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@imaginethatneathuhpartdos
sometimes "but you don't look disabled" is not even about the visibility of your disability. sometimes it's about "you look like an actual person and i picture disabled people as some weird creatures that i can never ever meet and now my reality is crashed by the fact that i see an actual disabled person and they look like a person."
Gusset
Start Here Previous Chapter
Summary: Bruised and bloodied, you end up with the last person you thought you'd turn to, and the kudzu is speaking.
Word Count: 5.5k
Warnings: Car crash, mentions of broken limbs
Next Chapter
The wolf’s yellow eyes scrutinized her mistress before turning her gaze back to the water. “What will happen to them?”
Circe shook her head. “Would that I knew. I can only hope they get there in the end. We will need them for what’s to come.”
The journey from Circe’s island was even more oppressively silent than the trip there. In fact, the first time you or Sweeney spoke was nearly six hours after you’d left Florida and had passed into South Carolina.
Eventually, you couldn’t take it anymore.
“Why did you kiss me?” you blurted. “On the way to Circe’s.”
Sweeney, who was taking his turn in the driver’s seat, stayed quiet, but you saw his grip on the steering wheel tighten and watched a muscle in his jaw tick.
Your mind reeled as you considered his possible answers. What if—
“I heard somewhere that kissin’ someone, while they’re panicking, can help ‘em catch their breath.”
You stared at him. “You heard that? Where, Teen Wolf? What the hell is wrong with you?”
He glanced sidelong at you. “It worked, didn’t it?”
You wanted to backhand the smug expression from his face.
“If you don’t shut the hell up…”
Sweeney scoffed. “You’re just pissed because I’m right. An’ I didn’t see you complaining, besides.”
At that moment, you dearly longed to wrap your hands around his throat and squeeze, but, unfortunately, you were quiet for just a beat too long.
“You liked it, didn't you?” he said, a cheeky smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.
You could feel the heat in your cheeks and knew your face had to be beet red. Maybe, for once, the old man would turn up when you actually wanted him to and end this moment.
If only the Norns would bestow that luck upon you.
A hundred witty remarks and jabs raced through your head, but all that came out of your mouth was: “Fuck you, you old cunt.”
Sweeney cackled and slammed his foot on the accelerator and your beloved car screamed down the freeway.
Passing through Boone in North Carolina, you finally felt like you could breathe a little more easily. The first fourteen hours of your journey had gone by mercifully without any incident. You knew better than to let your guard down, of course, but it seemed like Circe’s wards were holding.
The peace didn’t last. It never did. You were about two hours north of Boone when your luck finally ran out. You were driving, the needle on the speedometer hovering just around the 80mph mark, when something slammed into your car, sending it careening into a ditch and pitching you hard against your seatbelt. The material bit into your chest angrily and your skull slammed back against the headrest. You blinked stars from your eyes in time to see Sweeney’s head crash into the dashboard and hear the nauseating sound of bone snapping when he tried to brace himself.
“I told you to wear a seatbelt,” you managed to wheeze.
A groan was all you got in response.
Black was creeping around the edges of your vision, but you knew you both needed to stay awake. One or both of you having a concussion was not unlikely, and while dying would most certainly solve most of the problems you were currently facing, you knew that even death wouldn’t bring you peace.
You untangled yourself from your seatbelt and dragged yourself to the other side of the car, bracing yourself as you dragged Sweeney out onto the blacktop. He moaned pitifully, crying as you jostled his broken arm.
“Shit, shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you mumbled, your mind racing as you tried to sort through your options. First and foremost, you needed to splint Sweeney’s arm and check him for a concussion. You patted his cheek.
“How’s your head, chief? C’mere, follow my finger.”
His gaze managed to follow your finger steadily as you moved it back and forth across his field of vision. You braced a thumb against his eyebrow and peered into his eyes with the penlight in your pocket.
He flinched away, rubbing his eye with his good hand and shaking his head to clear it. “What, are you trying to blind me?” The red mark on his forehead where he’d smacked the dash was already fading.
You snorted. “There are better ways to do that. But the good news is it doesn’t seem like you have a concussion. Looks like your luck’s holding.”
He looked past you. “Yours is too,” he said. “Look at your car.”
You whirled around and saw her sitting on a mess of tangled kudzu vines and greenery. Her front bumper was dented, but other than that, there wasn’t a scratch on her. Or on yourself, for that matter. By rights, you and Sweeney should have been grease spots on the road, especially Mr. Seatbelts-Are-For-Pussies, and your car should have been a twisted hunk of steaming metal. And yet, here you were. Granted, a little worse for wear, but you were alive and present nonetheless.
You stared, bewildered, at your companion. “I’m fine?”
He cocked an eyebrow but remained silent. You chewed on the inside of your cheek trying to come up with a workable hypothesis, but before a thought could form, the mass of leaves and vines under your car began to snake towards you.
You tried to haul Sweeney to his feet but only succeeded in falling into his lap. The two of you scrambled backward, Sweeney’s face turning a sickly green with the pain of his arm.
“What the fuck is that?” you demanded. At this point, you didn’t even have it in you to be properly afraid of whatever the hell was happening now. Mostly, you were just annoyed.
“Ah, for fuck’s sake.” Sweeney’s good hand reached out and took hold of your bicep. Even with his broken arm, you could feel his muscles coil, readying for a fight.
As you watched, the kudzu surrounded you and began to take a humanoid shape. As it did so, vines shot out and wrapped around you tightly, effectively freezing you in place. Before either of you could react, Sweeney was bound and gagged. He looked at you with wide, bewildered eyes. This was certainly a new one for you both.
“Mad Sweeney and his witch.” The seething mass of plant matter spoke with a voice that resonated through the concrete and up into your body through the soles of your feet. “My lucky day.”
“You’re lucky, he’s lucky, I’m lucky, we’re all lucky!” you muttered.
A kudzu vine crawled across your cheek, the pale green tip of the tendril hovering just above your cornea. It darted forward and you flinched, hard, but it only brushed your hair away from your face.
“You don’t know who I am,” the kudzu said, disappointed.
The vine wrapped itself around the shell of your ear and began to probe at your ear canal. Desperately, you wracked your brain for anything that might help. There was a name and it danced on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach.
“Please, Elder,” you gasped. “Forgive me. I know not your name, but I know you. I know you in the creeping dark, I know you on lands abandoned. You are the kudzu, what remains when all else is gone.”
The vine uncoiled from your ear. You took a deep breath.
“Please, hear us—“
A green shoot stabbed into Sweeney’s shoulder and he roared against the mess of plant matter crammed into his mouth.
“I care not. What could you have to say that would be of any import to me? No, I think I will consume your dear friend here.” The kudzu gag unfurled from Sweeney’s mouth and was replaced by a tendril snaking down his throat. You could hear him gag and choke and it made your palms sweat.
You opened your mouth to scream for your leprechaun when a name finally surfaced in your memory. You remembered lying on the parlor floor of Ibis and Jacquel with Bast curled against you, purring like an engine. You were reading a book on ancient East Asian deities. If you could just…
“Baku.”
The amalgamation of vegetation stilled. You pressed on, praying you were right.
“My lord Baku,” you said breathlessly, “forgive me. We meant no disrespect.”
The old god peered at you. Or at least, you thought it did. “You ought to be more careful,” it hummed. “The Black Druid has promised a great reward for the one to deliver you into his custody.”
Your mouth went dry. After everything else, now there was a bounty on your head? Was an asteroid going to strike you next?
“My lord, please, listen to me. The Dark Man will not deliver on his promises.”
The concrete vibrated with Baku’s voice. “Even if that were true, I could still consume you. Between you and your leprechaun, you would more than satiate the emptiness of being forgotten. Although, I suppose it would be a tragedy to lose such a legacy.”
You blinked. “Legacy?”
Baku raised an eyebrow. “Your legacy. You’re ——— “ His next words disappeared under the sound of cracking static.
Never in your life had you been more confused. “Excuse me? How did you make that sound? What the hell are you talking about?”
Baku came closer. “Oh, now this is interesting,” it mused. “You can’t understand it, can you?”
“I can’t understand when I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Baku chuckled. “I think you will find out. Sooner rather than later, I should think.”
You stared at him and then shook your head, trying to clear your mind like an Etch-A-Sketch.
“I grow bored of this,” Baku announced. The vines around Sweeney began to squeeze and the vine in his throat twitched, making him gag again. You felt ill. Baku squeezed even harder and Sweeney’s face began to turn a sick shade of purple, his eyes rolling back in his head. If he hadn’t lost consciousness yet, he would soon.
“Wait!” you screamed. “My lord, please.” You had no earthly idea what you were going to say next, but the god’s attention was on you and the vines around Sweeney had stopped squeezing. You scrambled to find your words.
“Lord Baku, what if I told you I could give you something that the Dark Man never could?”
The vines around you yanked you forward until your face was inches from the silhouette that was Baku.
“What would that be?”
You swallowed. The next words from your mouth were going to be insane, possibly one of the stupidest things you could say, but you didn’t know what else to do.
“I can give you belief.”
A stillness swept over that stretch of highway. The god was listening. You could barely hear yourself think over the blood pounding in your ears. You had promised the one thing old gods like Baku craved. Power. Sustenance. Belief.
“How would a thing like you manage to keep such a promise?”
At this point, the inside of your cheek felt like it had been through a paper shredder, but you kept chewing on it.
“The people here, they don’t see the kudzu for what it could be,” you began slowly, grabbing the words one at a time, “only as something that consumes and suffocates. They don’t see the life it brings, the sustenance it provides. Please, give me a chance to show them what the kudzu could be.”
The old god tilted its head, considering you carefully. After a few moments, the kudzu around you loosened and set you down gently on the pavement.
“You promise me believers?
You swallowed. “Yes.”
“How many?”
You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “I can’t promise an exact number. I can’t even promise that the number will be significant. But I can promise that I will find them.”
Kudzu snaked up your neck and around your ears again, probing gently at your temples and cheeks and lips as though searching for any ill intent.
“You have a deal,” Baku said eventually. “But do not tarry. The kudzu will give protection as far as my borders. When you pass Massachusetts in the north or out of east Texas, towards the west, there will be nothing more I can do for you.”
You knelt before the kudzu, bowing and touching your forehead to the ground.
“Thank you, my lord,” you said as you clambered to your feet.
The kudzu retreated from Sweeney and he collapsed on the concrete, retching and moaning.
You bowed again to the old god and then dashed to your car, pulling Sweeney’s bottle of Jameson from the glove compartment and sprinting back. “An offering, my lord,” you intoned as you let the whiskey spill onto the road and into the soil.
Baku hummed approvingly. “Do not forget our deal, witch,” its voice reverberated in your skull. And then the old god of the kudzu was gone, disappearing into itself in the brush on the side of the highway.
As soon as you were sure it was gone, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding and ran to Sweeney, who was barely clinging to consciousness as he lay in the dirt.
“Fuck, dude,” you hissed.
“I can’t believe you poured out my Jamo.” His voice was hoarse like he’d been gargling gravel.
“We were already pushing it, we needed an offering,” you told him.
“Can you just get me patched up please?” he rasped.
“Right, right.” You darted back to the car, digging through your duffel until you unearthed your first aid kit.
“Okay, let me just—“
“Splint my fucking arm first, I’m about to black out.” His voice was muddy and his words weren’t as clear as they should have been. You groaned and chucked a roll of gauze at his head.
“I should just let you bleed out,” you snapped.
“Hm.”
You rolled your eyes and went hunting for a stick that was the right size to splint his arm. When you found it, you first held it out to him. He looked at you with an expression that said What the hell am I supposed to do with this?
“Bite down,” you instructed. “I have to set the bone and it’s going to hurt like a bitch.”
He sighed and did as you said, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Okay, ready?”
He nodded.
“On three. One—“
Crack!
Sweeney snarled against the stick, his body jerking away from you. “You bitch,” he hissed, spitting the wood from his mouth. “That wasn’t on three.”
“You’re welcome. Now stay still, shitass,” you murmured as you set about placing the splint.
“Fuckin’ hurts,” he mumbled.
“Well, if someone had worn their seatbelt like I told him to—“
“Enough about the goddamn seatbelt!”
You glared at him. “Fine. Maybe next time I’ll get lucky and you’ll go flying through the windshield.”
He glowered right back. “Just fix my shoulder so we can go.”
“Ungrateful,” you muttered, but you still cleaned the jagged hole in his shoulder, gingerly picking out the leaves and plant matter that had been left in his flesh. You carefully taped a square of gauze over the wound on his front and his back and sat back, assessing your work. “Honestly, it probably needs stitches, but this was the best I could do. It’s gonna leave a nasty scar.”
He shrugged. “What’s one more?”
You snorted and hauled him up by his good arm, helping him into the car.
Back in the driver’s seat, you white-knuckled the steering wheel, wringing it nervously. The silence in the car was tense. He was mad at you.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sweeney demanded eventually, his brash voice shattering the silence like a bowling ball thrown into a china cabinet. “Have you lost your mind? Where do you get off promising him believers?”
You slammed your palm against the wheel and pointed at him, anger and annoyance flooding your veins like lava. You’d had it.
“How about a thank you for keeping the kudzu from fucking consuming us?” you snarled. “What the fuck was I supposed to do? The Dark Man has a bounty on my head now, I had to do something.”
The leprechaun groaned in disbelief. “So you promised him believers? Are there worms in your head?”
You snapped your teeth at him before stomping on the accelerator, relishing the thwack of his head hitting the headrest as the car leaped forward. “I didn’t want to watch you become a shriveled husk on the side of the road or watch you get ripped apart from the inside, although I cannot for the life of me remember why,” you bit out. “Why are you picking a fight with me, anyway? Did you decide it had been too long since you got on my fucking nerves?”
“Because I’m worried about you!” he shouted. “You’ve got this thing in your head that no one seems to be able to figure out, you’re making deals that you can’t possibly hope to keep with beings that could obliterate you with a snap of their fingers. You’re wound tighter than a nun’s bunghole—“
“I’m wound up?” you shrieked. “You’re the one that’s about to snap like a goddamn rubber band!”
“You’re watching my back,” he snapped. “I need you to pull it together. I know all of this is shit and it’s scary, but if you get me killed, I’m—“
“You’re taking me with you,” you mocked. “I’ve heard that one before. Can you please just be quiet until we stop for the night in D.C.? I’ve got a connect there, we can crash with them.”
“Who? Charles Entertainment Cheese?”
“No, fucknut. Hester’s there.”
He blinked. “Now how in the hell did you make that connection? No one’s seen her in forever.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” You smirked.
He glared at you and pulled a clove cigarette from his shirt pocket, tucking it behind his ear. Then, he paused and stared at you with a petulant and mulish look on his face. You knew that look.
“Don’t you dare,” you growled.
Moving slowly and deliberately, he brought the cigarette to his lips and then put a lighter to the cigarette. The cloying odor of cloves and tobacco filled your car as he blew a thick cloud into your face.
You coughed and slammed the brakes, the stink of burning rubber mingling with the miasma of the cigarette.
“Get out,” you snapped.
He stared at you. “What?”
“Did I stutter? Get. Out.”
His head kicked back. “You’re not serious.”
You reached across him and opened the car door. “Don’t make me repeat myself again. I’m sick of being disrespected. I’ll see you in D.C.”
Sweeney’s jaw hung open. “What, I’m s’posed to walk the three hundred miles?”
You shrugged. “Or take a bus. Might be faster.”
He spread his hands. “After everything I’ve done for you, this is what I get? You’re the most ungrateful—“
“Ungrateful?” you snarled. You climbed out of the car and circled to the other side so you were standing over him and stabbed a finger at his chest. “I barely wanted you to come in the first place!”
The two of you stared each other down, glares matching in ferocity and anger.
“And you’d be dead without me,” he spat. “Aside from everything else, haven’t you noticed your luck? You think that’s a coincidence? You think that doesn’t have anything to do with me?”
You didn’t answer and he scoffed, standing so he towered over you. “You know, you’re more like the old man than you want to admit.”
You shoved his chest with both hands, not caring about his arm or the kudzu wound. You’d absolutely had it. He stumbled backward and when he regained his footing, surprise was written all over his face. The two of you had fought and argued before, but you’d never actually laid hands on him.
“I thought something had changed after Circe,” you seethed. “I thought maybe you’d finally pulled your head out of your ass, but good to know you’re just as obnoxious and disrespectful as ever.”
“You’re the one that came to me for help in the first place!”
Your laugh was verging on hysterical. You’d been awake for far too long and you were dying to take a swing at him. “I wouldn’t have asked for your help if I’d known you would keep throwing it in my face.”
He loomed over you, but you refused to be intimidated. You’d had enough of his bullshit, friends or not.
“Get to D.C. on your own,” you said as you got back in the car. “Or don’t,” you added. “Fuck if I care.” And you sped off, leaving him alone on the side of the highway like an abandoned dog.
As soon as he was in your rearview, you let yourself burst into tears. You cranked your stereo, rolled your window down, and screamed into the night, all the fear, anger, and frustration you’d been feeling tearing from your throat.
Why was he like that? Why did he have to pick fights and antagonize you and argue with you like that? Although, come to think of it, why did you? You were no better than he was, the way you’d kicked him out of the car, an action that you were already regretting. He just had a way of burrowing under your skin and playing your nerves like a goddamn fiddle. It was infuriating that he’d gone and made himself important to you and it disgusted you, how much you relied on him. Because he’d been right. You would be dead without him, and you’d gone and left him and his luck on the side of a highway in the middle of the night.
You groaned. “Ah, fuck.”
You yanked the steering wheel, executing a U-turn that almost flipped your car, and sped back the way you’d come.
He was going to be insufferable. You’d kicked him out, only to immediately come back. You were never going to hear the end of it.
But he wasn’t there. You were where you’d left him, but your ginger giant was gone.
You cursed loudly, beating your palm against the steering wheel. That asshole.
Throwing yourself from the car, you walked in circles calling his name, but no answer came. You swallowed your growing panic and focused instead on your anger. Granted, you’d told him to walk, but you should’ve known that he actually would. Jackass. Fine. If he wanted to disappear, you weren’t going to look for him.
That didn’t stop you from sitting in your car for an hour and a half, hoping that he’d come stumbling through the trees.
“Fuck this,” you muttered. You turned the key and your car’s engine roared to life. You’d either see him in D.C. or you wouldn’t. No skin off your ass.
And yet…and yet. You couldn’t shake the regret, nor the expression of genuine hurt on his face beneath the surprise and outrage.
You flicked through the radio stations, but everything you landed on felt like nails on a chalkboard. Eventually, you gave up and spent the next few hours in silence.
Halfway between Mt. Airy and D.C., somewhere in Virginia, you stopped for gas. You leaned against your driver’s side as the tank filled. Two pumps down, a guy was filling his truck's tank. You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t look up. Regardless of who or what he was, you didn’t feel like dealing with it. You just wanted to get to Hester’s. If she’d even let you stay with her. Your relationship was…tenuous at best.
From the corner of your eye, you saw the guy moving towards you. You swore under your breath and fingered the cool metal of the knife in your pocket. You really needed to get a proper weapon for situations like this so you could defend yourself with more than just a dinky utility knife.
Especially now that you’ve chased off your bodyguard, said a voice in the back of your head.
You shoved the thought from your mind and turned to the stranger. “May I help you?” Your tone was polite but icy.
He held up his hands and stopped ten feet from you. “Actually, I was thinkin' I might be able to help you.” You arched an eyebrow. “You’re Wednesday’s gofer, right?”
You bristled. “I am not his gofer. What’s it to you, anyway?”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and leaned against the gas pump. He looked you up and down, his gaze appraising. You hated it.
“I’m sure you know by now that everyone and they mama is out to get you for the Dark Man’s bounty.” His voice was smooth and rich, like butter tea, and he had a thick Appalachian accent.
“And you aren’t?”
He shrugged. “The guy hasn’t actually specified what the reward is. I don’t trust like that. And I don’t work for Wednesday either,” he added, seeing your mouth open.
You studied his face carefully. The guy was huge, easily several inches over six feet, with broad shoulders to match. His strawberry blond hair was carefully braided away from his face and his beard was also tidily plaited and finished with a silver bead. His gray eyes were sharp, taking in every tiny detail. He was beautiful, but he set your teeth on edge. Something about him, his eyes in particular, felt familiar in a way that made your skin crawl.
Sensing your unease, he inclined his head. “An unfortunate family resemblance,” he said mildly and doffed his Appalachian State baseball cap. “Miley O’Danson.”
That couldn’t be right. “So…son of the son of Daniel? What kind of name is that?”
He just looked at you.
Miley O’Danson. Miley O’Danson.
Meili Odinson.
The pieces clicked and you groaned. “God. Dammit.” You wanted to tear your hair out. “When will you people leave me alone?” you asked tightly.
Miley chuckled. “You know, you’re lucky my father didn’t find you first.”
The growing lump of unease in your throat was threatening to choke you. “What do you want?” You were proud that your voice came out sharp and certain.
“You’re traveling, aren’t you?”
"In a warded car.”
Miley tilted his head. “Doesn’t seem to be doing a very good job,” he pointed out.
For a split second, you wondered how he knew about the drive to Florida, but then you saw him looking pointedly at the kudzu vines still trailing from your car’s undercarriage.
“I’ve already got protection,” you said firmly.
He pointed to the kudzu. “A dying god and magic that’s spotty at best. And I notice your attack dog is conspicuously absent. Where is that thumpin’ gizzard anyway?”
