones, amplified by the onset of labor. It spurred him on, a sharp ache in his chest, a fierce, driving need to reach his mate.
Finally, he reached the wing where the royal birthing chambers were located. The air here was different, charged with a potent mix of medicinal herbs, fear, and the unmistakable, poignant sweetness of Y/N’s distress scent. He pushed open the heavy door with such force that it slammed against the wall, rattling the wood.
Inside, chaos reigned. Midwives moved with frantic purpose, Maester Orwyle’s assistant, a young, nervous man, bustled with linens, and Y/N’s head handmaiden, hovered anxiously. In the centre of it all, amidst a mound of pillows and damp sheets, was Y/N.
His omega’s usually vibrant complexion was pale, slick with sweat. His hair clung damp against his forehead. He was gripping the edges of the bed, knuckles white, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, a low groan escaping his lips as a wave of pain seized him. His scent, usually so comforting and sweet, was now tinged with a raw, desperate edge, calling out to his Mate
Aegon took in the scene, a guttural sound rumbling in his chest. He felt a surge of helpless anger at the pain etched on Y/N’s face, a fierce desire to take it away. He strode towards the bed.
"Y/N!" he breathed, kneeling beside the bed, reaching for his husband’s hand. Y/N’s eyes, glazed with pain, flickered open, finding his. A small, shaky smile touched his lips, a fleeting beacon of reassurance.
"Aegon," he whispered, his voice hoarse, squeezing Aegon’s hand with surprising strength. "You came."
"Of course, I came," Aegon rasped, bringing Y/N’s hand to his lips, kissing the clammy skin. "Where else would I be?"
Just then, Maester Orwyle, who had arrived shortly after Aegon, bustling with his tinctures and instruments, cleared his throat. "Your Grace," he began, his voice firm but respectful, “It is customary, sire, for the father to await the news outside. The birthing chamber is a delicate space, sterile and…”
Aegon slowly turned his head to fix the Maester with a cold stare. His scent, already potent, flared.“Customary?” Aegon’s voice was low, dangerous. “I care not for custom, Maester. Y/N is my husband, my omega. And I will be by his side.”
Maester Orwyle held his ground, albeit with a visible tremor. “Your Grace, with all due respect, your presence might be… distracting. And the sights, the sounds… it is not a place for a King.” He gestured vaguely, as if to encompass the mess and suffering of childbirth. “It is a woman’s realm, and for omegas, it can be particularly…Grusome.”
“Grusome?” Aegon scoffed, his patience worn thin. “You think I am some simpering lord, Maester, to faint at the sight of my own mate’s labour? I am His Grace, Aegon Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men! And Lord Y/N is my husband, my omega! I will not be denied my place beside him, do you understand? I am the KING, and I say I will stay!”
His voice, though not a shout, carried the absolute authority of his words. The air crackled with his pheromones, a scent of oak and steel, a silent challenge to anyone who would defy him. Maester Orwyle, finally bowed his head, defeated.
"As… as Your Grace commands," He conceded, a resigned sigh escaping him. He cast a wary glance at Aegon, then at the labouring omega, and quickly turned to his duties, muttering instructions to the midwives.
Aegon turned back to Y/N, his expression softening, though the fierce protectiveness remained. He gently pushed back a damp lock of hair from Y/N’s forehead. "He will stay," Y/N murmured, a faint smile on his face, a touch of relief in his pain-filled eyes.
"Always," Aegon promised, his thumb stroking the back of Y/N’s hand. He sat on the edge of the bed, his frame settling as close as possible without getting in the way. He felt entirely out of his depth as another contraction seized Y/N, and his body tensed, a guttural cry escaping him. His knuckles went white as he gripped Aegon’s hand. Aegon watched,as Y/N arched his back, his face contorted in agony.
