#I keep coming back to fiddle and add things to this answer
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
davinawritings · 1 month ago
Note
Hi, i found your blog and see you open request so I'll try my luck here. Please if you wouldn't mind writing an alien x human (f! Reader) with forced kiss/forced makeout (or literally just the alien tongue-fucking reader's mouth) it doesn't have to be smut or having sexual intercourse but if you want to add it that'll be up to you.
Thanks ✨
Hello! Thank you so much for the request ❤️ I hope you enjoy 💕🖤❤️
Warning: Forced makeout, cheating
Aliens made contact with Earth four years ago, and the two different species have made a vow of peace. Over the last few years, many aliens and humans have participated in an exchange program of sorts. The alien and human will exchange lives for six months, giving each species the opportunity to learn more about the other. Your boyfriend decided to sign up, and within a month, the arrangements had been made.
It has been just over 2 months since your boyfriend left Earth, and Eltath has come to live with you in your boyfriend’s place. You have come to really enjoy Eltath’s company. He was always kind and loved when you taught or showed him new things about the earth. He also happily answered any of your questions as well.
Today was like many others. You took him exploring around the city. Most of the days were spent just walking and talking with each other. You had decided on a quiet night in with some movies, something Eltath had come to enjoy very much in his time on earth.
You had previously stuck to history and nature documentaries, wanting to give Eltath all the knowledge you could, but you wanted to give you both a break from learning. After flipping through your options, you finally landed on a romantic comedy, one of your favorites.
You both watched in silence, with the occasional laugh, until the end, when the two main characters finally got together and shared a passionate kiss.
You could hear the innocent curiosity in Eltath’s voice when he asked, “What are they doing? They are pressing their mouths together”. The questions catch you off guard. You had not considered the fact that aliens may have alternative courting rituals and displays of affection. Your cheeks warm with slight embarrassment as you attempt to straighten your thoughts and provide him with an answer.
“Well, Eltath, they are kissing. On earth, it is a way to show someone you like them, a form of affection that humans show each other,” you replied, trying to give a more simple answer.
He nods before asking, “So when humans want to show another human they like them, then just press their mouths together? And all humans do that”.
You fiddle with your hands as you attempt to explain better, feeling slightly awkward with the conversation. “Not all humans kiss each other. It is only with others that you like and one may give different types of kisses. A small kiss on the cheek can signify love or care, while a kiss on the mouth signifies much deeper care and likeness for someone. Then with the people you really like, you may have a deeper kiss using tongues”.
Within seconds, he has moved next to you on your couch and has your face cradled in his large hands. You open your mouth to question him, but before you get a single word out, his long tongue enters your mouth. His tongue is much longer and thicker than a human’s, and he uses it to explore the entirety of your mouth.
You whimper and try to get his attention by pushing on his body, but he just keeps you held firmly in place. You work on breathing through your nose as Eltath seems to have no intentions of pulling out to let you breathe.
Tears spring to your eyes as he moves further back, using the tip of his tongue to start exploring your throat. He pushes forward and pulls it back rapidly, essentially fucking your mouth with his large tongue. You whimper helplessly, knowing this is wrong. You have a boyfriend, and yet here you are getting tongue fucked by an alien. And worse, you can’t help but get turned on by his actions, feeling your pussy start to get wet from him using your mouth.
Suddenly, Eltath pulls away, and you gasp for breath. You stay still as you watch him smile and say, “I like you very much, so that is how we will show each other from now on. Good night. I will see you in the morning for breakfast, and perhaps I will show you how we show our affection on my planet,” he says before walking to the guest bedroom.
As you lay in bed trying to sleep hours later, you wonder how you will explain to him that it is only your boyfriend who should be kissing you like that, though kisses with your boyfriend had never felt so intense or gotten you wet as Eltath did. Eltath also said he would show you how his kind shows affection. You don’t want to confuse him even more on human affection before he can show you alien affection. It just makes sense to wait for now. Right?
🖤💕❤️❤️💕🖤
361 notes · View notes
for-a-longlongtime · 4 months ago
Text
Guilty Pleasure (4/7) - dbf!Joel Miller x reader
Tumblr media
Somehow you end up in the car with Joel for five hours. With all that heat outside, you just can't be held responsible for what happens next.
Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, mdni Series warnings (tba): Age gap (reader is 22, Joel is 42), masturbation (f), use of sex toys, oral sex, PiV, anal, hair pulling, dirty talk, getting caught, playful use of 'daddy', outrageous flirting, groping, reference to m/m, Joel's arms should always come with a warning. No outbreak!AU. Word count: 3.6K A/N: I thought "Hmmm, maybe I should add this one thing" - and not surprisingly, it got very much out of hand. @magpiepills this one is extra dirty for you!
< part 3 | series masterlist | main masterlist
Tumblr media
“Wait!” You sprint over to the truck as you hear Joel rev the engine and turn out of the driveway - surely he wouldn’t just drive off over being two minutes late? “Damnit Joel, hold on!”
He stops, giving you an amused look as you’ve almost dropped your purse and tripped over your own two feet. “Told you. 10 a.m. sharp,” he said matter of factly, giving you just enough time to open the passenger door and hop on the bench seat before he takes off again, not even giving you the chance to close the door properly.
“JOEL! The door!”
He sighs, once more stopping the car, and he leans over to turn on the radio and fiddle with the dial - giving you just enough time to close the door and put on your seat belt.
“Such a dick,” you mutter under your breath, and you can tell he hears it but just decides to not respond directly through it. “Are you the time police?”, you ask, now clearly audible as you lean back over the console to toss your purse on the backseat. “Jeez, didn’t know you’d get your panties in a bunch over being just a minute late.”
“Two minutes.” He changes the radio station a few more times until he finds a song he likes, humming along with it as he takes a right turn, headed to the main road. “ ‘s nothing but proper manners to be on time if someone gives you a ride.”
You roll your eyes as you settle in, straightening out your sundress. “Okay, Daddy,” you sigh, glancing to see if maybe that gets a response out of him, but he just keeps his eyes on the road. “Your shirt is inside out, by the way.”
“Agai-...?” He seems exasperated as he looks down at his shirt, which then hardens into a frown as he recognizes you are just messing around with him. “Shut it,” he mutters, but you can’t help but grin in satisfaction. 1 - 1, back to being even now.
“What is that awful music? Nirvana?”, you ask him, determined to not let him have the silence he asks for - and if he’s anything like your dad, you know that he’ll get extra annoyed at you trashing Kurt Cobain.
He gives you a look in disbelief that makes you think that you made the right choice there to poke at him. “Are you kidding me? No, that’s not — this is Local H,” he gives a nod at the radio. “Bound For The Floor.”
“Sounds dirty. Are they also from the eighties?” Just to make matters worse and see how far you can go, you prop your legs up on the dash - only for Joel’s large hand to reach over and sweep them right back off again as he gives you a murderous look.
“1996, you little shit. One more move like that and you can walk all the way to the DMV.”
“How am I supposed to know that? I wasn’t even born back then,” you say with a pout, your skin feeling pleasantly like it’s on fire where he touched you. “You’re being mean.”
“No shit.” He shakes his head, refusing to look back at you, but you’re pretty sure he has an excellent view of your bare legs with the way you’re currently sitting. “You’re being a brat.”
“Mmm. You into that, Joel?
There it is; one of those long suffering sighs you’ve heard repeatedly from him before. He refuses to answer your question though, also not taking any of the other bait you try to throw at him during the ride. When you finally get there, he pulls up at the front of the DMV office.
“I’ll be back in thirty to pick you up. Don’t be late again, okay?” His eyes soften slightly for just a moment before he adds, “Please. Got a lot to do today.”
“What if it takes longer? Maybe you should just give me your number so I can text you if I run late,” you suggest innocently, and you see just the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. Fuck, if only he’d give you his number, you could send him some of the spicy pictures you took last night… 
“Thirty minutes,” he repeats without missing a beat. “I’ll wait for five, else you can get an Uber back home.”
“Fine. Thanks, Joel.” You lean back over the console, trying to grab your purse - which not surprisingly is right out of your reach, just as planned. “Sorry, I need to just… give me a second.” You fully turn around in your seat, leaning all the way over to the back as you can reach your purse now, knowing damn well that this position gives him a clear view of your hot pink lacy panties under your dress. As if you needed further confirmation, the way you hear him practically choke is a dead giveaway that he indeed got an eyeful of you. 
You look over your shoulder at him, seeing that he’s intently staring straight ahead as his hands are gripping the steering wheel tight. It’s impossible to not laugh at the strained expression on his face, and you decide to take advantage of being so close to him. “Dirty old man, don’t think I didn’t notice,” you tease, planting a quick kiss on his cheek as you then hop out of the truck, not waiting to hear a response. “See you in thirty!”
Tumblr media
When he picks you up thirty minutes later, you’re ready to greet him with a snarky comment. All of that goes away the moment you get back into the truck and find your senses overwhelmed by the rich, sweet smell of coffee and caramel. Which is more than just a bit confusing, because all you’ve ever seen Joel drink is black coffee.
Joel, seeing your surprised face, nods at the cupholder as he takes a sip of his own coffee. “Hope I got your order right,” he offers, then pushes a slightly greasy Starbucks bag over to you. “Didn’t know what you’d want to eat though. If you want something else…”
You open the bag curiously, then gasp as you pull the flaky treat out of it. “Fuck, croissants are always great,” you blurt out, unable to stop a groan when you taste the ham and cheese filling. “This is so good. Thank you,” you manage after swallowing the first bite. When you lift your coffee cup to your lips, you realize he actually got your signature drink - an oat milk latte with extra caramel syrup. “How do you even know this is my drink?”
He shrugs as he takes a turn to the highway, following the signs towards the Home Depot location on the way back home. “It’s how you always make them at the house, right? Oat milk and that caramel stuff. Kitchen always smells like it,” he says as he tries to shrug it off, but you can tell he seems pleased that he got it right.
It’s not just the coffee that warms your chest as you drink it; you’re genuinely lost in your own thoughts for a while as you’re trying to process not just the kind gesture, but how much attention he must be paying to you in order to notice things like that. Your ex never did, nor did the boys before him. Even though they weren’t inconsiderate per se - it just wasn’t something that would register on their radar, it seems.
Boys. That probably was the problem to begin with. Why waste your time with boys when a gorgeous DILF like Joel was so much more attractive, thoughtful and capable?
Following Joel throughout Home Depot makes you realize that it isn’t just about him being capable - it went beyond that. He was a man on a mission, clearly knew what he wanted to get, and gathered everything with ease, including the heavy lumber. You would have happily lend him a hand, but he immediately shot that down, refusing to let you carry anything heavy 
“ ‘s not a problem, darling. I do this day in and out,” he assures you when he eventually loads everything in the back of his truck; the lumber, hardware, some new blades for saws, and other things of which you’re not even sure what they are.
“I can easily pick up things like that,” you protest mildly as you sip from your coffee, and when he bends over to pick up something from the ground, his shirt rides up his back, exposing his narrow waist. Fuck. How is this man so hot? And how does he not seem to be involved with anyone?
“Never said you can’t,” he agrees easily with you, grunting as he puts the final things in the trunk bed. “Just said you don’t have to. You need to stop anywhere on our way home?”
‘On our way home’ – the intimacy of those words suddenly makes you blush. You can’t help but wonder how exactly that would be, a home with him. You’ve never seen his place, as far as you know. Maybe you should ask him, just come up with a reason for him to take you there, affording you a kind of privacy you wouldn’t have at your parents house.
“No, I’m good,” you say truthfully, and he gives you a nod and a smile as he unlocks the cab of his truck. 
“Alright then. Let’s go.”
Tumblr media
Somehow it’s already past 3 pm by the time you get home. Five hours alone with Joel. While it had turned out very different than expected, and you enjoyed it, you were also wound up beyond belief. 
Sitting so close to him in the truck, smelling him, getting to see his little frowns, smirks, pouts and sighs in a different setting than at the house. Not to mention how watching him stride through the store and deal with things had developed a competency kink for you on the spot. It felt like somehow he had dripped over every part of you, saturating you with his presence to the point that you felt both overstimulated and woefully unsatisfied.
“Thanks again for the ride. I had a good time, really.” You smiled as you bit your lip, watching the little lines around his eyes crinkle as he smiled too.
“Not a problem. Just don’t be late next time.” 
Your heart jumped as you tried not to respond to that - next time? So he wanted to spend more time with you later? Today sure turned out to have been a success. 
The house was quiet as you went upstairs, your clothing sticking to your skin, and all you can think about is getting clean and calming down a little as you head into the bathroom. You turn on the shower, letting the water heat up a little as you stare at your reflection in one of the mirrors above the sink. 
Being back in Austin, catching up on sleep, not needing to think much about things like meals or rushing somewhere for classes - it has been nice. A breath of fresh air even, not to mention how much more time you’re spending outdoors these days. You look nothing like the person who cried for several weeks while wrestling through your finals, when the knowledge of your ex cheating on you hung around like some kind of persistent ghost, unwilling to leave even now you finally had acknowledged what happened. You weren’t looking forward to needing to return to that place once the semester started, but at least you still had half of the summer here.
You hear Joel’s footsteps in the kitchen downstairs, and you pause as you wonder if he’s going to come upstairs. He too had been sweaty from the hot weather, especially with loading and unloading the truck, so it was likely that he was due for a shower too. So… maybe you should make the most of it. Especially since you two were the only people at the house.
It’s not like you’re trying to trick Joel, you tell yourself as you strip out of your clothes - your underwear soaking wet as expected from having been so close to him. Things happen. Sometimes people forget to close a door. And if that happens to be the case while you’re about to shower, and Joel just happens to walk by… well. How bad can that be, really?
You unlock the door and fully open it, glancing across the hallway at Joel’s room that’s almost right across the bathroom. Yeap, once he comes upstairs and heads to his room, you should be right in the line of sight.
