Title: A Stray’s Devotion

banshee's lament - chapter 8.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

wordcount: 4.7k

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i've been planning this chapter for months now, i hope you all enjoy! there is a surprise in this chapter 👀

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot, arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence, talk of chronic pain and illness

story playlist

It was slowly nearing half a year since Shera and Cregan arrived at King’s Landing– she still hadn’t gotten used to the heat but she had finally, somehow, begun to adjust to the people, the looks, the whispers and sneers. 

She, albeit slowly, was losing care in such things. She had been spending more and more time with the people she cared about– the ones who made her happy. She still visited Helaena and the children once a day and sometimes would even stay overnight and giggle under the covers with the princess like they would when they were children.

Her mornings started by watching Aemond spar with Ser Cole. She didn’t hide from it anymore– as she felt… somewhat liberated from showing her eye to him. She couldn’t exactly explain, to herself, much less anyone else, why she felt warmer than usual when watching him clash swords with his mentor. Sweat dripping from his face, the little sneer he plastered on when he was particularly concentrating. It felt like butterflies were trapped in her stomach, beating against her skin to get out. It was unfamiliar at first, the feeling– but now it’s become a recognized acquaintance, even if she couldn’t exactly name it.

Aemond, as well, had taken it upon himself to make more effort to spend time with Shera. His days before she returned to King’s Landing were very structured, very planned and scheduled. He would wake up, spar with Cole from morning light until lunch with his mother, then back to sparring until early evening when he would wind down by reading in his chambers, eat dinner, and then go to bed. ‘Going to bed’ didn’t really indicate sleeping, however. He didn’t need much of it to function and found the dreams (and nightmares, to his chagrin) that came with sleep uncouth– so he laid, usually for hours, until his mind drifted into the lightest of sleep cycles. He valued organization and repetition– impromptu changes to such a rigid routine were unwelcome. 

Except for Shera– a very impromptu change to his life on her own. Mayhaps unwelcome at first, his outward antagonistic behavior to her was improper and came from a place of, surprisingly, regret. Regret and self-loathing. Usually, he attributed the feeling of self-pity and self flagellation in association with his brother, who was in all rights, a pathetic example of a man (but still his brother and wouldn’t tolerate such talk about him from anyone else) but when Shera came back, walking down that hall– she had looked so small, like she was a fragile heirloom on the verge of breaking at any moment. She could hardly walk without guidance and hid herself. 

When his mother said she was returning, as vague as it was, he felt some sort of resentment bubbling up in his gut. What gave her the right to return now? He fully expected her to be the epitome of a Northern lady, hardy and strong, unyielding. The letters ‘she’ (unbeknownst to him at the time, the words were fabrications of Cregan) sent after Driftmark, painted the picture of someone who was fine, who was well adjusted, who didn’t have to go through moons and moons of relearning how to be a person. The image of Shera he had concocted into his mind, and onto paper– an icy woman with fiery hair who would come to blows with someone rather than shed a tear– was not what he saw. 

No, what he had seen in that hall, who he had seen– he didn’t recognize her. Then, seeing the small curl of copper hair, the fur stole, the wolf. It struck him like a bolt of lightning, spurring every cell in his body into action, setting them on fire. Blood pumped in his ears and he could hardly hear her (whispering voice aside). 

She was broken. Harsh, yes– but it was true. She was a shell, behest to the terrible experience they both suffered.

Regret flooded through him. She was this way because of him, because he dragged her along in the middle of the night to watch him claim Vhagar.

I should have killed them. I should have killed them. 

And he retreated from her. He hardly remembers his words to her after she came out from his mother’s chambers– they felt vile in his mouth, like spewing venom. The primal part of him, the dragon, was unruly and restless.

He couldn’t stop lashing out at her–

But what did he really feel? 

He fucking missed her. He missed her more than he could ever profess. He wouldn’t admit it outloud, of course, he had to maintain some form of self-preservation. 

After their night in her room, after seeing her eye– there was a shift. They spent more time together and she became a fixture of his schedule. 

Wake up, spar with Cole and have Shera watch him until noon, they would lunch together three days out of the week with Helaena. He cut his afternoon sparring in half and spent that time with Shera. At first it was awkward, but they melded into one another like their youth quickly.

She begged him to teach her how to draw, to help strengthen her eyesight.

“It… it hurts to focus.” she sniffed, looking up at him. She didn’t wear her veil when they were alone, which he made sure they were when they were drawing. Her blind eye was red rimmed slightly, twitching. 

He had set up a vase on a small table for her to draw– it was a simple clay vase with a depiction of two nightingales in flight. They had just moved on from plain objects to something a bit more detailed, albeit only by a little bit.

“Don’t strain, Shera. Just… look at it normally. It’s blurry in some places, right?” 

“… yes.” 

“Okay. You looked at it up close for a good five minutes. Do you remember what was on the side?”

“The… the nightingale imprint.”

“You can see it in your mind, but it’s not clear to the eye. Use your memory to fill in the blanks.” 

“Aemond— this… this is just a test of memory. How is this helping my eyes?”

“Trust me.” 

She started off shaky, her first slew of sketches no better than his were when he had first started, but she fell into it quickly. She developed her own style, straying from the charcoal that Aemond used exclusively, and opted for more colorful tools– she had woad paste pastels imported from Dorne. They would sit and depict the same thing and come out with completely different results.

It was so easy to forget that she was betrothed to another. That she was to leave soon.

That she was to be his nephew’s wife. His nephew who didn’t give a shit about her. His nephew who was there. Did no one else think it a bit sick that she was to be the wife of someone who took a part in her mutilation? 

Was he the only sane one? 

He sighed softly as they finished up their drawings for the day. They had been sketching the coastline of Blackwater Bay– Shera went with a color scheme of blue and green and sparse spots of orange and yellow. 

He stuck to his monochromatic charcoal.

“Rhaenyra’s name day gala is… in a fortnight, right?” Shera hummed, using her foot to pet Moongeist, who was at her feet. 

“Mm,” Aemond responded, flicking some errant charcoal powder from his doublet. “A mummer’s farce, if you ask me.”

“... I don’t care much for events– but at least… your mother and sister are getting along,” she tilted her head as she wiped her hands off. 

