demeterlindavis

[demeterlindavis]

the curse of the designated driver

eddie munson x waitress!fem!reader

Eddie is less than thrilled when you get invited to tag along to an outdoor concert with him and his friends.

WC: ~5.6k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Eddie and Reader are in their 20s, mostly Eddie’s POV, light angst, smut, swearing, reader gets harassed/groped at a concert, weed and alcohol use, brief piv sex, sunshine x grumpy, one-sided enemies to lovers

A/N: Been thinking about going to a concert with Eddie and how he’d probably find me annoying ;)

Eddie couldn’t explain it.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was about you that bothered him so much. All he knew was that life had been better before you’d shown up back in town and taken a summer job at his favorite diner.

Before then the place had been dull and quiet, staffed with only a short order cook and an ancient waitress who hardly spoke a word other than the odd grunt here and there when the boys asked for a refill of their drinks.

But just as the snow and ice began to thaw, you’d arrived as if carried on the warm spring breeze, infiltrating the drab space with your exceedingly sunny disposition.

Eddie had never been a big fan of change and your sudden appearance in the diner irked him — your presence like an invasive tendril that wrapped itself around his chest, squeezing tight until he couldn’t breathe.

Like all creatures of habit, the boys had their favorites.

Their favorite booth in the back where they could be as rowdy as they wanted without eliciting angry glares from the old men who sat at the counter reading their newspapers and nursing endless cups of coffee.

Their favorite dishes — the exact same food order every week, cooked to greasy perfection and served piping hot on sturdy white dinner plates that had seen better days.

And to Eddie’s dismay, the boys had recently discovered their new favorite waitress — one who was assigned to their preferred booth with an infuriating regularity.

Every Friday evening you greeted their group with a smile so bright that it lit up your whole face, almost as if you were genuinely happy to see them. Then you’d proceed to chat and joke around with the guys like you were all old friends, asking them questions about their lives as though you actually cared.

And every single traitorous member of the Hellfire Club bought into your cheerful facade.

Well, all except one.

Before long, Eddie stopped looking forward to the outings that had once been an enjoyable post-Hellfire tradition, dread sinking like a lead weight in his stomach every time he pulled into the diner parking lot.

Sometimes he would sit outside in his van for a few minutes and watch your silhouette in the restaurant’s front window. The outline of your body backlit by fluorescent light causing his heart to race and his palms to get sweaty — an obvious stress response to an unwanted intruder.

And you were an intruder.

He hated the sweet way you smiled down at him every time you asked him what he wanted, even though you had to know by then that he never ordered any food. Since you’d come around he barely had an appetite.

He despised how you’d stand there waiting for his answer with a teasing smirk on your perfect lips, forcing him to play your little game while your eyes twinkled and danced with mischief; pen in hand, nose crinkled in amusement.

Detested the way you said his name in a voice that was as soft as the down of a dandelion before it’s stolen by a gentle summer breeze.

“Do you want anything, Eddie?”

A loaded question. He wanted so many things in life, but most of all he wanted to be free. Free from his agony. Free from the curse of your suffocating presence.

But he couldn’t exactly say that to you, could he?

You always listed off the daily specials to the table in a pointless exercise, the soothing lilt of your voice making Eddie’s stomach twist in knots of discomfort.

“Escargot. Chef Salad. Foie gras—”

“Those aren’t on the menu,” he’d interrupted one day, glaring up in annoyance at your smiling face.

“I know.” You had grinned, eyes alight as you gave him a saucy little wink. “Just wanted to check if you were listening.”

Since he never ordered anything, you’d gotten in the habit of bringing him a tall glass of ice water and teasing that it was on the house for being the designated driver.

You giggled every damn time you set it down in front of him and he’d sigh and roll his eyes, never once giving you the satisfaction of taking a sip.

He would have rather died of thirst.

Eddie wasn’t sure who you thought you were, but you weren’t going to just waltz into his life and win him over with some cheesy jokes and mindless chit chat like you had with the rest of the Hellfire crew.

He wasn’t so easy.

The trouble with the concert had started the same way everything always did with Henderson — he just opened his mouth and the words had poured out without any forethought or consideration for their implications.

While the teen’s impulsiveness was normally seen as an endearing quality by his friends, Eddie hadn’t been impressed. Not at all.

The guys were extra wound up that night, talking non-stop about their upcoming plans — an outdoor rock concert that was taking place the following evening in a field about an hour outside town.

Eddie had organized the road trip and even though the lineup only consisted of a few metal cover bands, it still promised to be a fun way for them to kick off the beginning of summer. It wasn’t exactly Madison Square Garden, but it was enough to keep Eddie satisfied until he could afford to travel and see real metal bands in the city and beyond.

The boys had been excitedly filling you in on their plans while you took their usual food orders, and your reaction to their news had taken Eddie by surprise.

“Oh, I’m so jealous! I wish I could have gotten a ticket but they sold out before I had a chance.”

You stuck out your lower lip in what Eddie imagined might have been an adorably playful pout — if it had been anyone but you.

“No way!” Dustin had smiled, his clever mind working a mile a minute. “Our friend Steve just found out he can’t make it, so we have an extra ticket. You should come!”

Eddie’s heart pounded in his chest, pumping hard and fast as his eyes darted to his friend in a silent plea for him to shut the fuck up for the love of all that was good and holy.

You gave a quick shake of your head. “No, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

But Dustin insisted.

“The lady said she can’t,” Eddie hissed under his breath from between bared teeth. “Let it go.”

But Dustin had never let anything go in his life and he certainly wasn’t about to start when someone was in need. A damsel in distress? Forget about it.

“What about the ratio?” Dustin asked, looking over at Eddie with bright-eyed innocence.

Dustin then looked up at you to explain. “Our friend Steve always insists on a one adult to three teen ratio whenever we travel anywhere together, ever since we had an incident last summer.”

“Ratio, huh?” You held back a giggle as Eddie ran a hand down over his face in exasperation. He was finished fighting. He knew Dustin would never give it up.

“Eddie’s driving us all there in his van. He can pick you up,” Dustin offered as Eddie shot him another deathly glare that went unnoticed by the overly helpful teen.

“Well, if it’s okay with Eddie.” You glanced at the grumpy metalhead who gave a reluctant nod without meeting your eyes, his shoulders sagging under the weight of resignation.

You wrote your phone number down on your notepad and tore off a little strip of paper and handed it to Eddie. “Here’s my number. In case you need to call.”

He tucked it into his jacket pocket, not because he ever planned to use it, but because he didn’t want to toss it away right in front of you. That would have been rude.

“Gates open around eight, so we’re leaving town a a little early. Where do you live?” Eddie asked, looking down at the ice cubes floating in his glass. His mouth was suddenly much too dry, but he refused to give in and take a drink. Refused to let you have that little victory.

You told him the address to your apartment building and he nodded in recognition. “Yeah, I know where that is. We’ll be there at six-thirty. Don’t be late.”

After leaving the diner and dropping of the guys, Eddie grumbled to himself the whole drive home, hands clenched on the steering wheel as fumed about the fact that you were going to ruin everything.

Living in a small town meant he didn’t get many chances to see live metal shows and now instead of enjoying himself he was going to be stuck babysitting you, all thanks to Dustin and his big mouth.

Steve Harrington may have had his faults, but the prospect of hanging out with him for a few hours at a concert was much better than the imagined hell of being trapped with you.

Anything would have been better.

Fuck.

The next evening when Eddie pulled up outside your building at six-thirty sharp, he was surprised to see that you were already outside waiting.

You were leaning up against a lamp post looking like a vixen straight out of a heavy metal music video — your bland diner uniform replaced by a pair of frayed cutoff jean shorts, a red bustier and black leather jacket adorned with shiny silver zippers.

When you saw the van approach, you waved and bent down to grab the backpack that was sitting at your feet. As you walked towards them, Eddie couldn’t help but think you looked just like a real life rock n’ roll goddess, all legs and cleavage and blinding smile.

“Holy shit.”

One of the guys in the back let out the exclamation in wonder as they watched you approach the vehicle with their mouths hanging open, and Eddie turned his head over his shoulder to issue a stern warning.

“Shut the fuck up. Not a single word about it.”

Eddie had made the guys all sit in the back, leaving the passenger seat free for you — something that he’d told Dustin was punishment for his blabbermouth the night before. He’d never intended to make you sit in the back, but it helped him get his point across. Not wanting to piss Eddie off any further, the guys heeded his curt command.

The van was silent as you opened the passenger door and climbed inside.

“Hey, guys.” You ignored your cold reception from Eddie and turned to speak to the teens in the back, lifting your eyebrows up and down and giving them a wicked smile. “Ready to have some fun?”

They all grinned and nodded, while tossing worried glances in Eddie’s direction. You noticed how none of them looked directly at you or said a single word.

You scrunched your nose at the strange behaviour of the normally rambunctious group, then turned and fastened your seatbelt as Eddie put the van in gear and headed out onto the road.

The whole drive out of town Eddie was silent as you chatted with the younger guys. He kept an iron grip on the steering wheel while telling himself over and over not to look at you. Told himself not to steal a glance at the way your chest was pushed up in that top or at the smooth skin of your legs revealed in your cutoff shorts.

It was the worst hour and ten minutes of his life.

When you finally arrived at the gate to the venue, he pulled the van into the improvised parking lot that had been cordoned off in the field just to the side of the main road.

“We’re going to have to walk a little ways in to the concert site,” he said turning to you. “Hope you don’t mind a hike.”

“Nope, that’s why I’ve got these puppies.” You pointed to your high top sneakers. “I always dress prepared for an outdoor concert. Cute on top and functional on the bottom.”

He heaved a sigh as he opened his door. The night had barely even begun and he could already tell it was going to be unbearable.

As you walked up the dirt road that lead to the site, the younger guys started to rush ahead and mingle with the different groups of people they recognized from school.

Eddie called out to their retreating backs for them meet him back at the van after the show if they got separated. Gareth gave him a thumbs up before he and the other boys disappeared into the crowd.

So much for the ratio.

“I guess I’ll stick with you, if that’s okay?” you asked and Eddie nodded while looking straight ahead, his heart filled with the hopelessness of despair.

“So you’re a big fan of Dio, huh?” You asked gesturing to the back of his battle vest.

“Yeah.” He nodded, certain you had no idea who that was.

“He’s a better vocalist but I still prefer Ozzy with Sabbath,” you said ever so casually and Eddie had to fight hard to play it cool.

“To some that’s a controversial opinion. Not to me, but to some.”

You hummed in agreement and he let out an impressed chuckle despite himself.

As the two of you walked on, you continued to talk about music and to Eddie’s surprise your taste wasn’t completely horrible. You actually knew a lot more about metal than he’d expected.

“Metallica are my favorite, but I really like Iron Maiden and Accept,” you told him. “There's just something about a guy with a deep, raspy singing voice, you know?”

He nodded, unsure of why hearing you say that made him feel funny.

“Do you still have a band?” you continued. “ You had one back in High School. Corroded Coffin, right?”

He sucked in a harsh breath, trying to reign in his surprise that you knew about his band.

He remembered you from high school, one of the cute and friendly girls who never would have given him the time of day, or so he had assumed.

“Uh yeah, we play at the Hideout every week. You should come see us sometime.”

Instant regret curdled in his stomach as soon as the thoughtless words passed his lips. Why the fuck had he said that?

“We’re not very good or anything, so don’t get your hopes up,” he rushed to add as you giggled at his modesty.

You looked over at him with a playful grin. “I’d like to see you play. Sounds like fun.”

He breathed a deep sigh of relief even though he knew you were just being nice.

You were nice.

When you reached the concert site at the top of the hill, the field was already swarming with people. After you went through the gate and before you headed into the thick of the crowd, Eddie turned to you and held out his hand.

“Hold onto me okay? So you don’t get lost.”

You held on tight as he led you towards the front of the crowd, weaving through the writhing sea of bodies until you got to a spot to the side with a good view of the stage.

As Eddie looked around to get his bearings, he realized that he was still holding onto your hand and quickly dropped it, shoving his into the safety of his jacket pocket.

Dusk was just starting to settle on the horizon and the smell of weed and cheap beer permeated the noisy crowd.

The roadies were on stage doing a final tune up when you pulled out a joint that you’d concealed in your top, one place that the guy at the gate had the decency not to search. You held it up and your lips curled into a grin. “Care for some refreshments?”

Eddie smiled despite himself as you placed the joint between your lips. He pulled out his lighter and lit the end as you inhaled deeply. Then he watched as you exhaled a perfect smoke ring up toward the darkening sky before passing him the joint.

“Just hold it like a cigarette and no one will notice,” you instructed.

Maybe you weren’t as terrible as he’d thought.

The first act was a Metallica cover band and when you heard the opening notes of Master of Puppets you bounced up and down, then turned and grabbed onto his arm. His cock twitched when he felt your nails dig into the leather.

“I love this song!”

He gave you a knowing grin, resisting the urge to tell you that he could play the whole song from memory. Maybe someday he’d surprise you and play it for you.

He let his mind wander for just a second and thought about what it would be like to play for you in his room, with you sitting on his bed looking up at him the same way you were looking at the musicians on the stage.

It was strange how easily he could picture it.

“They’re fucking amazing,” you yelled over the noise and he smiled, bobbing his head along to the music. Glancing over every once and while during the show to watch the radiant joy on your face.

Fucking amazing.

A few hours later when the show was over, you both trudged back to the van, staying close as you moved through the throngs of people heading down the path from site, still high on the excitement of the show.

Seemingly out of nowhere an inebriated guy with a shaved head came tumbling through the crowd behind you and snaked his arm around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. You looked over at Eddie with a helpless expression as you struggled to wriggle free of his grasp, jamming your elbow into his side to no avail.

“What’s your name sweet thing?” You registered the scent of stale beer on his breath as it fanned over the side of your face.

“Hey, asshole! Get your hands off my fucking girl.”

Eddie’s eyes were alight with a fire you’d never seen before, his jaw set in determination as he gripped the man’s collar and shoved him backwards away from you, nearly knocking him off his feet.

The man chuckled as he backed off and threw his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, man. Thought the little lady was alone.”

Eddie moved to push him again, but you stopped him with a hand pressed to his chest and the drunk guy wandered off, patting Eddie on the shoulder with a chuckle as he passed.

“Good for you, man.”

Eddie watched him walk away with an indecipherable expression on his face before he quickly turned to you.

“Are you okay?” he asked, adrenaline still pumping through his veins. The sight of that guy grabbing you had made him feel out of control, his whole body wired like a coil under pressure.

“Yeah.” You sounded a little shook up, but you gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks. It’s not easy at these shows sometimes…too much macho energy, you know?”

He nodded, ashamed that you had to deal with bullshit like that just to enjoy live music.

The rest of the way back to the van you kept close to each other, your shoulders nearly touching as you walked.

When you got back to the parking lot the others still hadn’t arrived, so you waited outside the van together. Eddie had a smoke and you drank some water from the thermos you’d left in your bag.

“Want a drink?” You offered, and he gratefully accepted, taking a long swig and sighing with relief. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was.

“Thanks, I needed that.” He handed it back to you.

You nodded as you took it from him and twisted on the cover. “Well, I kind of owe you for helping me out back there.”

He looked at your face lit only by moonlight, your eyes so soft and sweet. The way you were looking at him made him start to feel a little dizzy.

“Anytime.” His gaze lowered to the ground and he kicked at the dirt with the toe of his sneaker, unsure of why it was suddenly so hard to look at you.

“It’s funny because nobody who knows you would ever believe it, would they?”

“Huh?” He glanced up with a furrowed brow, not quite following your line of reasoning.

“That I was your girl.” You leaned back against the van, speaking with such carefree ease that your words caught him off guard. “I know you think I’m annoying. You don’t hide it very well.”

Underneath the breezy delivery Eddie detected a note of something else. Was it hurt? Fuck.

Fuck.

“I’m not—I don’t think that.” He moved a little closer, as if decreasing distance between you could somehow bridge the dejection in your voice. He caught a whiff of your perfume, a scent that had haunted him for so long but that he hated a little less in the moment.

“You don’t?” You sounded surprised.

He leaned in close enough that his battle vest brushed against your chest and you straightened up slightly, your breath coming out a bit faster as your back pressed against the cool exterior of the van.

“No.” His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip while his eyes dipped to your mouth. “I actually really—”

Before he could say anything else your head turned toward the sudden flurry of activity over his shoulder as the younger guys arrived back at the van.

“Holy shit! That was crazy, right?” Dustin slapped Eddie on the back, his voice still at top volume due to the ringing in his ears.

Eddie stepped back and in an instant the moment between the two of you was broken, shattered like the glass that shone on the surface of the parking lot.

You gave Eddie a wry grin before you turned to walk around the van, then opened the passenger door and got inside.

During the ride home in the dark you were quiet, eventually lulled to sleep by the gentle motion of the van. Eddie glanced over at you and saw that you had kicked off your muddy sneakers and curled your bare feet underneath you.

He turned down the radio and told the guys in the back to keep it quiet.

About twenty minutes outside town he stopped for gas and before he got back in the van, he took off his battle vest and gently laid it over you.

When he got back to Hawkins, he took the guys home first, making the longer trek through town to drop them off and then circled back to your place.

When he pulled up outside your building he lifted his battle vest and shook your arm to wake you, stirring you from a dream that faded as soon as you opened your eyes.

“Oh, we’re already here?” you asked fuzzily, looking around the empty van as you realized you’d slept the whole way home. “Sorry, the weed must have really knocked me out.”

He chuckled softly and told you that you had no reason to be sorry.

You slid your sneakers back on and grabbed your bag, then reached out to open the door. But you hesitated, your fingers flexing on the metal handle.

“This was really fun. Thanks for letting me tag along,” you said and he nodded, unable to find the right words to fit the moment.

You paused a little longer and he kept his eyes locked on your hand that still rested on the handle. He held his breath.

“I know it’s late, but would you like to come in? I have some beer,” you offered hopefully.

He quickly shook his head and frowned. “Nah, I’m good.”

Eddie wasn’t sure why he said what he said. He wanted to go inside with you. He’d never wanted anything so badly in all his life.

You looked a little embarrassed and he knew that he should say something to explain why he couldn’t stay. A little white lie to soothe the crinkle in your brow.

Instead he just sat there as you opened the door. You gave him a weak smile. “Ok, then. I guess I’ll see you around.”

He watched you walk inside your building, regret exploding like fireworks in his chest. You never looked back, but he waited until you were safely inside the front door before he started up the van.

He turned the stereo back up. Iron Maiden to soothe his nerves.

Then he drove out onto the street and headed towards home. He only made it a few blocks from your place before he pulled the van over to the curb and slammed on the brakes.

He dug around in his jacket pocket until he found the slip of paper that you’d given him the night before.

He turned it over in his hands, wondering how long it would take to find the nearest payphone. There was no way you’d already be asleep. It had only been a few minutes since he dropped you off.

He almost gave in to the urge to call you before self-doubt settled in like a heavy fog, clouding his thoughts and convincing him that you’d only asked him to be polite. You didn’t like him in that way. A girl like you was an impossible dream and he needed to wake up.

He shoved your number back into his pocket and pulled the van away from the curb. Heading towards home and away from the thing he really wanted.

For an entire week Eddie was tormented by that little piece of paper. He spent hours tracing your number with his fingertips and wondering if he should call.

He picked up the phone a few times and got close to dialing, but could never bring himself to go through with it. He felt like a nervous teenager at the prospect of talking to you.

It was ridiculous.

When Friday night finally rolled around and the Hellfire Club headed into the diner, Eddie had a pep in his step and felt lighter as he headed through the door. He wouldn’t have admitted it to any of the guys but he was excited to see you.

You approached their table with your usual smile, but when it came time to ask for everyone’s order, you skipped over Eddie before tucking your notepad away.

“I won’t bother you guys with the specials tonight.”

When you brought out everyone’s food, Eddie waited for your little water routine, but it never happened.

He cleared his throat as you turned to walk away and you paused, an eyebrow arched.

“Is there something else?”

He stared back at you with wide brown eyes, unsure of what to say. That he wanted you to tease him? That he wanted your attention? When he saw the slight annoyance on your face he shook his head and you walked away.

Well, that hadn’t gone as well as he’d expected.

As the guys enjoyed their food while loudly recounting the night’s campaign, Eddie was only half-listening, distracted by a sickly feeling that crept up his spine and settled in his chest. He wasn’t sure why he felt so strange. He’d finally gotten what he’d always wanted— to be left alone. For you to stop your little cheerful charade. But for some reason, it didn’t feel right.

When it came time for the bills, you handed them out to the other guys, once again avoiding Eddie’s heavy gaze.

“See you next week,” you said sweetly as you walked away.

Once outside, the guys all piled into the van, stomachs full and ready to head home for the night. Eddie sat there for a minute with his hands braced on the steering wheel, staring up at the moving shadows in restaurant’s window.

He turned his head over his shoulder and told the guys he had to run back inside for a second. Mumbled out barely coherent words about how he’d forgotten something as he slammed the driver’s side door.

When Eddie walked inside, you were still busy wiping down their table. You looked up in surprise, confusion written all over your face.

“Why are you here?”

Eddie walked up to where you stood, close enough that the denim of his vest almost touched your name tag. “I don’t think you’re annoying. That night after the concert, I just…I wanted to come in. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

Your eyes grew wide but you didn’t say anything, so he kept talking to fill the silence. “I’m sure you hate me right now, but I don’t think I can live with that.”

He reached out to cup your cheek, and you didn’t flinch or turn away.

Instead, you smiled. “I don’t hate you, Eddie.”

He leaned in closer, lowering his voice as he brought his lips next to your ear so that the old men at the counter couldn’t overhear him, his warm breath raising goosebumps on the bare skin of your arms.

“Let me make it up to you. Tonight. I’ll do anything you want.”

A warm light rekindled in your eyes as you nodded. “I get off at ten.”

When Eddie followed you into your apartment his first impression was that it was cozy, with walls and shelves filled with a hodgepodge of plants and posters and art. Your home was colorful and unique, in a way that reminded him of you. Even your mismatched furniture seemed to fit together perfectly.

“I’m just going to go change out of this.” You gestured to your uniform. “Help yourself to the beer in the fridge.”

So he did. As he closed the refrigerator door, a small tabby cat came and rubbed up against his leg.

“I see you’ve met Stevie.” You giggled when you saw him holding your kitten and scratching a finger under her chin as she purred up a storm. She was such a flirt. You smiled as you watched them, radiant in just your cotton t-shirt and old sweatpants. Seeing you dressed so casual felt strangely domestic to Eddie. In a good way.

He followed you into your living room where he saw your impressive collection of records. He slipped one out of its jacket and put it on the turntable. “This one really wails.”

As you sat close together on your couch, your beers were soon forgotten as Eddie told you a little about his past, and how he’d ended up living with his uncle. You told him about how you’d left Hawkins for college right after high school, but how that didn’t quite work out. That you weren’t sure what you wanted to do with your life.

He finally had to ask the question that had been on his mind for days.

“The other night you said you remembered Corroded Coffin from high school. How?”

You shyly admitted that you’d had a bit of a crush on him back then, but he didn’t believe you.

“Nah,” he scoffed, looking anywhere but your eyes.

“Hmm, I did.” You nodded. “I thought you were really cool.”

He gave you a bashful smile, blatantly ignoring your use of past tense. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. You were older and in a band. You had long hair and you were so….out there. I figured you wouldn’t give someone like me the time of day.”

In that moment Eddie wished he could find a time machine and do it all again. He wondered how different his life would have turned out if he’d had that knowledge.

Then he thought of how he’d treated you when you started working at the diner. Knowing what he did, it made him feel even worse.

“Do you think you’ll stay in Hawkins?” He asked in what he hoped was a casual voice.

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

“I know someone who really hopes you do,” he said softly, his eyes impossibly big and brown.

You bit your bottom lip and moved ever so slightly closer on the couch. “Yeah?”

He nodded, his eyes glued to your lips. “Uh huh. Dustin’s a really big fan.”

He let out a wild, throaty laugh when you playfully slapped his arm. He grabbed your hand to stop you and leaned forward, impulsively pressing his lips to yours and then pulled back after a few seconds to give you a searching look.

“Sorry. Was that okay?”

When you nodded, he kissed you again, deeper than before, his large hand gripping the back of your neck to pull you close.

“I want to make you feel good. Can I do that?” he whispered in your ear, and you stood up and wordlessly led him by the hand to your bedroom.

And he kept good on his promise, pushing you down onto your bed, his warm body over yours like a missing piece finally falling into place.

He worshipped every inch of your body using his skilled hands and his mouth, taking his time to pull each pretty sigh from between your lips.

When he finally pushed inside you, to him, it felt like the very first time. All of his past forgotten, like nothing had existed before you.

He’d been given a second chance to make things right and he wasn’t going to waste it. He was done running from what he wanted. Was finished running away from you.

He murmured soft words of praise as his hips rolled over and over into yours, your nails running down his back, sighing with every deep thrust. You felt so good around him and the way you cried out his name was like music to his ears. Like a song written just for him.

Afterwards as you lay there wrapped together in the pale light streaming through your window, he looked over at you with heavy, half-lidded eyes and smiled.

He knew in that moment that he’d do anything he could to keep you by his side — promise you the moon and the stars if you’d say you’d be his girl.

Thank you for reading! 🖤

Eddie Taglist 🏷️: @madelynraemunson @mrsjellymunson @hippiegoth97 @princesssunderworld @kellsck @hiimjulie @theold-ultraviolence

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

[demeterlindavis]

pedro nation, how we feeling ? he’s been FEEDING us the last few days 😭😭

[demeterlindavis]

not in that way (part one)

bucky barnes x fwb!reader

content: steve rogers is your best friend, which means that inherently bucky should be yours too. somewhere along the way, it became more than that for you. for bucky, it's just tolerance. he likes you, but not like that. not in that way.

warnings: 18+ minors dni, smut, protected sex (yeah wrap that up), rough, choking, fwb, mean bucky, mutual pining, not proofread

notes: thank you guys for the support on the snippet as well as for waiting for me as i got this done! i just finished finals so i plan on locking in on this one and circuit breaker bc i cannot stop thinking about them.

ps. i swear bucky and reader are friends, just had to hit the angst and give some background but there will be cute moments along with smut probably every chapter...I'm hoeing out.

series master list

。·:*:·ﾟ★,。·:*:·ﾟ☆　 。·:*:·ﾟ★,。·:*:·ﾟ☆

“Steve?” You called out to him, steps pounding behind you as you hurriedly moved toward his pinged location. “Steve, oh my god.” Your voice trailed off, shock evident. 

People brushed by you and pushed toward Steve’s figure on the ground. You’d never seen him like this. Sure, Steve Rogers was a super soldier and the most physically strong man you knew—but this was different. Mentally, he seemed destroyed. 

He called your phone, short of breath and muttering for help. It immediately sent you into action. You were normal—the most civilian anyone could be. There was no other option but to call someone, plead with them to find and help your friend. He’d been washed up on the shore, lying in the dirt and clearly out of it. 

You watched him get worked on, staring into the distance. 

“What happened?” You kneeled next to him,  “Who did this?” 

Steve turned to you, eyes glossed over in disbelief. “Bucky.” He shook his head, “It was Bucky.” He kept repeating it to himself, attempting to convince his own mind that it was true. “It was him. It was Bucky. He was here.” 

“I don’t understand,” you grasped his shoulder. “I thought he was gone—you saw.” You gulped, searching his face for any hesitance. “You said he fell, that he-“

“It was him.” 

“Okay.” You nodded, “Okay, I believe you. He was here.” 

It was true. The man you’d heard so many stories about had returned. He wasn’t like the anecdotes Steve recalled; this Bucky was darker, more quiet, resigned. 

He was an observer. You often caught him staring at you, eyes lingering between your figure and Steve’s. Bucky would always stand, tucked into a corner. He didn’t feel deserving of the warmth Steve offered—the humanity that remained present in you. There were times, then, that you would offer a welcoming hand. A slight wave of motion offered him a seat, acknowledging that he did deserve to be there. He felt human with you. 

That’s what initially drew Bucky to you and inevitably why you became friends, too. There was a way that you loved everyone, insisted on not leaving them out and nourished their insides. 

The hurt came when he realized it would never be that way for him.

You could never love him, not a monster. Not when the shining emblem of a perfect man sat beside you every day. Steve had so much time with you—he was your best friend. Bucky couldn’t replace him, not if he tried. So he always kept you at arms length, hoping to be more than friends but settling for something less. 

The first time it happened, when Bucky had been so lucky to have a moment with you—he swore that he was dreaming. He never gave you a reason to like him, in fact, it was the opposite. He’d gone out of his way every day to push you further from him, make it known that he’d never be as good as Steve. 

He could tell you saw something different; he hated it. 

The three of you had tried small talk often, Steve facilitating some sort of discussion to break the ice. It almost always ended with you and Bucky exactly where you started, friends who were forced to be so because of a mutual one.

“Well, I’m headed out—you two should talk.”

“Steve, no-“ 

“Buck, you two are my favorite people in the world. I would love it if you gave this a chance.” Steve patted his friend’s shoulder, “For me. Please.” 

Bucky turned to look at Steve, a solid expression on his face. He didn’t speak, just gave him a small nod and let Steve step around him and out of your place. 

It was common that Steve would find solace in your home. It was far from the city, neatly tucked away in a residential area. There was a sense of normalcy and he was proud to introduce that to Bucky—he needed that, deserved it after everything. 

The room was silent, violently so. You sat across from Bucky—him lingering in your peripheral and you nestled softly into your couch. He didn’t move, standing still near a wall which offered him the sight of every possible window and exit. 

“Do you wanna sit?” 

You watched his body for any reaction, dissatisfied when there was none. It was awkward, him avoiding eye contact and you not sure of what else to say. 

You sighed, “I’ll be back.” You announced your departure, not that it mattered to him. 

You beelined to the bathroom, desperately needing to escape him. He was always like this, closed off and so obviously annoyed by your presence. Splashing your face with water did little to temper you and your body seemed to overheat at the thought of having to see him again. 

You didn’t let yourself think—couldn’t. You stepped out and kept your head down before looking toward Bucky’s signature spot on the wall. He wasn’t there. 

You tilted your head down, seeing Bucky now sitting on the couch, two cushions away from where you’d been prior. He watched you smile softly, moving to sit in your spot.

Bucky made a habit of keeping his hands in his lap. He would sit stoically at all times. It was the same now. 

He avoided eye contact but muttered, “Hi.” 

Your breath hitched, surprised he’d started conversation. Keeping your tone even so as not to overwhelm him, you replied, “Hi, Bucky.” 

The both of you nodded, letting the weight of your forced proximity surround you. As much as he tried, he couldn’t ignore you. The faint smell of your hair products, the way you tapped your own leg rhythmically, how nervous you were—he noticed it all. 

“Do you, um,” you swallowed. “Do you want something to drink, maybe?” 

It’d been over a year since Bucky showed up. You, of course, shared small talk with him in that time. He’d grown to know the story of you and Steve—how you met. It would suffice to say that Bucky grew to be an acquaintance of yours—a long lost friend of a friend…one that would never truly like you. Accepting that was hard; you wanted Bucky to be comfortable at the very least. If not like you, he would at bare minimum be able to sit down for once. 

So today was a win. 

Bucky didn’t reply to your question but instead asked his own, “How was Steve? Without me, I mean?” 

His voice was gruff, and you hadn’t expected that question, let alone more than a single syllable from him. 

“Well,” you readjusted to face Bucky, “He’s always the most positive guy in the room—which I’m sure you know.”

Bucky let a smirk slip, recounting the optimism his friend had at all times. 

“He’s better than me that way, than a lot of us.” 

“I don’t think that’s true. He’s just Steve, you know that.” 

He didn’t know that. Bucky was living in his body but observing from outside his own mind. He was witnessing his friend after so much time had escaped him. Everything he thought was true wasn’t anymore. 

He wanted to get to know you, offer you the same grace that was given to him. But he couldn’t. Before it even begun Bucky was overwhelmed. He pushed himself to be kinder, to do this for Steve. It was simply futile. 

He stood suddenly and looked down at you, “I should go.” 

“Okay,” you stood, nodding. “I guess I’ll be seeing you.” 

He hummed, rolling his shoulders back and tightening his posture again. He didn’t respond. 

“I’ll tell Steve you tried today,” you whispered to him. “I know he’ll appreciate it. I do.” 

The tension was palpable. Your eyes stayed locked on each other until you heard a sound and looked down. The mechanical whirring of his metal arm was clear, only slightly suppressed by the gloves he always wore. He watched you noticing his hand twitch as if he wanted to move it. There was a restraint there, like he was pushing down something that was second nature. As if he meant to do something that he’d always done. 

You swallowed hard enough to hear it in your ears. Looking at Bucky, you arched your brow in a subtle defiance—daring him to do what he intended. You wanted to know him and his habits, to understand even a modicum of what was in his brain. 

Without thinking a second more, he let his left arm lift a bit. He reached toward your face but paused at you flinching, leaning away from him. 

Just barely audible, you spoke, “Sorry.” 

Bucky blinked and furrowed his brows, unable to stop himself. He let his fingers wrap around your face, a single hand pressing just under your chin and at the top of your throat. Slightly wide eyed, you watched him watching you. Most of his hand rested on your cheek, his thumb pressing into the other side of your face. 

Despite no longer being the Winter Soldier, his habits lingered. When in that state he remembered being like this so vividly—a hand around someone’s throat and crushing the life out of them. He hissed at the thought, not at all intending for that with you. He craned your head, though, observing the quizzical look on your face. 

It didn’t make sense to him, the need to maintain this routine. But he did. Beyond the haze of what was once his signature way of taking life—he saw a new one. Bucky could envision his future so clearly, yet he couldn’t let himself have it. 

He went to drop his hand but stopped at the feeling of yours on his wrist. It was inexplicable. Glove or not, you craved the contact from him. 

The room stayed silent except for the slight creak of the floorboards beneath you. While Bucky stayed steady, you teetered on the balls of your feet—this moment feeling fleeting. 

He inched forward, watching your eyes fall closed. 

Your lips were right there, the ones he’d openly been ogling at for months. It was torture, but all he knew. He couldn't allow himself the satisfaction of the feeling. He wasn’t deserving. 

Instead, he latched onto your neck. Bucky kissed and nibbled there with an urgency you hadn’t expected—hell, you didn’t even think today would’ve progressed to this at all. 

The feeling of him on you was intoxicating, and it was so minuscule. His hands were all over you, and yours on him. Your breath came out ragged, “We shouldn’t.” 

“You’re right.” He paused on your neck briefly, directly in your ear now. “We shouldn’t.” 

“We’re friends.” You nodded, letting your hands trail up his back and into his hair. 

“Are we?”

You weren’t sure. It was complicated. You couldn’t let yourself think about that now and neither could he. 

He pushed you down onto the couch and stood above you, allowing you to finally look him over. He was casually in jeans and a t-shirt, the rest of his body entirely covered. The only skin that showed besides his face was just below at his neck. Around it lied his dog tags that he was so adamant about wearing. The glint of them always caught your eye and alerted you of his presence. Even when he showed up silent, you’d see him and those damn tags. Just always out of your eyeline but in the room—that was who Bucky had always been. In his stoicism he was still consistently there.

Watching Bucky undo his pants already had you eager for him, too. There was always something there for you, an intrigue simply at the way he carried himself. You stayed seated, leaning back a bit in an attempt to slide down your sweatpants. Both of you watched the other discarding the bottom half of their clothes with little thought, tossing them aside. 

He leaned, then, ruffling into his dark jacket’s interior. 

“I got it,” he mumbled, ripping into the condom wrapper with his teeth. He slid the latex over himself just before pushing the jacket off his back. 

He kneeled into the couch, the angle awkward but enough that he was able to slide into you like he wanted. It was tight—rough. You expected the burn but still sucked in a breath at it, the lack of prep. Bucky didn’t mean to make it this way but just wanted it to be over—the insatiable need to pump in and out of you. Only you.

Slowly and deliberately he continued to kiss around your neck, collarbone, and ears. He snapped into you, purposely moving at a speed that allowed him to chase a high rather than savor the moment with you. He wanted to, truly…to acknowledge the way you looked up at him. It was his dream to let the sounds of you falling apart actually hit his ears and mean something—but he couldn’t. 

The couch creaked and rocked. You were now slightly bent into the back of the cushions, your chest moving up and down alongside Bucky’s. He pulled back, stabilizing himself behind you. The new angle allowed you to see his dog tags again, them hitting you with every movement into you. Without thinking you grabbed them, hooking them under one of your fingers. 

He finally allowed himself some relief, his voice dragging out the moans he’d himself been holding in. “Fuck...” 

You watched him intently, pulling him closer by the chain on his neck. He shifted his angle a bit at that and watched your jaw drop open. Your brows furrowed, whines choking out of you at the new sensation. It made you let go of his tags, grasping at the fabric of his shirt. This made him pound into you faster—realizing a tether of intimacy was gone. 

He was subconsciously glad for that, happy that he could pinpoint and force that sweet look in your eyes away. There was no longer an adoration in your gaze but simply one of pleasure. This was for the best. He could appreciate you from a distance despite the line of friendship being crossed so carelessly now. 

“Shit,” you groaned out suddenly. “Buck-“ 

He hushed you softly, quelling the harsh sound in your throat. It only spurred him on though, truly ruthless about this. He only slowed at the feeling of your fingers gliding over his face, pushing the stray piece of hair out of view. His pace stuttered, faltering as he really looked at you. 

A second later, he started in on you again. A clothed hand found its way into your shirt and pinched at your nipples. His grip was rough, kneading your chest. You were already so close; every additional sensation only pushing you further.

You met him suddenly, writhing into him and filling the living room with lewd slapping sounds. 

Bucky huffed breaths out at every push into you. You fought a squeak, pressing your own hand over your mouth. You gnawed at it as it allowed some relief from the burning inside of you. He was hitting that same spongey spot over and over. He was so good at picking up on the subtle changes in your face and body. 

Without warning he slipped out and nudged you, “Turn.” 

You did without questioning, a firm covered hand rubbing at the skin of your hips. Regardless of his gloves, you felt the difference in his hands—the slight shift of metal in one versus the pulse in the other. There was a contrast you enjoyed, a chill about his metal arm that grounded you. 

A knee pushed your legs open as he slid into you again, this time using you as leverage. Bucky pushed you down slowly, this side of your head finding the cushion. This angle was new, deeper. It wouldn’t be much longer at this point and he could tell. One hand slipped underneath you and up to your neck again, squeezing just enough for you to appreciate the loss of breath. In between gasps you nudged further into the couch, the sensation becoming too much for you. 

He couldn’t stop when you came, relishing the way your insides continued to pulse. It was as if he was meant to stay; his one true purpose was to be completely enveloped by you. When he finished a strained sound choked in his throat, one that you hadn’t expected. 

You were throbbing still, a cold feeling finally making you realize he pulled away. The feeling of him on you had gone away so quick. The sound of a different metal clanked—his belt buckle bouncing around as he slid his pants back on. 

“Should we…should I tell Steve about this?” 

Your question was sudden, but was filled with a weight that scared him. You didn’t want to be too forward—but it was only right. Steve was now caught in the middle of something complicated. Even if this was the first and only time…you weren’t sure you could keep this from him. 

Bucky thought differently. 

“Why would you wanna tell him?” 

“Because it’s-“ 

“Leave him out of this.”  

Bucky readjusted his clothes, smoothing them over as they’d been before. You watched him inch his way to the door—his back toward you. 

You ignored the pang in your chest, the confusion that now resonated in you. Pushing it away, you settled on changing the subject. “Steve wanted to do something tomorrow, you coming?” 

He didn’t turn as he grabbed the doorknob, merely craned his head to the side. You watched his profile for any sense of something but again he was so unreadable for you. 

“I’ll be there.” 

Then he left. 

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[demeterlindavis]

Nine Lives

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 9.4k

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.

You can keep pretending. Keep fighting him. But Bucky isn’t one to back down—especially when he knows you don’t really want him to.

Trigger Warnings: Bullet wounds, unprotect sex (wrap it before you tap it!), p in v, dirty talk, BUCKY BARNES (he needs his own warning)

Author’s Note: I had been tinkering with a few scenes in this and the Thunderbolts trailer made me finish it. Hope you like it! B x

-- Bucky Barnes was going to be the death of you.

Whether it was because he got on your last nerve or because you were desperately, irrevocably, undeniably in love with him—either way, he’d be the reason your heart stopped beating.

And honestly? It might happen in the next five minutes. Because God help you, the man was insufferable.

The room smelled like burnt coffee and bad decisions.

Sam stood at the front, gesturing at a holographic map as he laid out the mission plan, his voice steady and patient—too patient, the way a parent speaks when they know their kids are about to cause problems.

You were paying attention. You really were. But out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky leaning against the wall, arms crossed– and looking bored out of his mind.

Every once in a while, he flicked his gaze to you, not saying anything. Just watching.

And you knew that look. That I’m about to do something reckless and you’re going to yell at me for it look.

You gritted your teeth.

“—we’ll go in through the east entrance,” Sam continued, pointing at the building layout. “Stealth is key. No unnecessary attention.”

Bucky made a quiet sound. It wasn’t quite a scoff, but it was close enough.

Sam’s jaw flexed. “Got something to add, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugged, like the whole thing was barely worth his effort. “I just think you’re overcomplicating it.”

Your brows shot up. Oh, here we go.

Sam closed his eyes, visibly counting to ten. “What part is complicated?”

Bucky shifted, pushing off the wall. “The part where we’re tiptoeing around like we’re on a damn field trip. We go in, take out the threats, get what we need. Done.”

You turned in your chair, slowly. “Take out the threats?”

Bucky smirked. “What?”

“What?” you repeated, voice rising. “You mean brute force? Like some kind of rabid raccoon?”

Sam sighed deeply, rubbing his temples.

Bucky grinned, which somehow made it worse. “I’d say more wolf, but sure.”

Your grip tightened on the edge of the table. “Barnes, if you go off-script, I swear to God—”

“Relax, doll,” he said, casual as anything. “I’ll mostly follow the plan.”

Your eye twitched. “Mostly?”

Sam exhaled sharply, muttering to himself. “I should start charging overtime for this.”

Bucky wasn’t done, though—he turned that damn smirk back on you. “You do love bossing me around, don’t you?”

And that? That was the last straw.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, planting your hands on your hips. “We are sticking to the plan, Barnes. No improvising. No wandering off. No turning this into some solo hero death mission.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through gritted teeth as you fought for patience you absolutely did not have. “Why is your solution to everything brute force? Sam has a plan. A good plan. A plan that does not involve you punching your way through every obstacle.”

Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, looking completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed amused. “First of all, rude. Second of all, my way works.”

“You mean it works when it doesn’t get us killed?” you shot back, voice rising. “Which, by the way, is not a guarantee.”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin. “C’mon, doll, you’re overreacting.”

And there it was. That goddamn nickname.

You felt it like a spark in your bloodstream, a rush of heat you refused to acknowledge. Instead, you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Don’t ‘doll’ me, Barnes. I’m serious. We are sticking to the plan.”

“I am sticking to the plan,” he said, far too casually. “I’m just… modifying it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Modifying it?”

“Enhancing.”

“You mean ignoring it?”

He shrugged and you had never wanted to strangle and kiss someone in equal measure more in your life.

God, this man was going to be the death of you.

You took a slow, deep breath, curling your fingers into fists at your sides. “Bucky. No modifications. No enhancements. No Barnes-ifying the plan.”

He tilted his head, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “Barnes-ifying? Huh. I kinda like that.”

You threw your hands in the air. “Of course you do.”

Sam, who had been observing this entire exchange with the long-suffering patience of a saint, let out a loud sigh. “Are you two done? Or should we clear the room so you can work out all that tension?”

Your head snapped toward him. “There is no tension.”

Bucky, the absolute menace that he was, had the audacity to murmur, “Oh, there’s tension.”

Your entire body went rigid. Your face felt hot. You whirled back to him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “I will kill you.”

His lips twitched. “I’d love to see you try, doll.”

You weren’t sure what infuriated you more—the way he said it— doll —like it was his own private joke, or the fact that you liked it. Loved it, even. That it sent a pulse of something traitorous through you, something that made you want to either punch him or grab him by the collar and—

No. Focus.

You squared your shoulders, planting your hands on your hips. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Barnes. You’re going to follow the plan. No making things up as you go along. Got it?”

His blue eyes glinted with something unreadable. “And what if I don’t?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then I’ll personally make sure you regret it.”

Bucky grinned, slow and wicked. “Kinda looking forward to that.”

Your breath hitched. Your brain short-circuited. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because there was absolutely nothing appropriate to say to that.

Oh. Oh, that son of a—

Bucky chuckled, clearly enjoying the way he’d just rendered you speechless. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something low and smug.

“Face it, doll,” he murmured. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”

You scoffed, even as your stomach flipped. “I’d miss arguing with you. That’s it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

The knowing look on his face made you want to smack it off. But more than that, it made you want to—

Nope. Not going there.

You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel. “I’m done. Sam, let’s go before I change my mind and let him get himself killed.”

Sam snorted, giving Bucky a pointed look. “See what you did? Now you’ve pissed her off.”

Bucky only smirked, watching you walk away. “Nah,” he said, mostly to himself. “She likes it.”

—

You didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

And do you know why? Because you knew—knew—he wasn’t lying.

Bucky Barnes didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He wasn’t the type to play games with words, wasn’t the type to tease just for the hell of it. If he said there was tension, if he said you’d miss him, then he meant it. He knew.

He knew before you did.

And that was the worst part.

You had no idea when your constant bickering turned into something else, something deeper, something dangerous. One day, you thought you hated him—the next, you realized you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.

It had terrified you.

So you fought.

You fought harder, argued louder, refused to let him see just how deeply he had burrowed into you. You clashed over the stupidest things—his reckless plans, his stubbornness, the way he called you doll like it was a secret between you. Because if you didn’t fight, if you let the walls slip for even a second, you weren’t sure what would happen.

And it infuriated you.

How dare he?

How dare he make himself at home in a corner of your heart you didn’t even know existed? How dare he take up permanent residence there, until that tiny space expanded into the whole damn thing?

How dare he make you want him when you were supposed to be angry at him?

How. Dare. He.

The memory took over before you could stop it…

It had been a disaster from the start.

The mission was supposed to be a simple recon—go in, get intel, get out. No unnecessary engagement. No close calls. No getting shot.

But Bucky Barnes? He didn’t believe in simple.