Your heart is thumping loudly as you leave the bathroom door open and head over to the shower, you try to calm your nerves by assuring yourself it’s fine. Don’t overthink it, just take a shower like you usually do. You wash your hair, putting in conditioner for a few minutes while you use the bubbling strawberry body wash to clean yourself. But as you run your hands over arms, breasts and belly, your mind automatically wanders off to thoughts of Joel again. Not just the time you spent together today, but also so many other moments this past week.
Yesterday he came home late, well past ten pm, reeking of sweat, hard labor and wood shavings. He seemed like he had planned to make a beeline for the shower, but your mom had insisted he’d sit down first and have something to drink and eat a sandwich, before he’d go upstairs to wash and crash into his bed. 
“You men are just the same; if I don’t make you eat, you’ll both starve because you’re so busy,” she had scolded him. So he sat down on a barstool, looking slightly begrudged. That all disappeared the moment there was food in front of him though; he wolfed down everything on the plate like he hadn’t seen food in days. 
You had been reading a book, picking at a bowl of cherries as you tried to not pay too much attention to him. Yet something about him all dirty and worn out after a long day of work had accelerated your pulse. Perhaps most of all it was his scent, still, that got your attention. Not overwhelming, but still clearly present - typically ‘Joel after his work day’, and you had to press your nails into your thighs to not inhale it deeply. 
Right now, just the thought of that - along with having smelled him so close to you in the truck - has you dripping wet, sensitive to the point that you almost jump when you slip a hand between your thighs. The shower isn’t exactly the most comfortable place to get yourself off, but the combination of your thoughts and the warm water proved to be impossible to resist. You pinch your nipple as you try to be not too loud, imagining Joel’s mouth on your breasts, biting you until you whimper for him. He would turn you around, make you face the wall while spreading your legs, and…
You hold your breath when you hear someone move in the hallway, then quickly close your eyes tight as you circle your clit with your fingers, ignoring the nervous feeling bubbling in your chest. “Joel,” a soft whine escapes from you after all, begging him to come into the bathroom, get in the shower with you and take whatever he wants from you. “Please…”
For a moment all you hear is the sound of the shower running, then unexpectedly the door slams shut - not by coincidence, but clearly done so deliberately. Your eyes fly open as you’re hopeful for a second that he’s standing there, stripping for you - but all you see is the closed bathroom door. There is, however, the sound of footsteps moving away from the door, going down the hallway. You curse as your building orgasm disappears almost immediately. Great. Blue balls as well as being rejected. 
You try desperately to coax yourself back to the edge, using your fingers, the strong stream of water from the shower, and even change positions a few times. Even when you press your front against the tile, fucking yourself with two fingers while you imagine Joel pounding into you from behind, you can’t quite get back to the same level of excitement - the moment ruined by the rejection of that door being slammed shut.
Eventually you just give up, finish your shower and wrap yourself up in a big towel to go back to your room. But just as you’re about to open your bedroom door, you hear a low groan that you immediately recognize as being Joel.
“Fuuuckkk. Oh, god, baby… please, yes, please…”
You gasp as you turn around, staring at Joel’s bedroom door that’s firmly closed. ‘Go over to him’, you urge yourself. But as much as you want to, and it arouses you beyond belief to think of him jerking off after having seen you in the shower, the risk of being turned down again is too offputting. His moans are something else though, and your nipples are immediately hard as your pussy starts leaking, greedy for the release you didn’t manage to get in the shower. 
So you slip into your room, turn on some music and shove a pillow between your legs to ride it, thinking about being on top of Joel. How he would stare up at you reverently, hands on your hips as you ride him, and he’d be unable to stop whimpering your name. The way he would gasp, beg for you to let him come - apologize for making you wait so long until he gave in. “I’m sorry, baby.”
You close your eyes as your hips work faster, and you slip your hand between your wet cunt and the cotton of the pillow, shuddering as you push two fingers inside of yourself. “That’s it, pretty girl. Oh, fuck, look at you…”, Joel coos, wrapping his arms around you as his hips buck up against you, again and again. “Squeezing me so goddamn tight. You want me to come inside of you?”
You nod breathlessly, the pleading words spilling from your lips, and he just laughs as he lets his hands slide down to your hips - you’re still riding him, but he’s clearly in control, guiding you just the way you need.
“Filthy girl,” he breathes in your ear, letting one hand slide from your hips to your ass. “You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?” Whimpering, you nod again in agreement, but that only gets you a smack against your ass, so firmly that it takes your breath away. “I asked you a question. Use your words for me,” he demands, fucking up even harder into you. “Tell me what you’d let me do to you.”
“Anything, Joel!” you cry out, burying your face into the pillow as you’re shaking with desire, feeling the tension build up so it could soon release. “Anything. Come inside me, please, give me… I want it, let me feel you…”
“You want me dripping out of you? Filling you up so much that you spill over?”
You cry out as you come hard, the words you imagine him saying to you echoing loudly in your mind, your body easing at the long awaited release, but still it’s not enough. Blindly you reach for the silk bag on your nightstand, pulling out the first thing you get your hands on - a bullet vibrator -, and you turn it on while you keep the fingers of your other hand still buried inside of you.
“So greedy. You're a dirty little thing.” Joel’s laugh fills up your head, taunting you, telling you exactly all the things you want to hear, all the things he would do to you, and soon your body convulses for a second time. By the third time, your hand has gone numb and you feel lightheaded, as if you’re going to pass out. The words echoing in your head are no longer the imagined whispers from Joel, just the moans you heard earlier in the hallway, coming directly from him. “Fuuuckkk. Oh, god, baby… please, yes, please…”
Trembling, you click off the vibrator and wipe yourself clean with a shirt that’s within reach while you desperately try to control your breathing. You’re just gonna take five minutes to recover - that’s all. Just close your eyes for a moment. And next time… next time you hear him moaning, you won't hesitate. You'll just go straight into his room.
Next time.
Tumblr media
next: part 5 >
series masterlist | main masterlist
🚨 Follow @longlongtime-updates and turn on notifications to find out when the next part drops!
292 notes · View notes
writingjourney · 6 months ago
Text
Small Beauties
Tumblr media
Life at court while beneficial to your station is above all else one thing – unbearably lonely. With a youth spent in unreciprocated longing, the trap of an unhappy marriage, illness, loss and untimely farewells there is one thing that does not change throughout the years – your infatuation and blossoming friendship with Otto Hightower. After all is said and done, are you not both deserving of the very thing you never allowed yourselves to have?
pairing: Otto Hightower x fem!reader // rated E, 18+ MDNI
content: 19k words in five parts + epilogue, pining, forbidden romance, mostly gentle!otto, talks about pregnancy/infertility, minor character death, grief, religious themes (faith of the seven), smut (thigh riding, hand job, oral sex f!receiving, p in v, unprotected, coming inside, mild hand kink)
This story is available on AO3, split into five chapters ♡
Tumblr media
1 The Maiden Days
Otto Hightower lifts the ornate cup to his lips, taking a lazy sip before he slowly lowers it yet again. A crimson stain lingers on the soft skin, the Dornish wine momentarily painting them red. You are transfixed by the sight. No matter how often he repeats this simple action it never fails to incite a war in your chest – heart beating rapidly, your lungs fluttering with every breath.
You fold your hands in your lap to ground yourself, observing him from your spot on the cool stone bench that sits at the far end of the balcony. Around you, a handful of other young ladies has erupted into lively chatter, most of them a few years younger than you.
“Ser Alister is so very handsome,” one of them chirps, giggling under her breath as they all turn to look at the man. “A fine knight, tall and strong and most honourable. His blue eyes are captivating.”
“Have you seen Ser Matthos? I hear that he has never lost a battle, the strongest knight in all the Riverlands.”
“Who do you admire, my lady?”
The voice resounds close to your ear – your friend, the Lady Emeline. You answer in a low hum, feigning contemplation. But your eyes still follow his every movement. Often times the lord will keep to himself, observing these gatherings more so than participating. His auburn hair shimmers golden in the warm sunlight and you are so very grateful to behold him outside of the gloomy chambers of the castle.
“Ser Otto,” you whisper.
They all burst into laughter like you told a hilarious joke, guffawing quite unladylike which garners the attention of the entire balcony, including the man you have been speaking of.
“I am not jesting,” you inform them.
Their laughter stops at once. Emeline’s hand wraps around your forearm. “But, you cannot be serious?”
Your eyes stay on the Lord whose solemn gaze still holds you captive. “The Lord Hand is handsome and tall, he is intelligent and experienced in life. An honourable man who serves our realm most faithfully. Any young lady would be lucky to be wed to him.”
“But he is… old,” she whispers now.
“And he is the Lady Alicent’s father,” another girl adds.
You decide to end your rhapsody, if only because you know they could never understand your infatuation. The Lord Hand is not older than half of the men your father is considering as a match for you, even though he certainly appears to be wise beyond his years. Recently widowed and in no want of a new wife, you are well aware that all your dreams of being with him are hopeless. However, this knowledge does nothing to quench your desires as his eyes remain fixed on you for longer than is appropriate. You confidently hold his gaze, even as your heart threatens to burst from your chest. Finally, he averts his eyes, just as the red stain slowly fades from his pale lips.
✦ ✧ ✦
Your father has been pacing since the sun began to wander westwards, his arms crossed behind his back as he fiddles with the rings on his fingers. You’ve seen this nervous gesture plenty of times in your life, only this time his distress has been inadvertently caused by you. Not even the splendid view over the prospering gardens of King’s Landing seems to calm his agitation. “She is of age, she has been of age for long enough that anything but a swift betrothal would be considered shameful, especially now that we are here.”
“Surely that should not be an issue, my lord?” your mother asks. “I hear from the other ladies that she has many a handsome suitor.”
“Suitors, yes, but no promising match. We have to entertain the possibility of sending her to the Riverlands or even the North, though I would prefer for her to stay in the capital. It is always useful to have a direct line to the crown.”
“Perhaps a Lannister?” she asks. “Or Ser Alister? All the young girls seem enamoured with him and his father sits on the king’s council.”
“What about Ser Otto?” you interject.
“The Lord Hand?” Your father barks out a laugh. “He will not have you, girl.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are not important enough, child, and most certainly not handsome enough to tempt a man like him. If he harboured any interest in you he would have already expressed it.”
“My lord.”
You startle at the sound of the deep voice that haunts your very existence these days, followed by the crunching of heavy footsteps on the gravely path. Your face instantly drains of all colour until you can feel the blood rushing back to your cheeks tenfold. You and your mother are seated underneath a rose-colored pavilion but the shade does nothing to cool your heated skin. At the arrival of your guest, you both stand for a polite greeting. From your spot close beside him you make out a familiar pair of leather boots and the ornate hem of a set of dark green garbs, the elaborate pattern of which you could describe in great detail from memory alone.
You cannot bring yourself to meet his eyes.
“My Lord Hand,” your father greets. “To what do I owe the honour of such an unexpected visit?”
“I was informed of your arrival, my lord. I deeply regret that I was kept busy for most of the day – as you well know from your own time in the capital the council never truly rests.” He stops for a moment when your father chuckles, then his voice softens. “My ladies.”
“My lord, what a pleasure to see you,” your mother replies. “It has been nigh a decade.”
“Indeed, my lady. I trust that your lord father is in good health?”
“He is,” she says with a playful smile. “The only ailment he cannot quite soothe is his growing ennui. He so loved to meddle in politics, now all he gets to dictate are his servants while my brother commands his army.”
The Lord Hand gives a kindhearted chuckle and you can almost feel the deep rumbling of his chest vibrating against you, a quake that has your own body trembling helplessly. You realise that every second of silence raises the risk of appearing unseemly to the lord, and so you finally glance up at him, only to find his green eyes already resting on you.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” you say, wishing the earth would open up and swallow you whole.
“My lady.” The corner of his mouth bends into a kind if not sympathetic smile. He must have heard his name coming from your lips upon his arrival and you cannot help but suspect that he finds the suggestion pitiable.
For the remainder of their conversation you stay quiet, withdrawing into yourself to nurse your deep embarrassment and sneaking glances at the lord only when you’re certain that his attention lies elsewhere. Soon your father follows the Lord Hand back inside the keep for a private audience and you remain seated in the gardens with a broken heart. Your mother inquires about the knights and lords you have met in your time in King’s Landing, riddling you with questions about potential marriage candidates.
She does not ask about Otto Hightower.
✦ ✧ ✦
The lady Alicent pulls the book from the shelf ever so cautiously in the way that she was taught to handle the ancient tomes that reside in her lord father’s library. You stand by her side, reading the spines of the books in the collection that his lordship as well as his predecessors have accumulated over the past centuries. Storybooks and fairytales are scarce, you are quite certain that you have read all of them thrice at this point, and so you and your friend have moved on to the historical accounts that the septa never taught you about.
The Lord Hand is eyeing you from his desk where he is taking care of his correspondence, his brow furrowed in deep concentration as the quill scratches the ink into the parchment. Alicent, who has retrieved the book by now, presents the title to him.
“Hm, a good pick, my daughter.”
You both smile at him and his eyes stay on you for so long that you are inclined to stall your departure even as Alicent makes her way to the door. You have never been very subtle about your feelings for the lord and for the past few moons he has indulged you by meeting your eyes more often than would be deemed appropriate should anyone notice.
“A word, my lady?” he asks, sensing your apprehension.
You glance at Alicent who merely gives you one of her kind smiles. “I shall wait for you in the godswood.”
A nervous sensation spreads in your limbs, numbing your fingers as you link your hands behind your back. His lordship stands and beholds you for a moment, his gaze betraying none of his thoughts as it flits between your face and the rest of your form. You stand still, meeting his eyes as you are wont to do, trying to uphold an air of confidence and maturity beyond your years.
“I wanted to congratulate you on your betrothal, my lady,” he says eventually.
“Thank you, my lord.” You hesitate for a moment in surprise as he is the first to bring up the subject since your father presented you with the news. “I was not aware that it had been announced already.”