Rhaenyra and Alicent had been working together to plan the event and were in high spirits. They were frequently seen chatting lightheartedly. 

“Half-sister,” Aemond clarifies, giving her a pointed look.

“Half-sister,” Shera says, brows raised. “I suppose it is a send off, too– since…” her voice trails off slightly, not really wanting to talk about her impending wedding to Jacaerys. She hasn’t spoken much to her betrothed as she didn’t feel the need to– she let him run around with her brother and do what he liked. She imagined it wouldn’t be much different when they were married.

An uneasy silence settled over them. There were many words on the tips of their tongues that they just couldn’t say– it would make it real.

“Shera-,”

“Aemond-,”

They spoke at the same time, standing up simultaneously. Moongeist made a warbling chuff sound that sounded like a laugh.

He must be sick of our antics.

“I should get back to my chambers– before dinner. Cregan wants to… eat with me, for some reason.” she shrugged her shoulders.

“Hm,” Aemond hummed in his usual manner.

—

Shera sat across from Cregan, leg crossed over the other as she fed Moongeist scraps under the table.

“What did you want to speak about?” she broke the silence, glancing up at him. She had put her veil back on– to her dismay, as she had come to like not having it on… around Aemond, at least.

“Do I need a reason to want to dine with my sister?” he asked, clenching his jaw slightly. 

“... no,” she mumbled, flicking her nails against one another. “But you don’t usually dine with me.” 

He chewed on his piece of mutton slowly, regarding her. “I’m leaving, Shera. I need to go back North.” 

“Why?” she blurts out, a bit more emotionally than she wanted to. She and Cregan didn’t have a great relationship, but they were… siblings. There was familiarity. 

“I’ve stayed too long already, there is a keep to run, things to do, Shera,” he narrowed his gaze. “Will you be alright… alone?” 

Her lip caught between her teeth. “... I suppose so.” she and Cregan had their moments– she thought he was a huge idiot most of the time, but that was her brother. She had been by his side for the last ten years and he nursed her back to some semblance of health when she returned from Driftmark. No matter the choices he made, the ones he made for her– they were all one another had, really. 

Her chest ached slightly that he would be going back North and leaving her here. She wouldn’t be alone, per say, but… her blood would be so far away.

“Will you… attend the wedding?” she asked then, drawing little circles on the table with the tip of her nail. 

“Yes, I’ll return to Dragonstone for it.” 

“Dragonstone?” Shera looked up, slightly alarmed. “I thought the wedding would be in King’s Landing?”

Cregan stopped chewing, suddenly looking sheepish. It was unbecoming of him. “I… yes,” he cleared his throat. “Jacaerys said that after his mother’s name day gala, they will move back to Dragonstone.”

Why does no one tell me anything? “Hm.” she grumbled, sounding much like Aemond– she’s picked up on his little mannerisms and made them her own, it seemed.

“You will be going with them and will be wed soon after.” 

She made another noncommittal noise, scraping the remains of her plate to the floor. She’d lost her appetite. 

She would be alone sooner than she thought.

—

Returning from a luncheon with Helaena, a few days after Cregan’s departure, she discarded her veil right away as soon as the door was closed behind her. 

She waved her hand in front of her face, despairing in the heat of the South. Moongeist agreed, his tongue lolling out in a pant as he lapped at a small tub of water at the foot of the bed. 

“It’s too hot for us here, dovey,” she whimpered, wiping sweat from her brow, beginning to strip the various layers of clothing she had on— she did have somewhere to be later in the day, but she would simply have to redress. “I hope Dragonstone is more breezy, lest we melt.”

The layers flew off of her, pooling upon the floor like a puddle of dark ichor. It likely didn’t help that she only wished to wear dark colors, attracting the heat of the sun to her poor constitution. Her cheeks flushed red with the errant warmth and she wondered if this was how those with Targaryen blood felt all of the time— constantly huffing, puffing, warm and sweating. It was terrible. 

Finally in nothing but her shift and underclothes, she walked to the bed, hand reached out to peel back the blanket when something shiny caught her eye. 

Investigating further, she found a small velvety box, opened to reveal a silver choker, inlaid with three sapphires. Blinking profusely, Shera carefully pried the piece out of its holdings and inspected it. It was, to say the least, flawless. It matched her silver earrings that she always wore almost down to the exact detail, the engravings even the same— long, flowing tendrils into the metal, outlining the gems like garlands. Pearls hung from the bottom of each sapphire. Her thumb roved over the center sapphire, the largest one and the most prominent. It was cool to the touch. 

Gently placing the choker down, she dismantled the box looking for a note or any indication of who might have left it. She guessed it to be Jace— did he intend for her to wear it to the gala? She would have to find a garment to match. 

Shera descended to her wardrobe, rummaging through until she landed on something that would go swimmingly with her new necklace. It was a dress she hadn’t worn at all, and had been tailored for her shortly before leaving Winterfell. It was a silver and blue dress with intricate embroidery akin to that of a Godswood, but the leaves were a cool toned blue rather than red. She had a pearl-laden head garment, imbued with a silken veil and ringed headdress of sorts, with silver moons hanging down on each side. 

Curious.

–

“You… must stay outside, lovey,” Shera murmured to Moongeist. She had received a missive– unclear from who, but either Alicent and Rhaenyra– that they would prefer if her wolf was not in attendance to the gala. She wanted to cry, leaving him outside of the ballroom. Contrary to popular belief, she didn’t really command her companion– their relationship, as impenetrable as others may see it, was the culmination of years of hard work and trust. They were so attuned to each other, Moongeist knowing when she was pushing herself too far, when she was in distress, and when he needed to step into a situation. He was, on all accounts, very polite and well-mannered – for a wolf. He had never bitten anyone who didn’t deserve it. His good conduct thus far and impeccable record was apparently not enough for him to be admitted to the event. He whined as Shera snuffed into his fur, murmuring soft nothings into it. “I’ll return as soon as I can,” she whispered. “I’ll come get you when everyone leaves and you shall have all the scraps you’d like.” 

Tearing herself from him, he sat dutifully outside of the glass door that led from the gardens into the ballroom. She willed herself not to cry, not to cry. 

She was unsteady on her own feet, hoping to find someone familiar to steady herself on. The last option of familiarity presented itself first. Jacaerys spotted her right away, putting a hand on her waist. “Shera,” he smiled warmly. “You look… wonderful tonight. Mother is going to be so happy to see you in attendance.” 