You were fuming as you dragged him into the safe house, your grip tight on his arm, ignoring the way his blood seeped through your gloves. He was bleeding all over the place, but of course, he still had the audacity to smirk at you.

“You’re manhandling me, doll.” His voice was rough, teasing. “If you wanted to get handsy, you could’ve just asked.”

You pushed him down onto the rickety cot in the corner, none too gently. “I swear to God, Barnes, if you don’t shut up, I will make your injuries worse.”

Bucky groaned dramatically as he flopped back, far too casual for someone who had just taken a bullet to the shoulder. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—should I be nice to the guy who just got himself shot?” You tore open the med kit, grabbing a pair of scissors and snipping at the sleeve of his tactical suit. 

Bucky’s smirk vanished. “Hey, whoa—this is a perfectly good jacket.”

“You’ve bled through half of it, Bucky!” You glared at him, slicing the fabric open with zero hesitation.

Bucky scowled. “Still wearable.”

“Still ruined.”

“You’re ruining it more.”

“Oh my God—do you wanna keep arguing, or do you want me to keep you from bleeding out you reckless, metal-armed asshole?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, because of course he did, the sound painfully casual. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Your hands shook as you tore open the med kit, fingers fumbling over the supplies. “Shut up.”

“Oh, come on, doll, it’s just a—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘scratch.’”

Bucky sighed, dropping his head back onto the cot. “I’m not bleeding out.”

“You got shot, you dick,” you snapped, peeling the fabric away to get a better look at the wound. Through and through, just above his bicep. A clean hit, but it would scar if you didn’t take care of it properly.

Bucky peered at the wound like it was barely an inconvenience. “It is just a scratch.”

Your eye twitched. You gritted your teeth, pressing an antiseptic wipe to the wound with zero mercy.

Bucky hissed, body tensing as he glared at you. “Jesus—are you trying to kill me?”

“Oh, now you feel pain?” You didn’t let up, pressing a little harder just for good measure. “You didn’t seem too concerned when you ran into a hail of gunfire like a rabid golden retriever with a death wish.”

Bucky scoffed. “Golden retriever?”

“You just charged in, Bucky! What part of ‘stealth mission’ do you not understand?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I had to.”

“No, you didn’t!” You grabbed a fresh gauze pad, pressing it against the wound. “Sam and I were handling it just fine before you decided to be stupidly heroic.”

“Doll, you were cornered,” Bucky argued.

“No, I was waiting for backup.”

Bucky gave you a pointed look. “You were outnumbered and had a jammed weapon.”

You locked your jaw. Because okay, maybe that was true.

But he didn’t have to jump in front of a bullet for you.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound unimpressed. “I was fine.”

“You were two seconds away from getting shot.”

“I know, Bucky!” You slammed the antiseptic wipe against his skin, not caring when he hissed. “But you didn’t have to—you didn’t—you— I told you not to do it!” you cried out. “But no, you just had to go full Terminator and jump in front of a goddamn bullet for me—”

You stopped.

Because suddenly, your throat was too tight, and your breath was coming too fast, and you hated that the panic was winning, that it was spilling over.

You weren’t just mad.

You were terrified.

Bucky blinked at you, actually looking concerned now, which only pissed you off more.

“Doll—”

“You think you’re indestructible, don’t you?” You threw the used gauze aside, grabbing another one, your hands shaking as you pressed it to the wound. “Just because you have the serum, you think you can—can take all these stupid risks—”

Bucky sighed, clearly exasperated. “I heal faster than you do, sweetheart. It’s not that deep.”

Something inside you snapped.

“Oh, fuck you, Bucky!”

His eyebrows shot up at that.

“You think the serum makes you invincible?” you seethed, eyes burning. “Is that why you keep throwing yourself into danger? Why you never hesitate before taking a hit? Why you jump in front of bullets like it’s your damn job?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.

“Guess what, Barnes? The serum doesn’t make you immortal! One day, your dumbass luck is going to run out! And what then?”

Bucky stilled, blue eyes searching yours.

But you were unraveling too fast to stop now.

“I swear to God, Bucky, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep—” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice cracking. “I can’t—I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

Something changed in Bucky’s face. The teasing, the smirking—it all vanished.

You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes.

You dropped your gaze, fingers moving on autopilot, taping the bandage down over his shoulder. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but you pretended not to notice.

You felt him watching you.

For the first time since the mission, Bucky was quiet.

The weight of it pressed against your chest.

You swallowed hard, clearing your throat. “Just—just try not to die next time, okay?”

Bucky let out a slow breath, something almost amused slipping into his voice. “Not really my style, doll.”

You snapped your head up, narrowing your eyes at him. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve got a real stubborn track record of coming back from the brink of death.”

Bucky grinned, slow and lazy, like he couldn’t help himself. “What can I say? I’m persistent.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to be the one watching you zero out your nine lives.”

The smirk disappeared.

A flicker of something serious passed through his eyes—so fast you almost missed it.

For a second, you thought he was going to say something that would change everything.

But then, as quickly as it came, he shoved it away.

He exhaled a soft chuckle instead, shaking his head. “You worry too much.”

You clenched your jaw, standing abruptly. “And you don’t worry enough.”

Bucky watched you, his expression unreadable.

You grabbed the med kit and turned away, before he could see just how badly your hands were still shaking.

Because the truth was—

You weren’t sure what scared you more.

The fact that Bucky Barnes kept coming back from the brink of death—

Or the fact that, one day, he might not.

–

You exhaled sharply, shoving the memory aside.

No. Not thinking about that.

You couldn’t.

Because if you let yourself sit with it for too long—

If you let yourself acknowledge how much he meant to you—

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to breathe through it.

Bucky must have sensed the shift in you, because as you stalked ahead, fuming, he was suddenly there—keeping pace beside you, his presence entirely too much. Too close, too solid, too him.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Maybe I just ran out of things to say,” you snapped, not looking at him.

He made a low sound, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “That’ll be the day.”

You whirled on him before you could stop yourself, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you enjoy driving me insane, Barnes? Is it, like, a hobby for you?”

His lips twitched, that damn smirk already forming. “I mean… yeah. Kinda.”

You let out a frustrated noise, turning on your heel, ready to put as much distance between you and that insufferable smirk as possible. But before you could take two steps, his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent a jolt through you. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t forceful, but it was steady, intentional. And for a split second, you couldn’t breathe.

When you looked up, his blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, intense.

“I’m not trying to drive you insane,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with something heavier, something that made your chest feel tight. “I’m just trying to figure out why you won’t admit it.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Admit what?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was searching for something, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to let him see. His gaze dragged over your face, lingering—too long—on your lips before flicking back up.

Your breath hitched.

He was going to say something else. You knew it. Could feel it. But whatever he saw in your expression made him change his mind at the last second. His features shifted, the quiet determination giving way to something smug, teasing. A deflection.

“That it’s a good plan.”

Your pulse stuttered.

This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.

But he was giving you an out. Letting you pretend, letting himself pretend, like this was still just another argument. Another round of your never-ending bickering instead of… whatever the hell this was becoming.

And that? That scared you more than anything.

“It’s not,” you shot back, seizing the escape he’d handed you. You took a step back, yanking your wrist free of his grasp. “It’s stupid. It’s reckless, and it’s going to get one or all of us hurt if we do it.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed, his smirk faltering for the first time. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them before he asked, voice quieter, but rougher—”Why do you never take my side?”

The question hit like a sucker punch.

It knocked the breath from your lungs, left you reeling in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I—” The words caught in your throat.

He wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t throwing out some cocky remark just to get under your skin. This was something real, something raw, and it left you woozy.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Second time I’ve got you speechless today, huh? Must be a new record.”

His voice was light, teasing again, but the look in his eyes said something else entirely.

Then, before you could recover, before you could shove something sharp and defensive between you, he turned and walked ahead—leaving you standing there, heart racing, breath unsteady.

Completely, utterly furious at him.

And even more furious at yourself.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t let him get to you.

Except he had. He always did. And the worst part? He knew it.

You glared at the back of his head as he walked ahead like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just thrown you completely off balance and left you scrambling for solid ground.

Why do you never take my side?

You hated that the question still echoed in your head. That it stung in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.

You stormed after him, your boots crunching against the pavement. “Barnes, we’re not done talking about this.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. “Seemed pretty done to me.”

Your jaw clenched. “God, you are infuriating.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his eyes? His eyes were still sharp, still waiting.

You caught up to him in two quick strides, grabbing his arm to yank him to a stop. “Don’t walk away from me.”

Bucky arched a brow, glancing down at where your fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket. “Thought you couldn’t stand being near me, doll.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at the nickname. Ignored the way your traitorous hand lingered for a second before you let go.

“That plan of yours?” You crossed your arms, tilting your chin up. “It’s reckless. And you know it.”

His smirk faded, just slightly. “And what if reckless is the only option?”

“That’s bullshit, and you know that too.”

Bucky let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You think I’m some idiot who just punches his way through problems—”

“I know you are,” you shot back.

He glared at you, jaw ticking. “But maybe—just maybe—I actually know what I’m doing this time.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but something in his expression stopped you.

There was no smugness, no teasing. Just raw frustration, something worn down underneath.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the words dying on your tongue.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “Should’ve known better than to expect you to trust me.”

The words weren’t loud. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said them. But they landed like a slap.

Your breath caught. “That’s not—”

“Forget it.” 

— 

Shockingly, Bucky had followed Sam’s plan.

And—even more shockingly—it had gone wrong.

In the end, brute force had been the only way to get all three of you out alive.

You weren’t sure when the dust had settled, when the ringing in your ears had finally faded enough for you to hear your own breathing again. But when your vision cleared, Bucky was still standing.

Standing over a pile of bodies, bloodied and exhausted, his chest heaving with exertion.

There was a split in his lip, a gash across his forehead, and a bullet graze along his ribs, the fabric of his tactical suit dark with blood.

And you hated it.

You hated how your stomach twisted at the sight of him hurt. Hated the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides to stop yourself from running to him, from touching him, from grabbing his face and checking.

Most of all, you hated that you had doubted him.

Bucky Barnes had a century of combat experience. He had spent his entire life surviving fights he shouldn’t have walked away from, and still, you had dismissed him. Still, you had refused to listen.

And now? Now all of you were bleeding. All of you were shaken.

But the worst part—the part that made your throat tighten and your breath shudder—was that Bucky wasn’t even gloating.

No smirk. No I told you so.

Just silence. Just his sharp, assessing gaze, scanning the aftermath like he was still bracing for another fight.

By the time Torres had you all back on the plane, you were shaking.

The adrenaline should have worn off by now, but the weight in your chest only grew heavier. You knew—you knew—Bucky would heal faster than you or Sam. Logically, you understood that.

But logic wasn’t stopping the tightness in your throat when your eyes landed on the bruising around his temple.

It wasn’t stopping the way your fingers trembled as you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down in front of him, against every warning screaming in your head.

Bucky exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the seat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” you shot back, voice sharper than intended.

“So are you.”

You ignored that. “Just—hold still.”

For once, he didn’t argue. But when you reached for him, when your fingers ghosted over his skin, his gaze flickered—just for a second—to your hands.

He noticed.

Noticed the tremor in your fingers, the way they weren’t steady.

His brows drew together, just slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his stare, felt the question lingering on the tip of his tongue.

Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers tighter around the antiseptic wipe, focusing too hard on dabbing at the cut on his forehead.

When he flinched, you huffed. “Big bad super soldier can take on twenty guys at once but can’t handle a little stinging?”

His lips twitched, but the teasing was half-hearted. “Not my fault you’re rough.”

You shot him a look. “I wonder why.”

His jaw flexed. “You do like making things difficult.”

“Oh, I make things difficult?” You shook your head, pressing a little too firmly as you cleaned the wound. “I don’t remember me running in headfirst with zero regard for a plan.”

Bucky scoffed. “Right, because your plan went so well.”

You froze, fingers stilling against his skin.

His voice hadn’t been sharp, but the words still landed heavy in your chest.

“You didn’t have to follow it,” you murmured.

Bucky let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Well. I did.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted.

You forced yourself to move again, forced yourself to focus on the cut rather than the way his eyes lingered.

Your throat was dry when you spoke. “You were right.”

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air.

“We should have done it your way,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s fingers curled over the edge of the seat. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you knew he was watching you.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice quiet. “Didn’t do us much good, did it?”

You pressed your lips together. “Would’ve gone a lot worse if you hadn’t stepped in.”

His eyes flickered. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy for it.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.

“I do.” Your voice wavered, but you swallowed hard, pushing through it. “Because I was wrong.”

Bucky was still. Unreadable.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped lower. “That an apology?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real fire behind it. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”

But his eyes? His eyes told a different story.

—

The hum of the jet was steady beneath you, the vibrations deep in your bones, but it did nothing to ground you. The cabin lights were low, throwing long shadows across the metal walls. Sam was already passed out in the back, his breathing even, the tension from the mission finally easing from his shoulders.

You should be doing the same. You should be closing your eyes, letting exhaustion take over, shutting out the memory of the chaos you’d just escaped from.

But you couldn’t.

Because Bucky was still watching you.

He sat across from you, silent and unreadable, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. He hadn’t spoken since you finished patching him up, but he hadn’t stopped looking, either.

It wasn’t his usual sharp-edged irritation or teasing smirk. No playful bickering, no cocky remarks about how he’d been right. Just this.

Something softer. Something heavier.

Something you weren’t ready for.

“You should get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

You shook your head, fingers curling into your palms. “I’m fine.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, like he didn’t believe you. “Yeah? You don’t look fine.”

You hated that he could see it. The tremor in your fingers, the tension in your shoulders, the way you were still breathing too fast, like your body hadn’t realized the fight was over.

You hated that he noticed. That he cared enough to notice.

And then—because you were tired, because you were furious, because he had almost died and you were still trying to claw your way back from the sheer panic of it—you snapped.

“You could have died, Bucky.” Your voice was sharper than you meant, thick with something you didn’t want to name.

His brow twitched, but his expression didn’t change. His voice stayed infuriatingly even. “Yeah. That’s kinda what happens when people shoot at you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing out there?”

“That’s not—” You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

The question hung between you, thick with unspoken things.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched you—his gaze steady, patient, like he was giving you the space to say it.

And God, you wanted to.

But the words sat like stones in your throat, impossible to force out. You clenched your jaw, tried to shove them back down, but they wouldn’t go away.

Because the truth was, you weren’t just shaken by the mission.

You were shaken by the way seeing him bleeding had made your stomach drop, by the way his pained groans had made your hands shake, by the way you had wanted—needed—to run to him, to wrap yourself around him and never let go.

You were terrified.

Because this wasn’t just anger or frustration or a heated argument in the middle of a mission.

This was Bucky.

And you couldn’t lose him.

So instead of answering, instead of trying to put words to the panic still rattling inside you, you did the only thing you could do.

You reached for him.

It wasn’t sharp or defiant, wasn’t out of frustration or anger.

You just—needed to touch him.

Your fingers brushed over his wrist, barely there, hesitant. A point of contact. Something to anchor you.

Bucky stilled.

For a second, he just stared at your hand, at the way your fingers curled against his skin like you weren’t even sure if you had permission to hold on.

Then, slowly, he turned his wrist under your palm, letting your fingers slide over his pulse point. His skin was warm, his pulse steady. Alive. Here.

Your throat went tight.

Bucky’s voice was quieter this time. Rougher. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t let go.

Your thumb ghosted over his pulse, barely a whisper of touch, but it still wasn’t enough.

You didn’t know what you needed, what you were searching for beneath your fingertips, but the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat wasn’t easing the raw ache in your chest.

Your eyes flickered around the cabin.

Sam was still dead to the world, Torres nowhere in sight. The only two people awake on this jet were you and Bucky.

Something inside you snapped.

One second, you were gripping his wrist, tethering yourself to him like that alone would make this feeling go away. The next, you were moving before you could stop yourself—sliding out of your seat, crawling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him like holding on tighter would somehow keep him safe, keep him yours.

Bucky made a sound—something low, something confused—but his hands came up anyway, large and warm and steady as they settled on your hips, instinctive.

His breath hitched, and you felt it against your temple, the subtle shudder of his inhale.

You buried yourself closer, curling into his chest, fingers winding into the hair at the nape of his neck. His scent was everywhere—gunpowder and metal and something distinctly him—and you could have drowned in it.

“If you ever tell anyone I did this,” you muttered, voice muffled against his neck, “I will find ways to kill you.”

There was no bite to it. No real threat.

Just you—raw and exposed in a way you didn’t know how to take back.

Bucky let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t shove you off like he should have.

Instead, his arms shifted, wrapping around you fully, pressing you into him like this was what he had been waiting for, like this was something he had been needing just as badly.

Like he wanted to.

His metal fingers flexed at your waist, pressing against the fabric of your suit, a steadying grip. His other hand flattened against your back, tracing over the curve of your spine as if he was committing the shape of you to memory.

His touch burned.

His warmth was everywhere.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers sliding from his hair to his cheek, brushing over the stubble there, the still-healing cut on his temple. And then—before you could stop yourself—you were tilting his face toward yours.

For the first time since the mission, since the gunfire, since you watched the blood dripping down his temple and felt your entire world tilt on its axis—you met his eyes head-on.

Bucky swallowed.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips.

It was enough.

Your resolve snapped like a frayed wire.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could remind yourself that this was Bucky, before you could convince yourself that you didn’t love him like this—

You kissed him.

It was desperate, messy—nothing like the slow, sweet build-up you had imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.

Your lips crashed against his, your hands fisting in his suit, pulling yourself closer, closer, closer, needing more, needing everything.

Bucky froze.

Didn’t move when your lips parted against his, when your tongue flicked against his bottom lip, when your teeth caught the cut there, tasting blood.

Didn’t react when you kissed him again, soft and searching, when your nose brushed against his, when you sighed against his mouth, the sound fragile and aching.

Didn’t kiss you back.

The realization hit slow, creeping in at the edges of your desperation, sinking its claws into your chest.

He wasn’t—

Oh, God.

The sting of rejection burned hotter than the wounds littering your body.

You tried to breathe, tried to steady yourself, but your lungs felt too tight, your hands shaking as you forced yourself to pull back, to put distance between you before you shattered entirely.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, a shaky breath washing over his lips. Your throat was tight, your vision blurring at the edges. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Your voice broke.

Bucky was still silent.

And that was somehow worse.

It took a second to register the weight of what you’d done, to catch up to you.

You had kissed him.

You had kissed him and he hadn’t—

Your stomach plummeted.

“I’m—” Your breath hitched, panic clawing at your ribs. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

You tried to untangle yourself, tried to scramble out of his lap, to preserve whatever dignity you had left, to put distance between you before you completely fell apart in front of him—

But then—

God.

Then his hands tightened on your hips.

Hard.

Before you could even get further, Bucky dragged you back against him, fingers digging into your skin, like he wasn’t about to let you go. He maneuvered you until your legs were astride his hips, your arms around his neck, your chest pressed to his.

Your breath stilled, eyes wide, heart hammering against your ribs.

His expression had changed.

The shock, the hesitation—it was gone.

In its place was something darker.

Something heated and unrelenting.

Something like want.

Bucky’s breathing was uneven, his lips parted, his pupils blown wide as his gaze flickered between your eyes, your mouth, back up.

Then—

Then his fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His metal hand trailed over your ribs, up your arm, curling at the back of your neck, tipping your face toward his.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low. “Can you do that again?”

Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering against his fingertips. “You didn’t—”

“I froze,” he cut in, jaw tight. “I won’t now.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your lips parted, heart stumbling over itself.

Bucky let out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. His grip on your hips flexed, strong and sure, and for a split second, all he did was look at you.

Like you were something he didn’t know how to handle.

Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to devour you or worship you.

Then—slower this time, more sure—he leaned in.

And kissed you.

You had been right.

Bucky Barnes would be your undoing.

He’d kill you with the way he kissed, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to ruin you, like he wanted to take you apart with nothing but the sweep of his tongue and the heat of his mouth.

You felt it—every glide of his tongue against yours, every careful press of his lips, every sharp inhale between kisses—like a spark lighting up your spine, sinking deep, settling between your legs with a heat so intense you could barely breathe through it.

You shook on top of him, the way he touched you sending shockwaves through every nerve ending in your body. His hands were everywhere—tight, possessive squeezes against your hips, reverent drags of his fingers down your back and thighs, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

A whimper escaped you, completely unbidden, and Bucky groaned, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrated against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, his lips left yours.

You gasped at the loss—until you felt him move.

Felt the warm brush of his breath against your throat, felt his nose skim along the sensitive skin there before his mouth followed.

“Bucky—” His name left you in a sharp breath as he kissed down your neck, slow, teasing, his lips dragging over every inch of exposed skin he could reach.

The problem was—there wasn’t enough.

Your suit covered too much, kept him from truly touching you, and it was driving you out of your mind.

You arched into him, restless, desperate. “Take it off,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Bucky stilled, his lips pausing against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. Didn’t continue.

“Take it off,” you begged, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit, tracing over the zippers, tugging uselessly at the buttons, trying to feel more. “Please, take it off.”

His breath was uneven, ragged. “Doll, there are people—”

“I don’t care.” You tugged at his collar, leaning in, pressing another desperate kiss to the corner of his mouth. “They won’t see.”

Bucky’s hands flexed against your waist, like he was warring with himself.

You kissed him again, lips parting over his, trying to convince him, trying to make him understand, to feel just how badly you needed this, needed him.

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to yours, his chest rising and falling unevenly beneath you.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please, before you change your mind—I need this. I need you.”

That did it.

Something snapped in him.

The hesitation vanished.

And then, suddenly, you were weightless.

Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky was standing, lifting you effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist as he carried you toward the back of the jet, moving with a singular, determined focus that made your breath catch.

Your back hit the cool metal wall of the jet, the impact sending a shiver down your spine, but you barely had time to react before Bucky was kissing you again—hot, rough, devouring.

You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on for dear life.

His hands roamed down your back, over your thighs, squeezing, gripping—and then, finally, finally, he found the zipper of your suit.

“I’m not changing my mind,” he murmured, his voice thick, edged with something raw that made you shiver. His fingers curled around the fabric, tugging just enough for you to feel the weight of his words. “And you’re not changing yours.”

You nodded without thinking, without hesitation, without fear.

There was a faint awareness of the reality around you—the steady hum of the jet beneath you, the wall of gear shielding you from the others, the knowledge that Sam and Torres were mere feet away. The fact that you were both bloodied and bruised from the mission, that maybe this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place.

But then Bucky moved, and all of that faded.

The zipper came down in a slow, deliberate slide, the rasp of it against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, but gentle, pushing the suit down your arms until you could shake it off completely. The moment it was gone, he pulled your arms around his shoulders, guiding them to hold onto him, like he needed you to keep him close.

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost reverent, before dropping to his knees.

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering as his hands gripped your hips, firm and unshakable, guiding the rest of your suit down your legs. His head dipped, his lips grazing the fresh bruise blooming along your hip. He kissed it once, then again—soft, lingering. Worshipping.

You swallowed hard, your fingers threading into his hair as he nuzzled along your thigh, your knee, before rising back to his full height.

“Not getting these off,” he muttered, his fingers ghosting over your soaked panties. You’d be ashamed if it weren’t for the way his lips parted, like he was desperate to get back on his knees, get his mouth on you, There was also something else. The look on his face - regret, you thought - like he wanted to take his time with you, but was disappointed he couldn’t.

His hands moved up your body, skimming over your waist, tracing along your ribs. You shivered at the sensation of warm and cold, flesh and metal. His eyes darkened at the sight of you trembling under his touch.

“We have to be quick.”

You nodded, obedient, but there was something clawing at your chest, something making your breath catch, making your hands shake as you reached for his belt, undoing it with frantic fingers.

“This—” You took a breath, sliding the zipper down, pushing his pants and underwear down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already slick with pre-cum. You ached at the sight of him. Ached to drop to your knees and taste him.

Instead, you swallowed hard and met his eyes. “This isn’t how I imagined doing this with you.”

Bucky let out a low, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Me either.” His voice was rough, wrecked, breaking apart at the seams. His lips brushed your ear as he groaned, deep and ragged, when you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him slow, teasing. “Fuck, sweetheart—”

A shudder rolled through him, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“But I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, voice thick with something dangerous, something devoted. “I promise.”

His arms wrapped around you again, lifting you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your hips rolling forward to grind against him.

“Bucky—”

“You want this?” he asked, pressing you back against the cool metal wall, the contrast making you gasp. His mouth was everywhere—dragging down your jaw, across the swell of your breast, open-mouthed and hungry.

“I do. I—”

The words faltered on your tongue.

Your heart was hammering, your chest was aching. This was reckless. This was insane.

This was everything.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressed your forehead to his, your lips brushing his with every ragged breath. “I want you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “All of you.” Your fingers twisted into his hair, tugging just enough for him to feel it. “Please.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. “You have me.”

His words were iron, unbreakable, true.

Something cracked inside you.

And then—there was no more hesitation.

His lips crashed into yours again, raw and consuming, leaving no space between you, no air, no room for anything but him. His free hand slid down, tugging at your panties, dragging them to the side. Your own hand moved between you, wrapping around his cock, guiding him to where you needed him.

“Jesus, doll—”

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was one full thrust, his cock pressing inside you inch by inch, filling you completely, stretching you to the edge of pain. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your head falling back against the wall as a gasp tore from your throat.

You felt full. Too full.

Your legs shook around him, your walls clenching tight around his cock, the overwhelming stretch making your eyes slam shut, your mouth parting on a silent moan.

Bucky groaned, deep and wrecked, his forehead pressing to your temple. His body was shaking too, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps against your skin.

“Fuck,” he ground out, metal hand locking around your thigh, keeping you open for him. His other hand tangled in your hair, his grip tight, desperate. “Fuck, you feel—Jesus, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, your arms trembling as you clung to him. “I can’t believe you’re inside me,” you whispered, voice barely there, overwhelmed and ruined. “Oh my god, Bucky—”

He snapped his hips forward, and your world split apart.

The pleasure was sharp, blinding, a lightning strike surging through your veins. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned against your neck, his rhythm faltering for a beat. His hands tightened on your hips, metal and flesh both possessive, both desperate to hold on.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he choked out, voice strangled, roughened with something close to reverence. He thrust deep, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you, every sensitive place that made your stomach coil so tight you thought you might shatter.

“For you,” you confessed, arching into him, letting him feel it, letting him know. “All the time. Every time you look at me—”

Bucky snapped his hips forward, harder, deeper, tearing a cry from your lips.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice breaking, cracking at the edges. “Shit, shit—”

“You’re so deep,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. Your nails raked down his back, desperate, pleading, needing. “Bucky, I—I can’t—”

“I’ve got you, doll,” he groaned, pressing his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound you made as he ruined you completely.

Every thrust was a curse, every breath a kiss, and you were careening toward the edge so fast it was dizzying.

The pleasure ripped through you before you could warn him, before you could even process it. Your walls tightened, pulsing around his cock, body shaking so violently that he had to pin you to the wall with his hips, burying himself to the hilt, his hand cradling the back of your head, shielding you as you contorted in his grasp.

His mouth devoured your cries, catching every broken, pleading gasp as the orgasm tore you apart. It was an explosion that didn’t stop, that kept rolling through you, wave after wave.

You rocked against him, desperate for more, still chasing, still needing, barely hearing the way he rasped your name, telling you to slow down, telling you to look at him, warning you that he was—

“God, you’re heaven,” Bucky breathed against your ear, grinding deep inside of you, his voice wrecked, every syllable tinged with something broken, something beautiful. As you slowly came down, you could feel how close he was, how tightly he was holding on, trying to keep himself from falling over the edge. “I can feel you—fuck me, I should pull out.”

“No.”

It came out fast, urgent, a whisper laced with something dangerous. Your legs locked around his hips, keeping him trapped in your hold.

His entire body went rigid. His breathing stilled.

“Baby.”

Bucky’s voice was low, frayed at the edges, filled with disbelief. The word hung in the air between you, unspoken until now.

You froze.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t have given that away. Shouldn’t have let it slip, shouldn’t have handed him something so fragile, something you couldn’t take back.

But what was a drop to someone who was already drowning?

Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. If he wanted to, he could have pulled you off of him without lifting a finger. You had always been painfully aware of how much stronger he was, how easily he could overpower you.

And yet, he stayed still, locked in your hold. Completely at your mercy.

You swallowed, your fingers shaking as they curled into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let him run.

“C’mon, doll,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, stealing a kiss that felt like it was more for him than for you. “Let go.”

His hips rolled, his pelvis grinding against your clit, making you whimper. Your body was still trembling, still oversensitive, but fuck, if he kept going just a little longer—

“I want you to cum inside me,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, your nails digging into his skin.

Bucky froze.

The words echoed between you like a shot fired into the silence.

His hips stilled. His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they held you.

You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to move.

“Doll,” he rasped, warning in his tone, his forehead pressed to yours. He looked wrecked, as undone as you felt.

“Stop arguing with me,” you shot back, voice shaky, grinding against him, dragging your soaked, sensitive heat over him, pulling a moan from his throat so deep it made every hair on your body stand on end.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his grip on you bruising.

“I want this.” You tightened your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer, wrapping him in you, cocooning you both in the moment. “I’m begging you, Bucky. Please.”

“It’s—” He swallowed thickly, voice strangled.

“Irresponsible, yes, but what’s a little irresponsibility?” A breathless laugh escaped you, but your voice broke at the end, too raw to keep up the teasing. You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m on the pill.”

His jaw clenched.

“I need this,” you whispered, the truth clawing up your throat before you could stop it. “I need you.” Your voice cracked, your breath hitched, emotion swelling too fast, too much. “You don’t get it, I—”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he softened.

Something in his eyes clicked, something changed, and suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you tighter, his hands cradling your face like you were precious, like you were fragile, like he had to hold you together before you broke apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

His thrusts were slower, deeper, his lips brushing yours between each movement. His hands wandered, soothing, worshipping.

“Giving you exactly what you want, yeah?”

You nodded frantically, breath labored, losing yourself in the way he felt, the way he surrounded you, consumed you.

“Don’t pull out,” you begged, voice barely there, a whisper of devotion, of desperation.

Bucky let out a shaky breath, forehead pressed to yours. “I won’t, baby,” he promised, voice breaking. His pace picked up, hips rolling against yours, pushing deeper, harder, dragging against your oversensitive clit in a way that had you whimpering. “Gonna fill you up like you wanted.”

Your toes curled at the words, at the image, your walls fluttering around him.

“Oh, please don’t stop,” you gasped, rolling your hips, needing, aching.

Bucky groaned, his head dropping back as his rhythm faltered, as he snapped his hips harder, chasing the end, giving you what you wanted, giving you everything.

“Fill me up, baby,” you pleaded, your voice a broken, desperate thing. “Make me yours..”

And that—

That was what finally broke him.

Bucky snapped.

A curse tore from his throat, his grip on you bruising, unrelenting as his hips slammed into you, chasing the inevitable, giving you everything. His rhythm turned frantic, needy, his body demanding what you had just offered.

And you took it.

You craved it.

Your body tightened around him, coaxing him deeper, begging for more. Every thrust was an answer to a question neither of you had spoken aloud, a declaration in the language of skin and breath and longing.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he gritted out, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot against your mouth. His hand slid down between you, his metal fingers finding your clit and pressing, rubbing tight circles, dragging you back to the edge with him.

Your body shook, every muscle tensed, the pleasure sharpening into something unbearable, something deadly.

“Bucky—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, his voice cracking at the edges, his own body trembling as he held himself back, as he waited for you. “Give it to me.”

You did.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, knocking the air from your lungs, blinding in its intensity. Your body locked around him, your hands clutching desperately at his shoulders as the pleasure ripped through you in violent, unrelenting waves.

And that was it. That was everything.

Bucky followed, slamming into you one last time before breaking, burying himself as deep as he could go, a shuddering groan torn from his chest as he spilled into you, filling you like he promised. You felt it as his warm cum Costas your walls, so much of it you weren’t sure there wasn’t some spilling out.

His body trembled, his arms locked tight around you, holding you close as he gave in, as he let go, as he let himself have this.

For a moment, there was silence.

Just the sound of your breathing, labored and uneven. The quiet, lingering shock of what you had just done.

Bucky’s forehead pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart hammering so hard you could feel it through his suit.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed like that—wrapped around him, his cock still twitching inside of you, his arms cradling you like you might disappear if he let go.

You let your eyes drift shut, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the back of his neck, the weight of him comforting, grounding, even as reality started creeping back in.

You should let go.

You should move.

You should say something.

But when Bucky finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones—

The words died on your lips.

Because he was looking at you like you had just ruined him. Like you had just changed something fundamental inside of him.

Like you had just made him yours.

And you had.

Slowly,, Bucky eased his grip, his arms still wrapped around you, his hands still mapping the shape of you, like he needed to memorize every curve, every ridge, every place he’d touched.

His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, tender kisses that made your heart clench, made something deep inside you ache.

It felt too big.

Too much.

But you couldn’t stop touching him.

Your fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your touch. You pushed damp hair out of his face, ran your knuckles down the slope of his nose, his cheekbone, memorizing him the way he was memorizing you.

A hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheek, his expression unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his eyes were soft, but serious.

“You meant it,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed, lips parting, breath hitching.

“Bucky—”

His other hand was still pressed to your lower stomach, like he could feel himself inside you, like he could brand this moment into your skin.

“I felt it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The way you—” He exhaled sharply, like the words were too heavy to get out.

You closed your eyes, trying to give yourself some kind of reprieve from the enormity of it all.

“Don’t run from this.” His voice was so calm, but it cut through you like a knife. “Please, doll.”

Your throat tightened.

You weren’t sure if it was the aftershocks of pleasure or the overwhelming emotion of it all, but your body was still trembling—and Bucky felt every bit of it.

His arms tightened around you, securing you to him, anchoring you.

“I’m not running,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to search your face, like he didn’t quite believe you.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe yourself.

Because what came next?

What happened after this?

There was you before Bucky Barnes.

There was you after Bucky Barnes.

And they weren’t the same.

[demeterlindavis]

The boyfriend act ✦ series masterlist

Summary: All you wanted was to get to Austin, but instead of your brother, it’s Frankie —Santi’s best friend, the one you can barely stand— who shows up in Dallas. He’s just doing your brother a favor, but the trip takes an unexpected turn when a stop puts you face to face with your ex — the guy who broke your heart three months ago and is now about to get married.

Out of pride, you blurt out a lie: Frankie is your boyfriend. Surprised but willing to play along, he agrees, with one condition — you must accompany him to his mother’s birthday. His plan? Dodge his family’s meddling and their endless matchmaking schemes.

Rating: EXPLICIT (+18) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

Paiting: Frankie Morales x F!reader

WC: 61.7k

✦ fic content ✦

PART ONE: "The one with the proposal"

PART TWO: "The one with the purring traitor"

PART THREE: "The one with the birthday party"

PART FOUR: "The one with bruises and blue excuses"

PART FIVE: "The one with the Red lights"

PART SIX: "The one with the late night talk"

PART SEVEN: "The one with the unexpected visitor"

PART EIGHT: "The one with Dante and Beatrice"

More parts to be announced!

EXTRAS:

The Boyfriend Act timeline

beautiful divider by @saradika-graphics <3

[demeterlindavis]

The boyfriend act, part 1: "The one with the proposal" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader

SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: The journey from Dallas to Austin is tense but tolerable, as you and Frankie do your best to ignore the mutual disdain simmering between you. But everything derails when a chance encounter with Harry—your ex—and his fiancée pushes you to tell a spur-of-the-moment lie. Frankie’s reaction makes it clear he’s not on board. WC: 14.3k

A/N: Okay, here's my new baby! And I fucking love it! I hope you enjoy this story as much as I've been enjoying writing it. Also, just a heads-up: I’ve taken some creative liberties with the characters. While this story is inspired by the ones in Triple Frontier, it barely follows the events of the movie, and the characters themselves aren’t portrayed exactly as they are in the film. PS: I’d love to hear your thoughts—your feedback means so much to me! Knowing what you think truly motivates me to keep going. So don't hesitate and let me know <3 Also, if you want to be on the tag list, let me know. And don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifs :)

When Santiago’s message arrived, you read it three times, as if repetition might change the words or soften their impact.

[Santi]: Hey bubs, mornin. I’m really sorry but I won’t be able to come get you. I’ll meet you at home later tho. Frankie will pick you up, same time as planned, don’t worry:)

The words seemed to pulse faintly on the screen, a quiet disruption of the neat plan you’d constructed in your head.

Frankie. He wasn’t your first choice—or your second, or third. If you were honest, he didn’t even make the list.

That morning had started with a sense of calm, a kind of orderly anticipation. The steady hum of the fan in the corner of Emma’s room, the cool sting of the shower water, the first sip of coffee, sweet and bitter all at once—it all felt like the clean slate of a well-prepared day. You’d zipped your suitcase shut with a satisfying finality, placed your carry-on by the door. Nothing left to chance.

The plan was simple: you’d take the bus. Predictable, unremarkable. But Santiago had insisted earlier that week, his voice crackling through the phone with a kind of rare, unguarded enthusiasm.

“We can stop for lunch, you know? Like we used to do with dad. Maybe even take a detour if we find somethin' cool,” he’d said, his tone warm, almost playful.

You’d been leaning against Emma’s kitchen counter at the time, a glass of wine in one hand, a cube of cheese in the other, and your phone between your cheek and your shoulder. Emma raised an eyebrow from across the room, silently prompting you to explain.

“Everything okay with Yovanna?” you teased, your voice carrying just enough edge to feel like a joke, even though it wasn’t entirely one. “Or is this an excuse to run away for the day?”

“Fuck you,” he laughed, the kind of laugh that came easily between you two. “I just want to spend time with you. It’s been ages since we really caught up. I miss you like hell.”

That stopped you. He wasn’t wrong—months had passed since the two of you had talked properly, beyond the surface-level exchanges over meals or texts.

“Okay,” you’d said, your voice softer than before, though you avoided looking at Emma. “I miss you too. I’ll wait for you then.”

And now, this. No Santiago, no shared lunch or detours. Just Frankie, an unwelcome rewrite of the day you thought you had mapped out so clearly.

You sat back against the bed frame, rereading the message one last time. Frankie will pick you up. Frankie will pick you up. Frankie. Frankie. Fucking Frankie. Now the plan had unraveled, and the disappointment felt sharper than you wanted to admit.

You let the phone fall to the bed beside you, the screen dimming as it landed.

Emma lay stretched out next to you, her head tilted toward the TV, where an episode of Friends played on low volume. It was one of those episodes you both knew by heart, the kind you could recite without effort. The one where everybody finds out. The blue light from the screen washed over her face, softening her features, making her eyes look brighter than they really were. Without looking away, she reached out and hooked her arm around yours, a quiet gesture that felt like home. She’d done the same thing when you were teenagers, sharing the lumpy couch in your parents’ living room, giggling over something trivial while your mom cooked dinner in the next room.

“What happened?” she murmured, her voice soft but curious, as if she could already sense the shift in your mood. The laugh track bubbled in the background, filling the space between her words.

“Santi’s not coming,” you said, glancing at the TV without really seeing it. “He sent Frankie.”

You felt a pang, not just from the change in plans but from the weight of the goodbye looming in the background. You’d learned to carry that feeling since Emma moved out of Austin—this persistent ache, like a thread pulling tighter with every visit that ended. On most days, it faded into the background. But today, it stuck to you, clinging like a damp sock you couldn’t quite shake off.

“That Frankie?” 

“I doubt he knows any others.”

“How convenient,” she said, her voice low with mockery, though her arm squeezed yours gently. “Well, call me when you get there. And try to be nice to him, if you can manage it.”

Emma turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at you out of the corner of her eye. “And don’t take too long to come back and visit me, okay?” 

“You could always visit Austin, you know."

“It’s more fun if you come here. You get to be a tourist,” she said, with that breezy logic she always used to disarm you. “I already know Austin. That’s not so exciting.”

You snorted, more out of habit than disagreement. She wasn’t wrong. Emma rarely was.

The rest of the evening passed in near silence, broken only by the low murmur of the television. First, another episode of Friends, then one of The Nanny. The rhythm of the shows was familiar, the kind of easy, forgettable comfort that didn’t require much from you. At some point, Emma shifted closer, resting her head on your shoulder. Her breathing slowed, deepened, a steady rise and fall that seemed to sync with your own. She didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. There was something about her presence, her weight against you, that felt like a reminder—you were understood here, even when you didn’t have the words to explain yourself. She wasn't just your best friend, she was your sister.

The sharp blare of a car horn shattered the calm, breaking through the evening like the crack of distant thunder. You flinched, your body instinctively tensing, the warm cocoon of the moment dissolving in an instant. Emma didn’t stir much, her eyes still closed, her arm still draped over yours. You nudged her gently, tapping her arm until she groaned softly and sat up, squinting against the glow of the TV.

“I think he’s here,” you said, your voice low but cutting through the quiet.

Emma stretched in one graceful motion, her arms arching overhead before she bent down to grab the bright lavender Crocs she kept by the bed. The shoes, adorned with an assortment of decorative pins—a blue flower, a miniature coffee cup, and a small plastic dinosaur—were an oddly perfect reflection of her: delicate, energetic, and just the right amount of ridiculous, in the best way. 

“Come on, I’ll walk you out,” she said, her tone casual, but there was a softness to it, an unspoken understanding that made the impending goodbye feel heavier.

Outside, the heat clung to you immediately, the air thick and sticky, humming with the faint buzz of cicadas. Your gaze landed on the car parked in front of Emma’s house, and something in you tensed. It wasn’t Santi’s car, of course, and it wasn’t Santi standing there waiting.

Frankie was leaning against the hood, arms crossed, his whole posture radiating impatience. He looked as though he’d been sculpted there, his bored expression so exaggerated it almost felt theatrical. The heat shimmered in waves around him, but he didn’t seem to notice—or care. He wore a rumpled gray shirt that looked like it hadn’t been ironed in weeks and a pair of dark sunglasses, their reflective lenses hiding whatever was going on behind them. The cap was familiar, too—plain, worn, the same style you’d seen him wear before, though this time in a faded gray that matched his shirt.

For a fleeting, irrational moment, you thought maybe this was all a mistake. That Santi might suddenly appear, stepping out from behind the car or walking up the driveway with that easy laugh of his, telling you it had all been a joke. But the driveway remained empty, and Frankie, noticing you, straightened up with a kind of deliberate slowness.

He started walking toward you, each step measured, as if he were pacing himself for an obligation he didn’t particularly want to fulfill. His movements had the casual indifference of someone who would rather be anywhere else, but was too resigned to argue.

“Where’s Santi?” you asked as you approached, the question coming out sharper than you’d intended.

Frankie didn’t answer immediately. He simply closed the distance between you with deliberate, unhurried steps. Then, without a word, he grabbed the suitcase from your hand in one fluid motion. The gesture caught you off guard—not because he took it, but because of how mechanical it felt. He didn’t look at you, didn’t acknowledge you in any meaningful way. It was as though you were just an extension of the bag he was moving, an obstacle to be dealt with as quickly as possible.

“He couldn’t make it,” he said at last, his voice flat, almost dismissive.

He hauled the suitcase toward the trunk and tossed it in with a thud that seemed louder than it should’ve been. The sound echoed briefly, underscoring his lack of finesse. He slammed the trunk shut with a single decisive motion and turned back toward the driver’s seat, his body language broadcasting that he considered the interaction over.

“He didn’t tell me anything about it,” you said, your voice rising slightly, tinged with disbelief. You stayed rooted to the spot, your feet planted as if the weight of the confusion had sunk into the concrete beneath you.

Frankie paused, his hand on the car door.

“It was a last-minute thing.” 

Before you could respond—before you could even begin to untangle your frustration into something coherent—he opened the door, slid into the driver’s seat, and pulled it shut behind him with a force that made the air shudder.

You turned back toward the house. Emma was watching from the porch, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her expression hovered somewhere between curiosity and bewilderment, her head tilting slightly as you approached.

She hugged you tightly, holding on a beat longer than usual. When you pulled away, her eyes searched yours, silently asking questions you didn’t have answers for.

“I’ll call you when I get there,” you said, though you weren’t sure what the call would entail—whether you’d laugh about all this, or vent, or just let her voice fill the empty spaces.

Her lips twitched into a faint smile, one tinged with resignation.

“I love you so much,” you added, your voice quieter now. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I always do. I love you too. Take care and call me as soon as you can."

She stepped back as you turned toward the car, your feet dragging slightly with each step.

Now, an hour and a half later, the car sped steadily toward Austin, the scenery blurring into a series of indistinct shapes. Frankie hadn’t said a word since you’d left Emma’s house, and the silence had settled in the car like a heavy fog, pressing down on you with every passing mile.

You’d considered speaking—several times, in fact—but every potential conversation starter you thought of seemed pointless. What was there to say to him? You barely knew each other, and what little you did know felt more like a series of grudges than shared history. The only things you had in common were your mutual love for Santi and, apparently, your mutual irritation with each other. Neither felt like enough to bridge the yawning gap between you.

You stared out the window, the dry, flat landscape sliding by in endless monotony, like a movie stripped of plot and color. Pale beige fields stretched into the horizon, broken only by the occasional cluster of power lines. The sameness of it all seemed to lull the world into a kind of dull, static hum.  

The only relief came from the music spilling softly from the car’s speakers—classic rock, its grainy tones unmistakable even at low volume. The sound was tethered to Frankie’s phone, resting in the cupholder beside him, the screen glowing faintly every so often with an incoming notification he didn’t bother to check. A Fleetwood Mac song began again, its familiar opening chords filling the silence for the third time since you’d left.  

You shifted in your seat, glancing at him from the corner of your eye before turning your attention back to the road ahead.

“Do you like this song?” 

“I think so.”

“It’s played three times already.”

“It’s a good song,” he said softly, his voice low enough to be mistaken for an afterthought. 

You turned back to the window, letting the conversation dissolve into the space between you. He hadn’t said it to be defensive—just matter-of-fact, like the song itself was reason enough. You folded your arms across your chest, the seatbelt digging slightly into your side.  

Then, your mind wandered back to Santi, to the message that had upended your day. What had he been thinking? Of all his friends, why send Frankie? The question rolled over in your head, each repetition more insistent than the last. Was it an oversight? A logistical decision made in haste, without considering how you’d feel about it? Or was it intentional? That idea sat uneasily with you, gnawing at the edge of your thoughts. He knew how strange things felt between you and Frankie. Hell, everyone knew. They’d all been there, witnessed it firsthand—the arguments, the uncomfortable silences, the way your personalities seemed to clash as naturally as oil and water.  