Hours bled into an eternity of pain and effort. The scent of blood and sweat mingled with Y/N’s increasingly strained omega pheromones, a scent that clawed at Aegon’s own instincts, urging him to fix, to protect, to take away the pain. But he couldn't. All he could do was try and comfort his omega.
"Push, Your Grace, push!" Maester Orwyle instructed, his voice calm amidst the rising tension.
Aegon held Y/N’s hand, his own surprisingly steady despite the tremor in his heart. He leaned close, murmuring words of encouragement, of love, of strength. "You are so strong, my love," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Our child is coming. Just a little more"
He wiped the sweat from Y/N’s brow with a cool cloth offered by a midwife, his fingers brushing against the soft skin. He felt the tension in Y/N’s body, the desperate push, the sheer exhaustion.
Each time a contraction eased, Y/N would sag against the pillows, utterly spent, "I can't," Y/N whimpered at one point, his voice thin, despair creeping in. "I can't do this anymore, Aegon."
Aegon’s heart seized. He leaned in, his voice a low, urgent rumble. "Yes, you can," he insisted, his eyes locking with Y/N’s. "You are the bravest person I know. Just a little more, just breathe." He pressed another kiss to Y/N’s brow.
The initial excitement had long since faded, replaced by a grim determination. The Maester and midwives were efficient, their movements practiced, but they couldn’t stem the tide of pain that crashed over Y/N again and again.
Y/N’s temper, fueled by sheer exhaustion and relentless agony, grew sharper with each passing hour. He screamed, he cursed, he clawed at the sheets, and through it all, he clung to Aegon’s hand as if it were his lifeline.
“Don’t you dare tell me to breathe, Aegon!” Y/N snapped, his voice raw. “You’re not the one being ripped apart!”
Aegon, worn down by the emotional toll, offered a weak, lopsided smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it, my love. Just… try to focus on my voice. On my scent.” He kept his soothing pheromones flowing, a steady balm against the storm. He wiped sweat from Y/N’s brow with a damp cloth, his gaze never leaving his mate’s face.
“Push,your grace, push with the next contraction!” Maester Orwyle instructed, his voice strained. He was on his knees at the foot of the bed, his face grim, aided by two midwives.
Y/N let out a scream,His face was contorted, veins bulging in his neck. “I am pushing, you incompetent old toad! What do you think I’m doing? Knitting a bloody tapestry?!”
Aegon let out a choked laugh, quickly muffling it against Y/N’s hair. Aegon allowed himself a small, private moment of amusement. Gods, he’s going to be impossible to live with when this is over. But the thought was tinged with fierce, protective adoration.
The hours dragged on, each contraction a fresh wave of torture. Y/N’s energy waned, his screams turning to guttural grunts and whimpers. Aegon felt utterly helpless, wishing he could somehow shoulder a portion of the pain. He held Y/N’s hand constantly, offered sips of water, whispered words of encouragement, and kept his scent strong and comforting.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Maester Orwyle’s voice sliced through the haze of pain and exhaustion. “Just one more push,Your grace! The head is crowning! One more strong push!”
Y/N let out a final, earth-shattering scream, his body trembling with the effort. Aegon held him close, pressing kisses to his forehead, his hair, his scent gland. “You’re almost there, my love. Almost there.”
And then, unexpectedly, suddenly, a new sound. It wasn’t Y/N’s cry, nor the Maester’s instructions. It was a squelching, wet sound, followed by a collective gasp from the midwives.
Aegon’s eyes snapped down, his heart leaping into his throat. He saw a tiny, mottled form, slick with blood and fluid, being gently lifted by the Maester’s careful hands.
“He’s here!” a midwife exclaimed, her voice thick with relief.
Aegon leaned forward, his breath catching. He saw a small, perfectly formed face, matted with pale hair. His son. His beautiful son.
But then, a terrifying silence fell.
The birthing chamber, which had been a symphony of strained breaths and hushed instructions, went utterly still. The Maester held the babe, gently patting his back, but there was no cry. No wail of indignant life. The baby was too quiet. Too still.