“Jacaerys,” she responded, willing a smile on her face. He was better than no one. She steadied herself by putting a hand on his shoulder. His eyes, usually sparkling with mirth, were a bit dim. He seemed… forlorn. “We don’t have such lavish events like this much– up North… apart from feasts. There usually isn’t much dancing.” 

He swallowed, his brow furrowing minutely. “May I interest you in a dance, then?” 

“Mm,” she hummed as they descended to the dance floor. She thought about her dance with Helaena and Aemond on the night of her betrothal dinner– it all felt so far away now. She tilted her head slightly as they danced. Jace’s head was looking to the door, as if he was waiting for someone. “As annoying as he is– I miss him as well.”

Jace looked slightly bewildered. “Pardon?”

“I may only be able to see from one eye, but I’m not completely blind,” Shera murmured. “You’ll see him again.” 

The prince softened slightly, nodding his head. He was grateful for the words.

They danced a bit more and mingled, more so Jacaerys talking to people and stringing Shera along. Somehow, through it all, she became separated from him, walking on her own through the throngs of people. The heat, even with her less thick layers than usual, was stifling– from all of the bodies. 

She suddenly felt… panicked, like when she was lost in the tunnels that one evening. “Excuse me,” she whispered hurriedly as she pushed through people, who didn’t even seem to see her there. “Pardon m–” 

Her voice was cut off by a strong arm pulling her around her waist. Her anxiety damped right away as the familiar smell of sandalwood and leather took over her senses. Aemond looked down at her. “Lost again?” he was wearing a black and deep purple button-up doublet, with a long overcoat. It had a flared collar. He looked nice– it wasn’t much different color wise to his usual garb, but it absolutely wasn’t something he would spar in. He was even without his sword– but a brush of Shera’s hand near his waist revealed he did have his dagger strapped to his belt. 

“... mayhaps.”

“And where is your guide? It is unlike your dog to abandon his post.” 

“He wasn’t invited to the gala,” Shera frowned.

“And you’ve… been left alone?”

“Jacaerys was–” 

Aemond held up his hand. “You don’t need to tell me any more,” he rolled his one eye. “He wouldn’t be able to keep track of you if you were the size of a dragon.” 

They fell into an easy sway– he was much more relaxed than he was when they first danced. But Shera couldn’t shake what her brother had said– they… Rhaenyra and her brood, which included Shera now, would be leaving a few days after the gala. She hadn’t told Aemond, she didn’t know how.

“You’re worried,” he tilted her chin up to him so their gazes could meet. “I can feel your unease from here.” 

“... I…” her mouth felt dry, her hand clutching his inner elbow shakily. “We’re leaving.” 

Aemond stayed silent.

“Jacaerys and I… are to be wed upon Dragonstone– and we are to leave… in a few days.” 

Aemond still declined to speak.

“Aemond,” she pressed her thumb into his skin. 

“You can’t leave again,” he stated. He did not ask, nor plead. He stated it, as if it was a definitive fact. “I won’t let you.” the same moment of rage she had seen before was there, bubbling under the surface. A vein in his neck bulged out and she could feel the control he was trying to keep over himself, over the situation. He gripped her face with both hands now, boring into her with a surprising and sudden placid smile.

–

With a hand over her swollen belly, Rhaenyra scanned the crowd. It’d been so long since she properly enjoyed an event. The planning of it with Alicent had been… more fun than she thought it’d be, and the two women quickly fell back into a rapport, akin to when they were girls together.

It felt right.

Her eyes eventually fell upon two familiar faces— Shera, her veil pulled back slightly by Rhaenyra’s half-brother, Aemond. His hand gripped her face softly, but with intensity as the two locked gazes, lips pursed, brows furrowed, clearly in a heated conversation. It took Rhaenyra all but five seconds to be teleported back to her own wedding to Laenor, all those years ago, where she and Daemon had been in the exact same position— where she had dared Daemon to cleave through her father’s men, steal her away to Dragonstone and make her his wife. 

Fuck.

–

“They think you are tame and controlled— but I can see it, the blood welling and boiling just under the surface of your skin. You’re hardly holding it together,” she whispered harshly. “Do you not think I’ve tried to devise everything I could… to stay? To stop any of this?”

“Quell me, then. Let me take you to marriage and let me cut your lip, taste your blood in the ways of old. Dampen my molten blood. I’ll do it in an instant, under the heart tree, in the molten halls of the Dragonmont– anywhere,” his nail pressed into her cheek, angling her head upward to look directly at him. No escape from madness, look me in the eye, he seemed to taunt silently.

It was overwhelming. She was overwhelmed with the warmth in her stomach, the butterflies she felt– they bursted into ash, searing into her like a brand. Shera felt the world around her chill, her extremities cold. “A-Aemond,” she croaked, her hand grasping at his shoulder with all of her might, but it’d only came through as a light tug. “A-Aem—“

Coldness spread through her, her vision fading to white. Then she was warm, extremely so— like she was on fire, panting and spewing hot breaths from her open maw. 

Blinking her eyes— she was outside, her heavy wisps fogging the glass pane on the door. Wait. She had full vision, not just the one. It felt odd, so wrong for her to be able to see all around her like she was whole and normal. 

Why was she outside? Just let me in, Godsdammit, let me in! She growled low, hands coming up to scratch at the wood and glass, nails digging into it. Her nails were longer than normal and much sharper, a deep black in color. 

She wanted in, in, in, in— her hands, no— her paws and claws shredded at the door, eyes peering into the crowd. They were gathered around, shifting slightly to let her see what was going on—

They were gathered around her, eyes rolled back in her head as she laid limp in Aemond’s arms. She saw Jacaerys storming over, already hurling accusations towards Aemond. 

No, no, he didn’t do this, stop! She screamed, barking and howling, her teeth biting into the wood and beginning to rip it apart, splintering and cracking the glass. 

Shera watched in horror as Jacaerys unsheathed his sword. Aemond was still holding her, loathing to give her up— 

Stop, stop, stopstopstop! She bursted through the weakened door, glass and all, feeling it tear at her fur and skin. Patrons gasped around her as she mulled through them towards the center, snapping and snarling. 