You flushed a dull red. “I’m not his goddamn babysitter.”
He smirked. “Right, of course not. Look, Baku’s protection will only get you so far. What about when you’re outside of his boundaries? What then?”
“How do you know—“
He tapped his nose. “The roads are mine, kiddo.”
You grit your teeth. “What do you want?” you asked again. “I already promised the kudzu believers, am I doing that for you too now? Am I some kind of proselytizer?”
“I don’t need believers,” he said. “I have plenty. Everyone that prays for safety on their journey is praying to me, whether they realize it or not.”
You snorted. “So you’re what, the god of car insurance?”
His eyes narrowed. “Do you want my help or not?”
“You still haven’t told me what you want,” you pointed out.
He pouted. “I can’t want to help from the goodness of my own heart?”
“Absolutely fucking not.”
He sighed. “I s’pose that’s fair.” He paused. “Nothing, for now.”
Your eyes narrowed. “But later?”
His expression was inscrutable. “If you ever get your memory back, give me a call. We’ll talk then.”
His words made no sense. Gods always wanted something and you knew better than to accept a vague deal.
“Nothing about this feels like it’s going to end well for me.”
Miley scuffed at the ground with his heavy work boots. “Think whatever you want. I’m just a guy with daddy issues trying to throw a wrench in his father’s plans.”
You snorted. “See, now that I believe.”
He spread his hands in front of you in what you assumed was meant to be a pleading gesture. Not that Odin or any of his sons would ever plead with anyone.
“Look, I’ll give you whatever protection I can. All I ask is that when I call, you answer.”
You still weren’t convinced. “Sounds like the job I already have with your dad.”
Miley’s jaw clenched and he flexed his hands like he was fighting the urge to swing on you.
“Christ, you’re spending too much time with that leprechaun,” he muttered.
“Watch it.”
Miley scrubbed his hands over his face. “This is getting us nowhere. Look, I’m not asking you to be at my beck and call, all right? This is a one-and-done deal.”
“So I’ll owe you a favor.”
He groaned. “Call it what you like. You can take my offer or you can spend your days constantly looking over your shoulder waiting for the Black Druid to break into your head.”
He was right, you both knew it. You needed all the help you could get.
You considered the man in front of you carefully. “You promise he won’t be able to find me?”
Miley shook his head. “As long as you’re traveling, he’ll have a hell of a hard time of it, but I can’t promise he won’t find you at all. Your magic will still act as a beacon, so use it sparingly.”
You said nothing.
“Do we have a deal or not?” he asked.
This was a bad idea, you knew it was, but what was the alternative? You held out your hand.
He grinned wolfishly and shook it. “And that’s the deal.” As he spoke, electricity raced up your arm from where his hand clasped yours. Whatever reservations you may have had, there was no backing out now.
Miley handed you a small amulet with a spoked symbol carved into it. “Wear this.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a protection sigil. You need as much help as you can get.”
You hung it around your neck. The amulet lay on your sternum right below the pendant Sweeney had given you, which laid snugly in the hollow of your throat. Your chest tightened.
“Take this, too,” he said, handing you a business card. It was a sleek matte black with three figures sitting cross-legged side by side, each holding a slender needle and what appeared to be an ink pot. Each figure was dressed in elaborate costume and their skin was decorated with ornate ink. The words Tatū Maya were embossed in metallic gold across the top.
“You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”
“Oh, I hate this. No, I’m not afraid of needles.”
He tapped the card. “How do you feel about getting some ink?”
“Excuse me?”
He spoke to you like you were an idiot. “Swing by this place and ask to speak with the owners. They owe me a favor, so just tell them I sent you and I’m cashing in.”
You stared at him. “You’re cashing in a favor for me? Why?”
“Same reason I offered to help in the first place,” came the response.
You clenched your jaw. You hated these stupid games, but once again, you found yourself backed into a corner. He may have been presenting it as a choice, but he wasn’t asking.
You ran your thumb over the raised letters on the card. “How will I…” Your voice trailed off as you looked up and realized Miley was gone. You hissed and kicked one of your tires. “I have got to start thinking this shit through better,” you mumbled to yourself.
You examined the card, searching for an address that would give you your next location, but there was only a phone number. Of course. It was nearing four o’clock in the morning, there was no way anyone would pick up. You briefly considered ignoring Melli’s request, but something told you that choice would not be well received.
Annoyed, you approached the payphone tucked near the air compressors and dialed the number on the card, cringing at the stickiness of the plastic receiver.
As you predicted, your call went unanswered, but the soothing voice on the recorded message, after thanking you for calling Tatū Maya, read off an address in Richmond, Virginia. Two hours south, when you needed to go north. It would throw off your timing to meet Sweeney in D.C., but you supposed it wouldn’t be by much.
You let your forehead rest against the casing of the payphone as you tried to steady your breathing.
“Well girl,” you said to your car, “I guess we’re headed to Richmond.” You threw yourself into the driver’s seat and revved her engine. “This should be interesting.”
Tagged: @kind-wolf @imaginethatneathuh @cosmiccandydreamer
Holy shit this was awesome!
I am curious as to why you chose Meili as the god of that sort of stuff. I couldn't find references to travel in regard to him, but I also wasn't looking very hard.
I do love how you involved Baku as the kudzu god who is willing to make a deal, and the Dark Man's unknown reward throws an interesting wrench in stuff, but it is expected, given how the reader is evading him. When Circe mentioned that she literally couldn't tell them what's going on, it is reinforced as we see Baku unable, literally, to tell them what's going on, which is a nice detail.
I love how Sweeney and the reader's relationship is, how push and pull it is as they figure shit out. They clearly care about each other, but both of them are so jaded that they're scared to admit it, even in a non-romantic way. Sweeney's hurt wasn't as palpable as I'd have thought, but staying in the reader's head and how they're feeling and how they turn around so quickly to go find him really shows how much they care, even if they don't understand why. I love them.
This is the world capitalists want to return to.
it’s not weird to find fanfiction from 2021, or 2017, or 2014 that you’ve never read and actually taking your time to read it.
it’s not weird to love it and comment and leave kudos because the author will probably still see it someday and it will make them happy.
it’s not weird to like said author’s work so much that you want to go look for other fics from them.
it’s not weird to go through the authors profile and look for other fics from the ships you like (or maybe some that you’ll give a chance because you liked the author) and maybe bookmark them for later.
it’s not weird to read these other fics and like them too and comment on them because you actually like them and you want to let the author know.
it’s not weird to read fanfiction from 5, or 8, or 10 years ago and actually enjoy and engage with it because it’s perfectly normal to relate to something that’s less than a decade old!
let’s stop treating fanfiction like they’re instagram posts that stop being interesting in 24 hours! fanfiction is NOT social media, fanfiction is art!!! and art doesn’t get old in one day, one year, or even a decade!
read fanfiction! write fanfiction! comment on fanfiction! let’s not let fanculture die people!!!!!
this hit me like a truck
kid had a great week
happy 77 years to the best week of this kid's life
I love the humor but also that he's not hurting the little guy by putting any weight on him whatsoever
The reason I know for a fact that a hot dog is not a sandwich or taco or whatever is because the sausage, served by itself without a bun, is still a Hot Dog. This implies that the bun is just as much a condiment to the hot dog as the chili and cheese or ketchup and relish would be. If the bun is not essential to the dish, how could it be a sandwich?
Likewise it cannot be a Taco, because a taco without its shell becomes Taco Salad. A hot dog does not become a salad when removed from the bun. Therefore it cannot be a taco, either.
In conclusion, a hot dog is a type of sausage, one that can be served on a bun with a wide array of additional toppings, but the toppings and bun do not change the classification of the sausage, although certain toppings may create a sub-classification (ex: chili dogs).
Hot Dog Is A Sandwich discourse is Big Bun propaganda and I will not stand for it
hey, I went to Mad At You Island and it wasn't empty. there was a stranger you were a bit curt with on a bad day, an old friend who you got into a falling out with, a labmate who's experiment you messed up by mistake, someone who's birthday you forgot, an internet stranger who is hellbent on deciding you're not morally good enough for not reblogging a post or not following a one day boycott. and it is kind of mortifying to realise that Mad At You Island will never be uninhabited, but it's just a fact of life. and if you try to reduce the population to zero, you'll end up whittling yourself down to nothing
this is completely true, and you know what else? i've actually visited Mad at You Island a few times, and while it's never empty, the turnover rate is pretty high. most people only pop in for a minute or two at a time, a couple of hours at most. in most cases, they have better things to do with their days then sit and stew on Mad at You Island. and while there are certainly exceptions, in general, if you are someone who does your best to communicate openly and listen well and be decent to other people, then most of the time, folks you find lingering for ages on Mad At You island probably got lost on their way to Mad At Myself Island. that's a bummer for them, because it sucks in both those places, but that's neither your fault nor your problem.
though i once would not have believed this, it's okay to let people go to Mad At You Island. it is, in fact, one of the great joys of life to reach the day where you see someone set off for that desolate hellscape and, with delighted relief, realize, "my god! i don't have to follow them."
Casing
Start Here Previous Chapter
Summary: Bruised and bloodied, you end up with the last person you thought you'd turn to, and you're taking him to see an old friend.
Word Count: 12.3k
Warnings: Vomiting
Next Chapter
“What did you do before you worked for Wednesday?” he barked.
“I-I dunno. I don’t remember what I did, I don’t remember what my life was.” You were crying now. “Before Wednesday, everything is blank.”
He knew this. You had told him this before, that Wednesday had found you wandering through northern Minnesota, half-frozen and with no memory to speak of. But now…he had to wonder. Did Wednesday happen upon you by chance? Or had he lied? Knowing the old man, the latter was far from impossible or even unlikely.
He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you against his chest, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “I think we need to get some answers,” he murmured against your hair. “But first, let’s get you to bed.”
The next day, you woke to find yourself crammed into the backseat of your car with Sweeney’s gangly form sprawled beneath you, his chest rising and falling as his snores rattled the windows. You yelped and untangled yourself from him, opening the door and falling out backward in your haste to extricate yourself from the situation. Your face burned and a piercing headache threatened to cleave your skull in two as your vision swam. Groaning, you lay back on the cool asphalt of the bar’s parking lot and desperately wished that the world would stop spinning.
Sweeney sat up, peering blearily at his surroundings. “Sure, was I not comfortable enough for you?” he called down to you.
“Don’t fuck with me right now,” you begged. “All my energy is going to trying not to yak in this parking lot.”
He chuckled and flopped back on the seats. “Better out than in.”
“Fuck you.” Your head was stuffed with cotton and your mouth was all but glued shut, every word a struggle. You smacked your lips and rubbed the heels of your palms into your eyes in an attempt to rid them of the wretched sandpaper feeling and groaned again. “I think I’m dying. Is this what dying feels like?”
Sweeney unfolded himself from your car and stood over you, nudging you with the toe of his boot. “You’re not dying, mo chara, you’re hungover.”
You flung a dramatic arm over your face. “I’ve never had a hangover, I don’t think. I think I’d rather I was dead.”
Sweeney snorted and reached out to clasp your forearm with a massive hand and hauled you to your feet with a grunt, steadying you when you swayed slightly. He was watching you closely and you shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.
“What’re you looking at me like that for?”
He remained silent for a moment. “You’ve never been hungover?” he eventually asked.
You shook your head.
The look on his face told you he didn’t believe you.
“I’ve seen you drink, you must’ve had at least one.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” you said. Your patience was wearing thin and you were beginning to get annoyed.
“You’ve never been hungover?”
“No. Do you want it in sign language?” You made a rude gesture.
He cocked his head to the side like an animal appraising something it didn’t understand. “D’you think it’s the healing thing?”
You pulled your lower lip between your teeth and chewed it thoughtfully. “I mean maybe? But then why do I have one now? What’s different?”
His eyes darted across your face as though searching for something. “What do you remember about last night?”
You shrugged, releasing your gnawed-on lip. “Dunno. I guess falling off the bar? I remember you yelling at me for some reason.”
Sweeney forced himself to look away from your mouth with a shake of his head. “D’you remember why?”
You shook your head and he sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. “You said something about a battle that I was in.”
You raised an eyebrow. “So? We talk about that stuff all the time, why was that enough for you to go off on me?”
Sweeney looked like he wanted to shake you. “You’re not understanding me. You spoke about it like you were there.”
You blinked. “What, like a memory?”
“Sure, that’s what they’re usually called.”
You glared at him. “So…I remembered something I wasn’t supposed to and now I have a memory hangover? Or something?”
“Or something,” he muttered. You couldn’t put your finger on why, but you got the distinct feeling that there was something he wasn’t telling you.
“Anything else?” you prodded.
He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels. “Nope.”
You opened your mouth to push further, but he curt you off. “We need answers,” he said firmly, “and I might know where we can find some.”
You rolled your eyes and gestured for him to continue.
“Portland.”
You looked at him blankly. “Oregon?"
He shook his head. “Maine. East coast.”
“What the hell and fuck is all the way up there?” you demanded.
“The Morrigan.”
A rat scrambled across your sneaker and you jerked your foot away, grimacing. The cool morning air was starting to warm with the inevitable heat of the day. There was a wad of what had once been bright blue bubble gum stuck forlornly to the concrete, specked with debris, the vivid color chewed to a muddy grey-blue, and a hypodermic needle lay some yards away with a used condom. “Come visit picturesque Kentucky,” you muttered to yourself as you scuffed your shoe over the ground, thinking of the poster you had seen at a bus station with the phrase. “I want to go to Circe,” you said.
Sweeney’s mouth gaped. “In Florida?”
You scoffed. “Like Maine is any closer. If someone’s going to dig around in my head, I’d rather it be someone I know.” you said.
If his mouth opens any wider, his jaw is going to dislocate, you thought mildly.
Sweeney snapped his mouth shut like he could read your mind. “Don’t tell me you trust her.”
“I’m not a moron,” you snapped. “I’d just rather not have a stranger rummaging around in there. Plus, she’s a millennia-old witch and we have questions about magic. And it’s my car,” you added.
The two of you stared each other down in that dingy parking lot for what felt like an eternity before he relented. You had dug your heels in and he knew better than to try to argue.
He pointed at you. “Fine. But if she can’t help us, we’re going to the Morrigan.”
You rolled your eyes. “Fine.”
“I’m driving.”
“Like fuck you are,” you told him. “Let’s get the lead out, my beautiful passenger princess.”
He glared at you before he slung himself into the empty seat and slammed the door with more force than was strictly necessary.
The nearly twenty hours to Florida dragged by impossibly slowly. You and Sweeney traded for the driver’s seat every few hours and your time in the passenger seat was passed either sleeping or poring over your journals and books in a futile search for answers. The two of you spoke little, save for your occasional questions about certain customs or rituals. Sweeney was uncharacteristically quiet, deep in thought and his brow furrowed so deeply that you could have put a pencil between them and it would have held there.
“You’re gonna give yourself a headache,” you murmured, reaching over from the driver’s seat and running a thumb over the wrinkles in an effort to smooth his forehead without taking your eyes off the road.
He grunted and swatted your hand away from his face. “I don’t like this,” he grumbled.
“Which part?”
“Any of it!” he exclaimed, gesticulating wildly. “All of this feels wrong. It feels like we’re missing something. Something isn’t right.”
You snorted. “When is it ever? Our job is secrets and lies, this isn’t anything new.”
Sweeney leaned back in his seat, flipping his coin across his knuckles and in the back of your mind you were painfully aware of how smoothly it rolled across the breadth of his strong hands. You forced yourself to think of something other than the freckles and the fine orange hairs that traveled from the back of his hand and up his wrist. Christ, you scolded yourself. Get a grip. The muscles of his shoulders flexed involuntarily under the fabric of his blue button-down and everything in his body language screamed anxiety and discomfort, from his constant fidgeting to the tension that arced through him, and you worried that he would snap like a rubber band wound too tightly.
You sighed. “Look, we’ll be at Circe’s in a couple of hours. Maybe we can start to get some answers.”
“Or maybe we’ll just be more confused and a three days’ drive from where we should be.”
You glanced over to snap back at him and your heart froze in your chest.
He blinked. “Y’alright there?”
The grass green eyes were gone. In their place were sightless black pits that wept a black viscous ooze.
“S-Sweeney?”
The black pits narrowed and the figure that had been Mad Sweeney leaned closer. You pressed back against the passenger door, seized in that moment with an absolute certainty that this man, this thing, was going to kill you.
His mouth moved, but no words came out. Instead, a heinous and inhuman keening issued from his lips and burrowed into your skull. You clutched at your head as if you could block it out and curled up against the door, making yourself as small as you could. You were in a speeding car with a demon changeling that had taken your leprechaun and wanted you dead. You were going to die.
The monster in the driver’s seat pulled the car to the shoulder of the highway and shut off the engine. You flattened yourself against the door, your eyes screwed shut as you willed this creature to disappear.
After a few minutes of silence, you cracked an eye open. Not-Sweeney was standing outside the car and watching you closely with those hideous eyes and you could feel your heart climbing up your throat.
You wondered if it really was possible to die of fright.
It opened its mouth, its jaw making a nauseating popping sound before dislocating, and again that horrible keening pierced your skull and it didn’t stop. It came closer to you and you scrabbled for the door handle, desperate for escape.
He came around to your side of the car and opened the door slowly. Someone was screaming and it was only after a moment or two that you realized the sound was coming from your own mouth. Not-Sweeney crouched in front of you, keeping a few feet of space between you.
You were aware that he was speaking, but your terrified mind refused to comprehend it. He reached out to touch you gently and you flinched so violently you nearly bit a hole through your tongue, but he didn’t remove his hand. Instead, his thumb began to rub the skin of your arm and he kept talking to you. After a few minutes of this, the blood roaring in your ears quieted enough that you could hear what he was saying. You kept your eyes glued to the ground, too scared to look into those horrible eyes, but you could hear his words now.
“— and I don’t know what you’re seeing right now, but it’s still me. I promise you, it is still me, and I will never hurt you.”
His voice was so soft and gentle and it instantly made your eyes well. You blinked, letting the tears roll down your cheeks, and looked up at him. That horrible face yawned before you and you cringed away from him, but in the blink of an eye, it was gone. The black pits had returned to their shining green and his jaw was back in one piece and covered with four-day-old ginger scruff.
Your relief at the sight of his face was so immediate and overwhelming that you threw yourself against his chest and buried your face in his shirt, your shoulders heaving with sobs.
His enormous hands rubbed small circles between your shoulder blades and stroked the back of your head.
You fought to breathe through your hiccuping sobs but couldn’t quite get enough air into your lungs. He guided your face up to look at him. His palms were rough with calluses, but they were warm and they were so, so gentle.
Before you could say anything, before you could even try to take a breath, his head dipped towards yours and he was kissing you. He was kissing you and he was holding you so tightly, like he was afraid you would disappear if he let go, with one hand on your face and the other against the small of your back, pulling you as closely as possible.
You clutched at him and he just felt so real under your hands. Clove smoke and liquor filled your nose and his scruff scratched at your lips in a way that made you shiver. This was real, he was real. Not the monster. Never the monster.
He broke away from you, leaving you staring at him wide-eyed and thunderstruck.
The sadness you saw in his eyes punched the air from your lungs.
“You were scared of me,” he said quietly, the despondency in his voice nearly cracking your heart in two. “What did you see?”
“I — what the fuck?”
Sweeney’s face flushed scarlet. He wouldn’t meet your eyes.
“‘M sorry,” he murmured, ducking his head. “Dunno what that was.” He got up and strode back to the other side of the car and climbed behind the wheel, gripping it so tightly his knuckles were bone white.
“Sweeney —“
“Don’t,” he said softly.
You stared at him mutely, your mind reeling. You didn’t even know what you wanted to say.
“Can we just —“
He started the car and whatever you were about to say was drowned out by the roar of the engine. The conversation was over.
If there had been tension in the car before, it was smothering you now. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak, not trusting your voice, and Sweeney hadn’t even looked at you since you had gotten back in the car. The trees outside had long since changed from oaks and beeches to towering palm trees that waved in the breeze as though they were welcoming you.
Unease crept up your throat, settling in the back with the unpleasant oily feeling that comes with nausea. You remembered that Circe had told you how Florida had been formed from the grit and dirt that had sloughed off the Appalachian Mountains and settled in the Gulf. You figured this was at least a partial explanation for all the weird and unsettling things you’d seen there. What else could you expect from somewhere that had been born from the blood and dirt of gods that were older than the Atlantic? Here, all bets were off, but whether or not that was a good thing remained to be seen.
The remainder of the drive passed in what felt like an eternity of that tense and anxious silence when, at last, you arrived at the ferry that would take you from Fort Myers to Key West. From there, you would take a small boat that would take you to Circe’s island, an uncharted islet that held the ancient witch’s home.
On the ferry, Sweeney seemed to come back to himself. He had disappeared the moment you stepped onto the deck and reappeared shortly with snacks and drinks clutched in his hands. He had gotten your favorite snacks from the vending machine along with two hot drinks from the small ferry cafe.
He held your snacks and one of the cups out to you. “Tea,” he grunted. “Help keeps y’from getting sick. Immune system boost or something.”
Whatever remaining anxiety you had from the drive melted away as you took his offerings. “Thank you,” you said, giving him a small smile.
He rubbed the back of his neck and wouldn’t meet your eyes. “Dunno if you can even get sick, but between the driving and the not sleeping I figure it can’t hurt.”
You inhaled the steam, letting it clear through your sinuses, and sighed contentedly. “Thank you,” you said again.