He sits down behind his desk, neatly folding his long hands on its surface. “I assisted your father with the arrangements. The match was my suggestion.”
“Oh.” You feel your limbs trembling, the realisation like a knife in your chest. “I see.”
“I know he may not be who you dreamed for yourself,” he continues with a knowing expression that softens his features in a way that makes you want to weep.
“My lord has a keen, observant eye.”
“Indeed I have noticed your glances, my lady.” His brows pull together in a display of almost fatherly sympathy but it only makes the knife twist and sink in deeper. “And while I am flattered by your… infatuation, I must point out that this arrangement spares you a life by the side of a man much older than yourself. Ser Alister is in the prime of his youth, a well-favoured knight, and he will make a fine husband for many years to come.”
You nod, swallowing the tears that threaten to spill from your eyes. “I am fortunate to be betrothed to such a brave and noble knight. And yet **I feel that I must point out that you are being most unkind to yourself, my lord. Your age only adds to your character, your wisdom and gentle disposition are unmatched by any knight I have met in my life. If you ever chose to marry again, the lady would be most fortunate indeed.”
“Your generous words are appreciated, my lady.” He gives a smile that feels more genuine than the ones you have seen before. You refuse to get lost in the way it makes his eyes glow in the light of the candles. “May the Seven watch over you and bestow you with a prosperous future.”
You swallow around the tears that are painfully forming in your eyes, willing the corners of your mouth to return his kindness. “Thank you, my lord. I am certain with your blessings they will.”
Tumblr media
2 The Wedded Days
“Seven blessings on your hunt, my lord. May your arrows fly true.”
You press a kiss to your husband’s pale cheek, the courtyard a cacophony of neighing horses, shouting men and clattering weapons in your ears. The hour is early and yet the keep is already alive as it prepares for a day that promises fresh game and other spoils of the woods.
He mounts his horse with a chuckle. “Can you not hear the deer already bawling? They are quivering with fear.”
You fight off a grimace, feeling sorry for the poor animals, and wave after the party as they depart for the Kingswood. A few other ladies who have bid their husbands farewell are waiting with you, waving until the last horse is out of sight and quiet settles in.
Your husband of three years recently inherited his father’s titles and has risen significantly in the king’s esteem ever since. As a proficient hunter since his childhood days it is no surprise that he was invited to join the party. You are surprised, however, when you encounter the Lord Hand on your way back inside, the quiet of the keep’s interiors enveloping you most welcomely.
“Are you not joining the hunt, my lord?” you ask when he stops to greet you.
“No, my lady, it is a small party.”
“His Grace would leave without his most trusted advisor?”
“His Grace has little use for me in the Kingswood, my lady. I am tending to important matters of the realm during his absence.”
You nod in understanding. Naturally the Lord Hand knows to prioritise his tasks but that does not mean you cannot tempt him to a small diversion. “Perhaps his lordship would allow me to keep him company, then?”
He scoffs mildly. “I hardly think that is appropriate, my lady.”
“Why not?”
The lord stops in his tracks, his gaze suddenly softening. “My lady.”
You raise your brows. “Are you concerned about matters of propriety?”
“I am concerned about the matter of your propriety, my lady, yes.”
“If you are alluding to…” You pause and he quirks an eyebrow, almost as if in amusement. “If you are alluding to my childish infatuation with you, my lord, I can assure you that it has long since passed. All I wish is for some company. It has been quite some time since I had the chance to enjoy the sunrise on a morning walk and I merely wish to share the beautiful view the gardens offer at first light.”
For a brief moment, the lord regards you as though he is trying to decipher one of his books. Eventually he tips his head to the side, locking his arms behind his back. “Very well, my lady. Since you are so fond of the gardens, I shall let you lead the way.”
You chuckle good-naturedly. “That is only because his lordship is so busy with politics that he hardly leaves the council chamber. Something he has in common with my husband.”
“There are duties that require an environment free of diversions, my lady.”
“Beauty is a diversion, then, my lord?”
“It most certainly is.”
You exit the keep onto a rather large balcony, the view opening up to the gardens that are still draped in deep shadows as the sun slowly rises above the horizon. A clear sky stretches out in purples, pinks and oranges, their pastel hues blending into each other with the soft brushstrokes of an artist. The sight takes your breath away for several seconds and when you come to, you notice that the Lord Hand is observing you.
“A marvel, don’t you agree?” you ask.
Otto Hightower smiles softly, his eyes crinkling beautifully in their corners. “A marvel indeed.”
The pink on your cheeks must mirror that of the sky when you descend the stairs and tread along the path. The cool air is not unwelcome even though your gown with its southern cut is not meant to keep you warm. You have only known the warm climate of the capital, hardly remembering your time before you were sent here as a ward, but you imagine that this is what the earliest signs of fall would feel like further up North.
“I don’t think I have properly conversed with anyone but my own servants in over a fortnight,” you muse as your footsteps lead you past flowering bushes, their blossoms still closed from the night. “Not even my lord husband has any time to spare for me these days, so busy is he with the council and his… lordly activities.”
“My lady, if you suffer from feelings of loneliness, I am sure we can make some arrangements to ease that affliction.” The tall lord's footsteps are heavier than yours, a reassuring sound that follows you along the path. “Perhaps we can send for one of your sisters.”
“I do not wish to talk to my sisters who I hardly know and hardly remember.” You pause, trying to hide your disdain as you let your hand hover under a particularly beautiful flower. “My lord, I so long for easy conversation or even just the silent companionship that being in the mere presence of a familiar person offers. Since becoming a wife my social circle has only grown smaller which I find quite odd.”
“Perhaps it simply lacks the carefree nature of childhood,” he says wisely.
“Perhaps it simply lacks another intelligent being to converse with.”
“In which case you flatter me, my lady, by seeking my companionship.”
You cannot hide the small smile that slips onto your face. “I have always enjoyed listening to you, my lord. Your insight and wisdom in any conversation over a shared meal has taught me more than my septa during her lessons.”
He rewards you with a deep chuckle and you glance at him, the way his usually stoic face lights up in a smile. “I should think that your septa did a fine job in raising a knowledgeable, kind-hearted young lady.”
“She did, you are quite right. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.” You continue to walk, trying to focus back on the sun that wanders along with you. “However, I cannot deny that I regret the ways in which time has passed. I have lost my friends to motherhood while I myself have been less than fortunate in this area. I now suffer the consequences of these shortcomings.”
“There is still time, my lady. You are quite young.”
The smile you give him is tinged with sadness, even though you appreciate his kind words. In truth, you are close to giving up all hope to ever conceive. You have been married for three years now and in all that time you have not once been with child. Not for a lack of efforts from your lord husband nor from your unwillingness to endure said efforts, no matter how unenjoyable you found them. As of late, however, he has shifted those efforts to other recipients, if your staff is to be believed who has spotted him frequent certain establishments in the city. You are not sure if that is a blessing or a curse.
“You speak very kindly, my lord, and yet deep in my heart I can feel that this marriage will not be as prosperous as anyone would have hoped. Perhaps the Gods did not intend for me to be a mother, as much as it pains me to entertain this possibility.”
“My lady, let me assure you that it is not necessarily the fault of the mother,” he says, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Many good men have not sired a child in all their life.”
You consider his words, consider their implications that perhaps the fault of your childless life is not yours alone. “You may be right, my lord, and yet if the purpose of a woman is to bear her husband’s children then I cannot help but feel like my worth has been impaired by my failure to give him an heir.”
“Some narrow minds may view it like that, yes, but I cannot agree. My own lady wife was much more to me than just the bearer of my children and I miss her dearly to this very day.”
You cannot help the wave of pain this opens in your chest, your eyes stinging the faintest bit. “How beautiful it must be to be loved and cherished as you did her.”
“Do you not feel cherished, my lady?” he inquires.
“I never expected to be blessed with a happy marriage, my lord,” you confess truthfully. “And yet the reality of it disappoints me greatly. They say a lady may not love her husband but that she will love his children. It fills me with great sorrow to find that there is no love in my life when my heart is overflowing with all that I have yet to give.”
He halts right beside you and you do the same, the view from the edge of the retaining wall quite spectacular now that the sun has risen above sea level.
“I know my lady is visiting the city’s orphanages quite frequently,” he finally says. “And that she is very fond of my own grandchildren, generously helping my daughter in her care for them.”
“Indeed and it may not be quite the same as having a child of my own that I can spoil as I please but it brings me a few moments of domesticity now and again that I deeply cherish.”
He nods sagely, his sombre gaze meeting your own. “Seeing that you find yourself lacking for company perhaps I may extend an invitation to join us for supper more frequently, my lady? With or without your lord husband, as his schedule allows.”
You find yourself smiling freely at him, awakening sensations that are altogether too familiar, too intimate. If only he had not married you to a man incapable of such affections. “I shall gladly accept your kind offer, my lord. It would please me greatly.”
There is no pity in the expression he gives you this time but a gentle friendliness that you cannot remember seeing in his eyes before. You resume your stroll through the gardens, the increasing warmth of the sunlight invigorating your cold limbs the further you go, and when you reach a fork in the path that leads either further down or back towards the keep you do not wish to turn around.
“Shall we keep going, my lady?” the lord asks.
You cannot help but smile when you agree.
✦ ✧ ✦
Otto senses some reluctance as he glances at the names of staff that is working for your household, if only because he is keenly aware that the findings of his current research may upset him in ways that will tempt him to folly. However, if your husband is mistreating you then he simply must know. His net of spies within the palace is tight as it is in the rest of King’s Landing but the proximity will make it much easier to have him observed.
It instils amounts of regret in him that border on a stomach ache. Marrying you to Ser Alister had been a logical decision at the time but he cannot deny that keeping you in King’s Landing influenced his judgement severely.
A handsome young knight, to inherit his father’s titles and possibly even his seat at the king’s council, Ser Alister was an easily agreed upon match for your father, easier still for Otto who felt like he was doing you a favour after he had noticed your attentions for a while – attentions he could not return at the time, for your protection and out of the overwhelming grief he still felt after the death of his wife. Even so, Otto has to admit to himself that your very openly displayed affections have always flattered him, that you are a true beauty with a comely face that is not just a joy to look at but also a delight to listen to. You are educated, intelligent, sweet, bold in private but shy in the company of others. Endearing even to his old and fractured heart.
Alister did inherit the title as well as the seat on the council within the next three years after your wedding, having wrapped the king around his finger with his open support for the Princess and his Grace’s adamancy in keeping her as his heir. Otto can see now where he went wrong – a severe lapse in judgement of his character, to think him respectful and harmless despite their political disagreements. To think him even remotely worthy of you.
The questioning of your staff as well as a few of his spies in the city reveals quickly that the man he had you marry is a well-known customer in the Street of Silks. Otto cannot, will not believe that anyone would discard a woman like you so foolishly and after only three years of marriage. Such disrespect to the Maid and the Mother of whom you are such a striking image, deserving of nothing but reverence and adoration and a family to love. There is no honour in men like Alister, in men like Daemon Targaryen and so many others who do not know how to cherish their wives as they vowed before the Gods.
A vivid feeling of contempt takes hold of Otto, at himself as well as your husband. He cannot alter what he did in arranging this match but he can make sure that you are comforted in knowing that you deserve more.
✦ ✧ ✦
The Tower of the Hand has not changed much over the past few years, the narrow staircases, the cool stone walls still caging you in. To be summoned now makes you wonder what his lordship could possibly need from you. When you enter, the Lord Hand swiftly dismisses his guards and they close the door behind you. The chamber is dark, only a few candles flickering from his desk and the mantelpiece of his unlit hearth, and yet you can make out the lines of worry on his handsome aging face.
“My lord,” you address him.
“My lady, I am afraid that I have requested to see you on a rather… delicate matter. Please, have a seat.”
There is hardly enough time to scan the circular room before you sit at a small desk with his correspondence spread over top, the wax still melting over a candle. You can see his bed from the corner of your eye – his private quarters.
“My lady, after our conversation in the gardens…” He stops himself, making sure that you are meeting his gaze. “I could not help but look into matters that you have hinted at, in genuine concern for your well-being, and I am afraid that I have uncovered a concerning truth.”
“Pray tell, my lord, what truth? You do not have to spare my feelings.”
“I got word from a trusted source that your lord husband has been seen in… certain establishments in the Street of Silks.”
“I am afraid that this is not news to me, my lord,” you say and he regards you with surprise.
“You are aware?”
“If it please, my lord, I would prefer for this to remain private. It is already shameful enough without the entire court knowing.”
“Of course, my lady, I merely wished for you to know the vicious acts–”
You have to suppress a dry chuckle, wondering why he seems so astonished by your husband’s ways. “Vicious? My lord, I am hardly the only lady bound to a husband who seeks his pleasure elsewhere.”
Otto’s voice drips with venom. “That does not make it any less despicable.”
You nod, conceding to his point. “May I be truthful, my lord?”
“Certainly.”
“I would rather he takes his needs elsewhere than continue to…” You pause, trying to phrase your thoughts without leaving respectability. “I have given up hopes on a child of my own, so there is no need to continue our efforts. I find no enjoyment in them and with no remaining purpose I find myself incapable of putting my body through the pain.”
His gaze changes now, sympathy perhaps. The crease on his forehead is deeper. “Pain, my lady?”
“Were you not aware that it is painful, my lord?”
“You say this as though it is a fact.”
“Is it not?” you ask, confused as to his meaning.
He looks at you as though there is something weighing on him, something he is desperate to share, but when his mouth opens no words come out. The lord spreads his palms on his desk as he sits up straighter, his hands pale and broad, adorned with rings that reflect the light of the candles. “My lady, I fear that the continuation of this conversation will lead us beyond the realms of propriety.”
You nod, averting your gaze in shame. “Please forgive me, my lord.”
“There is nothing to forgive, my lady. I understand there is a… curiosity that grows upon the discovery of such intimate matters.”