“Moongeist, calm down!” Jacaerys said, his eyes wide in surprise as she sat between him and Aemond. 

So she was Moongeist— that is why it felt so familiar. She, no, they drew their lips back in a growl, hackles raised. Back off, back off, back off! They screamed, snapping at anyone who got too close. 

‘That wolf has gone mad!’ 

‘Is that the prince’s intended?’

‘Yes, but not the prince that’s holding her.’

‘How wanton.’ 

They panted heavily, still feeling a deep rage within them. Everyone was too close, too close– the sounds of the gala drowned out as they looked to the upper windows of the ballroom. A familiar sight to behold– the cream colored blur and siren’s song of a voice. 

A beige and cream colored barn owl sat atop the eave of the window, staring down at them with wide eyes.

‘Now you know, dear Shera.’

–

Shera awoke later, still cold as ice. She was back in her own body but still felt the remnants of itching fervor from being in Moongeist– not ‘in’, it had a word. Warg. She heard children’s tales about it, how a man can enter the mind of a beast and become one with it. 

She glanced around the room. Aemond was pacing– she was in… her chambers. Jaw clenched, she sat up from the settee with surprising vigor. 

“Shera–” Aemond sputtered, stopping his pacing. 

“Hush, come with me,” she grabbed his wrist and strung him along, feeling more lively than she had in ages. Moongeist padded alongside them, hugging to her leg just in case. 

She led them down to the weirwood, not letting go of her grip on him.

“You cannot lie to me, Aemond Targaryen, not here. Do you see that?” she gestures to the face etched in the bark of the Great Oak– staring back at the two of them.

How silly they must look.

“Do… not… lie to me,” Shera pleaded. She approached him, her hand skimming the edge of his jaw. He was so warm, always so warm– he permeated through the cold she always felt. “You can lie to everyone else. Keep… those walls up and don’t let anyone in. But not… not to me. Never to me,” she was trembling with the weight of what she was asking, her fingers drumming against his skin. “Did you mean it? Did… you mean it? You want me here with you?”

He stilled her by covering her hand with his own. “I wouldn’t–,” Aemond murmured, his free hand coming up to unhook his eyepatch. Her breath hitched as he discarded it. The moonlight caught the concaves of the gem first, expanding over the flecks of blue, all shades of it.

A sapphire.

She palmed the matching stones on her mysteriously gifted choker. “You… you… your eye…” Shera stumbled slightly, her knees wobbling beneath her.

Aemond held her upright with one arm, slung around her waist. “Hm?” he asked in return, a playful lilt to his voice– something only reserved for her.

“It’s… it’s blue!” she squeaked, pulling his face closer to her, observing with the same scrutiny that she had when they were sketching together. “And… and…” she kept babbling, tugging at her gifted choker. “And this? You… you git! You… cad! Oh, you’re incorrigible.” her words were inflammatory in nature but she… was laughing– as much as she could anyways. It was a quiet giggle, like the soft trill of a small bell.

It made Aemond chuckle in return. The two of them soon devolved into a fit of joviality. “I quite like you in blue, Shera. In my color,” he leaned down to whisper in the shell of her ear. “I had to let Jacaerys know… exactly…” he punctuated each word as his hand made a home on her jaw, inching closer to her lips. “... where and to whom,” his thumb pulled down her bottom lip. “You belong.” 

Every nerve in her body was on fire. She’s never felt so warm, so hot in her life. Is this what it felt like to be a Targaryen? Gods, it was fucking stifling.

“And… to be clear,” he continued. “You belong here. With me.” 

Her mouth parted, she was barely breathing. She… she wanted… she wanted to kiss him. She wanted him, more than anything she’d wanted before. She was mad; this was mad. Even on shaking legs, she pushed herself on her tippy-toes, pressing their lips together. 

She felt… elated. More than elated, it felt like she was flying, skimming the clouds like a dragon, wings spread… free.

Aemond melted into her right away, pulling her closer as they melded together. His tongue swiped against her lower lip as he caressed her so softly, so gently– more gentle than she could ever imagine him being.

This was the first time she ever took something– something she wanted, and she got it. It was selfish, she knew– selfish and dangerous and reckless and just… hers. This was hers. He was hers. “Mine,” she whispered as they caught their respectful breaths. “If… I’m yours, then… you are mine, right?” she clarified, a bit less confident than her previous possessive declaration. “Quite right, little wolf.” he hummed, pressing another kiss to her temple. 

In a brazen show of exuberance, she captured his lips once more.

Things were forgotten. Namely, everything that wasn’t them in this moment. Their individual turmoils, their shared despair. All notions of her mysterious collapse, Aemond’s scuffle with Jacaerys, Shera’s impending marriage to the said prince, tensions rising between two sides of a family–

This was for them. 

The only time that either of them had taken anything for themselves in the last ten years.

--

a/n: ART IN THIS CHAPTER BY @lonelymagpies who, as always, was LOVELY to work with! they captured the scene perfectly.

it’s so cute when men are extra goofy n dumb but when they wanna fuck you they get mean and serious

all roads lead to the same destination

my destiel magnum opus if im honest. i have nothing else to say about them they were dead from the moment they said hello and i wouldn’t have it any other way<3 everybody stream it’s too late baby by foxy shazam aka the destiel song of all time. i love you parallels show<3

steve harrington da type of guy to close a drawer with his hip

Combining these and writing fic at 12am *chefs kiss*

Thanks for the added detail that made me write this @dreampencil

---Read on AO3---

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The first time it happened, Cas almost convinced Dean that it hadn’t.

It was a hazard of the job that hunting ghosts inevitably led to grimy, abandoned, pile of crap houses that looked like a vengeful spirit’s wet dream. Full of rotted wood, endless layers of dust, and freaking spiders. Dean had probably seen more spiders than anyone ever should. But it was fine, because he wasn’t scared of them – he didn’t think there was a hunter alive who could do what they do and go where they go if they were – spiders were just a nuisance. A pest of the ghost-hunting variety. Dean thought nothing of wiping them from his hands or clothes or pushing through thick webs that always seemed to get everywhere.

So, when he noticed a particularly leggy spider creeping over the spikes of Cas’s hair during a hunt, of course he was going to brush it away.

Nobody wants a spider in their hair. Angel or not.