He nodded and sat down on the opposite bench facing you. “D’you have a plan for when we get there?” he asked.
You chewed on your lower lip. “Beyond just sort of showing up?”
Sweeney groaned and ran his hands through his hair. “Of course you don’t. S’pose you show up and she’s not there? Or s’pose she’s not willing to help?”
“I could ask the same of Maine,” you muttered.
He leaned forward and pointed a finger at you. “Sure, except I do have a plan for Portland.” He sat back. “Do you even have anything for her?” he asked. “You’re smart enough to know that she won’t give help for free.”
You patted your backpack. “I’ve got something I’ve been holding onto for her.”
Sweeney looked at you skeptically. “Like an offering something, or is this another. Gungnir situation?”
You glared at him. “It’s an offering, dickhead,” you snapped. The annoyance from earlier was suddenly back in full force. “Stop acting like I’m completely incompetent.”
“You’re the one that wants to drop in on her with no advance warning,” he pointed out. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“Sweeney,” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose and squeezing your eyes shut, “please, just shut up.” As you spoke, a shiver ran up your spine and the tip of your tongue tingled.
He moved to retort angrily, but it seemed that he couldn’t open his mouth. His green eyes bulged and your own widened as he clawed at his throat.
“Th-this isn’t funny,” you stammered.
Sweeney shook his head vigorously. He wasn’t messing with you.
“Fuck.” You tried not to panic. Clearly, this was your fault, but you had no idea how to undo it. Your hands fluttered as you tried to think of how to undo whatever it was that had been cast. “Um…Christ. Fuck, okay, um…speak,” you tried, like he was a dog that could be trained to bark on command. He looked at you in reproach and you winced. “Okay, yeah, sorry. I have no idea how to undo this.”
You tried again and again to no avail, succeeding only in further upsetting yourself. Your hands began to shake and your words stumbled over each other and you couldn’t quite catch your breath and oh god what had you done —
Warm hands covered yours and squeezed gently. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.
You swallowed and took a shaky breath. He nodded and took another and you tried to breathe in tandem with him.
Your heart slowed and he nodded. He paused and thought for a moment and then he grabbed a pen and a notepad from your backpack.
“Hey!” you protested, but he paid you no mind as he scribbled something on the page in front of him and handed the notepad to you. You didn’t recognize the word he had written down.
“I have no idea how to pronounce this or what it means,” you told him.
He rolled his eyes and took the pad from you, once again scribbling something before handing it back to you.
You scanned his chicken-scratch writing. “’Just feel it’? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you demanded.
He gave you a look that said try.
You stared at the page for a moment, not sure where to begin, and then took a deep breath and carefully sounded out the word. Nothing. “Did…did I say it wrong?” you asked cautiously.
He shrugged, which you took to mean It was good enough.
Eyes closed, you leaned back against the sticky brown vinyl of the seat. You knew this likely had to do with the tingling you’d felt when you accidentally cast whatever the hell this was, so you just had to get that back. Reaching forward, you tried again but still felt nothing. You cracked an eye open to see Sweeney staring at you expectantly. It hadn’t worked. Your shoulders sagged with frustration. “I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “Maybe it’s temporary?” You had been aiming for a light, joking tone, but your voice cracked and you had to press the heels of your trembling hands against your eyes in an effort to stop the dam from breaking. There was a pressure that had been building behind your eyes for several days, all the fear and anxiety and exhaustion piling up and threatening to spill over, but you couldn’t let it. You refused to cry in front of him.
The seat next to you dipped with new weight and you opened your eyes to see that Sweeney had moved to sit next to you. When his eyes met yours, they softened. He wasn’t mad at you, he knew this had been an accident.
Mortifyingly, your eyes began to brim with tears that quickly spilled down your cheeks. You realized that you wanted to hear his voice. You needed to hear him say that you would figure it out because that’s what you always did. You refused to meet his gaze, instead staring straight ahead and willing yourself to stop crying. Then, in a gesture that you had always understood to be unlike him, Sweeney put an arm across your shoulders and gently squeezed you against him.
The dam broke. You slumped against him and turned your face to bury it in his side, tears now flowing freely down your face and soaking into the fabric of his shirt. The feeling that you were overreacting to this comparatively small misstep in the grand scheme of everything else ate at you, but in the smaller scheme of right now, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Your body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds and your hands were trembling.
Sweeney’s thumb gently brushed back and forth over your arm. The callused skin on the pad of his thumb snagged at the looser fibers in the flannel you wore. His head rested on top of yours and his breathing was slow and even. You did your level best to focus on the rhythm of the rise and fall of his chest and tried to sync your breath with his. The two of you sat like that for several minutes while you worked to stem the tide flowing from your eyes. Sniffling, you sat upright and swiped at your eyes.
“Maybe Circe can fix it.” You didn’t even bother to hide the misery in your voice. You were exhausted and there was an odd smell in the air that you initially attributed to a general Florida-ferry-scent, but upon further inspection, you realized that the odor was wafting from your own self and Sweeney. Never in your life had you longed for a shower and clean clothes more than you did at that moment.
A second wave of tears overcame you and you folded in on yourself, desperately wishing you could disappear and hating how weak you felt in that moment. You couldn’t even fix your own mistakes, between running to Circe to save you and Sweeney being the reason you had stayed alive long enough to get Gungnir to the old man. Sweeney being the reason you hadn’t died after you escaped the Jötnar and Sweeney being the reason, Sweeney being the reason, Sweeney being the reason. Fuck.
Your shoulders hunched forward and you stared at the linoleum floor of the ferry as you chewed at the dead skin of your nail beds. You didn’t understand why Sweeney was still by your side even after you had dragged him across state lines and nearly killed him. He’d said you were his best friend, sure, but everyone had their limits. How many strikes until you found yourself alone?
Sweeney laid a hand on your shoulder and gave what you could only assume was meant to be a reassuring squeeze, but it only threatened another round of crying. Again, you found yourself surprised at how badly you wanted to hear his voice.
The remainder of the ferry ride was filled with suffocating silence, Sweeney unable to speak and you unwilling. There was nothing you could say that wouldn’t feel depressingly hollow, so you buried your nose in your journal and scribbled down everything that had led to the right now in excruciating detail. You didn’t know if Circe would find it helpful, but you figured it couldn’t hurt. At the very least, she might be able to help you figure out where to even begin to learn to control whatever was happening to you.
The moment you stepped off the ferry, you were submerged into the hot Florida air, which clung to you like a second skin. The palms waved at you merrily and you glared up at their dancing fronds. They were where they belonged and you, most assuredly, were not. You couldn’t help but feel like you were being mocked.
There was a small marina beside the ferry terminal and it was there that the two of you headed next. You led the ginger giant down to where the boats bobbed gently in the saltwater and towards the farthest end of the marina. As you walked past yachts that increased in size the farther you went, you could see Sweeney’s eyes darting excitedly from vessel to vessel. He thought you were leading him to what had to be a spectacular super-yacht, you could tell, and your misery lifted long enough for you to make the decision not to tell him otherwise.
Despite the everything about how you were feeling in that moment, you couldn’t help but snicker when a small and rather dingy sailboat came into view and a look of dawning horror came across his face when he realized that you weren’t going to stop at one of the enormous sleek monstrosities that stood sentry on either side of the walkway.
Approaching the vessel, it became clear that it was even shabbier than it had seemed on first glance. The deep blue paint of the hull, which must have been breathtaking when it was new, was flaked and peeling with bare wood visible in places. The glass of the aft porthole of the cabin was spiderwebbed with cracks and appeared to be held together with duct tape and there was splintered wood everywhere. The gold-painted letters across the stern that had once proudly spelled “Aeaea” now read “Ae e “ in script that was just as faded and peeling as the rest of the boat. You didn’t need to look at Sweeney to know how he felt about your ride and he didn’t need to speak for you to know exactly what he was thinking.
“I know,” you told him, “but she’s never sunk before.”
He gave you a look and you knew then that it wasn’t just the boat that was giving him pause. The witch had turned him into a pig the last time they had crossed paths and there was nothing to say she wouldn’t do it again. You couldn’t really blame him for his reticence.
“I won’t let her turn you into a little pig boy again,” you teased. Both of you knew that it was not within your power to stop Circe from doing anything.
Sweeney’s shoulders hunched with reluctance and you gave him a gentle shove in the direction of the boat, mentally preparing yourself for the possibility of having to body-check him over the rail, but you were pleasantly surprised when he climbed aboard with no complaint. Not that he could complain even if he wanted to, but it was nice that he didn’t try to fight you over it.
The two of you sat on the cracked and yellowed vinyl seats that circled the perimeter of the deck. You folded your hands and waited patiently and Sweeney looked at you, clearly confused as to how this was supposed to work.
“Give it a sec,” you told him.
Sure enough, after a moment the boat lurched forward, its engine coughing and spluttering and belching black smoke. Sweeney’s face told you that he did not think that this was a good idea and you could see his reluctance only increase as the little boat trudged down the jetty. As soon as you were out on open water, a thick, unseasonable fog descended around you, obscuring everything from view.
“This is the only way to the island,” you explained. “I mean, it’s the only one I know of, at any rate. I’m sure there are other ways to get there, but this is the easiest and also the least dangerous.”
He gestured for you to continue.
You huffed out a breath. “Okay, I don’t know how well I can actually explain this, but I’ll do my best. Basically, the island is shielded. You know how in The Magicians, how the school in that has wards on it to keep people from finding it?”
He nodded. You had plowed through those books and made him watch the bad TV adaptation with you, he remembered how it worked.
“It’s not the same shielding, obviously, but it’s the same concept. Circe has a shielding spell on the island that keeps it hidden. The only people that can get to it are people who have been there before. The boat has an enchantment on it that will guide it to the island with the right person.”
You could almost hear his voice demanding that you explain to him how you’d gotten to Aeaea before and you knew that if you didn’t tell him now he would only be annoying about it later.
“You know I spent time with Circe, yeah?”
Sweeney nodded. “Wednesday sent me to her after he found me. I didn’t learn anything major or super helpful, but he had her teach me basic protection magic and some other small things here and there. She was the one who helped me get my feet back under me.”
There was more to the story, and he could tell that you were holding something back, but that was a can of worms for another day. You lapsed into silence and leaned back against the seats and gazed out over the water. Even having been to Aeaea before, your breath still hitched when the fog cleared and the small dot of Circe’s island came into view. Memory had dulled the beauty of this place, you could tell even from a distance. The water that lapped at the hull of the boat was a bright, seemingly impossible shade of cerulean that almost hurt to look at in its brilliance. The fish that swam beside you seemed like something from a dream, so beautiful were they with bright orange crests arcing down their backs and sunlight glinting off of their silvery scales.
You leaned over the side and let your fingers trail in the warm water. A sea turtle slid gracefully through the water, close enough that your fingers could skim its shell, and you couldn’t help but gasp. In doing the work that you did, you saw so much ugly without reprieve and it was easy to forget that there was still beauty and wonder in the world. In spite of it all, there was still beauty. Even the little boat looked new, whatever enchantment that had disguised it now lifted, its blue paint glossy and no longer peeling and the wood polished to a mirror shine. The cracked porthole was now in one piece and the vinyl on the seats was now a soft beige and looked brand new.
You closed your eyes and tilted your face skyward, taking a deep inhale of the clean salt air. The rays of the sun warmed your cheeks and seagulls wheeled through the sky at incredible heights and you opened your eyes to watch them. You envied their freedom. They didn’t have to do anything, no one ever asked anything of them. They were free to go where they wanted when they wanted and answered to no one. You’d have liked to be a bird. When you had asked him about it, Sweeney had said that he didn’t remember much of his time as one, but he remembered the freedom and the feeling of soaring through the air, weightless and free.
You looked to the island. Now that you were closer, you were able to see some of the animals that lived among everyone there and among the bustle of the witches on the beach. You’d have liked to be an animal. You’d have liked to be anything other than…whatever it was you were. It was a cruelty, in some ways, that you had been given this life and this form. You looked to Sweeney, curious what was on his mind as you approached the white beaches, and found that his gaze was already burning into you.
The moment your eyes met his shocking green ones, all thoughts of wishing you had been made differently evaporated.
Sweeney looked away from you quickly and scratched the back of his neck. That moment passed in the space of a heartbeat, but you didn’t think you were imagining the flush that was creeping up from under his collar.
Before you could dwell on it for too long, the small vessel glided neatly to its dock. Waiting to greet you were three gorgeous women with jet black hair and clear gray eyes. They smiled at you in unison and you could see rows of needle sharp teeth, stark white against pink mouths. These women had been at the docks when you had last arrived years ago. They’d made your skin crawl then and they made your skin crawl now.
“She’s been expecting you,” they said as one. Their voices made your frontal lobe buzz unpleasantly. Their mouths moved, but their words felt as though they were being beamed directly into your mind. Judging from Sweeney’s grimace, he felt it too.
You cleared your throat and regained your bearings. “She knew I was coming?”
Sweeney moved to stand behind you and once again you were grateful for the solidity of him in the face of the Gray Women.
The Gray Women said nothing more, only turned and began to walk down the dock towards the beach. A look passed between you and the leprechaun before you followed. The sisters (Were they sisters? You’d never been sure.) led you to a cobbled path that ended at an enormous manor. It was an elegant building that you could only imagine was what the home she had grown up in looked like. Its façade of soaring columns and well-polished stones supported snaking vines with fragrant blossoms that were as big as your fist and there were gas light fixtures on either side of the massive oak doors that were banded with iron and sported heavy brass door knockers that had been cast in the heads of lions, their jaws agape in mighty roars.
The tallest of the three women raised one of the lion heads and let it fall against the oak with a boom that echoed through the house.
After a moment, the doors swung open of their own accord and you were hit with a gust of incense-perfumed air and woodsmoke. The women gave you one more eerie smile before vanishing back the way you had come and you stepped inside.
Sweeney moved to follow you, but you turned and placed a hand on his chest. “Maybe you should wait here,” you told him. “You know how she can be.”
He looked as though he very much wanted to protest and shook his head vigorously. He was not going to let you talk to the witch alone.
You patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back,” you promised and walked down the hallway. You could feel Sweeney’s glare boring a hole in the back of your head.
Though it had been a while, you still remembered the layout of Circe’s home. It was approaching late afternoon and you knew she would be taking her tea in front of her hearth in the great-room as she attended to her rituals and the hearth would not be difficult to find.
You dodged the dryads that bustled around the halls, their hands full with rich fabrics, decadent dishes, and wine in jugs made from the most beautiful ceramic you’d ever seen. The walls were hung with vivd tapestries and patterned with intricate mosaics, both holding images that were so lifelike you half expected them to leap out at you. Treasures on pedestals lined the walls and glinted in the warm light of the sun. Carved chests were tucked into corners and soft rugs padded the cold stone floors. You ran your fingers along the cool marble of the windowsills and traced the intricate scrollwork of the wooden shutters. Undeniably, the home of the sorceress was breathtaking, but there was a cold, hard feeling that lurked beneath it all. You supposed centuries of forced exile would do that to a person.
Eventually, you got to where you wanted to be and, as expected, when you rounded the corner she was sat before the fire at her loom, her fingers deftly sending the shuttlecock back and forth with a glimmering thread. Another woman sat adjacent to her with her back to you. You couldn’t see her face but her auburn hair was intricately braided and threaded with silver beads. She waved her hand as if to illustrate a point and you saw silver rings adorning long slender fingers that were covered in inked symbols that were too small for you to make out.
From your backpack, you retrieved the bottle of 1869 Château Lafite that had been packed carefully at the bottom of your bag and set it on the long cypress table. You contemplated knocking on the table to make yourself known, but Circe spoke before you could.
“It’s rude to stare,” she said calmly without looking up from what she was doing. “Either speak or leave.” Her voice was cool and carried through the space so that it sounded like she was right next to you. You had never once heard the witch raise her voice, but she always made herself heard.
You picked up the bottle and made your way to the hearth, your cheeks burning. Like the rest of the house, the grand room was a thing of beauty: the high ceilings boasted intricate frescoes of what you knew to be scenes from The Odyssey. Columns stretched from floor to ceiling, the tops of which curled into delicate scrolls. Two stone lions bracketed the enormous fireplace and you couldn’t shake the feeling that they were watching you as you moved, and more rich tapestries hung on the walls. You could see threads of gold gleaming among the royal purples and bloody crimsons. Despite the oppressive heat of the day, there was a roaring fire blazing merrily before them.
“I apologize Teacher,” you said sheepishly.
She eyed the bottle of wine in your hands.
“Is that the 1869 Château?” she asked. Her eyes shone hungrily with the promise of an offering.
You nodded. “Yes.”
She snatched it from you. “Oh, well done indeed.”
You cleared your throat. “I know I come without invitation, but—“
“Dear one, have you met my friend?” She spoke as though you hadn’t said a word.
“I — no, ma’am.”
Circe indicated the woman beside her, who smiled at you kindly. Her ice blue eyes glinted and her smile actually reached her eyes. “This is Angrboda. She’s a dear friend and a fellow practitioner of the craft.”
At the woman’s name, your blood ran cold. The old man had told you stories about this witch. Mother of Fenrir and Jormungandr. Loki’s wife. A force to be reckoned with above all else, who had died at the hands of the Æsir more than once but now sat five feet from you. And yet, the woman before you didn’t seem as cold and wretched as Wednesday had made her out to be. Those sparkling eyes had crow’s feet and there were smile lines around her small mouth. This was a woman that smiled often, even with the aching sorrow you could see behind the twinkling in her eyes. You liked her immediately.
You gave Angrboda your name and she inclined her head.
“Pleased to meet you.” She was soft-spoken, her voice gentle and delicate, but like her Greek counter, she radiated power and authority.
“Likewise. Teacher, you —“
Circe held up a hand. “I know what you’re here to ask. Where’s that ginger giant of yours?”
You ground your teeth. “I left him in the front hall. I didn’t want to risk offense and, forgive me, but he’s still a little skittish after last time.”
She scoffed and tossed her head. “He ran his mouth, I set him right. The man has nothing to fear as long as he minds his manners. He’ll be brought in shortly, I should think.”
“Thank you,” you mumbled.
At that moment, the doors at the end of the hall banged open and Sweeney strode through, looking for all the world as if he owned the place. A harried dryad trailed after him but Circe waved her away and she made a quick retreat.
“Mad Sweeney!” Circe exclaimed in delight. She stood and spread her arms to hug him. “Lovely to see you,” she said, kissing him on both cheeks. It almost sounded like she meant it, but you didn’t miss the glimmer of disgust in her eyes.
Sweeney raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, and surprise flitted across her face. For a split second the witch was visibly annoyed, but she quickly wiped her face and plastered on a pleasant smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “No biting comment?” she teased. “Am I not worth your words, great king?”
You tensed but Circe waved her hand. “Sit down.”
An invisible force yanked you into one of the high-backed chairs like you were attached to a string.
Circe approached Sweeney, inspecting him like he was one of her cattle.
“Oh, now this is interesting,” she remarked. She prodded his jaw. “You can’t speak at all, can you?”
Sweeney’s face remained impassive. Circe waved Angrboda over. “Boda, come look at this.”
Angrboda rose from her seat and crossed the room with impossible grace. Her pale fingers delicately probed along Sweeney’s jawline and down his neck. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped and you snorted derisively. Not that you could blame him though, Angrboda was otherworldly in her beauty.
“This is wonderful work,” she murmured, forcing Sweeney’s jaw open so Circe could stick her fingers in his mouth and poke around in his cheeks and under his tongue.
Circe removed her fingers and took a step back. “It’s rudimentary and a little crude, but it’s clean and to the point.”
Angrboda hummed. “It does feel unintentional, but it’s better work than some of your novitiates.”
The Greek witch turned to you. “Is this your doing?” You nodded. “I thought it felt familiar,” she said, more to herself than to you, “but if it is, it is stronger than it used to be.” She sniffed the air. “You smell different, too. Much more wild.”
You blinked at her.
“I don’t think they’ve come to be told they stink,” Angrboda said gently.
Circe cleared her throat. “Right. Why have you brought him to me? I know that this alone isn’t what brought you back to my shores.”
You swallowed. “I was hoping you could remove the enchantment. Please.”
She pretended to think hard. “I don’t see why I should. I like him better this way anyway. All of the strong and handsome brooding with none of the insufferable speaking.”
“I need him to help me find answers,” you said.
The witch looked at you in a way that made you feel naked and exposed. “It’s your spell, you should be able to do it yourself.”
Your eyes were glued to the floor and you let the sole of your boot scuff across the textured surface. She knew you well enough to know exactly why you hadn’t undone this, she just wanted to hear you say it.
“I haven’t…been able to,” you said reluctantly.
She scoffed. “You cast it, didn’t you? You can remove it.”
“The casting was unintentional,” you snapped. “I haven’t been able to figure out how to undo it. I don’t even know how it happened in the first place!”
“Did my teachings mean nothing?” Circe demanded. “Did nothing stick in that thick head of yours? I’ve seen you cast. You’re more than capable.”
“Only defenses and wards,” you protested. “It’s never been like this before.”
Angrboda regarded you carefully. “This unintentional magic, is it a recent development?” she asked. You nodded and she turned to Circe. “That could account for the wild smell, but why now?”
Circe scratched her chin and looked at you. “Have you had any particularly traumatic experiences lately?”
“Broad question,” you muttered.
“Let me rephrase. Have you had any experiences recently that go beyond what you would typically encounter?”