The possibility that Santi might’ve chosen Frankie on purpose—maybe even as some misguided attempt to force you into tolerating each other—bothered you more than you wanted to admit. You shifted again, suddenly restless, as the car hummed along the empty stretch of highway, the silence between you growing heavier despite the steady background of Fleetwood Mac.

Over the last few years, Frankie had been a fixture in your life, the way someone else’s shadow might be—not yours, but unavoidable. Being your brother’s best friend meant your paths crossed often enough, though you both seemed to approach these encounters with mutual disdain. You didn’t like him, and he didn’t bother pretending to like you. Disgust was the word that came to mind when you thought about how he looked at you. Not exaggerated or theatrical, just a cool, unflinching disgust, as though he found something about you fundamentally wrong. 

The last time you’d spoken more than a handful of clipped, perfunctory words to each other was in Santi’s kitchen a few years ago. That was the breaking point. The fight. It wasn’t dramatic, not really—no yelling, no slammed doors—but it was the kind of exchange that changed things irreversibly. After that, you decided you didn’t want to think about him, let alone look at him, ever again.

And that was the end of it. You stopped trying to explain. You'd come to accept that to Santi, Frankie was probably nothing like how you saw him. You weren't sure what it was about him that rubbed you the wrong way, but you knew that with your brother, Frankie surely couldn't be as unpleasant as he was with you. 

So, you ignored him. Every time you saw him, you made sure your gaze passed over him like he was just another fixture in the room. And he did the same. It was as though you were two people occupying the same space, but never truly sharing it.

Why on earth, then, had he agreed to come and pick you up?

The silence in the car stretched on, and you settled into the uncomfortable rhythm of it, letting it fill the space between you and him. Frankie’s eyes stayed fixed on the road, and his thumbs twitched restlessly over the steering wheel.

Finally, he broke the silence, but his words felt like a formality.

“We'll stop for lunch,” he said, his voice low, almost indifferent. His gaze flickered to you for a brief second, enough to make sure you had heard, before returning to the road. “I haven’t eaten anything all day. Do you mind?”

You were starting to feel the pangs of hunger yourself, but you didn’t let that soften your response. You couldn’t. 

“No,” you replied, your voice curt, colder than you intended.

Frankie nodded, the movement barely noticeable. He turned his attention back to the road, his expression unchanged, as though you hadn’t spoken at all. His calmness was maddening. 

For a moment, you considered breaking the silence again, saying something just to disrupt his steady composure. But then you thought better of it. There was still a long way to go, and the last thing you wanted was for this trip to feel even more suffocating than it already was. So you stayed silent, the weight of your irritation pressing down on you, knowing that with each mile, you were only getting closer to end of this torture.

Fifteen minutes later, the engine turned off  and you looked over at the driver's side, half-expecting Frankie to say something—anything—but he was already in motion. Before you could open your mouth, the door swung open, and he was out of the car, his body moving with an urgency that seemed to come from some invisible force, as though he were escaping the confines of the vehicle. For a moment, the empty passenger seat seemed to expand, making the car feel smaller, quieter. 

You stayed there a second longer, watching as Frankie made his way across the parking lot. His steps were steady, deliberate, almost too casual, as if walking away from you might somehow erase you from the moment entirely. He didn’t look back, didn’t pause to see if you were following. And honestly, you weren’t in any rush to do so. There was no reason to catch up with him. He clearly didn’t want you there, and you didn’t want to be near him either. This trip wasn’t about you; it was about doing your brother a favor.

The parking lot was modest, just enough space for the few cars scattered about. It wasn’t anything remarkable, just a typical lot for a small, unassuming restaurant. The faded lines barely marked the spots, and you counted five cars parked across the patch of asphalt. The windows of the restaurant were perfectly clean, and you could see people inside. A couple of families were chatting animatedly at their tables, and a few solitary diners were hunched over their food, their focus far from the simple meal in front of them.

With a sigh, you walked toward the entrance. Above the door, the sign Jimmy’s buzzed softly in red neon, its glow a little too bright for the evening light. Next to it, a yellow arrow with tiny, flickering bulbs pointed inside, inviting anyone who passed by to come in. "Eat here!" The sign seemed eager, almost enthusiastic in its attempt to catch attention.

You pushed open the door, the bell chiming brightly above your head as you stepped inside. The rush of cool air from the air conditioning met you instantly, a welcome contrast to the heat that still clung to your skin from the car. The coolness was almost too sharp, sending a slight shiver down your spine as you paused just inside the doorway. Your eyes took a moment to adjust to the softer light inside. The diner was small, but it had a cozy, familiar feel, with colorful walls and a few tables scattered around. The noise inside was a comfortable hum, punctuated by the occasional clink of silverware, low conversation and the music in the background.

It didn’t take long to spot him. Frankie was seated at the bar, absorbed in the menu in front of him. His posture was casual, but there was something about the way he held himself, his shoulders slightly hunched, that made it feel like he was a little too withdrawn, like he didn’t want to engage. 

You walked toward him slowly, the sound of your footsteps softened by the tiles beneath you. You were just about to sit next to him when he looked up, his gaze meeting yours briefly before returning to the menu. His voice was flat, almost bored as he spoke, as if the interaction was nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

“Go find a table,” he said, his tone neither rude nor warm.

You frowned, taking the menu from his hand without a word. His gaze didn’t follow you as he stood up, stretching slightly as he rose from the bar stool. There was something about his movements—relaxed, yet sharp—that made you feel like you weren’t really a part of whatever was going on. His shirt clung slightly to his back from the heat of the car, the evidence of sweat still visible on his skin, and you couldn't help but notice the fine hairs on his arms standing on end, a subtle sign of the sharp contrast between the stifling heat outside and the chill of the air-conditioned room.

“I’m goin' to the bathroom. Be back in a sec,” he added casually, his voice even, before disappearing down the narrow hallway to the right. No expectation of a response. No glance to see if you were still standing there, just a simple statement. He was gone before you could offer anything in reply.

You were left standing there, the laminated menu in your hands, a slight weariness creeping in.

With a sigh, you turned on your heels and began scanning the room for a table. There was still at least an hour and a half of travel left, plus however long you'd spend eating. Why hadn’t Santi given you a heads-up? You could’ve taken the bus or the train, something that didn’t involve sitting in a car with anyone but him. But no, that wasn’t even an option, apparently. 

You spotted an empty table near the back, next to the window, and as you walked toward it, the decor around you caught your eye. The place had a playful, nostalgic vibe, as if it were trying to channel the spirit of another time. Framed posters of Grease, Fame, Footloose, and Saturday Night Fever hung on the walls, adding to the feeling of a throwback to the ‘70s and ‘80s. It was all very upbeat, almost theatrical, like a movie set. The tables were red and white, and a jukebox stood in the corner.

You glanced at the posters, half wondering if the owner had lived through that era or just loved the aesthetic of it all. Either way, it gave the place a sense of warmth and a bit of character, a stark contrast to the outside. 

Suddenly, a voice cut through the quiet murmur of the restaurant, sharp and unexpected, and your name echoed in the air. You froze, the sound ricocheting in your chest, followed by a rush of emotions you didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone feel. You could feel the familiar tension ripple through your muscles, a mix of surprise, confusion, and something deeper you couldn’t quite place. Slowly, you turned to face him, every step feeling like it took an eternity.

“Harry,” you said, the name falling from your lips like it belonged to someone else, someone distant. A smile flickered across your face—perfectly timed and just the right shape, though it felt hollow, as fake as the kindness you were trying to project. Your lips tightened, a familiar mask of politeness slipping over your expression, one you wished you didn’t have to wear. “What... what are you doing here?”

His smile was instant and disarming, his surprise clear, and his happiness so genuine it made your chest tighten. For a moment, it erased the absurdity of seeing him here, of all places, in the middle of nowhere. The coincidence felt cruel, as if the universe was playing a cruel joke on you.

The last time you saw him, three months ago, it felt like a lifetime ago—a goodbye steeped in heartbreak. You’d clung to him, tears soaking his crisp white shirt as he whispered reassurances: “It’s okay. You’ll be okay. I care about you.” But the words he didn’t say cut deeper: he cared for you, but he loved her.  

It had been a casual fling, no strings attached—or so you told yourself. Then came the day he confessed: he was in love with Lisa, a friend you’d never met. They were getting married. His words, calm and rehearsed, felt like a gut punch, but his excitement betrayed him. He was happy. You weren’t.  

You tried to be strong, to tell him you were fine, even as you broke down. Because you loved him, and you couldn’t bear the thought of him with her.  

And now, here he was, smiling like nothing had happened, curiosity in his eyes—oblivious to the wreckage he’d left behind.  

In front of him, Lisa was sitting with a big bright smile. You’d seen her face before, her perfectly curated Instagram photos, her flawless smile that could have been lifted straight from a movie. But in person? She was even more striking, the kind of beauty that didn’t need filters or captions. The kind of beauty that made everything around her seem insignificant, that made you feel small just standing next to her. Her presence was magnetic, the sort of thing that pulled your gaze despite every instinct telling you to look away.

Suddenly, the air conditioning hit you like a blast of cold, sharp enough to make you flinch. But then again, maybe it wasn’t the air conditioning. Maybe it was just your body freezing in place, rigid with surprise and something much harder to define. You didn’t know how to respond. Harry was talking—his voice was there, filling the space, but the words barely reached you. They felt like distant echoes, the kind that might have meant something once but now were just noise, reverberating uselessly around you.

“What are you doing around here?” he asked, pulling you back from the tangle of thoughts you were trying so hard to keep at bay.

You blinked, trying to center yourself, but it was like you had forgotten how to breathe properly.

“We’re... I’m just passing through, heading back to Austin,” you said, your voice sounding too steady, too rehearsed, even to your own ears. Your heart was lodged somewhere near your throat, threatening to choke you if you said too much. “I went to visit Emma.”

“Ah, Emma. How is she? Is she still in Dallas?”

“Yep,” you answered, the word sharp and clipped, offering nothing more. 

The silence hung between you, thick and uncomfortable. You could feel it stretching, wrapping itself around your words, making them heavier than they needed to be. Finally, you exhaled, the air coming out in a slow, resigned sigh.

“What about you guys? What are you doing around here?”

You didn’t really want to know, not at all.

“Lisa’s grandparents live in Waco,” Harry said with that wide smile of his, the one that always made you feel like you were watching the world tilt on its axis. He looked at Lisa like she was the center of his universe, as if everything that mattered began and ended with her. “We went to take the invitation to them personally and I met the rest of the family while we were at it.”

You didn’t smile. You couldn’t. Your lips pulled tight, the gesture feeling almost painful, like your face wasn’t sure how to form the expression anymore. The words were there, though, just beneath the surface.

“Right, right.” You swallowed, forcing the words out despite how hollow they felt. “How cool. You must be so excited—a summer wedding, then?”

You’d known for weeks—September 13th. The invitation, with its sparkling gold lettering, had made your stomach churn. You buried it under junk mail, unable to face seeing him so happy, so certain of what he had.

But you couldn’t say that, could you? You couldn’t tell him that the mere thought of them together, of their future, felt like a knife to your chest. So you forced a smile, a tight, lifeless thing, and let the conversation carry on.

"That's right," Harry said, laughing as his gaze flickered to Lisa, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Even though we wanted to enjoy the early days of fall, Lisa wanted to get married around summer, mostly because of her parents. They got married during summer too."

Lisa laughed softly, the sound like a note held too long, then spoke, her voice low and warm.

"It's not just that," she said, her hand resting lightly on Harry's. You found yourself looking away, unable to hold the image of them together for too long. "Everything looks more beautiful during this season, doesn't it? Even the days last longer."

Her voice was thick with something you couldn't quite place—familiarity, maybe. Or maybe it was love, that unspoken thing that you couldn’t ignore, even if you wanted to. The way they fit together made everything else seem smaller, less important. And yet Harry’s eyes shifted to you, seeking something. Approval, maybe. He didn’t say it, but it was clear. His look said: Don’t disagree.

"That's true. Summer is beautiful," you replied, feeling the words slip out too easily, forced through your teeth. Your voice came out softer than you intended, and you felt Lisa’s smile hit you like a jolt. It was stunning—perfect in a way that seemed almost too much, like she’d been born to smile in that exact way. You hated her for it, just a little.

"We look forward to seeing you there," Harry said, breaking the moment, his words direct and heavy. "We haven't received your confirmation—you’re going, aren't you?"

How could he ask that, not see how unnatural this felt? But Harry wasn’t cruel—just unaware. You’d never told him you loved him, never made your feelings clear. To him, this was normal. He thought you’d be fine.

“I... um—” 

“Don’t worry about going alone,” he said, that same nonchalant tone that had once made you smile. "You always meet people at weddings."

Heat flooded your face, burning like a slap. The words stung, but his obliviousness made it worse. You wished the ground would swallow you whole—or anything to escape. Instead, you laughed—a thin, brittle sound that barely masked the pain.

"Ah, no, that’s not it," you lied, your voice trembling just enough for Harry to notice. "That's covered."

“Oh, is it?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow, his interest piqued. He leaned forward, a relieved smile crossing his face.

"Sure," you said, forcing a confidence into your tone that you didn’t feel. "I’ll... I’ll go with my boyfriend."

Harry's eyes widened a little, and then the smile appeared again—this one more genuine, more curious. He tapped the table, an excited gesture that made your stomach twist.

“You don’t say?” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “And who’s the lucky guy?”

You wanted to crumble. You wanted to say nothing, because the truth felt too big, too overwhelming, and there was no way to say it without everything falling apart. But you couldn't. You just couldn't.

As if by some celestial miracle, you saw Frankie emerge from the hallway, his attention absorbed by the screen of his phone, scrolling, unaware of anything around him. His timing was perfect, and relief washed over you, as if fate had sent him. He wasn’t supposed to be here, yet there he was—a lifeline in the chaos.  

For a moment, he seemed to glow, his familiar, worn cap catching the harsh lights like a crown. You’d never been so glad to see someone. Then his eyes met yours, and his expression shifted—confusion flickering as he took in your frantic stance, the mess of emotions written on your face.  

Before you could stop it, before you could make any sense of what was happening, a smile stretched across your face—too wide, too fast, like a reflex you hadn’t been prepared for. It was probably a little too sharp to be anything but forced, but you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t help anything.

"Frankie," you said, the words tumbling out with more enthusiasm than you intended. It sounded too bright, almost exaggerated, but there was no stopping it now. "This is Frankie... Frankie, my boyfriend.”

You weren’t sure what you were doing, but it didn’t matter—you needed to make something clear. Frankie tensed beside you, glancing your way, trying to read the situation. His eyes met yours, and you silently begged him: Help. Please.

For a moment, he studied you, his gaze flicking between you and the couple. Then, as if something clicked, his expression shifted to understanding. He realized what he had to do and adjusted instantly.

"Right," he finally said, his voice low, the smile on his face still a little unsure but polite. "I’m Frankie."

Harry extended his hand with a practiced smile, warm but a touch too bright. Frankie hesitated, his gaze shifting from Harry’s hand to your face, brow slightly furrowed as he tried to assess the situation—or his role in it.  

You stepped closer, tapping his waist lightly, a subtle signal to act. He blinked, refocusing, and finally took Harry’s hand, his grip firm and deliberate. But in his eyes, there was a flicker of discomfort—one only you noticed.

“Frankie,” Harry said, his voice carrying a weight of something too calm for the situation. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, I'm Harry.” Then, he nodded enthusiastically, dropping his hand back to the table. “And this is Lisa."

Lisa smiled, her gaze bright and almost blinding.

“Nice to meet ya, Frankie,” she said, her voice the epitome of warmth, her charm effortless, her presence just... perfect. Oh my God, just stop it!

Frankie finally turned his attention back to you, though it wasn’t immediately clear if he was still processing the social niceties or deciding how best to carry this conversation forward. His voice shifted slightly as he spoke again.

“Same here,” he said, his tone unfamiliar to you—something smoother, almost softer, like he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. 

He moved closer, just a bit too close, slipping his arm around your waist with ease, sending a flutter through your stomach. His hand rested lightly against your side, his palm warm at your back. You froze, unable to focus on anything but the pulse of his touch, the way he effortlessly played the boyfriend role.

It felt wrong, uncomfortable.

Confusion and relief mixed inside you, unsure if the relief came from the act itself or the distraction it provided from the situation.

"Well," Frankie broke the silence. "Sorry to interrupt, but we need to leave soon. I want to make sure this beautiful woman gets some food before we go—otherwise, she goes bad."

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by the way he phrased it. 

Harry chuckled, his easy laughter filling the space.

“Yeah, I believe you,” he said, his grin still wide but with a spark of curiosity. He shot a look at Lisa, then back at Frankie, narrowing his eyes just a touch. “That’s the main reason we stopped. Though I’ll admit,” he added, glancing down at the table with a mock grimace, “I was the one really starving.”

The awkwardness of the moment barely registered for Harry. He seemed to think everything was going smoothly, unaware of the small cracks in the facade that were threatening to show. Frankie, however, was more aware than anyone, and you could see it in his eyes—the way his face shifted from the casual smile to something more guarded, something more carefully neutral. 

Frankie gave a short, almost amused laugh, pulling his arm back from your waist with a light tap. His tone was polite, more deliberate than before.

“Yeah, I’m sure you can relate,” he said, a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “Keeping your lady happy, that's what it's all about, isn't it?” 

You tried to smile, but it came out thin, tight around the edges. Your legs became weak. 

Harry’s laugh was light. He buyed it.

Frankie straightened up slightly, offering his hand to Harry in that careful, calculated way that now seemed practiced, even though it hadn’t been moments ago. His movements were calculated, polite, but entirely different from the Frankie you knew. The way he was acting felt like an entirely unfamiliar version of him—Thank God.

“Okay, thanks for the chat, but we bett—” 

"Yeah, of course," Harry interrupted, still upbeat and completely oblivious to the tension. "It was nice meeting you, Frankie. Take care of her, alright? She's... well, you know. A special one."

Frankie’s smile stiffened, the edges barely moving as he gave a short nod. His eyes flicked to you for a fleeting second, his expression tight and controlled, though something was definitely off.

"I will, man," he replied, voice steady but carrying an underlying edge. "I’ve got her covered. Don’t worry. She’s in good hands."

“Bye, Harry,” you said, turning to him with a friendly but somewhat distant smile, your hand lifting in a wave that felt too casual for the weight of everything you hadn’t said. “And you too, Lisa. Good luck with the wedding!”

Lisa smiled warmly. “Thank you,” she replied, her voice smooth. “Let us know if you're coming."

“Yeah. Hope to see you at the wedding. You too, Frankie,” Harry said, just before you thought about starting to walk to the table at the back of the place.

Frankie looked confused, and looked at you for an answer, or for you to say something.

"Sure," you said, taking him by the arm, ready to leave. "We'll definitely be there!"

You moved in silence toward the booth, Frankie's hand resting at the small of your back, guiding you like an automatic reflex. The low hum of conversation in the restaurant seemed to fade as you both reached the table, and you were strangely relieved that the high backs of the seats shielded you from Harry’s view. 

He dropped into the seat across from you, his presence as loud and brash as ever, even without a word. When you looked at him, it struck you how quickly he'd reverted to the expression he always wore around you—furrowed brows, lips pressed into a thin, almost unnatural line. It wasn’t clear if it was annoyance, confusion, or just him being him.

“I’m so hungry,” you said, flipping through the laminated menu like it might hold the answers to something bigger than lunch. “I really want a burger, and some fries.”

He didn’t reply immediately, his stare heavy on you. Then:

“What the fuck was that?”

You sighed, closing the menu and flattening your hands on the table as if bracing yourself. His face was a familiar mix of wide eyes, creased forehead, and that particular grimace that always made you feel like you’d said something wrong.

You shrugged. “My ex.”

“Okay? And?”

“And that’s it. Nothing else.”

Frankie leaned back with a dramatic exhale, the leather of the booth creaking under him. He shook his head in disbelief, his jaw tightening.

“Since when am I your boyfriend?” he asked, his tone sharp with irritation. “Last time I checked, I was doing your brother a favor.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said quickly, cheeks warming. You picked up the menu again, trying to will your face back to neutrality. “Thanks for playing along, anyway.”

He sighed—loud, pointed. You glanced up, and sure enough, he was staring at you, his fingers drumming a steady rhythm on the table. Not impatient, exactly. Calculated.

“You’re not going to tell me what the fuck that was?”

You ignored him, letting the embarrassment swirl hot in your stomach as you fixed your eyes on the menu. Burgers. Burgers. Burgers. Burgers. Fries. Onion rings, maybe.

“Hey,” he said sharply, snapping his fingers in front of your face.

You blinked, snapping your head up to look at him.

“Oh, are you talking to me?”

Frankie gave you a look so exaggerated you almost laughed, except you knew he wasn’t joking.

“Who else would I be talking to? You think I’m out here monologuing? Who are you, fucking De Niro?”

“Hey!” you snapped, slamming the menu down on the table. The sound echoed between you, a sharp punctuation that sent a ripple of air across his forehead, lifting the dark strands just slightly. “Don’t talk to me like that, Francisco. Who do you think you’re talking to? We’re not friends.”

He snorted, the sound sharp but oddly soft at the same time, pulling off his cap and placing it on the seat beside him. With a low groan, he ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching briefly in the strands. His gaze found yours again, his posture seemingly relaxed but betraying a subtle tension. You could see it in the way his shoulders didn’t quite settle, in the way his eyes didn’t blink as he studied you.

“I know, we’re not friends. But I just lied for you. Why? Who was that? And why are you acting so weird?”

Before you could answer, he straightened in his seat, leaning forward slightly. “No, wait. The real question is: why are you acting weirder than usual?”

You folded your arms, leaning back until you felt the booth press into your shoulders. Your gaze flicked to the front door, the thought of walking out taking root in your mind. Leaving felt easier—safer. Honestly, you’d rather trudge all the way back to Austin on foot, the heat and endless asphalt blistering your skin, than sit here and explain yourself to Frankie. He wouldn’t care. Worse, he might care just enough to make you regret opening your mouth.

When your eyes returned to him, though, his expression surprised you. Serious, yes. But not angry. He was watching you with an almost disarming calmness, like he’d decided he had all the time in the world to wait for your answer.

You sighed, the sound shaky as it escaped your chest.

“It’s my ex,” you said, barely above a murmur.

“Yes,” he said immediately. “Your ex. I got that part. And?”

“And his fiancée.”

“Aha,” he nodded slowly, like he was piecing something together, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “Why did you lie to them?”

You swallowed hard, the pulse in your neck thudding too loudly in your ears.

“Because...” Your voice wavered, and you hated it. “Because... Um, he told me I might meet someone at the wedding.”

Frankie blinked, his confusion shifting into something closer to disbelief.

“What?”

“God,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as heat crept up your neck. Your hands dropped to your thighs, fingers curling into the fabric of your jeans. “We dated for four months, and he broke up with me to get engaged to her. Then he invited me to their wedding. When I said I’d go, he told me not to worry about showing up alone, because I’d probably meet someone there.”

Frankie’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came out, so you pressed on, a flush of anger sparking under your skin.

“So, I panicked,” you admitted, your voice sharpening. “I told him not to worry, that I’d bring my boyfriend. And then you showed up, and it just—it made sense in the moment, okay? That’s it.”

“It made sense to you to say I was your boyfriend?” he asked, his tone incredulous. “You couldn’t have said I was someone else? Made up something better?”

“No, it didn’t occur to me!” you hissed, your eyes widening as your voice rose, though you kept it just shy of shouting. “I panicked, okay? I’m sorry! What was I supposed to do?”

He stared at you for a moment, his face a mix of annoyance and bafflement, before leaning back again. You could see the wheels turning in his head, though whatever he was thinking, he wasn’t about to share it with you.

You sank deeper into your seat, glaring at the table like it might offer some kind of solace. But all you could feel was the mortifying heat of his gaze, still fixed firmly on you.

Frankie scratched his forehead, his fingers dragging slowly down to his chin, where they rested briefly before falling to the table. His expression was skeptical, as if he were trying to solve a particularly irritating puzzle.

“Okay,” he started, his voice even but edged with disbelief. “So, you dated this guy for three months—”

“Four months,” you corrected, your tone clipped.

“Right. Four months. And then he left you to get engaged?”

“Yeah.”

Frankie leaned back, his posture deceptively relaxed, but the sharpness in his eyes gave him away.

“You’re telling me he cheated on you, and you’re still planning to go to his fucking wedding? Are you out of your mind?”

He propped his chin on his left hand, elbow planted firmly on the table, and his gaze locked onto you. There was something in his expression that made your stomach twist—a combination of pity and incredulity that made you feel stupid, even if he hadn’t said the word outright.

“No, he didn’t cheat on me,” you replied, lowering your voice as you leaned forward slightly, not wanting anyone else to overhear. “We weren’t in a serious relationship. We were just... casually dating. He was always in love with her, but they couldn’t figure things out. I knew that. He told me.”

Frankie’s eyebrows lifted, his disbelief evident.

“He told you he was in love with another woman, and you still kept dating him?”

“No,” you shot back, frowning. “He told me after a while—around the time we broke up. I would never date someone who was in love with someone else.”

“But you were in love with him, weren’t you?”

There it was. That tone. The one that suggested Frankie thought he had you all figured out, as if your life and feelings were nothing more than a series of obvious moves on a chessboard he could read from across the room. He was so infuriatingly arrogant, so sure of himself.

You narrowed your eyes, but the involuntary twitch of your eyebrows betrayed you.

“I had feelings for him,” you admitted, your voice stiff with frustration.

Frankie tilted his head slightly, his lips quirking into a half-smile that made you want to smack him.

“Okay, let me make sure I’ve got this straight: this guy you casually dated for four months left you for another woman, got engaged, invited you to the wedding, and you, still hung up on him, agreed to go but invented an imaginary boyfriend so you wouldn’t have to show up alone. That about right?”

“I’m not in love with him,” you snapped, crossing your arms defensively and shaking your head.

“I don’t believe you."

“I don’t care what you believe."

“You want to know what I think?”

“Are you deaf?” you said, your lips pressing into a pout. “I just told you I don’t care.”

“I think you’re crazy for going to that wedding,” he said, leaning forward slightly. His voice dropped lower, as though he were sharing a secret, though his words carried no sympathy. “Do you want to torture yourself or something? Are you a masochist?”

The word slipped out like a dagger, his eyes narrowing as he studied your reaction, his face drawing closer, his voice almost a whisper.

You exhaled sharply, a mix of frustration and disbelief, biting your lower lip as you turned to look out the window. The distant hum of cars on the road outside felt like the only thing grounding you in the moment.

When you looked back at him, your voice was steadier, quieter.

“We’re friends. Things between us ended well. Why wouldn’t I go to his wedding?”

“So he broke your heart, and you’re still going to his wedding. Got it.” Frankie leaned back slightly as he said it, his tone deliberately even, but the words were sharp enough to make you flinch.

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, anger mixing with a deep, familiar embarrassment.

“Why the fuck do you care anyway? I already told you everything. Make fun of me all you want, but stop interrogating me and leave me alone.”

Frankie’s eyebrows lifted, his expression shifting into something maddeningly amused. A slow, sarcastic smile spread across his face, the kind that made your stomach twist in irritation.

“You got me involved in this, remember?” he said, his voice light, almost playful, which only made you angrier.

“It was just a little lie, that’s all.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“Well, you didn’t think it through,” he said flatly, reaching across the table to grab the menu you’d abandoned. He straightened it out in front of him, his fingers smoothing the creases, and his eyes scanned the options with an air of exaggerated focus.

For a moment, you thought he might actually drop it. But of course, he didn’t.

“I wonder what he’ll think,” Frankie said suddenly, his tone casual but cutting, “when he sees you show up to the wedding alone.” His eyes stayed on the menu, but his words hung heavy in the air between you. “You should’ve come up with something else. Be more witty next time. Or, I don’t know, just don’t go to the wedding. That works too.”

Oh.

Your stomach churned at the thought, the weight of it pressing down on you as your mind raced through the possibilities. He was right, of course. What were you going to do? There was no way you could actually show up to the wedding now. You’d have to turn down the invitation at the last minute, make up some absurd excuse about why you couldn’t make it. Or maybe you wouldn’t say anything at all. Harry didn’t deserve an explanation. He wasn’t entitled to one.

The silence stretched between you, uncomfortable and loud. You didn’t answer him. What could you say? You felt silly, even ridiculous, sitting there, replaying the moment over and over in your mind. Of all the places in the world, did you really have to run into Harry there, in the middle of the road, with Frankie of all people?

None of this would’ve happened if Santiago had come to pick you up like he was supposed to. If he’d warned you he couldn’t make it, you would’ve saved yourself the humiliation. You wouldn’t have had to deal with Frankie’s smirking face or his infuriating commentary.

You stared at the table, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of it. God, why did everything have to turn into a mess? Why couldn’t things just go smoothly for once?

Frankie didn’t seem to notice—or care—that you hadn’t responded. He flipped a page of the menu, his expression unreadable now, as if he’d already moved on. But his words lingered, heavy and persistent, refusing to leave you alone.

With your appetite nearly nonexistent, you ordered a hamburger. It sat heavy in front of you, unappealing and far too big. You nibbled at it slowly, methodically, as if chewing it down might somehow help you swallow the rest of your humiliation. Across the table, Frankie made quick work of his own meal. He ate like someone who hadn’t seen food in days, the kind of eating that could make anyone watching feel small.

When he finished—barely ten minutes in—he leaned back in his chair and fixed you with a look. Not an outright stare, but enough of one that you could feel the weight of his impatience.

You didn’t care.

Instead, you turned your attention to the fries on your plate. Picking up each one with deliberate slowness, you savored them, your gaze drifting toward the window. Outside, the road stretched on endlessly, shimmering in the summer heat. Frankie sighed, low and exasperated, every few minutes, but to your surprise, he didn’t rush you.

When you finally stood to leave, Harry and Lisa were nowhere to be seen. Relief swept over you like cool water. If you’d had to exchange goodbyes with them, you were sure you’d lose every bite of food you’d managed to stomach.

You followed Frankie out to the car. His footsteps were quick and purposeful, the kind that demanded anyone trailing behind him keep up or risk being left behind. Once inside, the tight, enclosed space of the vehicle made your skin crawl. You clicked your seatbelt into place, but the snugness of the strap across your chest only added to your discomfort.

For a fleeting moment, you considered bolting. What if you just opened the door and threw yourself onto the hot, sticky asphalt? You’d roll a little, maybe scrape a knee, but at least you wouldn’t be here.

The car started with a low rumble, and Frankie turned up the music without a word. The sound wasn’t loud enough to drown out your thoughts, but it added a layer of noise, a distraction you didn’t ask for but didn’t resist either.

Your gaze shifted to the scenery blurring past the window. You rested your forehead against the cool glass, welcoming the breeze coming in through the lowered window. The air smelled faintly of gasoline and sun-warmed earth.

Frankie drove in silence, his hands steady on the wheel. His thumbs tapped along to the rhythm of the song playing faintly in the background—Rebel Yell by Billy Idol. You stared at the horizon, but your mind kept circling back to him.

He probably thought this whole situation was hilarious. You could see it in the way his eyebrows had lifted earlier, the way his lips twitched with incredulity every time he asked about Harry. He didn’t need to say it—he thought you were foolish, and maybe you were. You felt it, deep in your chest, that heavy, sinking shame that told you he was right to think so.

What the hell were you going to do?

Not going to the wedding wasn’t an option, not unless you wanted Harry to think you were still upset—or worse, that you still cared. But going? Going alone? That wasn’t an option either. You could bring someone else, maybe. But who?

Harry knew all your friends, and you didn’t have many male ones left who weren’t married, taken, or entirely inappropriate. Your brother’s friends? Sure, because that would work out great. Another one of Santiago’s buddies, strolling in on your arm. You ran through the list in your head. Will? No. Ben? Ben had a girlfriend.

It was hopeless. Every scenario felt more humiliating than the last.

God, you wished you could disappear. Or better yet, transform into something simple and unbothered. A worm, maybe. Worms didn’t have exes. They didn’t have weddings to dread.

You were spiraling, and it must have shown on your face because Frankie spoke up, his voice breaking through your chaotic thoughts.

“We’ll make a stop to fill up the tank, okay?” His tone was casual, distracted, as he turned left into the gas station lot.

“Sure,” you mumbled, barely lifting your head.

The car slowed to a stop, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. For a moment, the world outside felt steadier than the one inside your head.

You followed Frankie out of the car, your steps slower and more hesitant than his easy stride. He moved with the kind of casual confidence that seemed effortless, his shoulders relaxed and his head bobbing slightly as he hummed along to a song that had been playing a few miles back. The heat pressed down on you, thick and relentless, but he didn’t seem to notice.  

You lingered by the passenger side, arms folded across your chest. Your gaze flitted to the gas station shop, where shelves of snacks and cold drinks promised brief relief from the sweltering air. For a fleeting moment, you considered going inside—maybe grabbing a soda, or even just standing under the blast of an air conditioner. But then you thought about how much longer that would draw out this journey. The idea of extending your time in Frankie’s company, even by a minute, was enough to keep you rooted in place.  

So you waited, watching him in silence. He moved with the kind of efficiency you’d expect from someone used to things like this—mundane tasks, long drives, solitude. He didn’t rush, but he didn’t dawdle either. He glanced at you once as he replaced the nozzle, his expression unreadable, and then he climbed back into the car without a word.  

You followed suit, settling into your seat and pulling the door shut with a soft click.  

The miles ahead stretched out endlessly, yet the closer you got to Austin, the more your thoughts swirled. You cycled through possibilities, none of them good. Each option felt like another layer of embarrassment, a new way to showcase just how deeply you’d tangled yourself in this ridiculous situation.  

Eventually, your mind settled on one solution—a compromise of sorts, though it was far from ideal. You turned it over and over, weighing the risk against your pride. It felt heavy in your chest, but the closer you got to the city, the harder it became to ignore.  

Finally, as the familiar outline of Austin came into view, you forced yourself to speak.  

“Frankie,” you said, your voice tentative. You turned to look at him, your hands fidgeting nervously in your lap.  

He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “What?”  

“You know,” you began, cautiously, “Santi loves you a lot. You’re one of his best friends.”  

“I know.” 

“And you must love Santi too, right? I mean, you’d do anything for him.”  

At that, he glanced at you, his brows knitting together in confusion. The kindness in your voice must have thrown him off. But what really seemed to unnerve him was the faint, almost hesitant smile you were giving him.  

“Of course I love him,” he said slowly, his tone edged with suspicion. “What do you want?”  

You smiled a little wider, tilting your head. “Why do you think I want something?”  

“Because you’re smiling at me like that,” he shot back, returning his focus to the road. “And it’s creepy. Stop it. You’re scaring me.”  

“I just think,” you said carefully, “that it was really nice of you to go all the way to Dallas to pick me up. You didn’t have to, you know. I could’ve taken a bus or figured something out. But you did it anyway. You did me a favor today, and I just—”  

He cut you off with a dry laugh, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. A bead of sweat had formed there, glistening in the harsh afternoon light.

“If you want to call it that,” he muttered.  

“I mean it,” you insisted, leaning slightly toward him. “You didn’t have to do this. You could’ve said no, and I wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t. Why?”  

His grip tightened on the wheel, and he shot you another quick, sidelong glance. His expression was guarded, like he wasn’t sure where this was going or if he wanted to know.

“I dunno,” he said finally, his tone clipped. “Because Santi asked me to. Because I had nothing else to do. Does it matter?”  

You pursed your lips, staring straight ahead as your thoughts spiraled. Why were you nervous? It wasn’t fear—definitely not fear of him. But still, there was something about Frankie that unsettled you, something sharp-edged and unyielding in the way he looked at you, like he could see more than you intended to show.

You forced yourself to steady your breathing, trying to reason with your own hesitation. It didn’t matter if he was intimidating. It didn’t matter what he thought of you.

“I think you should come to the wedding with me,” you blurted, the words tumbling out before you had the chance to second-guess them. As soon as they were out, you snapped your gaze away, focusing intently on a crack in the dashboard as though it held the secrets of the universe.

“What?” Frankie’s tone wasn’t as surprised as you’d expected—it was more amused, like he thought you’d just said something profoundly ridiculous.

“You should come to the wedding with me,” you repeated, forcing yourself to look at him this time.

He turned his head briefly, his eyes scanning your face, his expression unreadable. He seemed to be studying you, trying to decide whether you were joking or if you’d completely lost your mind. Finally, he clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“No,” he said flatly.

“Frankie.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, his voice rising slightly in exasperation. “Did you hit your head or something? Have you completely lost it?”

“No, just hear me out,” you said, raising a hand in what you hoped was a calming gesture. He shot you a wary glance but didn’t interrupt. “It’ll just be a favor—a small favor. I swear, if you do this for me, I’ll give you whatever you want. Wathever. Um, well—not whatever you want,” you corrected quickly. “Something reasonable. Something human. Please.”

Frankie snorted, a small, incredulous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re asking me to pretend to be your boyfriend at the wedding of a guy who dumped you? And you’re the sister of one of my best friends?” He shook his head, laughing quietly, like he couldn’t quite believe the words coming out of your mouth.

You sighed, the weight of your desperation pressing down on you.

“Santi will understand,” you argued, your tone bordering on pleading now. “He will. And it’s not like I’m asking for much—just come with me for a little while. We don’t even have to stay all night. Just long enough to…” You trailed off, realizing how pathetic you sounded. “Just long enough to make it believable.”

“Sorry, no,” Frankie said firmly, cutting you off. “I’m not getting dragged into your drama. And honestly? I think it’s stupid for you to go to that wedding in the first place. What are you trying to prove? My answer is no. Invite someone else.”

Frustration burned in your chest, rising up to your cheeks as his words landed. You could feel your face heating, both from embarrassment and anger.

“I can’t invite someone else,” you snapped. “You’re my boyfriend, remember? That’s what Harry thinks. He saw you. They saw you. And you did a pretty good job pretending to be nice to me today—can’t you do it one more time? Just this once?”

“No—”

“I’ll do anything you want,” you interrupted, your voice insistent. “I mean it. Any favor you can think of. Just name it.”

Frankie tilted his head, giving you a skeptical look.

“I’m not interested in any favors from you,” he said bluntly. “I don’t need anything.”

“Then do it for Santi,” you said, desperate now.

Frankie laughed at that, a low, disbelieving sound that only irritated you further.

“What does your brother have to do with any of this?”

“He’s your best friend,” you said, leaning toward him slightly, like you could will him to understand. “And you love him. And I’m his sister.”

“Uh-huh,” Frankie said, still smirking. “So?”

“So, doesn’t that mean you should help me?”

Frankie’s laugh grew louder, his shoulders shaking slightly as he glanced at you.

“You’re really reaching now, aren’t you?”

He turned to look at you then, the movement deliberate, his eyes narrowing slightly as they met yours. There was no malice there, but the firm set of his jaw told you all you needed to know—there was no convincing him. He understood the weight of your request, the quiet urgency stitched into each word, but it didn’t sway him.

“I’ve never asked you for help before,” you said, your voice softer now, almost brittle. “In fact, I’ve refused your help plenty of times. You said I was childish, remember? Well, fine. Maybe I’m being childish. But now I’m asking. Just this once.”

He shook his head slowly.

“It’s not the same thing,” he said, his voice low and steady, like he was trying to explain something simple to a child. “And you are being childish. Like I told you—no. The answer’s fucking no.”

You blinked hard, swallowing against the sting of rejection that settled heavy in your throat.

“Okay, fine,” you replied, the word clipped, your voice devoid of emotion. You turned your face away from him, angling it toward the window, not wanting him to see the look on your face—humiliation, maybe, or something closer to defeat. “Thank you.”

Frankie sighed, long and low, his hands flexing around the steering wheel as though he were squeezing the last ounce of patience from himself. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the low hum of the car and the faint thrum of your pulse in your ears.

The rest of the drive passed without a single word exchanged. You stared out the window while Frankie focused intently on the road, his grip on the wheel tight and unyielding.

When the car finally pulled up in front of your house, the relief that washed over you was immediate and overwhelming. You reached for the door handle, your fingers trembling slightly, and stepped out into the humid air.

Frankie followed, moving around to the back of the car with the same mechanical precision he’d had all day. He popped the trunk and pulled out your suitcase, the effort seemingly as uninspired as when he’d loaded it hours ago.

He carried it to the door and set it down, his movements brisk, almost dismissive. You stood there, arms crossed, your body angled away from him, unwilling to meet his gaze.

“That’ll be all,” he said finally, his tone flat, his sunglasses obscuring his eyes on your face.

“Thank you,” you murmured, barely audible. “I’ll let Santi know I’m home.”

“Good.”

You didn’t look up as he turned back toward the car. You didn’t watch him leave, but you heard the sound of his door slamming shut, the low rumble of the engine as he drove off.

As the noise of his departure faded into the distance, you stayed rooted to the spot for a moment longer, the weight of the day pressing heavy on your shoulders. The heat prickled against your skin, and your head ached faintly, a dull reminder of how much you wanted this day to end.

You grabbed the handle of your suitcase, pulling it inside as the silence of the house enveloped you. You needed a shower—cold water to wash away the heat, the frustration, the embarrassment of it all. You needed to be alone, to let the day dissolve into nothingness behind a locked door.

Nearly two weeks slipped by, lost in the haze of your routines and the background hum of self-destructive thoughts.

What were you going to do? Probably nothing. You wouldn’t go. That was the easiest answer, and maybe the only one that made sense. What choice did you really have?

Still, Frankie’s words stuck in your head, gnawing at the edges of your resolve. What are you trying to prove? he’d asked. And after a few restless nights, staring at the ceiling and replaying the conversation, you realized he was right. You did want to prove something—to Harry, to yourself. You wanted him to see you happy, radiantly happy, at his wedding, as though it didn’t touch you at all. You wanted to seem light and unbothered, the kind of woman who could be at her ex’s wedding without flinching.

Except you did care. Of course, you cared. You hated that you cared. And you hated Harry for putting you in this position. How could you not be upset? The man had left you only a few months ago, and now he was marrying someone else. It wasn’t normal—none of it was. But you couldn’t shake the question gnawing at the back of your mind: why did you have to be the one left hurt?

And Frankie. You’d hated the way he’d looked at you when he said it; What are you trying to prove? What the hell were you trying to prove? like he couldn’t believe how foolish you were. If you hadn’t wanted to see him before, you definitely didn’t want to now. You resolved to talk to Santi, to tell him how uncomfortable the trip had been—without blaming Frankie, exactly—and to ask, kindly but firmly, that he warn you if Frankie would be around in the future.

It was humiliating, this whole situation. But you were sure about one thing: you never wanted to see Francisco Morales again.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving your kitchen in soft shadows as you stirred sugar into your coffee. Your gaze stayed fixed on your laptop, on Harry’s wedding invitation glowing on the screen. You’d read it so many times it felt permanently etched into your mind. But now, you’d decided. You weren’t going.

Your finger hovered over the trackpad, guiding the cursor to the “RSVP not attending” option. You paused, just for a second, your chest tightening. Then, before you could click, the doorbell rang, sharp and sudden, making you flinch.

Setting the mug down, you crossed to the window, peering out at the sidewalk. The sight below made your brows knit together. That couldn’t be right. Surely, you were imagining things.

You slipped on a pair of shoes and headed downstairs, opening the door without much thought.

“Francisco,” you said flatly, his name sitting awkwardly on your tongue. “What are you doing here? Did something happen with Santi?”

He dragged a hand over his mouth and shook his head, slow and deliberate.

“Can we talk?”

“About what?” Your tone was sharp, incredulous, your expression twisted like he’d just said something absurd.

He looked different somehow. Neater, you thought, though you hated yourself for noticing. His hair was slightly shorter, his beard more trimmed than usual.

He sighed, long and heavy, like he’d been forced into something he didn’t want to do. The sound made you laugh, a sharp, derisive snort. As if he had the right to be irritated. He’d shown up unannounced, at night, on your doorstep. If anyone should feel fed up, it was you.

“I’m going to help you,” he said finally, the words clipped and begrudging.

“With what?”

“With your ex.”

“What?” The confusion on your face deepened. “Harry?”

Frankie glanced to the side, as if checking for onlookers, before returning his gaze to you and nodding.

“Are there other exes you need help with?”

His question was thick with sarcasm, and you rolled your eyes in response.  

“Well, I don’t need your help anymore. But thanks,” you said quickly, your voice tight, as you began to push the door shut, inch by inch.  

Then his hand was on it, stopping you.  

“Wait,” he said, and this time his voice was different—tinged with something almost like desperation. “I’m serious.”  

You paused, narrowing your eyes at him through the gap.

“Why would you help me? You were very clear the other day,” you said, your tone sharp. “There’s no point in me going to the wedding.”  

“True, there’s no point,” he said, his gaze steady on yours. “But I know you well enough to know you’d love to go anyway. To show Harry how great you’re doing. Am I wrong?”  

“You’re wrong,” you shot back instantly, too quickly.  

Frankie sighed, the sound dragging out like he was trying to buy himself time. He glanced away for a second, then back at you, his expression suddenly resolute.  

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he said.  

You blinked at him, stunned into silence for a moment.

Then, with a raised brow, you asked, “Are you sick? Do you have a fever, Francisco?” You brought your hand up toward his forehead, but he flinched back dramatically before you could touch him.  

“What are you up to?” you asked, pulling the door open wider, suspicion laced in your tone.  

Frankie stood there, his posture stiff, his expression uncomfortable, like he was holding something in that might burst out if you pressed too hard.  

“May I come in?” he asked finally, his brown eyes soft and glinting, almost boyish.  

You hesitated, studying him for a few beats, letting the curiosity outweigh your disdain. Then you stepped back and opened the door fully, sealing the moment with the soft click of the latch behind him.  

Frankie climbed the stairs ahead of you, pausing at the top to wait as you opened the door to your apartment. He stepped inside, scanning the space.  

Your living room was warm, cozy but cluttered—books and mugs scattered across the coffee table and nearly every other available surface, interspersed with pens, pencils, and random odds and ends. Behind the sofa, the kitchen was visible, small but functional.  

You stood back, watching him take it all in. His expression was unreadable, but you imagined him silently judging the chaos. You almost wanted him to—let him think it was messy, or that your style was lacking. You didn’t care.