It hadn’t even been that much of a touch.

The two of them had been searching through what remained of the rotted kitchen cabinets while Sam looked upstairs, when Dean noticed the spider. In retrospect, maybe he should have said something first, but Cas had been engrossed in the contents of an old wooden drawer and Dean’s hand had simply twitched up to brush away the eldritch creature nesting in Cas’s hair before he’d even registered what he was doing.

Cas jumped violently as soon as Dean’s fingers made contact.

The single bare light bulb in the room hummed loudly as it flared and flickered. An old radio (covered in layers of years of grime and dust) crackled to life, despite being long disconnected from the power, and poured out a steady stream of static.

Then everything stopped.

The light returned to normal, the radio went silent, and Dean’s hand remained hovered awkwardly in the air where it had been since he brushed the spider away.

Cas stared at him with wide eyes.

Dean pointed at Cas’s head. “There was a- spider. In your hair,” he explained. “But uh- don’t worry, I got it.” Dean flashed him a smile, as if he’d performed a great service, and wiped his hand on his jeans. He took a step over to the radio and held up the disconnected cable. “Cas. The power just now-”

“Bad wiring,” Cas rumbled, holding Dean’s gaze. “Or maybe the ghost.”

Dean gave an unconvinced hum as he dropped the cable and rubbed his fingertips together. Cas’s hair had been softer than he’d expected… Not that he’d ever thought about running his hands through it or anything. But before Dean could linger on any of the new thoughts he was having, or ask another question about the mysterious power surge, the air had gone cold, and they were both ducking from a barrage of decorative plates flying around the room.

And Dean forgot all about it.

---Read the rest on AO3---

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The first time it happened, Cas almost convinced Dean that it hadn’t.

The second time it happened was just part of a joke, an accident.

The third time it happened was an experiment.....

The fourth time it happened was on purpose.

BILL SKARSGÅRD as ERIC DRAVEN in THE CROW (2024)

my sydcarmy fic recommendations!

moon river by dischelvedcurls --- super dialogue heavy and true to the characters. love it so much!

it's a lot to ask of me (to believe in you) by adogwithabirdatyour_door -- this one...omg established (kinda) sydcarmy. carmy and sydney get into a fight and carmy gets sick and sydney takes care of him in the midst of the fight. definitely one of my faves.

begin again by yxurstruly -- sydney and carmy through someone else's eyes. i've reread this sooooo many times and it never gets old.

pull you right home by onelargecoffeepls -- our favorite communication stunted chefs trying to figure out what they are to each other. 7k words!!

still don't know what love means by seh28 -- angst fest. i love angsty carmy so much. he also says "sugar thinks i'm in love w you." must i say anything else?

nobody ever got my soul right like she could by seh28 -- for one the title alone makes my fucking chest ache. ughhhhh. mutual pining and bed sharing. carmy is so down bad it's ridiculous. another one of my favorites!

cleopatra, mona lisa, sydney adamu and the constant by peachybunnybabie -- soft and sweet sydcarmy. if you love fluff these are the two fics for you!

slithered from eden by sadistic pussy -- smuuuuuut and pining

gotta get up to get down by somethingdifferent -- the theories about carmy eating pussy for a living are brought to life in this fic. carmy is an eater.

hands full of plates by thesuncameout -- 100k words!!!!!!!!! i love long fics so much. super slow burn with so much pining and some pain. ugh. so good.

intimates conquering intimacy by sashafiercer -- 38k words! like i said i love long fics. mutual teasing with mutual pining.

the wild, wild berry by blissymbolics -- THIS STORY. this fucking story knocked the wind out of me for sure. super duper angsty. a MIND fuck. this fic is funny but definitely devastating at the same time. a lot of trigger warnings so be aware before you read.

Chalkboard Hearts Pt III - S.H

Pairing - Teacher!Steve Harrington x Single!Mom!Reader

WC - 4.3k

Summary - A winter dance recital prompts you and Steve to spend a little more time together outside of the school.

AN - here they are again! the crowd favs it seems. thank you all so much again for the love on previous parts, i’m so excited for everyone to see where the story is headed and what these two losers get up to next. ~ emma <3

Outside the door labeled with a plaque that reads ‘Mr. Harrington’ in neat font, you can just barely make out the faint hum of a distantly familiar song. The door is slightly ajar but you still give a soft knock before entering to announce your arrival.

“Mommy!” Abbey shouts as she barrels towards you; whatever activity she was previously occupied with long forgotten.

“Hi, bug!” You greet through a quiet grunt as you hoist her up. “How was your day?”

Steve had taken to tutoring Abbey after class most days. He had originally offered under the guise that she was falling behind some of the other kids, and while that may be true, you suspect that he really offered because he noticed how guilty you’d been recently for being late picking Abbey up from school. Your job has been keeping you past three, despite having told them repeatedly that you have to clock out by two. You can’t afford to lose said job– rendering you both effectively homeless– and embarrassingly enough, Steve knows this.

“Good!” she wriggles out of your arms, not too partial for physical affection these days, “I was showing Mr. H my dance for the recital!”

“Is that so?” You ask, amused.

“Yes, but Mr. H is not very good at dancing–” she makes a pitiful face that she unsuccessfully hides from Steve.

“--Hey!” Steve laughs, “I think I’m pretty good!” Trying to sound confident but faltering, it elicits a boisterous laugh from you.

“Show us your moves then, Harrington,”

“Fine,” he huffs defiantly and hilariously contorts himself into what he thinks is a correct position for a pirouette. He balances on one foot– the other one tucked clumsily into his knee– and brings his arms up and over his head like one of those spinning jewelry box ballerinas.

“No, that’s really good. You should keep going,” you try to trap your giggling between your teeth, but Abbey doesn’t spare him such mercy, as she is literally doubled over in a fit of laughter watching him.

“Jerks!” He stops his sorry excuse for a twirl long enough to take in the sight of Abbey, who’s still cackling so much she doesn’t even notice he’s done with this antics. A knowing, affectionate glance is shared between you two at the sight of her.

“Whaddya think, Ab? Am I ready for the big stage?” He motions towards himself flamboyantly– striking a pose with his hands on his hips. Not sensing his sarcasm, she exclaims, “No!” incredulously through her gasping, trying to catch her breath. You imagine this isn’t the first instance of this happening today.