You fight back the tears that have gathered in your eyes. “No matter, he is not requesting my presence anymore. I just wonder–” Again, you have to pause, feeling like a child again and not like a woman of two-and-twenty years. “Is it true, my lord?”
He furrows his brow. “Is what true, my lady?”
“Am I not handsome enough? My father–”
“Your father should never have spoken to you like that,” he interrupts, only catching his tone after the words left his mouth. You are surprised he still recalls that conversation. “I can assure you, my lady, that your beauty is greatly admired at court and certainly not the reason that your husband is disrespecting you in such a way.”
“And yet, perhaps he cannot find it.” You swallow the tears of irritation that are threatening to spill. “Please forget that I ever mentioned this to you, my lord. I hope you can forgive me for my transgression. I am aware that my intent is one that does not befit a lady of my station and that you cannot give me counsel in such matters. I thank you for your concern and for looking out for me when no one else does.”
“My lady.” His voice is soft, hardly more than a whisper and when you meet his eyes you see a glimmer in them that is akin to the longing you feel in your heart.
Perhaps it is this notion that gives you the courage. You place your delicate hand on top of his, feeling the lines and ridges, scars of a long life spent with a sword in his grasp. He does not pull away, not even when you smooth your thumb over his skin in a tender stroke. You repeat the movement, his eyes fixated on your joint hands, and round the table without letting go.
Once you are in his lap, you let go of his hand to toy with his doublet, tracing the chains around his neck, the brooch that shows the world that he is the hand of the king, the second most powerful man in all the Seven Kingdoms. And yet the power he wields over you far surpasses that of anyone else. Your faces are at the same height now, your noses brushing together before you lean back. You take his hand in both of yours, admiring how large it is, how you have to use both hands to fully grasp it. For a brief moment you bring it to your lips, breathing a kiss to his knuckles. The silver ring on his finger feels cool against your mouth, his skin softer than you expected.
“My lady,” he warns, the hesitation evident in his eyes.
You place his hand on your waist and to your delight he curls it around your shape. When you reach for his other hand he meets you halfway. They settle over your hips, holding you in place, and you rest your own hands on top of them for a moment to feel the warmth of his skin. This is how a lover’s touch should feel, you think. Gentle and warm. Safe.
“This is foolish,” he comments but his voice is too soft to convey the sentiment.
“Perhaps,” you agree. “Let me be foolish for once, my lord. I want to know what it feels like to follow my desires, to have a memory that I can retreat to when I need it.”
His throat constricts as he swallows, his gentle gaze fixed on you as you inspect the soft wrinkles on his face, the discoloured skin below his eyes that crinkles when they move. You lift a hand to caress him, shy fingertips exploring the shape of his face. Your lord stays still for you, allowing you the innocent touch even as his heart tightens at the intimacy of it all. He has not been touched by a woman in so long that he quite forgot the reactions it lures from his body, the want, the need it stokes when such a sublime creatures offers him the tenderness and comfort he so craves.
You shift forward and suddenly his thigh is pressing against that soft part between your legs. The pressure sends a jolt through your body. You gasp and his eyes flutter closed for a moment. You move your hand to comb his beard, your fingertips grazing the skin underneath until you can cup his cheek. The lord leans into your touch, eyes still shut, and breathes a burdensome sigh.
“Let me adjust you,” he finally says as his eyes open, waiting for you to give a nod before his grasp tightens. He lifts you enough that your leg slides between his, shifting his hips forward to give you more space. You are straddling his thigh now, the fabric of your dress bunched up high enough that you can feel him pressing against your core through your shift and your linens.
“My lord,” you whisper.
“Move your hips,” he instructs. “Gently, and tell me when you feel it.”
“Feel what, my lord?”
“You will know, darling girl.”
With your eyes on his you do as he says, rocking your hips clumsily at first. His hands guide you into a more fluid rhythm and you find more confidence when you feel the first sparks of pleasure his firm leg sends through your body. Your gasps soon fill the room, even as you try to hold them back. You recognise the feeling and the heat, you have felt it at times when your husband happened to touch certain parts of you, when you tried to touch yourself but weren’t courageous enough to continue. Only now the intensity is tenfold, especially with the lord’s keen eyes so focused on your mouth, on every sigh that leaves your lips.
“My beauty,” he whispers. “Carved from marble, a face that even the Gods must envy, and yet he does not see it, does not treasure it. What a shame to be gifted such a beautiful flower and to let it wilt in neglect.”
His words hardly register as he bounces his leg to meet your rhythm. The sparks of pleasure that spread in your body feel wrong, almost shameful, and yet you want to chase, need to chase them. But then the pressure slowly becomes uncomfortable, a tension that you don’t recognise but that is bordering on painful. You whimper, stopping your efforts, whispering that it is too much.
“Keep going,” your lord orders, gripping your hips tightly to drag you across his leg. “Do not stop.”
“I c-cannot–”
“Shhhh,” he coos. “Trust me, my girl.”
You cry out softly, picking your rhythm back up as he helps you with strong hands, the hands of a knight, a powerful man that you have wanted since you knew what wanting really meant. The tension pushes you towards an invisible edge and then you fall–
“My lord. My lord.” You wail as if in pain, your face falling against his as your breathing becomes more shallow and the pleasure tears through your body. He does not stop you as you hide your face, his beard soft against your cheek as he drags out the sensation by moving his leg back and forth, pressing against that spot again and again. The fabric of your linens as well as his pants feels damp against your core.
Your body goes slack and his arms wrap around you, cradling you against his broad chest as you catch your breath. Even as your body stops trembling the warmth and contentment stay trapped within you, your muscles slowly relaxing now.
“My darling girl,” he whispers, breathing a kiss to your hair. “And how well you did.”
“What have you done to me?” you ask breathlessly.
“What you are owed, my lady,” he says with a chuckle. “I have given you pleasure”
“Pleasure.” The word tastes sweet on your tongue but it comes with a sting. How cruel to give you a crumb of bliss only to pull it away again.
You lift your head to look at him, a softness on his face that lets you believe he holds a warm affection for you, at least for this fleeting moment. The desire to kiss him is overwhelming and you place your hand on his other thigh. Immediately you feel the hardness between his legs against your arm and you flinch back in uncertainty. “My lord.”
“Pay it no mind,” he says.
You ignore him and place your hand on his stiff member, feeling the outline clearly even through the fabric of his garbs. The gasp that leaves him sounds like music, the first sign that this is affecting him beyond what he is willing to share. You want to kiss him still, your face inching closer on its own accord. His hand moves up to cup your chin and he places his thumb on your plump bottom lip, only allowing you to hover above his own mouth. It is but a futile attempt at restraint, at keeping up the illusion that nothing here is untoward. You move your hand to stroke him through his pants and his hips buck to meet your movement.
“Gods have mercy,” he breathes, his voice raspy and barely audible.
You wonder how long it has been since someone touched him like this. Mesmerised by his reaction, you do it again and his eyes flutter closed, his unkempt brows furrowing so tightly that they almost meet. After only a handful more strokes he releases a scarcely concealed groan and you feel him kicking against your hand, the thick fabric turning wet as it soaks up his spend.
His ragged breathing betrays his state, even as he controls any other sound that leaves him. You are still trapped in the haze of your own bliss, in the newfound sense of power you have gained from whatever it is that you just did to him. He still won’t let you kiss him, his thumb firm against your lips. Perhaps it is better that way, you think, the only skin of his you have touched being that of his hands.
“My sweet girl,” he says after a moment, clearing his tight throat with some effort. “We can never speak of this again.”
The words tear you back down from your high, their reality so evident, so clear. You nod and allow the pain to spread in your heart, expected but all the more severe. Of course nothing has changed, not in truth, even though you feel like you will never be the same again.
Otto removes you from his lap, making sure that you can stand on your own and waiting patiently until your legs stop wobbling, his hands firm on your hips. His face betrays his regret – he cannot hide his emotions from you anymore, not after what you just did. He is such an honourable man, valuing propriety and respect above all else, that this must pain him more than you can understand.
You make sure your gown sits correctly and smooth out the strands of hair that have fallen into your face from moving so erratically. The door-handle feels cool against your warm hand, a feverish sensation spreading within you. You spare the lord one last glance, your eyes meeting his for a burning hot moment, and then you slip through the door, a profound sense of loss slowly settling in your bones.
Tumblr media
3 The Lonely Days
Your handmaiden carefully adjusts the sleeves of your gown, a deep blue fabric with golden accents to match the colours of your husband’s house. Bejewelled earrings and a bracelet complete your look, dainty jewellery with blue stones just like he once told you he prefers. You stare at your reflection in the polished metal for a long moment, struggling to recognise yourself even after years of wearing his colours. You are almost ready when the door to your chambers opens and a footman enters with his gaze lowered.
“What is it?” you ask impatiently.
“His lordship has requested to stay in bed tonight,” he says. “He is not feeling well enough to accompany you to the celebration, m’lady.”
“He is unwell?”
“He has been sleeping for most of the day, m’lady, complained about a headache.”
“Why have I not been informed?”
The servant simply stares at the floor and you sigh as you realise that the signs point to a long night down in the brothels more so than an acute illness. It would certainly not be the first time that he is leaving you to your own devices to nurse the ailments of a night spent drinking and– You clear your throat.
“Send for a maester should he not feel better in the morning,” you tell him. “And inform me of his condition the moment it changes.”
A nod and the door softly closes. Another event you will have to attend by yourself. You would be glad to avoid a night of his indifference were it not for the fact that his absence must appear even more worrisome to the other houses. You are anything but a strong unit and talks about your childless marriage never cease – you see them whispering their rumours from ear to ear whenever you enter a room, followed by pitiful glances.
“Anything else, m’lady?” your handmaiden asks. “Perhaps a shawl in case you feel a chill?”
You falter for a moment as you look down at yourself and suddenly detest your whole attire. Why are you dressing for a man who disrespects you at any chance he gets, who cannot even exert himself to appear by your side when it truly matters? “Apologies, Malena, but I have decided that I will wear the green dress tonight after all.”
She bows and you begin to undress as she fetches the garment. There is only one pair of eyes that you want to feel on your body tonight and it won’t be drawn to blue fabric.
✦ ✧ ✦
The hall is filled to the brim with people of all houses – a banquet to which not only the capital’s nobility has been invited but any noble who was willing to commit to the journey to King’s Landing. It is a celebration in honour of the Prince Aegon’s nameday but Otto insisted on the opulence – the prince has to stay on their minds, his grandson, namesake of Aegon the Conqueror, and as far as Otto is concerned the future regent of the Seven Kingdoms.
Noisy chatter fills his ears as he watches his lovely daughter introducing Aegon as well as the Princess Helaena, her second child, to the lords and ladies who have not had the pleasure yet. His Grace is watching them with a gentle smile on his face and Otto cannot help but feel a hint of complacency. Thanks to Aegon the mess the king created in naming his daughter his heir can be mended, if he plays it well.
Even though he feels a deep affection for his grandchildren, two innocent infants who are blissfully unaware of the role they are going to play in securing peace and order in the realm, Otto’s eyes are drawn to the entrance. You are late, a few minutes of tardiness that Otto spends wondering if you decided against attending after all, perhaps in favour of staying with your lord husband. He was informed just an hour ago by one of his little mice that the lord is feeling rather unwell this evening, that he has been complaining about different symptoms for a while now. Otto is not surprised by the news. These may well be the first signs that his increasingly frivolous whereabouts are affecting the man’s health and, therefore, his accountability.
When you do arrive at last, Otto is quite struck by the sight of you entering the hall – so much so that Alicent rouses him with a concerned look on her face. He gives her a reassuring smile, then trains his eyes back to your form. It is quite distracting, the way your dress accentuates your womanly figure. His colour, he notes, the dark shade of green he usually wears. A mere moment later you eye him with a gentle smile playing at your lips and his suspicion is confirmed that you’re wearing it for him. Gods, he finds that your beauty is taking his breath away even more so than usual. Not that he did not admire you before, you have always been a sight for the Gods, but now that he knows what you sound like in the throes of your pleasure you fully and irrevocably occupy his mind.
Perhaps tonight, then, he thinks, toying with the small box he has been keeping in his pocket for a few weeks now. You are tempting him to folly, evoking emotions of a strength he has not felt in years. Even his work is impacted by this attachment. He finds his hands forming fists underneath the table whenever your lord husband speaks up during council meetings, most days still half drunk from the night before. Pathetic, with no sense of honour, besmearing your good name in the process. Seeing you now without this worm hanging by your arm is most welcome, wearing his colour no less, a beautiful deep green. It seems that you are well aware of who you truly belong to.
No, who you should belong to, Otto must correct himself. A constant reminder of a mistake that caught up to him faster than he would have wished for. A mistake that calls for more mistakes that he cannot allow to happen.
Dinner passes with stolen glances and timid smiles. Ever since the moment you shared in his quarters you seem to blush and turn away whenever you catch sight of him and yet it seems like your gaze never strays too far. It is quite endearing, the shy glances, the rosy cheeks that no one else knows are just for him. As daring as you were in the privacy of the tower, you have respected his wish to never mention it again. It is for your own protection, of course, although Otto fears what it would do to his own integrity if word spread about an illicit affair, no matter that what occurred between you hardly deserves the name. He has been meticulously crafting his reputation for decades now and he cannot allow these foolish desires to taint it.
Soon, the dancing is in full swing. For a brief moment he indulges in the fantasy of asking you to do him the honour, to see the cheerful smile on your face he has not seen since he married you to Alister. Judging by the expression on your face as you observe the dancery, he imagines that you long for a partner to share the delights of a joyful evening. Young as you are, it is a shame that you should sit in your chair all night. Another reason to loathe your husband, not that he is lacking for those.
Perhaps this is the reason why you slip away the moment the steady flow of wine and musical distractions allows you to do so unobserved. It is his only chance. Otto rises as soon as he can without arousing suspicion. The hour is late enough to justify a reprieve.