He didn’t belong there, in your space. Everything about him seemed incongruous with the world you’d built for yourself—his presence like a mismatched puzzle piece, forcibly shoved into place where it clearly didn’t fit. He was out of tune with your reality, standing in the warmth of your living room like he’d wandered in from an entirely different life.

You crossed to the kitchen island, where your half-drunk coffee sat waiting. Sliding onto the stool, you gestured at the one across from you.

“Have a seat.”

Frankie hesitated but eventually sat down, his movements stiff and reluctant, like he’d rather be anywhere else. His expression was tight, uncomfortable, like he was a vampire catching the faintest whiff of garlic in the air. His eyes landed immediately on your laptop, still glowing with Harry’s wedding invitation.

“I see you’re taking the wedding well,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You sighed audibly, refusing to take the bait.

“What do you want?”

As you waited for him to answer, you lifted your coffee to your lips. It had already cooled, the bitterness more pronounced now that it was lukewarm. Another thing he ruined for you, you thought bitterly. Your fucking coffee. 

“I’ve been thinking—”

“Congratulations,” you cut in, deadpan.

Frankie’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and unamused. He didn’t even blink, just stared at you like he was waiting for you to get it out of your system. You shrugged, feigning indifference, though the weight of his gaze made your skin prickle.

“I’ve decided I’m going to the wedding with you,” he said finally.

You raised an eyebrow, lowering your mug to the counter.

“You decided? I thought you didn’t want to go with me.”

“I don’t,” he said. His fingers brushed the edge of your laptop, tracing a line along it.

“But you’re still here,” you said, your voice laced with suspicion.

Frankie exhaled slowly, leaning back slightly.

“I’ll help you… if you help me.”

“If I help you? With what? Don’t tell me you’re finally going to therapy,” you blurted out, a half-smile tugging at your lips.

Frankie straightened in his seat, his back stiffening like you’d just landed a verbal jab. For a moment, it looked like he might get up and leave—walk out and never look back. But instead, he stayed. He clenched his jaw, his eyes locking on yours with a determined, almost defiant look.

“I had dinner with my family tonight,” he began, his voice measured but tense. “With my mom and two of my sisters—”

“Is that why you look like that?” you interrupted, tilting your head.

“What?”

“Like you finally took a bath,” you said, your smirk widening.

Frankie exhaled sharply, his patience visibly fraying. “Can you shut up and listen to me for a second? I’ll be brief.”

You held up a hand as if to say, Fine, go on.

“They’re nice, my family, but they won’t leave me alone,” he said, his tone growing more frustrated. “All through dinner, they kept asking me these awkward questions, trying to convince me to go on these dates they’ve been setting up with their friends’ daughters or coworkers or whoever.”

Your smile widened, thoroughly amused. “Why? Why don’t you just go? Come to think of it—”

“No,” he cut you off, his voice sharp. “I already agreed once, and it was a disaster. I’m not doing it again. And I’m not about to get into that with you.”

“Good,” you said, leaning back slightly. “Because I’m not interested.”

Frankie sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair.

“Every time I see them—for over a year now—it’s the same thing. They won’t leave me alone. And look, I get it. They’re trying to be helpful. But I’ve had enough.”

Your curiosity piqued at that. “What happened a year ago? Why?”

Frankie’s face tightened, his upper lip curling slightly as if the question had caught him off guard.

He frowned, his brows drawing together, before finally muttering, “That doesn’t matter.”

The dodge only made you more curious, but you let it go, watching as he leaned forward slightly, his hands gripping the edge of the counter.

“The point is,” he continued, “I got fed up. So tonight, when they started in on me again, I told them to back off. That I didn’t need them setting me up on dates because… because I already have a girlfriend.”

His words hung in the air for a moment, their weight sinking in.

Oh.

“Oh,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Your eyebrows lifted just enough to show your surprise, though you tried to mask it.

Frankie shifted in his seat, his gaze falling to his hand resting on his knee. He shook his head slightly, a faint, almost imperceptible motion, as though he was trying to block out whatever he feared you might say next.  

“Funny,” you said, your voice light with mockery. “And your mother believed you?”  

When he looked up at you, his expression darkened. The amused smile playing on your lips ignited a flash of irritation in his eyes. You looked entirely too entertained by the situation, and it made him bristle.  

“Hardly,” he admitted, his tone sharp. “I don’t even think I convinced her. That’s why I need your help.”  

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly, as though creating space from whatever absurdity was about to come out of his mouth.

“You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend?”  

Frankie nodded once, curtly. “My mom’s birthday is in a few days. She’s turning sixty. She’s having this big nice party, and she told me she wants to meet my girlfriend then.”  

You crossed your arms, still trying to gauge whether or not this was some elaborate joke.

“When’s the party?”  

“Next Saturday.”  

Your eyebrows shot up, and your lips parted in disbelief.

“Francisco,” you grumbled, the word low and heavy. “That’s in three days.”  

“I know,” he muttered, matching your tone. His jaw tightened like he was already regretting the entire conversation.  

“And what did you tell her?” you demanded. “What did you say when she asked?”  

Frankie’s hand moved to the counter, his fingers drumming once before he let them still.

He hesitated, and then, in a resigned voice, said, “I told her yes. That I’d bring my girlfriend to her birthday.” He paused, meeting your gaze. “So she’d finally leave me alone.”  

You pushed back from the stool, standing in one swift, exasperated motion. Your hands flew to your hips, your whole body radiating irritation as you glared at him.  

“Oh, so you just assumed I’d help you, didn’t you?” you snapped, your voice loud in the otherwise quiet apartment. “What if I said no?”  

“I knew you wouldn’t say no,” Frankie said, meeting your anger with calm certainty.  

You let out an incredulous laugh, your head tilting back briefly before you fixed him with a sharp look.

“My God, what’s wrong with you? You don’t know what I’m thinking.”  

He didn’t flinch, though you could see his patience thinning in the slight twitch of his brow.

“I know you well enough to know you’ll say yes,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, as though he were stating the obvious.  

The sheer audacity of it made you want to scream.

Frankie rose from his spot, his movements deliberate and quick. His footsteps echoed as he crossed the room, closing the space between you with purposeful strides. He stopped in front of you, standing taller, looking down at you with an intensity that was hard to ignore.  

“I know you want to go to the wedding,” he said, his voice firm. “I know you asked me to go with you, and you were persistent. And anyway, I think you owe me.”  

You blinked, incredulous, a small laugh escaping your lips despite yourself.

“I owe you?”  

Frankie’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he took a small step closer.

“Don’t forget that the only reason you didn’t make a complete fool of yourself in front of Harry was because I decided to help you. I played along. If I’d wanted to, I could’ve exposed you in front of him and his fiancée. I could’ve made it worse.”  

“Thank you so much, Francisco, you're a fucking angel,” you spat, your tone thick with sarcasm, though the incredulous smile on your face betrayed how absurd it all felt. “What do you want me to do? Give you a hero of the century award?”  

Frankie’s expression didn’t waver; he was dead serious. “No. Come with me to my mom’s birthday and we’re even.”  

You froze for a moment, processing his words, the sheer audacity of them making your heart skip a beat. This was beyond ridiculous.  

"You're fucking crazy! Are you serious?" you demanded, unable to hide the disbelief in your voice. "It’s not even close. Harry’s my ex something, nothing more. And you’re asking me to go with you to a family event, full of your relatives, and you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend in front of all of them?”  

Frankie’s eyes flicked upwards, his impatience seeping into his expression. He rolled his eyes.  

“It’s not like we’re getting married,” he said, dismissive, his voice tinged with frustration. “You’re exaggerating. It’s not the first time I’ve taken a girlfriend to a family thing. What are you, fifteen?”  

You crossed your arms, giving him a skeptical look. “I don’t know, by my standards, introducing a girlfriend to your family seems like a pretty serious thing.”  

Frankie exhaled through his nose, clearly growing more insistent. He looked at you with unwavering intensity, his gaze now pointed, as if trying to break through the walls you were building between you and this ridiculous proposition.  

“I’ll take care of that,” he said, his voice steady but with a finality that made it clear he wasn’t backing down.

You stood there for a moment, the room stretching in a strange, suspended silence. You weighed his words in your mind, the absurdity of the situation tangled with a strange sense of reluctant curiosity.  

“Are you really going to accompany me to the wedding?” you asked, your voice quieter than you’d intended, the question slipping out like something you hadn’t meant to say aloud.  

Frankie nodded, a reassuring, almost teasing gesture, as though he was certain he had already won.

“I’ll help you catch the bouquet and everything,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling in a grin that almost made you want to punch him.  

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, your voice edged with irritation.  

“And yet, here you are, still going with me to that wedding.”  

Frustration rose in your chest, pooling in your throat like heat. You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the rush of emotion that threatened to spill over. How utterly insolent. How impossible.  

“Fine,” you finally spat out, barely containing the anger simmering beneath your words. “I’ll help you. But you’d better make my time count, Francisco.”  

He flashed a half-smile, the kind of smug, self-satisfied smirk that made your fingers itch to slap him. You wanted to say something else—something cutting, something that would make him regret this entire conversation. But you couldn’t.  

Instead, Frankie reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped the screen a couple of times before handing it to you.

“Give me your number.”  

You took the phone from him with a swift, almost startled motion, your fingers brushing against his as you punched in your number. The action felt mechanical, as if you were moving through a script you didn’t want to follow. When you handed it back to him, you watched him tap the screen, adding you to his contacts with deliberate motions. His fingers moved quickly, but you couldn’t catch the name he gave you. It was probably something ridiculous, something that made you cringe even without knowing it.

He didn’t say anything, just slid the phone back into his pocket, and turned to head for the door. But before he reached it, he stopped and looked at you, his eyes meeting yours once more.  

“I’ll text you,” he said abruptly, almost as if it were a last-minute afterthought.  

And then, without waiting for a response, he opened the door and left, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the quiet stairs. You stood there, still staring at the empty doorway, the weight of his words hanging in the air long after he was gone.

With one click, you confirmed your attendance.

tags: @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti (a few of the tags aren't working, idk why, fix it tumblr!!!!)

beautiful divider by @saradika-graphics 💗

[demeterlindavis]

Sune's Embrace

Spawn Astarion x Female! Reader Oneshot (5.6K) 18+

Part Two of An Interesting Read but really you could read this alone and be fine.

Summary:  She drank some mushroom tea and became a horned up bitch. That’s it, that’s the plot... Literally just smut.

A/N: This was very much inspired by one of my own personal favorite fics on AO3 called 'Potions and Lotions' by user astarionsblo0dbag, you'll see why. Also, I barely proofread through this so if you find any errors, ignore them or message me and maybe I'll fix it lol.

Content: Spanking, Dom Play (?), Degradation, Cunnilingus Female receiving, Period Sex, Multiple Orgasms, and lil bit of hair pulling....

Life in the Underdark was interesting, and soon you and Astarion fell into a comfortable rhythm. About every 6-8 weeks or so, the two of you would make the journey into the abysmal eternally dark lands, to keep check on the spawn, and make sure that they were all well and keeping civility. You’d stay with the pleasant myconids that you’d befriended all those many months ago. Soverign Spaw had a small hut made for the two of you near the colony. It wasn’t much, more so four walls and a bed, but it worked for the few days you two would spend there at a time. The foraging was something you had more recently taken to, as you needed something to pass the time while Astarion was with the other spawn- conversations with the myconids only went so far…

A book of mushroom foraging became your obsession. Dried truffles traded for a pretty copper on the topside of Toril. Mushrooms for healing potions, hastening elixirs and the such, you would take your basketful of fungi to the night market every other weekend, and were able to bring in a fair bit of money for yourself and Astarion. A few months into going back and forth, you’d noticed that there were a few pink mushrooms with red spots growing by the front steps to your small hut. Your book identified them as Sune’s Embrace: edible, they grow near love abounding, and have a faint smell of rose petal. Their spores have calming effects, and the caps can be used in stews, potions, elixirs, and other concoctions to give the imbiber a happy, airy, and loving sense about them. You grabbed a few and added them to your basket, thinking that you would bring them home and cook them in the future, experiment with them to see exactly what kind of marketable properties they had. 

Astarion had kept his fun little book from Ffion’s room at Sharess Caress, and every few weeks would pull a new move on you from it. That blindfold was just the beginning of his hijinks. While he was technically no stranger to pleasure, he was a beginner anew, in the sense that he was discovering what he enjoyed with you- within the safety of your shared home. And your bed. And the kitchen table, the counter, the bath, the living room... You get the idea. 

While his newfound passions often left you breathless in the moment and sore the next day, you weren’t about to stop indulging him with whatever little trick he wanted to try with you. It was fun, exciting even. The two of you were like lovesick newlyweds, eager to discover every little thing that made the other moan and their eyes roll back, stars clouding their vision. 

A few nights ago, the two of you had been bickering about whether or not you’d be joining him that week in the Underdark. You didn’t feel up for travel- you’d been bloating a bit around your middle and felt especially overtired. You figured he’d have no issues with you staying home while he left for the few days he’d be gone. Mid lover’s spat, he bent you over his knee and gave your backside a whallop. The pain, you had expected- the spark of pleasure however, was new. It stung, and there was a great red handprint on your ass, but the thrill was undeniable. Head still spinning, you begged him to do it again. The crack of his palm meeting your ass rang through the air, accompanied by your soft whimper. 

“Does my little love enjoy being disciplined like this?” He’d growled in your ear and instantly you felt a flood between your thighs. 

“You… you’ve never done this before.” You managed to reply once you’d caught your breath. “What brought it on?”

“I noticed the way your eyes lingered on a page of Ffion’s book that I was reading last night, and thought I’d try it out… I have to ask you the question again, though: do you like this?”

”Yes..” You panted, half embarrassed to be admitting such, and received another smack that made your eyes water, but your heart skip a beat. In a flash, you were straddling Astarion and grinding against him. Fabric bunched between the two of you, creating a frustratingly hot barrier of friction that neither of you bothered to remove. You needed one another- wet mouths connected by strings of saliva, you both came undone much quicker than either had anticipated. But neither were unhappy with the outcome. 

That was four days ago, and Astarion had left that same night begrudgingly, and with a new pair of trousers; with a promise that he would come back home to you, as soon as he could. You’d sent him off with a kiss and he’d given you another playful smack on your bottom, before he relinquished you from his arms. 

“Don’t miss me too much…” he winked, before heading out into the cool dark air, a few hours after sunset. Early the next morning, a familiar friend had greeted you with red stained bedsheets. You’d been suspecting your cycle’s arrival, but it’s coming still took you a bit by surprise. Being with Astarion however, made this a rather tricky thing nowadays. Your smell would linger in his nose even greater, and he would become ravenous. An absolute mad man, driven with the need to both devour and fuck you senseless. 

Not that you were one to complain. 

But, seeing as you would have been less than equipped to deal with this whilst in the Underdark, you were glad to have timed it well enough to stay in the comfort of your home this time, with running water and a stove. Herbal teas and hot baths always helped with the cramping and general discomfort. The house was much too quiet with just you in it though. As you sat in the bath, the water now room temperature, you sighed to yourself. You missed Astarion- longed for him. It would only be a few more days til he was back. Then he’d be home and you could fall asleep in his arms again, instead of clutching onto one of his shirts- smelling of sweet bergamot and rosemary. 

Gods, this is miserable. You climbed out of the tub, and laid in your lonely bed, cotton pads stuffed into your underwear to soak the abhorred bleeding. It was just after four in the afternoon, a pleasant sunny beginning to a lovely evening. But for you, this was when you’d usually be asleep, and just waking up. Your days and nights had shifted to keep Astarion out of the sun, but with him gone, sleep evaded you like a stray alley cat; teasing and just out of reach. With all the curtains drawn, you wandered around your home with your robe on but untied, the front open and very revealing. With no one around to appreciate the view. 

Putting a kettle on the stove, you decide to try and brew some of those Sune’s Embrace mushrooms- an experiment to see if the calming properties would be enough to help you fall asleep. You added a few to the steeping basket of the whistling kettle, and let it sit for a few minutes. Your eyes felt heavy and dry. Your body so tired, but your mind unsettled. As you leaned against the counter, thumbing through your Undark Foraging book, you heard the latch on the front door slide open as the hinges creaked with the opening and closing of the door. 

Astarion? Why would he be home so early? And coming home with the sun still up, no less?

“Astarion?” You call out from the kitchen, tying your robe shut as you shuffle into the front room.

“Yes, my love!” He grins, lowering the large hood of his cloak, and pulling off his gloves. 

“I wasn’t expecting you for another day or two.” You smile back, wrapping your arms around his middle and resting your cheek to his chest. 

“I came back early… I couldn’t stand being apart from you.”

“But the spawn?” You raise your head to look up at him. 

“They’re all doing fine, truly. I wouldn’t have left if they weren’t.” 

He kisses you and groans into your mouth as the scent of your blood hits him. “Oh dearest, I should have known…”

“Known?” You ask, squinting slightly at him. 

“The reason why you weren’t feeling up to traveling with me. I’m sorry,” he kisses your forehead. 

“Astarion, I hardly expect you to keep track of my cycles and plot them according to my mood.” You chuckle, stepping back and pulling your robe tighter. “I’m surprised you risked the sunlight.”

“Ah, well, I couldn’t stand to wait the few more hours to come home in the dark. I thought I could slip into bed while you were sleeping and surprise you when you woke up.. Why are you awake?” He furrows his brows. 

“Cramping, and I couldn’t sleep without you.” 

“Oh my darling girl…” He sighed, brushing his fingers against your cheek, and then he takes a large sniff in the air. “Are you making something?”

“Oh, my tea!” You rush back into the kitchen, the smell of rose and freshly tilled earth and lemon wafting from the steaming kettle. You pour yourself a generous cup and let it warm your hands, before blowing off the first tiny sip. It’s no sugared coffee with cream, but the taste isn’t totally unpleasant. Mild, with floral notes, you log it away in your brain for future marketing. 

You make your way back into the front room, where Astarion has hung up his cloak, and is unlacing his boots, sitting on the edge of his armchair near the hearth. You take another swallow from your cup, and watch him from the edge of the entryway, leaning against the frame. 

The tea seeps into every inch of your body, warming and soothing your tired bones. Astarion rests in the chair with a sigh, and catches you staring after him. He pats his thigh with a sharp grin. 

“Come sit, my love.”

You set down your cup on the table next to his chair, before climbing onto his lap, your arms around his neck. 

“I missed you..” he murmurs against your neck, delicately kissing his way up to your earlobe. You hum contently in reply as your lashes flutter with his wandering lips. 

“It was only a few days,” you reply with a giggle. 

“Felt like an eternity..” he growls in your ear, nipping at your lobe. 

“I missed you too.” You reply, sighing as his mouth moves to your jawline, and a familiar heat kindles in your belly. Too soon the heat turns on you, raging into a wildfire that causes you to curl over and moan with abandon. 

“Missed me that much did you?” Astarion chuckles with a fanged smirk. You swallow the pool of saliva forming in your mouth, as white hot desire makes your entire frame shudder at the sound of his voice. 

Oh gods, what is this?

“Are- are you alright?” Astarion asks, when you don’t respond to his prodding joke. You take a few deep breaths of cool air, but it does nothing to quell the heat emanating from you. “You’re burning up. Do you have a fever?” He places a cool hand on your head, then your cheek and you whimper at the touch. 

“No.. no, I don’t think that’s it.” You manage to reply, your eyes glazing over with utter wanton lust, as a throbbing sensation begins between your legs. Gods damn it.

“I tried a new tea- ooh..” Your eyes squeeze shut as another wave of need passes over you.

“A new tea?” He asks, his hands now resting at your neck and the small do your back. He was just trying to help, but gods, his touch was doing anything but. 

“Yes- I dried some mushrooms I’d gotten- mother fucker- f-from the Underdark…” You swallow hard. “I tried to make tea with it, but I don’t remember reading about this!” The words spill forth in a rushed attempt to speak before your own body betrays you again.

“What kind of mushroom?” He asks, searching your eyes with slight worry. 

“Sune’s Embrace.” You manage to reply. He lifts you off his lap, and sets you down onto his chair, before dashing off to the kitchen where your foraging guide still sat open on the counter. You wrap your arms around your middle, and groan at the rug. High pitched giggling rings out from the kitchen. 

“You didn’t read the warning did you?” He calls back.

“What warning?” Your stomach fills with dread as you look up from your hunched over position, already fearing the worst. Astarion, trying to keep a straight face, brings the book over for you to discover your mistake. You glance over the page, and nothing new jumps out at you. No warning about impending lust, or overwhelming arousal. That is, until he flips the page over and at the top in bold font reads: WARNING! Sune’s Embrace has been known to have powerful effects on desire and other romantic feelings on occasion. Use with caution. 

“Fuck me....” You curse under a breath. 

“Would you like me to?” Astarion snickers, making your pulse quicken, and you find yourself nodding as your eyes linger heavily on his delicious mouth. “If I recall correctly, those fungi are used most often in love potions, my dear.”

“Why would they put the warning on the next page?” You groan, as his lips tenderly caress the corner of your mouth.

“Perhaps they added it as an afterthought...” He mumbles against your skin. 

Damn the author who thought they could add that in at the end, and not at the beginning- such an important detail that one could easily miss... 

“I’m bleeding,” you warn, as he pulls your thighs over his own, making you straddle him. 

“Yes I know.” He smiles with a snarl, “When has that ever stopped me before?” His fingers grip your ass as his eyes undress you from your already slipping robe. He takes the edge of it in his teeth and drags it the rest of the way off your shoulder, the cold air from his nose huffing against your heated skin. Goosebumps prickle down your arm and you shiver as his tongue trails over your collarbones and to the other side of the robe, pulling it down in the same manner as before. 

“Gods, you smell so good.” He drags his nose over your bare shoulder, back to your neck, as his fingers work the knot in the robe tie around your waist. He’s doing exactly what you want him to, but somehow it's not quick enough. Not enough of your skin is pressed against his. Not enough of your own air is sharing his own. You need him desperately, in every sense of the word. You paw at his own clothing, pulling at the laces on his trousers and tugging at his shirt tucked into them. You want him to cover every inch of your body with his own, smothering the inferno in your blood. 

Wordlessly, the two of you work to undress the other, you much sooner than Astarion. He has you sprawled on the living room rug, his knees keeping your legs spread for him, as you pull his pants lower. They are just barely down around his hips, the darkening pink of his tip just peeking over the loosened waistband. You reach out for it, fingers brushing over the soft head. He gasps and rolls his eyes shut as you then take him into your hand, pumping his length in slow steady strokes. His guttural moaning makes you clench again, over and over in time with each mouth-watering noise he makes. 

With your bathrobe beneath you for fear of mess, you feel yourself begin to leak- your weeping slit begged for even a sliver of attention. Astarion takes your hand away from his hardening cock, and bends over, his mouth hovering, just over your mound. 

“May I?” He asks, voice husky and rough, parched having been away from you for days without feeding on your intoxicating lifeblood. Though he already knows your answer, he asks to tease you. To push you to the point of begging... 

“Please...” You mewl in pitiful reply. 

He slides two fingers into your fevered heat, as his tongue laps at your clit, sucking and drawing more of your blood into his mouth. In the past you’d asked him if your blood tasted any different depending on the day or location in which he took it from. Though the coppery tang was always the same, the underlying notes differed, he had said. From your neck, it tasted more sweet, like the final lingerings of a fine wine left on one’s tongue. From your wrist, it was about the same, maybe less strong. But, from your glorious cunt, is where he said it tasted like ichor from the gods themselves. Full of you, your scent, your hormones. It drove him to insanity to be able to partake of such sacrament. Coming to kneel at the altar between your legs, and being allowed to sup on such lascivious wine from you, the woman he revered and adored- there was nothing finer. Astarion had no gods to worship, except you, the goddess he prayed to with whispered devotion every night in your bedroom. 

Fingers curling into you greedily, pulling forward every last clotted drop, as his tongue circles and swirls against your bloodied pearl. Your whole being shook beneath his delightful torture, your core clenching around his fingers with each plunge they took. 

“You taste… so delicious....” He groans when he withdraws his fingers from you, and licks the dark red dripping from them. Mouth smeared with your blood, he grins like a wolf cornering a rabbit, all teeth and fangs. While his delightful fingers were a good start, you still needed more from him. A man with little manners, he leans back and wipes his face on the back of his hand and licks it off, eager to not waste a single morsel. The sight of it all only adds fuel to your flame. You reach back up for his cock, now dripping with precum. You rub your thumb over the top, spreading it around the rouge colored crown. 

“Look at you, what an absolute mess I’ve made of you.” His voice- gods damn him that voice. 

“You’re one to talk. You look like you dove mouth first into a pool of blood.” You chuckle, sitting up on your forearms to get a better grip around him. You desired nothing more in this moment, than to feel his length pulsing within you- pressing up against your cervix until you cried for mercy. You stroke him faster as you slide out from beneath him, to kneel mirroring him. “Will you lie down for me?” You ask. 

“Anything for you, my darling girl.” You give him a few more good strokes before he takes your place on the rug. You yank down his pants further, enough to let the rest of his now fully engorged dick free. It stands ready, as he lies there with just his midriff to his thighs exposed all for you. Kneeling over him, you align him to your aching folds, before sitting fully, sliding him into you. Your eyes roll back, and a cry of satisfaction escapes your lips, as you finally get what your body so badly needed. Your palms press onto his still clothed chest as you start to slowly rock. The effect of the mushroom still coursed through your body, driving your hips forward, grinding against him as his tip repeatedly hit your back wall.

 “Show me how much you missed me, my love.” He grins. 

You chase your release with reckless abandon, rising and sinking onto him over and over again. Eventually, his hands came up and held your waist, only to pick you up and slam you down harder onto him.

“Fuck!” You wail, feeling the intense pressure of him burying himself within you, but you would never let him stop despite the slight pain. You wanted him to be deeper, if at all possible. 

“You can take it, I know you can, my darling.” He snickers from below you, as he fucks up into you. “I think you need it like this tonight, don’t you?”

“Yes, Astarion, yes. I want you to absolutely ruin me...” You reply, already seeing sparks behind your lids. 

“As you wish...” He replies with another drive upwards that steals your breath. Keeping your balance with one hand still firmly planted above his beating heart, you take the other and fiddle with your swollen clit. Round, and round your fingers go, matching the ever quickening pace of Astarion’s pistoning in and out of you from below. The sounds of your moaning, his hard breathing, and the sloppy meeting of your bodies was such a perverted song, one that the two of you knew all too well, but never grew tired of. 

“I love watching your tits bounce while you ride me...” He rasps, swallowing hard as his cock twitches within you. He’s close, and you know he won’t last much longer if you keep going like this. But there was so much left you wanted to do, and who knows how long the effects of the mushroom would last. You needed him to last. Hells, you needed him to drive into you like this for the rest of forever, but that was another matter entirely. You try to lift your hips from his to reposition, but he holds you steadfastly. 

“No, please- please don’t move.” He begs, the veins in his neck bulging as he brings you back down onto him, his eyes wide with need. “I’m so close, let me finish with you riding me like this. Don’t stop-please.” 

It was a rare occasion to have Astarion begging for you like this, and what a welcome thing it was. You bring your hand away from your clit to place it back onto his chest, before obliging to his request by slamming back onto him, milking him to come within your barren womb. His mouth falls open and his eyes roll shut, as his abdomen shudders between your thighs. 

“Gods, don’t stop. Don’t stop moving, please.” He whines, urging you to continue. “Nine hells. I love how you feel around me- so tight and wet.. All for me.” 

With a final guttural moaning, Astarion loses himself within you- a wolf howling at the moon, his head thrown back and his eyes half lidded. Your hips slow their movements as his grip on you begins to slack. There’s a lewd squelching sound when you finally rise from the mess you made on his lap. “Lie down next to me, love.” He smiles hazily up at you. Though your entire body was still being licked by the flames of your induced arousal, his utterly exhausted and happy demeanor was enough to quell the burn a little. As you lie next to him, your head in the crook of his arm, he sighs and brushes his fingertips along your side. It tickles just slightly, enough to make you squirm closer to his side. 

“You’re still wanting, aren’t you...” he says to the air, fatigue woven in and out of his words. 

“I am.” You reply quietly, “But I can wait until you’re not so tired.” Your legs quiver, restless and needful. He lifts his head to look down at your face, pressed against his skin. 

“And leave you in such a state? Absolutely not.” He sits up with a groan of effort, and rolls to his side, his hand gently shoving between your thighs to tease at your clit. The sigh of relief that leaves you makes him smile. “What did you do while I was away?” he asks softly, kissing the top of your head. 

“Is now really the best time to try and converse?” you ask with a breathless laugh. 

“Why not now?” He smirked, “I want to know all that you got up to whilst I was gone.”

“Well, I did some laundry. I took a bath today..”

“Is that all?” His fingers move a bit faster.

“I…” your eyelids flutter. “I read some of that book.”

“Which book? Surely not the one I stole.”

“Yes, that book.” You admit, your hips bucking into the air. “I got curious…”

“Tsktsktsktsktsk…” He clicks his tongue at you. “Naughty thing. Was there anything in there that caught your eye?” 

You try to focus on your breathing, as his calloused fingers move around you in precise circles. 

“T-there was something about…” His mouth is at your ear, nibbling at your lobe and tracing it with his tongue. “About pain and pleasure...”

“What kind of pain, my sweet? Did you enjoy it when I put you over my knee the other night?” His middle finger delves into your soaked folds, sticky with his release and your blood. 

“Yes, I want you to do that again, please. I want you to bend me over- just like you did before.” 

“And the spanking, is that something you want to continue?” He purrs in your ear.

“I think so...” You start, trying to keep a bit of your decorum.

“You think? Or you know so? I need you to be sure, darling.” Astarion applies a hint of more pressure onto your clit, making you whimper. 

“Yes, yes I do. I want you to spank me.” You finally admit, not caring anymore to keep up your usual ladylike chasteness. 

“You really have been naughty while I’ve been gone, haven’t you?” His eyes widen at your new-found bravery in telling him all the raunchy things you needed him to do to you. His fingers cease their movements and you watch as he gets up and struts to the kitchen to fetch an old rag. He wipes off his lap and his fingers as best he can, before holding out both hands to help you up off the floor. He leads you to the chaise lounge near the window, and sits down, pulling you down to lie across his lap. His hand caresses the plumpness of your ass before giving you a light pat. 

“Spread those legs for me, just a bit.” You obey, and immediately are rewarded with two of his fingers sliding into your sodden cunt. Your walls grip them with such frustrated need that it makes Astarion laugh. “Those mushrooms have quite the effect on you, don't they?”

“Just fuck me, Astarion. Please.” You groan, fed up with trying to be patient. You turn to look at him over your shoulder with a frustrated glare. 

“Don’t tell me what to do, I know exactly what you need. Now, shut up and take what I give you.” His voice growls. He’s never been so authoritative over you, so dominating. It makes you clench him tighter. “You like that don’t you, when I take charge over you?” 

Smack! 

His free hand cracks over your ass and you cry aloud, but his fingers work to keep your orgasm hot on your heels. You moan, “More... Please...” 

It’s like music to his ears, to hear you keen for such rough touch. 

“I do so love to hear you beg for me.” Again, red heat strikes the other side of your rear. “Ooh, look at that- you’re wearing my hand prints. Red is such a lovely color on you...” 

Faster, his fingers work you from between your thighs, but your clit screams for attention. Your orgasm almost on your lips- caught in your throat are the cries of your release. You just need a little more. Astarion isn’t lost on how close you are. He can tell in the way your body shudders at each of his touches and his voice. He feels the way your pussy holds his fingers and how each one of your breaths carry a moan. 

“Astarion...” You pant as your hips try to meet each thrust of his fingers. “Please, I need you to touch me.” 

“Use your words, darling. Where do you want me to touch you?” He knows exactly where, but he so loves the way you are being precise with what you want tonight. He wants to hear you beg for his fingers to caress your bud once more. 

“Please, rub me. Rub my clit. I’m so close, please.” Utterly wanton and drowning with desperation, your voice wavers as you teeter on the edge of that delicate blade. 

“Roll over but keep your waist on my lap as it is now.” He guides your hips to turn over, and as soon as you’re supine, he opens your legs with his elbow. Pushing them back open to finger fuck you once more, while his other hand works your clit. Within seconds, your body spasms as your orgasm finally overtakes you. 

“Astarion! Oh, gods- Astarion...” You cry out. 

“Yes, that’s it. Oh, good girl... Yes, come for me.” He continues to work you through your orgasm, but there’s now a distracting swelling pressed against your backside. Once your body has been reduced to fidgeting, you open your eyes to look at Astarion, the man you adore and love. He wears a face of pride, and in his eyes you see the devotion and adoration he holds for you- his dear, sweet, darling, love. Underneath all of that, however, is a renewed lust- your own release bringing him back around and fully erect- now pulsing against your buttocks on his lap. You slide up to lay more on the seat of the couch, and Astarion moves to kneel between your leg once more. 

“Hearing my name sung so sweetly from your lips, there is no better sound, my darling. My good girl.” He scoops his cockhead against your folds, and you squirm- oversensitive and overstimulated, but gods how you still wanted more. Your hips buck as he drags his length up and down, the two of you rutting against one another. He slips just the tip in, and you nod for more. A low groan and drawn out ‘fuck’ escapes Astarion as he presses back into you. How much more could either of you take in one night? Surely, the effects of the mushroom would fade soon? 

“Don’t move for a minute, just- gods above- just let me slide it in fully. I’m still so sensitive from before.” He grins down at you with tired eyes. 

“You and me both- fuuuck...” You join in his groaning as he fills you back up with his hot cock. Slowly rocking and grinding against one another, he lowers himself to you, kissing you deeply and exploring your mouth with his tongue. Huffing breaths from your noses and muffled moaning from your locked mouths, you both begin to pick up your pace. One more. You each just want one more, you greedy little things. He pulls back from your kiss and continues to fuck into you with glossed over eyes. Sweat drips from his forehead and down his neck to his chest, and a string of saliva dribbles on his chin. 

“Spit in my mouth,” you ask, your own boldness surprising yourself. 

“What?” his hips slow with a surprised smile.

“You heard me.” 

He looks down at you and you watch him consider it for a moment. “I... really?”

“This is where you draw the line?” You chuckle. “Come on, do it.” 

He scoffs, taken aback with your debauchery, before letting his wet tongue hang from his mouth and drip into your open mouth waiting below. 

“You filthy little whore.” He groans, watching his thick spittle glisten on your lips and chin. “Where has my sweet darling lady gone?” 

“You’re fucking her...” You raise one brow at him, as you stare through heavy lashes. Astarion in response, pulls back and snaps his hips into you, causing you to gasp as he drives into your cervix. Your eyes clamp shut as he pounds into you, over and over again stealing away every bit of snark you had before. 

“You drank that tea, now let me fuck you like you so obviously need me to.” His voice makes the hair on your neck stand on end, you could come undone by the sound of him alone. Your hands fist his magnificent curls as you bring his head back down to yours, ensnaring his mouth with your lips once more. Tongues tangling together, moans melding. He removes his mouth just enough to murmur against your lips, “Come for me, you slut. Let me feel you come around my dick so I can fill you again.” 

A whimpered gasp is your only reply as your orgasm sweeps you out by the ankles. 

“That’s it. Come for me... Come for me...” He growls directly into your ear. “Gods, take it. Take all of me.” An absolute feral beast, he grunts loudly as he spills into you. He kisses you again, and takes your lower lip into his mouth, suckling on it and biting it just hard enough to make you yelp. Every fiber within your body sings as the fire inside dissipates with your shared release. Finally, free from Sune’s Embrace. Every nerve is firing, as electric-like shocks shoot through you. When Astarion stops thrusting, and collapses on top of you, it takes a minute before either one of you can catch your breath. 

“Gods...” you pant, “I am never... making tea with those damned mushrooms ever again.” 

“I should rather hope not. I think it might kill me to try and keep up with you.” He chuckles breathlessly, leaving soft kisses on your cheek and jaw. “Or perhaps, just warn me next time you choose to experiment.”

Thanks for reading! <3 Tilly

[demeterlindavis]

Dude I got u for bg3 requests-

So like imagine a tav that can draw and they’re just sketching whatever and astarion comes up behind them like “lol who’s that twink do u have a crush or something?” And everyone loses it cuz it’s him.

I’ve seen some like these where they’re all angsty and some fluff but I think everyone would lose their shit. Specifically picturing Gale choking in the background because astarion is making fun of tavs dreamy portraits of himself.

Ive never done an ask before idk how these work I give u full creative liberty 😚

Summary: Reader likes drawing Astarion, who is oblivious to the fact that it's him! Campmates lose it and try to play matchmaker a little bit.

Genre: Pure tooth rotting fluff

Warnings: Astarion things

Credits: All characters are from Bg3, Vampire fang divider- animatedglittergraphics-n-more on tumblr, Blood divider- strangergraphics on tumblr

A/n: Ahhh! I'm so excited to be your first ever request! I hope this is to your liking and I apologize for it taking me so long to get around to it

Thank you so much for requesting!!

During the long trip to Baldur's Gate, finding ways to keep your mind occupied when you stopped became a necessity. Thankfully, pretty early into your travels you managed to get your hands on a (mostly) empty drawing journal after finding it abandoned along with some helpful supplies. It didn't take long for you to find that you had some sort of muscle memory for drawing, even if you couldn't consciously remember ever being an artist, your brain seemed to. You started out just drawing what you saw. Flowers, buildings, landscapes, etc. But pretty soon you drifted to drawing your campmates as well. At first it was a little mix of everyone, but as your trip carried on you couldn't help but be drawn (hehe) to a certain fluffy haired rogue. As your mind lingered on him more and more, so did your pencil. You had filled numerous pages with sketches and doodles of him. Sometimes he'd catch you staring at him while trying to get a good reference, and he'd of course smirk and say something like "Enjoying the scenery, darling?" To which you would flush red and bury your face back into your sketches.

Every now and then, someone would glance over your shoulder to see what you were scribbling (usually Karlach) and tease you for how full your sketchbook had gotten with just him. You didn't mind them watching you draw, sometimes it felt nice to have someone admiring your skills.

This however, was not one of those times.

"My, who is that handsome devil?" Astarion's voice rings out from behind you. You squeeze your eyes shut as you realize you've been caught and curse yourself for not hearing him sneak up behind you. Astarion is now leaning against your shoulder, studying the pictures in front of him. "Now darling, I know I say this about every gorgeous stranger but would." He lazily flips the page and lets out a little giggle "And you would too by the looks of it," He returns back to your current page and sits beside you. "So, will you tell me the story or will you make me beg? You know I'm an expert on romance." It's only then do you realize he genuinely doesn't realize that you are drawing him. You thought before he was just being smug, but it does make sense. When was the last time he saw himself? 300 years ago? Surely the memory is a bit fuzzy. You try to act as nonchalant as possible as you mutter "Mm...Maybe some other time..." Astarion scoffs and you pray to any god willing to listen to help you out. Your prayer is answered when Gale makes the call for dinner being done. You quickly shove the book into your pocket and (perhaps a bit too swiftly) walked over to the fire.

The topic is seemingly dropped by Astarion until Shadowheart remarks that "Your face is redder than Karlach's," Astarion is quick to interject. "I caught them drawing some shirtless man and they're being a big baby about it." He rolls his eyes dramatically before adding "Trust me darling, I've seen worse." Gale chokes on his stew, Halsin's brows raise and Shadowheart lets out a small gasp. The camp is deadly quiet, save for Astarion making snarky comments about how the man looks like something a 13 year old would find incredibly romantic. Karlach is the one to break the silence, "Fangs, do you really not know who that is?" He raises a brow "Of course not. What, is he famous or something?" Lae'zel lets out a scoff. "Chk. It is a wonder how you survive being so clueless. That is you, you k'chakhi."

The silence, once again, is incredibly loud. This time though, Astarion has seemingly lost his witty remarks. You have long since had your head down, afraid to see his face. He, however, is more confused than anything. After a moment he speaks again, "Is it really?" They all give some form of approval, a nod, a grunt, etc. He is quiet again, but only because he is taking a moment to grin. "Well no wonder there are so many! Obviously it's me. No face other than mine fit to take up so much space in our dear Tav's book. Let me see another, I haven't beheld my beauty in so long!"

[demeterlindavis]

when i want fluff/angst fics and all i’m getting is smut

the struggle is real

[demeterlindavis]

The Masked Devotion

Din Djarin x Reader

Summary: Din Djarin protects you with unwavering loyalty. But behind his beskar mask lies a heart longing for more.

The sands of Nevarro stretched endlessly, golden and harsh under the sun’s dying light.

You followed Din Djarin’s figure as he moved steadily ahead, his beskar armour gleaming.

He walked with purpose, his shoulders squared, his hand never far from his blaster. Even in silence, his presence was steady, a constant reminder that you were safe as long as he was near.

The ancient ruins appeared before you, black stone structures weathered by time.

They were massive, cold, and silent, untouched for centuries. You hesitated, feeling a chill despite the desert heat. “Are you sure this is the place?”

He glanced over his shoulder, his helmet reflecting the crimson sky. “This is where the bounty led us. Stay close.”

His voice was steady, and unyielding, and it grounded you.

You trusted him.

You followed him inside, shadows swallowing you both as you ventured deeper into the ruins.

It got cold, and the air was stale, heavy with dust and silence.

The darkness grew as you moved further in, and you stumbled over uneven stone. Din’s hand shot out, catching your arm before you could fall. His grip was firm, his touch careful, and he held you a moment longer than necessary.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice softened by concern.

You nodded, but your heart raced, his touch lingering on your skin. “I’m fine… just a little dark in here.”

His helmet tilted, the visor locking on you. “Stay close,” he repeated, his tone gentler. He didn’t let go of your arm as he guided you forward, his gloved hand warm and steady.

You walked beside him, acutely aware of his presence. You had been travelling together for weeks now, your lives intertwined by circumstance.

Yet, every time he looked at you felt a warmth spread through your chest. Even if you couldn't see his eyes, only his helmet.

“Din,” you said softly, your voice echoing off the stone walls. “Why do you protect me?”

He stopped walking, his hand falling.

Silence filled the space between you, heavy and uncertain. He looked at you, his helmet concealing whatever thoughts lay behind his eyes. “You know why.”

You did know, but you wanted to hear him say it.

You wanted him to break through that wall he kept around himself, to let you in. “I want to hear you say it.”

He turned away, his shoulders tense. “It’s my job. I made a promise to keep you safe.”

You stepped closer, refusing to let him retreat. “Is that all it is? Just a job?”

His shoulders sank, and for a moment, he looked so human, so vulnerable, despite the armour. “No,” he admitted, his voice firm. “It hasn’t been just a job for a long time.”

Your heart skipped a beat, your breath catching in your throat. “Then why won’t you let me in? Why do you keep pushing me away?”

He turned back to you, his hands clenched at his sides. “Because this is all I can give you. A man in a mask. A protector. I can’t be… more than that.”

His words were pained, weighed down by self-doubt. You reached out, placing your hand on his chest, feeling the cold beskar beneath your palm. “You’re more than just a mask, Din. You’re more than just armour.”

He trembled under your touch, his chest rising and falling as he took a shaky breath. “I can’t take it off,” he said, his voice strained. “Not even for you.”

You smiled, leaning in until your forehead rested against his chest plate. “I don’t need to see your face to know you. I already know who you are.”

He stilled, his body still, his hands hovering as if unsure whether to pull you closer or push you away.

He needed to make a decision.

Push you away, and lose you, or pull you close and keep you forever.

But deep down, he already made his decision long before this moment.

Slowly, his arms wrapped around you, hesitant but strong. He held you there, his helmet pressing lightly against your hair. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he whispered, his voice raw.

Your heart swelled, and you held him tighter. “Then show me. Let me stay.”

He exhaled shakily, his hold on you tightening. “I don’t know how to let anyone stay.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your eyes meeting the dark visor. “Then I’ll teach you.”

For a moment, he just stood there, silent and still.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he rested his forehead against yours, the cold metal pressing gently to your skin. It was the closest he could come to a kiss, a promise made without words.

He stayed like that, breathing with you, holding you as if you were the only light left in his world of shadows. “Alright,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Stay with me, please.”

You closed your eyes, a tear slipping free as you leaned into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the armour. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The ruins around you were ancient and cold, but in his arms, you found warmth.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[demeterlindavis]

to admit everything / gale dekarios

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Several months after your adventure's conclusion, Gale invites you to visit his tower in Waterdeep — and finally, he finds the courage to admit his feelings for you.

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pairing: gale dekarios x reader

word count: 36.0k

tags: 18+, smut with feelings (and a fair bit of plot), reader is tav, reader is fem bodied (but no gendered terms are used), love confessions, fic takes place after the epilogue, "you fell first but he fell harder", mild sensory deprivation, inappropriate uses of magic, gale talks a Lot, slight angst (but there's a happy ending, don't worry), dirty talk, fingering, handjob, multiple orgasms, oral (reader receiving), tender sex, slight mentions of blasphemy, i am not immune to his wizardly charms....

read on ao3

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this work contains explicit content intended for 18+ individuals. please read the tags and do not interact if you are a minor.

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When Gale wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace, for the first time in ages, you can finally relax. 

From your stiff shoulders, down to the ends of your toes, your weary muscles untense. It's as though he's cast a spell on you; which you know he could do, but he doesn't have to. A soft palm cradles the back of your head, and he pulls you in closer. You bury your head in his chest, the smooth velvet of his shirt rubbing your cheek. 

Slowly, deeply, you inhale. You're enveloped in the familiar scent of him: the rich smell of pine, filling your senses with something tender. Something you've missed. The breeze that wafts in from his balcony veils you in a breath of the sea. Gale always found a way to smell the same as a book's crisp pages. He'd carry the faint aroma of the scrolls he often littered his tent with, or of his library, regardless of how long you spent surrounded by nothing but wilderness. 

The intimacy of it is enough to make you dizzy. If you had things your way, you'd hug him tight like this, and you wouldn't ever think of letting him go. 

"It feels as though it's been forever since we were last acquainted," Gale says in your ear quietly. Genuinely, with the slightest exhale tacked on at the end — and still, after hearing his voice for hours, watching as he lectured his pupils on some form of magic you've barely heard of, you believe you wouldn't mind listening for a few hours more. 

"Our get-together wasn't that long ago, you know," You counter, voice slightly muffled, spoken into his chest. 

"Yes, but surely you understand." His grip on you seems to tighten as you both rock gently, back and forth, "It's rather difficult to go from spending nearly every moment you're awake with someone, to only having the pleasure of meeting them on a few select occasions. Allow me to savor this moment, please. There may not be another one like it." 