You looked to Sweeney, unsure it was safe, but he shrugged and nodded. Might as well, his body said. You reached around to hike up the back of your shirt to show the witches what the Jötnar had done. There were sharp intakes of breath as they took in the ruined flesh of your back, which was already beginning to scar over. Circe’s face hardened but Angrboda’s eyes went wide.
“Nine hells, it was you,” she realized.
Circe’s gaze snapped to Angrboda. “Explain,” she demanded.
Angrboda’s eyes didn’t leave your back. “I heard a rumor about a week back that one of the All-Father’s people had been taken by the Jötnar. They said they had trespassed and stolen something valuable.”
“Is it stealing if they stole it in the first place?” you muttered.
Angrboda ignored you. “I had no idea this is what they were doing.” Her voice was strained as she spoke. “Talk about traumatic. Child, I am so sorry.”
Circe bent to examine your wounds more closely. “I can heal the rest, but I can’t do anything about the scarring,” she said as she ran her fingers lightly over the angry intersecting cuts. “Boda, you said this was a week ago?”
Angrboda nodded and you piped up to confirm, “I broke out around then and found him.” You pointed to Sweeney.
Circe raised an eyebrow. “He was nearby?”
You nodded and she put you under that scrutinizing gaze. “Quite a stroke of luck, isn’t it?”
You shrugged. “I’d be dead if I hadn’t found him, so I’m choosing not to question it. We’ve got more pressing issues.”
Circe straightened. “I see. And I’m sure that you’ve figured out that you’re healing much faster than you should be?”
You nodded again and she turned to Angrboda. The two began conversing rapidly in a language you didn’t understand. When they had apparently reached a conclusion, Circe’s attention came back to you. “We have much to discuss and what remains of the day is passing us by. Let’s get started.”
She swept past you and Sweeney glared at you and coughed into his fist. Circe huffed in annoyance.
“Oh, right. Are you sure you want to undo this?” she asked you. “I really do prefer him this way.”
“Yes, please,” you said. “He’s…he’s my friend,” you finished lamely.
The knowing look on Angrboda’s face only served to add to the awkward anxiety that was railing against your mind.
Circe heaved a beleaguered sigh. “Fine. I’ll show you how so you can fix your own mess next time. You,” Circe pointed at you, “I need you to tell me exactly what happened in the moments that led up to the unintentional casting.”
Wordlessly, you reached into your backpack and handed her your journal. She took it from you with a raised eyebrow and flipped through the pages you had written on the ferry. When she finished she handed your journal back and looked between the two of you.
“You tried in English and Irish?”
You nodded.
“What did it feel like when you spoke the words?”
You didn’t understand and said as much.
“When you spoke the words that cast this and when you tried to undo it, how did it feel?” Circe asked, the way you would ask a small child a question with an obvious answer.
“Like…emotionally or physically?”
“Physically.” Her tone indicated a strained sense of patience.
You shook out your hand, remembering the pins and needles feeling that had danced across your tongue and the chill that had run through you. “It felt weird. Like, my tongue got kind of tingly and it felt like something was slithering up my spine.”
Angrboda nodded. “That’s the magic.”
“What about when you tried to undo it?” Circe asked.
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
She clicked her tongue and walked around you in a slow circle. “You were trying too hard,” she said as she came to a halt in front of you. “When you said it the first time, you did it without thinking. On instinct, no matter how endearingly misguided. The second time, though, you were trying too hard. You have to simply let yourself feel it.” Circe directed the two of you to stand before the fireplace and face each other. When you were arranged to her liking, you were staring into his green eyes. This close, you could see the faint ring of gold that circled his pupil between the black and the bright green and the freckles that were splashed across the bridge of his nose and scattered across his cheeks and his forehead.
You swallowed nervously.
“You also need to believe that this will work and that you can do it,” she said pointedly.
“I get it,” you muttered.
“Watch it,” the witch said sharply. Sweeney’s jaw flexed and you knew him well enough to know he was suppressing a smirk. Circe reached out and cuffed you both upside the head. “I can still send you both back where you came from,” she reminded you. You mumbled a sheepish apology. “The Irish word that he gave you, say that again, but this time chew on it. Feel the shape of the word and how your intentions mold it. Hold those intentions in your mind, look at him and hear his voice as you speak the word aloud.”
You closed your eyes and did as she said before speaking the word, but nothing happened and your shoulders sagged.
“See, it doesn’t work,” you told her, unable to keep the frustration from your voice. “If we keep going it’ll just piss me off.”
“You think if you don’t get it on the first go it won’t ever work? I never took you to be a quitter.” Circe’s voice was mocking and Angrboda glared at her sharply.
“It’s like anything else,” the Norsewoman told you, infinitely more patient than your hostess and teacher. “You need to practice.”
“Do it again,” Circe ordered.
You clenched your jaw and tamped down your growing frustration. Sweeney reached out and guided your eyes closed with the callused tips of his fingers and then took one of your hands in his and pressed the tips of your fingers against his chapped lips.
Your eyes flew open in surprise, but the sight of his face so close to yours was so disorienting that you quickly closed them again. Just feel it. You reached deep within yourself for the feeling from before and poured as much of your will into it as you could. You allowed yourself to feel its meaning beyond the literal translation. What it meant to you in that moment, and in that moment it meant his crude jokes, the obnoxious laughter, and his voice. Loathe though you were to admit it, it meant the feeling of safety that you had somehow come to find in that stupid brogue. You didn’t ever think you would miss it, but now that his voice was gone it was fucking untenable. He needed it back. You needed it back.
“Labhair.”
The word fell from your lips as naturally and as easily as breathing and you felt it. The tingle on your tongue and the chill down your spine, but this time it felt like it was twisting up and around your spinal cord and flooding your brain. The point of contact between your finger and Sweeney’s lips grew uncomfortably warm and you jerked away like you had been shocked, but as quickly as it arrived, the feeling dissipated. Green eyes met yours and your fingers tapped nervously against your thigh. You held your breath and you watched each other carefully. He was silent for what felt like an eternity and tears of frustration and disappointment pricked at the corners of your eyes. You covered your face with your hands.
“Sure you’re not after crying again, are you?”
Your head shot up so quickly you nearly broke your neck. Sweeney had an enormous shit-eating grin that nearly split his face in two plastered firmly in place.
“It worked?” you asked hoarsely.
“Unless I’m being puppeted,” he said easily, “I’d say looks like.”
Your knees jellied with relief. Part of you, a part that you had refused to fully acknowledge, had been afraid that it couldn’t be undone, but you had done it. You hugged him tightly, burying your face in his chest and gripping he fabric of his shirt so tightly that it was a wonder it didn’t tear in your fists.
Sweeney huffed out a laugh as his arms wrapped around you. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head and you both missed the look that passed between Circe and the Norse witch.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—“
He palmed your forehead and gave you a playful shove.
“No blood, no foul,” he said simply.
To your exasperation, your eyes began to well once again.
Circe waved her hands. “Enough of that. We’ve fixed one problem, but I know that wasn’t all you came here for. You want to know what’s happening to you.”
You nodded. “This keeps happening. Magic that I can’t explain, incantations that I never learned.” You told her about the Bocánaigh in Missouri and the incantations that pulled themselves from somewhere deep inside you. Circe listened, the crease between her brows growing more defined the longer you spoke.
When you finished, the witch remained silent, though her fingers tapped nervously along her staff. She regarded you carefully as she chewed on the inside of her cheek, seemingly deep in thought.
“I don’t know that I can give you all of the answers you need,” she said at length, “but I think I may be able to offer some assistance. Come.” She swept from the hall with Angrboda in step beside her and led you back outside to the path that had led you up from the beach. You followed it further inland, taking a fork in the packed earth that led you to a sizable pristine white tent. Circe held one of the flap doors aside and gestured for you to step through. Inside, you realized that you were in the island’s infirmary. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, impossibly bright, with thuribles hung between them and from those drifted rivers of smoke that were scented with lavender and frankincense. The stone floor had been polished to a gleam and there was a stream that cut through it, neatly separating the space into two sides. One had a row of beds that were neatly made with creamy linen sheets, while the other held what appeared to be exam tables.
Circe exchanged a few words with her sister witch and kissed her on both cheeks before following you inside as Angrboda went back the way you had come. “She’s going to see if any of her sisters might know anything about this,” Circe told you, answering the unasked question in your eyes. “As for you—“ She grabbed your shoulders and sat you in a plush armchair, whose immense royal blue cushions threatened to swallow you. “You,” she pointed at Sweeney, “outside.”
He snorted. “Like hell.”
“I wasn’t asking,” she said icily.
You looked up at him and tugged gently on the hem of his jacket. “It’s okay,” you said quietly.
He knelt before you and put a massive hand over your knee. “I don’t like it, mo grá,” he murmured. “I don’t trust her.”
You let your forehead rest against his. “We don’t have a choice,” you said softly. “I’m a big kid, I’ll be okay.”
Sweeney sighed and stood. “I’ll be right outside. If anything happens—“
“You’ll come charging in, I’m sure,” Circe said in a tone that conveyed utter boredom.
He shot her a glare and stood and gave you a pat on the shoulder before taking his leave. You watched him disappear through the canvas. You’d been feeling different in his presence since he had stitched you up almost two weeks ago, and it had only gotten worse since he’d kissed you. No longer was he the obnoxious and barely tolerable coworker that you’d put up with out of necessity. After nearly two weeks of his constant presence, you should have wanted to claw his eyes out, but to your mild horror, you realized that the thought of being separated from him now nearly made you nauseous. Two weeks that had felt like a lifetime.
“I truly don’t understand why you keep that troglodyte around,” Circe huffed after he had gone.
“He saved my life,” you murmured as you toyed with a loose thread in the arm of the chair. “More than once.”
She clicked her tongue. “Be that as it may, he’s crass and indelicate and I find him grating. Here, drink.” She had busied herself preparing a tonic, which she presented to you in a steaming willow-pattered mug. You inhaled the vapor and nearly choked on the foul scent of it.
Poison, hissed a voice in the back of your mind. Your head snapped up and your gaze shot to Circe. The chill, ethereal beauty of the sorceress was gone. Her flashing golden eyes had become the same sightless, weeping black pits that you’d seen on Sweeney’s face the day before. It oozed down her cheeks, the skin there now pitted and scarred. The planes of her face seemed to be melting, her skin turning a livid red before settling into a foul necrotic black as it sloughed off of her bones. Her fiery hair hung lank and matted and you were able to make out lice and squirming maggots weaving in between the strands on her scalp.
You knew in your bones that this witch was trying to poison you. She would not let you leave Aeaea alive.
You screamed, a horrible and inhuman sound that tore from your throat.
Sweeney burst into the tent, green eyes wild and searching for you, but you were already up and scrambling away. Like Circe, his face was twisted and terrible. They both sneered at you as they approached you.
They’re going to kill you. The voice was wailing now. You gripped your hair as your heart hammered against your ribs so hard you feared it would burst from your chest. Sweeney made for you, but you dodged his outstretched hand and somersaulted away from them both. You came up on the other side of them white-knuckling the knife that had been in your boot and sobbing with fear.
Sweeney was trying to say something to you, but you screamed in his face, drowning out his voice. He tried again to approach you. You lashed out and kicked him square in the chest and his breath left him with an oof. But even with the wind knocked from his lungs, he still managed to catch the next kick you aimed at him and pull you towards him in the same movement. His other hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, twisting and forcing you to drop the knife to avoid your bones being snapped.
You flailed in his hold, but he was still bigger and stronger than you were. Circe pointed at one of the tables and Sweeney hauled you bodily onto its surface. He pinned your hands to your sides and sat astride your torso, effectively holding the rest of you in place even as you bucked your hips and thrashed beneath him in an effort to unseat his massive frame and free yourself.
Your face was slick with sweat and tears. Your hair was plastered to your forehead and you tasted blood. You must have bitten your tongue, but you didn’t feel it and you didn’t care. You had to escape. Fear forced your throat to constrict, threatening to choke you with it and swallow you whole. Every nerve in your body burned. Sweeney was shouting at you, something you didn’t understand, and Circe was barking orders to the dryad nurses, but you processed none of it. Fear, animalistic and primal, had consumed you and erased all else.
Scream after scream ripped from your throat and tears that weren’t yours dripped onto your cheeks from above. You were going to die here, pinned and cornered like a wounded animal. Eventually your voice gave out and the only sound you could make was a pathetic keening as you writhed in the leprechaun’s grasp.
Then Circe was there, her face hovering inches from yours, and she was wrenching your jaw open and pouring something warm and oily down your throat. You had a moment to register Sweeney’s stricken, tearstained face before you rolled over and voided the contents of your stomach. After that, everything went black.
You woke tucked into the white linen sheets of one of the infirmary beds. The sky outside had darkened to a deep purple and you wondered how long you’d been out.
What the hell had happened? You had been fine one moment and the next you were being choked by overwhelming terror that—
Oh. The Dark Man. He had found you here, somehow, and filled your mind with abject terror. It had been him in the car, turning your leprechaun into something straight from a nightmare.
You desperately wanted to cry, but you were too spent to do even that. Your whole body ached and you felt as though your bones were made of stone. A memory swam before you: Sweeney’s tearstained face, twisted and grotesque and…scared. He had been afraid of you. You squeezed your eyes shut and let your head fall back against the pillows, wanting badly to disappear where no one could ever find you again.
A dryad bustled into the room with fresh linens. When she saw that you were awake, she smiled pleasantly, but her stance was still guarded.
“You’re awake!” she said brightly. “You gave us all quite a fright. How do you feel?” Her voice was soft and musical and carried the clipped vowels that you had come to associate with the tree nymphs.
“Sore,” you said truthfully, “and a little freaked out.”
She moved to stand at your bedside and briskly began checking your pulse, your skin, your throat.
“But none of the terror from before?” she asked as she peeled back one of your eyelids and peered intently into your eye with a penlight. You noticed that her eyes were green, but not the same green that you were used to. Your green eyes were the color of lush, sprawling leas. The eyes of this nymph were the deep green of oak leaves. You could smell the forest on her.
“No ma’am.”
The dryad straightened and scribbled something on her notepad. “Well, physically you seem all right. Circe will be pleased you’re awake.”
“Is my friend okay?” you asked.
“You mean that beefy leprechaun?”
You flushed and nodded.
“He’s fine,” she said dismissively. “Worried himself sick over you and Circe had to bar him from the infirmary just so he would get out of our way.” She shook her head. “He refused to let you out of his sight.”
You chewed on your lip. “Can I see him?”
She shook her head. “Not until Circe has had a chance to speak with you.”
You stared down as your hands, folded together in your lap, and deflated a little. “Oh.” Your voice was small.
Your nurse looked at you pityingly. “We’ve been given instructions not to tell him you’re awake.”
Her gaze was sandpaper against your skin.
“Okay.” Even to your own ears, your voice was hollow. “Could you get her?”
“I’ll let her know you’re awake, but she’s busy on the other side of the island. It may be a little bit.”
You laid back and stared at the canvas ceiling. Your eyes traced the curls of smoke that drifted from the golden thuribles. Couldn’t catch a fucking break. You were beginning to get angry, but it was the sort of anger that had no outlet. Anger that could direct itself at no one and so reflected inwards.
No. That wasn’t right. There was someone. The old man.
Your life had never exactly been easier for him being in it, but the recent string of bullshit you’d had to survive was almost entirely his fault. That one-eyed cunt.
“Okay,” you said again.
She nodded and left the tent, leaving you feeling small and alone.
After what felt like an eternity but likely was no more than an hour or two, Circe appeared.
“Hello child,” she greeted you, calm and unbothered.
You swallowed. “Teacher.”
She sat at the edge of your bed and presented you with a cup of the same malodorous tonic she had tried to give you before.
“It’s not poison,” she said, sensing your trepidation. “It’s not a hallucinogenic, either. It’s only some herbs meant to help you relax.”
Still not entirely convinced, you knocked it back all the same, your eyes watering at the taste. You coughed. “Christ, that’s foul.” But the witch hadn’t lied. As soon as it passed your lips, a soothing warmth spread through your limbs to the ends of your fingers and toes. You could feel your muscles relax as all of the tension and stress you had been carrying melted away, leaving you feeling lighter than you had in ages. You sighed.
“Better?” Circe asked.
You nodded. “How long was I out?”
“Almost two days. Your leprechaun has been insufferable.
You managed a weak smile. “Sounds like him.”
“Mhm.” Circe regarded you carefully. “What happened?” Her voice was soft and it made you want to throw something.
“You don’t need to speak to me like I’m made of spun glass,” you snapped. “I’m not going to fall apart just because someone used the wrong tone.”
“You tried to kill me and your friend because I gave you a tonic that smelled bad,” she said cooly. “I apologize if I attempt to be cautious.”
You said nothing.
“What happened?” she asked again.
You spread your hands in front of you, palms up, helplessly. “Do you really need to ask?”
A shadow crossed her face. “I’d hoped we were wrong,” she said heavily. “He shouldn’t have been able to find you here. I’ll need to reinforce the wards and I’ll see if I can’t add something to your defenses.
A horrible thought occurred to you. “Did I hurt anyone?”
Circe sighed. “Your knife caught that boy in the arm and he needed stitches, but aside from that, no,” came the reply.
You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes.
She placed a hand on your knee. “It’s all right, child. He’ll heal. As for yourself,” she stood and circled the bed so that she was standing behind you, “there’s some things that need to be figured out.” She took your head between her cool hands, her slender fingers at your temples and just beneath the place where your jaw met your ears. She applied the smallest amount of pressure and you could sense her magic reaching out, trying to connect with yours.
The witch made a noise of frustration. “There’s a wall,” she murmured, more to herself than you. “Someone’s put up powerful wards, but if I prod it just right, I may be able to—“ Her fingers flexed and you could feel her poke at a place in your mind that you hadn’t even known existed. The moment she touched it, you pitched forward and vomited over the side of the bed and all over the polished stone floor.
“Oh dear.” Circe gently patted your back as your body heaved like it was trying to expel your stomach. After a few moments it passed and you looked at her with bloodshot eyes. You had never seen her look so concerned.
Sweeney chose that moment to burst in, looking panicked. His eyes widened when he saw you, but before he could do anything stupid, one of the dryad nurses shoved him back outside.
Circe beckoned the nurse, who approached with a crystalline glass of water that smelled faintly of mint and soothed the burning in your throat and calmed your stomach as you sipped it carefully.
“What the hell was that?” you managed to rasp once the glass was empty.
Circe furrowed her dark brows, her bright golden eyes distant. “A memory spell,” she said slowly, as though she was testing how the idea sounded out loud. “A powerful one.”
You blinked. “Can you undo it?”
She prodded again at the same spot, more gently this time but still enough to make a wave of nausea sweep over you, making you groan.
“I think the only one that can is the one who cast it,” came the reply. “The failsafes on this…I’ve never seen work like this. Someone really didn’t want you to remember whatever it was that they shut away.” She stood to face you and took your face in her hands, her narrow golden gaze examining you intently. “You don’t remember anything from before Wednesday?”
You shook your head. “I was actually hoping you might. Somehow. He sent me here after he found me, I thought maybe…” you trailed off and your shoulders slumped, the weight of your exhaustion returning. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I was thinking.” This was never going to work. If Circe couldn’t give you what you needed, if an ancient sorceress like her didn’t know, what hope did you have?
Circe gave a quick command in Greek and the nurse that had brought you the mint water left, reappearing momentarily with Sweeney in tow. His right forearm was wrapped in crisp white linen, but you could already see he was beginning to bleed through it. Your chest constricted painfully. You had done that to him. He looked at Circe expectantly.
“Well?”
“You might want to try manners sometime,” she said drily. “You’d be amazed at what it can do for you.”
Sweeney made a face and you shot him a warning glance.
Circe pretended not to notice. “What is up in your mind is a barrier of sorts,” she told you. “It’s nothing like anything I’ve ever seen, but parts of the casting feel familiar.” You waited, but she did not elaborate. “There’s someone who may be able to help where I cannot.” Her eyes flicked too Sweeney and then back to you. “Do you know the Morrigan?”
You didn’t need to look at Sweeney to know that he was giving a good run for the world record for “most smug grin.”
“If you say anything, I swear I will let her turn you into a pig and I will leave you here,” you snapped.
Circe raised an eyebrow. “I see you’ve already discussed that option, then,” she observed. “May I ask why you chose my island instead?”
You looked at the floor. “I felt better about someone I knew digging around in my skull.”
Circe hummed. “Well, touching as that is, whatever is going on is much more akin to their particular branch of magic. They will be better equipped to give you what you need.”
Circe saw the two of you down to the docks and watched as you boarded the small boat that had brought you to the island.
“Remember,” she told you, “see the sisters in Maine. Use your magic as little as possible until you get to them, otherwise you’ll as good as tell him where you are.”
You nodded and she patted your cheek. “Sweeney,” she called over your shoulder. “Do try to get them there in one piece.”
He snorted but stayed silent, to your immense relief.
. . .
She watched from the shore as the boat disappeared beyond the horizon and the island’s wards. Her old wolf sat beside her in the sand.
“Why didn’t you tell them?” the wolf asked. Her voice was low and rumbling. Circe imagined she could see the grains of sand dance whenever the wolf spoke.
The witch buried her hand in the thick fur along the scruff of her friend’s neck. “I couldn’t,” she said softly. “It wouldn’t have helped even if I could. They wouldn’t understand.”