“Excuse me for a moment, your Grace,” he says without waiting for an answer.
The castle is abandoned and his steps echo loudly, bouncing off the stone walls of the keep. He finds you in an empty hallway halfway back to your chambers, gazing out of a window that overlooks the gardens that he knows you are so very fond of. The two guards who are closest pay him no mind, yet he dismisses them with a nod and they take station at a more unobtrusive spot.
You turn as his steps approach, confused momentarily as to who could be following you. When you recognise the figure as him your expression visibly softens and your guard is let down once more. The effect he has on you should alarm you but on the contrary, you seem to be eager to welcome him in your presence.
“Are you tiring of the festivities, my lady?” he asks, approaching you with cautious strides.
“I do not have much to celebrate, my lord. You might have heard that my lord husband is feeling rather unwell.”
“And yet you are not with him, no?”
You eye him with barely hidden annoyance and he chuckles lowly, satisfied. There is hardly any cause for jealousy when your disdain is so very obvious. Otto approaches, closing the distance cautiously to make sure that you remain comfortable in his proximity. He stops about two steps away from you, a towering and broad figure compared to your shorter frame, and you have to look up to meet his eyes. He drinks you in for a long time, not lustful but in admiration, letting his gaze wander over your body in a way that has goosebumps spreading all over your skin. He would count every single one of them, if he had the time.
“You look beautiful tonight, my lady,” he whispers. “A new colour?”
You meet his eyes, boldly this time, in the way that makes him want to pull you into his arms and ravish you. “My favourite colour.”
“Is that so?”
A timid smile. “I know, I should not, I cannot… But, my lord, you know that it is true.”
“It is alright, my sweet,” he assures you. “Indeed, catching you alone allows me to do something I have been avoiding for too long and I do not mean complimenting your beauty.”
“And what would that be, my lord?”
“I do not wish to offend your sensibilities, my lady, I know it is not my place to lavish you with gifts and you may find it presumptuous, but… I have something that I wish to offer you.” Your eyes widen, so he quickly continues. “I am in no position to put a claim on you and yet it would please me greatly to see you wearing it on occasion. I am certain that you can think of a plausible explanation as to how it came into your possession.”
Before you can protest he retrieves the small box from his pocket. Taking off the lid he reveals a  finely crafted ring with a sparkling green gemstone – a real emerald. He must admit the choice of colour was quite on purpose, green as the beacon of the Hightower when his house rides to war. A war Otto cannot win, he knows, but it is a war he is fighting every day nonetheless. To see you fighting it with him, if subtle, would be a great source of comfort.
“My lord, but this is…” You admire the beautiful piece of jewellery, your eyes drawn to the way it shimmers in the moonlight, subtle and delicate but breathtaking nonetheless. “It is too much.”
“I am afraid that no gemstone will ever suffice to express what I truly wish to say, my lady,” he says. “And yet I hope you will honour me by wearing it.”
You nod and stretch out your hand. The lord takes the ring and carefully slides it onto your finger. A perfect fit of course, he made sure of that. His larger hand gently holds yours so that he can admire the jewel and you briefly rest your other hand on top of his. His skin is warm and weathered. It is all you want to feel for the rest of your life.
“Forgive me,” he says and you’re not quite certain what he means until he lifts your hand to his mouth and places a reverent kiss on the back of it. He lingers, his beard tickling your soft skin as his lips travel along your knuckles and finally rest on the gem.
“I shall think of you whenever I wear it,” you supply. Then, with a softer voice: “Though, in truth and in shame I must admit that I already think of you more than is proper, my lord. You occupy my mind and heart at all times. You always have.”
He smiles, a tight-lipped, pained smile. “You honour me, my lady, in ways that I fear I do not deserve.”
“It matters not what we deserve, my lord.” You lift your hand and cradle his face, stroking his cheekbone tenderly with your thumb. “I shall find comfort in knowing that you return my affections at last.”
“My darling girl,” he whispers and the words sound like a prayer from his lips.
You close your eyes for a moment, trapped in the sensation of his lips on your skin, the feeling of his beard against your fingertips just like he is trapped in the gentleness of your touch, in the longing for more of your simple comforts that he has to deny himself over and over again. You both pray in silence that the moment never ends, and yet he has to let go of you eventually and come to his senses. How cruel to ache for a love that he denied himself in the first place.
✦ ✧ ✦
Your sitting room is illuminated by burnt-down candles, the hour late as you have reclined on a settee to read in your book. Truth be told, you should be sleeping, but you cannot bear to let your mind wander as it tends to do in the quiet of your canopy.
To your surprise, the door opens and your husband stumbles in. Even from afar you can tell that he reeks of wine and the fumes of the city. He sits down in a chair and stares at you in a manner that has always made you rather uncomfortable. Rare as it is, you do not enjoy his company.
“I overheard a most interesting conversation in the council chamber,” he says out of nowhere, a smug smile playing at his lips. “About the Lord Hand, Otto Hightower.”
You pause, closing the book as you gaze at your husband in interest now. He is not in the habit of discussing politics with you and certainly does not bring up the council on his own accord.
“He was dismissed as Hand to the King,” he continues, standing now to pour himself a glass of wine from your private pitcher. “Finally, thank the Seven.”
“Pray, what do you mean?”
“The king finally had enough of his little schemes. He does not wish for Aegon to be his heir, he insists on keeping the Princess in the position and rightfully so. Your lord got too bold with his endless attempts at installing his own grandson as heir, spreading rumours about the Princess. His greed for power is so obvious even our blind king can see it now. Perhaps you should go and bid your lord farewell before he departs.”
“He is not my lord, whatever are you talking about?”
He sets the glass down, turning to you with a withering expression. “Do you think I am not aware that you are wearing green more often? That you’re suddenly wearing emeralds instead of blue stones? That your lord continuously eyes me with disdain when I speak up during council meetings and dismisses any of my suggestions, even proceeds to work against them? How his eyes linger on you when we are invited to sup with the king and his family? I may not be the most devoted of spouses but I do have eyes in my skull.”
“Unlike you I remain in control of my desires. As does he,” you reply coldly. “The Gods see what you are doing in the Street of Silks, what you are doing to your own wife.”
“Perhaps,” he admits. “But my sins do not absolve you from your own and, let us be frank, my dear lady wife. The difference between thought and action matters little to the Gods when it comes to corruption. Whether it festers on the inside or the outside you end up rotten. I might as well take what life offers to me instead of pining after someone who could be my own father. It makes you look pathetic and not just in my eyes.”
You bite back a reply. His provocations mean little to you, especially with the knowledge that the Lord Hand has been dismissed from his position. If it is true then he may leave King’s Landing for good.
Leave you.
Without another word you abandon your book and exit your chambers. In the quiet of the old hallways of the keep you take a few deep breaths, the tightness of your dress suddenly suffocating you. This cannot be true, you think, His Grace would never dismiss such a trusted advisor, such a devoted servant of the realm. But then you know Otto is ambitious, that his plans at times may be unpopular and that the peace of the realm has always ranked higher for him than the will of the king. The Princess threatens the delicate balance between the lords of the Seven Kingdoms, threatens the loyalty of many houses to the crown who will not accept a queen where there is a male heir to be had. And while you always loved the Princess and considered her to be a worthy successor you can see why he may have tried to sway the king in Aegon’s favour. He is his grandsire, after all, and he knows the ways of court politics.
As soon as your racing heart beats a more bearable rhythm, you hurry to the Tower of the Hand. However, the guards inform you that you cannot enter as it has been abandoned not long ago. You are unaware as to when this conversation your husband overheard took place and the hour is late, or perhaps too early, when you finally decide to retreat to your own chambers.
You see nothing of Otto over the next day, even though you are pacing the hallways of the keep in a way that must make even the guards nervous. You all but give up on ever seeing him again until from a window you spot Queen Alicent by the gate across the courtyard with a rider who you can only assume is her father.
He is leaving, you realise.
Heart pounding anew you hurry down the stairs, nearly tripping over your dress as you run faster than is deemed appropriate for a lady. But you care not, even as your feet begin to ache and you finally reach the courtyard. It is pouring, the rain mercilessly beating down from the skies above but you cannot wait for anyone to fetch you a coat. When you approach the gate you hear the clicking of the hooves on distant cobblestone but the rider has already left.
You don’t, cannot, stop, not until you are by Alicent’s side, your Queen, your friend, who falls into your arms in painful, shaking sobs that vibrate deep within your chest. Something inside of you breaks with a finality that weakens your very bones. You cannot hold back your tears either, letting them mix in with the rain until you cannot tell them apart any longer.
Tumblr media
4 The Widowed Days
Every morning, you observe the murky water rushing down the river and mouthing into Blackwater Bay – a steady, endless stream with harsh currents as well as the occasional softer tide when the weather is more agreeable. Time passes in much the same way.
It has been nearly ten years since the first symptoms showed, made memorable by the night of Prince Aegon’s name day celebration. While the illness progressed slowly at first, with years and years of mild symptoms, your husband’s health has been declining rapidly over the past two years. You take care of him to the best of your abilities but as a proud man he does not wish to be fussed over and more often than not he sends you away. The maesters are clueless as to his condition, perhaps the repercussions of his drinking excesses that would not cease even as his affliction progressed. Whenever you look at him you see a withering face, the face of a man much older than the years he truly lived. Even though you don’t hold much love for him it pains you to see him succumbing to such an undignified illness.
You have not much to hold onto besides the fantasies your mind conjures up in the quiet hours you spend in the keep, a weak attempt at comfort. The years have not diminished your love for Ser Otto, or rather the desire for a love that could have been. He comes to you in dreams, fragments of memories of the feel of his weathered hands in yours, the scratch of his beard against your fingertips.
Alicent knows about your affections for her father as you spilled your heart to her the very moment he had left and you found comfort in each other’s arms upon his departure. Ever since, your bond is as strong as it used to be in your childhood, perhaps even more so with years of hardships added to its weight. Thanks to her you know that he is in good health, that he is safe in Oldtown, and as much as you long to see him again you are comforted in knowing that he is faring well.
You spend much time helping her raise her children, especially the Princess Helaena, an intelligent but misunderstood girl who struggles with the life she was forced into, not unlike her mother. Alicent’s role as queen is demanding and you notice how she is changing, becoming more and more like her father, a clever woman forged by court politics and increasing responsibilities as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Life at court has become tense with rumours about the legitimacy of the Princess Rhaenyra’s offspring, with tensions between her children and those of the queen as well as the notable decline of the king’s health. You do not envy her.
The night he left, you found a letter from Otto on your bed, delivered to you in secret – a brief message that was written in haste before his departure. My lady, I regret to inform you that my time at court has come to a premature end. However, I remain hopeful that we will meet again under improved circumstances. Know that it pains me to leave you without as much as a spoken farewell. In my absence, I ask you to remain by my daughter’s side, if not for the affection that I hope you still hold for me then as her loyal childhood companion and friend. May the Seven keep you in good health, Otto.
You know it by heart, the parchment old and scarcely readable by now. Since then, some letters have been exchanged between Ser Otto and you in which you have informed him about the whereabouts of his grandchildren and he thanked you for your support of his daughter and family. Even so, you remain a married woman and regular correspondence with a man who is not your husband raises too many questions, too many rumours on top of an already strained reputation. So you keep the exchanges sparse, hold the replies he sends you as dearly as you can, and tell yourself that he must be thinking of you fondly still or he would not write to you at all.
With your husband bedridden and often unresponsive, you find yourself a widow in all but law. Though your life feels even lonelier than during the first few years of your marriage, you found solace in frequenting the gardens, supporting the capital’s orphanages as well as keeping the queen’s company. Every morning you go on a lengthy walk, reminiscing about the time you spent here with Otto, following the exact route you took with him the morning of the hunt. It feels as though centuries have passed since then – the bushes have been replaced, the paths altered, even you yourself don’t feel like the same person anymore. What never changes, however, is the beauty of the sunrise over Blackwater Bay, though the colours vary and are never quite the same – every morning a welcome but familiar surprise.
When you return one morning, the Keep is more alive than usual at this hour. Servants are running past you almost as though you are invisible. Perhaps they prepare for the arrival of some noble guests, you think and head to the nearest window facing the outer courtyard. You cannot see any larger wheelhouses, nor do you spot anything out of the ordinary. That is, until one of the riders by the gate lifts his hood.
You scarcely believe your eyes. It must be a trick, an evil one at that, but you could swear that he looks like Ser Otto. It would not be the first time that you see him in someone else’s face, that your mind deceives you so cruelly into believing that he is near. Missing him has been one of the harder burdens of the past decade and sometimes relief means delusion for just a few precious seconds. However, as you continue to observe the man, you cannot help but see Otto in in his shape, his height, in the way he moves.
Of course you know that Lord Strong and his son Ser Harwin recently perished in a fire at Harrenhal but you had not assumed that Alicent would send for her father to replace the Lord Hand. It is entirely possible, however. Suddenly invigorated, you storm down the stairs and head outside in what may be unseemly but entirely necessary for your own sanity.
You nearly stumble when you finally exit the keep, though fortunately the lord does not notice your ineptitude as he gives orders to a footman. Seeing him in the flesh feels like a dream, his tall stature only slightly more slumped with age but not diminishing his dignified presence in the slightest. Your heart begins to hammer in excitement, in relief, and you have to hold back the tears to feign an indifferent politeness.
“My Lord,” you say. “How it delights me to see you back in the capital.”
He turns to offer you his full attention. Within a split second recognition flits across his face. “My lady.” A soft chuckle. “Well, you honour me. How lovely to be greeted by a welcome, familiar face.”
“It gladdens me to see that you are in good health,” you say happily as your eyes meet the very face you have not seen in near a decade. “In fact you have not changed at all, except perhaps for a few grey hairs.”
He smiles at your mild teasing and you wonder if the years away from court have softened him. “As a wise lady once told me: My age only adds to my character. And the same appears to be true for you. You have…” He pauses, weighing his words. “… matured.”