There may not be another one. 

Gods, you know he's right. Both of you are busy, now. You live in two separate cities, lead two separate lives. There's others from the party you haven't seen; not yet, anyways. The only reason you saw Gale now is because back then, you had the foresight to plan to. 

That inevitable prospect is one you aren't sure you want to think about. You don't want to imagine parting from Gale again. 

Your friends would've called you sappy. They might've gone and teased you for taking forever to meet with the damn wizard in the first place. You obviously wanted to. The hug you gave him back then was hardly a friendly one. More like a I'm glad you're here, now don't you dare leave again sort of hug. Not to mention the way Gale himself eyed you for the rest of the party — as if no-one would notice. 

Truthfully, your life has been busier than you hoped it would be, ever since your adventure's big conclusion. You did want to see Gale again. Of course you did. But simply wanting isn't good enough. The party was the first time you saw him since then, and this has been the first time after that. 

You were hoping to relax for a while. To spend time away from the stress. You definitely earned it. Unfortunately, you've wound up doing anything but. 

Make no mistake, you're unbelievably grateful to no longer be dealing with a world-ending threat, or a parasite in your brain. Helping to rebuild the city is nothing compared to the shit you've already dealt with. You're happy that you no longer have to worry over whether you'll even make it out of this alive. Whether any of you will still be alive, in the end. But you've hardly been able to settle. Not in the way you wanted to, at least. 

For as many people that revere you, that now think of you as a hero, those words seem to do nothing for you. For as big and grand of a city as Baldur's Gate still is, and for as long as you've called it your home, it's only begun to feel like the loneliest place in the world. 

And your friends — Obviously you'd wind up going your separate ways. It'd be stupid to think otherwise. You have different lives to return to, new struggles to face. You know that. It doesn't change how much you've grown to miss them. 

There won't come a time where you'll stop missing those moments, you figure. The times when things were quiet, when you worked together, grew together. That's okay. Some allegiances aren't meant to last forever. In the end, it was an idea you made peace with. Until one of your companions stubbornly refused to leave your heart. 

You peer up at him, as Gale looks down at you, before he lets go of you slowly, almost hesitantly. He pulls backward, meeting your eyes. This embrace reminds you of the one from back then. You don't fail to notice how his expression softens around the edges, how he takes your hands, gently squeezing them. Ultimately, he allows them to slip away, letting go. 

You carried your thoughts of him with you, long after you'd since parted ways. The sound of his voice, the softness it seemed to take on whenever you're the one he was speaking to. The accidental touches, the brushes of fingers. An arm placed in front of you, to usher you behind him whenever he thought you might get hurt. 

Without the ability to pry into his thoughts, you have no clue whether he fondly remembers things the same way you do. You were unmistakably close, once. In an earlier time, you brought your hands to his shoulders, you kept your eyes locked on his. Your words were shaky. Your heart was pounding, shaking against the cage of your chest. You can't lose him, you remember admitting, and Gale smiled, told you that you wouldn't. Even though you knew damn well there was more he wasn't telling you. 

Hindsight would convince you the only thing he concealed was how truly scared he was. If you did feel more for each other, if what you thought you understood wasn't a lie — No matter what ways you tried, neither of you could hide it, but you certainly couldn't talk about it either. 

It's difficult to search for the time to discuss unadmitted feelings when your lives are constantly on the line. Impossible, actually. Honestly, you weren't sure how you'd tell him, regardless of if you could. Nevermind the playful encouragement of your companions, or the listless jabs at your solitude from your undead resurrector, this sort of thing has never been your forte. Hey, I care for you more than good friends are supposed to, is that alright? 

I couldn't stand to see anything happen to you, and I hoped you might notice, might do what I'm not able to. You could look into my head with a single word, and yet nothing but distance has grown in between us. 

I'd travel it, if I was able. I want you to understand, I never hoped to part from you. I never want you to shut up whenever you're telling me about magic, or history, or any of the things you know everything about, even once you quiet down because you think I do. 

How am I supposed to tell you that? 

You can't, and you didn't. You both had the fate of the world in your hands, and the last thing either of you needed to be worrying about were your up-in-the-air feelings. 

You would ignore the elated blankness in your head whenever Gale eased the tension with a smile flashed your way. You pushed down the giddiness in your chest whenever he gave a gentle yet pragmatic comment, one you tried not to read into. Over and over, you would pretend not to be flustered by his small touches, by the glances that lasted a little longer than they should. Despite the ache of your heart in your chest, you convinced yourself that you and him were friends. Nothing more. 

Yes, friends who would sneak into one another's tents when everyone else was asleep to quietly talk, laughing together until the sun began to graze the horizon. Friends who kept each other going, who saw one another when they were weakest: torn apart by the Gods, with nothing left to do but pick up the pieces. Friends who are the only ones to know what the other is truly thinking, no spells or uncanny mind connections needed. 

You're simply mere acquaintances. Two people on the same bloody path, who just so happened to be lucky enough to meet, and managed to grow closer than acquaintances ever should be. You were pushed together by circumstance. You chose to understand each other with purpose. 

Has Gale ever yearned for more, in the way you've yearned for him? 

Gale is observant. He knows you, he'd know if there was something up with you. Likely, he already does. More so, he's ambitious; he wouldn't forget about you, everything vying to push you away be damned. You've come too far to suddenly cast each other aside. But some things are better left unspoken. 

Eventually, you expected you'd never find out the truth. You were too little, too late. The closest you ever got to a true confession was in the moments you found yourselves alone, and those are few and far between, these days. Now that you've run out of excuses, even now that everything is over, he's here and you are alive — You can't say a damn thing. 

You think it's why you haven't seen him. You've been busy, yes, leading a new life and grappling with your newfound freedoms, but given the chance, you'd put every last thing aside to make time for him. When those feelings of yours are left to build and build, they threaten to drown. And drown you did. 

It's strange, how meeting with him again can feel like finally being coaxed to breathe, and like suffocating freely, all at the same time. 

You decide to breathe in once more, and break the silence at last. 

"You're ridiculous sometimes," You scoff, shaking your head. Your tone is more fragile than you intended, as you catch yourself in your own hypocrisy. You still manage to throw him a warm glance. "I thought we were both past talking that way. We have all the time the world is generous enough to offer us. Do you really think I wouldn't plan on seeing you again?" 

Gale's lips tip upward to form his usual smile, the corners of his eyes crinkled. To a combination of your bewilderment and delight, you're already melting. 

"They say old habits die hard, I suppose," He replies, first shrugging his shoulders, and then standing up straighter. He clasps his hands together, positioning them uniformly behind his back. "And who knows? I wasn't sure how much enjoyment you drew from being an honorary professor for the day. Seemed as if you were a tad overwhelmed, actually." 

"Of course I was. Well, I was anxious, more like." You're staring off to the side while you think, crossing your arms over your chest. "I mean, you said your students think of me as a hero. I was trying not to say anything stupid." 

"In that case, I'd say you have no need to worry," Gale answers, "You sounded perfectly eloquent." 

Meeting his eyes again, you huff, "I'm glad you think so. I enjoyed today. But seriously, I came here for you, Gale. Not because I was ecstatic about teaching." 

You swear that if you were to squint, you'd see the smallest twinge of pure adoration on the normally-so-confident wizard's face. 

Gale raises a fist to his mouth and clears his throat. "I understand your qualms, but truly, you did well. No-one finds teaching to be easy- I mean, it's an unbelievably stubborn process, if anything. I've always been the recipient of lectures. Never the other way around, until my newfound position. It took me quite a while to get a good grasp of things, believe you me." 

"Really?" You raise a brow, "I, for one, thought your teaching was impeccable. I was looking forward to asking for some pointers from Professor Dekarios himself, actually." 

"Oh, come on. Your flattery is far from needed," He replies, his tone breathy and playful. You exhale a faint chuckle, and when you grin back, his own smile seems to soften at the edges. A look reserved exclusively for you. 

Gale continues, "You've seen my pupils for yourself now. You know how difficult they can be. In the face of such… stunning magic," His eyes narrow, he makes an open-palmed gesture of wonderment to illustrate his point, "Magic they themselves could learn to wield, it's rare to see them at least attempt to stay awake. I take some of the blame, of course. At certain moments, I thought you were teaching them better than I ever have." 

"Nonsense," You roll your eyes light-heartedly, placing a hand on your hip, "They do well on their tests, right? I doubt your teachings are lost on them. Besides, it's like you said. Being a teacher isn't easy." 

"True. However, I certainly think we make an impressive team." 

With one last smile, and a nod of his head, Gale turns, striding over to his small wooden desk. 

The space is surrounded by bookshelves, the desk's every surface littered in open books and scrolls of its own. He thumbs through the stack of papers he set there earlier, essays his students turned in — A paper about the history of magic was his instruction, if you remember right. Gale was less than satisfied with their results, but in his own words, he couldn't fault them. 

They are the same as I was, when I was their age. A spitting image, really. Dodging written assignments, snoozing through most lectures. They're talented, there's no denying it. Preventing them from picking up my bad habits is where matters turn difficult. 

He lifts the stack, tapping the papers against the desk to make them straight. Then, he sets them neatly aside. He clearly has a specific place for them, though you don't think you'd ever be able to make sense of the mess, yourself. 

"Either way," He starts, organizing more loose papers and scattered books while he talks. His back may be turned towards you, but you can picture his face clearly: the lightest smirk, the pinch of his brows, "I'm sure my students were pleased to hear from someone other than me for a change. Dare I say when you were speaking, they actually paid attention." 

Delicately, like the simplest of words are valuable porcelain, you mutter, "Is that so? I should come see you more often, then." 

Gale freezes for a second. His next few sentences come out much sweeter than he intended them to, but by the time he's opened his mouth, he isn't able to stop himself. 

"I'd enjoy that. I truly would," He says, and setting the books he's holding aside, he turns to face you. He swallows the lump in his throat, and when he's speaking next, he's talking with his hands as he tries — and fails, mostly — to hide his nervous cadence. 

"You don't need to come simply to help me teach," He explains, "I appreciate it, of course, but it's far from necessary. My home is always open to you. If you need to unwind someplace quiet, or if you're hoping to browse the grandest collection of tomes this side of Waterdeep, you're welcome to stay. For as long as you'd like." 

The offer means more to you than he might realize. 

"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you." 

"No, thank you," Gale retorts, "I cannot overstate how much I appreciated seeing you again. Today was a delight." 

Your glance travels away, and you try to ignore the warmth prickling over your face. From his open balcony, the sun casts shimmering rays as it falls. Light glitters over the ocean's rocky waves. The sea breeze is growing sharper; it whispers in your ears, and tickles the hair on the back of your neck. When you take a deep inhale, the air seems to catch in your lungs, holding on, unwilling to let go. 

Finally, faintly, you reply, "You'll have to show me more of Waterdeep, next time. It's a beautiful city." 

"Splendid, isn't it? I could show you around tomorrow, or even tonight, if you aren't too exhausted from today. The sights are particularly breathtaking then, when they're allowed to flourish under the cover of stars and moonlight." 

Gale takes a step closer to you, and you're left to look up at him again. At the way the light caresses his skin, at his handsome features framed by a gentle smile. 

"There's so many wonders I want you to see." He confesses. 

More than that. He's longed for more than he's admitted to, more than everything he thought mattered, before he met you. There's so much he wants to show you, so much he needs to tell you, he's begun to lose track of it all. 

Ever since you parted ways, he's felt something missing. Those adventures, your company and that of your unlikely band of companions: they're all things he's grown to miss dearly. In hopes he'd move on, he overwhelmed himself with the endeavors of his new life. He focused on teaching, on studying, on magic. No matter what, he was filled with an ache he couldn't extinguish. 

You'd tease him if he mentioned it. He can imagine your voice, mumbling playfully with a flash of teeth and a sparkle in your gaze, Something missing? A tadpole in your brain, maybe? 

Very funny, he'd answer. And he'd leave it at that, because you've given him an out, a chance not to make a fool of himself. He doesn't need everyone to hear how sentimental he's become — and especially not you. If only you knew the half of it. 

You took a piece of him with you when you left, pried from the space between his ribs, fated to burn in your embers. He hasn't stopped missing you with such ferocity. With a certain kind of hunger. It's damn near worse than when the orb once gnawed at him. 

To have you now almost feels like a dream. He keeps thinking he might wake up, that this will melt away to leave him and him alone. This shouldn't be real, you both shouldn't have made it. Gale recalls with sickening familiarity when the end of his life felt so close. He can remember even clearer the moment he found a new purpose in you. 

You've been important to him from the start; he doesn't do a very good job of hiding it, does he? Those stolen glances were easily caught. His nervousness whenever you're with him concedes enough to make him obvious. 

He could have told you. Could have admitted how you make the fragile strings of his heart strum with every fond call of his name. You could have known the way he felt between soft breaths, and close bodies. During the moment when he showed you how to wield the Weave at your fingertips. It would have been terribly simple. A single thought, and you'd not only know, but you'd feel his own emotions rushing into you — A rippling river of infatuation. Isn't it unfortunate then, that you tend to make his mind so blank? 

The heart can be so cruel. No longer can he give you what he was aspiring to grace you with. He can't give you power. He can't offer you the abundances of a God, or the beauty of a plane away from this one. Only the ordinary. 

Falling for you was never the problem. You weren't someone he believed he deserved. 

His own hesitance forms a maddening sphere to be trapped in, and he knows it's his own fault; his own fear is to blame, his edge of destruction. You gave him hope. You've given him more than he ever could have desired, and that includes ascension. Is it so wrong for him to want more? 

Many times, he's certainly thought so. He doesn't need anything else. He has already touched the heavens and beyond with the time he's spent by your side. Your dumb adventures, your talks, the uncertain closeness. It was nearly all he needed to be sated. 

Nearly. 

"Gale…" 

Your soft utterance of his name snaps him out of his thoughts. Gale examines you, and you're glancing away, an expression he can't make out on your face. The setting sun bathes you in intoxicating orange light. You seem to have your own halo, your own radiance that defies reason. You defy a lot of the things he thought he knew. 

He can only answer with a small, breathy, "Yes?" 

A little while longer, and he might be ready. One night spent looking at the sky, or another time to confide in the comfort of your voice and your presence. He'll make it perfect. He'll find the courage, or the stars will witness his failure once again. 

Crossing paths with you changed everything about himself he once thought he understood, and he finds the revelation as funny as it is delightful. To have you to miss was a privilege, in and of itself. Fate was never a concept he believed in, but evidently, the threads of his fortune had more in store for him. You became more than a wish, you were tangible. You were kind, intelligent, you were defiance incarnate. You rewrote the part of his story he thought untouchable. He watched Gods kneel at your feet, and he felt your softness latch onto him like a second home. 

And he finally has time, doesn't he? 

The time to tell you, the time to spend with you. Because he is alive, and the restlessness and nervousness he still feels inside shouldn't matter. How foolish he once was, for thinking things would turn out any other way. 

In every other life, you still would've saved him. In a life where he was better, less scared, and not so temporary, perhaps you would have known he loved you already. 

"I couldn't. I… I want to stay," You're starting; regret tugs at the edges of your voice, and Gale begins to feel his heart sink with each and every word. "Maybe I could some other time, but I can't now, I shouldn't. There's business that needs to be dealt with back home, in Baldur's Gate- I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner." 

Gale huffs an impeccably dry laugh. He grins just slightly, a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and he softly responds, "Busy, aren't you? The grand savior of Baldur's Gate is needed on the field, I see. I understand. I won't hold you any longer." 

"You aren't holding me up, Gale. It's nothing important, I guess I just…" Trailing off, you inhale deeply, trying not to stumble over your own words. Your glance darts from the floor of his study to the sculptures to the trinkets — Anything to keep your eyes away from his. "I didn't want to intrude. It would feel strange if I stayed. Like I'd be taking advantage of your hospitality, I suppose." 

Gale frowns. "I promise you this, on absolutely everything left in our universe for me to promise on, you could never intrude. I meant my words, I told you that you could stay for as long as you desire, and-" 

"I know." You answer, like a frustrated plea, like a sacrificial revelation. Your hands ball up at your sides. Your voice is loud, before it goes quiet. "I know. It's my fault, alright? This doesn't have anything to do with you. I just can't stay." 

The air grows so tense it's almost suffocating. Though, for only a second or two. 

"So, becoming my honorary guest professor was that bad, was it?" Gale hums. 

Then, you're laughing weakly, you're brushing an awkward hand over the back of your neck and looking up at him, your expression now pleasantly amused. His doting gaze meets yours, framed by a few out of place strands of hair. 

"No," You mumble teasingly, stretching out the end of the word with a roll of your eyes; he always knows how to make you weak. "And I've already promised to come teach with you again. As long as you aren't worried about me showing you up, that is." 

"Oh, by all means, do show me up plenty," He eagerly replies, "I won't try to stop you." 

You huff a quick chuckle, and there it is again — Your gaze, sparkling. Gale feels the way you draw him in without trying, until his attention is fully focused on you. Until you have him right where you want him. To think of how doomed he'd be if you ever got your hands on some charming magic. 

"I've really missed you, y'know," You're admitting. Your tone is different somehow, unmistakably. "The party honestly has felt like forever ago. Back then, I thought we didn't have near enough time. Catching up was pleasant, but it felt… imperfect. And now, we spent an entire day together. You're right here in front of me, and yet, still. I miss you." 

Gale's jaw clenches, and with nothing left to stop you, you continue. 

Your throat grows tight. You expel a long, heavy sigh. "Do you want me to tell you the truth?" 

"I wouldn't shy away from it." He returns. 

"If I stay for any longer, I wouldn't have it in me to leave." Your gaze dances over his own, and he understands the uncertainty, mixed with faint emotions he doesn't. "Not ever." 

For what is probably the first time since you've met him, Gale goes completely, utterly silent. You watch him think, his expression pinching — perhaps irritated at his own loss for words — before he softens. His chest rises slowly with the deep breath he takes. Light glitters off his silver earring. Shadows form in his features, his lips part in an almost-sentence. In the end, he swallows it down, and grits his teeth together to the point of pain. 

You're standing close. So close, he can see the slight, frustrated crinkle in your brows that only seems to furrow more the longer he stays quiet. So close, he could lean in if he wanted to, and relay the depths of his longing from his hesitant lips onto yours. 

It isn't like him to be speechless this long. 

Your head tilts towards him, tender curiosity on your face. Your arm outstretches, and a hand gently begins to reach in his direction. "Gale?" 

He's about to do something foolish. Something very, very unwise. He'd attempt to stop himself, if the words weren't already forming on his tongue. He'd give up as he did before, if only the dying light wasn't so lovely on you. 

At least he knows it won't be the most nonsensical thing he's done.

Gale's gaze fills with warmth, with a devotion so resolute, you could believe you really are some form of a God. He catches your hand, and grasps it in a clumsy way; more clinging than holding, as fingers brush knuckles, folded over one another. As if you might disappear when he lets go. 

This time, there's no more room for wondering. No more hesitation, no barriers, just himself and you: his fallen star, his lovely demise. It doesn't matter what he does or doesn't do, your existence will never leave his veins, running deeper than the fear and the magic ever has. The same way the Weave crackles at his fingertips, adoring you comes naturally. You are yourself, and you, in all your love, in flesh and bone — You are worth anything, or perhaps everything. 

A little while longer. To the Hells with that. 

"I'm in love with you." 

It's easier to say those words than he expected. They just sort of happen; really, they seem natural. He's been agonizing for ages, but to hear his own voice say them aloud cements his feelings as true. He is in love with you. An honest, mortal love. 

He doesn't have the time to worry over the consequences, because you've heard him loud and clear. His heart won't stop pounding, and pounding, and pounding. 

Almost instantly, your eyes are going wide. Your own grip on his hand turns loose. Surprise washes warmly over your face, settling as a pleasant tingle in the expanse of your shoulders. For a moment, you don't speak. You take in quick, nervous breaths, feeling your lungs choked by emotion and sea salt. 

"You really- Why're you-" You sputter, stumbling back slightly and shifting your weight from one foot to the other. Your arms go slack as you expel a faint sigh, "Gale-" 

"You do not have to say anything. And you're under no obligation to stay." Gale interrupts, his tone abruptly serious. His expression reflects the same sort of solemness, his brows in a knot. He tries to hide the shake to his words, tries to chase away his worries, "You can leave, if you wish. You can leave, and we can never speak of this again. I wouldn't blame you. I couldn't blame you. I'd know better, not to chase after you and… to simply leave things as they are. Like I should have done now. If I wasn't the ass that I am." 

A brief pause. Your eyes scan him, and Gale resists the urge to let his nervousness get the better of him. 

"But I had to speak," He says. "This may be my only chance. I can't lie to you in the same way I've lied to myself." 

Your next words are spoken with conviction. You squeeze his hand, and the dizzy room around him finally begins to steady — "Then tell me, Gale. I want you to tell me everything." 

It's like the sun is shining right onto him. Heat and pure energy rushes from your hands into his, your voice a conduit for emotion. You practically give him a head rush. 

Gale swallows, steadies. Then, he speaks. 

"And what an abundance of things I could tell you." 

Grasping your hands and squeezing them back, he's smiling again, but this time, it's different. The whole moment seems different. He's wearing an excited, heartfelt sort of smile, a look you think you've never seen before. Well, perhaps you saw it once. 

You're reminded of the way he looked at you many, many nights ago. When your fates weren't assured. When you gazed upon the stars together, admiring the aurora he created — dazzling light, to pierce the sky of shadow. That memory seems so near, yet so far away. His solemness melted to gentleness back then, too. Your souls felt closer than they ever had. 

Was this what he wanted to tell you that night? 

"Let's see," Gale is continuing, and you're grinning, watching his head tilt as he puts on an air of confidence; his own form of sincerity. 

"I wonder what I should tell you first? Should I detail each intricate moment, every subtle action that made me fall so deeply for you? For your determination, your ingenuity. Your beauty. Gods, you shouldn't get me started. If you truly wanted me to describe every single thing I adore about you, well, I believe we'd be nothing but dust by the time I was finished." 

You can't help but chuckle. Gale's gaze travels over you, and you let yourself take him in. His fingertips absently run over your knuckles. His shoulders are tense with a hesitance he can't manage to hide. 

"I'll make a terribly long-winded story brief, before I bore you with my sentiments." This time, he sounds a fair bit quieter. The depths of his honeyed gaze, ever-softening, become impossible to look away from. 

"You are very special to me." He gently explains, "More than words can describe, and certainly more than anything else. I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. While the world was crumbling around us, begging to be saved, I thought myself content, if only I could spend whatever remained of my time at your side." 

Carefully, Gale reaches forwards. Between his fingers, with the slightest, most exhilarating touch, he holds your chin, he tilts your head in his direction. Your heart begins to hammer in your chest to an unsteady rhythm. 

"Love does not even begin to describe it. You are wonderful. You are the special sort of magic one might spend their entire life searching for. The most divine of desires. I've no need to search anymore." 

A brush of his thumb over your mouth, and his calloused fingers are splaying back to caress your cheek, to feel the shape of your jaw, "I have the heavens right in my hands. All the spectacles and splendors of Faerûn are jealous of you." 

You relax, and when his grasp drops from your chin, you let your hand slip away from his — only to wrap your arms around him, elbows resting on his shoulders. He admires you intently, gauging your reaction, his heart skipping at your touch and the subtle flash of shyness behind your eyes. A sort of analysis you've seen him use when he was examining an artifact, or mulling over a game of lanceboard. The tender focus his face takes on makes you huff in amusement. 

With a teasing raise of your brow, you manage to ask, "How many times have you practiced saying that to me?" 

"A hundred times. A thousand times." Gale keeps his arms at his sides, despite the way you embrace him tighter. In the corner of your vision, you catch him starting to reach out. His hands hover inches away from your waist, he flexes them in thought. 

"No, I often went back and forth on the precise method I would use to confess, given I actually had the gall to do it, but," He explains, a slight playful air to his tone, "Those words were from the heart. Just a few specs of fondness from my vast nebula of love for you. If you can believe that." 

"They're very… you. In a good way." Your smile is bright. He thinks it might continue to warm him, long after the point of the sun's imminent descent. "It's a shame, though. I wasn't expecting you to beat me to it. I've been practicing how I would tell you I'm in love with you since we met." 

If there's one thing you've come to know about the wizard, it's that he's collected. 

Calm, mostly. But unperturbed always. He's optimistic to a fault, and he's never been the type to seem nervous or timid, even if he might be feeling that way. He's an honest man, but also controlled — You have to exercise a certain amount of control to wield magic. Or to keep your own body from exploding to bits, you figure. With the orb posing much less of a threat, he's clearly more relaxed, but his emotions still don't show so easily. 

You've seen him scared. But nervous? Shy? Those sorts of feelings were never in his repertoire. He's never once stumbled over his words, never been red-faced, never faltered from his confidence and his verbosity. Until now. 

"You- You have?" Gale sounds so in disbelief, you swear his voice nearly cracks. He clears his throat awfully loudly, he glances between you and something in the distance. Which proves to be difficult, considering how close you are. Has the skin underneath his collar always felt so hot? "I had no idea. I mean, clearly, but- But still." 

"I wasn't sure if you knew. You're more charming than you give yourself credit for," You clarify softly, "I thought for sure you'd make a move at that little tiefling party. Started planning what I might say and everything. Apparently, you failed to realize I was flirting with you." 

"I wasn't even trying to woo you then," Gale mumbles, thinking to himself. "Well, that's- Hah, quite the discovery, now isn't it? Care to- uhm, enlighten me on what it was you planned to say, exactly?" 

"Mmm, possibly. You seem flustered. Should I show you, instead?" 

"Show me?" 

"Yes," You stand up straighter, making his heart race faster as you move impossibly closer to him, "I'll show you what I really wanted to do back then." 

"Whatever you wish would be fine with me- Er, wrong choice of words." The breeze drifting through his study is cold enough to form goosebumps, and yet he can't seem to quit burning up. He runs a quick hand through his hair, feeling the heat from his forehead underneath his palm, "Whatever you wish is perfect, I should say. If you want to- or, well, perhaps I could…" 

Gale doesn't get the chance to say anything more. 

He expects you to lean in. Sharply, he takes in a hurried, nervous breath. Uncertain palms hover over the curve of your waist, before settling with the slightest touch. His eyes grow heavy, his head begins to tilt opposite yours. What he doesn't expect is for you to stop, your lips almost pressed to his, but not quite, leaving the distance not yet closed. 

You suspend there, for a moment. Your low breathing tickles his skin. Gale's hand finds your cheek, holding, and nothing more. 

"Are you going to kiss me?" 

There's only a half-second longer of hesitance. He closes the gap, and you fist the front of his shirt to pull him in along with you. Your eyes flutter shut. Fallen stars and glowing warmth shimmer through every inch of you. At last, your lips connect in a quaint, subtle kiss. Smooth, simple, and utterly him. 

Shoulders slumping, your pulse thrums like the unsteady flicker of a candle flame. Your head begins to spin, your heart throbs with fiery longing. This is what you were waiting for. When you burned from the inside-out, wanting nothing more than to forget reason and your lives and his cruel Goddess, you only longed to just kiss him, regardless of the consequences. Everything else melts away: the setting sun, his warmly-lit tower, and your own feet from under you. 

He's hardly done anything, and you're already overwhelmed. To your dismay, the kiss is over almost as soon as it begins. The both of you draw a breath's length apart. Gentle hands give your waist the smallest squeeze. You exhale, and Gale takes in a deeper breath along with you. Kissing him made the rest of the world fall away, or perhaps fall into place, and all you can think of is how desperately you need another. 

Maybe he can read your mind, or maybe he's thinking the exact same thing. Delicately, Gale murmurs against your lips, "Forgive me for being greedy, but… I'm not sure that'll be enough for me. Could I kiss you again?" 

As if he even has to ask. 

With urgency, you're surging forwards, you're kissing him again and he can't manage to think — The only thing running through every inch of him is you. You, kissing him the way he's wanted you to for months upon months. Pressing your lips against his over and over, stealing his breath until he's feeling dizzy, but he doesn't care. You, lovely in a way he's never deserved, with a soul entwined by his own. You told him you love him; he can hardly stand to believe it. 

Lips locked, you twist together, until Gale is guiding you by your waist. Until he's pressing your back against the edge of the nearest surface — his desk — to keep you both stable, while your hands are grabbing at his shoulders for leverage. You let a hand glide up, you tangle your fingers in soft brown hair. You grip and tug, dragging him close, and he sighs, mouth parting, allowing the kiss to turn deep. Enough to mark the point of no return. 

This is everything he's ever wanted, you are the only thing he's ever needed. He could die happy, if this was his end. What a sweet, lovely end it would be. He can't describe how otherworldly it is, to know the desire he's had to kiss you won't die along with him. To know you have plenty of kisses left. 

He could love you like this until the true end of the world. He's tempted actually, to slow down time, and savor you for as long as you will allow. You were well worth dying for, but you are priceless to live for. You and your touch, your love. Love — Gods, none of this will feel real, no matter how many times he reminds himself. 

When his tongue slides against yours, a slow, apprehensive show of tenderness, you feel a shiver careen down your spine. He hears your breath get caught in your lungs, feels you tug him closer and arch into his touch once a palm drifts to the small of your back. 

This kiss hopes to pour his devotion into you, so that you might understand. You'll know love, know the things he's always wanted to tell you, as familiar as you know yourself. He'll make sure this moment won't be forgotten. 

You reach behind you, gripping the edge of the desk when his body presses into yours. Your mind is a mess, reeling so fast you might go woozy; another smooth kiss makes you pull him in further, ushering from him a meager gasp in surprise. You're lost, losing control. The both of you are trapped in a dance of vying for more, pressing closer, kissing harder. His knee slots between your legs — unintended encouragement, you're sure — and you jolt, your thoughts now occupied with things they really, really shouldn't be. 

The smallest space between you fills with hot breath, as you pull apart just enough to get a word out. "Gale-"

"I've missed you," He murmurs, breathless and hurried, as though he doesn't wish to waste a single second, "I have missed you more than anything." 

He leans close once more, his hand moves to hold the back of your neck and cradle you like you're precious. You kiss again, and any reservations you still have remaining fly away on the breeze, to be swallowed by the depths of the sea. 

You don't want to stop. No, you know where this is leading, and still, you can't stop. You wouldn't dream of it. How long have you wanted to kiss him, wanted to have him to yourself? Wanted for him to lose his composure, and finally show you exactly how he felt? How long have you been waiting for more? 

Since you met him, surely. Since you dragged him from that portal. Since he first shook your hand, and you felt your foolish heart spark to life. Piece by tender piece, you connected in secret. Fought through darkness to emerge onto the dawn, hoped the newfound day might bring you both together. Truly, you've waited too long to let a moment like this go to waste. 

You pull apart for barely a second, you catch your breath while Gale mutters something against your mouth that sounds like your own name — And at once, you're closing the distance again. Your lips continue to learn the shape of each other, bodies shaky, rocking close. When a particularly desperate kiss causes his hips to drive into yours, you're the one left sighing. Your nerves prickle with excitement, your limbs feel weak. And a hardness, his hardness, shoves against you unmistakably, grinding into where you're terribly weak. 

Oh, you won't be stopping now. Not any time soon. 

Gale stiffens immediately, at the same moment you do. He peels himself apart from you so quickly you're left slumping, gasping into open air. You would have stumbled, if it wasn't for his hand on your waist gripping excessively tight, helping to hold you up. Faltering, he slowly lets go. Before he does, you think you can feel a slight tremble in his fingers. 

"Ah, I'm- I'm sorry, genuinely," He stutters, practically panting as he tries to establish composure, a frail waver in his voice. You grip the desk tighter, staggering to your feet. The last traces of sunlight shimmer over his face, his earring, his eyes. Strands of his hair have fallen out of place, and he reaches up to briefly push them backward. 

"You make it far too easy to get carried away." He says, sounding rough and short-winded, "That being said, it would be wise not to take things too far, that was- Well, you are-" 

"That was perfect," You gasp out, cutting him off, or perhaps taking the words right out of his mouth. You bring a hand to his shoulder, an unspoken plea for him not to move away, "You don't have to stop, Gale. Please, don't." 

Gale takes a long, slow breath. Hesitantly, he brings both hands back to rest on your waist — barely touching, his gaze scanning yours for any sign of discomfort. "Are you sure? Positively sure? Maybe it'd help if you, er, clarified, in a way." 

"I'm clarifying that I want you to keep going. You don't have to hesitate, I want this," You retort, speaking softly, squeezing his shoulder in turn. Your eyes flicker over him, up and then down. "I showed you how I felt. It's only fair for you to return the favor, no?" 

"Oh, of course. Fairness is one of the most crucial qualities to hone, in terms of forming a long-lasting bond. So says literature, anyways. But I think I'd prefer to mesh the showing with the telling, if that sounds at all pleasurable to you." 

You're smirking. "As long as your sweet voice isn't the only pleasure in store for me." 

He exhales a small huff, the faintest form of a laugh. A smile crosses his features, and he holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger, admiring you like you're the prettiest sight this world has to offer. You very well might be. 

His gaze comes to rest on yours: warm, complex, loving. For once, he doesn't speak. He demonstrates. 

A small kiss is pressed to your cheek, innocent yet tender. Then, a kiss to the other side. His kisses travel; one he graces to the corner of your mouth, the next he places on the angle of your jaw. Your head tilts up in obedience, and he trails wet kisses down your neck, making you sigh weakly in response. 

One more kiss is graced to your neck, then your nape, then just above your collarbone. They're weighted, in a way; heavy with an infatuation you can feel beneath his touch, and deep in your bones. His facial hair tickles your skin. His warm breath on your pulse is stifling, and it only begins to thump faster, fully at the mercy of his scattered kisses. 

Meshing the showing, with the telling — It isn't long before he's babbling again. 

"You hold so much of my heart," He mumbles; the words on your neck are a steady vibration. His palm caresses your side, his lips brush over your cheek, and then move to speak against the shell of your ear. The new depth to his voice is delightful. "Falling for you was… effortless. As effortless as one breathes. I have no regrets. Absolutely none." 

The final kiss he places on your ear has shudders running through you. He's painstakingly slow once he starts to pull back, and he shifts just far enough to meet your eyes, your foreheads almost touching. That warm gaze on yours has your heart leaping all over again. 

Strung through his tone is a thread of infatuation, a sweetness on his tongue you find oh-so endearing. 

"You begged to be admired, but that hardly scratches the surface." He squeezes your side for emphasis. "You made me feel as though I meant something. Like I was alive. I'd forgotten how it felt, just as I'd forgotten what it could mean to fight for one's future." He pauses, thinking, reminiscing, "More so, I could say you brought me back to life." 

Your mouth parts, forming the edge of a word. But Gale chooses to interrupt, tugging you in with a palm settled gingerly on your jaw, muddling your mind with a kiss. And you melt. You allow your head to tilt opposite his own, and your arm to snake between your bodies. Your hand presses flat to the center of his chest. He kisses you deeper, his heart thumps. Lingering magic strong enough to sense thrums beneath his robes, his skin. 

"There's a line of poetry I once read," He's mumbling against your lips as he leaves them. His touch slides up slowly, supporting you, holding your back. "As of late, you've made it stick in my mind. Amidst the wealth of stories I've finished, the tales of truth and fiction, when I think of you, this singular line utterly refuses to part from me. And if one moment spent lost in contemplation equates to the faintest drop of rainwater, I've thought of you enough to flood the entirety of Faerûn." 

Your eyes seem heavy. You're smiling, but your head is swirled in a dreamy fog. It's plain unfair to have to decide between hearing more, or asking him to kiss you again. 

You decide on the former. "And what might that line be?" 

Gale brushes your cheek with his thumb, "I do love nothing in the world so well as you." 

He's completely genuine, he sounds so syrupy-sweet you can barely hold back your grin. You breathe a quiet, playful tsk, and you lean back, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. 

In the course of your adventures together, you weren't sure how Gale felt about you. 

It's rather stupid, thinking back on it now. Obviously, you had your suspicions. He was certainly warmer with you, compared to the rest of your allies. Despite knowing you could clearly take care of yourself, he regularly fussed over your safety, to the point of insisting you stick close to him whenever a fight broke out. He'd make a rash excuse, Powerful spells mean nil if you are not in the proper range for me to cover you! — or something like that. You always figured it was an exaggeration. Regardless, you weren't about to turn him down. 

You were attached at the hip for safety's sake, that's all. Your remaining companions never seemed to buy it, nor could they hold their comments about the wizard's clearly defined soft spot. The thoughtful way he spoke to you had to mean more; or so they tried to convince you, anyway. You weren't easily influenced. 

But it didn't matter. Without the courage and the time to ask, you couldn't be sure. You presumed he might like you, not love you. 

This side to Gale is making you reevaluate. You've never seen him so enamored, never thought he'd be this smitten — with you, no less. In his eyes, you're a living beacon of radiance, a miracle meant to be adored. A bright, pale moon to light his way through the darkness, shimmering on jet-black waters. And adore you he will. 

You were wrong, so very wrong. While you were busy falling for him, he was already plummeting harder. 

"That's from a romance, isn't it?" You muse, tilting your head and eyeing him teasingly, "You're reciting romance lines to me?" 

"Not just any romance, mind you. One of the greats. It's charming, very influential. Actually, the story is rather lighthearted- I'd be glad to introduce it to you, I have a feeling you'd enjoy it. But yes, in fact. I am." 

"Somehow, you didn't seem like the romance type. I'm surprised. Pleasantly, though." 

"A fine assumption. For quite some time, stories of a softer nature became subjects I rarely dabbled in." His index finger comes to rest under your chin, and your head is tilted in his direction. "But falling in love causes one to take interest." 

Warmth swells in your veins, untamed. You picture Gale, retreating into his tomes and books when you had a moment of reprieve on the road, struggling to hide his infatuation with you. He'd often read to you, when he was able. His calm voice would narrate biographies and old history novels, until you were trying not to fall asleep. Romances were never a part of it. Perhaps they weren't a part of his personal collection, either. Yet the more you contemplate, the more they seem to suit him. 

Did he read such stories to be reminded of you, to grapple with your absence? You can picture him getting lost in them, memorizing the scenes and the verses, in hopes your own tale might play out more like those novels, and different from what destiny threatened upon you. He yearned for things to be lighter, less somber. In the end, there was no world where you stopped longing for each other. 

"Besides," Gale is continuing in his usual upbeat tone, giving you little time to think as he cups your cheek in his palm, "There's nothing wrong with choosing to be well-versed in everything. Fantasy, poetry, romance. Erotica, perhaps. I'm sure I could recall some more… exciting quotes, if you preferred it?" 

"Please, there's no need," You tease, with the smallest roll of your eyes; although, your heart can't help but patter at the imagery. Gale, reading erotica, of all ridiculous things. "You're sweet. Even now, you're telling me about books. Could you be any more perfect?" 

"Possibly," He confesses. "Where you're concerned, mere perfection is far from good enough." Swallowing the dryness in his throat, his eyes mist over with a saccharine seriousness, "My intentions were always to cherish you, to give you my utmost devotion, and then some. You deserve the world. I only wish I could give it to you." 

"But you are enough for me. More than enough. I was lucky. So lucky, to have been fortunate enough to meet you. I'm not sure where I would be if I hadn't." Your fingertips drum against his shoulders, and gradually, he relaxes at your touch, from your tone. He exhales steadily, nice and slowly. 

"Do you mean it?" 

"Gale, I've never meant anything more. I want you so much. Just the way you are." 

To have crossed paths with one another, to have met you — No, he is the one who must be fortunate beyond compare. 

For a while, he stalls, deciding what to say. Each alternative comes up blank. Your fingers wrap around the neckline of his shirt, then. You feel the embroidered fabric with your thumb, the intricate pattern of swirls. You tug slightly, but Gale — still speechless, oddly enough — doesn't get the hint. 

"Your shirt." When he opens his mouth to reply, you're swiftly interrupting. "Take it off." 

He seems to freeze for a second, thinking. Then, the slightest form of a grin dawns on his face, a look of nervous contentment. He's reaching down to grasp the bottom of his velvet shirt, tugging it over his head. A messy happy trail litters from his stomach to disappear beneath his pants; it catches your attention, but not for long. Gale is pressing his palms to the surface of the desk, on either side of you, caging you in. You drift forward, and the kiss you share is a momentary distraction. 

Effortlessly languid, he kisses you as though you have infinite time, and this is the only way he wishes to spend it. His hand moves to cradle the back of your head, you hold him tight between the soft presses of lips connecting. You exhale in unison once you've both pulled away. 

Foggy breath mixes with your own. It warms your skin as he sighs slightly, leaning forward until his forehead is rested against yours. You watch him visibly swallow. He nervously brings a hand to your waist; just holding, with no intention quite yet. The faintest touch makes you melt, until you feel woven into him, soft beyond repair. 

"Do you have the slightest idea how long I've dreamt of this?" He starts, his voice quiet, shaky, "How much I've thought of you, how badly I've needed you? How long I've sought to… Gods…" 

Your palm grazes his chest, and he trails off into a shuddery sigh — eyes closing, shoulders slumping. Delicate fingertips feel the shape of the Netherese brand engraved in his skin. You trace and retrace the circular indentation. You press your palm flat to his chest, feeling the silent hum of dormant magic, measuring each fluttery beat of his heart. His chest aches, his veins sear with all the heat they can muster. 

That's right. He'd almost begun to forget the effect you have on him. 

You've never been afraid. After learning the truth, you didn't look at him differently. You refused to cast him aside, in the face of his own insistence. A miasma of blinding purple light shone from underneath your palm, pain ripped through him as he relived his self-made tragedy in one single breath — and somehow, you understood. You only pressed your palm closer, expression unwavering, and swore a gracious promise to help. 

You've helped him more than you know. He shouldn't feel this way. So sated. It hardly makes sense, from any perspective. There's many things he failed to do. He has much to learn: about himself, about this damned orb, and still, about you. 

But right now, his heart is a battering ram against the constructed walls of his chest, and your fingertips are traveling up — They're grazing the wretched mark as it twists up his nape, his cheek. Your knuckles brush the tangle of dark lines underneath his eye, you cup his face in your hand. And the orb is quiet. It should be screaming with the rest of him. Instead, it chooses silence. 

Magic works in such strange, indecipherable ways. If someone were to tell him long ago that this is how it could work — as though in your presence, it too, is comforted — he doesn't think any part of him would ever believe them. 

His mistake will forever be a part of him. But so will you. 

Gale finds your hand, and settles his on top of your own. He places a kiss onto the bridge of your nose, his palm slides from your hip until his thumb is edging underneath your top, just barely brushing your bare skin underneath. He hesitates, but a kiss of your own placed onto his jaw has him gasping, poised to pull your shirt over your head in the same way his was discarded. 

"May I?" Gale hums, and you swiftly nod in approval. 

"Yes," You reply, "Please." 

The anticipation that settles in your gut is damn near agonizing. You were expecting him to move carefully, but not this slow. 

Gale continues at an apprehensive pace. He stops to collide his lips with yours, when the edge of your top reaches the center of your stomach. With another smooth kiss, mouths parted, breath ragged, he tugs it higher still. You only break apart to bring your arms over your head, and give him a chance to pull it off the rest of the way. 

A kiss onto your ear, and your chest is tight. His lips trail down your nape, and you're reaching up to grab a hold of his hair, your teeth gritting as you choke back a desperate noise. 

Between sighs, your voice is weak, but you still manage, "How long you've sought to what?" 

Gale mumbles a hm into your nape, he squeezes your waist and brushes his thumb over your skin. You know he's coaxing you to continue, but with his mouth on your neck, peppering kisses that wash over you like waves, it's rather hard to follow through. 

Nonetheless, you grip a fistful of brown hair to give yourself leverage. You force yourself to take a deep, steadying breath. "You were saying something before. How long have you sought to do what, exactly?" 

One last kiss, and Gale is drawing back to meet your eyes. He holds your chin between two of his fingers. There's a glint in the back of his gaze, causing heat to rush over you, your limbs suddenly growing weak. 

"To take you," He admits, "To not just tell you what wondrous things you've made me feel, but to show you." 

You're sure the wild look in his eyes is mirrored in your own. "Then what are you waiting for? Show me." 

Gale smiles. He gestures with a crooked finger, and instructs with a tone that borders on smug, "Make yourself comfortable. If you could do the honor of hopping up on the desk for me, I'd be glad to get started." 

When you press your palms flat to the solid wood, pushing to lift yourself, his hands maneuver under your thighs, and he helps to plop you on top of his messy wooden desk. He makes room for you, pushing stacks of books to the edge, giving you the space you need to scooch back. His brows are furrowed slightly as he's gathering half-opened scrolls to toss on the floor — from nervousness? Concentration? You aren't entirely sure, but you think he lingers somewhere in between. 

Turning back to you, he innocently allows his palms to feel the shape of your bare sides. He smooths them over the curve of your waist, he caresses the faint indentations of the scars your journey and your previous path left. Then, not so innocently, his fingers are toying with the front of your pants. His thumb is rubbing over the button, while his gaze never leaves yours, his collected expression never once wavering. 

Sitting atop Gale's desk is far from luxurious. You're already shifting, doing your best to relax and meet his eyes, but you tense when he gives you a full once-over. You stifle your nerves. By now, you don't care where he has you, as long as he doesn't make you wait for much longer. 

Your impatience must reflect in your reaction. Gale brings his gaze back to yours, and it somehow seems much softer. 

"I thought you couldn't get any more gorgeous," He whispers, his fingertips drawing shapes you can't recognize into your skin, "But before my eyes, you've so effortlessly proved me wrong. What a fool I am." 

"A very loveable fool, at least," You counter, placing your hands on his shoulders as he glides his gentle palm up your side. The breeze still fluttering through his study tickles your skin, intensifying each faint, terribly warm touch. 

"You're too sweet. I doubt you'd be as composed if you knew the true depth to my foolishness. There is a great deal to address. Too much to fit into one short night, I'm sure." Gale's eyes narrow, adoration at the forefront of his expression, "It's arduous to simply try and think around you, you know. Well, unless one finds themselves thinking about you. You're such an unrelenting plague on my every thought- A good plague, I should add, not the, erm. Sickly sort." 

"Right. A good plague," You repeat. "Go on." 

"You are… impossible not to think of," Gale corrects, "My mind was made to study the intricacies of yours. I often found myself lost, absorbed in the fierceness of my adoration for you. Even at times where I perhaps shouldn't." 

Your eyebrow raises. "Is that so?" 