“You can’t know—“
“You misunderstand me,” Circe said sharply. “The wards in their mind…any attempt to tell them anything would have been distorted. I physically cannot.”
The wolf’s yellow eyes scrutinized her mistress before turning her gaze back to the water. “What will happen to them?”
Circe shook her head. “Would that I knew. I can only hope they get there in the end. We will need them for what’s to come.”
Tagged: @kind-wolf @imaginethatneathuhpartdos @cosmiccandydreamer
Fucking loved this.
Sweeney's concern, Circe's coldness but clearly caring for the reader, how everything is coming together. That last little section with Circe and her wolf just make me more curious. Bravo.
No one discovers “a secret third thing” better than people with ADHD
me rn
need to be studying for math exam on wednesday
wanna be playing video games
doing neither <
Companions React: Sole Accidentally Says I Love You (Part One)
I'm pretty sure I've done this before, but this blog has been around so long I don't remember for sure and if I have it's outdated in my eyes by now.
Content: Canon typical themes, initially ambiguous relationship
Deacon:
There was a thick layer of grogginess that had settled over Sole like dust, a weariness that made their bones ache as they shed their gear. Recon for the railroad had sent them to the outskirts of the Commonwealth alongside Deacon. The work wasn’t unusual for them, but it didn’t make it less tiring. The safehouses that were dotted throughout the wasteland were second homes to them; they were long familiar with all of the locations the Railroad had set up, having been dragged through mission after mission with Deacon over the years.
Deacon was going through the same motions of ridding himself of the weight of backpacks and light armor as Sole began digging through their pack for water and radstag jerky. They would start a fire and he would get to laying out their bedrolls in the near pitch-dark. Deacon would take first watch, always too high-strung from the motions of traveling to try to sleep right away. In the first few years of their partnership he didn’t seem to sleep at all on recon missions. Sole had wondered if the sunglasses were to hide the way the sleep deprivation got to him, because surely it did– he was only human. It took another long while for them to realize that as much as Deacon tried to hide it, he wasn’t an emotionless shell that let everything roll off his back, and it was the sunglasses that formed a shield for him to continue that front.
And they still hadn’t seen him without them, though it’d stopped bothering them a long time ago. He took them off in their presence, sure. Most nights he took them off to sleep, his back turned to them as he curled into himself in his bedroll, and they spent much of their watch shift staring past him at the frames. When they woke him as the sun rose and it was time for them to head back to HQ it’d be with a nudge of their foot to the base of his spine, enough distance between them for Deacon to put his sunglasses back on without them getting a glimpse of his eyes. When they slept, it was with their own back turned to where he was keeping watch, so he could take his sunglasses off if he’d liked; they never got confirmation on whether he did or not. And it wasn’t as if they’d never wondered. They did, constantly. But Deacon’s quirks were so him in a way that had settled in their chest and dug roots in that wound between their ribs and they’d never even considered pushing at the subject.
So Sole’s presence of mind had all but abandoned them as they went through the motions of settling in for the night. Matches were drawn out of their backpack as they gnawed on a piece of radstag jerky, kindling in the form of an old, illegible book they’d found somewhere on their travels that day and tucked away for later. One thing about the Wasteland that never failed to be useful was the amount of rubble. A quick survey of the place provided them enough material to get a small fire started, and they’d finished just as Deacon finished fluffing out his bedroll and throwing a blanket over theirs. Their spaces were within arm’s reach, as always. There was no chance of something coming out of the dark and distance leaving them unable to defend each other.
The night was quiet in a way that was comforting. With efficiency of their little routine at the forefront of their mind, Sole unceremoniously peeled off their boots, shoved back the blanket on their bedroll, and crawled into their makeshift bed, their back to Deacon. Their thin jacket served as a pillow. The ground was unyielding beneath the meager cushion of said roll and, despite exhaustion crawling into Sole’s muscles and flooding like smoke through their mind, a twinge of worry flitted through them at the state Deacon’s back would be in in the morning. “Night, Deacon. Scream if you’re dying.” Was something they bid him goodnight with every night.
His returning sarcastic quip, this time in the form of, “I’ll handle it before you even roll over.” Was also a nightly tradition.
Their unimpressed snort was, as well, but the half asleep, “Love you.” Was most definitely not.
And the fact that they hadn’t even considered what was coming out of their mouth until it escaped probably showed in the way they froze mid-inhale, their shoulders tensing as their eyes shot open and they stared at the wall in front of them. The sound of the fire crackling was the only thing they could hear; and maybe Deacon had stopped breathing, too, or maybe their heartbeat was thrumming so loudly in their ear as it pressed into their jacket that they couldn’t hear his reaction at all. After the silence stretched on they heard a bit of shuffling and felt the instinct of awareness of someone’s proximity behind them. A hand reached into their periphery, just above their head, and a clattering reached their ears. Sunglasses were placed on the ground above them, just within their field of view, and Deacon’s voice was soft as he said, “Get some rest.”
Gage:
There was an unspoken truce in the way the pair often made digs at each other, the banter that they sent back and forth as a way of bonding, on the specific topic of Gage and his habit of hiding out in the Fizztop Grille whenever the raider gangs were getting on his nerves, which was often. No matter the ways they jabbed at each other, his propensity for taking cover from the rest of Nuka World in their company was never quite broached as a topic. Maybe it was the fact that Gage didn’t want to acknowledge this himself, or the way Sole didn’t want to push in case it made him stop coming around, or perhaps it was a little bit of both.
There was no surprise when they’d returned to the Grille and found him in their favorite armchair, one they’d found and dragged up the damn elevator themself, his feet kicked up on a coffee table that had seen much better, less irradiated days. His presence, in fact, was welcome. They had someone to complain to about the state of the raider gangs, someone who understood their frustration. “The Pack’s damn ego is getting out of hand again.” Sole dropped the rifle they kept slung over their back when they were out on the remains of a counter.
“When isn’t it?” Gage couldn’t sound less interested if he’d tried, though he had the decency to look up from Grognak the Barbarian to meet their eyes.
Sole groaned noncommittally. He was right, but they’d never acknowledge that aloud. “Wish they’d just take their share of the profits and shut their mouths for once. Not like we haven’t been trying to clear out the Safari for the last month.”
“I think being grateful would kill them. Mason’s brain would start leaking out of his ears.”
“So nothing would change.”
Gage huffed out a half-laugh at that, rolling his eyes. Sole crossed the Grille’s patio and leaned against the railing, likely a less than smart choice considering how rickety it had gotten. They really needed to get around to fixing it, but there was so much to do around Nuka World that it consistently fell to the bottom of their list. Maybe one day it would collapse and put them out of their damn misery. There was fog rolling in in the distance; hopefully not the start of a radstorm gathering. They were really hoping to get another day of good progress in on the Safari tomorrow, if just to quell Mason’s incessant whining. The creaking of their armchair and subsequent footsteps clued them in as Gage approached.
When he leaned over the railing it groaned, voicing the irritation that Sole was feeling themself. “We’ll get it done.”
Reassurance wasn’t something Gage offered often. Both of them were fond of the “Stop complaining and get out there” brand of advice and they’d perpetuated it frequently against both each other and the raider gangs under their thumb. Sole glanced at him. His brow was furrowed in a way that only happened when his eye was bothering him. “Atmospheric pressure changes.” Sole supplied, casting a look at the fog. “Y’alright?”
“Yeah,” He brushed them off with a shrug, as he often did whenever they displayed any level of concern. “It’ll pass.”
“Always does.” They replied quietly.
Gage huffed some sort of agreement, but remained quiet. It was drawing into the evening then, darkness pressing forward alongside the clouds. Whenever the pair weren’t working together they often rotated shifts of being out and about alongside the gangs, just to keep an eye on things. Sole took the days, Gage took the nights. They wanted to pipe up again, to tell him to come get them to take over if the pressure behind his eye got too bad, to let himself rest. They didn’t; they knew better by then, that Gage responded poorly to what he perceived as coddling. Any affection or care that they reserved for him was better left indirect. Painkillers set out where he’d find them or an insistence to take over a task that was usually his because “I don’t need you fucking it up,” in order to get him to rest were the best they could do. They’d already tiptoed too close to genuine concern by asking if he was okay. With a sharp exhale, Sole pushed away from the railing and headed toward their quarters. “Good luck with them tonight. Lo–” They stopped themself, the shock of their own words, what had almost come out of their mouth sending the ice of adrenaline through their veins.
It seemed they weren’t the only one reacting in mild horror as Gage had whipped around from where he was leaning, staring at them. His eyebrows had shot up, far from the way they had been furrowed in pain moments before. Sole coughed. “Uh, look out. For yourself.” They finished, the words stumbling out of their mouth.
“Yeah. Yeah, will do.”
Gage continued staring. They could feel the prick of his gaze, something that never usually bothered them considering how used to it they were; they watched each other's backs on missions. Most times it was comforting. This time it felt like they were a radstag being stalked through the underbrush as they retreated to their quarters, a visible wince having taken up permanent residence on their face. Even when they clicked the door shut behind them they could tell he hadn’t budged, staring at the wooden frame as they closed themself off from him once again.
Hancock:
Hancock and Sole always followed up long stints in the Wasteland with a grand return to Goodneighbor, often with the flourish of a night at the Third Rail that inevitably ended with one or both of them heavily inebriated before they stumbled back to the Old State House to recuperate over the coming week. It was where they found themselves in that moment. Thick smoke curled through the air, Magnolia’s crooning a soft background for the way Hancock was recounting their adventures to a gathering of Goodneighbor residents that had crowded around where he’d sat on one of the barstools.
Sole was ever-content to play spectator that time, nursing a light drink and throwing in the odd comment or quip. They let him embellish without redirection no matter how dramatic he got; there was just something about the light in his dark eyes when he told stories and the way every member of the community was completely enthralled and gasping as he spoke. And Sole never would’ve claimed to be above Hancock’s charm; they knew they weren’t since the moment they’d started traveling with him. Sole was the first to agree that there was just something about him.
They weren’t sure how many drinks he had downed in the hours that they’d been there or the amount of chems that had entered his system. It wasn’t unusual for the residents to share with him, a gesture of warmth to get just a breath closer to him and the intricate stories he was weaving. The more he ingested the deeper the fondness on Sole’s face grew; his inebriation made it less and less necessary for them to hide the way they looked at him, because it was doubtful he’d remember it in the morning. If he did he’d never mentioned it before, and so Sole grew more and more comfortable in their unabashed warmth toward him.
Hancock was kind enough to paint them a hero in his hardly-linear narrations, as he always did, and Sole played the part of the lovestruck-fool in that moment as he recounted their adventures. It was hardly subtle; the way they’d pressed their chin into the palm of their hand, elbow resting on the bartop, head tilted to the side so the lighting behind Hancock framed him just so. And frame him it did, casting a warmth across the fabric of his coat and getting lost to the shadows in the divots of the irradiated skin of his wrist as he waved his hands in expression. When they raised their glass to their lips the tumbler glinted in a way that left them feeling as if everything shined around him as he spoke.
Amongst his expressiveness, Hancock had almost knocked his own hat off countless times, and so he removed it from his own head and tucked it safely on Sole’s own, drawing a low laugh out of them. That had made him pause and really look at them; maybe it was just for a second, but it was a look nonetheless before he returned to his storytelling.
And when the end of the night crept into the wee hours of the morning and his audience had tapered off into a few heavily inebriated folks and Hancock himself was weighed down by the amount in his own system, Sole led him back to the Old State House as they always did. He was stumbling and giddy, warm in a way that he only was when his community–their community he’d often correct them–had restored that in him. Ascending the stairs was tricky, but it was a dance they had long memorized from doing so with him. He leaned against them heavily, gaze resting heavily on their features, but they were busy focusing on not falling backward down the winding staircase.
When Sole finally got him upstairs and tucked into bed—not without protest, as he suddenly roused from his inebriation for just a moment and insisted he had to return to the Third Rail to speak to everyone—they smoothed a hand over his forehead. It was a gesture that they didn’t often allow themself; sure, Hancock was touchy with them even when sober as it was just within his nature, but they rarely allowed themself to return it, playing it off as a joke. They pulled his hat off their head and settled it on his nightstand alongside the purified water they’d left there for his inevitable hangover. They hardly thought before they said a soft, “Love you, John. Sleep well.” It’d become a routine for them, a quiet confession he never properly heard, one that died in the space between them. They shut the door behind them and retired to their own room.
It was mid-afternoon by the time Hancock roused the next morning, stumbling out of his room and taking several moments to recognize them where they stood, leaning against his old counter sipping at a mug of coffee. Their eyebrows were raised in amusement at the state of him, as they often were the mornings after nights like that. There was a dawning of recognition and bewilderment as he gazed at them, a pause in his movement so long that they began to grow just slightly concerned. “What? Hangover that bad this time?” They asked, lowering their mug slightly as the amusement began to fade from their face.
“No, uh. It’s the usual.” His voice was rough from sleep and a lack of water–perhaps he hadn’t noticed it on the side table. “Did you–”
He cut himself off for a moment, still staring. Sole leaned forward slightly, a gesture to continue as they waited. Hancock shook his head, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. “Nah, nevermind. Don’t worry about it, Sunshine.”
He still paused and stared for a second longer before he turned and stumbled back into his room. Sole only mulled it over for a second, turning over what he could’ve been getting ready to ask in their mind, before they brushed it off with a shrug and returned to their coffee.
Kinktober Day 3: Eddie Brock
Porn / thigh fucking / spit
Check my Kinktober Masterlist
warning/tags: smut, minors DNI, pornography, cheating, thigh fucking, spitting in mouth, finger licking, cumshot
Have you ever tried this one?
Eddie’s bed had always been a safe zone. A place where you both sprawled out like kids again, the same way you had since middle school sleepovers and late-night talks after bad days. But tonight? Tonight you were watching porn on his bed.
You had his laptop propped up on your knees, and there was definitely porn playing on the screen. Eddie had been staring at you for the last five minutes like you’d just confessed to murder.
“Tell me again,” he said sharply. “Why are we doing this?”
You groaned, dropping your head against his pillow. “Eddie…”
“No, no, don’t ‘Eddie’ me. You’re in my bed. Watching porn. And not even good porn, by the way, this is like… bad dialogue, bad acting, everything—”
“Eddie.” You cut him off, feeling how your cheeks heated. “It’s because of Mark, okay? He said I’m a pillow princess. That I don’t, you know, do enough. So I’m trying to… learn stuff.”
Eddie sat up straighter the moment he heard the name of your boyfriend. That stupid name of that stupid, stupid man he hated with every fiber of him. That asshole who did the bare minimum, who forgot your birthday year after year, who stood you up just to post pictures at the club on his stories later, who stumbled into your apartment every Sunday morning, drunk and with hickies on his neck.
“He said what?” Eddie growled, narrowing his eyes with a mix of disbelief and fury.
“I just thought maybe if I see what other people do, I’d—”
He cut you off, incredulous. “Your boyfriend’s a moron. He should be thanking the stars you even sleep with him, not—what did he say again?”
“Pillow princess.” You muttered.
Eddie couldn’t believe it. That idiot had somehow managed to land someone like you, so beautiful, sharp, funny, and brilliant in every way that mattered. He should be on his knees, thanking the universe that you’d even glanced in his direction. And yet, you didn’t see it. You didn’t understand your worth, didn’t realize you deserved someone who’d truly take care of you, who’d love you, and give back as much as you gave.
And there he was, that prick, calling you a pillow princess, as if he even had a fraction of what it took to deserve you. So many men would kill to have you just for at least one night, and Eddie knew he would kill, too.
For a second, Eddie just blinked at you. “You have to be joking.”
“I wish I were.”
Eddie sat up like the words physically burned him. “That’s… that’s insane. Can’t believe he actually said that to you.”
From Eddie’s chest, a familiar rumble vibrated. Then Venom’s hulking, inky form emerged, curling beside the bed like a shadow. He narrowed his eyes, and his jagged grin gleamed.
“Your boyfriend is a fool,” Venom growled. “You are far too good for him. We should eat him.”
Your lips twitched into a half-smile. “Eat him? C’mon.”
“Yes,” Venom said simply. “Slowly.”
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie dragged a hand down his face. “We’re not eating anybody.”
“Why not? He insults her. He does not deserve her.” Venom shot back, looking at you as if he didn’t understand what you saw in that guy.
“We already established that we’re not eating anybody.” Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose. “Even if he deserves it.” He said lower.
“Pussy.” Venom mumbled under his breath. He tilted his head toward you. “Still. He does not deserve you. Insulting you like that.”
Your cheeks warmed. It was bizarre, being defended by a seven-foot-tall alien with a smile full of knives, and kind of sweet in its own terrifying way.
“Thanks, V,” you murmured.
“Do not thank me,” Venom said. “It is the truth. You are not boring. You are…” His head swiveled, his grin widening. “…delicious.”
Eddie smacked Venom’s forehead. “Venom.” He warned him as he rolled his eyes and looked back at you. “Seriously. He’s an idiot. You’re not boring. And if he can’t appreciate you—” He broke off, running a hand through his messy hair, trying not to say too much.
“But he’s right, I don’t do much when we’re in bed, maybe I should learn more.” You shifted, biting your lip, flicking your eyes back to the screen. The actors were tangled in some over-the-top position. “Do guys actually like this stuff?”
Eddie blinked. “What stuff?”
“Like…” You gestured vaguely at the screen, where the woman was making sounds that definitely didn’t sound real. “All that moaning. And… you know. Those positions that look like they’d break your back.”
Eddie made a strangled noise. “Jesus, you can’t just—” He waved his hand at the screen, then at you, then back again, like he couldn’t decide which was more dangerous to look at, like he couldn’t even understand how you two had come to this. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Because you’re a guy!” You grinned at him, nudging his leg with your foot. “C’mon, Ed. Be honest.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Depends on the guy, I guess. Some dudes are into that whole… performance thing. But others…” He risked a glance at you, bobbing his throat. “Others just want… real. Like, if it feels good, you don’t have to… put on a show.”
Your brows shot up. “So… you’d rather the girl be quiet?”
“No!” Eddie’s voice cracked a little, and he coughed, looking everywhere but at you. “I mean… no, it’s not about quiet. It’s about… natural. Like… if you’re enjoying yourself, then yeah, that’s…” He trailed off, his ears going red.
“That’s what?” You asked.
“Nothing.” He cleared his throat, shifting on the bed. But the way he pulled his pillow onto his lap was… telling.
The laptop kept playing in the background, but you barely noticed. Eddie was fidgeting beside you, trying desperately to hide the way his jeans had gotten uncomfortably tight, and every question you asked just made it worse.
“So… what about positions? Do guys like when girls do, like…” You pointed at the screen where the actress was frantically bouncing over a guy. “…that, on top?”
Eddie froze, feeling his brain short-circuiting. He made a helpless sound, muffled by his hands.
You smirked. “Come on, Ed. You’re the guy here. Do you like it when girls are on top?”
Eddie’s eyes widened. “I—uh—that’s—” His voice broke again.
Venom cackled. “Yes. Very much. He loves it like that. He’s imagining y—”
“VENOM!” Eddie’s hand quickly moved, covering Venom’s toothy mouth before another word could slip out. “You said enough, pal.”
Venom’s grin widened. “She is only curious. You should answer her.”
You tilted your head, watching him with an amused grin. “You okay?”
Eddie peeked out from between his fingers. “Peachy.”
But the blue glow of the laptop screen flickered over Eddie’s face, and it was making the flush in his cheeks even more obvious. You leaned against the headboard, totally unbothered, while Eddie, on the other hand, looked like a man being interrogated under a spotlight.
And that pillow clutched in his lap… He kept adjusting it, like it was just a casual resting spot, but the way his knuckles were white from gripping the edge gave him away.
You grinned, flicking your eyes from the screen back to him. “You sure you’re okay there, Ed?”
Venom’s eyes were gleaming, blinking slowly with amusement. “He is not okay,” he announced.
“Shut up,” Eddie hissed without looking at him.
You bit your lip to hide a laugh, pretending to focus on the next video that auto-played after the last one. The woman lay on the bed with her legs pressed together, and a man was straddling her, his cock pressing and grinding against her thighs rather than sliding inside her pussy.
Your brows rose, you’d never seen that before. “Wait… is he…?”
Eddie coughed, nearly choking on his own spit. “Yep. That’s—yep. That’s what it looks like.”
You tilted your head, fascinated. “Is that… a thing? Why isn’t he just going in? Do guys actually like that?”
Eddie made a strangled sound. “Uh…”
Venom’s grin widened. “Come on, Eddie. Answer the lady.”
“I don’t have to answer everything she asks!” Eddie snapped, glaring at Venom, then whipped back to you with wide eyes. “I mean, not that your questions are bad. They’re not bad. They’re fine. Totally fine.”
You arched a brow. “So… have you ever done that?”
The room went quiet. Eddie’s jaw worked like he was chewing rocks, and his knuckles tightened around the pillow, his shoulders hunched, and his voice came out hoarse. “…Maybe.”
Your lips parted in surprise. “Really?”
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “It was college, okay? Don’t make a thing out of it.”
“I can see his memories,” Venom tilted his head, purring. “He liked it.”
“VENOM,” Eddie barked, his face scarlet red from how hard he was blushing.
You blinked between them, your curiosity only growing. “So it feels good?”
Eddie looked like he was going to die. “Oh my God…”
You nudged his leg playfully. “Come on, Ed. I’m just asking. Does it?”
His mouth opened, closed, opened again. Finally, he mumbled, “…Yeah. It does. It’s… different. A lot of friction. Feels… It’s fine.”