You give a soft laugh. “It has been ten years, I should hope so. Or are you implying that I look old, my lord?”
“I would not dare suggest such a thing,” he says. “Let me rephrase, my lady. The years have served to enhance your beauty.”
Warmth blooms in your cheeks at the first openly spoken compliment after so many years and for a moment you feel like the little girl that used to admire him from afar. If she were here now she would be floating on saccharine clouds for the rest of the day, daydreaming about him reciprocating her hidden desires. But you are not that girl anymore. The past decade has left its ugly marks on you and coveting what you cannot have has only brought you the deepest misery. You vow to protect your heart, no matter how much it wants to beat out of your chest and land in his gentle hands.
“Thank you, my lord,” you say. “I trust that we will see each other more frequently now.”
“I should hope so, my lady, since I am reassuming my position as Hand of the King.”
You perk up in delight at the news, your suspicion confirmed. “I do not wish to keep you, my lord, I am sure you long to be reunited with your family and acquaint yourself with the current state of affairs. I do hope we will get the chance to speak in more depth.”
“I will make sure of it, my lady.”
His expression gives you hope that his promise is sincere.
✦ ✧ ✦
“A green dress,” you order, dabbing some of your scented oils to your neck and wrists.
“Which one, m’lady?”
“The darker one with the lower neckline, I think. Or the green-gold one?”
Your handmaid smiles to herself; you think she must be amused by your antics. “I think he would like the lower cut, m’lady, if I may speak so freely.”
As always she can read your thoughts and you have to agree. “Then that one it is, Malena. And don’t forget to bring the emerald ring.”
You hope his lordship won’t be cross with you. He did not seem opposed to your initiative the last few times you were alone together, even if that was over a decade ago, so you hope he won’t mind you paying him a visit so soon. He has been rather occupied since arriving but tonight Alicent invited you to sup with their family and you are quite certain this means the Lord Hand must be ready for company.
The hour is still early, the sun has only just risen and you are getting ready to start your day with a visit to the Tower of the Hand before your morning walk. You are not sure you could sit through supper without having seen him for yourself first. The past days have been filled with anticipation, the sheer prospect of being in his proximity enough to keep you awake at night.
As your feet carry you up the stairs after many years of absence, your heart is beating mercilessly against your ribcage. You carry a small basket, clutching it tightly to your front so its content comes to no harm.
The men of the Hand’s household guard allow you to enter without a second glance, announcing you briefly. Otto Hightower stands from his chair, surprise but no dismissal in his features. He easily rounds his desk to approach you and you are once again struck by his tall frame, the grace with which he moves.
“Good morrow, my lord,” you say, trying to find your courage. “I have come to deliver a welcome present for you. I thought you might still be weary after your long travels and–” You pause, looking at him and his tired eyes. “Forgive me for being so forward. I am certain that you are quite occupied and–”
“No need for apologies, my lady, I would have sent for you shortly.”
“I wanted to give you more time to arrive, my lord, but I simply could not–” Again you pause, your heart hammering so fast that it drowns out the thoughts in your head. “I could not fight the urge to see you.”
The lord takes a step in your direction, an untamed emotion in his eyes now, and he only falters for a moment before he fully closes the gap between you. His hands grasp your wrists and wander up your arms, careful and slow, as though he is trying remember the shape of you. With a tender expression he finally captures your face and while his openly displayed attention confuses you you can’t help but melt into his touch. The lord leans forward, his beard and nose brushing against your cheek as he inhales, taking a deep breath to have his fill of you. All of his senses satiated, he releases a wistful sigh, the depth of which sends heat pooling into your lower belly.
“I brought you some oils, my lord, lavender for sleeping a– and–” You pause when his lips trail along you jaw, so soft you hardly feel them. “My lord–”
“Tell me,” he urges. “Tell me you feel the same, my sweet girl. That you did not forget me. You must let me know.”
You can’t help but whimper, his insistence making your skin tingle with need. “I have missed you every single day, my lord,” you whisper as if in silent prayer, the truth spilling out despite your resolution to be cautious. “No day would pass that your vision did not haunt me. I have dreamt of the day that the Gods would return you to me, begged for it in the darkest hours of my existence.”
Another deep breath, shakier than before, and he looks at you with a fire you have never before seen in the calm lord’s eyes. “The Maid herself sent you into my arms all those years ago, the sweetest girl I had ever seen, and I was fool enough to refuse her gift. To this day it is my biggest regret.”
“Regret not, my lord, please.” You set the basket down on his desk right by your side, then you place your hands on top of his, gently grasping them where they are still holding your face. “You did what you thought to be right and honourable.”
“And doomed you to a life by the side of a man who could not cherish you as I wished to do.” He huffs out a breath, two long thumbs stroking over your wet cheeks. You are unaware as to when you started crying but now you can feel the tears burning in your lash line, pearling onto his fingers. As you grasp his hands tighter his eyes are caught by the sparkling emerald on your finger and his expression softens with sentimentality. “You still own it?”
“It is my greatest treasure.”
The lord closes his eyes, his brow furrowed tightly in a way that betrays his pain. “I shall make things right, sweet girl. I promise this to you.”
“But my lord, I am still ma–”
A loud knock interrupts your words. You break apart just as a servant enters the chamber and you are certain that you must be red and hot as the flaming tips of dragon’s breath. The servant appears to be quite winded, as though he ran up the many stairs of the tower in quite a hurry.
“Excuse me, m’lord, m’lady,” the man says. “It is urgent. I was sent to come looking for you.”
“What is it?” you ask, brow furrowed in increasing confusion. You look to Ser Otto for help but his expression is filled with sympathy, almost as though he knows what the man is going to say even before you do.
“It is your lord husband, m’lady. He passed in his sleep.”
✦ ✧ ✦
An orange sunset coats the roofs of King’s Landing in its golden light as you let the evening fade out on a balcony with Alicent by your side. You were supping with her family just earlier, for the first time in a decade joined by her father as well. Even though you had to push the occasion back, caused by the recent news of your lord husband’s passing, the evening was pleasant and a welcome distraction. You had not seen the Lord Hand since visiting him in the Tower and though not many words were spoken between you this evening you found comfort in the way he would meet your eyes so reassuringly.
It has only been little over a week since the Silent Sisters took Alister for cleansing, to prepare him for his final goodbye. Since then you have received many offers of commiseration, in letters as well as from people here at court. You wanted to spend your period of mourning alone but your queen forbid it after a mere four days of isolation. She said she needed you, having received her own news of loss, and that you should spend each other comfort in these times. Now, watching the sunset for the first time after you lost him you are glad that she is here with you.
“The Stranger has visited us again and so soon,” Alicent says, pouring you a glass of wine. “First your husband and now Laena Velaryon.”
You accept the wine, even though you don’t drink before your queen has taken her first sip. “And they were both too young, though I am afraid my husband won’t be as direly missed as the Lady Laena.”
“Perhaps he sensed that my father came back, that it was his time to go knowing you would not be alone in your grief.”
“He would not have done me the kindness of letting go so that I could be with your father,” you reply, no emotion in your voice as you speak the words frankly for the first time. “If he had known he would have made sure to live another decade, just to make me miserable. He once said that my feelings for the Lord Hand made me pathetic and I doubt he ever changed his mind. He was always too fond of the Princess.”
She regards you hesitantly, the monotony in your voice no doubt unsettling her. “No matter, he is gone now, a blessing after all the pain and suffering he had to endure. May he rest with the Gods.”
She finally drinks and you take a sip as well, tasting the sweetness of the wine in contrast to the bitter reality of your life. A childless widow now, at just over thirty years of age. Even though you never loved your husband you feel a sense of loss. For the life you could have had, perhaps, a life without the stain of a childless, loveless marriage that ended far too soon. The family he never gave you, the true love he took from you.
“If it is still your wish,” she says, sensing your thoughts, “then I will not object to a match between you and my father when the time comes. You are already an integral part of our family, we might as well make it official. And I want you on my side for what is to come, the both of you.” An awkward smile. “Though I must admit… it will take me some time to get used to calling you mother.”
“Please, do not call me mother.” You both have to laugh at that notion, the first real sign of emotion you allow to bubble out of you in days. “However, I am not sure if the Lord Hand’s affections run so deep that he would propose a wedding.”
Alicent smiles, grasping your hand in hers. “He would be a fool not to marry you and my father is anything but.”
Tumblr media
5 The Happy Days
You roll up the letter and place it back on the table, staring at the broken wax seal with the sigil of your father’s house. Amongst the bustle of the royal family arriving back from Driftmark you nearly missed the raven this morning. The keep had been entirely too quiet as the king’s family was away to attend the Lady Laena’s funeral but now that they have returned rumours are spreading like fire.
It is easy to tell that something has gone awry. The Prince Aemond is missing an eye, the people at court whisper when you take a stroll in the gardens to clear your head. A conflict, a bloody fight between the children of Queen Alicent and the Princess Rhaenyra. You have to refrain from intruding as your concern grows after hearing increasingly violent stories, the need to see Alicent and the children overwhelming. It is almost enough to distract you from the news you received that very morning.
You don’t expect anyone to call on you soon in the aftermath of what happened and with the tension still so very palpable within the Red Keep. The very evening of the family’s return, however, a footman arrives at your door carrying a small chest with a familiar crest.
“The Lord Hand sends for you, m’lady. He wishes for you to wear these.”
✦ ✧ ✦
The Tower smells of incense. It is the first thing you notice and you wonder if your lord has been praying, calling to the Gods for his grandson. Unlike many times before you do not find him behind his desk but on a daybed that must have been brought in recently. The padding looks unused, rich green brocade, and it is positioned perfectly in front of the hearth to provide ample warmth during cooler nights. You wonder if his joints are troubling him.
Otto Hightower looks up, the flames casting an orange glow on his handsome face, and his features soften remarkably as he beholds you. Under his gaze you fiddle with the matching pair of emerald and gold cuffs he gifted you and that his eyes are drawn to immediately.
“My lord sent for me,” you say, hovering by the door.
“I should like to have your company tonight,” he says, patting the spot beside him. “I am in need of a gentle face and a soothing voice. But only if it please my darling girl.”
He looks weary, you note. Despite his sweet words there is a heaviness to him that he must have carried here all the way from Driftmark.
“Can I offer you wine?” he asks as you approach.
“Do not trouble yourself, my lord. I am perfectly content.”
As you sit down beside him the scent of incense grows stronger; like perfume it clings to his robes and skin. His hands are folded in his lap and you see the tension in his white knuckles, in the way his rings bite into the soft flesh of his slender fingers.
“May I, my lord?” you ask cautiously.
He nods and you reach for one of his hands, pulling it into the lap of your black linen dress. You gently take off his rings, soothing the abused skin with a kiss. Your lord allows you to linger and when you press your lips to the next finger you meet his gaze. The warm light of the fire has softened his features even more but his eyes are keen as always as they observe your doings. When his lids flutter shut as you press yet another kiss to his knuckles it satisfies you greatly.
After a few more kisses you stand to rid yourself of the rings, placing them on his desk instead. The oils you brought him before his departure still lie in their basket and you take a deep purple phial before you settle by his side once again. Applying some drops to his wrist you begin to massage the tincture into his skin with a circular motion of your thumb. The lord sighs and visibly relaxes as the rich scent of lavender penetrates the air.
“How are you faring after your loss?” he asks after some silence.
“I am quite well, my lord. I have long since started the process of grieving, tethered to his bedside for years. Now the Stranger has ended his suffering and I feel at peace knowing that my husband is with the Gods.”
“I am glad to hear it. I would not wish for you to be in pain.”
“It is a tragedy,” you say, carefully then, “what happened to your grandson, my lord. Will the prince be alright?”
He gives a court nod. “He will, though I am afraid that his eye will not. But that is the price he paid for his dragon.”
“His dragon? You mean Vhagar, my lord?”
“Yes, my sweet. I am certain you heard the rumours.”
You smile at the term of endearment, ending your massage with a kiss to his palm before you reach for his other hand. The lord is rather pliant, allowing you to move him this way or that with the odd grunt of amusement. You do not dare ask for details, aware that he is looking for distraction and comfort tonight.
“Such good care you take of me,” your lord says, his voice deep and calm. “I should like to have you in my chambers more often.”
You glance at him, your resolve melting at the fondness in his expression. “I should like to take care of my lord whenever he is in need of me.”
“Otto,” he corrects softly. “Please.”
You look into his eyes. “Otto.”
A smile, gentle and warm. You continue to relieve his muscles, giving his second hand just as much attention as the first. However, your heart is heavy as you sit on the news you do not wish to bring up. The letter that arrived this morning makes any moment you have with your lord bittersweet.
“I am not sure how many evenings we will have, my lord. It seems that the Gods do not wish to see us together,” you finally say.
His left eyebrow rises. “What do you mean, my girl?”
“A letter arrived this morning in which my father requests my presence at our family’s seat.” You swallow, trying to hide the bitterness in your voice. “An old friend of his has expressed a specific interest in me and the match would bring me much closer to my family.”
“I certainly cannot fault him, my darling. Your presence is a gift to anyone who is fortunate enough to enjoy it.” He begins to stroke your hair with his free hand, gently running his fingers through the loose strands that aren’t pinned to your head. His movement carries the calming scent of lavender back to your nose. “However, I shall not allow it.”
“My lord?”
“Otto,” he corrects again, his brow furrowed in disapproval as his fingers curl underneath your chin, firmly holding it in place.
You try again. “What do you mean, Otto?”
He resumes his attentions, trailing his hands over your shoulder now in a gentle caress that mirrors the movement of your hand. “I claim you as my own, sweet girl. Your father will not dismiss the request of the Hand, I am quite certain.”
You sit up straighter. “And you mean it?”
“I will not see us parted again,” he states and his hand comes to rest on your cheek, more tender now. “If it is agreeable to you then I will send word to your lord father and after a reasonable period of mourning we arrange for the wedding.”