After staring at you blankly for more than a few moments, he awkwardly clears his throat and continues, "I suppose you're waiting for me to explain? If you asked our unlikely band of companions, I'm sure someone would tell you. They certainly remember how immensely I embarrassed myself with my obviousness, at our reunion and when we were still merely surviving together. But you never knew. I assumed you never knew. You failed to notice when I couldn't stop… staring at you, for lack of a better term." 

"I didn't notice that much." Briefly, your lips press into a line. "I had my suspicions, sure, but I wasn't entirely confident you felt… more, for me. More than the friendship we had already. Or maybe I found the reality of it hard to believe." 

"More barely describes it. My heart would begin to pound each and every time I saw you. Damn thing would tear into my chest like it wanted to come free, especially in the moments where we finished another battle victorious, barely making it out with lives and limbs intact. I'd watch you dust your hands. Wipe the mess of dirt, and some unlucky soul's blood from your face. Your jaw set, your eyes darkened. And I could only think of how much I wanted you." 

Apparently, he's not yet out of surprises. For a man who says so much, he picks the strangest times to keep his mouth shut, because you guarantee if you knew that then, you wouldn't have wasted this much time. No, you would've let him have you then and there, amongst the danger and against your judgment. Perhaps that's exactly what he was picturing. 

You swallow, eyeing him softly, curiously. "Were you just thinking? Or did you do something about those thoughts of me?" 

"Do something?" Gale huffs, letting go of you to return to his familiar habit of speaking with his hands, "As you know, those ideas, no matter how thrilling, could never be permitted to happen- They were forced to be kept in here, exclusively to myself. Lest they prove an unnecessary distraction. Many times, I dreamt of what it might be like to admit the truth. What I would say to you, if my feelings were returned. But I could allow these perspectives to haunt only me, and myself alone." 

He averts his eyes in fleeting nervousness. Tentatively, he mumbles, "When you, when those thoughts threatened to swallow me into their waiting jaws, and I couldn't stop thinking- Dwelling on your voice, your touch. Your beauty. I would… Hold on. Oh." 

You watch realization dawn on his face like the sun rising over the horizon. His eyes go wide and his face goes warm, he pushes away any uncertainty by breathing a small, light chuckle. He holds your side once more, and the anxiousness of his tense hand, fingers flexing, contradicts his supposed self-assurance. 

"Naughty." Gale teases, "Correct me if I've somehow veered onto the path of the mistaken, but I do believe I've discerned what it is you're getting at." 

Seems you can't hide your smirk anymore. Leaning back, your gaze locks with his, and the look on your face proves him right without the need for you to speak. Like the tressym who caught the canary, if he could describe it. 

Still, your head tilts, and you murmur, "Judging by your reaction, I doubt you need to be corrected." 

"Quite the risqué mind you have, don't you? And I thought I was the immodest one." His palm glides from your side, down to your waist, to your hip, "Though, I cannot lie, I am thrilled to indulge you. It's quite an… inappropriate matter to admit. But considering where we were already planning on taking this- Yes. I have done what you are thinking of. Shall I elaborate?" 

"I'd love it if you would." 

As you grasp his hand boldly, your fingers brush his. You guide him to the front of your pants again, until he's clutching the button, fiddling with it, feeling the shape while he tries to find his next words. 

"I was always head over heels for you," Gale explains, popping the button before pulling on the zipper, "It would be pointless to claim otherwise. You were far more than a passing fancy, and I knew I could never forget, nor forgo you. You were my sanctum, my love. I worshiped you. And so I defied my Goddess." 

You lift up when Gale begins to slide your pants from your thighs, until they're left in a pile on the hardwood floor. The surface of his desk feels cool against your bare legs. 

"Of course, you already know that much. My point- Which don't fret, we are getting to," He says, a palm nonchalantly finding your thigh. He caresses your skin, and your heart is in your throat, because his fingers are drifting ever-so slightly closer, "Is that I was restless. There's an explanation as to why I would often avoid you, why I'd slip away once dusk became night. I pushed every potent feeling down, as to not affect our mission, nor our companionship. But you- You are enthralling." 

Careful fingertips skate the inside of your thigh. And as you swallow down fragile gasps, he's only continuing, "Once I was alone, I could no longer stifle the longing I felt. Rest hardly reprieved me. I'd only dream of what we did not have the time to say, nor do. I imagined showing you everything I could give to you, the places I could take you, the marvels I wished for you to see. A snap of my fingers, and we could connect in ways you could not even envisage. We would forget our misfortunes. Our deities. Gods, it was worse when I had to watch someone else chat you up. That night, I'd be practically insatiable." 

Your head is whirling. 

His manner of speaking leaves more up to interpretation than you would have liked, but you know him well enough by now to be more than skilled at reading between the lines. And those words of his can only paint the most addictive picture. 

Gale, trying his best to impress you, to make you smile and keep you safe, only to grow a slight bit jealous when you basked in the attention of someone other than him. Gale, slipping away and "going to bed early" the first chance he got. Holing up in his tent, while you had no idea why. Trying to sleep, only to be awakened over and over again by his enticing dreams of you. Your visage overwhelming his mind, the practiced, straight-laced wizard would finally give into his vices. 

With a palm over his mouth, and a hand down his pants, his noises would be muffled as he works his deft hand over his stiff length. He'd close his eyes, silently scolding himself; he's ridiculous, moronic, pathetic. He should be able to stifle his foolish desires, and yet he couldn't stop, his jaw clenched as he visualizes what he wants, needs to do to you — For once, he'd let his hunger for you consume him. 

Perhaps he isn't as principled as you once thought him to be. 

"I- I felt the same way," You stammer, your throat tightening, making it harder to speak. His fingertips move upward to carefully graze your stomach; his gaze stays on yours, yet you're struggling to maintain eye contact. "It was hard not to daydream about you, whenever we had a moment to rest. My focus was… all over the place. I wanted you to myself. Wanted you to do whatever you wished to me." 

"It seems we are one in the same. You could ask anything of me, and I would consider it done." Gale's thumb hooks around your underwear, but freezes there, not yet moving. His volume drops to barely above a whisper; smooth, and intoxicating, "But I did not always think of you in such sentimental terms. With you as… tempting as you are, and with a wealth of unspoken affections between us, my musings would often wander elsewhere." 

A shudder racks your spine. "Elsewhere?" 

Leaning closer, Gale allows his free hand to steady on your waist. 

You've always thought him and yourself to be equal in prowess. You have fought beside him enough to respect his skill, but also to understand his weaknesses. Yet, in this moment, with his voice echoing against the shell of your ear as a low, sultry hum — If this were a fight, you would've already, most certainly lost. 

"Yes, to the comforts we hadn't yet explored. To the way your voice might sound when it strains. I pictured your hands, purely natural when they are joined with mine. Or perhaps your arms, your legs, tightly wrapped around my shoulders, and my back." 

You feel his palm, caressing your side in slow, simple circles. Your eyelids flutter, your body tremors in the wake of a pleasurable tide. Through his tone, you can practically hear the smile on his lips, "I'm sure you get the idea. I confess, I was not as grounded around you as I may have appeared to be. For saving-the-world's sake, my focus could not wane. Yet, my foolish heart only wanted to hear how you might plead to be given every last inch of me- And I would entrust it all to you. My mind, my body. My soul, if you had any use for it." 

His words have you so distracted, you almost fail to notice he currently has your underwear half-way down your thighs. 

Your gaze meets his. Something you can't read reflected in the back of his eyes, he gazes at you silently, but questioningly. As if he's waiting for your word to continue. Sighing, you force yourself to relax. You ignore the budding warmth that gnaws at your core. You shift, before you lift once more, and with a sly grin, he takes the hint to pull the garment off the rest of the way. 

"I might," You reply, shivering when his palm returns to your thigh, allowing your legs to part slightly when his touch begins to drift, "Maybe I'm a devil in disguise." 

"The sweetest devil in all of the Hells," Gale purrs. He presses a quick kiss to your cheek, and his fingers gravitate away; dizzy, your breath hitches. You can't figure out if he's teasing you on purpose, but whatever the bastard is trying, he's certainly succeeding. You tense from your shoulders to your legs, only for his lips on your nape to make you crumble again. 

"Gale-" 

He kisses the column of your neck, and your grip tightens on the desk's edge, nails practically digging into the wooden surface. Gale's fingertips achingly draw circles on the inside of your thigh, his touch coaxing them further apart. Your lungs are overwhelmed. By the lack of air, by the scent of dusk, and his books, and him. 

"Please," You plead; the sound is a sweet melody to his ears, "Touch me." 

You're more than enthralling — You are simply irresistible. 

Gale sighs, and as the held breath leaves him, he swears he feels the center of his chest thrum with such staggering tenderness. 

"You very well may be my demise." 

Bracing a hand on your waist, he hesitates. His brows pinch slightly. His palm feels clammy, almost, and you can feel the heat like untamed fire, radiating from his skin, shining through every pore. Cast upon him is a sheet of silken, fading light. You breathe, in and then out. How can he be so damn handsome? 

"It's been a while since I have done anything of this sort. I do not wish to overstep." Gale brings his fingers to rest underneath your chin — index and middle, tilting your head ever-so gently towards him. "You'll tell me if it gets to be too much? If I ever do something that you have, erm. A less than savory reaction towards?" 

"Of course," You reply simply, but the simplest of words are all he needs to be put at ease. "Do as you like. I trust you." 

And so, he does. His eyes soften, they remind you of dripping, warm honey. Yet, the palm that begins to glide over your chest, softly caressing, is somehow even warmer. 

You're nearly nose to nose, as Gale touches every curve and dip from your chest to your collarbones, admiring the lovely details. It's tender — analytical, in a way — as though he's studying exactly what forms your shape, so he may never forget. The sound of his breathing, along with your own echoes faintly in your ears. You feel revered, like the statue of some sacred God; and from study or by memory, he will learn to sculpt you. 

"Beautiful," Gale murmurs quietly, "You are made of splendor and stardust." 

Your heart intends to deny those words. You once thought differently, you believed ruin and rot were all to compose you. But if he presumes otherwise, if Gale is the one to insist you're so much greater, there isn't a single part of you left to challenge him. You are beautiful. 

At once, your veins buzz, exhilaration rippling through your system at his voice, his touch. His fingertips trail the length of your shoulder. They teasingly trace downward, only to move back up again, despite the twitch of your thighs and the purse of your lips. 

"That night," He breathes, his hand studying the column of your throat, the curve of your jaw, "Where I created the sky for you, I came right to the precipice of confessing. You were beautiful then. As you always are. I felt this… fondness, dwell within me while I looked at you. I wondered if your lips were as plush as they looked. Gods, I wanted to kiss you. Our enemies should have tore a page from your book. You know better than anyone how to reduce a former chosen to such weakness." 

Those addictive fingertips reach back, tracing up your spine, causing your whole body to tingle. From the smallest of touches, from his touch, you're rife with anticipation. You've wanted and waited so much and so long to feel this. Gale's other hand tightens on your side, reassuring while holding you still, and you wouldn't be surprised if he could tell. If he knew what he was doing to you. 

He's missed you, loved you, with every fiber of his doomed being. Now, fondness is more than within him; it's engulfing him whole. 

He swallows thickly. "It would have been delightful to pull you close. To cast aside my misgivings, and instead have you right then and there. Underneath the shimmering lights, while whispering blades of grass tickled our skin. The sight of you laid out underneath me would have been more exquisite than any flourish I am capable of creating, I'm sure. Or, the sight of you above, perhaps? I didn't mind either which way." 

"Gale." 

You mumble his name, in some cross between a hiss, a pout, and a plea. He catches your eyes with a smile. 

More than you might think, he has you figured out. The look you give him whenever he speaks: warm and soft-eyed, breath hitched, expression blissfully entranced. You've mentioned your not-so subtle weakness for his voice before. You love hearing him talk like this, don't you? 

"You're sweet, but sometimes-" You choke on a gasp, shuddering once his hand is roaming down, down. This time, brushing your stomach, your hip, your thigh. "Sometimes, I really just want you to kiss me." 

Perhaps you could listen to him forever, but he's no fool. Any request of yours he'd be happy to oblige. Especially this one. 

"Come here, then," He says, already closing the distance, "You merely have to ask." 

A hand holding your jaw, Gale pulls you in, his head tilting until you collide in a soft mess of lips and tongue. He blindly finds your thigh, gently pushing them apart; he squeezes your plush flesh, before he kisses you harder. 

Together, when you both pull apart to breathe, he meets your gaze: a question, and permission. You don't look away. Your gasps grow sharper as his touch moves closer, your nerves strung tight, your bottom lip drawn between your teeth. 

The ends of his fingers brush your slick, waiting entrance, and you whine. 

"Oh, you're… Wow," Gale sighs out. You swear with the way he sounds, he's practically in disbelief. He drags the digits up, getting them drenched and filthy in your mess of arousal, his fingertips applying slight pressure when they reach your swollen clit. You tense, swallowing down a whimper. His fingers glisten in the dying light, you watch him very obviously glance down once he drags them away. Pulling them apart, he admires the string of glossy slickness that clings in between them. 

"And I've barely just begun." He looks back to you, breathing the slightest huff, "I knew you- Well, I thought you felt strongly about me. As strongly as I feel about you. If I knew I was capable of doing this to you, of compelling you to be this… desperate, I would have divulged how I felt a great deal sooner." 

Like he's one to talk. Your affections go both ways — He made that clear when he was a stiff mess in his pants, just from you kissing him. 

Your chest heaves with your gasps, but only heaves harder once his touch leaves. His knuckles tense, his hand hovering inches away from you, and he looks over your face with brief apprehension. Right now, you can't have any of it. 

"What do you need?" Gale asks, tone smooth, low. 

"Your… Your fingers-" 

"And you need them where, to be exact? They are capable of bringing a great number of things into fruition. To have them inside of you, filling you- Is that what you're after?"

"Yes," Your voice wobbles to the edge of cracking, and you follow along, forcing yourself to get more specific, "Need them inside. Please, don't make me wait." 

He's never heard you beg before. Never thought you could get so needy, so flushed. For him, you're begging for him. 

During the path of your previous journey, your polite requests of him here and there were more than enough to get him ecstatic. This, though? He thinks he might crave to hear you plead your lovely desires for the rest of his existence. 

The same hand you've watched cast spells drifts back to you, between your legs. Gale's fingers, dexterous as they handle a fragile flicker of light in between them, masterful as they form the shape for another incantation. Delicately holding a thin quill pen, turning the pages of a worn book, crooking up to summon a hidden tome, or a detailed projection — His fingers begin to ease inside you, and all you can do is bite your tongue, and grip the edge of his desk like your life depends on it. 

They feel thicker than they look. You weren't expecting to be so full, even when they aren't entirely in, nor were you thinking he'd go this slowly. With how soaked you are, with how much you've needed him, you know his fingers — ring, and middle — would press inside you so simply, if that's what he was aiming for. They'd slide all the way in, fill you down to his knuckles, until your needy cunt is fluttering around him; you're filthy, and yet, despite the thoughts you have bouncing around in your brain, you hardly feel an ounce of shame. 

Instead though, different from what you were imagining, he takes his time. He savors this, savors you, delighting in your pretty expression, and the delicious moan you let go of as his fingers fill you just half-way. Half-way, not sinking fully in. The damn wizard is teasing you. He's dragging both digits out before they've truly given you what you wanted, leaving you disappointed once they slip away. 

As a small mercy, his fingertips move to circle your clit with the faintest touch. Right then, the entirety of you burns red-hot, impossibly sensitive. It's so much, and not enough at the same time. If he doesn't continue, you think you might cry. 

"I was intending to take things patiently, but I am more than willing to compromise," Gale suddenly murmurs, out of breath, his gasps betraying the levelness he tries to keep to his words. Clearly, this is affecting him just as much as it may be affecting you. His free hand tenses on your waist, and he drawls, "Tell me if it becomes too much. Or if you're in need of more." 

Like clockwork, you don't even wait for him to take another breath in. "More, Gale." 

He chuckles. Actually chuckles, in spite of any nervousness — and when the sound alone makes you shiver, a soft gasp in pleasure leaving your lips, you know you're absolutely done for. 

"Eager little thing." There's enough adoration in his words to devour and get drunk off of, "No matter, I'd already planned to give you everything." 

Your hand on the desk's edge clenches, and as though he knows without the need to see, Gale moves to place his palm over yours. His touch brushes your knuckles, his hand is effortlessly warm. His fingertips press to your waiting entrance; you breathe a sigh of approval, before he's working to slide them back inside you. 

They ease into your warm cunt deeper, nice and easy. As far as they'll go, until you're sufficiently full, with his palm lightly pressing against your pelvis, his knuckles barely grazing you. Gale's expression turns soft, washed over in utter lust. He mumbles the slightest swear under his breath that you almost don't catch, paired with a tender, low, That's it. 

And fuck, you're already struggling to handle this, but to hear him praise you? 

When he'd do so before, you were affected quite the same. He'd give you an earnest Excellent job! whenever you cracked another lock, or a Well done, when you downed a rather difficult foe. It was impossible not to dwell on his words, as ridiculous as you often felt. He would affectionately pat your shoulder, or place a hand on the small of your back when he was especially proud of you. You'd feel a chill run up your spine, just from that. A particularly shameful chill. 

Now though, like this? When his voice is a whole octave lower, and noticeably sultrier; when he's got two of his fingers nestled deep inside you, and his pretty gaze on yours, hair out of place as it gets stuck to his sweaty forehead — Gods help you, if he decides to say anything more. Knowing him, he will. 

He's still smiling while he stares at you, a look that speaks in pure adoration. And no matter how overwhelming, no matter the shivers that surge through your veins at the thought, or the intense pounding of your heart, you want him to speak. He's fucking right, his voice is your weakness. You want to hear all he's longed to tell you, no details spared. 

He's lucky you haven't melted into a puddle by now. Your limbs are weak, you feel like you might have. His poor scrolls. There's no doubt you're making a mess, but puddle-you would have left his desk and its important contents in shambles. 

Gale languidly pumps his fingers into you, in and then out, and your teeth grit at the sloppy noise they create. The pace he sets is slow, true to his earlier word. Ecstasy buds in your core at every draw back, and firm press in. Yet, the devotion, the listlessness to it — You're put on a pedestal right between needing less, and wanting more. It's perfectly agonizing. 

It isn't enough, you need just a sliver more of what he's not providing. But his slow, meticulous movement has you reeling. His thick fingers fuck you methodically, working you up to right where he wants you, and not an inch more. It feels like you might shatter in his arms, his hands, and he would be the one to put you back together. 

"Please," You're murmuring, your back arching, your eyes deep and hazy, utterly enchanting, "I need you- need you not to stop, fucking please." 

You make his focus shift in a mere instant. Holding onto you tighter, his fingers curl on the next press in, nudging oh-so perfectly against where you're oh-so sensitive. You're a mess, but he loves it; he relishes in admiring this lovely, desperate side to you. You practically cry out, your body tensing beneath his touch, your eyes screwing shut. And Gale, ever attentive, perpetually ambitious, crooks his dexterous fingers inside you again in a draw for more, until you're a gasping, trembling mess.

"You sound wonderful. Just perfect. Believe me, I want to stop as much as you may want to. Which, with regards to your greedy form of begging, would surely be not at all," Gale whispers, in a delicate hum. His words fill your head like clouds. "I have waited too long for this. I have wanted you far too greatly to stop now, and I do not plan to." 

You have his fingers soaked, his palm and his wrist filthy, practically dripping with your messy arousal. Between stifled whines and struggles for air, you utter his name. He falters for a moment. Ignoring his slacks growing tight and uncomfortable around him, he takes in an overly controlled breath. 

"Don't try to silence yourself," He says, "I want to hear everything." 

Your thighs quiver. They threaten to close around his arm, while precise fingers bully your sweet spot; you couldn't hold your moans for him back, not even if you were trying to. 

You toss your head back with a whine, loud and unabashed, and Gale offers your hand a gentle squeeze. His breathing is sharp, loud enough to hear, to feel as a fan of warmth against your chest and neck. The heat between you builds to something unbearable. Each thrust of his fingers is relentless: they draw gasps from you that echo in the walls of his study, your lungs aching raw. You are wet and warm and impossibly soft around both digits, you'll feel much softer and wetter around him. And you're simply stunning, from the top of your head, to the ends of your toes. Gorgeous, in a way he'll try his damndest to deserve. 

To hold you until the stars give out, to never have to let you go would be a dream made real. 

Engrossed in giving you what you need, he admires the softness present on your features when you prop yourself back up. Your chest heaves, your bottom lip trembling. He's been so focused on you, he hardly notices you've already shifted. 

You reach forward, your arm is shaky, faint gasps still slipping past your lips as his fingers massage that addictive spot deep within you. Your palm presses to his chest. Only then does he realize how quick his heart's been beating, and how strongly you've been affecting him. 

If you were a drug, or a form of charming magic perhaps, you'd be the most potent there is. Your hand glides down, gaze stuck on his — gazes locked on each other — and he lets you. He lets you move your palm down to a near dangerous degree; he shifts forward and closer, in fact, to simplify your reach. 

Impulsive, you allow your palm to travel between his legs before you've given it a second thought. You feel the firm outline of his cock, shamelessly tenting his pants, and Gale's brows pinch. He shudders, sighing softly, but he doesn't hold back from leaning into your touch. A small movement has his clothed length grinding against your palm; pure, exquisite friction. Fortunately, swarmed by your own desperations, you are wasting no time giving him more. 

For the first time since he began, or maybe for the first time ever, Gale's resolve crumbles. Your hand slips into his pants, wrapping around his hard, silky length, and he groans, the sound sweet enough to incite a heady pulse between your legs. He braces his free hand on the desk to keep steady, and his pace turns frantic as his head dips, strands of hair in his face, his fingers clumsily pistoning into you. 

He's warm in your palm, slick with dripping precum that dirties the smooth fabric of his briefs; so distinctly heavy, you start to feel dizzy, overwhelmed by a rush of blood to your head. 

"Shit," Gale swears under his breath when you grip him, then pump him, his eyelids heavy like he's woozy. Your reaction is immediate and visceral, pleasure blazing in your core, your chest heaving with quickened whines. 

His jaw clenches instinctually, your palm hurriedly swiping over his sensitive, weeping tip. It sends flurries of pleasure over him, and makes every touch much slicker, much wetter. The damp squelch made by the twists of your hand is nearly as filthy as the echo of his fingers plunging into you. 

He chokes on a moan, and he hurriedly murmurs, "Your touch is… It is unlike anything I have ever felt before, it's- oh- indescribable…" 

You're panting, your hand slowing down, the fragility and newfound pitch to his voice pooling heat in your gut, "Should I stop?" 

"No, for the love of every God still left watching over us," Gale reaches up, shakily tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingertips brush your skin with potent electricity, before he sets his palm back down on the desk, close enough to have your thumbs touch. "Absolutely do not stop." 

There's conviction in his voice; it makes your heart pound, and subsequently tremble. 

The way you stroke him is messy and quick, frantic to make up for the lack of space the confines of his slacks provide. Your brain is scrambled from his voice, his fingers: easing inside you, and then crooking, punching whines from you each time they perfectly nudge your sweet spot. You feel known, loved, as he studies what you need — to give it to you here, and countless times over. 

Between your sins and his, the room is drowned in the echoes of gasps, whines. In wet noises that sound disgustingly lewd when they reach your ears, sending sparks twisting up your back. Gale falls forward, his forehead rests softly against yours. He finds the curve of your waist, gripping you tight; a touch that brands, that makes you pliable. His warm hand on your bare skin is a wave of molten comfort, washing deep into your bones. 

"Back then," You mumble breathlessly, beginning a tangent of your own, "I wanted so badly to tell you how I felt. I w-wanted, needed you, I would have given up anything to be close to you. I thought of… of trying to stay quiet in your little tent, trying to make sure no-one else would hear us. You'd whisper in my ear that we have to be quiet, and cover my mouth with your palm while you rocked into me…" 

Gale stutters. He throbs, underneath your touch, and lets go of a long, shaking breath. He rolls his hips into your grip just barely, chasing another ray of pleasure. 

"Even a rudimentary spell could've… hah, solved that problem easily," He grits out, the bridge of his nose in a focused knot, "But I'm glad we weren't so hasty. This moment we have now, it is kept solely to ourselves. If we-" A groan, a sigh, "Had to account for unnecessary company, I would never have known how lovely you sound when you're pleading my name."  

"Fuck- Gale…" 

You moan in unison, syncing your breathing and the skip of your heartbeats. In the midst of your own pulse in your ears — your head swirling, drunk on him — you are freeing his cock from his slacks, making him inhale a hiss as the room's cold air hits his length. Your palm strokes all of him, from base to head: tenderly, slowly, agonizingly. He trembles, and his thumb brushes your clit while his fingers stay sheathed inside. Desire takes over what remains of you, as though his touch itself is made from magic. 

"I wanted to- I-" It's difficult to talk now; his thumb rubs slow circles onto your sensitive clit, and tension grips you tight, taut as deep in your core as his fingers reach. "I wanted to kiss you, feel you, taste you. Sometimes, I wished we could just forget everything and- Oh, Gods, I needed you, Gale. I knew I was foolish and greedy, but I couldn't lose you. I didn't want anything to ever happen to you, I love you. Just you, just as you are." 

Just as you are. 

More than anything he's once known, stronger than everything he's ever felt, those words send him spiraling into a hopeless, tender oblivion. 

You won't have to fear losing him. Not ever again. 

Despite the slight parting of his lips, he can't say anything more; he can only exhale in warm, heady pleasure, and sway forward to collapse into you. Your palm, working over his cock with soft, steady strokes, has him hurtling close to the edge with no reprieve in sight. His forehead leans into the curve of your nape, breath hot on your skin, and he can barely manage to think, let alone control the unsteady pace of his fingers; fucking into you desperately and clumsily, sending pleasure spiraling through your system. 

But your voice — Chiming in his ears, echoing with the earnestness of bells, you bring every devoted component of his attention right back to you. 

"Please," You beg, your tone quiet, on the verge of shattering like glass. Gale moves his palm to hold the small of your back as a slight comforting gesture, a silent reminder that he has you, and you feel the petals of your heart unfurl, and unwind. 

"I'm right there," You're gasping, "I'm- ah, please…" 

He can't contain himself, sweat beading at his chest and forehead as he sloppily thrusts into your now-loose grip. Every slow, choppy buck of his hips leaves him more overwhelmed. You have your head tipped back, as you jerk him off hurriedly, choking on your own moans. Euphoric flames lap at your gut, your limbs — Gale peppers your nape in haphazard kisses, and all it takes is one more touch, three more words. 

"I love you," His murmur rolls in vibrations against your kiss-sensitive nape; you melt, your back slumps. There's an intensity to his tone, a thickness to his accent and a slur between the syllables. You nearly drown him out with your own chants of his name. 

"My sweetheart," He falters, "My love- You feel perfect, and I- I'm so close- I've got you, let go, let go with me-" 

You flutter around his fingers, and he stammers with words left unsaid, murmuring faint recitations of your name as you both reach the crescendo. Frantic jerks of your palm and feverish swipes of his thumb on your clit, his touch palpable with so much love you can practically feel it — and you're slamming over the edge together. 

Gale's breathing comes from weary, bruised lungs. You feel him twitch, then pulse, and messes of moans and gasps resound onto your neck as he spills into your hand. The mess drips over your palm, coating your fingers. Your heart pounds against your chest like a drum, and the pleasant disaster of your release washes over your body — making you tense and cry out, your legs quivering as you cum for him — before setting you down, shakily and slowly. 

You can hardly think by the end of it. The aftershocks that grip you are unlike anything you've ever felt before. Finding your high while thinking of him pales in comparison to cumming for him, on his fingers. 

Neither you, nor him can speak. When Gale finally pulls apart from you, dragging his fingers from your warmth and stumbling to his feet, what makes up your tangled thoughts is still very much fuzzy. You're both panting hard; him, more than you are, perhaps. Your thighs are tense and sore, you have to force them to relax to ease some of the strain. 

Through heavy eyelids, you watch him run a palm over his face. He massages his temple, and lets go of a deep, weighted breath. The way he looks at you then, gaze settled on yours, could be enough to entrance you, all on its own. 

"Beautiful." He hums simply. His voice is still rough at the edges, quiet and strained. You aren't sure if it's a description, or a term of endearment; maybe both, you figure, so you can enjoy a taste of each. 

He reaches up to hold your jaw, his touch ever soft. You're lost for a moment. You catch your breath along with him, and feel what remains of the world around you fade away. 

"I believe I was meant to love you," He says, so earnest, his faith itself makes you shake. "You are an irrevocable destiny. My destiny." 

You offer him a smile that roots into him from the inside-out. And when he drifts forwards to kiss you at last, pulled in your direction like a fish on a line — Your lips press to his, and in his chest, arises a glow. 

This shared kiss is long, deep, and effortless. It is a waltz you both know how to follow, and yet, you lose your footing just the same. He pulls you close with an arm around your back, and you curl into his familiar touch. In turn, you clutch him tighter, kiss him harder, with your palm on his shoulder and a hand tangled in messy locks of brown hair. 

You both breathe a sigh once you've slowly pulled apart. Gale holds your chin, and speaks softly, the words akin to a secret prayer. 

"I am yours. Now, and for the eternities of lifetimes that might await us after this one." His expression deepens, and his thumb brushes your lips, carefully but simply, "I truly do love you." 

I love you. Those words still feel as soft as they are strange. They're all you've ever wanted though, natural on the tongue, despite how unrelentingly they shake you. 

Perhaps you really were meant for this, just as he believes. In this life, and in the lifetimes to follow, you will find and embrace one another. 

Standing up straight, he stretches, fixing his slacks before rolling his shoulders back. Your gaze flickers over his shape, and then down. Tenderness makes way to bristles of embarrassment, and it's hard to continue biting your tongue. Between the both of you, you've made quite the mess. Reminders of what transpired hit you like a bucket of bricks. Your heartbeat particularly spikes at the droplets of milky white that dirty the desk's smooth surface, and the flesh of your thighs. 

Gale seems to notice your staring. 

"Apologies," He clears his throat so loud the sound practically bounces around the room. His tone carries a weight of lightheartedness, and you can't explain how nice it is to hear. It lightens the load on your own shoulders, in some way. "I did not suspect I was… so pent-up. Are you alright?" 

"I'm alright," You resound, inhaling slowly, and feeling the buzz in your chest begin to settle as a result. "I feel great, honestly. How about you? Tired yet?" 

"Oh, I am anything but. Feels like I pissed off some impudent mage, and as punishment they set my nerves aflame," Gale shakes out his sweaty palms, then idly flexes his fingers, "Not any sort of punishment I've ever heard of, but I would certainly commend their creativity. It will take more than that to tire me out, I assure you. Unless you, yourself are tired, of course. In which case, I would be glad to assist in your relaxation." 

"Thank you, but there's no need. I'm not tired yet either." You shuffle closer so you can wrap your arms around him, and your hand promptly tangles in his hair, while the other brushes the back of his neck, fingertips tracing down to the space between his shoulder blades. You swear you feel him shiver. "C'mere. I haven't had near enough of you." 

"Is that so?" Gale smiles. He closes the fraction of distance between you, and steadies a hand on your jaw. "I'm pleased to say the feeling is mutual." 

This time, the kiss he plants to your lips reminds you of falling. Falling, with no worry of hitting the ground. Just infinitely drifting through a cloudless sky, while you helplessly listen to the race of your pulse in your eardrums. And as quickly as he sends you careening towards the earth, he's grounding you, with a kiss to your throat that sets your senses alight. 

His lips hover there for longer than they need to, breathing warmth onto your neck, until you reward his efforts with the sweetest of sighs. Then, his mouth trails kisses from your collarbone to your shoulder. His hand holds your side when you sway, helping to keep you steady. 

It's as though your soul is helplessly detached from your own body. The growing shadows in his quaint study envelop your vision, and cradle you in their looming embrace. You imagine the pale moon, the shimmering stars, soon to bathe you in their faint light. But for now, it's just the two of you, pleasantly alone, in the center of his universe. Truthfully, your soul is bound to him. Gale's hands, and beating heart. 

Warmly, he mutters against your shoulder, a squeeze of your side blended with slightly muffled words, "Are you comfortable?" 

"Mhmm," You nod, and you tilt your head opposite as he moves to press kisses to the other side of your nape, "We can move- If that's what you want." 

"What I want is to have you wherever it is you prefer." Placing a final small kiss to the side of your neck, he then pulls back, meeting your pretty gaze with an expression that sparkles. "My bedroom is always an option. Traditional, yes, but surely comfortable. Continuing here would be most pleasant as well. Most exciting. The choice is left up to you, although," He breathes a slight laugh, "I suppose I may picture this the next few times I am sitting here working. Might pose a slight problem to my future productivity." 

You huff, half-rolling your eyes. You playfully squeeze his shoulders, teasing palms caressing his warm skin, "In that case, I want you nowhere else but here." 

Gale smirks, his expression enveloped in unmistakable tenderness, but this time, he holds his tongue. He grasps your wrists, and when your palms follow his lead to slip from his shoulders, he is taking your hands into his. He's shifting, kneeling, sinking down in front of you until your heart is left a shaken and stuck mess inside your throat. 

"Look at me." 

Oh. You didn't notice you were starting to glance away, avoiding his eyes while you attempt to ignore the warmth burning over your face. You tear one of your hands away from his to grip the edge of the desk, steadying yourself. Hesitantly, your gaze flickers back to his own — just in time to watch Gale press a kiss to your knuckles. 

He looks at you as though you are devastation, devotion, in the softest, mortal form. Twilight shimmers in the details of his silhouette: the features of his face, the silver in his hair, and his shiny, metal earring. You once thought the symbol hanging from his ear to be some solemn, self-imposed reminder. Instead, you've grown to realize it is spite, pure and fierce. Because after everything, he is still tenderly, maddeningly alive. 

"You will not lose me, not ever, not for a moment," He says gently, squeezing your hand, resoluteness in the back of his gaze. "I promise you. I want for nothing, when you are at my side. Nothing but the privilege of seeing you smile, which I will try my very hardest to earn. No matter what we may face, perils or strife, anything that is left to try and stand in our way, we will brave it- We will defy it. And we will do so together. Just as we once did." 

Gale allows his thumb to brush over your knuckles before he lets your hand go. You eye him silently, awestricken, your chest tight and your mouth useless. Perhaps it is your silence that prompts him to gaze at you smugly, place his palms on your thighs, and shift closer until his head is inches away from dipping between your legs. 

"Now, let me have you." Voice low, he breathes the words loud enough for only you to hear, "Let me cherish you, as I have always longed to, and as you have always deserved." 

So foolish. He does have you, he has held every part of you from the moment you and him collided. 

You take a breath, deep and slow. "Then have me." 

Reaching forward, you knot a hand in his hair as encouragement. Gale holds your waist, smirking slightly, and he waits, lingering, or perhaps teasing you. When your fingers tighten on his hair and you let go of a quickened, impatient huff, the desperate look on your face causing his heart to skip, only then does he finally move. He leans close, pressing a kiss to your stomach that brims with tingling electricity. 

"Gale-" And you sigh, you melt, "I love you, I love you so much-" 

His brows knot, softness in his expression, and he begins to adore your skin with his lips. He plants messy kisses from your navel, down. When he moves from your hips to your legs, tenderness turns to hunger. His kisses are warmer, blessed onto your inner thighs as he leaves faint bites, along with soft brushes of the tongue; not enough to mark, just enough to feel. Enough to make you tremble at the subtle nip of teeth, and shake from the heat of his steady breaths on your skin. 

Both palms find your thighs to gently coax them apart. Nervousness prickles up your spine, heightened by the warmth in your gut, and by the heaviness in Gale's eyes as he looks up at you. But when he leans close, at the first swipe of his tongue over your waiting cunt — Everything melts away to nothing but sharp, pure pleasure. 

Your fingers grip his hair so tight you think you might yank some strands out. You're panting, and he isn't stopping; each little lap of his tongue makes you shake, already a whining mess, echoing the sweetest noises for him. You only make him want to hear more. 

He wants you crying happy tears for him, wants you to forget your hardships as you fall to pieces on his mouth; but for now, he'll have patience. Slight, teasing flicks of his tongue are enough to start with. Judging by the intensity of your grip on his hair, and the way your chest heaves from the force of loud, labored breathing, he isn't sure you can handle much more, despite how terribly you make him want to give it to you. You deserve all you could ever need. 

You deserve to be happy, safe, loved. He won't let you be marked by more scars. You're precious to him, more precious than anything he has once held, and simultaneously, you are damn near impossible to resist. 

From between both your thighs, he can't tear his gaze away from you above him: your pretty face, consumed by ecstasy and impatience. You, on the other hand, can barely take the way he looks at you with such tenderness, and yet, confidence. Like he knows exactly what he's doing to you. 

Gale swipes the flat length of his tongue over your entrance, then flicks the tip against your clit, and the moan you let fall from your lips captivates the entirety of his muddled mind. He huffs something of a laugh, and pulls back to give you a small chance to breathe. 

"Remarkably sweet, and ravishingly sensitive." The sultry hum to his tone settles a decadent sensation between your ribs: pleasure, and an encompassing anticipation. His lips are already wet and glistening. "You were just meant to be devoured." 

Your heart shudders, and your breath hitches. Gale grips you by your sides, his gentle touch smoothing over your skin. His hair in his face is a mess you've made. You shakily push the strands back, and as your fingers brush close to his scalp, the only signs he's affected are the shuddery inhale he takes, and the devotion that shines in the back of his pupils. 

"Spread your legs apart a little further, for me," He mumbles. When you oblige, he hums the smallest form of praise, the faintest, Very good. Then, his mouth is giving you no room for respite. 

You whimper, watching his honeyed gaze on yours go soft, before his eyes flutter shut. His hands on your sides grip you tighter, and with swipes of his tongue, he thoroughly tastes your entrance. He was right; you are sensitive. Especially when he buries his face in your cunt, every sickeningly slow lap of his tongue feeling charged, ripe with exhilarating arousal. 

When you tense, panting harder with a swallow, he squeezes your side, and he stops. He huffs in short breaths centimeters away from you. Your shoulders slowly go slack. You press both hands to the edge of the desk and hold on tight, trying to remain steady. He only dives in again once your sighs have settled, and this time, he's licking, then sucking. The sound is sloppy, terribly lewd, as he presses his lips to you and sucks softly on your clit. Infatuation surges through your veins so fast, you begin to feel yourself go numb. 

He licks a steady stripe, groaning quietly. His facial hair scratches the inside of your thighs with such bitter sweetness. He's moving one palm down to your thigh, caressing before lifting. Your leg settles comfortably onto his shoulder, and he's pressing closer, he's ever-so carefully easing his tongue inside you. It's warm, meticulous; the attention there, the sensation of being so barely filled, stretched around the end of his tongue — It makes your head spin with ferocity. 

Those sensations melt to expectancy, to a dwindling heat as he draws back; for only a moment, thankfully. He swallows, his words muffled when he mutters against your eager cunt, "You taste divine." 

On his tongue, he's sure you're the sweetest thing he's ever known. Saccharine like the stars, akin to the smooth velvet wine he remembers sampling in Calimshan. But perhaps, it's even sweeter to have you like this, to know he's the only one who can do this to you. Your limbs are trembling for him. It's his tongue you're a mess on, his voice and his touch to make you this way. 

He should never have doubted himself. If he could rewind the clock just once, it wouldn't be to change past wrongs, nor would it be to rid his chest from the orb, or abandon it entirely. He would have gone without meeting you then, still just a reckless wizard in the cold palm of his Goddesses hand. 

Rather, he would go back and tell you how he felt, he'd tell you everything — He'd have you accompany him to Waterdeep well before his proposition at your reunion, and he wouldn't have held back the words on his tongue. He doesn't want to leave you, he loves you; he'd watch your expression change, your hands squeezing his when he grabs them tight. And he knows he would kiss you right then, in the same way he already has. 

I've fallen for you he was waiting to whisper, when this universe seemed to contain just the two of you. He wanted to kiss you so softly when you smiled at him during your late-night talks, closing the inches of distance between you to feel your smile on his lips instead. He'd kiss you so desperately when you found yourselves on the edge of death, both hands cupping your cheeks, thumbs smearing blood onto your skin, because even then, all he could fathom was how deeply he adored you. 

As long as he kept you safe, he didn't need more. He no longer wished for godhood. He could greet the end with no regret — but to have lived, to be able to persist in this life at your side means the world itself to him. 

It will take a long while to make up for lost time. Though maybe, he can start here. His mouth can do more than recite poems and confessions. Much more. 

In demonstration, Gale leans into you. He relishes in the way you shake under his hold, once the practiced end of his tongue flicks against your swollen clit. He has to hold you steady, gripping tight while he kisses your clit, your thighs, and then devours you with sloppy kisses to your cunt: open-mouthed, a mess of soft sucks and rich groans into you. His lips brush every sensitive inch, shaping you as you dissolve to pliancy, like soft clay in his careful hands. 

"Feels good-" You try to mumble, biting the words; you've never felt anything this addicting. Your voice carries a noticeable shake, one you just can't swallow down, "Feels so fucking good…" 

"Not good enough to render you speechless," Gale hums against you, lust weaving through his tone. You'd almost think he was talking to himself, if it wasn't for the way he briefly looks at you, eyelids heavy, pupils blown-out. "Suppose I ought to continue." 

His mouth lavishes your cunt once more, firm sucks on your clit paired with swipes of his tongue that gently tease your needy entrance — You grip the desk tight, moving your hand to grab a fistful of his hair instead. You bite down so hard on your lip you think it might bleed. 

You can't focus, you feel weightless, his words won't leave you as much as his mouth continues to devour you. His sultry voice, his soft expressions of love; how long has he waited for this? How fiercely has he wanted you, wanted to tell you the fondness he kept captive inside? How long has he imagined pleasuring you on his tongue, until all you can manage to plead is his name? 

For longer than you were first picturing, surely. There's desperation to the new pace he's set, a wild yearning, as Gale allows his composure to slip and pleasures you with every single breath. His palm runs over the warm underside of your thigh when it twitches on his shoulder. He's relentless, even when you grip his hair so tightly it must hurt, whimpering for him and his mouth in unintelligible murmurs. 

He gives you more without the need for you to ask. He's moaning into you in turn, his tongue pressing in to taste you. And your taste is electrifying. The whine you give him is one he wishes to memorize. He feels he may yearn for this — to taste you, to have you — until the universe converges to a collapse, with all Nine Hells finally frozen over. 

Speechless, that's how he wants you, and if he continues like this, he might make good on such an objective. Ironic. For as much as he's spoken, you're the one asked to stay voiceless. You doubt he truly wants you quiet. Every moan you make at the lap of his tongue, or the brush of his lips, draws a staggered sigh from him in response. 

At least, considering how much the bastard spends talking, of course he's good with his mouth. 

He mumbles something inaudible against you, a mess where your name is the only thing you make out. His voice echoes in vibrations right onto your clit, and you're gasping, your thighs trembling. They practically close around his head, but he pushes them back apart to make room; his one hand on your thigh, the other on your waist. 

The moment you've relaxed, legs spread wide for him, he's grabbing your sides so tight it makes you go stiff in surprise. He's pulling you in, he's giving you more of his mouth, and you're rocking. You're grinding onto his tongue without forethought, focused only on the bliss that rips through your body and intensifies in your core. 

You barely catch the way his eyes flutter when you roll into him. He begins to guide your movements with his grip on your waist, pulling you closer while twirling his tongue, allowing you to use his mouth as you desire. 

And you do. You fuck yourself on his mouth and tongue between his hurried kisses, his muffled groans muttered against you. Until your high is frantically splintering towards you, your fingers flexing in his hair, your throat sore and muscles even tenser. 

"Gale," You can't get out anything but his name, lungs overtaken by gasps, the edge of your voice sore from cries of pleasure, "I-" 

You don't tell him you're there. You couldn't manage the words, but with the way he hums in approval against you, squeezing your waist in silent persuasion, his tongue focusing on your clit with tender precision — You suspect he knows, and he wants, needs you to cum for him. With your heart beating fast in your chest and your ears, the rope snaps, and you're cumming on his mouth, while his name is a stuttered mantra on your lips. 

Your thighs can't help but tense, brushing his face and smothering him; you pulse on his tongue, your grinds against him growing erratic, desperate. Everything in your body is swallowed by rocky waves, a sense of pleasure in your chest and your head and your core imploding with blistering heat. Your voice breaks. You only settle when you've fully succumbed, drowning in the aftershocks. 

After your eyes have slowly opened, and your fuzzy vision has returned, you notice you're not the only one struggling to breathe. You feel it first: the brief tickle of his warm breath on your thighs, his lips barely brushing against your skin. You hear him exhale, long but shaky: a perfectly enticing sound. 

Gale pulls apart from you while he huffs, he wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His face is flushed, lips parted, chest heaving. But fuck, he's smiling, grinning like you've never seen before, earnestly and so in love. Your heartbeat practically skips. 

You shouldn't be surprised that the first thing he does upon rising to unsteady feet is brace a hand on the desk, grasp your chin between his fingers, and kiss you. Your shoulders slump, and as you're kissing him back, you're breathing a soft exhale into his mouth. He drags you in as close as he can get you, leaving you practically smushed against his chest. Still, your heart begins to sing. Familiar feelings burn to life once more as his mouth parts, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue. 

When you separate, it's agonizingly slowly. It's just enough for him to gaze into your eyes, to see you melt, simply from the way he looks at you. Together, you remain deadlocked for a moment, catching your breath without a word. His warm eyes and soft lips are effortlessly enticing; it takes every ounce of your remaining strength to resist kissing him again, surely crumbling the composure you've worked so hard to restore. He drifts back, a complacent look on his face. His fingers stay delicately grasping your chin. 

You're going to break the silence before he can, and you'll get straight to the point. 

"I need-" You swallow, resisting the urge to glance away from him no matter how flustered you've become. He can have your composure, he can have every damn part of you — "I need more. I need you. Please." 

Gale's spine tingles with an almost-shudder. He can't resist guiding you forward by your jaw, until his lips are able to kiss the top of your head. A kiss that drips with meaningful, aching adoration. Your heart stirs, and you let go of the breath you were holding. 

"Dearest," He coos quietly, a tender edge to his voice, like a knife that twists and caresses your ribs, "You will be given all you need. Perhaps even more." 

His fingertips skate your shoulders, before his palm presses to your chest. He kisses your cheek, and against your ear, he gives the faintest muttered instruction: Lay back. You were already doing so before the command, but his words lead you to follow the slight push of his palm, until you're settling with your back hitting the desk. 