The words tumbled out before he could stop them, and the second they were free, he slapped his hand over his face like he could shove them back in.
Venom let out a low chuckle, the sound rattling through the room. “You should see yourself. Red as a tomato. Hiding behind a pillow.”
Eddie groaned, muffled behind his palm. “I hate this. I hate you. I hate everything.”
“Was it that girl Suzy you dated in freshman year?” you asked.
“Mhm,” Eddie groaned, like even the memory tasted sour.
And suddenly, the thought of Eddie, your Eddie, your best friend since forever, being with another woman didn’t sit right at all. Sure, he’d been with a few women over the years, but in your mind, he’d always been yours.
And you’d never liked Suzy. She had always been a bit of a bitch to him, controlling, complaining every time he wanted to hang out with you. You could see it in the way she looked at you, too, jealous, as if you were some threat she had to watch. And now that you thought it through, it had always been that way with every relationship Eddie had over the years. All his girlfriends had hated you, hated the way Eddie looked at you, hated how he’d cancel dates just to check on you when you were sick, hated how he spent more time and energy planning your birthday than their anniversary. How they always were number second in his life, because you’d always taken the first place.
You swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close you two were on the bed. “Huh,” you murmured. “Guess I never thought about it like that.”
Eddie peeked at you through his fingers. He couldn’t admit it, not with Venom looming and you looking at him like that, but his imagination had already betrayed him. He couldn’t stop picturing you, in different positions, straddling his lap, lying under him, naked, touching his body, moaning for real instead of the fake stuff on the laptop. And the pillow in his lap was doing a terrible job of hiding it. His cock was painfully hard, fighting to escape the confinement of his pants, begging for some release.
Venom leaned forward, flashing his teeth in a grin. “He is imagining you right now.”
“YOU BETTER SHUT YOUR MOUTH RIGHT NOW,” Eddie exploded, sitting bolt upright, nearly knocking the laptop off the bed.
You burst into laughter, clutching your stomach. “Oh my God! V, stop lying.”
Eddie sank back down, burying his face in the pillow this time. “Kill me. Just kill me now.”
“I’m not lying,” Venom’s purr was smug and satisfied. “Come on, Eddie. Tell her.”
“Please, just ignore him.” Eddie's voice was a desperate beg, proof of how aroused and ashamed he was at the same time.
You curled on your side, and you saw the way Eddie sat slouched against the headboard beside you, clutching that poor pillow to his lap like it was his lifeline. You smirked, nudging him with your foot. “You look like you’re in pain.”
“I am in pain,” he grumbled, eyes glued stubbornly to the screen.
“He is suffering. That’s what happens when you spend forty minutes hard. It’s hilarious.”
Eddie shot him a murderous glare. “Shut up.”
You grinned, leaning up on one elbow. “So you are turned on?”
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my God.”
Venom tilted his head. “She can feel it if she leans closer. You might as well admit it.”
“V!” Eddie barked, completely horrified. “It’s a very natural reaction. It’s— It’s not like I can control it. It just—“ He desperately tried to explain to you.
Venom wasn’t wrong. You could see it now, the way he kept squirming under the pillow, the restless bounce of his knee. And it made the heat pool low in your stomach. You shifted closer, resting your head on his shoulder, your thigh brushing against his hip, making him stiffen instantly.
You took hold of the pillow, slowly sliding it off his lap. Eddie tried to resist at first, gripping the pillow tight, but in one quick move, you removed it from him, and there it was. The truth he’d been trying so hard to hide. The big tent formed in his pants was impossible to miss, his cock straining against the fabric, twitching helplessly, so alive it looked like it might burst free if you stared too long.
Eddie’s face flushed hot as he scrambled through words, fumbling for some apology, anything that might cover the shame burning through him. “I—look, I didn’t—shit, I didn’t mean—” He wanted to tell you he wasn’t a creep, that he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, that he just couldn’t control it, but his excuses withered before they even left his mouth, because you didn’t yell or shove the pillow back at him. You simply slid back down, lying on your side with your back to him, giving him the perfect view of your thighs, of the space between where he imagined sliding his hand, his mouth, his aching cock.
“You know…” You said softly, “It doesn’t look that bad. That thing… thigh fucking or whatever. You said it feels good, right?”
He made a strangled noise. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”
You wiggled back against him deliberately, your ass brushing his erection just once, but it was enough to make him whimper. His hands twitched before he grabbed your hip to hold you still.
“You’re killing me,” he rasped into your ear.
You smiled faintly. “Let’s try it.”
“Right. And your boyfriend? Hmm? What about him?”
“My boyfriend? Probably out, screwing some barmaid like he usually does. Besides, you’re not putting it inside,” you cut in. “That’s technically not cheating.”
Venom purred. “She is clever. Do it.”
“I don’t think that’s how cheating works.” Eddie’s voice trembled, trying to hold on and resist.
“Do you wanna do it or not?” You said a little more impatiently now.
“Yes, Eddie. You heard the woman. It’s not cheating if it’s not inside.” Venom encouraged him.
Eddie groaned, pressing his forehead into your shoulder like he was trying to pray the moment away. But his cock was throbbing against the curve of your ass. And finally, finally, he gave in. His hands shook as he unzipped his jeans, his breath ragged as he freed himself. The heavy press of him slipped against the back of your thighs.
“Holy shit,” Eddie whispered, almost to himself.
He settled his cock in that little space between your thighs, and you shifted, squeezing them together just enough to trap him there. He groaned, jerking his hips forward, sliding his member between the softness of your skin.
Eddie’s chest pressed to your back, and he began to move, slow at first, then harder, more desperate, gliding his cock between your thighs.
“Oh my God,” he choked out. “That… fuck, that feels—”
You arched back against him, your own breath catching. “Feels good, huh?”
He clenches his hand at your hip, pulling you closer, grinding into you with a needy rhythm. “You have no idea…”
Poor Eddie was trying so damn hard not to lose it. His big hand stayed firm on your hip as he thrust between your thighs from behind, the thick weight of his cock sliding in that hot, tight space you’d made for him. The head of it kept catching on your clit every time he dragged forward, and the friction made you moan shamelessly.
“Jesus Christ—” Eddie grunted against your shoulder, his cock twitched when you shifted your thighs just enough to squeeze him tighter. “You’re—fuck, you’re so soft there—”
Venom rumbled like he was amused. “She sounds delicious. And you sound pathetic.”
“Shut up,” Eddie growled through his teeth, but he couldn’t stop rutting into the slick heat of your thighs, couldn’t stop listening to the wet little sounds it was making as his pre-cum coated your skin.
You tilted your head back into the crook of his neck, brushing your lips against his stubble as you whispered, “Eddie, it feels so good… your cock, it keeps hitting me right there—”
His whole body shuddered. He hadn’t meant to touch you more than this, hadn’t meant to let himself need it, but the sound of your voice, the way your thighs hugged him… it broke something in him. He slid his hand down your stomach and cupped your pussy over your shorts, pressing his fingers right where you were throbbing.
You gasped and grabbed his wrist. “Eddie!”
“Yeah, I know,” he panted, sliding his hand under your shorts and panties, pressing two thick fingers against your clit while his cock pumped between your thighs. “You’re soaked, baby, you’re—fuck, you’re dripping for me.”
You whined and bucked into Eddie’s hand, letting your head fall back against his chest. “God… don’t stop, Eddie. Don’t you dare stop.”
The rhythm of his thrusts got messier, harder, his cockhead dragging perfectly against your puffy clit with every stroke. Your thighs trembled from the friction and the added pressure of his hand working your pussy in time with his hips.
Meanwhile, the porn kept playing on the laptop, low but not low enough to ignore. The wet slap of skin on skin mixed with your gasps and Eddie’s ragged breathing, and every now and then, Venom’s rumble cut through.
“She’s begging him,” Venom said, almost delighted. “She sounds like you.”
“Not—fuckin’ helping,” Eddie hissed, rutting harder between your thighs as you pushed back against him.
You tilted your head toward the screen. On it, the girl moaned while her partner spat right into her open mouth. Your brows arched. “Do guys… like that too?”
Eddie’s thrust stuttered. “Uh—I mean—shit, some do, yeah. It’s—it’s dirty.” His voice went rougher. “Real dirty.”
Venom chuckled. “You like it. Don’t pretend.”
“Shut up,” Eddie growled, but his cock twitched hard between your thighs, giving him away.
You smiled slyly, lifted your hand, and sucked two of your fingers into your mouth. You swirled your tongue around them slowly, letting spit pool, until they were dripping wet. Eddie watched as if he forgot to breathe.
“Jesus,” he rasped.
You brought your slick fingers to his mouth, brushing them over his lips. “Open,” you whispered.
His pupils blew wide, jerking his hips forward helplessly. But he obeyed, parting his lips as you pushed your wet fingers against his tongue. He sucked them in without hesitation, moaning low in his throat, like he couldn’t help himself.
“Good boy,” you teased, grinding your hips back against his cock as you let him taste the spit. “Knew you’d like it.”
His groan was muffled around your fingers, his thrusts getting rougher now, cock sliding hard between your thighs, the swollen head catching your clit again and again.
Venom purred, smug: “Pathetic. Look at him, sucking on your hand like a starved thing.”
Eddie tore his mouth off your fingers, panting hard, his chin wet. “Fuck, sweetheart—don’t do that, I’ll—I can’t—”
But he didn’t stop thrusting, didn’t stop grinding his cock against you like he was possessed, and he pressed his thick fingers harder against your clit while he rutted messily against you, drawing circles over the shiny pearl.
You gasped, half-laughing, half-moaning. “Eddie—it feels so good—keep going, please—”
Eddie groaned like he’d been punched, his free hand came up to spit right into his palm, and then slid it down his cock to lube it up. The sound of him slicking himself up was obscene, wet, and the next thrust slid so easily between your thighs.
“Fuck,” Eddie growled, pressing his forehead against your temple. “That’s—shit, that’s so much better.”
You grinned, loving how far gone he was. “Do it again, Eddie. Spit in my mouth.”
He froze for half a second. “Baby, you—”
Venom chuckled darkly. “Do it. She wants it.”
Eddie let out a wrecked noise and tilted your face up, his thumb hooking under your chin. His spit dropped heavy into your waiting mouth, warm and slick. You swallowed it without breaking eye contact, then moaned.
“Holy fuck,” Eddie groaned, his cock jerking between your thighs, grinding harder now.
“More,” you whispered with tongue out.
He spat again, messier this time, some sliding onto your tongue and down your lips. You swallowed again and then pulled him into a filthy kiss, his spit smeared between your mouths as he shoved his tongue deep, desperate to taste himself on you.
The sound of the porn was still going in the background, and it only egged him on. You slid your hand down, finding with your fingers the fat head of his cock where it thrust against your clit. You rubbed it slowly, spreading his pre-cum around, making it glide smoother against you. Every time you circled over the swollen crown with your fingers, Eddie choked on a moan straight into your mouth.
“Jesus Christ,” he panted, rutting harder, his hand gripping your thigh to hold you wide for him. “Fuck—baby, fuck. Feels like I’m already inside you.”
You gasped, arching back against him, loving how wild he was getting. “Don’t stop, Eddie, don’t you dare stop.”
Venom rumbled, “pathetic. He’ll spill before you ever let him in.”
Eddie ignored him, too far gone. He pumped his spit-slick cock harder between your thighs while you rubbed his head, your mouth locked with his in the dirtiest kiss he’s ever had.
He was groaning into your hair. “Baby, I’m not gonna last—I’m not—fuck, you feel too good, I can’t—”
You pushed back against him, almost delirious from the way his cock rubbed you and his fingers circled your clit. “Eddie, please… make me cum. Please, I want it.”
That broke him. He swore loudly and rubbed your clit faster, almost desperately. The heat, the friction, the size of him pressing on you made your body arch as you came. Your thighs clenched around him, squeezing his cock so tight that he let out a strangled sound and thrust twice more before spilling messily all over your skin. Hot spurts painted you, shooting out of him, and dripping down your inner thighs, over your shorts, all over his hand where he was still cupping you.
“Fuck—fuck, look at that,” he gasped, jerking his hips through the aftershocks, as more of his cum leaked out, spreading everywhere between you.
Venom laughed. “Lame. He made a mess of you without even being inside.”
You ignored Venom, moaning and squirming at the obscene heat of it, at the way Eddie kept twitching against you, his cock still spilling, soaking your thighs until it was dripping down to the sheets.
“Oh my God, Ed,” you breathed, reaching down to smear it against yourself, rubbing it over your skin just to make him choke on another moan. “You came so much.”
He clamped his hand over yours, stopping you, desperate. “Baby, don’t—fuck, I can’t—” He kissed you again, sloppy and wet, still rutting weakly through the mess he’d made.
“Better than your boyfriend, right?” Venom said, but it sounded more like an affirmation rather than a question.
You laughed softly, still trembling from the aftershocks. “So much better.”
Updates account Check my Masterlist
A/N: I know everyone was waiting for Reggie today, but I was editing this in the middle of the night and completely messed up the scheduling SO HERE IT IS, EDDIE INSTEAD!!!
Until now, every fic I’ve written with infidelity has been the guy cheating on his wife/gf with reader. BUT THE OPPOSITE??? SO HOT TOO, RIGHT??? RIGHT???
I’m obsessed with the idea of a desperate man who has to settle for dry humping/thigh riding/tight fucking because he can’t actually fuck you. And honestly… Eddie is the perfect man for that scenario.
I really hope you enjoy this one!! I think it was a pretty original idea, but I’d love to hear your thoughts on it🩷🩷
dividers by: @/isisjupiter
Yeah. She knows what she's doing.
Murtagh Morzansson x gn!Reader: Tease
Word Count: 1,291 Warnings/Notes: Laundry day for the Reader, soreness from overworking, established relationship, lighthearted teasing, hurt/comfort sorta fluff. Summary: Having a self proclaimed laundry day, the Reader gets a visit from Murtagh, who helps to comfort them after spending too long attending to chores.
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Birds chirped with pleasant tones and short melodies. Spring had finally come around. It was quite the day to enjoy the weather and its overall splendor. Were you frolicking through fields or flying through the scattered clouds on a dragon? No, but you did have a nicely shaded area near your home. Both were far enough away from any possible commotion the other residents of the mountain could have. The only commotion around, was your own.
Sitting on a short stool outside, you were prepared. You had folded up a small blanket to act as a cushion to the stool. There was always the chance that you would be sitting there for far longer than you intended. The reason for it all, was in the water filled tub in front of you. Laundry day. It had to be done eventually, and honestly, you wanted it completed sooner rather than later. Later, you fully intended to relax your arms and back beside a very loving individual.
“There you are!” A voice carried to your serene little spot. Glancing over, you saw Murtagh stride over. The smile on his face made your chest grow warm. “Have you come to assist me?” He gave a laugh, reaching your side in a few more steps. “You know very well that I’m no good at that,” he reminded you. “Oh, you weren’t that bad.” “I tore a trouser last time.” His slight exasperation made you giggle. “At least you weren’t wearing them when you did.” “Oh,” he threw a hand up, “as if it weren’t bad enough.”
He paused as he regarded you. A flicker of a change in his face that you failed to identify. Kneeling, his focused eyes remained on your own. “Why do you tease me so? Have you a quarrel with me, my love? A stain on a tunic that I had missed its own creation? One of my own doing?” “No. Definitely not. It is you who is teasing now, good sir,” you narrowed your eyes playfully at him. “Why is that?” A smile slowly grew on the corner of his lips. “I do believe that we are at an impasse. For neither of us will admit to teasing the other.” “I only teased you because I know that you mean well. You try, and do, your best with helping with the chores, and I appreciate that,” you assured him, your hands still dripping wet on the edge of the tub. ‘And you’ll improve. It only takes practice.“ Murtagh leaned closer, the weight of his arm pushing onto the top of his thigh. “And you, my dear, need no practice.” Your heart fluttered at his lopsided grin. “You’re impressed with me, Murtagh?” You asked, glancing down from a wave of bashfulness. “Very much,” he said. The warmth of his hand as he placed it gently on your bare arm, sent a chill over you.
The genuineness and honesty he always displayed was almost palpable. In some moments, you craved it. Wished for its touch. But with Murtagh in your company and in your companionship, it was constant. A constant that you were most pleased with
“Are you going to keep staring at me like that, Murtagh?” You questioned him with a smile. “Only if you wish it of me,” he paused, the corner of his mouth quirking up faintly again. “And I was gazing, not staring. There’s a difference.” “Of course there is,” you shook your head at him. “But who would I be if I stopped the progress of your work, only to bombarde you with words,” he offered with a humorous shrug. “Your brother.” “I would certainly hope not…he has been in meetings for hours.” “Oh, so you’re hiding from such things by being with me,” you turned your attention back to the tub of tasks in front of you. “That’s just my luck.” “And so your teasing continues, I see,” he said, forever amused. “You did come running to see me.” A bark of laughter rang out in your secluded area. “You’re not wrong. Why stroll when I could be in your presence sooner, longer?” “Because you had to find me first.” “You’re not that difficult to find.”
It was easy to smile at his words, genuine as they were. You sat up straight to stretch your back, but felt an unpleasant twinge when you did. “Working too long?” Murtagh asked, his voice soft yet holding an air of concern. You frowned, looking down at the nearly complete task before you. “Yes, but it needs to be done,” you looked to him, almost solemnly. “Why don’t you let those soak for a while, and you rest?” You squinted your eyes at him, reviewing his offer. “Is that a suggestion or…” “A pleading suggestion. You know that if you were to continue, it’ll only fell worse.” “True,” you grumbled. “Let them soak overnight, and I’ll hang them to dry in the morning.” “You’re much too good to me.” “You deserve it, even when you don’t believe so.”
As you dried your hands on a small towel, Murtagh stood. You thought that he would surely assist you with standing, but not what had actually occurred. No sooner your hands were dry, he scooped you up into his arms. A small noise escaped your lips and he froze. “Did I harm you?” “No,” you responded quickly. “Just…a little surprised.”
Gazing at you, Murtagh smiled fondly. It was entirely pleasant to see him with his guard completely down. You took such a thing quite seriously, it was a great compliment.
With your arms securely around his shoulders, he walked you both indoors. Granted, you had to be sure to tuck in your legs lest you run then into a doorway despite Murtagh’s best efforts. Just past the main threshold of your home, Murtagh paused. “Where would you prefer to relax?” He asked, his face incredulously close to yours as he inquired of you. “The couch there is just fine.” You did not want him to go far out of his way to attend to you, even if you were enjoying his closeness. With a nod, he obliged. Swift footwork from him took the pair of you over to the couch. Where you thought he would set you down gently, he instead carefully sat himself parallel with the furnishing, and placed you down promptly between his legs. You let out a laugh. “Am I to use you as a pillow now for my own comfort, Murtagh?” “You may.” A smile in his voice brought out your own. The ease of which he took your hands in his and gently massaged his thumbs over your hands, easing your overworked tendons was as close to perfection as you had ever achieved. “You intend to spoil me?” “Fully and completely, if you’ll allow me.” “Who would I be to refuse such a gesture?” You added, leaning back against his chest. “It would be entirely foolish of me, I think.” “You have every right to refuse.” “Oh, I am very well aware.” “Even as sore as you are, and you still have the capacity to bring a smile about my face?” He asked, his hands slowly working their way up your arms. “Is it a rare talent to possess?” You asked, feeling the press of his lips to the side of your head. “Not for you.” A content laugh fell from your lips at his words. And as his thumbs rubbed into your aching muscles, your eyelids became heavy. “Murtagh?” “Hmm?” “Will you be leaving here anytime soon?” “No, why?” He asked, no pause in his attentions to you. “This feels…very nice,” you smiled to yourself, drifting off to the ministrations of Murtagh’s care.
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Thank you for reading!
This is adorable.
Give Every Man Thy Ear, But Few Thy Voice
title citation: Hamlet
prompt: similar to Penelope Featherington, you overhear your best mate's choice words about you after dancing at a ball.
pairing: Aemond Targaryen x female!Tyrell!reader
fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon
collection masterlist: The Truth Will Out collection masterlist: Clingy Baby
word count: 18.3k+
note: SLUTTY ANGST CLUB, COME GET Y'ALL JUICE!
warnings: not edited. heapings of angst, hurt and no comfort, fuck your feelings. tweaked timeline, cursing, Bridgerton influenced, Aemond's both a bestie and an outstanding, fucking asshole - so is this vilified Aemond? eavesdropping trope, nicknamed reader, insecurity, insults, betrayl, abundance of ye ol' misogyny, self destructive tendencies; a single, non-graphic line that alludes suicide as an unserious threat to convey displeasure. there's men being men, men being gossipy little bitches, and the most random Lord of the Rings quote that kinda breaks the fourth wall?
Bridgerton - available to watch on Netflix 🍒 this fic was written before season three premiered
Jacaerys Velaryon version: coming soon
Tonight was a celebration that echoed across the entire Realm. Lords and Ladies alike with their service maids, House guards, any available singletons flocked to King's Landing for the courting season. They did this annually. Three solid months for eligible singles to make a match and attempt to secure their bond in matrimony.
Ladies wore layers of multicolored fabrics. Lords dressed in embellished tunics. Ladies tied on tight corsets to push their breasts to their necks. Lords shaved their facial hair, appearing "cleaned up". Ladies smelt of exotic perfume and Lords stood in shiny boots. All wore sparkling, gaudy jewelry.