“I guess I’ll leave the dancing up to you then, huh?”

Suddenly, her expression erupts with a look of joy that only comes from a great epiphany,

“Can you come to my recital?!”

–

“Mommy that hurts!” Abbey whines from where she’s seated on the bathroom counter.

“Just a few more minutes and then we’ll be done, I promise.”

Trying to tame her unruly curls into a slicked and gelled ballerina bun was proving to be more challenging than you originally thought. Her dance teacher's instructions were very clear, however– the hair must be in a bun, accompanied by the most ridiculous amount of blush you’ve ever seen on a child, so that she doesn’t look pale under the stage lights.

One entire bottle of hair gel and several broken hair ties later, the updo is as neat as you can possibly manage, “Alright, girl, you’re all set. Let’s go get your costume on, yeah?”

She nods as you assist her off the counter and onto the tiled bathroom floor. She books it to her room and you follow suit, but when you look in her closet where you could’ve sworn you left her costume– it's nowhere to be seen.

“Abbey… where’s your costume?” You ask through a tight lipped smile, suspecting you know exactly what happened to it.

“I don’t know…” she answers mousily.

“Were you using it to play dress-up?”

She breaks instantly– her guilty conscience making it impossible for her to lie to you for very long, “Yes but!--”

“--Abbey!”

“I put it right back where I found it!”

You take a deep, grounding breath before you truly start to overreact, “Well obviously not, Ab. Just help me look for it, okay?”

Twenty excruciating minutes later, you’re sweating and on your hands and knees tearing through your daughter’s closet; the mess you’re making is a problem for your future self. Every item of clothing starts to look exactly the same– just an amalgamation of pink and glitter and blinding sequins.

“I found it, mommy!” Abbey yells triumphantly from the hallway as she sprints into her room– beaming and holding the tutu like it's a gold medal.

“Yes!” You gasp with relief and haphazardly crawl in her direction, suddenly thankful that no one else can witness you in such a state, “Hurry, let’s put it on.”

You slip the sparkly red and green costume on her as quickly as possible without damaging the bun you just spent at least an hour on. She does a little twirl, grinning ear to ear, “I feel like a princess!” She exclaims.

In the car, you struggle to buckle her seatbelt over her frilly tutu. After a little finessing, you figure it’ll be fine for the drive up the road to the local high school where the recital is being hosted in their auditorium.

–

In the lobby, you’re looking as disheveled as you feel. Abbey held one of your arms, and in the other you carried a small duffle bag full of extra hair products and a spare set of tights. She’s bouncing with nerves beside you, and asking you for at least the fifth time in ten minutes, ‘Where’s Mr. H?’

“I’m sure he’s here, Ab, we just have to find him,” you reassure her again, anxiously chewing the inside of your cheek as you scan the room for a perfectly manicured head of chestnut colored hair.

And as if he’s got some powerful sixth sense for knowing when he’s needed, you spot him timidly entering the double doors, dodging stray children and looking a little out of place. He holds a small bouquet of red roses that match the shade of his cheeks and nose– tinted red from the biting chill of early December winds.

“Steve!” You call from where you and Abbey stand near the makeshift dressing rooms– waving frantically to get his attention for your daughter's sake just as much as your own, “Over here!”

A look of recognition and then relief passes over his features when he identifies where his name is being called from, and slowly but surely starts to make his way over to you both. If he was just smiling before, he was positively beaming when he caught the sight of Abbey for the first time. His strides increase in length to catch up to you faster.

“Abbey! Look at you!” He compliments, and suddenly she’s all bashful. The man she looks up to almost as much as her own mother is here to see her perform for the first time, with a bouquet of flowers and an unrelenting grin plastered on his face. The sight does nothing to extinguish the steadily growing fire that’s made a home in the pit of your chest the past four months.

She shyly eyes the flowers in his hands– the bouquet almost the length of her own torso, “I brought these for you,” he extends them out for her and she accepts them timidly, swaying on her feet like she can’t stand to be still, “Thank you,” she all but whispers.

“Of course,” he squeezes her little hand as he straightens back to his full height. He directs his attention to you, “How are you? Did everything go alright?” Now you’re sure you look as frazzled as you feel.

“We had a mishap or two, but nothing we can’t handle. Right, Ab?” She’s not paying the slightest bit of attention– too busy observing the older kids as they mingle in front of the auditorium with their friends, “I’ll tell you about it later,” you give him a lopsided grin.

“Yeah, okay,” he nods, “when does the show start?”

Checking your watch, you reply, “Just a few minutes. I’m going to drop her off backstage, stay here.” He gives a two finger salute and you recapture Abbey’s focus enough to guide her down the hall where dozens of other dancers in identical costumes were congregating.

You kneel down to her eye level, “I’m so proud of you, you’re going to be amazing,” gently pinching her blushing cheek for emphasis, “Mr. H and I will be right up front, okay?”

She nods once, “Okay, momma,”

“I love you, Ab,” you give her one last squeeze before sending her off, albeit begrudgingly. You know she’s in good hands with the instructors, but lately it seems like the universe keeps finding new ways to shove in your face just how quickly she’s growing up.

When you relocate Steve, he’s standing exactly where you left him.

“You ready?” He asks as you approach.

“Mhm,” you nod and smile in response, suddenly too nervous to meet his gaze. Being around him with Abbey is one thing, but without her as a buffer, you find yourself getting increasingly jittery.

An usher hands Steve a program for the recital, which he promptly passes to you before thanking the woman. You can feel his right hand just barely hovering over your lower back with a featherlight pressure to guide you through the swarms of families attempting to enter the auditorium. You don’t think it’s even a conscious act, but the touch makes your heart– for lack of a better phrase– drop into your ass. You come to the stark realization that to the untrained eye, you must resemble two doting parents here to watch their child perform.

“Alright, where are we sitting?” He asks, breaking you out of your stupor.

“Oh–uhm,” trying and failing to speak around the dry muscle that sits in your mouth like lead, “Row C, I think,”

When you reach your assigned seats, he waits for you to go ahead of him, holding his arm out as if to say ‘ladies first’, just like he did that day on the bus. It makes you swoon just as much now as it did then. The auditorium feels sweltering.