You cannot hide your relieved smile. “That is most agreeable to me, Otto.”
“Very good.”
You resume the treatment of his hand, noting the subtly pleased smile on his lips. He has always been sweet with you, sweeter than with anyone else as you know him to be stern and not too sentimental outside of his family. As a child you interpreted the changes in his demeanour as sympathy, pity even, and perhaps it truly was at times but now you realise that he must have always had this soft spot for you. Perhaps this was inevitable, perhaps it was always meant to be like this.
His hand tenses in yours, then, and his expression sours. “I do not know the extent to which my daughter has let you in on the tensions that are rising within the royal family but I feel that I must–”
“I am aware,” you gently interrupt with a hand on his arm, not wanting him to speak the words that trouble his mind. “My lord – Otto – whatever may come, I promised my Queen to be by her side a long time ago. In what function matters not.”
Perhaps it is his fatigue that makes him accept your decision so easily or perhaps it is the conviction in your voice. You were always rather adamant that you saw yourself by his side, that you were loyal first and foremost to your queen’s party. When your eyes meet you exchange a silent promise and there is no need to speak of it any longer.
Otto’s hands reach for yours then, softened by the oils. His eyes take in the sight of the finely wrought cuffs adorning your wrists, his thumbs trailing their rims where they meet your skin. The bracelets are narrow enough to remain delicate but still allow for the emerald ornamentations that run along their outer curve to stand out. The gems sparkle in the firelight, endless shades of green.
“Do you like them, my darling?” he asks.
“They are beautiful, Otto.”
He smiles, then runs his thumb over the matching ring on your finger. “I had them made for you before I left for Driftmark.”
For a brief moment the memory of him gifting you the jewel flickers in your mind, how hesitant he was at the time and how you both had to stop yourselves from speaking the truth of your feelings. Now he seems less hesitant to stake his claim, less hesitant to open himself to you.
“Thank you for such generous gifts, Otto,” you whisper. “I do not know how I deserve them.”
“You are deserving of more than mere jewels,” he replies, grasping your hands even tighter. You are surprised by the strength he still has in them. “You must know how very dear you are to me.”
You give a weak nod, getting lost in the intensity of his blue eyes. His lips part and you realise that you have leaned closer, a mere hairsbreadth separating you. The rough tips of his beard tickle your chin and you shut your eyes. His breath is warm against your lips.
“Otto–”
You want to ask for it but you cannot bring yourself to say the words. He does not close the distance but he also does not pull away. You blink your eyes back open and find his brow deeply furrowed, his eyes trained on your mouth.
He is conflicted, you can see it plainly written on his face. “You are in mourning, I would not offend–”
“There is no offence,” you whisper. “Otto–”
“If you are sure–”
Your lips meet before he finishes as you desperately press yourself against him. He groans lowly, his grasp on your hands tightening as he leans into you. Your lord tastes of sweet wine and tart berries, the flavours of a fading summer. No kiss has ever felt so warm and inviting but then you have gone without a lover’s touch for so long that you can hardly remember.
With some effort your lord pulls away, a sharp exhale through his nose following. His forehead comes to rest against yours, fingers searching for your cheeks as he cradles your head. “Is this what you want?”
“You said the Gods placed me in your hands,” you whisper in reply, skin prickling where his beard touched it. “I believe you are right.”
He presses another kiss to your lips, long thumbs swiping along your cheekbones. “You would let me have you, tonight?”
“I would let you have me every night.”
“Hm, such tempting promises.”
His lips wander, so very soft in contrast to his beard as they travel along the sharp line of your jaw and down to the much more sensitive skin of your neck. You inhale the smell that clings to his hair, incense, lavender and something that is distinctly Otto, some mix of ink, parchment and the crackling fire in front of you.
“We have denied ourselves for so long.” Your voice is desperate even to your own ears. “I do not think we have to repent any longer for sins of the past.”
“No,” he whispers against your jugular. “We give thanks to the Seven for their graciousness. Worship–”
“Worship?”
He stops as his hands stray, ghosting along your bare neck and then, suddenly, he tugs at your bodice. You gasp in surprise, and after another attempt it finally loosens, your breasts spilling over your dress as you shiver in the cool air. The lord’s warm hands soon find the soft flesh and with his slender fingers he kneads them, drawing noises from you that sound so very unfamiliar to your ears. You can tell that he is quite overcome as well. His breathing comes in hard bursts that betray his state and yet he is gentle with you, careful.
“Worship their gift,” he clarifies, glancing down at your partly revealed body. “Cherish it, treasure it.”
His mouth presses to the pliant curve of your breast and you realise that it is you he is idolising, your body the sole object of his adoration. You are melting under his lips, the reverence with which he kisses every bit of exposed skin exhilarating and new. When his warm mouth closes around your nipple you bury your hand in his hair and he moans deeply, wantonly. You feel yourself clenching at the sound.
It must have been some time since he touched a woman and just like you even the simplest contact seems to affect him. You would explore the possibilities if he allowed you to but presently he is too occupied with the mechanisms of your dress. You gently urge him away and help with the fastenings on your back, but he soon finds that he prefers to peel it off your skin in a rather slow, torturous fashion.
“Black,” he states with a hint of distaste, freeing your arm from one of the wide sleeves.
“I know my lord prefers me in green,” you whisper.
“And soon you shall be wearing it for me, my darling. It suits you so well.”
It gives you a thrill to have him take off your mourning dress with which you commemorate your late husband, a husband who shamed you for your attraction to the very man you are intimate with now. It is a sick feeling, a sinful feeling, to strip off your memory of him so soon and give into your desires with the man he so loathed. It gives you a perverse sense of satisfaction. But you have suppressed your needs for too long and you think it truly must be a sign of the Gods that they have brought you and Otto Hightower together again tonight.
When you are in nothing but your shift, the lord sinks from the daybed and kneels in front of you, bunching up the sheer fabric until your legs are exposed. You want to alert him that he should not rest on his poor joints on the cool stone floor but then his lips press to the inside of your knee and the thought is forgotten. He is yet unhurried, languid kisses pressed to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, the roughness of his beard sending pleasant tingles into your belly.
The nearer he draws to your core the more restless you become. You feel yourself getting wet, throbbing in anticipation. You grasp at his hair, a blush spreading over your cheeks and when he does not stop you tug at the thinning strands. The lord’s eyes find yours, heavy-lidded, and you feel the warmth of shame blossoming in your chest at the lustful display.
“My lord, I have never–”
“Otto,” he corrects yet again, a mild reproach with one hand stroking your calf. “Lean back, my girl, I want a taste.”
It is not a request. You rest your back against the brocade and he grabs one of your thighs, placing it over his shoulder to reveal your private parts to him, to angle your hips just right. He holds your gaze and even though your heart is hammering almost too violently you cannot bring yourself to deny him. His lust-blown pupils paint his eyes black, a thin sheen of sweat gathering on his brow. It is an odd sight, a new sight, the usually so composed and controlled lord driven by his carnal impulses in a rare loss of composure.
He beholds you for another moment to make sure you are in agreement before he presses his mouth to your cunt. It is entirely too much, the lighting bolts of pleasure it sends into your body, the way he feels so hot and wet against your most sensitive parts. You moan, an obscene sound that you stifle with your hand the moment it leaves your lips. Otto’s eyelids flutter shut and his lips part against you. His tongue is soft in contrast to his beard that is chafing your thighs, licking along your slit and flattening against the sensitive bud at the top that you only rarely found the courage to explore on your own. He continues like this, his nose pressed to the swelling knob while he devours you like a man starved. When the lord pulls away to breathe you roll your hip in his direction, trying for more, and he gives an amused chuckle.
“You are a wanton thing,” he says. “I should have known.”
He says it fondly, running a thumb over the coarse hair that gathers where your legs meet, wet with your arousal and his own spit. He rubs along your slit then, circling the spot that lures the most sensual sounds from you. Your hips move on their own accord, trying to meet his rhythm, and you feel the heat building in your lower belly as he stokes the fire.
“Please–”
You clench around nothing and the lord withdraws, leaving you aching. His beard is glistening wetly in the light and you watch as he cleans the digit with a low hum. “My girl has the sweetest of tastes.”
You do not know whether he speaks the truth but his eyes are filled with devotion and desperate longing. When he stands, you pull your legs to your body to nurse the dampness and unsatisfied pulsing between them. The lord flinches as he straightens his knees, no doubt feeling the pain you anticipated but he recovers before you can inquire and reaches for your hand to help you up. You understand he does not wish to feel old tonight.
“On the bed,” he says.
His voice is firm and controlled. When you stand before him he surprises you with a hungry kiss,  hands following the lines of your scantily clad form and squeezing at every bit of soft flesh he can reach. You feel like a debauched woman and modesty seems to be out of place. With shaking hands you pull your shift over your head and crawl onto his heavy four poster bed. The fabric of his sheets feels soft against your bare skin and you sense a thrill running through you at the prospect of what he might do to you. You are nude safe for the jewellery he bestowed you with.
“You are an exquisite sight,” he says as he watches you from the foot of the bed, the buttons of his garments coming undone with practiced fingers. “And you are mine now, sweet girl. Does it please you?”
You forget to reply, quite distracted as he reveals the tunic he wears underneath. The lord knows, as he always does. The admiration for his body must be written all over your face and you cannot look away as he fully exposes his torso to you. Despite his age his body is that of a knight, toned in places but overall softened by decades spent behind his desk. Tufts of greying hair cover most of his chest, the supple curve of his belly resting right above where he is already hard inside of his breeches.
The same bravery you felt all those years ago takes hold of you at the sight of him and on your knees you crawl over to where he is standing. Cautiously, you run your hands through the hair covering his upper body, feeling the soft skin underneath. He seems rather docile, allowing you to squeeze and palm whereever you want to, silence interspersed with the odd hum of approval at your exploration. Starved for the touch of a woman there is no resistance but a deep infatuation in his eyes. Perhaps he is just as enamoured with the sight and feel of you as you are with his.
“Pleased is hardly a word I would use at present,” you finally reply and allow your hand to cup him through his breeches. “Are you aching for me, too?”
A dry huff of a laugh, as though the question itself is superfluous. Two fingers tilt your chin up, the fire burning in his eyes answer enough. His free hand dives into your hair, not gentle but not rough as he frees it from its constraints and allows it to fall over your shoulders. Once he can angle your head how he pleases the lord closes the distance and litters your neck with kisses, teeth and tongue teasing at your skin. You find the fastenings of his breeches but your fingers are too jittery. The more you palm at him the rougher his kisses become until all breaths between you are drawn in desperation.
His patience has run thin. He climbs onto the bed, effectively urging you to lie back as he settles between your legs. His weight on top of you is heavenly, the feel of his skin against yours enough to have you whimpering underneath him. Otto grabs your wrists, one in each hand, pinning them down on either side of your head. The gold cuffs bite into your skin but not unpleasantly so with his warm hands covering them. His fingers slot between yours, grasping them, and you feel your pulse hammering against the ball his hand. Large as they are his hands almost completely cover your smaller ones and as his weight comes to rest on his forearms you feel like he is spreading you open for him.
“You are a sight for the Gods,” he whispers. “Such beauty, even they must envy me.”
You buck your hips, desperate for the feel of him now that he is within reach. “Please, Otto–”
“Needy, shameless,” he chides, voice sultry and deep. “Tell me, how many times have you fantasised of this? Or have you stopped counting?”
The arrogance in his tone only makes you want him more. His hands tighten almost painfully in yours as he kisses you, feverish and filthy, forcing his tongue between your lips with a distinct possessiveness. It is evident that he intents to claim you in more ways than just adorning you with jewels. You are not resisting but you cannot match his pace, overwhelmed with the intensity of your desires for him.
When his mouth releases yours, bruised and wet, you moan at the loss of him. The gasping breath you take burns in your lungs and once again you cannot help but tilt your pelvis to try and find some relief.
“Shhhhh, I know,” he whispers. “I will have you, my girl. You were very patient.”
The blood flows back through your wrists when his tight grasp loosens and he finally works his breeches open. His member is coated in arousal, thick and throbbing after his own stalling. You release a sob when you feel him sliding between your folds, grazing your swollen bud. The lord groans when you reach down to help him find your entrance and you notice how hot he is, how painfully stiff against your soft fingers.
“Yes,” you whisper when you feel his tip parting you. “Please, more.”
He relents, tries to go slow for your sake but you are slick and worked up and one thrust is enough to fill you to completion. The feeling is unlike any of which you have experienced before, no pain or discomfort but just the dizzying need for more of him that burns through your veins. He stretches you open, both of you glancing at where your bodies join so beautifully before your eyes meet once more. Your lord takes your wrists again, softer now, and as your hands link together it is you this time who tightens their grasp.
He begins to rock his hips, gentle at first as he holds your gaze, swallows the first of your moans with his puffed lips. Soon his thrusts harden, the pace he sets merciless as he drives himself into you over and over. You are both too sensitive for it to last long, the lingering fire inside of you spreading into your fingertips, your toes, and you feel as though you could explode with the sheer bliss of it all.
You come undone a moment later, crying out his name and spasming with a force you have not known before. Your lord holds you and you sink into the feeling, trembling and weightless in his arms. Otto hums at the sight but he only pauses for a moment before he resumes his movements, prolonging the pleasurable sensation. He moves to pull out of you as he nears his own end and you catch his wrist, pressing it against your chest.
“No,” you whine. “Please.”
He holds your gaze as he continues to take you, chasing his own pleasure more savagely than before. You cradle his face, brush the sweaty hair back that has fallen into his forehead, and when he finds his release the sound that comes from his throat is broken. His hips still but you feel the heat of his spend as he fills you, his body going slack on top of yours after the efforts of the night.
You recover with his gasping breath warming the crook of your neck and even though he is resting some of his weight on his elbows his strength has ultimately left him. Wet skin clings to wet skin, soft and comforting as you stroke his back through the aftershocks. Your chests heave in sync and you swear you can feel his heartbeat matching your own.