While the Starks of Winterfell and the Umbers of Last Hearth traveled over a month to reach the capital, your family, the Tyrells from Highgarden, had a much more comfortable commute. Greyjoys and Mormonts sailed in from the Iron Islands and Bear Island, Tullys from Riverrun, Royces and Arryns from the Eyrie. Single, available, eligible Hightowers returned under Queen Alicent's sponsorship, Lannisters prowled in from Lannisport, and select few Martells arrived in gorgeous, gloriously golden carriages from Dorne.
Everyone who was anyone descended onto the Red Keep, eager to earn King Viserys' stamp of approval - being that he only granted one couple his presence at their ceremony. It was the highest of honors, a prize to be won, a chance to show off and show out; giving the two bonded families bragging rights until the next season. Plus there's a superstition that all weddings the King attended were prosperous, healthy, and long lasting marriages. There was a buzz in the air, a static of excitement and mystery; tension brewing when the members of court arrived and sized each other up for that first week. You thought they were silly for this energy, akin to strutting peacocks, treating their own like competition, treating bloodlines like currency.
You never realized how many purists there were.
While the other Houses had to travel, you were most lucky to already host residence in the Red Keep. Your uncle, Evin Tyrell, had once been in line to assume lordship over Highgarden, but after losing his son to the War of the Stepstones, Evin turned away from his inherited responsibilities; forcing it onto your father's shoulders. You had several siblings, both younger and older, and eventually got lost in your bustling, busy, arguably large family. Evin had no more children, wife long departed from this life, and was excited by the prospect of being a guardian; insisting you come with him to King's Landing, where he accepted a tutoring position for the King's children and grandchildren.
You were absolutely romanced by the idea of existing among the royal family, telling your father it was your one chance at a decent, higher education - an opportunity to study under the Targaryens being once in a lifetime. Truth be told, you're not entirely sure Lord Tyrell even processed your words, approving with a distracted grunt and a wave; gone by the next morning without even breaking your fast with your family. Evin hooked both your beloved horse and one of your father's young stallions to a wooden cart you shared, using the journey to King's Landing to prepare you for the life you were soon to live.
You had always been a little wild child, so, Evin felt it necessary to remind you of your manners; brushing up on your etiquette, quizzing you on members of the Royal Family, explaining what would be expected of you now that you were a guest to the royals.
For well over a decade, you were the single wildflower blooming through dragon fire, earning the moniker Rose of the Realm; living under Queen Alicent's good grace. She seemed to like you well enough, going as far as to invite you to family events after noticing the bond between you and her openly favorite son, Prince Aemond. Years ago, when you were fresh and new to the Capital City, your uncle brought you to attend Lady Laena Velaryon's funeral on Driftmark at the King's invitation. You already had a friendship with the young royals; keeping Helaena company, trying to sneak Aegon's chalices of wine out of his grip, and when the time came, rushed off over the sandy dunes with your best mate after he told you his plan to lay claim on Lady Laena's dragon, Vhagar.
After the King's heir, Princess Rhaenyra's (rumored) bastard son, Lucerys, slashed Aemond's eye from his socket, you became incredibly close. Impossible close. Like unbelievably close; being thick as thieves, joined at the hip, magnetically pulled towards one another before clicking into tight place. You were his pillar of support, his anchor to reality; and he was your salvation.
You realized you were in love with him when you turned ten-and-six. It was something strange, the two of you studying together in the library and when you looked up from your book to meet his eyes, you just understood. Something in your brain clicked, heart cemented in knowing, guts twisting in sudden realization, words caught in your throat and only letting out an inaudible gasp. Ever since that day, you were acutely aware of anything the Prince did; from the way he would caress the back of your head at each embrace, to his eye darting to look at your lips during conversations. From how he took almost every meal with you, to the way he insisted upon your invitation to family, public, and / or royal events. From the way he absorbed your secrets and opinions, to the way he shared his own - getting back what you put forth, forever mutual.
Being friends - best mates, even - with Aemond was easy. So easy, in fact, that nobody ever batted an eye when they saw the two of you unchaperoned. Your friendship was wholesome, endearing, supportive, enlightening, and pleasurably challenging in the sense that Aemond liked pushing your envelope; testing your boundaries. He set new standards and helped lift you to meet those goals, made you think harder, consider new points of view, expand your humanity.
What more could anyone ask for?
About half way through the current season, your uncle sent for you to join him for afternoon tea in the gardens. "Do you recognize these?" He asked when you arrived at the pavilion he sought shade under, admiring the bushes of florals surrounding the bannister.
"Of course," you smirked, hands behind your back as you stood at his shoulder, "they're honeysuckle."
"Native to only Highgarden, just like I called you in your youth," Evin added, plucking a bloom to admire. "Do you know why they're planted here?"
"I imagine through pollination?"
"A sound guess, but no," your uncle handed you the flower. "These were imported years ago, but have only bloomed now."
You nodded, sucking the bud to extract its honey-sweet taste, asking through puckered lips, "Imported by whom?"
"Do you remember your 17th nameday?"
"Oh, yeah, I guess, it was only a few years ago. You weren't here, you were on some diplomatic matter, right?"
"Inna way. After I concluded my affairs, I returned to Highgarden. You see, Prince Aemond confided in me how he wished to do something special for your birthday and knew you missed home. He asked me to bring these seeds back."
"Aemond asked you to plant honeysuckle?"
"Specifically here," Elvin grinned, "so they were within easy reach."
"So why have they only just now bloomed?" You tried to keep the jittery excitement out of your voice; baffled yet giddy from hearing about Aemond's kind gesture.
"There's an old legend," Evin gestured you to the patio table and chairs that was dressed for your social visit. "It's said, when the honeysuckle is gifted from lover to lover, they will only bloom when love surrounds them. I believe they have come to life this season as a portent to an impending match to be made."
"You spend too much time with Otto, Uncle, you're starting to sound like him - veiling your words and talking in riddles. Tell me why you called me here, Uncle, I know it's not for a botany lesson. Out with it, please, for the sake of my sanity."
Evin chuckled, watching you lean forward to pour two mugs of tea. "I was wondering, sweet niece, what the nature of your relationship is to the Prince Aemond?"
"Oh," you blinked, adding a sugar cube to your brew before stirring in a bit of milk, "well, I hate to disappoint, but I don't know what to tell you, Uncle. We're friends, nothing more or less."
"You seem real chummy."
"We're close, yes."
"Romantic?"
You scoffed, "Uncle, please - "
"Tell me the truth of it."
"Nothing inappropriate or unseemly nor nefarious has occurred between us, Uncle, I promise you. The Prince and I are just friends."
Evin sipped his tea, nodding slowly, "Well, humor me. If I asked who you would marry, who would you choose?"
"Well, as of right now, I'd choose myself since I don't know the men at court yet, only rumors and whispers."
"And if the offer of marriage presented itself, would you marry the Prince?"
"I would do my duty to our House, no matter the suitor."
Evin nodded slowly, "If I said I had struck a pact with the Queen and Hand, what would you say?"
"That despite what I've just said, if you marry me off to Aegon, I'll pitch myself from a window."
Your uncle's head tilted back as he belted short laughter. "I would never condemn you to such a fate, honey girl! Have more faith in me. I speak of Prince Aemond - it's why I asked about him."
"Uncle, speak plainly. Have you attempted to make such a match between the Prince and I?"
"Pending a few logistics, the Crown's interested in the match."
The words echoed in your mind on an obnoxious repeat for the weeks to come, surely living a dream. The longer you dwelled on the impending match, the giddier you felt; a secret smile brightening your features, small spring in your step, an air of positivity hanging around you that even the tiresome Rogue Prince wouldn't be able to taint. The One-Eyed Prince has long been your best mate for a decade, surely, this match would've been offered sooner or later; it was a smart choice, the definition of compatibility.
Some might've referred to this elation as "cloud nine", though you'd say it was cloud 10, 11, 12, 100! You were flying high, feeling good, and mistakenly allowing your hopes to heighten while imagining what marrying your best friend would be like.
You prepared for that evening's courting session with a dreamy, dazed look in your eyes. Even your ladies-maid picked up on your joyful spirit; questioning through her smile, "What's got you so distracted, my Lady? You've been staring off into nothing with that smile for an hour now."
"Huh?" You met her eyes through the vanity mirror, the woman standing behind you to intricately braid your hair. "Oh, no, no, nothing, I'm only lost in thought."
"Which thought?"
"It doesn't matter, it's just a thought. When it becomes a notion, I'll tell you, my friend."
She repeated with a grin, "'Yeah? When's that? Are you expecting good news?"
"Perhaps."
"Fine, fine, keep your secrets," she playfully tugged your hair. "Do you know which dress you'd like to wear tonight?"
"The lilac one," you answered, lips stretching your smile.
"You mean the dress that matches Prince Aemond's eye perfectly?"
You both giggled girlishly.
When you arrived at the Throne Room, there was already more than 75% of guests in attendance; getting a jump on their mingling. You greeted several familiar faces, locating your best mate standing at the side with his arms crossed and shoulder leaning on a pillar. "Well, you certainly look happy to be here," you teased when at his side, leaning on the other side of the intricate column.
"It was Mother's idea, Rosie, you know I do not dance," he frowned. "She's not given up the hunt to make me a match. She's adamant this is the year."
"Perhaps if you participate, you could organically meet your future wife."
"Hmm," his eye rolled, thin lips quirking in a smirk; gaze turned on you, watching you scan the room.
There was another 20 minutes of mingling before dinner was called, laid out on tables that stretched the entire length of the Throne Room. Naturally, like every single day, you and Aemond took side-by-side seats together at a risen table that hosted the royal family which provided an incredible view of those in attendance this eve. With your elbow, you nudged Aemond's bicep, making him lean over instantly so you could speak in his ear quietly. "Looks like Lady Fell and Lord Blackwood are gonna jump each other's bones," you mused, smirking, adding, "though I heard she's already hiding a growing belly and is trying to nab herself someone more mature in age with the intent to trick the Lord into thinking she's having his baby."
"No," he scoffed in amusement.
"Yes!"
"That's diabolical. Blackwood's the father? Truly?"
"I'm pretty sure."
"Good for him, good for Blackwood - didn't know he had it in him." He paused to take a pull from his goblet of wine, continuing, "Hm! Look, look," he grinned coyly, "do you see what I see?"
"It's packed in here, so... No, I don't see whatever you're seeing."
He snickered, "Lady Mormont looks smitten with Lord Greyjoy, looks like she wants to eat him."
"I thought he was romancing Lady Redwyne?"
Aemond hummed in amusement, "Perhaps he is considering options, courting more than one lady. Are we taking bets this season, again?"
You grinned, "Of course."
"Lay out the criteria, what're the parameters?"
After thinking a moment, you answered, "The pairing and timeline of impending weddings?"
"The stakes?"
You just shrugged, "Bragging rights?"
"Oh, c'mon, Rosie," he tisked.
"Fine, uh, how about... 10 Gold Dragons?"
"Both our families have enough money."
"Then you decide the rewards."
He lowered his voice, ensuring his family couldn't eavesdrop, "If you win, I'll go to Highgarden with you next time you visit. But if I win, you have to come flying with me on Vha - "
"No," you snapped instantly.
Aemond smirked, "Those are the terms, my Lady. Do you accept? Or will the Rose of the Realm shy away from challenge?"
Well, when you put it that way...
"Fine," you relented. "You're eager to lose so bad, let's do it. Who do you think will couple first?"
"Does it count if I get at least one correct? Such as, if I predict Lord Umber and Lady Lannister, but Umber marries Lady Tully, does it count that I still predicted Umber?"
You mulled his idea over, humming, stabbing a piece of roast goose from your plate to place in your mouth and chew thoughtfully. "Hmm, no, no, you gotta get the couple completely correct."
Aemond nodded, accepting your terms, "You really don't wish to go flying, do you?"
"What gave me away?"
Sharing a chuckle, Aemond finished, "All right, Rosie, bring it on."
When dinner concluded, once more, patrons were allowed to mix and mingle; dancing to the live band, drink spiced wine to their heart's desires. Like the common wallflowers you were, you posted at the side of the room with Aemond, content to watch the sea of vying adults trying to establish and rush courtship. It was the most comfortable you could be at these events, being anxious in judgmental crowds and seeking salvation from Aemond's domineering aura.
"Lady Tyrell," Jason Lannister purred as he approached you with his chest puffed out, "I was hoping to hold your ear tonight. Your father was telling me about your love to ride horses."
"Oh, my father said that?"
"That's who he said he was - "
"My father's in Highgarden, my Lord," you corrected, knowing for fact that Evin always described himself as your uncle.
"Ah, well, right," Jason cleared his throat in embarrassment. Did this pompous arsehole just lie about talking to your father to give the illusion he was an honorable man? That your father approved of the golden headed Lannister? "Perhaps you would honor me with a dance?"
"Perhaps not," Aemond cut in sharply, bringing the tension to focus.
"My Lord," you distracted, on behalf of Aemond's anger, "uh, thank you for asking, that's very kind of you. Though I'm afraid, I'm all, uh, danced out. I won't be on my feet much longer."
"Means fuck off, Lannister," Aemond growled, appearing positively murderous at the honey blonde's audacity.
Jason eyed Aemond, stiffly bidding, "I see. My Prince, my Lady, enjoy your evening."
You bid the older widower the same, Aemond chuckling the moment the lion was swallowed by the crowd. "As if you'd ever dance with a Lannister, let alone court him," he mused, looking down at you. "But he had the right idea, you need to dance at least once. Shouldn't waste this dress standing on the side with me."
"I'm quite comfortable here with you," you shrugged off, seeing your uncle at the royal banquet table exchanging hushed words with King Viserys and his Queen, Alicent.
"C'mon," he held his hand in offer, palm up.
"What? No, no, Aemond, I'm not dancing - I've two left feet!"
"You can break every toe on my feet and I'd still ask you. Just one dance. With me, Lady Tyrell."
"You don't dance!"
"Perhaps the mood has taken me. C'mon, petal."
Your head turned from left to right as if looking for someone spying on you. The moment your hand laid daintily in his, you melted right there on the spot, not having any coherent recollection about how you ended up in the middle of the overzealous contenders. You realized you'd follow this man anywhere.
Beating off your immense anticipation and overwhelming excitement to join The One-Eyed Prince for an intimate activity, you kept your composure amongst everyone else. But, my Gods, did you want to scream in delight the moment he placed one hand on your waist and the other clasping yours to raise in the air at your side. But in this position, you could feel the ridges of his stomach - making you briefly feel embarrassed, wondering how you must've looked to the members of court.
"You sure about this?" You whispered nervously, but you had a feeling that was due to the intense concentration he pinned you with.
"We'll be fine, Rosie, just breathe and follow my lead. I got you."
So launched your dance with Prince Aemond Trgaryen, second son of King Viserys. You couldn't divert your gaze from his porcelain, angled face to save you from overthinking your dancing skill - or lack there of. A few times, he'd smirk and whisper how good you were doing, mind flashing to an image of you and he, married, tumbling in bed sheets together while he praises you. Everything he did became sinful to you; every touch, every glance, every smile, every private studying session setting your skin on fire and heart to beat rapidly.
It was a longer song, string instruments creating a pleasant, ideal, slow-paced, soft environment. Yet you couldn't hear the music, too focused on Aemond's single piercing eye and quirked lips. It was as if the two of you existed outside of time and reality, forgetting the people packed in the stuffy room. Aemond told you softly, "See? You're not so bad at dancing - you just need the right partner."
You wanted to be partnered every single dance from now until your death with Aemond.
"I thought you couldn't dance?" You coyly questioned.
"I said I don't dance, not that I couldn't."
To your idle shock, Aemond gave you a few twirls that made your hair and dress fan around you in an angelic motion. Dare you say it, you even laughed with mirth when you found yourself enjoying the courting season more than ever before - all thanks to your best friend and hopefully, soon-to-be intended. You were acutely aware of his hot and heavy hands holding your flesh, knowing this feeling would burn into your skin to remind you of his closer-than-close proximity. To remind you of his gentleness, to remind you of this dance and the way he gave you his complete and undivided attention.
When the musicians concluded the song, you were grinning authentically while joining in the applause to show appreciation towards the artists.
"Gods," you panted, "that nearly winded me. Think I'm out of shape."
"And you said you had two left feet," he mocked with a scoff, head shaking, but the smirk on his lips told you he wasn't serious. "You're a natural, Rosie."
"You're not such a bad dancer yourself, my Prince," you complimented, the applause subsiding as a new song began. "Though you'll have to excuse me while I get a drink."
You parted way in search of two empty goblets and one of the servants carrying decanters of spiced wine. After being served, you rocked on your toes to try and gaze over the heads populating the room. You were unsuccessful, so, you backed up to the edge of the crowd and moved around the involuntary empty loop along the wall, behind the pillars. There was no reason finding the white haired prince with an eyepatch would be this difficult, yet, you got more than halfway around the room before finally locating him.
Once again, he was leaning on a column, but he wasn't alone. No, there was a gaggle of Lords around him, all exchanging chatter about the Ladies they had to choose from this season.
"Well, c'mon, what about you, Aemond?" Cregan Stark pondered. "Things with The Rose look like they're escalating - congrats. Are wedding bells on the horizon?"
Hearing your name, you quickly scurried behind the same pillar, just out of sight but able to still listen. Look, eavesdropping was highly frowned upon, you knew it was bad manners, but if you heard men gossiping about your name, you would've done the exact same!
Aemond scoffed in pure amusement, "Come off it, Stark."
"No, c'mon, mate, I saw you two," Cregan continued, "dancing together, pressed all close."
"You two make a handsome match, logistically speaking," Paxtan Florant labeled. "Could marry someone abundantly worse, I think you two are quite the pair."
"Handsome and logical as it may look, there's no possibility I'd court the Lady Tyrell, let alone marry her," Aemond declared with a chuckle, your heart stalling and brows wrinkling together. "The Tyrells only just obtained their name in court, they're still too low born for a prince to entertain. Peasants like that are uneducated, prominently not intelligent enough to be my counterpart; uncultured, unwise, unable to retain most information we study during lessons."
You blinked in shock. If anything, you were Aemond's ONLY intellectual counterpart!
"So, she's not as smart as you, mate, so what?" Cregan cocked his head. "You don't need smart, you need fertile and capable."
Though he was attempting to defend you, Cregan's words made your skin prickle. How could they think you weren't intellectually on their level? Was it because you were a woman? You read the same books, attended the same tutoring sessions, was questioned on the same material they were and hardly ever answering incorrectly! And yet now you're reduced to your reproduction system?
The Prince scoffed, "Think about it, if I married a Tyrell, their lowly standing would taint the Targaryen bloodline."
"So, it was all an act?" Paxtan snickered, "C'mon, mate, you two looked dazed, all enamored with each other. Can't convince us there's nothing there, not after that."
Aemond chuckled, "You want the truth?"
"Lay it on us."
"I shared a single dance with her because I pity her. Don't any of you? The way she all but repels suitors? Surely, you've noted her dresses as well? They're terribly revealing, unlike anything a proper lady would don. No self respecting woman nor future princess of mine would wear something like that. It's as if she's so desperate for attention that she has to flaunt her flesh just to get a man to look at her since her personality surely doesn't reel suitors to her."
The men laughed, your mouth dropping open in offense. You're not chasing men away - look what happened with Jason Lannister! It was Aemond who told him to fuck off! After years of friendship, was this truly what Aemond thought of you? How did it come to this - the man you loved, the man you considered your best mate, slandering your name to any able ear willing to listen? How could he speak such calamities about you? Was this entire friendship a folly, just a cover for his pity? Was he only your 'friend' to entertain his own selfish boredom?
Was everything just in your head?
"I don't know, I like how she dresses," Tyler Lannister mused, the teenaged son of Tyland Lannister, Jason's twin brother.
"None the less, I find desperation unattractive in a woman," Aemond rejected, tears gathering in your eyes to silently stream down your cheeks. "Besides, Lady Tyrell isn't my type, she talks far too much. Truly, there's never a moment of silence, I cannot even hear my own thoughts when she's prattling - and it's never anything of substance, just useless nonsense. It's as I said, it was a pity dance, I felt sorry that she has little to no suitors."
"Seriously, mate, have you considered the reason she has no suitors might be because of her proximity to you? They might stay away because they feel threatened by your friendship, thinking she's spoken for - and trust me, no man here would dare compete against a prince for a lady's affection," Cregan scoffed, mildly disgusted by Aemond's choice words.
"The courts know there's no affection shared between Lady Tyrell and I. We are simply friends - no more or less - and that's as far as our relationship will ever progress."
Cregan hummed, nodding his head sarcastically. Then his curiosity questioned, "Answer this: are you attracted to her?"
"Truthfully, I just don't think she's... Attractive enough to be my wife. She's a pretty lass, I'll admit, but if she's called the Rose of the Realm, I fear to learn the appearance of other ladies from Highgarden." A few lads chuckled. "Additionally, there will be public outings I must attend, and as my wife, the people will expect to see someone alluring - someone qualified and fit for the position as a princess of the Realm. Someone stunning and worthy of the title, able to fulfill royal responsibilities."
"Gods, why're you so against this match? You're being terribly superficial, judgmental, and defensive - she's your friend, after all. Wouldn't this be a love-match? Do you know how rare those are?" Luras Arryn snarled, sounding genuinely distraught and jealous.
"And if you're so against her, why do you constantly escort her to formal events?" Arnas Blackwood tacked on. "It creates the illusion that you're courting, my Prince, surely you're aware of that."