A cold dread seized Aegon’s chest, a fear that turned his blood to ice. He looked from the baby’s unmoving form to Maester Orwyle’s suddenly stark white face. Y/N, utterly spent, lay panting, his eyes half-closed. He hadn’t quite registered the silence.
“Maester?” Aegon’s voice was a rough whisper, barely audible. “Why… why is he not crying?”
Orwyle’s hands, usually so steady, trembled slightly. He quickly turned the baby, gently rubbing his chest, then tipped him slightly, trying to clear his airway. The midwives exchanged panicked glances.
“He’s not breathing, Your Grace,” one of them whispered, her voice barely a thread.
Maester Orwyle, though visibly shaken, moved with practiced speed. He laid the babe gently on a clean cloth, tilting his head back slightly, then placed his mouth over the tiny nose and mouth. He gave a small, careful puff of air, then another. The chamber held its breath. The seconds stretched into an eternity, each one heavy with unspoken dread.
Aegon couldn’t look away. He saw his son, so tiny, so fragile, so… still. He felt Y/N stir beside him, a weak whimper. “Aegon? What is it? Why is he so quiet?”
Aegon squeezed Y/N’s hand, unable to form words. He could only stare at Orwyle, his entire being willing the Maester to succeed, willing his son to live.
Orwyle repeated the gentle breaths, his brow furrowed in concentration, his hands moving swiftly. He rubbed the baby’s back again, harder this time.
And then, after what felt like a lifetime, a fragile, reedy sound – a tiny gasp, then a cough, and then, gloriously, miraculously, a small, indignant wail.
It was the most beautiful sound Aegon had ever heard.
The sound tore through the oppressive silence, shattering the terror that had gripped them all. A collective sigh of relief swept through the room.
Maester Orwyle, his face still pale, offered a shaky smile, “He lives, Your Grace! He lives!” He quickly cleaned the struggling infant, wrapping him in a warm blanket, and checking him over with quick, experienced hands. “A bit of fluid, perhaps, in his lungs. But he is strong. A healthy boy.”
Aegon collapsed against the headboard, his own breath coming in ragged gasps. The relief was so overwhelming, that his knees felt weak, and a tremor ran through his entire body. He looked at Y/N, whose eyes were now wide open, tears streaming down his face, a shaky, exhausted smile blooming.
“My Pup?” Y/N whispered, his voice still hoarse, but filled with a profound joy.
Orwyle, after a final check, carefully brought the bundled infant to them. “A healthy prince, my Lord.”
Aegon reached out, his hands trembling as he took his son. The babe was warm, surprisingly heavy, and squirming slightly, his tiny fists batting at the air. He was still giving little, fussy cries, a precious, fragile sound that filled Aegon’s world. He brought the child close, nuzzling his head against the soft blanket, breathing in the scent of new life, a mix of milk, warmth, and fresh skin.
“He’s beautiful,” Aegon whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes shining. He carefully placed the baby against Y/N’s chest, watching as his omega’s hand, still slick with sweat and blood, reached out, stroking the tiny head with infinite tenderness.
Y/N’s gaze, though still weary, was entirely focused on their son. A deep, instinctual purr rumbled in his chest, "Our son,” he breathed, “Thank the Mother… our son.”
Aegon leaned in, pressing his forehead against Y/N’s, his own purr vibrating deep within him, a soothing counterpoint to Y/N’s. He wrapped an arm around both his mate and his child, holding them close, their scents mingled perfectly.
⋆ I Love comments, likes, re-blogs and messages, it feels like validation ⋆
To anyone wondering where I've been ,I've been taking some much-needed time away from Posting to recover from major jaw surgery. Coupled with some urgent family matters. it's been a challenging period. I appreciate your understanding and support as I get back to posting.
🩵 Im going to be slow with replies and posts because I'm currently taking care of my niece and nephews for a few week due to family issues, I hope to post again soon