“Hey,” he places a clammy hand on your knee when he notices you zoning again, “You okay?” Oh my God get it together, you think.

“Oh, yeah, it’s just,” you pull at the neckline of your wool sweater, “It’s a little warm in here, isn’t it?”

“A little bit, yeah. Long morning?” He asks with an empathetic wince.

“You could say that,” you chuckle breathlessly, “With her? Every morning is a long morning,”

“You can say that again,” he shares in your laughter, “keeps me on my toes, alright.”

“I don’t know where she gets it from,” you sigh introspectively, “some days I feel like she couldn’t be less like me even if she tried.”

“I beg to differ,” The way he smiles at you sets you on fire from the inside out, but the lights dim– signifying the beginning of the show– before you get the chance to ask him what he meant. It’s only then that he removes his palm from your leg, and you immediately miss the weight of it resting there.

The Nutcracker theme plays over the loudspeaker as a group of ten or so little girls perform a haphazardly put together ballet number. Almost all of them are doing something different, but with huge, toothy smiles on their faces nonetheless. Originally, putting Abbey in dance served as a way to tire her out before bedtime and give yourself a measly hour of alone time, but seeing how much effort she’s put into practicing and how much joy she takes in performing cements your decision to keep her in class.

She performs wonderfully, just as you suspected she would. Always your little perfectionist. You may be biased, but you thought she was the most elegant and beautiful little girl on that stage.

When the company takes their bows, you and Steve both shoot up at the same time to give a standing ovation. Everyone else stays seated, which would have been embarrassing if you weren’t so filled to the brim with pride for your daughter. There was simply no room in your body for any other emotion.

“Yay, Ab!”

“Let’s go, Abbey!”

You both shout simultaneously, clapping your hands ecstatically.

–

Back in the lobby, your arms are overflowing with Abbey’s things from the dressing room along with the flowers Steve brought her.

“Did you see me?!” She asks expectantly, as if you could’ve seen anyone else up there except for her.

“Of course we did!” Steve assures her quickly, “For a second I thought I was watching the real Nutcracker,”

She blushes wildly, “Really?” If you didn’t know better, you thought you could’ve seen stars reflecting in her pupils.

“Totally! You were the best one up there,” he takes his forefinger and mimics drawing an ‘X’ shape over the left side of his chest, “Cross my heart.”

Abbey tugs on the hem of your sweater you were starting to become too warm in again, “Can we still go get milkshakes?” she asks. You had forgotten all about her stage fright induced breakdown two days ago, during which you promised to get her a treat if she went through with performing.

Checking the time, you saw it was already well past eight o’clock– but what would one late bedtime hurt?

“Sure, that sounds yummy. Say goodbye to Mr. H, then we’ll go,” she barrels into his legs at full speed– her signature– and wraps her arms tightly around his knees.

“Bye, Abbey, I’ll see you on Monday, ‘kay?”

She reluctantly loosened her grip on his legs and made her way back to her designated spot next to you.

 “Goodbye, Steve, thanks for coming.” You give a small wave accompanied by a tender smile.

“Thanks for having me.” He said, returning the gesture.

Feeling a little reluctant yourself, just as Steve was crossing the threshold of the double doors, you called,

“Hey, Steve?”

He turned back at the sound of your voice, looking at you over his shoulder just enough for you to admire the straight slope of his nose and the twin moles on his cheek. He was giving you that warm, anticipative smile you were beginning to grow particularly fond of.

“Yeah?”

“Would you–uhm,” Don’t get nervous now, “Would you want to join us?”

–

At Benny’s, Abbey insists on sharing a booth with Steve while you sit opposite of them on an uncomfortable, sticky vinyl chair. Steve orders a basket of fries to share and shakes for the table. Strawberry for Abbey, and chocolate for the adults.

At one point, Abbey lifts the straw from the old fashioned shake glass and attempts to spoon the whipped cream into her mouth, consequently dripping the frozen treat all over the front of her sweatshirt. You try not to fuss, even though you’re plagued with the fear that you won't be able to get the stain out of her brand new hoodie. Such is having a five-year-old, you suppose.

Steve was quick to grab the napkins at the far end of the table, surprising you with his reflexes– like he knew the mishap would occur before it actually did. 

As he’s dabbing Abbey’s shirt dry, she studies his hand and asks, “Why don’t you have a wife Mr. H?”

“Abbey!--” You scold through a poorly concealed laugh. Steve barks out a shocked huff of laughter himself.

“How do you know I don’t have a wife?” He asks, looking a little dumbfounded at the suddenly intrusive line of questioning, but amused nonetheless.

“Well, mommy used to wear a ring for daddy, but you don’t wear a ring.” She observes, “Aren’t grownups supposed to be married?”

“Ab–” You grow quickly embarrassed by your child’s lack of a filter and social cues. Again, such is having a five-year-old.

“No, that’s okay,” Steve chuckles, only slightly reassuring you, “I guess I–” he contemplates, choosing his words carefully, “I just haven’t met anyone I want to marry yet,” the only thing giving you solace is the knowledge that he probably deals with children asking him much, much more embarrassing questions, all day long.

“Oh,” Abbey says, doing some of her own contemplation, “that’s okay, Mr. H,” she comforts, like a little therapist, patting his back twice before refocusing her attention back on her milkshake.

You send Steve a look across the table, trying your hardest to convey ‘I’m so sorry my child says the shit she says, forgive me?’ with just your expression. He seems to understand what you’re attempting to get across, because he simply shakes his head and smiles like he’s trying to tell you ‘I spend everyday with her, I get it. Don’t worry about it.’

You spend the next half hour or so swapping your funniest workplace stories with each other.

“So then, we’re in the middle of a quiz right? This kid, he just–” he motions with his hands near his mouth, “projectile vomits all over the desk and the kid sitting in front of him,”

“Oh…” you wince with second-hand disgust, “that’s brutal,”

“I know!” he laughs, “I literally had to evacuate the entire classroom,”

“I feel like I remember Abbey telling me about that, actually,”

At the mention of her, he glances to his side, “Speaking of,” he chuckles.

You follow his eyes to find Abbey slumped over into Steve’s side– completely dead to the world. You can tell she’s asleep by the rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing.

Steve carefully fishes a twenty dollar bill out of his jeans pocket– careful not to disturb her– and places it on the table underneath a sweaty glass that at one point contained a diet coke.