The hardwood is cool against your skin, and he shoves some books aside to give you space to rest your head. He's leaning down with you, pressing a final kiss to your nape once you're stable. As Gale pulls back, coming into view above you, heat surges through your veins. Your nerves thrum with something more than love. Something more like sanctity. 

Sweat coats both your bodies in a glimmering sheen. Gale's hair is out of place, shadows flicker over his features but pay special attention to the grooved, dark scar on his chest. The sun has long since finished its descent, the last flecks of light vanishing to nothingness. You don't notice how dark it has truly become until Gale provides a solution with words under his breath, and a snap of his fingers. 

Effortlessly, light dances in your vision, the candles that decorate his study coming to life. His lips twitch into a smirk. His hand finds your side, feeling your shape. 

It's just the two of you, now and hopefully always, in his favorite corner of the world. On his damn desk, to make matters more tantalizing. The same desk he'd spend hours alone at, reading or planning lessons, trying not to let his mind wander to you instead. And you, speaking of. You, bathed in faint light, sprawled out beneath him like poetry on a page — Without a doubt, you are gorgeous. To the point of addiction. 

"There you are," He murmurs at last, while his thumb draws circles on your side. The lighting is still dim and moody, but this feels as though it is the first time he's truly been able to see you. To see all of you. He drinks you in, admiring your shape, your marks, your scars. The details that define you, everything he loves. 

He allows his gaze to drag down, and then up, back to your eyes. You're shuffling out of nervousness, but his warm touch on your skin encourages you to relax. 

"Beautiful, aren't you? Each time I look at you, I feel my love burn ever brighter. You are the sun. A warm, incandescent sun. Most worthy of worship. Basking in the heat of my affections, I would gladly allow you to reduce me to cinders." Reaching out to you, Gale's fingers brush your cheek, before he stops. He suddenly lets go of a sigh so heavy it makes his shoulders turn slack. "My apologies. I'm chattering on again. Such a habit is proving challenging to break." 

"Don't apologize," You counter, and you bring your hand to his own. Your fingertips brush his, you press his palm to your cheek and keep it there. The soft smile you flash him begs to be lost in. "If you haven't noticed, I quite like hearing your voice. You're sweet. And you always have the sweetest things to say." 

Gale grins, "Do I? Hm, I'd hate to have to call you mistaken, especially after the kindness you've imparted to me. But I believe you're the sweet one. In a multitude of ways, for that matter. I would certainly know." 

He only smiles wider when you pout, before playfully pushing at his shoulder. As you lean backward once more, getting comfortable, he is quick to close the distance in between you. 

Your arms sprawl above your head, wrists crossed over; as much as they can manage, anyways, accounting for the limited space his desk provides. Your elbows knock against carefully placed stacks of books, legs hanging over the desk's edge. Cool air fills and settles in your lungs, and he moves closer, a knee between your thighs, a hand pressed to the desk to rest himself over you. Throat dry, you swallow thickly. 

"But your thirst has not yet been quenched, now has it?" He murmurs, eyes narrowed, his voice noticeably lower than before. The palm he's kept to your cheek holds you delicately, and his thumb just barely brushes your plush bottom lip. 

"With you as delightful as you are," Gale is continuing, "To claim you deserve everything I could offer would be… plainer than insisting the midday sky to be blue, so to speak. I am eager to satisfy you, to give you the adoration you have most definitely warranted. I'd like to make this as pleasant as it will inevitably be unforgettable." He tilts your head towards him slightly, and you feel choked by breathlessness. "I could never express the whole of my love for you. But allow me to try." 

Your hands clam up, balling into sweaty fists as you try to maintain your gaze on his. Candle flames waver in the background of your vision, flickering to their own tune. His eyes travel from yours, to your lips, and back up again. 

"I love you," You whisper, because it's all you can think of, devotion is the only force running rampant in your mind, "I truly, earnestly do. We have time. We have nothing to fear anymore. You can take me in every way you wish. I'm yours, I always have been." 

Gale's brows pinch in thought, and his gaze brims with tenderness. "Then let us make up for the time we have lost." 

His palm moves. From your cheek, his touch patiently drifts to tickle the side of your neck. Your shoulder next, and you shudder when you feel his knuckles brush your chest. His touch is home, familiar and grounding, dragging the ruin from within you amid each subtle stroke. In the same instant, your heart is heavy, and set ablaze. 

"We can drown in each other. There is nothing I have wished for more, not a soul I have wanted greater than you." Gale divulges, "I've dreamt of this. Of making love to you, as we breathe one another's names. Of hearing you confess precisely what you've just told me, that you are mine." 

He inhales slowly, shakily. His palm gently feels your stomach, your hip, the curve of your side, while his resolute gaze never departs from your own — "I love you. You deserve perfection. And although I cannot promise such a thing, I swear to give you all of me." 

Gale watches your expression start to soften; reminiscent of the same sun he has always seen in you, when it first dawns from the steady, sea-bound horizon. You shift, your legs repositioning to either side of his waist, caging him in. You're smiling, and he keeps his eyes on your hazy form. 

"I don't need perfection," You answer simply, earnestly. "I just need you." 

You. 

There's so much hidden in such a short and basic word. I need you. You've longed for more than just to stand at his side as an ally, an assistant, a friend. Now, he can see that. How foolish he was to ever believe otherwise. At last, with no more perils to stand in your way, you're together. You have time. Your hearts can finally indulge in the magnetism they have to each other, no longer ruled by uncertainty. 

Without hesitation, you need him — as you have since the start, and for all that he is. 

For his softness, his intelligence, for the change in his voice when he's rambling about something he enjoys, and for the way he looks at you when he thinks you aren't paying attention. You found yourself wishing he knew. You've grown entranced with every part of him, including flaws coalesced with ambition, regardless of your possible destruction. Falling for him was natural. Mistakes and magic and mortality in all. 

Perhaps there is time to be made up for. But falling in love, entwining your fates together until they were at last pulled back as one, was purely inevitable. 

Gale exhales. He runs his fingers through his hair, his shoulders taut, hoping to relieve some of the tension. It only helps marginally. Both hands then maneuver to grip your waist. His thumbs brush your hips, the faintest touch alighting your skin in goosebumps. 

"You are… Gods, you fill me with such potent emotions, you know?" He murmurs; your arms are locking around his shoulders, keeping him close, and as he notices the heaviness to your eyes, his breath slowly grows more ragged, "I have always loved you, I've wanted this so terribly. And yet, now that it's happening, now that you are here, and not a lifetime apart like we both once were, I don't- I cannot think. My mind refuses to allow it." 

His hands tense on your waist, his brows furrowing, fingertips pressing ever-so forcefully into your skin. When you smile in response, and drag him in to interrupt with a tender, long kiss to his lips — this time, while eyes flutter shut in unison, heads tilting, a soft groan uttered against your mouth — thinking is left to become irrelevant. 

The focused expression he was wearing melts to a warm grin once you've pulled apart from him, exhaling heated breaths against his lips. His gaze on yours glints with affection, and his mind is a beautiful mess: thoughts not finding a beginning, nor an end. Smoothly and softly, Gale cups your cheek, and as you lean into his touch, the rest of his head weakens with blooms of love. 

For you, he has always been weak. You could best him, you could threaten to destroy him. You could pull him apart at the seams with tender, blood-soaked hands, and as long as you kissed him while cleaving his heart out, he would unravel for you with a smile. 

He murmurs quietly, "So I won't. I will cast any and all thoughts of mine to the wind. Doubt has long since had its fill of me, I refuse to provide it with more satisfaction. I've never loved anyone as intensely as I love you. Nothing could sate me as you do. With fate now ours to command… I hope I won't be made to let go of you." 

"Don't, don't ever let go of me," You answer, your tone a gentle coo, your hands tensed on his shoulders, "And don't you dare pull away." 

Gale laughs, huffing slightly. Then, he surges forward, along with pulling you in, until his lips are crashing like lulling waves against your own. 

You kiss, again and again, pressed together with purpose, burning with intensity. Blindly, his grip finds your wrist when your hands slip from his shoulders. An arm falls beside you, and he adjusts the other. Fingertips drift over your palm, he presses your hand beside your head, and he laces his fingers with your own. His hand and yours fit together like lock and key; naturally, just as he'd described. Your heart must resist the desire to never let go. 

As he slowly drags apart from your lips, he's moving to kiss your jaw, your neck. Warm, soft kisses, his tongue lightly tasting your skin, guiding you to curl into him. The slightest attention has a way of feeling so intoxicating, whenever he is the one to provide it. 

Anticipation envelops you. Desire links between him and yourself, and settles deep in the pit of your stomach. It gnaws at you, wanting more, wanting what you've needed since you first found each other. His touch is so irresistible because you've been waiting to feel it. You've dreamt and imagined, hoped and fought so you both could survive, and now, he is finally yours. 

"What do you need from me?" Gale hums into your nape, his palm caressing your side while he squeezes your hand. Sultry voice muffled, his messy hair tickles your skin, and his lips brush your collarbone. "I want to hear your voice speak the words." 

So, you answer. You let his voice wrap around you, his kisses to your neck embrace you, and allow yourself to melt underneath the weight of your longing. 

"I need you," You stammer into the open air, your grip on his hand growing tight. When he hums against your throat, faint kisses twisted with heady vibrations, you know what he wants, and you'll give him much more than that: "Fuck me, please…" 

The brazenness to your own words makes your head pool with poignant visions, daydreams of Gale pinning you to his desk and taking you like you've both been craving; a hand in yours, his thumb in your mouth. Slowly, intensely, amidst hitches of breath and skin against skin. With a tenderness so acute and raw, that the press of him inside you would be divine enough to make the Gods take notice. 

Some senseless part of you almost hopes they do. 

A terribly soft kiss is placed on your cheek, and you're shivering, listening to his breath pick up and his sighs get heavier. Your ankles are locking around him, they're pulling him closer. Now, he's moving, he kisses your lips fervently as your hand grips his, and your free palm settles onto the center of his chest; as it has done many times before, as though it was meant to be there. His heart pounds, his hips shove into yours. The stiff weight of his length, confined in his slacks, grinds between your legs — and you give up on whatever shreds of sense you were still holding onto. 

After a slow drag away from your lips, your chin now held between his fingers, Gale takes a deep breath. An intense, steadying breath. Through heavy eyes, the way he looks at you earns a shiver that traverses down the length of your spine. 

His brow cocks, his lips form a tell-tale smirk; and you should know from the way he looks at you that you've lost. Still, it takes his words to truly hammer it home, while your heart hammers in your chest alongside them. 

"You're quite exhilarating. Nevertheless, I suspect you are well aware of the powerful effects your coy words often have on me. With much proficiency, you know my weaknesses." Gale draws his fingertips over your jaw, his head tilted in subtle concentration. His voice is kept level, in the same gentle tone you've come to know, but there's no doubt he has you right where he wants you. You can tell, you could always tell. His gaze darkens with familiar ambition, and he draws a slow, shaky inhale. 

Yes, you may know his weaknesses. But he knows yours. 

"Need is but a dire, hungry word. Though, I must admit, I find it terribly sweet to hear you pleading for me." Gale teases, "Brings to mind our adventures together, your small implores of please when you wanted my help. Generally with some sort of riddle. Or a particularly well-locked door, perhaps. Of course, I could never say no to you." 

"Mhmm," You hum in reply, speaking slowly to force your growing nerves to calm. You've watched Gale master spell after spell, triumph over puzzle after puzzle. You can only imagine this is what it's like to be on the receiving end. Briefly, you clear your throat, "Let me guess, it's even sweeter to hear it from me now?" 

"Oh, yes. It certainly is. But a plea must be accompanied by an acknowledgement. I'd be cruel to keep you waiting any longer." 

Your fingers tense from the absence once his hand releases yours, but the way his touch glides down, from the shape of your hips to the back of your thighs, quickly has your nails digging into your own palm. You draw your bottom lip between your teeth. He tugs you closer, close enough to have your bodies rock together again — Shuddering, he sucks in a sharp breath, freezing up completely. It takes everything he has to resist grinding against you once more, to disregard the way his cock throbs at the thought alone. 

He's teased you quite enough. You are going to have what you want, and you're going to get it properly. 

Your eyelids flutter, your voice weak, desperate, "Gale-" 

Abruptly, you cut yourself off when he smooths his palms up your sides and leans in. Distances close, his lips brush the shell of your ear and his body presses closer to your own. Feeling him against you, the weight in his slacks nudging your entrance and brushing your clit, worn fabric growing messy and glossy with your arousal — It's merely a taste, when what you truly want is to feel him inside you. 

Every inch of your skin seems to burn with flushed heat. You were hoping to get him going a little. On that front, you seem to have succeeded. But you couldn't have expected him to turn the tides right back on you. 

His voice comes out right next to your ear, reverberating through you, pulling you under to drown in fervent waters. 

"You need me, yes?" Gale murmurs, and as his lips brush your lobe, you swear you can hear his stupid smile through his tone alone, "If you are begging for me to take you, to fuck you, what sort of lover would I be if I denied you what you've been desiring?" 

Your throat aches with a high-pitched whine; the building warmth within you blisters, and all your yearning culminates to this.

To your chest heaving between his kisses to your jaw and your face, your palm snaking between your bodies, arm reaching downward as far as it can manage. You're practically panting, as you allow your fingers to graze his waistband and fumble for a better grip. He indulges you, propping above you for a moment, and then discarding his pants in a rush, pushing them down just enough to let his cock come free. 

The dusting of brown hair leading from his chest to his stomach trails all the way down, but you aren't given much of a chance to stare; his hands grab your hips, he guides you while surging forwards to place a desperate kiss to your mouth. The tip of his cock, flushed and pearled with precum, ever-so slightly brushes your waiting entrance. 

And this — The sigh that racks through you, the expression on his face when he pulls back to look at you, to admire you, lips parted as he gasps. Your bodies tremor with the same longing, the same wavelength. Love drips over your heart and your ribs, melting like long crystallized amber, warm and rich and effortlessly palpable. 

You couldn't ask for anything else. In his presence, in his comfortable tower in Waterdeep, with his hands on your skin and his heart beating to the rhythm of your own, you've found your home. This moment is more than lovely. It is perfect, and as your soul begs to be known, to be understood, he instills you with a promise of worship. 

Worship. The adoration one might give to the Gods is still not divine enough for what you deserve, Gale believes. 

Perhaps it's your sense of contentment that causes your heart to stir. When your mind starts to wander, envisioning what the future may hold as Gale is squeezing your hips and peppering sweet kisses down your neck — You'd move in with him, the moment he asked. His tower has plenty of space for the both of you. Not that you have many belongings. His tressym has practically begged you to stay, citing herself that Gale wants you to, that he'd likely ask you, if he had the courage. He's much happier whenever you're around dear, he is simply too proud to admit it. 

Hells, you'd marry him if he were to propose, you've already dreamt of how he might do it. What he'd say, as he gets down on one knee and takes your hands into his. You wouldn't even think twice before you'd be resounding with a yes, followed by those three special words. 

He wouldn't have to simply show you the spectacles of his home, you could live through them. You could enjoy thousands of days just like this one, relaxing, teaching together, and then arriving home, indulging in each other's company until the sun rises back into the sky. It would be a nice life. The calm, simple life you both have earned. 

Your thoughts grow stuck on this morning, in particular. When the both of you had no idea what would transpire, still just friends, greeting each other politely as Gale ushered you into his home. Your lungs filled with the familiar smell of books, and the fresh new scent of the sea. 

The pitter patter of your heart in your chest grew frantic when he hugged you, and once he pulled back, he flashed you a smile that could melt a long, harsh winter. You cleared your throat, you kept your musings to yourself when he began to go over your plans at Blackstaff Academy for the day. 

It seems obvious now, but in the moment, you hardly thought anything of the soft way he looked at you. With such admiration, such devotion, a gaze on yours that promised, you can have me, I would allow it. And as Gale went over various spells, some you recognized and others you didn't, you could only pay attention to the tenderness in his voice, the focus on his face, and the dexterous movement of his hands. 

You felt foolish for imagining what else his pretty hands might be capable of. If only you knew. 

A deep breath in brings you back to the present. Gale leaves one last kiss to your nape, propping over you to reach up, pushing stray strands of hair from his face. You exhale, momentarily growing lost in his gaze. You've seen the love in his eyes countless times before, but his expression this time is different. It's brutally pleading, hopelessly tender. Nervous, almost. 

His hips shift tentatively, his gaze on yours, the fat head of his cock nudging against you — Pleasure surges through him like lightning, making his jaw clench as he swallows a groan. You both breathe a set of stuttery sighs, and your fingers tremor, before your hands clench tight. 

Reaching up, you settle with holding his shoulders once more. You feel the roaring heat under his skin, the dampness of sweat when you grip them for leverage. Muttering, you start, breaking into a whimper when a rock of his hips clumsily grinds his length against your cunt without pressing inside, "Gale, oh, fuck- I'd… I'd like you to try something. Can you?" 

Moving his palm from where it was covering his mouth, helping to muffle any slight noises, you notice Gale's lips are forming a smile. Although, the sweat beading at his pinched brows gives his desperation away. 

"Funny," He replies, his voice breathless and husky, "I was just about to fling a proposal on you. Nothing too terribly important, don't," He swallows, "Don't worry. I'm most interested in fulfilling your request. Go on, what is it?" 

You can't resist gnawing on your bottom lip before you speak, your gaze shifting from his, to somewhere in the distance. Now, you're the nervous one, "The… illusion magic, the spells you showed to me earlier. This morning, if you remember, when we were going over your syllabus? I thought magic of that nature might have some… other uses, is that right?" 

Magic is no stranger to you. But the illusion magic Gale has grown well versed in since he began his teachings, the complicated spells that hinge on nothing more than the limits of one's imagination — Outside of what he has already taught you, those are a mystery. You can't decide if your interest is because of their inherent perplexity, or if you're merely entranced because Gale has taken a liking to them. 

When he was showing you a couple basic spells, you once again found yourself enamored with the wonder on his face, the awe in his voice as he explained the spell's inner workings. This one you could master quite easily, he murmured, sparkling gaze on yours as he held a projection in his hands with relative ease. A projection of a small bloom, your favorite flower. You hardly recall when you must have told him it was your favorite, nor were you expecting him to remember. As you reached out, you swore you could feel the bud's smooth phantom petals underneath your fingertips. 

His voice, speaking quiet incantations, his fingers, easily forming the shapes necessary to bring the spells to life — It was mesmerizing, as captivating as you remembered it to be, way back when. 

This wasn't back then, though. The moment itself felt newly intimate. Sparks filled the air and your lungs, flecks of lingering Weave, pleasant energy working through your body from the ends of your toes to the top of your head. His energy, Gale's magic. The spells he casts have a way of seeming like him, unique and defining, down to the very way they feel. 

You were reminded of your journey together. Of the ashes in the air on the heels of a fiery incantation, of the zeal in your veins from a protective shield, or a hastening touch. Your heart twinged with a stronger ache, held down by how much you've missed him. 

You want to be enveloped in that familiar sensation again. In his magic. In the comforting way it settles around you, the feeling it alights in your chest, and in the way it reminds you that he's here. 

Your words cause Gale to pause. His expression carries the gentlest hint of surprise. He opens his mouth to speak, before stopping. Instead, he smiles, he cocks a brow, and the only thing to betray his newfound confidence is the heavy heave of his chest. 

Unfortunately, you can't hear the way his heart is pounding. You can't sense the brilliant adoration, the foolish excitement that burns into him, affection lapping at his chest with persistent flames. But he can show you. 

"How clever. Extraordinarily clever, really. And you're only," Gale makes a small pinching gesture, "A slight bit off from what I was hoping to suggest, as a matter of fact." 

He reaches for your side then, gently caressing your skin under his palm; you relax at his touch, but stay focused on him as he speaks, "Gods, you know me all too well. Perhaps better than I know myself. Illusory magic lends itself excellently to various creative uses, I think a fair few spells could prove useful, given our current… position. As it happens, I have just the spell in mind." 

"Do you?" You shuffle, your breath hitching slightly in your lungs, while his palm continues to run over your skin, clearly relishing in the way you shiver. "I didn't know if, you know- I wasn't sure if it was something you wanted. You're really okay with this?" 

"Love," Gale hums, interrupting with a quiet instruction, "Close your eyes." 

Panting softly, you allow your arms to rest above you on the desk, and you adjust a bit to get more comfortable. You match your gaze with his for a moment, your heart only beating faster at the honeyed reverence in his eyes. Then, slowly, you take a deep breath, and let the world disappear. 

There's silence, darkness. You feel his hand squeeze your side in gentle reassurance. He shifts, pressing closer. When you hear his voice next, your nervousness is put at ease, calmness flooding through your body. Warm and especially addicting, his words are all you have to focus on. 

"You are precious. As perfect as the alluring beauty of the moon. As lovely as the sparkling sanctity of the Heavens stars," He murmurs, at a volume barely above a whisper. His breath is steady on your skin, and his fingertips trail up your side, to leave barely-there touches over your chest. "If you do not like this, tell me. We'll waste no time stopping." 

"I will," You answer, your own voice seeming to echo in your eardrums, "But it's okay. I trust you." 

This time, his breathing in your ear runs slow. You dwell in a few seconds of hesitation, wrapped in budding anticipation, before you assume you feel him pulling away. He utters a soft word laced with power, his fingers snap, and your head goes hazy. 

"Praestigium."

The invocation breathes a plea, calling upon a source, and the magic responds in turn: sharp, wild, divine. 

You can feel the comforting veins of magic flowing through you, settling around you, cradling your mind in a warm embrace almost instantly. Your eyes flutter open — Or do they? For a moment, it's difficult to tell, as your dizzy vision refocuses, and the pleasant illusion becomes part of you. 

It feels like your head is shrouded in clouds. You're soaring, floating on air, no longer able to feel the hardness of his firm wooden desk beneath you. The room melts; everything is there, but at the same time, it isn't. Shadows speckle your vision, blurry shrouds that slowly begin to melt to pure white. Gale comes into focus above you. His form is perfectly clear, his warm smile effortlessly charming. 

Energy surrounds you: satin and strength, sweetness and intelligence. The smell of sandalwood wafts through the air, flooding your lungs, then slowly starting to fade. Just like that, you are grounded. You are balanced, your mind clearer than ever, and the moment veils you, it embraces you, it is you. 

It's far from what you were expecting, but the surprise is more than welcome. You thought having illusion magic cast on yourself would be more floaty. More akin to a dream, or a living foggy memory. 

Yet, this feels real, wonderfully real, as though he's carved out a space in reality for him and yourself to call your own. Here, with him, nothing else matters. Nothing but your longing, your love, and the infinite future that stretches ahead of you. 

When he leans in to kiss your cheek, you feel his lips, his breath, and his fingertips on your jaw, with a vivid touch that shines — rolling through you like the spark of constellations, an aurora of shivering pleasure and brilliant closeness. Both hands grab your hips, and you feel them strongly, comfortingly, the intensity as he shifts them nearly too much to bear. He guides your legs to wrap around his waist again, locked at the ankles, holding him close. 

He is the only thing you can perceive, your senses are heightened, and every sensation to grip you is positively electric. This magic does more than spawn an illusion or clear your mind; it's intensifying your grip on mortality. 

You can hear his breathing as easily as it were your own. You can feel his heart, can measure each quick beat when he collides his lips with yours, his chest pressing against you. Thump, thump, thump, in your ears, in your own ribs, then the heavy thrum of his shadowy blight — so raw and intense, it nearly threatens to swallow you. 

His presence entwines yours, his magic sears through you. He pulls you closer with his palm holding the back of your head, and he kisses you like this time could be the last. Your core burns red-hot. You're enveloped in dizzying feelings you can't quite place. As he pulls away, you lean back, and you let your head sink into the clouds. His palm stays to cup your face, slightly tilting your head towards him. 

You both catch your breath, chests heaving. Gale admires you underneath him, brushing your cheek with his thumb. He places a kiss to your forehead that glimmers over you like an untamed ray of sunlight. 

Slowly, as your head grows used to the spell, you calm, becoming more relaxed. Your mind is a clear, still lake, your thoughts as crisp as cool water. When you hear him speak once more, his head tilted to breathe the words against your ear, it's as though his voice is everywhere, ebbing and flowing through your brain as an encircling echo. 

"Comfortable?" He murmurs, simply and softly. 

"Yes, very," You answer with a nod of your head. Your own voice appears muffled, reminiscent of being underwater, "This is… lovely. It's amazing. You're amazing." 

"Excellent. I'm glad to hear you aren't too overwhelmed," Gale continues. His smooth tone bounces around the walls of your skull, while his fingertips drift down, drawing shapes you can't recognize onto your nape. "Remember, what you are experiencing is merely an altered form of reality. Do not push yourself. This old desk isn't exactly a bed of roses, but I hope I've succeeded in making it a mite more comfortable for you." 

Grinning to yourself, you allow your arms to relax beside you, and you promptly shudder, growing lost in the feeling of weightlessness beneath you. Gale straightens. He props himself above your form, his gaze indulging in you. 

Although his study is mostly a blur, details meshed in flowery fog, telltale light from the candles still dances across his features. You reach up, trailing your fingers over his earring, the metal cold on your skin. Then, your fingertips brush his cheek, they caress the faded trail of dark lines burned into his skin. He smiles, and he brings a hand to settle over your own. 

His touch is warm. It is a crisp morning breeze drifting through you; his eyes flutter shut when he kisses the heel of your palm, and every inch of you flushes with tangible radiance. He pulls your wrist away, only to bring you palm to palm, fingertips to fingertips for a few moments. His hand lies flat against yours, before your fingers tightly, naturally lace. 

"In all sincerity, I must admit," He begins, shyly glancing away from you, muttering through a laugh that seems to jostle your entire system, "The spell I've cast on you is… clearly not meant to be harnessed in such a way. Or perhaps, more so, it is not often used while such, erm, satisfactions… are taking place. Even for a wizard of my caliber, it may prove difficult to control- If the spell ever snaps, so to speak, just know you have no reason to be alarmed." 

Head still heavy from the incantation's lingering effects, you were so lost in his ramblings — resounding through your mind like they never have before — you almost failed to notice he's begun to lean in. He softly guides your hand to press down, against the surface of what you can only assume is his desk. At first, you can feel the resistance, but soon softness overlaps. Clouds envelop the sensation, and you're left suspended in air once more. 

Your heart skips when he kisses you, slowly and smoothly. Innocently, at first, devotion carrying you on soft wings. And then, deeper, while his hand squeezes yours, and his tongue explores your mouth with a languid lack of urgency. 

You melt, your chest encompassed in a floating feeling. He murmurs soft groans into your mouth; every part of him yearns to pull you closer, to have you, to hold you. Gods, he loves you, and he curses himself for ever trying to push those feelings down. He won't let you go now, no matter how the world tries to pry you from each other's grasp. 

When he shifts, pressing closer, kissing you harder, the flushed and needy tip of his cock nudges your cunt — Instantly, a blistering sense of ecstasy flutters through your every pore, and you whine into him, your body going slack. 

And that was simply from a touch. Just a small press of him against you, brushing close to where you're deliciously sensitive, and you're fucking breathless. Your core is wound with preemptive pleasure; just a tease, and your mind is swimming with how badly you need to feel him inside you. You aren't sure what you'll experience once you're given more, once you're actually taking him. 

That damned spell. You should be a mess by now. Perhaps you are, and the calm cradle of the illusion is what's tethering you to the earth. Tether or not, you hardly care about keeping your composure. You don't care for your imminent disarray. In fact, more than anything, you need to have him ruin you. 

It's hard to speak. Your lungs are aching, but as he draws backward from your lips, you manage to huff, "You aren't going to hold back, right?" 

Gale smirks, exhaling in short pants. He pushes up, putting his familiar silhouette — messy hair, broad shoulders tensed, branded chest slightly heaving — back in the forefront of your vision. 

"Oh, I'm afraid I am far past the threshold of being able to do so. For you, for everything you have long awaited, my desires will remain unhindered," He replies calmly, brows slightly furrowed. "Besides, I've been sharpening my concentration as of late. This could prove an opportune time to assess the extent of my exercises. I think we're both wondering how much pressure my focus can take." 

His words ripple through you, comforting and lighthearted in their tone. They do the trick. You're sparked with delight, your mind set at ease. Briefly, you wonder if the incantation connects you together, because when you relax, he seems to as well: his breathing becoming calmer, his expression softening, and his grip on your hand relaxing. 

If you truly wanted to, you'd find escaping from the spell he's placed on you to be rather simple. You've faced much more enthralling spells than this. Magic more complex, much more wicked. You know the feeling of having a spell muddle your mind, down to your very bones; you have your little journey to thank for that. And you know how to break them, as simply as putting one foot in front of the other. 

This spell is different. It is warm and soothing, it carries none of the malice that would weigh down the charms you've felt before. It's effortlessly him, magic which caresses you as though his very arms were there to hold you. Magic that roots into you, a breath of life, a ray of moonlight. Thoughtful as always, Gale has made this particular spell weak, and you can determine so without trying. Likely to make snapping it simple, if you decided to. 

You could break the illusion. But you choose to let go. 

You breathe in, slowly and deeply, and you allow the spell to swallow every last aspect of your being. The clouds wane briefly, before you're surrounded, melting slowly into pleasure and froth. The moment feels raw, alive. You are here, you both are, finally able to love, to be loved. And love him you will. Without any regret. 

Gale, appearing clear and pure above you, pushes his hair from his face, and looks at you like you are worth dying for. Living for. His expression is painfully soft. He steadies a hand on your side, he dotes on your dips and curves and marble-carved features; every part of you was meant to be adored, akin to the statues one might bow before. He sighs slowly, inhales even slower. 

"The spell," He begins, palm caressing your side with gentle motions, "You could break it yourself, yes?" 

You nod, tone soft, "Yes, absolutely." 

"Very good." Gale's voice echoes. It splinters through your mind, it knits into your heartbeat, "Not that I had a shred of doubt. You're doing quite well." 

A squeeze of your hand, a grip on your side pulling you ever-so carefully closer, and heightened surges of intensity are shooting through you much stronger than before. Your eyes shut, your back arches, your muscles ache, but pleasure takes over to drown you, his cock brushing your entrance. Lips parted, he exhales a trembling breath, one that seems to travel through you in turn.  

"Focus, and breathe slowly. Deep breaths in, and then finally, out. I'm here with you. I won't be going anywhere." 

Your heart is pounding, but at the sound of his voice, at the feeling of his smooth tone bouncing around you, your thoughts become still. Your pulse slows, your chest gently rises, and then falls. The only thing left rushing through your veins is a wild, unfiltered need. 

"Stay with me, please," Gale breathes, words cracking at the edges. He presses closer, his eyes close and his forehead comes to rest against yours, your bodies held on the loving cusp of almost-connection. "Stay, and let me be tender for you, my dearest love." 

"Gale-" You murmur, your voice sweet in his ears like dripping syrup, as you strum the familiar notes of his name. "I love you, I need you." 

Of course, and you will have him. 

Gale gives your hand one more squeeze, reassuring you, preparing you. He swallows down the growing thickness in his throat. His head is buried in the nape of your neck as he finally gives himself to you, carefully easing into you — Everything slow, heat rushing through you in the form of a wildfire, the clouds holding you in their ethereal embrace. Pleasure pulls your every nerve taught in a tight, delightful string, and for once, your soul within you feels alive. 

His fingers go shaky, his grip tightens on your side in response. You're just barely fit around the head of him, and you feel him mutter a half-sigh, half-moan into your nape that shakes your body with the potent vibrations. 

It's like you can feel the spell itself shudder. 

"I love you," He's pressing into your warmth, his jaw clenched, hips gently rolling, filling you with more of him until you are stretching to his shape, "Could I give you more? Can you take all of me?" 

"Yes," Your throat is unmistakably sore, but still, you speak without thinking. You need more, need to feel the friction become part of your body as he fills you. Your back arches to meet him, and pleasure hums in your veins with intoxicating strength. Every one of his gasps echoes against you, then through you. The thrum of his warm cock inside you is so deliciously, impossibly perfect. 

"F-Fuck," You swear, biting down your quickened gasps, fighting through the incessant pound of your heart; lest your languor succeeds in devouring you, "Please, yes…" 

The whine that overtakes the edge of your voice makes him shiver. Gale groans softly, his shoulders growing tense. His hips lazily buck into you — until his pelvis is shoved deft against your body, sweat-soaked skin pressed to softer skin, burying him inside you down to the hilt. 

His breath on your nape is loud, hurried, and at the mercy of his weary limbs, he tries his hardest not to collapse. Silently, he must thank you for getting one high out of him earlier. With how good you feel, with how badly he's needed you, if you hadn't, he isn't sure if he'd last much longer. 

Not like you are faring any better. 

Your heart isn't just beating, but battering at your chest, tearing through your body and knocking into your ribs as though it needs to come free. You wouldn't be surprised if your gasps are resounding just as loudly as his. Thighs shaking, you struggle to keep your legs wrapped around his waist, your ankles almost slipping before he grabs your legs to readjust you. He shifts close, still sheathed inside you. The gentle movement sends small ripples of ecstasy through your core that, in the wake of his spell, instead feel like large, thundering waves. Crashing over you, swallowing you. 

You feel full, so fucking full. The depth to where you can feel him — all of him, so deep inside you — practically has your head whirling. Gale blinks, his vision blurred, causing his lashes to tickle your skin in a faint butterfly kiss. You're wobbling and teetering like a spinning top. Your eyes flutter closed, trying to steady some of your own dizziness. 

This time, he presses a real kiss to your nape. Then, he's working a palm underneath you, supporting your back, holding you close. His other hand finds its perfect place in your own again, your fingers lacing with his. Around him, you feel irresistible, so wet and warm and lovely. You are everything he has ever wanted, you are his love; the world, in the palms of his hands. 

He wants to let his hips rock, wants to hear your voice strained with lust while you're pleading in pants of his name. He needs to feel the electrifying friction blazing through him, as he fucks wave after wave of pleasure into you — Though, despite those desires, despite the way they fall into him, gripping him at his very core, he stops. He calms, and he savors you. 

You're given a chance to catch your breath, thankfully. To drift among the endless sky underneath you, and the river of magic surrounding you. In this reality, on this bed of stars and sea, his presence and yours are all to exist. Pulse still racing, you indulge in the stretch of him inside you. He feels utterly exhilarating, even without movement. For a few fleeting moments, you simply bask in each other, and nothing more. 

"You feel so good… So stunningly perfect," Gale is gasping, every word breathless, "Ah- Just this alone could sate me, drowning in your warmth around me while our bodies connect- Your soul and mine are truly one. Nothing else compares." 

Nothing in this universe compares to you. 

You are his beginning, and you will be his end. You've captured him in warmth, in an embrace that breathes velvet promises, until every part of you is left racing through his mind. 

Gale remembers the faint smiles you'd flash him whenever he caught your eyes, your nose scrunching so delightfully, your head turning away as his words made you chuckle. It's the same smile each time. The same expression, the same dance of adoration in your gaze when yours and his happen to meet. 

A love reserved only for him. His own form of love is engraved with your name. 

You float between every thought, making him think you might've become part of him. He fondly dotes on his memories of the sparkling stars in your eyes, the way you looked as you gazed up at them, admiring the constellations that have always watched over you. He can put a name to them all, because you were his reason to remember. At any time, in any place, those woven stars shone overhead, writing the twists and turns of destinies. And now, after tonight, they'll give you the privilege of viewing them together once more. 

He could never forget you. It wasn't a possibility, not when he still revels in all of your details that make him oh-so weak. His missing piece returned to him, you are his love, his home. 

Perhaps you were meant to be connected. Body and soul, with separate lifetimes worth of familiarity. You're two halves of the very same whole. To have known one another, is to be the sun and sunflower, the rain and the soil, the grand mountains, and the edge of the clouds. You'll find yourselves in everything, ultimately. 

The orb could take him, and if he became nothing but dust, taking his city of Waterdeep with him in a storm of decimation — What remains of his devotion would find its way home to you. 

But he wouldn't allow it. Not anymore. He is going to live, against everything, along with you, and beside you. No matter what it may cost him. 

With a small shift, his hips grind into you faintly, he presses into you impossibly deeper. Your bottom lip quivers, before you take it between your teeth. As you feel him throb inside you, you're sighing together in delightful unison. 

"You are…" His words are shaky, they wobble through your mind. For once, to your elation, he can hardly seem to speak, "Sweetheart, my dearest… I just- I love-" 

His sentence stays unfinished; Gale stutters into a shuddery whine when you pull him in, your legs wrapped around him, dragging him just a bit closer, but enough to enthrall both of you in powerful sparks. The pleasure that overtakes him, that overtakes the both of you, is so vibrant and love struck, so unlike anything else — You're sure neither of you will be able to hold back, not anymore. 

Good. 

"More, please," You plead, your voice needy to the point of babbling, "Fuck me, I need you, I'm- ah, please, Gale…" 

Shuddering, Gale takes an overly long breath. His grip tenses on your hand, and he softly rubs his thumb over your calloused knuckles. Cool air enters his lungs, calming his mind, steadying his heart. And when he finally begins to move, you've never felt anything more divine. 

You were made for one another, you're sure of it. You must be, when every sensation to encompass you does so with such endlessness. With tenderness that has the very forming of his name on your tongue completely intrinsic. 

His hips rock into you shallowly, careful and passionate thrusts hardly separating you. Pleasure melds within your veins so sinfully, until your heart can only believe in the inevitable bond between your two shapes. 

As he keeps up a steady pace, driving his cock inside you, you're murmuring gasps between every whine of his name. His secluded study is filled with noise. With the melody of skin against skin, and the echoes of your breathing and his. The wet sound of your arousal squelches around his length each time you take him. He keeps his head buried in the nape of your neck, his quickened breath fanning over your skin. Easing into you, he then pulls out only half-way, just to thrust in again with a slow, languid press of his hips. 

Gale has experienced wonders most mortals could only dream of. And yet, he's never felt anything quite like this. 

It's been a while. A very, very long time, in fact, since he has connected with anyone in this sort of way. So long, he's forgotten what it could feel like — Bodies pressed together in a perfect, tangled mess. Hands entwined and lungs strained. 

But he has never loved anyone quite the same as his love for you. This is different. Warm beams of intimacy fill him more and more with every buck of his hips into you, with every whimper from your lips for him. And those delicate feelings swelling in his chest — They are entirely, utterly new. 

This moment feels sweet. Carnal. There's something so filthy, yet so, impossibly loving about feeling you in such a way. Back then, against his composure and his better judgment, he imagined this. He dreamt of taking you, and hopelessly wondered if you wanted the same. Now, the ecstasy of feeling you around him practically burns. You are addicting, everything he could want in the best possible way. Intoxicatingly his, just as he's always yearned for. 

You have thousands more days and nights ahead of you, there will be countless times to come. Time for him to love you, to hold you, to show you what magic lies on his lips. That is what truly gets him. This moment will last. It won't be a dream, or a passing fantasy. Your gentle future is only just beginning. 

Gale's movement comes to steady as he pushes up, breathing one last sigh against your nape before he props over you. Your entrancing eyes are half-lidded, your lips are parted as you pant. You're pretty enough to destroy him. He already knows he would let you. 

His palm cups your cheek. You tilt into his touch, leaning back against his desk and the foggy pillows underneath you. Beneath his fingertips, the thrum of his magic clings to your skin like a flower's soft petal caught in a spider's web. He knows he must be the only figure in your vision, just as you are the center of his world. He can picture the way his voice and his touch are shining through you. His gasps are echoing in your ears, his palm drifts from your cheek to your neck to the curve of your shoulder, and surely brands light wherever it brushes. 

When his hand comes to settle on your side, holding tight while he rocks into you, he can't seem to help himself from glancing down. Gale watches as his steady movement has his cock nestling inside you, disappearing to fill you to the tune of you moaning for him, the shaft glistening in the low light once he starts to pull back. 

Gods. The thoughts that begin to race though his head are so terribly, deliciously filthy — Overwhelmed, his pace starts to falter, he's growing clumsy. His grip on your hand turns so tight it nearly hurts, his brows furrowed into a knot, as he pistons into you with newfound desperation. 

Waning sensitivity still clings to him, leftover from his previous high. In a fluttery contradiction, the intensity surging through him only seems to make him want you more. 

"I don't deserve how good you are to me," Gale hums, slightly shaking his head — Every sigh, each word bounces around your skull and glows within you from the inside out. His steady presses inside you don't relent, his skin slapping yours; they just force his words to shake, and his hand to clench much harder on your waist. 

"This… possessiveness I have for you, it's- Ah, Gods… It is damn near agonizing," He's murmuring, speaking those last few words through an almost-chuckle, "My heart has never yearned for anything more. You made me feel alive, love. Tonight, and always. And you feel-" His jaw tightens, teeth gritting, "Utterly amazing… Tell me, if you can find the strength within you to speak. Tell me how this feels." 

Right now, your mind is swimming. Stardust glitters in your veins, and your core is wound nice and tight, overwhelmed by ripples of pleasure. For a moment, words won't come to you. Instead, you reach up to press a palm to the back of his head, and you drag him close, quick enough to make him utter a faint noise of surprise against your soft lips. You kiss, slowly and deeply. You're both sighing heavily once you've pulled away to breathe. 

"S-So good, it's perfect, you're perfect," There's a desperate edge to your voice. You can feel the rawness in your throat, can make out the high tones even through the fog in your head, "Gale, don't stop- Gale-" 

Gale shudders. Your palm slips from his cheek to fall above you in a heap, and you're whining, back arching, head tossed back. You are simply beautiful. 

"I love the way you say my name. The sound is quite lovely when it is- Shit-" He chokes, breaking into a gasp when his body rocks against yours, "When it is your lips to sculpt the word, your darling voice to utter the syllables…" 

You tremble, your eyes fluttering shut, your heart thumping so fast you can hear it in your eardrums. In the wake of his hips rolling into yours, you can feel each press with inexplicable sensitivity. His cock pumps in and out of you so tenderly, and every throb of his length pulses through you. 

Softly and carefully, he kisses your forehead. Then, he's leaning back. He pulls you closer in tandem with pressing inside you, filling you. You've never been this sensitive, never felt this loved. You are melting into him, your chest heaving from your heavy sighs, your lips quivering with whines of pleasure: pretty moans breathed all for him. 

Once you feel his fingers grasp your chin, thumb briefly brushing your lips, your eyes begin to flutter. Shadows masquerade as clouds, your vision hazed by blurred edges and flickering lights. The ardent fangs of magic sink into you, trapping you in their whirlwind. Your heart pounds quickly, unrelentingly, thudding hard against the cage of your chest. 

Gale's smile is clear as day, though. Trying your best to gaze at him above you, you feel that rapid heartbeat instead begin to sing. He tilts your head a bit, guiding you towards him. And gently, breathlessly, he murmurs, "Can you look at me, my love?" 

The fuzziness in your field of view starts to fade, and your breath begins to catch. Buried deep inside you, he stops, keeping his hips still while panting hard. Sweat glistens on his skin, his hair is brushing his shoulders, and he reaches to push some strands from his face. He swallows thickly. He squeezes your hand one last time before he lets it go. 

"This," A purple thread of magical light begins to dance between his fingertips, illuminating his face in an amethyst glow, "Is what I wished to show you." 

Adoring and unwavering, his gaze stays on yours, even as he's illustrating shapes with his fingers; movements so quick and effortless, you're barely able to make them out. Swirls here, a triangle there — With one final shape, the magic hums to life. It shimmers through the air with radiance almost palpable, glowing ever brighter, reflecting lavender rays in his eyes. All it takes is an incantation to truly set it ablaze. 

"Ad astra." 

The previous spell loses concentration, and in its place, a new one takes form. 

You hadn't noticed your eyes were closed until the spell had fully finished settling upon you. A new sensation prickles at the surface of your skin, familiar and star-filled. Finally, your gaze focuses above you, after Gale's soft instruction of: Open your eyes. 

You still feel floaty, your senses less acute, your head washed over with warmth. This time though, the illusion is different. You are resting in calm grass and whispering meadows, and when colorful stars fill your vision until you're drowning in their light, the view above you seems completely real. 

Gale is atop you still, but his study remains melted away. Small flickers of candlelight have transformed into brilliant illuminations, leaving him in a backdrop of twinkling starlight and a beautiful aurora. You're gently swept through the makeshift sky. Hues of purple and green and blue wash over you, like how waves might flow over the shore. Light surrounds you, but at the same time, it shines within you. 

In a way, it reminds you of the sight he once made a long time ago, the aurora he created to shimmer through the Shadowlands. Back then, when tensions were high and words were left unspoken, you admired the stars in comfortable silence. So close — You could have reached for his hand next to yours, or closed the distance in mere moments to learn what his lips felt like on your own. But you didn't. The familiarity makes your pulse run wild. 

A canopy of beauty. This is what he once planned to admire on his last night alive, and yet, now he has an abundance of nights to spend by your side. Sprawled out beneath him, you are far more beautiful than anything in the countless shimmering skies. 

"Wonderful," You murmur, speaking under your breath. Your voice is just loud enough for him to hear. You're smiling, your gaze flickering between the messes of stars above you, lights that twinkle steadily with a gentle glow. "Reminds me of the stars from ages ago. This is gorgeous, Gale." 

"Not as gorgeous as you, of course," He replies, the slightest hint of a smirk tugging at his features. His words are smooth, they no longer flicker endlessly through your mind. Rather, when he speaks, his familiar voice captures your heart in the same way it always has. "If only you knew how truly breathtaking you are." 

His heart aches with desire, because as you look up at him — at him, not the illusion, your gaze is on his while the loveliest smile crosses your lips — in your eyes, he sees that same lovely sparkle. 

You're lost in him, for a moment. Gale's expression grows soft as he continues to admire you. When you feel gentle fingertips travel the length of your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake, you tremble. A sigh leaves your mouth, his fingers lacing with yours once more. He holds your hand tightly, safely. Gale can't resist, he tips forwards to kiss you; your lips connect, with crackling electricity and still-lingering traces of magic sparking from his mouth to yours. 

Devotion is palpable in the way he kisses you. It quickly turns eager, becoming a tender mess of soft moans and tongue. And at last, everything to remain falls away. 

Heat surges through both your bodies until you're consumed by wildfire. With one more kiss, Gale grips you hard, his hips begin to move. You whine against his mouth as he slowly rocks into you, you're mumbling his name in the form of a plea — The sound only serves to make him more desperate. 