"As I stated, her blood isn't pure, but she's also criminally clingy. She's always lingering around and I feel awkward not inviting her to royal events - since she's right there, all alone, in front of me. I only invite her out of obligation. Again, I take pity on the girl, knowing when she leaves the Red Keep, she'll never experience this life again."
"Well, if not the Rose of the Realm, who do you have your sights on?" Luras Arryn asked stiffly.
Aemond's smirk was clear as day, answering swiftly, "The Lady Floris Baratheon is appealing enough."
The lads obnoxiously cheered in supportive approval, directing the conversation in a new direction about how bloody gorgeous Floris was - one of them even mentioning she deserved the nickname, Rose of the Realm.
You heard enough, more than enough, more than you ever wanted to know in an entire lifetime; rightfully insulted past belief and violently nauseated, feeling cold and mechanical. As swiftly as you could, you rushed to set the goblets down and speed walk towards the doors, shoving past both individuals and couples; not wanting to linger where you're clearly not wanted. Where you were apparently not welcome. After making your inconspicuous getaway, tears fell faster than earlier, mind replaying Aemond's words while sprinting to your chambers.
Describing you as clingy, desperate, unattractive, not his type. Dubbing you an improper lady who lacked self respect. Thinking you talk too much - that you prattle nonsense. Labeling you unworthy and unqualified to be his wife or assume the title princess with all the relating responsibilities. How he pities you and doesn't ever want to be more than your friend; thinking you're uneducated, uncultured, unwise. Declaring House Tyrell peasants who would taint his family's pure bloodline. How you 'have' to flaunt your flesh to attract suitors - since your personality did you no favors. Marking you a friend out of obligation...
Were you even friends? Did you even understand the definition of a friend? Have you been operating in a delusion this whole time?
In the words of King Théoden: how did it come to this?
Feeling utterly humiliated, you ran away from your peers; lungs heaving, huffing and puffing, panic ready to overflow. You burst through the wooden door, fully sobbing by now, engaging the iron lock and dropping to lean your weight against it.
Most, if not all, of your insecurities were aired out like soiled bedsheets for all eligible bachelors to know. Aemond might as well have hung a painted wooden sign around your neck: DESPERATE AND CLINGY LOSER - DO NOT ENGAGE.
Nothing about this situation felt normal, it all felt terribly impossible; absolutely heartbreaking and vile, like it was some kind of bad dream. But everyone woke up from dreams. You'd never wake up from this, you'd be forced to remember and relive it day after day. Tonight would haunt you, cast a dark shadow around you as if a thick, temperamental, torrential storm. Yet every storm eventually breaks, but tonight, there was no remedy, no shelter, no protection - you had to weather this alone.
It felt foreign, enduring anything by yourself. For years, Aemond was your partner, always at your side, level headed, insightful and wise; supportive, protective, calming, and something like a safety net when you faced trouble. Now, he's left you devastatingly alone; where after tonight, the very idea of being in the same room as him made you nauseated and anxious, fearful and small.
In that moment, your brain screamed that you were no longer welcome in the Red Keep - Uncle Evin's position be damned.
You sat on the stone cold floor for the better part of half an hour before your bottom turned painfully numb. After sluggishly hiking up your dress skirt, you removed your shoes and tossed them aside, standing to swollen feet to unhook your jewelry and place everything in their safe and proper place. Then, a particular necklace made of red rubies set in a thinly crafted Valyrian Steel chain caught your eye and mocked you. It was Aemond's gift on your ten-and-eighth nameday, laid in a plush velvet case for adequate preservation. This simple piece of jewelry was your absolute favorite in your collection, a treasure beyond words of appreciation that you greatly admired, now rusting in salty tears.
Being gifted this necklace had once convinced you Aemond might've felt the same for you as you do him. You remember even trying to rationalize it as a sign that the One-Eyed Prince was at a loss and didn't know how to confess his feelings. That he was shy, perhaps afraid to ruin your friendship if you didn't feel the same.
Angry tears of betrayal fell like acid over your cheeks, gritting your teeth, clenching your jaw as you snapped the velvet box closed and with a barbaric grunt, hurled it (with impressive strength) across the room. You felt so confused, so lost; deceived, lied to, and puppeted - and then the anger flared again when you realized what family you were angry with.
Why bother being upset, emotional, distressed? You had no right because your feelings truly didn't matter - not in the grand scheme of things. Nobody cared about your trivial feelings! You were just a Tyrell and by comparison, a peasant nobody who never deserved, earned, warranted, or was bestowed respect. In fact, to the Targaryens up on their mounted pedestals, none of you mattered - not a citizen in all Seven Kingdoms.
In fact, it was almost treated as a curse to not be a Targaryen. Some kind of punishment for daring to exist amongst the privileged royals as a lowborn - which, despite your family's newly established status in court, you were still characterized as. In their eyes, anyone NOT a Targaryen was lowborn; deemed unworthy to the white haired bloodline, being merely tolerated for the sake of politics, strategy, and reproduction. It was a sick game, and the Targaryens always won.
They do what they want, when they want, with no consideration towards other people's safety, emotions, wellbeing, stability, or comfort. The Targaryens were always stationed above everyone because, after all, they were closer to Gods than men; entire family spoiled, entitled, narcissistic, holier than thou, avoidant of any and all consequence.
They're legendary. Untouchable and worshipped.
And you? You're just a Tyrell, the tiny beetle trampled under the God's boot. Beetles were essential to any ecosystem, similar to the Tyrell's providing to the Realm productions of wheat, grain, barley, and corn. Similar to your family, beetles are also disposable - meaning the Targaryens might tolerate you, but they never need respect you. They could stomp you into the ground whenever they wanted because where one beetle died, three more takes place. Where one House might falter and fall, become doomed, eradicated, or subcomes to tragedy, others step up in an effort to establish their usefulness; prove their House's necessity to the Realm's ecosystem, attempt to diminish the threat of being razed to the ground by dragon fire.
Why be so upset with the Targaryens when they can do no wrong? What right did you have? And how could you ever think a Prince of the Realm would remotely be romantically interested in you?
You felt delusional and pathetic, crying over a man who was never in your league. Yet betrayal gutted you like a fish, a bright reminder that your friend would expose you like that; offer loud disrespect, speaking hatefully, to finally voice hidden malcontent. It felt impossible to stomach that your first friend, your favorite person, secretly hated you.
Because how could he not? You did not love anyone you could speak so lowly of.
Sobbing harder, you yanked pins out of your hair, working at break-neck speed to strip from your gown, then freezing when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the vanity mirror. The reflection looked distraught with exhausted red eyes; glowing in defeat, in a desperate need for a long, hot soak in the washtub. With shaking hands, you tossed a spare blanket over the mirror, despising the sight of yourself as Aemond's words continued to ring on a loop in your ears.
Clingy, desperate, unattractive, not his type. Improper, lacks self respect, talks too much, lacks suitors. Unworthy, unqualified, pitiful, never desiring to bloom past friendship - which is constructed around obligation. Uneducated, uncultured, unwise. Unfit, tainted, lowborn blood with a lowly personality. Revealing, tempting dresses.
Your mind, heart, and head screamed that no matter how hard you hoped, prayed, and tried, you'd never have a place among the Targaryens. Yelled that Aemond's right: you're ugly on the inside and out; damaged goods, undesirable - all because you were not born amongst fire and blood. Bellowed about your lack of quality, purpose, contribution. Reminded you that the one person you trusted unconditionally never truly wanted to be your friend; that he spoke horrendously on your name when absent, didn't value who you were - and never did.
He took every insecurity you confided in him and weaponized it; used it against you, made it into a joke with people you didn't trust nor want to know about you...
You sunk into the bath water, submerging as if to hide from your own thoughts.
The knock at your chamber door didn't surprise you. Servants and your uncle had been coming and going since you first refused to leave the morning after the ball. You figured Aemond would come around eventually, too curious for his own good and still under the impression he had to play "friend", thinking his deceit was unknown to you.
Aemond called your name through the door, asking, "You awake? Could I come in?"
You didn't answer.
He sighed, "C'mon, I know you're there. You haven't been seen in four days, you have to eat. You should get some air, feel the sunshine."
Silence.
Aemond frowned, "When you're ready, come find me, petal. I'm worried about you."
You wiped the tears off your cheeks, pulling your knees to your chest. For four days, you couldn't stomach the idea of running into the Prince, just wanting to avoid anyone or anything that would remind you of what Aemond said. You understood there were several decisions left to be settled, lost in an endless rampage of confusing emotions, maids bring you full trays of food and removing them with more than half still left.
Humiliation knotted in your chest, the harrowing thought of punishing yourself for being so stupid something you couldn't fight. All you registered was the feeling of betrayal, something that inked into every single thought you had, but with it came sinking realization that you were done. Simple as that.
On the sixth night, you sat with Uncle Evin, forking through your full plate and blurting, "Don't do it."
He paused to finish the bite in his mouth, "Do what, honey girl?"
"Don't - Don't make a match with Alicent and Otto. Don't make the arrangement with Prince Aemond."
Evin nodded slowly, washing his bite down with a mouthful of wine. "There a reason for your change of heart, love? The Queen thinks it's a handsome pairing. Just before, you seemed content with the match - dare I say, you seemed pleased?"
"Things change, Uncle," you spoke evenly, "and I can't shoulder this responsibility. In fact, I... I do not think I'm capable of making my own match. I will be stepping away from courting for the time being."
Your eyes seemed distant and dark, proving serious. So Elvin agreed easily, allowing you to withdrawal from the current season officially. He understood something was deeply amiss and didn't want to make worse whatever turmoil you teetered in. He didn't want to upset you and make things worse - you obviously had enough going on.
Aemond knocked again the next day, "Petal? You awake?" But you didn't answer. He sighed, "You've been missing lessons, love, and I just... I brought you some books. Thought maybe you'd like to catch up?" When there was no answer, he ended, "I'll just leave them here for you, petal... I'm not sure what's wrong, but I hope you're all right in there... I miss you."
You scoffed quietly, wiping your tears.
Ten days after withdrawing from the courting season, you left your chambers for the first time. But it wasn't like anything changed - it was still as if you were invisible, like a ghost. Losing your best mate turned you silent, refusing to attend lessons and since Aemond was your source for solace, had turned to seeking shelter at the Sept. It was the easiest way to avoid everyone - mostly Aemond.
He had shunned the religion the older he got, though respected his mother's devotion to it in trying times. He couldn't remember the last time he was in the Sept... So, it was perfect for you; a safe space.
You were no longer seen in the library - a once daily occurrence. If you ever wanted to read, you sent your ladies maid to collect content for you; but the drive to learn and read had abandoned you as swiftly as Aemond's loyalty. The stables grew cold in your absence, refusing to ride; something that troubled your uncle gravely. No longer did you take meals with family or Aemond, always seeking solitude to eat alone in your room or the physical kitchens; the Red Keep growing dark over your lack of sunshine - that had shone so brightly in the previous weeks. Even then, when you ate, it was in small quantities to only sustain yourself; mostly feeling nauseous when food was put on your stomach.
The first time Aemond saw you, you were returning from the Sept in a dress that reached close to your pulse point of your neck. He tried to get to you, but you slipped through the cracks of the Keep and disappeared when he dodged around a set of Kingsguard. Yet it was still a comfort to him to know you had left your room finally.
He knocked on your door about half an hour later, but like usual, you didn't answer.
"Rosie?" Aemond called, sighing. "I know you've not been feeling yourself, but, uh, tomorrow's Helaena's nameday. We're having dinner for her on the terrace..." He waisted, not hearing a single thing from within your chamber. "You're invited, as usual, petal. Your uncle said he'd attend, wanted you to know you're always welcome at our table."
But you didn't show up, you couldn't bear to see any of them.
You didn't eat that night, you were far too anxious and spiteful against yourself that you refused to allow yourself to indulge in celebrating your companion.
Despite withdrawing, you still heard rumor of all the matches being made and the courtships established through your ladies maid. A cord struck in your gut when you heard the couples you had bet upon were public and engaged, but so were Aemonds... Which meant you both won; and if things were different, would mean a flight on Vhagar to visit Highgarden. On nights of merriment, you would sit alone in the Godswood sometimes; attempting to connect to the Old Gods, but they never spoke back. They never connected with you.
Tonight, you were under the blood red leaves in earnest curiosity; quiet, just as you had been since the day you found out Aemond's betrayal and discouraged your uncle from making a match. It was there Elvin found you, frowning as he took a seat beside you in the grass.
"The Old Gods do not speak to me," Elvin offered softly.
"Nor I," you whispered.
"Yet I always feel at peace here," he nodded, sighing deeply. "I must ask you something, honey girl."
"Hmm?"
"Do you... Do you wish to depart? From King's Landing, I mean?" He questioned. "I ask because I intend to ride for Highgarden, your father's nameday nears. Your mother intends to throw him a grand celebration, since turning 50 seems such a milestone."
"You ride for home?"
"Tomorrow morning."
You paused, then answered, "I would like that... There's nothing left for me here."
Aemond's words had done irreparable damage, making you feel worthless and alone. Bitter. Damaged and unworthy of any such match; forever worrying if your best friend could harbor such ill will and hatred for you, surely, a husband would as well. Yet you were not new to being a woman; you knew the role you were to play, how marriage was strategic and calculated. Political. You could be a wife, you were so sure of it; but would you ever feel worthy of love? You feared you never would.
"We will stay a few weeks."
"I don't know if I would like to return, Uncle."
He offered a sad smile, "I figured as much. But should you want to, feel able to, you may return. You, my sweetling, are always welcome at my side."
You leaned into his shoulder, sighing softly. "I should thank you," you whispered in the wind.
"For what?"
"For taking care of me all these years," you lifted off him to meet his eyes. "You didn't have to, but you wanted to... And you've shown me a father's love when I thought it gone from my life. Thank you, Uncle."
He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, humming, "Don't tell the others but you were always my favorite. I consider it a great pleasure to raise such a gorgeous young lady - and I mean that, honey girl. Inside and out. Now," he pulled back and found his feet, offering his hand to you, "come, we've packing to complete."
"Of course."
However, while in the midst of packing, you felt a jolt in your heart. This had been your home of a decade or more; these people were who you grew and learned with. Who influenced your life in the best and worst of ways; they did not deserve to read your praise and thanks for friendship in a letter... So, you swung a cloak on and ventured out of your room.
Otto was first since he was the easiest to say goodbye to. He was gracious of your parting words of thanks; telling him how much you appreciated his wisdom and riddles.
Aegon was next. He insisted you share a last goblet of wine together - since you did not intend to delay your parting. It turned into a bit of a drinking game with his mates, but you didn't mind; far too used to the company of these debaucherous lechers. Dare you say, you enjoyed yourself.
Helaena was after, your words harder to say as your emotions strangled you. She was a sweet girl, an endearing companion, constant and dependable, albeit a bit strange and unorthodox. But you loved her all the same and cried tears of sadness when hugging her tightly as a last ditch effort to convey your gratitude for her authentic and generous friendship.
You only offered Ser Criston Cole a soft, "Farewell."
Alicent was perhaps hardest to say goodbye to. After Aemond, you were probably closest with the matriarch and found her wisdom and lessons a privilege to learn. She was kind to you; usually with a stern hand, but that was because she could recognize the little girl you once were who missed her mother tremendously. She introduced you to religion, another common bond. She encouraged you, supportive and curious; sharing affinity for the histories, often reading to one another for moments of peace.
Saying goodbye to Alicent hurt. You both shed tears of sorrow, the Queen wishing you the very best and insisting you return for her nameday and other celebratory events. She told you to write, told you to keep in touch; insisting if and when a match was made, to invite her since she would love to attend your wedding. Truly, Alicent considered you one of her own and to know you were departing in pain wounded her.
King Viserys was last. He was already in bed, half-asleep, a Maester at his side; but still, he accepted your audience. You thanked him for his hospitality and kindness - especially to your uncle. You thanked him for hosting you, for allowing you residence at the Keep and the for the years living under royal privilege. You told him you'd not forget his generosity.
You returned to your chambers after that and finished packing. You didn't sleep.
When morning broke, you stood in the courtyard with Elvin; packing the wagon you would use, your horse tacked and waiting as you both intended to ride. Alicent and Helaena came to see you off, hugging you tightly one last time before the Queen offered you a handheld velveteen case. "Just a little something to remember us by," she smiled lightly.
"Oh, as if I'm in a hurry to forget you?" You mused. "My Queen, this is too much, I cannot accept."
"You have not opened it."
"I do not need to, I know you," you smirked. "Your leadership these years is enough gift, my Queen."
"I'm not taking it back, you might as well accept it," she insisted. "Helaena and I picked it out together..."
You lifted the case lid, blinking in shock and gasping lightly. There laid a gorgeous chain necklace of Valyrian Steel, a dragon pendant dangling from front with gems of bright emerald - surely a representation of the Hightower side.
"Thank you, Your Grace, my Princess," you breathed, closing the case and caressing it to your chest. "It's more generous than I deserve but will treasure for the decades to come."
Queen Alicent nodded and pecked your forehead, leaving you alone with Helaena to speak with Elvin. The moment her mother was gone, the Princess asked, "Did you say goodbye to Aemond? I'm surprised he's not here."
"No," you spoke softly, "I cannot, Helaena, it is too painful to even look at him - let alone share words of parting. I have nothing left to say, no more words for him."
She frowned, "You know... I don't think he meant what he said. He says things he does not mean when anxious or feeling as if he's cornered."
Your head cocked, "What? H-How do you know what's been said?"
"I saw it - in one of my dreams."
You sighed, "I know you mean well - "
"I just do not wish for you to think that is his honest opinion about you."
"If it wasn't, he would not have spoken so loudly for so many to hear. Your brother has never sounded so sure, Helaena, I do not wish to relive it."
She sighed and nodded, "Will you write?"
"Every week," you promised, the two of you meeting foreheads and breathing as one. "Take care of yourself, Helaena."
"You, too, Rosie," she smiled, letting you depart. Alicent clipped your new necklace in place and gvae you a final hug, watching you mount your horse, stare at the pair for a moment longer, then follow your Uncle Elvin out of the courtyard.
As you rode down the streets, Aemond came sprinting out of the Keep in a blind panic after running into Aegon in the hall. Normally, Aemond wouldn't have bat an eye at his hungover brother, but he had said something about you drinking him under the table and demanded to know what Aegon meant. Upon hearing you had "left", Aemond sprinted to your bed chambers and didn't even knock - just burst in.
Never before had the Prince felt such anger as when he learned you had left King's Landing without saying goodbye. Without a single word to him - as if the past decade+ hadn't meant anything! He needed to know, Aemond needed to see for himself the truth because surely, someone was mistaken. His brother, surely still drunk and misremembering because there was no possible way you could've left! Not without Aemond! Not without a word! He refused to believe it.
He panted, tears gathering in his eye, finding your room bare and stripped. Aemond's breathing picked up in panic, hands shaking as he stepped into your room; looking, desperately, for any sign of life. But there was nothing... Nothing, save for a letter addressed to him left on your table with the ruby necklace he gifted you for your 18th nameday.
Gingerly, Aemond reached out and plucked up the necklace. He frowned, petting the jewels in disbelief; noting the way a few were missing, some loose - evidence of your anger. Slowly, Aemond sunk into a chair and with the necklace still in hand and his heart hammering in his chest in a rattle, opened your letter.
Aemond ― I know you'll be the one to find this, of that, there's no doubt. Sooner or later, you will learn of my departure and come looking, and for that, for being unable to say anything in person, I am sorry. Though this might come as a shock, it shouldn't as I would hate to give you the satisfaction of being right by burdening you with a desperate goodbye. I would hate for you to think I am clingy, even after our friendship died. So, I figure a letter is better than nothing. Goodbye, Aemond. Though all a lie and dedicated ruse, thank you for the years of friendship. You made time in the Red Keep pleasant enough. ― Rosie
Aemond sprinted to the courtyard, flinging open doors and shoving past patrons; desperate to find you, understanding you overheard him all those weeks ago and needing to apologize. He needed to explain himself, the confirmation now that Aemond was the cause of your pain and reclusion? His heart was about to burst. He skidded to a halt in the dirt, turning left and right and in a circle as he realized the gates were open and you were not in sight.
"Aemond?" Helaena questioned softly, Alicent taking to her side. "Brother?"
"Wh-Where is she?" He panted. "Rose - Rose - Rosie, where is she? Where is she!?"
"She's gone, Aemond," Alicent frowned, shaking her head slowly; startled by his desperate tone, "gone with her uncle back to Highgarden."
"When? When? When did they leave!?"
"She's gone, brother," Helaena snipped, sending him a look of disappointment; ears ringing from her dream, repeating what he had said to you.
Aemond swallowed harshly, asking his sister, "She heard me, didn't she? I know you know, Helaena, please, tell me. She heard me?"
The Princess nodded and walked away, the One Eyed Prince turning to his mother in desperation and for the first time in 10 years, perhaps more, he collapsed in her arms. Emotion clawed at his chest and into his throat, starting to tremble, sniffing heatedly; his mother's arms tight and comforting.
"I love her," he whispered.
"I know," Alicent answered, "but she should've been the one you told." A pause and her hand lifted to caress the back of his head, just like when he was a child. "It's too late now, Aemond. She's gone."
requesting rules and masterlist
HOTD masterlist
does this count towards the Clingy Baby collection? since Aemond technically calls her clingy amongst other things?
Damn. This is good shit.