“Oh, no you don’t have to–” you say, reaching for the bill when he delicately grabs your wrist to stop you from trying to shove it back towards him. His palms are much softer than you anticipated, and the sudden movement of his arm sends a wave of his scent straight up your nose– nearly suffocating you. What a lovely way to go, you think.

“Hey, it’s okay. I want to,” he reassures you as he pushes your hand he’s still holding back in your direction. You oblige him, only because you don’t have the energy for a chivalry competition. You make a promise to yourself that if you’re ever fortunate enough to do this with him again, that you’ll foot the bill.

When you try to gently shake Abbey awake, he stops you again, “I got it,” he says, as he hoists Abbey up and carries her bridal style out of the diner and to your little sedan; you wish the waitress a good night as you exit. It’s a dark night outside, no moon or stars to be observed. The navy velvet of the sky is completely blanketed by heavy clouds. It’ll probably snow soon.

You open the rear passenger side door for Steve as he sets Abbey in her seat and fumbles a little bit with the seat belt mechanism. As he’s ducking back out, he rises just a second too early and rams his head on the top of the car with a harsh ‘THWACK!’  You try to stifle a surprised laugh behind the back of your hand as he groans and shuts the door as softly as he can.

“Oh my God, are you okay?!” You take a step closer to him as he scratches at the back of his usually perfectly coiffed locks, having lost its usual volume.

“Don’t laugh!” He playfully scolds.

“You’re laughing!” you quickly retort.

“Because you’re laughing!”

Once you’ve calmed a bit– reduced to just quiet giggling– you ask, “Can I look?” With that, he turns to give you a better look at the back of his head.

From this angle, you can unabashedly blush and grin at him and not have to worry about him seeing you. You relish in it for as long as possible, as well as the excuse to touch him, even for a moment.

“How do I look, doc? Am I gonna make it?” He says with a faux grim tone to his voice.

“Well, I’m just the receptionist– but you’re not bleeding, no cracks or contusions, either. I think you’ll be alright,”

You grin when he turns back around to face you again, this time with less space separating you, accounting for how closely you were inspecting his head. You stay like that for a moment too long, giving you just enough time to count the freckles spattered across the bridge of his nose like constellations lacking in the sky above you, and how his lashes kiss at the corner of his eyes.

He harshly clears his throat– a nervous habit, you’ve noticed– and looks down at the pavement where you stand, inches from each other.

“I’d better let you get her home, it’s getting late,”

“No yeah– definitely uhm…” you struggle to find your words again, “I’ll see you Monday?”

“Yeah,” he smiles fondly, “Oh, I uh– I wanted to give you this,” from out of his coat pocket, he pulls a crumpled piece of paper and hands it to you. It must’ve been in his pocket for at least a few hours, maybe even a few days– the ink smudged like he’d been nervously fidgeting with it before he gave it to you.

It was his phone number.

“You know, in case you ever–” he clears his throat again, “in case you ever need anything, or there’s an emergency, or something…” he trails off at the end of his thought like he’s completely regretting the gesture and already trying to figure out a way to back track, but before he can get the chance, you embrace him in a grateful hug.

“Thanks, Steve,” you say, slightly muffled by the hood of his coat, “I really appreciate everything you do for Abbey,”

He doesn’t mention how he gave the number of his landline to you in case you ever needed anything, he just takes the win for what it is. You have his phone number, and you’re hugging him. The perfect floral scent of your shampoo and whatever perfume you’re wearing flood his senses, and he immediately misses your touch when you pull away.

“Mommy?” Abbey croaks tiredly from the backseat, “Are we going home?”

“Yes, baby, one second,” you smile apologetically at Steve for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, “I’m gonna get her to bed.”

“Of course, go,” he says as he ushers you around to the driver's side door. As much as he craves to, he doesn’t open it for you. Maybe another time, he thinks.

“Goodnight, Steve.” You say before you pull the door closed.

“Goodnight, drive safe,” he aims his sights for the backseat, “Goodnight, Ab. You did awesome today,”

“Bye, Mr. H,” she waves, eyelids heavy with the exhaustion of being everyone’s favorite five-year-old all day.

Steve waits until you’ve pulled out of the parking lot, hands shoved tightly into his jeans pockets, before walking to his own car across the parking lot.

–

About halfway home and in between bouts of nodding off, Abbey asks quietly from the backseat, “Can Mr. H be like daddy?”

Startled and slightly confused by the nature of her question, you lock eyes with her through the rearview mirror, “What?”

Even though you fully heard her the first time, she reiterates, “I mean like, because we don’t have a daddy anymore,” she pauses– thinking, “maybe he could come live with us?”

“Oh, I don’t know, baby. It doesn’t always work like that, you know?” It breaks your heart to break hers.

“But–” she pouts in that adorable way that she does when she’s trying to lure you into giving her something she wants. Though this time, you can’t tell if it’s genuine or not. “He said he doesn’t have a wife!”

You can tell she’s too tired to have a productive discussion about this, and frankly– you have not a single idea of how to approach this subject, “Tell you what– how about we talk about it tomorrow when you wake up, yeah?” You try to reason, but secretly hoping she’s too drowsy to remember this conversation in the morning.

Mid-yawn she responds, “Okay…” clearly losing her battle with the hypnotic hum of the engine lulling her softly back to sleep.

–

At well past eleven o’clock, you find yourself sinking into the cushions of your thrifted sofa, staring at the faded piece of paper with Steve’s phone number scrawled on it so hard you thought it might burst into flames and disintegrate.

The drone of black and white reruns playing on the television was your only reprieve from the rushing spiral of your rumination, as you fought the urge to call Steve and ask what counted as ‘an emergency or…something.’

You wondered, against your better judgement, what you’d be interrupting if you gave into your temptation. You wonder if he, too, is lying restless somewhere in his house just like you were– if he has someone there to keep him company, and maybe you’d gotten this all wrong. You wonder if his walls are filled to the brim with photos of his life before Maine, and what brought him here in the first place. You wonder if he sleeps with the fan on or off.

You wonder if you should even be feeling this way at all.

But somewhere, in a mostly empty house on Ashburton street, Steve is staring at the white expanse of his popcorn ceiling of his bedroom pondering identical thoughts about you.

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