He mutters your name in turn: a low, affectionate utterance. His thrusts take on a deeper pace, as he fucks into you hard enough to make his desk shake — fervent enough to have your heart trembling, love drowning you in heavy depths. 

Your arousal and his drip down your thighs, dirtying the hardwood. It's making a mess, echoing lewd, wet noises with each clumsy movement, the slap of skin against skin sounding particularly soaked each time he pistons into you. Every echo fills his ears, curling through his mind oh-so pleasantly. It would be the most addicting melody he's ever heard, if it weren't for how sweet you sound when you're moaning for him. 

And you're loud, you're mumbling a mess of words he can't quite make out. Your sighs mix with whines, turning sharp each time he eases his cock into you. Gale breathes a shaky breath, fanning warmth over your face, before he's moving to place quick kisses to the corner of your mouth, and then, your jaw. 

His lips brush the column of your neck, where your pulse is racing for him; when his hips rut into yours, you're cooing soft pleas, quietly murmuring, Don't stop. Your back arches, and he adorns you with his tongue and teeth, sucking gently at your supple skin. 

He shouldn't. What would your confidants say, if you crossed paths with them? When you return to Baldur's Gate, what would the guild leaders who respect you, and the fancy patriars who need you think when they happened to see it? They would know he was there, know you are his. Foolishly, dizzyingly, he allows his lips and his mouth to leave a deep mark, an imprint of himself. He doesn't pull back until he's sure the bruise will take. 

You shudder, feeling the ghost of his mouth even once he's pulled away, cold air brushing the saliva he left on your neck and making your nerves twinge. Slow rolls of his body into yours have you shaking, but you're squeezing his hand tightly, your other palm is balling into a fist and you're begging, "Please, faster… Fucking Hells… Give me more." 

Gale sighs. His brows knot, he falls forwards and leans his forehead softly against yours. "For you, I would give the world."

He swallows, he steadies. Then, he places all the world's pleasures in the palms of your hands. 

The weight behind his thrusts, newly desperate and hurried, have him gripping you for leverage: a palm tensed on your waist, fingertips digging into your hip. He grasps your thigh to push it up and apart. His desk is knocking against the wall, the wooden legs squeaking and scraping the floor. 

Your body tenses with building intensity — Building and building and building, threatening to overwhelm you between every movement, until you aren't sure where your high begins, nor where it ends. All you know is you're close. And if he keeps fucking into you like this, filling you nice and deep, nudging against your sweetest spots only he can reach, it won't be long before you're falling apart for him. 

With one last quick kiss to your forehead, your thighs spread apart wider, Gale is propping over you; and Gods, does he look like a mess. Pools of glowing magic paint him in the most vivid hues. His hair is out of place, honey brown strands askew, the faintest pretty streaks of silver reflecting in the starlight. His skin shines with dripping beads of sweat, his chest is heaving, jaw clenched — You can't help but feel he might crumble at the smallest touch. 

So, you unclench your hand. You let your fingertips drift up, and you brush them over his cheek. As you're cupping his face, his shoulders tense, and he doesn't just crumble, he collapses. 

Gale falls into you, leaning his head into your nape. His palm fits between the desk and the arch of your back to hold you even closer to himself. His breathing is rapid, his hand takes on a distinct tremble when another rock of his body against yours has you moaning ragged gasps of his name. 

His name, you're pleading for him to take you — Grinding his teeth together until his jaw hurts, he bucks into you hard, enough to have you fluttering around him, squeezing him like a vice. He chokes back broken gasps of his own, and exhales hot fans of breath over your sensitive skin. You are going to be the death of him. 

"I have always-" Gale starts; he struggles to speak, his voice sounds close to breaking, yet his words drip with an earnestness you find enthralling, "I have always loved you. My sweetheart… Every beat of my heart is yours…" 

Yours. 

Eyes fluttering between open and closed, the aurora around you spins incessantly. You respond in turn, mumbling through fragile gasps for breath, as he works you up to a growing, intensifying peak. 

"I'm yours, Gale," Your fingers tangle in soft hair, gripping and tugging until he's groaning. Pleasure floods your every nerve, and you're a mess around his cock, tumbling through the sea of stars and alluring lights — "I'm yours, I'm yours-" 

"Oh, love-" 

All at once, the spell abruptly snaps, your focus and your senses melding into one in a dizzying, sparkling rush. You're brought back to reality. The heart of his quiet study comes into view again, his walls of books and shelves of artifacts, the colorful lights fading into nothingness. Your form is bathed in warm candlelight, the night sky treading in from his balcony. Cool air dances over you, while the pale moon is hung high in the darkness. 

Ecstasy slams through you, blissfully unfiltered. Everything is messy, perfect, and hopelessly desperate; you grip his hair tight, and his hand harder. Gale pants, his breath sharp and his lungs aching as he fucks you into the desk, pushing you closer and closer to your edge — until even without the aid of magic, you're left seeing stars. 

He is so terribly, utterly in love with you. Every one of those nights where he pushed you away, those moments where he almost left you, when he was possibly the most foolish he's ever been in his entire life — 

A slow, tender press inside you, and you're muttering his name softly once more, adoring it, pleading it. He wants to hear your voice strumming his name over and over, teasing him after his half-hearted attempts to make you laugh, begging for him to give you what you need, because he is the only one who can. Answering with, Yes, Gale, I will, when he asks you to marry him. He can't change the mistakes he's already made, but he can earn your love, and your softness. He can promise to never let you go. Not ever again. 

"I'm here, I have you," Gale mumbles in a shaky tone. He presses a soft kiss onto your nape, he squeezes your hand when your breath begins to hitch. His words are smooth and comforting, they send tingles up your spine, and they have you melting in a way you never have before. 

The edge to your high is right within reach, he's only bringing you closer. Your head won't stop spinning. As he trails kisses from your neck to your jaw, his lips are a touch from the sun, beams of warmth that shudder through you to shine over the surface of your skin. 

"Gale-" You whimper, "Fuck, I'm-" 

He presses into you deeply, gripping your hand, filling you with a thickness you'll never quite get enough of, and you can't help but stutter into a whine. His pelvis shoves against yours, skin against skin, arousal messy and wet and dripping out of you — Your thighs are shaking, and you only need one more breath before you're finding that zenith of pleasure. Warm and perfect against your nape, his words have you taking the final tumble. 

"Come undone for me." 

Your high shatters through you, you're tensing around his sloppy thrusts, your legs are slipping from around him. Your body curls into his, your eyes shutting tight. Desire drowns you, it burns from within you; throat sore, you cry out in loud, desperate moans, and everything melts around you as you let go, cumming for him. 

And Gale, normally so confident, so eloquent, a wizard prodigy, a Goddess' chosen — He buries himself deep inside you, choking down stutters and groans. With a mess of barely coherent pleas of your name, your sweet voice and the feeling of you squeezing him, fluttering in the pleasant aftershocks of your release, has him falling to pieces right there beside you. 

"Please, please, please…" Gale begs, even though he hardly knows what he's begging for. His clumsy hips roll into you with reckless abandon, echoing the sloppiest noises. His voice is broken and fragile, tender in a way you've never heard before: "I love you, I love you…" 

I love you. In this life, and every life to follow. Only to fall in love once more, all over again. 

Gasping, shaking, his body tenses, and when he falls into you, you're left to hopelessly clutch onto his hand and his hair. Pleasure racks through him, his breath getting caught in his lungs. The candles in his study flicker, the branded orb-shaped marking imprinted onto his chest glows. His hips shudder, before they still. His length pulses inside you so hard you can feel it in your core, and heat pools within your body as he fills you, giving you what's left of him. 

It takes a handful of moments for you both to come down. Gale is limp and heavy, pressing against you, his weight pinning you between him and the desk. His palm, resting on the small of your back, runs over your skin in slow, careful circles. Your heart thumps loud in your ears, hard in your chest, so forceful it nearly hurts. His gentle touch makes it slow, until gradually, your composure begins to return. 

I've got you, he's murmuring, the words barely audible in your ringing eardrums, but comforting just the same. Breathe for me, just breathe. 

In, and then out, you inhale, exhale. Gale props above you after a minute or two, and as you blink to chase away the remnants of fuzz in your vision, he comes into your view. He's smiling, because of course he is, strands of his hair sticking out every which way. The sight makes you grin, and you have to hold back your chuckle. Yet, the way he looks at you softens every last shred of your soul. 

His skin is flushed, still sweaty and warm. His gaze is so terribly, persistently gentle, coveting you with endless devotion. It wouldn't be the first time tonight, but you feel revered, like you can almost taste swelling blossoms of love — sweet on the tongue, growing untamed to flourish through your chest. 

Letting go of a sigh, he brushes his thumb over your cheek. You didn't think he could get any softer. But here he is, with a smile that entrances you, and an expression beaming with light itself. When he grasps your chin, pulling you in as he leans forwards, on his gentle lips, you feel the heat of the sun, and taste the calmness of a crisp summer breeze. 

Your heart skips. A sharp spark of electricity — traces of magic, surely — crackles on your mouth when yours brushes his. It zaps you like static, before flowing into you as a steady, dizzying wave. 

Your eyes stay shut. Gale pulls back for a moment. He breathes a small huff, a barely-there laugh. You swear you can feel the smile on his lips when he kisses you again — This time, much deeper, while his fingertips trace the curve of your jaw, and his mouth outlines the depths of his devotion onto yours. 

When he pulls away, he's moving to guide a quick hand behind your head. He supports you, before resting you back against the desk ever-so gently. He hisses slightly as he pulls out of you, adjusting you both. He's sighing with contentment while he grasps your thighs, changing your position to let them hang over the desk's edge more comfortably. 

At last, he props up over you. Still catching his breath, he tries to control the weighted heave of his chest as best he can manage. 

"I love you," Gale admits, his voice noticeably hoarse, but with a clear hint of fondness to it, "Are you alright?" 

"Please, I'm more than alright," You answer. You clear your throat, alleviating some of the dryness, and you roll your shoulders back. The hardwood surface of his desk beneath you suddenly feels a hundred times firmer than before. "You're okay too, aren't you?" 

Gale scoffs playfully, smirking, "Apart from a bit of present exhaustion and a mild ache in the knees, I am definitely, most positively fine. No, better than fine. Fantastic." 

Your eyes narrow, your head tilts curiously, gaze flickering down, and then back up. "And the orb?" 

"The orb? Oh," He huffs, placing a palm over his chest in realization. "Ha, it's behaving alright. Until now, I don't think it has ever felt so… comfortable, if that serves well to describe it. Swear I could almost feel the damn thing purring." 

You breathe a slight chuckle, and with a roll of your eyes, you press your palms to the desk and push yourself up. Gale hurries to wrap a hand around your wrist, placing the other on your back. He helps to pull you, until you're sitting up with your arms stretched to the ceiling. You stretch your back next, arching it forwards, feeling your muscles loosen and your bones pop. 

Gale's brows are suddenly knotted. His lips press into a line, his expression turns conflicted. When your gaze locks with his, you're giving him a slight, pretty smile. 

"What's wrong?" 

You watch as he looks away for a second, snapping his fingers, muttering a string of words under his breath you don't quite catch. He seems pouty, almost guilty; the fireplace in the room's adjacent corner hums to life, breathing much-needed warmth into his study. Your limbs relax, your shoulders untensing. 

"Nothing is wrong, sweetheart. Don't you worry," He reassures, offering you a warm look once his gaze returns to yours. His hand comes to steady on your side, and he squeezes you slightly, "I just… supposed I should offer you an apology. Perhaps it was rude of me not to provide you with more comfort. I promise you, next time, you will be as cushy and cozy as your heart could possibly desire. You'll find my bedroom to be rather pleasant, I'm sure. Have you ever slept on Glamerweave sheets? Hm, actually, I think I'll keep from spoiling the surprise." 

Next time? 

"Come on. It was my idea, you don't have to apologize," You reply through a slight laugh, shifting a bit on his desk, crossing one leg over the other. "Besides, I'm fine, I swear. I've dealt with much more than a little soreness, and I was perfectly comfortable, I'll have you know." Swallowing, you pause for a moment to think. "That was perfect. Truly." 

"Was it? Well, that is… quite lovely to hear, quite lovely indeed. I'm… I'm glad." Gale takes in a slow breath, before letting go of a deep, heavy sigh. Your words make his heart pound. "Gods above. I knew I was doomed, but I think I've only fallen even more in love with you." 

Arms wrapping around his shoulders, your head cocked teasingly, you murmur, "Do you know how hard it is to resist kissing you when you're this terribly sweet?" 

"Really?" His brow crooks. "I wonder how many kisses I could earn if I proposed more than mere sweet words. Sweet touches, perhaps? I could lend you a hand or two, you know. I'm more than willing to offer shoulder rubs, back massages- It wouldn't be right to leave my dearest with tired limbs and such sore muscles, now would it?" 

"On second thought, maybe my back is hurting. A massage sounds lovely." 

Gale grins. He reaches up, brushing his thumb over your cheek, before he pulls you in for a quick, precious kiss. 

"Then your wish is my command, love." His hand continues to hold your cheek tenderly, even once he's pulled back. Forehead close enough to almost rest against yours, he murmurs quietly, smoothly, "Once you are ready, I'll run you a warm, comfortable bath. With bubbles and lavender- Hm, I'm sure I have something around here you can wear, as far as clean clothes are concerned. You may have to make do with a few magically infused robes and garments… but nothing with any lasting effects, I assure you. And if you've worked up an appetite, then-" 

Biting his tongue, abruptly, he stops. His eyes narrow, gaze glancing between you and the floor. 

"I… My apologies," Gale mumbles, his tone weighed down by newfound disappointment, "How impolite. I shouldn't form assumptions, especially when your plans have already been reiterated. I won't keep you. As a matter of fact, I believe the side roads to Baldur's Gate are likely still open, if you'd prefer me to escort you there." 

"Gale, are you kidding?" 

You scoff, squeezing his shoulders and tilting your head; instantly, he feels himself begin to relax, his heart stirring, his nerves settling. You always look at him with such radiant warmth. 

"Running errands back and forth for greedy townspeople can wait," You're continuing, gazing at him through fluttery lashes. "I took care of everything urgent well before I got here. You wouldn't believe the nerves I had leading up to this- I was remarkably tense, but at least it had me working hard to distract myself. Listen, if you're so keen on going back, you're coming with me. Otherwise, I'm staying, okay? For as long as you'll have me." 

Gale swallows. His jaw clenches, his gaze goes soft. His pulse thrums in his throat and runs a mile per minute within his chest, heels pushing off the ground as he chases a burning sense of devotion — 

"You- Are you sure?" He questions, opening his mouth to speak once more, only to have you quickly interrupt him. 

"Of course I'm sure, I've never been more sure of anything. I can't begin to explain how much I've missed you, just- I don't want to be apart from you yet, that's all. Is… is that alright?" 

"Oh, yes, most definitely- You can stay. I would love for you to stay," Gale breathes in response, brushing his palm over the small of your back, holding you gently. Warmth and longing sear through him, echoing the start of something new. "To savor a new wealth of treasured moments with you… To awake, and see you still resting beside me, content and weary-eyed… I'm not sure I deserve to find myself so lucky." 

Holding your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Gale breathes in deeply. "Nevertheless, the night is young. But as for tomorrow, alas, I doubt the academy would approve, in the event of my neglection of scheduled lessons. Best to be up bright and early, you see. We should rest. You, especially." He counts with his fingers, pointing to each one, "You need the aforenamed bath, massage, and to get some much needed sleep. Doubly so, if you are to- uhm, ehem-" 

Gale clears his throat, and as you meet his eyes, you raise a curious brow. Seemingly nervous, he softly mutters, "You wouldn't mind attending the lesson tomorrow to assist me for a second time, would you?" 

All at once, you're grinning. You're laughing slightly to yourself, and you're staring at him cheerfully, with a look he finds impossible not to adore. 

"I'd love to. I had fun today, and I'm sure you have much more to teach. The depths to illusion magic are rather grand. Or so a charming wizard has told me." 

"Yes, and you have merely scratched the proverbial surface. Though, in all likelihood, illusion magic should come rather naturally to you. After all, you have no shortage of firsthand experience," He explains jovially. "But still, do not discredit yourself. You are a wonderful teacher, skilled and proficient in your own right. I'm sure my students would reflect the same sentiment. You are most captivating to them. You're the hero that kept the famous city of Baldur's Gate from falling into ruin. The one who saved my life. My closest, most beloved friend. Perhaps more than that, now." 

"Definitely more," You answer, smirking a bit to hide the warmth to your cheeks. 

"In that case," Gale hums, "I will be sure to introduce you as my partner, from here on out." 

Candles flicker, shimmering like makeshift stars in his quiet study. From the view outside his balcony, the moon glimmers, beaming faint light, as though it was made just to watch over you both. Intimacy ripples between you. Echoing in your ears, you can hear the calm rhythm of waves, the familiar lull of the sea. It's a sound you've grown comfortable with. A moment you wished to dwell in until the inevitable end of time. Perhaps now, that future will be yours. 

You decide to break the brief layer of silence: "Gale?" 

Gale brushes his fingertips from your jaw to your nape, homesickness gnawing at his chest the longer he admires you. His tower was never important to him, Waterdeep couldn't compare. You were always his home. 

"Yes, love?" 

"I'm glad you're here with me." 

Silent for a few moments, he's briefly unsure of what to say. Finally, he breathes a long, thankful sigh, and smiles wide, a sparkle in his gaze. Adoration roots into him, promising to forever grow. 

"I love you. I love you so very much," He admits, cooing, his fingertips caressing your skin; his thumb trails over the faint mark he left on you while he speaks. The imprint of himself. "I will not leave you, that I can most undoubtedly promise. There are a great deal of things I want us to experience. Thousands of moments to live for. You would grace me with the privilege of dying a happy man, if I were to combust right now, in some unfortunate, bittersweet blaze of glory. But I give you my word, I am not planning on letting it happen." 

His gaze goes resolute. Gale presses a palm to his chest, feeling magic thrum steadily, and his heart pound wildly. Still beating, despite everything. Every defiant thump has your name written into it. "This affliction will not take me. We have won against greater evils, and I won't let anything pry us apart. Not when I finally have you." 

Night may have descended, cold air bitter on your skin, but in your chest, you feel the warmth of summer: growing heat, and an exquisite softness. You can't help but let go of a quiet sigh in satisfaction. 

"Now," He's murmuring, standing up straight and taking your hand. He helps you to slide off of his desk, until you're wobbling to unsteady feet, holding onto his arm for balance. "I do believe I've yammered on quite enough. I won't exhaust you with more lengthy pillow talk. You should be given the relaxation you are owed, correct? A bath will only take a few moments to run." 

"Mhm," You reply, gazing up at him, seeming amused. He finds it damn near impossible not to get lost in your eyes. "As long as you're planning on joining me." 

"Joining? Oh, sweetheart. I would be delighted." Gale squeezes your hand, still held in his. He brings it up to his lips, he runs his thumb over your knuckles. He presses an all-too gentle kiss to them, before his fingers lace between the crooks of your own. 

"Come. What remains of tonight is ours." 

You'll smell of lavender and his soap when you crawl into his bed. You'll feel the warmth of his body pressed to yours, his arms around you, your head buried in his chest, and your dreams will be as tender as they are familiar. Your future drawn out, past lifetimes upon lifetimes. 

And once the night bleeds into morning, you will fall for him all over again. 

— 

Waterdeep becomes your new home. 

It isn't long before Gale's tower is strewn with your belongings as well as his. Your old weapons and special artifacts find themselves scattered among tomes, scrolls, and poetry collections. You do manage to return to Baldur's Gate for a while, just to collect your things from the Elfsong and say a couple of goodbyes. You've landed a job as a professor's assistant in Waterdeep, you explain, and you can't be late for your first official day. 

You grow accustomed to the sea salt in your hair, and the way the smell of the ocean soaks into your skin. Gale provides you with your own set of rooms in a secluded corner of his tower. You can watch the waves from your bedroom window, and look out over the city from the view in his library. The days are slow, a calming change of pace from the previous adventures you shared together. Your other companions come to visit you both occasionally, making for a tender reunion. Months go by, but every day is new. A new chance to fall in love. Your new form of a delicate beginning. 

Deep in his bones, Gale still remembers how to cover your weak points. The signs you show when you're closer to crumbling than you're letting on, the feeling of your spells bleeding into his when they combine on the battlefield. He believes those times, those hardships, those perils, will be ones he could never forget — and yet, why would he want to? 

They're reminders of all he has to be grateful for. Mementos of when he first fell for you. You're both safe, you no longer have to fret over dark histories, or worry about protecting one another. For once, you can indulge in a life more tender, and much more forgiving. 

Gale learns what you prefer to have for breakfast, what seasonings you favor for supper, and how you like your coffee when he prepares it for you at sunrise. Between days spent at the academy and endless lesson planning, practicing spells and grading assignments, he makes what free moments you have seem special. There's dates, picnics. Quiet, simple moments that mean the entire world. 

Your head tends to rest in his lap when he's reading; sometimes aloud, his smooth voice lulling you into enveloping comfort. When you fall asleep, limbs tangled, resting on his chest, you relish in every potent thrum of his heartbeat. 

He leaves you love notes on shared grocery lists. Poems he's written for you are left on your bedside table, folded neatly, sealed with wax. You wind up keeping each one. 

Eventually, he's able to take you to all his favorite places in Waterdeep, the extravagant, and the plain. You've no need to introduce yourself, when everyone already seems to know you. 

The wizard is star-struck every time he drones on about you, the regulars at The Yawning Portal explain. Especially once he's had far too much to drink. 

I shouldn't tell you he's planning to propose, he's quite excited about the whole thing, the elderly owner of his favorite bookstore tells you. Be sure to act surprised. 

On the days where you don't accompany him, when he returns from a long afternoon spent at the academy, he's rushing upstairs to greet you. He pulls you into a long, tender hug, one you wish would last forever. His touch breathes new life into your scars, his voice becomes your favorite daily melody. In the wake of every night you spend entwined, you find yourself melting into him, further becoming one another's fatal weakness. When he holds you for a little too long, squeezing you tight and hiding faint tears in the crook of your neck, you feel loved, like you never have before. 

Soft and perfect, you are home. 

Mornings meld into tendays which bleed into months. You treasure it all, with unending adoration. The Gods didn't bless you with this, you carved your own path. You forged your own temple to be made holy in. Before you know it, your heart and soul are undoubtedly his, and on a day no different than the others, Gale is taking you somewhere you've never been before. 

Hands clasped, fingers entwined, he's bringing you to a height above the city, a cliff between the grand mountain and the edge of the sea. Wind runs through your hair. You rest your arms on the stone railing, and sink into the beauty of the sparkling ocean, sunlight glittering on white, foamy waves. He shows you the view of the city below, your city, and his, as the sun dips into the horizon — Although, it seems the only thing he can keep his eyes on is you. 

You're turning just in time to catch him staring. Gale laughs awkwardly in the beat of awkward silence. He mumbles a quick response when you ask if he's alright, offering you an utterance of, Nothing, you're just beautiful. He smiles wider as you offer him a genuine grin and a playful roll of your eyes. Soon, it becomes quiet enough to hear your own heartbeat, prancing loudly through your eardrums. The soft sound of the ocean echoes within you. 

Gale takes a slow, steady breath, catching your attention with a call of your name. This time, when you turn towards him, it's to watch him slowly lower down onto one knee. 

The silver ring he pulls from his jacket pocket was his mother's. It sparkles off of the sun's fading rays, a poem engraved on the inside in elegant script, the surface adorned in sapphire and sunstone. Your heart skips a few beats in your chest. 

You can hardly focus on his words, his vows and his confessions. But you do notice the tenderness to his expression as he glances up at you, misty-eyed, the breeze drifting through his ash-dappled hair; in this moment, everything feels right. And as he asks you to marry him, you're kneeling down as well and you're throwing your arms around his shoulders. You lean your head into his nape, you hold him as tight as you can manage, and you utter just the words he was hoping to hear. 

He is perfectly, endlessly yours. 

You say yes. 

[demeterlindavis]

“ have we met before ? “

Goodness i dont know what to call this au 😭 Maybe it’s hundreds of years in to the future? Maybe Astarion meets Tav again after so much time has passed

[demeterlindavis]

( ౨ৎ ) MASTERLIST

⤷﹐welcome to the masterlist! navigate my fics with the links below the cut. trigger warnings are listed upon clicking the designated chapter. if you'd like to support my work, here's a link to my ko-fi. please don't interact with my 18+ fics if you're a minor!

★ - author's pick ♡ - fluff ☾ - angst ✿ - smut

౨ৎ series

din djarin

⤷﹐18+ brown eyes | ongoing multi-chapter ♡ ☾ ✿

♫ playlist

summary: din settles on the distant planet of lazure prime while seeking a safe-haven for his son. unbeknownst to him, the choice leads him to unforeseen threats—and a deeper connection he never thought possible. (inspired by "rough day" by @no-droids i love you stevie)

chapter 1: kindness and coin

chapter 2: a sweet brew ♡

chapter 3: the mandalorian ♡

chapter 4: call it like you see it ♡

chapter 5: the armory ♡ ☾

chapter 6: spotchka ♡ ☾

chapter 7: his creed 20% complete!

↷ to be continued...

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

kylo ren

⤷﹐18+ bump it, cool it | ongoing multi-chapter ♡ ☾ ✿ ★

♫ playlist

summary: when your roommate’s older brother needs a place to crash, you begrudgingly offer up your couch— only to realize he’s the most insufferable, entitled asshole you’ve ever met. the worst part? you can’t seem to stop thinking about him.

chapter 1: charity case

chapter 2: the roommate

chapter 3: al limone ☾

chapter 4: baby, baby ♡

chapter 5: turpentine ♡ ☾

chapter 6: aisle 7 ♡

chapter 7: rhiannon ♡

chapter 8: thunder dome ♡ (releasing 22.02)

chapter 9: eighty-six 10% complete!

chapter 10: birthday girl

↷ to be continued...

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

gale dekarios

⤷﹐18+ fatum | ongoing two-shot ♡ ☾ ✿

summary: you've loathed each other since the dawn of his first arrival. it never should've worked, but somehow, as you find yourself chest-to-chest within a sunken crypt with no way out, your feelings finally surface— and gods, do they cut deep.

chapter 1: fatum invenit ♡ ☾

chapter 2: fatum signatum 17% complete! ♡ ☾ ✿

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

geralt of rivia (hiatus)

⤷﹐18+ wild woman | ongoing multi-chapter ♡ ☾ ✿

summary: geralt begrudgingly accepts a monster contract issued to him by a strange girl, thinking it to be an opportunity for some quick coin. nothing goes as planned.

chapter 1: redanian ale

chapter 2: sign from the skies

chapter 3: of thunderstorms ♡

chapter 4: a light in the dark: 17% complete!

↷ to be continued...

౨ৎ oneshots

astarion ancunin

⤷﹐18+ knuckle up | oneshot smut ♡ ✿ ★

summary: after a drunken night and a dumb bet you're left in an emotional (and physical) chokehold by your favourite vampire companion.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

geralt of rivia

⤷﹐polite company | oneshot smut ♡ ✿

summary: years after a chance encounter in skellige, a skilled sorceress and an experienced witcher reunite at an annual aretuzan party, reigniting old flames amidst whispers of courtly intrigue.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

(all fics listed are my intellectual property and i don't wish for them to be copied or reposted without my explicit consent. thank you for respecting my creativity.)

[demeterlindavis]

bg3 doodle comic

Every time people write me 'thank you, now I'm sad' I'm worried but happy? haha! In another world it might be a super power! (with luck)

also I want to draw a gortash comic one day. I think it will be sad.

[demeterlindavis]

the worst day of february | jason todd

Summary: Cold and defeated on the worst day of February, you stand on your apartment rooftop, contemplating giving up. Then the Red Hood drops in and makes you tea in your apartment.

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader 

Word count: 2k

Warnings/tags: suicidal ideation, disordered eating and sleeping habits, depression, reader doesn't attempt suicide but thinks about it a lot. a sort of hopeful ending. jason being a really really good guy.

please take care of yourselves - don't read this if you think it'll upset you.

divider

One day in February—it doesn't matter which day; it might be someone else's day too, but it doesn't matter, and it doesn't matter which February either—you realize that you've forgotten how to be happy.

When you think of February, you don't think of much, except that on those big visual calendars of the months that they put up in kindergarten, February is always pink. Pink like an organ. Pink like guts. Pink like love.

But your February—all the Februarys you've had—is blue-gray. It's like someone's cast a moody shadow over your February. It's the director's choice, clearly, to light your February like you're at a wake. It's not your choice. It's never your choice.

Here is the problem. The problem is that you're too scared, but you want the attention of someone who's killed themselves. Shame digs its claws into you at such a perverse thought. But it's true. Even if it's one person who takes a moment to inspect your guts on the sidewalk, or your body in the bathtub, you want them to hold your rigor mortis and say, what a loss. Is there anything I can do?

And then you'd pop up from the bathwater and say, why yes, there is something you can do, would you mind changing the lighting? It's bringing me down.

You're on the roof of your apartment. You don't know why, because as stated, you're too scared. And it's nighttime, and you're a speck of dust, which is comforting at times and haunting at others. Dust on a roof. Easy to be carried off by the wind.

You don't want to die, exactly. You want to rest. No amount of sleep destroys the exhaustion. Instead of marrow in your bones, it's the desire for rest that only comes through death. Unfortunately, despite not wanting to die, death seems to be your only path.

His footsteps are quiet. You don't realize that you're not alone until he's there next to you, hunched over the ledge on his elbows.

You flinch.

"Sorry," Red Hood says, and there's no smoky breath that accompanies his words like they accompany everyone else's. You wonder where the air from his helmet's filter goes.

"It's fine," you say, even though your nervous system is still reeling. It's not fine, because you hate being scared, but it also doesn't matter, so it's fine in that way.

You have a great view from the city up here but appreciating the city is difficult when it's all blue-gray shadows. Your stomach hurts. You've never felt more unbearably yourself in your life.

"Everything okay?" Hood asks.

"Yeah," you say, not bothering to lie. Not bothering to tell the truth either.

"'S cold up here."

"I'm not gonna jump."

"Didn't say you would," Hood says mildly.

"That's why you're here. You think I'll jump, and it's your duty to make sure I don't. But I won't. Too scared. I just wallow instead."

"Wallowing ain't so good either."

"Yeah," you say, throat hurting like you've swallowed a splinter. "Probably not."

An audience would see your funeral-lit life and make the obvious prediction that something bad is about to happen. The director is telling a story, and he's giving hints. You, as the protagonist, are expecting bad things too. Perhaps this is where it starts.

"You live here?" Hood asks.

There should be a curl of fear that strikes you, because Red Hood—terrifying, gangster, born and bred Gotham Red Hood—shouldn't be landing on your rooftop and checking to make sure you aren't gonna spill your guts.

He doesn't seem so terrifying, though. He doesn't seem like a gangster either. And what's wrong with being born and bred Gotham? You like it. Hood is familiar even though you've never met him before. Something about his voice, his stance, the fact that he gives a shit enough to talk to you for a minute. It feels like maybe the universe doesn't want you to kill yourself right then.

"I live here," you say, taking too long to answer.

"Alright," he says. "Lead the way."

You look at him. He's turned around now, facing the roof access door.

"What?"

Hood points a thumb at the door. "Let's go to your place."

"Why?" Why, you ask, instead of the fuck?

"'M thirsty," he says.

Well, if he's here to assassinate you, it won't matter if you bring him to your apartment or not. And now that he's mentioned it, it is cold. Probably because you're up here without a coat. A coat hadn't seemed important when you were in your apartment choking on stale black air.

Maybe you should warn Hood about the stale black air. But you feel like he won't let you return to your apartment if you do.

Hood goes first, leading you back inside. He goes down the stairs slowly, letting you drag and set the pace. It's so stupid. You feel like crying. Why is he going down the stairs with you at your stupid slow pace?

You stop two floors down. This would be another hint to your audience, the fact that you're so close to the roof that you can just climb a couple flights.

You open your apartment. You'd left it unlocked.

"Do you often leave your place unlocked?" Hood asks.

You shrug. "I don't go out enough to get the chance."

Hood doesn't say anything else but he does do the deadbolt when you're inside, as well as the chain lock.

"Shoes off?" he asks. You nod. You both remove your shoes.

Then you stand like you're not in your own apartment. Hood herds you like a sheepdog to your tiny kitchen table. Then he starts opening cabinet doors.

"Got a kettle?" he asks.

You stare at the back of his helmet, your eyebrows knitting. "A kettle? How many Gothamites do you know own kettles?"

"It's the only dignified way to make tea," he says.

Maybe Hood isn't so born and bred Gotham. "Were you raised by British monarchs?"

"Kinda," he says. He evidently gives up on finding a kettle and instead puts water to boil on the stove, even though you have a microwave. Weirdo.

Suddenly, you realize you haven't thought about death for a whole five minutes.

"Got any decaffeinated tea?" Hood asks.

You have a barely opened box of Sleepytime. You point at the top shelf. He hums and retrieves the box, taking out three tea bags to drop into the boiling water.

Hood takes out two mugs. He's surprisingly apt at navigating an unfamiliar kitchen.

He gives you your mug and sits across from you at the table. He's huge at your table, but he gracefully crosses his legs despite the limited space.

"Didja eat?" he asks.

"I had some cereal a few hours ago," you say.

Hood nods. "Fine. But you gotta eat real dinner too."

You don't think it really matters what a corpse-in-training eats, but you nod anyway. Hood's tone invites no deliberation.

"What's your favorite food? Drink your tea."

You scrunch your face and take a hesitant sip. The hot liquid burns your tongue for a moment before you swallow.

"I like pizza," you say. "And burgers. And ramen. But lately, everything tastes like nothing."

You'd tried to find joy in food a few days ago because you couldn't find it anywhere else. You'd torn open a pack of Swedish Fish and shoved the box into your drawer after eating two pieces because it'd tasted like melted plastic to you.

Then you'd bought an expensive brand of chocolate bar, desperate to be happy, desperate to be flooded with dopamine. Nothing. You'd tossed the chocolate, feeling distinctly broken. What monster doesn't find joy in their favorite candy?

You only eat to cure the hunger pains, because you can't take anymore pain. You eat to survive. Not because you want to, but because dying by starvation takes too long.

"That's okay," Hood says. "'S good you're eating."

You scoff. "I don't need consolation."

Hood doesn't give you the satisfaction of an argument. He's going to make you feel alive in a gentler way, even though you don't deserve it. "Drink your tea."

You drink. His mug remains untouched. You feel like you're in a play. This isn't even real tea, it's just colored water. And Hood's stage direction is to not drink his colored water. It's just for show.

You look out the window, expecting to make eye contact with an audience member. You're waiting for the second act. You're waiting for the end.

"I don't want anymore," you say when your mug is half-finished. Trying to finish the tea feels like prolonging the inevitable. The audience wants to go home. They have lives to get back to. They can't live with you and the stage forever.

To your surprise, Hood nods. "Okay. C'mon."

He stands up from the table. You follow him to your bedroom. He pulls open your shirt drawer. You notice the two guns strapped to his hips, two strapped to his ankles, and one bigger gun on his back. You wait for the director's guidance on how you should feel. None comes, so you remain apathetic.

"Choose a shirt," he says. You pick a plain pink t-shirt. Hood closes that drawer and opens your pants drawer. "Choose."

You take a pair of worn pajama shorts because you overheat when you sleep, especially when you're depressed. You're sweaty from your lie-in till two that you took earlier today. Your face is greasy. You're sure your hair isn't nice either.

"Go change," Hood says, walking out of your room. "I'll be outside." He closes the door behind him.

You change, if only out of shock of the Red Hood giving you orders.

"Done," you say, probably too quiet for anyone to hear. But Hood comes in. He looks you over.

"Good." He points to the bed. "Lie down."

You do. Your sheets are gross. They haven't been changed in at least a few months. You're suddenly swollen with shame that anyone, even the Red Hood, is seeing you in this state. Your eyes fill with stinging tears. You should've died before it came to this.

"I'm sorry you had to stop to do this," you say.

Hood's silent for a moment. Then he walks to your side of the bed. He crouches down. His helmet eyes glow in the dark. You've never been less afraid.

This is a plot twist you did not foresee. A new character. A guardian angel. Red in your blue-gray.

"'S not always gonna feel like this," he says.

More tears, more splinters in your throat. "It's felt like this for so long."

"Yeah," he says gently. Gentler than you fucking deserve. "I know."

The writer has overridden the director's wants, and has introduced some new foreshadowing. Should your audience believe it? Or is this a fake-out?

You lie back and want to die a little less. One young woman in your audience chokes up. She believes that you believe you’ll live. She will stay here for as long as it takes for you to make it through act two.

"If you have to go, it's okay," you say.

Hood settles against the wall near your bed. He pulls one knee against his chest. It's almost like you have a friend.

"Nah," he says. "I don't have anywhere to be. I finished my patrol. I'll stay till you fall asleep."

He doesn't ask to stay, and that feels good, not having to make the choice, to face the shame of wanting another person to care about you.

You screw your eyes shut. "Thank you," you whisper.

"I'm gonna bring you a kettle," Hood says.

You laugh. It's small and brittle but it's real. "Okay." You'll have to make it through the night. Red Hood is bringing you a kettle.

You lay there for a long time, not sleeping. You keep your eyes closed. You focus on keeping your breathing even. Then you open your eyes to check.

Hood is still there, sitting against the wall. You wonder if he's fallen asleep too. His voice startles you.

"Still here," he says. "Said I wouldn't go till you sleep. Meant it. Don't worry."

Maybe tomorrow's sun won't be so blue or gray. You fall asleep.

[demeterlindavis]

never getting over this

[demeterlindavis]

Sooo this started out being all cute and fluffy but veered over the edge into the flangst canyon…my bad. 💌 1.8k

Thinking about bestfriend!eddie who shows up your boyfriend on Valentine’s Day.

Unintentionally, of course.

It was never something he planned to do. 

He just happened to be in CVS the night before, blazed out of his mind and wandering aimlessly while the guys argued about what snacks to get. And when he made the mistake of turning onto the designated holiday aisle, he was met with a barrage of pink and red glitter and sparkles and hearts exploding off every shelf—an absolute affrontal assault to his cynical sensibilities. 

But then he picks up this one card that catches his eye. It’s got a watercolor painting of this cute little porcupine who’s holding a heart-shaped box of chocolates, and there’s a speech bubble at the top that says “I Porcu-PINE for you!”

Eddie absolutely loses it.

He stands there making these stuttering giggling sounds and they’re coming out way louder than he intended, and the pimply and dead-eyed clerk behind the register leans over to give the laziest evil eye Eddie has ever seen. He does his best to stifle himself, but more little snickers still eke out as he picks up the envelope that goes with the card, and starts scanning the shelves for the Valentine’s variation of your favorite candy.

(Because it would be weird just to do the card, right? If he throws in some other stuff too, maybe it’ll be less conspicuous. Yeah? That makes sense, doesn’t it? Yeah, totally it does.)

Before he knows it, he’s collected a whole armload of crap. Two bags of the candies (they’re 2 for $5, that just makes good business sense), a little plushie with giant sparkly eyes (its stare is hypnotizing in an odd way, it kind of reminds him of you), and a small (tiny, honestly) bouquet of daisies wrapped in crinkly cellophane (he knows you like those way more than you like roses.)

He puts it all down on the counter and gets another withering glare from the cashier after he’s rung it all up. Eddie wonders if this guy is judging him; thinks he’s some lazy, loser boyfriend buying a bunch of junk gifts at the last possible minute. But Eddie doesn’t have the mental capability at the moment to explain that he’s not even buying these for a girlfriend—they’re all for his best friend, who he sometimes, occasionally, has some slightly inappropriate thoughts about, which yeah, is kind of inconvenient in a lot of ways, but it’s cool, he’s fine with that—

There’s another huff from the cashier as he repeats the total due, and Eddie realizes this guy doesn’t give a shit that Eddie might be a crappy boyfriend, he’s much more annoyed by the fact that he has yet to take out his wallet. And as he scrambles to do so, the rest of Corroded Coffin comes up to the front, still loudly arguing about the snacks they’re carrying in their hands.

They all give Eddie a funny look when they see what he’s getting, Grant being the first to bluntly ask who it’s for. They fall silent, exchanging wary glances when Eddie mumbles your name under his breath as he hands over a creased and wrinkled bill to pay at long last.

“That’s super weird, man, don’t do that,” Jeff argues immediately. “Just give it to Gareth, and he can give it to Annie instead. Problem solved.”

“Excuse me,” Gareth snaps, “but I’ve gotten my girl her gifts and they’re a hell of a lot better than this crap. Er, uhh…no offense.”

Their drummer winces, and his eyes dart guiltily between Eddie and his purchases.

“No—” Eddie’s face scrunches and he shakes his head defiantly. “They’re not, like, serious gifts. It doesn’t mean anything. And she’s dating that rich asshole, I’m sure he’s gonna bury her in expensive shit. This is barely gonna land on her radar,” he insists, now clutching his bag in his fist.

“So then why bother?” Jeff asks, widening his annoyingly perceptive eyes under arched brows. 

But Eddie doesn’t respond. He just stomps out to the parking lot and waits by the car. All the while thinking about all the things he can never quite manage to say out loud when it comes to you.

The next day, Eddie’s rethinking everything.

Sober now and staring down at the offerings piled up in the van’s passenger seat, he can’t help but think this might be the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his life. And that’s saying something.

He talks himself in and out of going through with it about twenty times just in the ten minute drive it takes him to get to your apartment. And even as he climbs the stairs and raises his hand to knock, he has yet to decide if this is a good idea or not.

He came over semi-early, figuring you’d likely be busy later getting ready for some fancy dinner at some restaurant where Eddie probably couldn’t afford to order so much as a glass of water. 

But when you open the door, he can’t help but frown at your appearance. You don’t look like you are getting ready to go out, if anything you look like you’ve retired for the evening before 5pm.

Your face is bare except for a couple spots of zit cream, and you have on an old headband pushing your hair back out of your face. You’re swathed in the kind of baggy, oversized clothes he only sees you in when you’re ass deep in a cold or some other similarly debilitating illness. 

You don’t look sick, though. Just…sad?

How can you be sad on Love’s birthday?

“Hey, uhhh,” he says, forcing a tight smile. His palms start to sweat around the plastic handles he’s clutching behind his back. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” you reply.

There’s no sharpness to it, yet it still comes out kind of flat. Like you’re trying not to sound upset. But Eddie doesn’t push it as he follows you to the kitchen, sliding into his usual seat at your bar.

“What’s that?” you ask, eyes falling to the bag he plopped down on top of the counter.

“It’s stupid,” Eddie starts, “just some dumb little things I picked up.” For you, he adds in his head.

A small smile finally breaks the thin line your lips had been set in since he arrived and Eddie’s back broke out in a cold sweat under his leather jacket as he bashfully pushed the bag over to you.

He then watches, choking on his own heart, as you start pulling things out one by one.

You grin at the daisies, bringing them to your nose to sniff even though they probably smell more like weed than flowers after spending all night in the trailer. You squeal over the plushie, holding it up next to your face and squishing it. You hum excitedly at the first bag of candies, and laugh when you pull out a second one.

Then you get to the card.

Your eyes roll, but you can’t help smiling when you see Eddie’s nickname for you scrawled on the front of the envelope in his chicken scratch. And you’re still smiling as you slide your finger under the flap to tear through the bright red casing.

Then you read it, and your smile falls.

Your whole face does, in fact. It starts with a minute tremble of your chin that escalates into your brow pinching and your mouth crumpling into a frown. And you seem to clench every single muscle in your face to stop yourself from crying, but you just can’t keep it from happening.

“Hey, hey, wait, no, no, nooooo—”

Eddie doesn’t think, he doesn’t take a second to consider doing anything differently, he just jumps to his feet and comes around the counter to your side. He puts his arms around you automatically, letting you bury your face in his chest as you cling to him and try to settle yourself.

“I’m so-sorry, I’m s-so sorry, I’m sorry,” you babble, blubbering through the words.

“No, I’m sorry, sweetheart. I swear, I just thought it was cute, I didn’t mean to—”

“It is cute,” you wail as tears stream down your cheeks, “It’s fucking adorable!”

“Okay, then what’s the problem?” Eddie chuckles, pulling back slightly and ducking his head to look you in the eye, trying to get you to smile back.

You sniffle a few more times before you manage to collect yourself and swipe your fingers under your eyes to smear the wetness of your tears across your cheeks. Eddie’s fists clench at his sides to stop them from reaching up to do it again for you when you miss a stray one.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve been in such a weird funk all day since Matt, um…”

Your voice wobbled again and Eddie’s expression turned stony, scolding himself inwardly for letting even a tiny bit of excitement rise in his chest at the thought that you might have broken up.

“Is everything okay?” he asked. “I mean, did you guys…are you…”

“No, nothing like that,” you inhaled shakily. “He just…he doesn’t really do Valentine’s Day. And it feels so stupid to get upset over it. Like it’s just a dumb holiday, and I don’t need, like, presents or a dinner or flowers or anything like that. I just…”

Your arms crossed, as if you were trying to hug yourself. Eddie wished he could do it for you.

“I don’t know, I thought we’d do something,” you finally add quietly.

“He’s not even coming over?” Eddie scoffs. Suddenly the outfit made more sense. “At all?”

Your eyes closed in a pained wince. “Don’t make me feel worse, please,” you beg him somberly.

“No, I—” Eddie sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to upset you. Honest.”

His head dropped guiltily, eyes glued to his sneakers that stood out against the tile in your kitchen. He glanced one last time at all the stupid stuff he bought now strewn across your counter.

“You don’t have to apologize,” you told him firmly. “That was really sweet, Eddie. Seriously, like the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Your hand reaches out for the plushie again and you cradle it in your palm as you swoop in to drop a light peck on his cheek. The warmth of it makes Eddie’s whole face hot and he feels his neck tense from how much he wishes he could turn his head to the side and allow for his lips to meet yours. 

But of course he doesn’t. He wouldn’t dare.

He sure would think about it, though.

Eddie was still staring at his feet, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off you for long. He glanced back up to see you pushing through all of the extraneous things you were feeling to give him a smile, small as it was. He nodded and opened his arms, welcoming you back into them.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he whispered into your hair. Too quiet even for you to hear him.

I thought for a while about whether or not this is them, but I think this might be an entirely different set of idiots.

also is it just me or is v-day particularly oppressive this year?