A deep sigh tickles your shoulder, then, and he carefully rolls you onto your sides, wrapping you up in his arms as he gathers you against his chest. The position is much more comfortable and you curl up against him with a warm, sated feeling in your belly.
“Will you stay a while?” he asks.
“For as long as you will have me,” you reply, using the quiet to allow your fingers to explore more of his chest. “I thought you might tell me about Oldtown.”
A smile, so soft and genuine that your heart stutters. The lord brushes your hair back, thumb following the line of your brow down to your jaw and resting on your lips. You can only imagine the mess you look but he does not seem to mind.
“Perhaps you should like to dine with me tomorrow?” he asks.
“I should like that very much.”
“Good,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “Very good.”
He is exhausted and you know sleep will take him within moments. Lips softly pressed below his ear you reach for the end of the comfort and provisionally pull it over your entangled bodies. The fire is still burning but you know you will catch a chill once your skin cools. You will have to leave before the morrow but right now dawn is far away and you are too content to rest in the safety of his arms. At last.
Tumblr media
Epilogue: A year later
A yawn parts the lord’s lips. He stifles the noise quite quickly but it does not escape your notice how his hand flies to his mouth. He so rarely makes a sound, a man of silent concentration, choosing every word with a deliberation that requires his full attention.
You smile to yourself. “I did not take you for a man who falls victim to ennui, husband.”
“It is a slow night,” he concedes, rubbing an ink-stained finger along his brow.
“And you have copied this letter…”
“Seven times, my heart.”
You softly close the book you have been reading while sitting in quiet companionship with the Lord Hand. You so love watching him when he dedicates his evenings to his correspondence, the scratching of the quill a calming noise in the background.
“Perhaps I can aid his lordship in finding a less tiresome occupation?”
He leans back in his chair, surrendering the quill as well as his efforts as you saunter over. A smile tugs at his lips, amusement. You find him less serious these days, less stern, at least when he’s sharing your company. The months have been kind to you both.
“My darling wife is as insatiable as during our first night,” he muses, pulling you into his lap.
“How disappointing, I made such an effort to become worse.”
He kisses the mock pout from your lips. For a man who has aged so gracefully his hunger has not dwindled. He tells you that your enthusiasm keeps him youthful and perhaps that is true. After over a decade in a love and passionless marriage you have a lot to make up for. Otto is happy to indulge you.
“The hour is late,” you whisper against his lips, a subtle proposition.
“Indeed,” he says, one hand sliding up your hip, then pressing down gently on your belly. “What are we to do with this hunger of yours, lady wife?”
“Perhaps my neglectful husband can sate me.”
“Neglectful?”
“At times I feel that he prefers the touch of his quill over mine.”
He lifts you abruptly, placing you on the surface of his desk where you can hear the parchment crumpling underneath your skirts. Your lord stands tall in front of you, broad-chested yet slender of frame save the small pouch of his belly. You trace the soft curve up to his chest but he quickly grasps your chin to draw your gaze up to his, ever imperious.
“Audacious,” he chides, “that you would make such accusations.”
The hint of teasing in his voice sets you alight. His long fingers curl underneath your jaw, denting your cheeks with his grip. With a raised eyebrow he studies your face, knowingly, your flushed skin betraying his effect on you. His patience is like to drive you mad as he is methodical and studious even in your shared intimacy. You think he reads you as though you are words written on a page of his books, drawing meaning from tracing the shape of you with his eyes.
Only when you are writhing does he close the distance in a heated kiss. As if to prove you wrong his hands eagerly roam your body, unfastening the lacings on your dress and groping every soft spot he meets in the process. Before long you find yourself stripped and heaving under the strain of your passion. It is a well-rehearsed dance by now, the undressing, the way from his desk to the bed where your lord likes to take his time with you, pleasuring you, teasing you until your begs and whimpers fill the quiet of the chamber and at last he is satisfied.
Under the canopy he leaves scratchy, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat as his fingers work you open. So far his seed has not taken and the maesters are not sure it will. You had hoped that you could refute the rumours of your barrenness but even so your second marriage is a much happier one than your first. The Gods have been good to you and you wonder if in time you may be blessed with a son after all.
“Focus on me, my girl,” Otto rasps, then, and you find him staring down at you, pupils so wide that they swallow his irises. His hair has fallen into his face, thin strands clinging to his forehead. You reach out to brush them back and as always he leans into your touch, starved for affection. An ink smudge stains his brow. He works so much that the signs never leave his face.
“Forgive me, I lost myself for a moment,” you whisper and push at his shoulder.
He removes himself and sinks into the pillows beside you, reclining with a soft, weary sigh. You climb on top of him, easing him inside of you. Otto pulls you forward, wrapping his arms around you as you both begin to rock against each other. You can feel his soft chest hair tickling your breasts, pressed together as you are, and you breathe broken moans into each others mouths.
“Where were your thoughts, then?” he whispers, biting into the soft skin of your neck.
“I thought about the future,” you say. “I thought about you giving me a son.”
His hips buck and you keen as he hits you deeper than before. You tug at the hair on the back of his head, following his rhythm as he groans into your ear with that deep, raspy voice. You smile, enjoying the feel and sound of him so desperate for you.
Whatever the future may hold, you know that you will never tire of this, the small intimacies with your lord, the knowledge that he burns for you so vigorously after a lifetime forced to spent apart. You can taste your own fire on his lips, feel it as you both crest and his seed drips down your legs. Otto kept the promise he gave you – he made things right, he cherished you, and now nothing shall part you again.
Tumblr media
“I am doing something I learned early to do, I am paying attention to small beauties, whatever I have – as if it were our duty to find things to love, to bind ourselves to this world.” – Sharon Olds, from "Little Things"; Strike Sparks: Selected Poems, 1980-2002
Tumblr media
Thank you so much for reading! Kudos, comments, reblogs etc are as always much appreciated but most of all I hope you enjoyed the story ♡
Masterlist – my Ao3
320 notes · View notes
loveinhawkins · 2 years ago
Text
After the almost end of the world, Steve tells Eddie that he can have a shower first.
It feels surreal that they’ve both made it here—that Eddie is standing in his hallway, leaving mud stains on the floor from his boots: remnants of The Upside Down mixed with normal dirt.
Steve almost wants to ask if he can walk around some more, create countless marks as proof of his existence; hell, even take his hand and run it down the beige walls.
Leave a trail, Steve thinks, through a fog of complete and utter exhaustion. So I know it’s real. So I can find my way back to you.
What he says instead is, “Try not to get your dressings wet.”
Eddie pauses on the stairs. Smiles. “Okay, nurse,” he says, and it’s a gentle tease if anything, his voice softened by tiredness.
He’s holding himself a little stiffly while turned to speak, his upper body almost at an angle.
Steve thinks about the jagged line down his side (“If the bats died, like, ten seconds later, you’d have—you asshole,” Dustin had rambled through tears, thumping Eddie on the arm); how Eddie had narrowly avoided a hospital stay. Thinks of the way Eddie tried to reassure Dustin, fiddling with the guitar pick hanging around his neck in a show of nonchalance—but Steve still saw how his hand shook.
“Guess I’m just a lucky son of a bitch, huh, Henderson?”
It shouldn’t have been luck; it should have been a guarantee. Steve should have ensured it.
Eddie makes his way upstairs with slow, heavy footsteps. Steve waits until he can hear the water running, then heads to the phone.
He’s used to this routine by now. Robin and Nancy first, as he knows they’ll pick up rather than their parents.
“Oh, thank god,” Robin had said when she answered the phone after Starcourt. “I thought it was a horrible dream.”
“Thank god?” Steve echoed, laughing.
“Yeah,” Robin said, quite seriously. “It was either I dreamed up everything alone, or we saw it all together.”
And Steve, touched beyond words, had called her a dingus instead.
Tonight, their phone call is much quieter.
“I’m home,” Robin says. “I love you.”
Steve’s hand clenches around the phone. “Love you too,” he whispers, and he ignores the warning sting in his eyes, because he doesn’t have time to—he still has so much left to…
“I’m home,” Nancy says. She adds, “Get some sleep, Steve,” in the fatigued tones of someone who will not be taking their own advice.
Eddie comes downstairs sometime during Steve’s phone call with Mr and Mrs Sinclair. He’s quiet; the only sign that alerts Steve to his presence is the faint smell of mint body wash.
When Steve hangs up, he has to take a breath, still clinging to the phone pointlessly.
“What are you doing?” Eddie asks quietly.
Steve breathes out. “Checking in,” he says.
He dials another number.
It began after Starcourt, the Sinclairs having bought the excuse that Steve had been trapped with Erica in a broken down elevator as the ‘fire’ began—technically true, Steve had thought, just in the wrong order.
Their conversation had been all anxious tones, all, You were there, Steve, what exactly…? Should we be worried that…?
And he gets good at it, at bridging the gap between worlds: keeping the full truth from parents, but giving them just enough information, little things that go beyond the surface level cover story, that somehow help put their mind at ease—cultivating the sense that Steve is the witness, the one being honest with them.
Christ, he’s tired.
The call with Max’s mom is hard. She’s still at the hospital, and technically there’s nothing to really worry about (Max’s arm had a clean break), but that doesn’t change how it all felt, how she shook with pained sobs as Steve tucked her into his side.
“She’s sleeping now. She said you were with her,” Susan tells him, voice low. “Steve, I’m—I’m so grateful.”
But I wasn’t, Steve thinks. Not when it mattered.
He doesn’t realise that he’s still holding the phone after the call has ended until Eddie takes it from him and puts it back in the cradle.
“Hey, can I, uh, use the phone? Wanna call my uncle,” Eddie says.
Steve doesn’t mention the fact that Eddie has already spoken with his uncle, that Steve had overheard him fighting tears in the hospital as he called the plant where his uncle was still working: because even the earthquake-like rumble felt all over town as Henry Creel died wasn’t enough of an excuse to warrant clocking out early.
“Pretend I’m s-someone else calling,” Eddie had whispered, his voice breaking. “Wayne, I-I’m okay. Got stitches, but I’m okay. Fuck. I love you.”
And Steve tried not to think about how it could’ve so easily been him making the call, telling Wayne Munson that his nephew will never come home again.
Eddie pauses, hand hovering over the phone. Then he twirls his index finger in a little circle: turn around.
Steve does. Can’t find the energy to smile.
“Shower,” Eddie says, then taps him very gently on the back, once, twice, like he’s saying off you go.
Steve manages to twist his body so his own fresh bandages don’t get wet, carefully tilting the shower head away from them. He methodically washes away the dirt; the heat of the water is welcome, but it also seems to weigh down his limbs with every drop.
When he goes back downstairs, Eddie is on the phone. He keeps repeating vague little mm-hmm sounds, and Steve somehow is sure that he isn’t on the phone to his uncle.
“Yeah,” Eddie says as Steve approaches. “Yeah, he’s here.”
There’s a little side table next to the phone; Eddie reaches for the notepad, scribbles, then turns it round so Steve can see.
Dustin’s mom
And Steve…
He knows he should talk to her. He knows Claudia will no doubt have questions, even if Dustin’s probably already given his own half-baked explanation about how he hurt his leg—“It’s just a sprain,” he’d insisted, even as Steve hoisted him up, took all of his weight.
The right thing to do, surely, is take the phone from Eddie.
But Steve suddenly can’t bring himself to even lift his hand for it. He feels drained, feels vulnerable and exposed after the shower—that along with the grime being lifted from his skin, it’s also left his stupidly fragile, exhausted heart on show.
Eddie’s eyes flicker over his face like he can see it, see everything, and without so much as an awkward pause, he murmurs into the receiver, “He’s tired. Yeah, he’s—he’s okay. Mm-hmm. Yeah. Yeah, I will.”
He hesitates for a moment, a fleeting sheen to his eyes, and then he says, “Thank you. Goodnight, Mrs Henderson.” Another little pause. He smiles, adds, “Goodnight, Claudia,” and hangs up the phone.
“Is she… okay?” Steve asks. “What did she—is Dustin—”
“All good,” Eddie says. “She was just… checking in.”
The checking you were okay goes unsaid, but Steve can still hear it.
It weighs him down like the shower had done. He doesn’t register that he crosses through to the living room, just knows that he’s suddenly sinking down onto the arm of the couch, that Eddie is sitting next to him.
Steve doesn’t consciously decide to speak, the words tumbling out of him like it’s inevitable.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he mumbles.
He can practically hear Eddie frantically trying to make sense of what he’s said.
“Well, yeah, no plan’s gonna go perfectly, man, that’d be—but, hey, we fuckin’ made it, we—”
But Steve is shaking his head. “No, I… I thought I’d figured it out, I—”
He doesn’t know how to explain it; it’s too much to…
It’s something too big to put into words.
The fact that, as Nancy relayed each phase of the plan, he had listened closely, only agreed because at least he was in the group that would be closest to the ‘blast zone.’
That he’d hated leaving Lucas, Max and Erica alone, but had tried to reassure himself that at least they weren’t in The Upside Down.
That once Dustin knew where Steve was going, he wouldn’t take no for an answer, that he’d follow him to The Upside Down no matter what.
And, honestly, Steve would’ve preferred Eddie not getting dragged into this bullshit for any longer than he needed to be—that if it was feasible, Steve would’ve just told him to take the RV and run.
But Steve had seen how he was with Dustin, roughhousing in the grass. Knew that where Dustin went, Eddie would follow, too—a shield in his hand.
And Steve also knew something along those lines was true for him and Robin: that if he thought he could get away with it, he would’ve told her to watch over the kids at the Creel House, but knew she’d choose to be with him.
That all he could feel about going into Henry Creel’s lair himself was relief—not because he thought he was an essential part in all of this, but because he just…
He needed to be there. Just in case.
Because there was a look in Nancy’s eyes that terrified him. It said that if she had to, she’d die with Henry Creel, so long as it would all be over, so long as Barb would be avenged.
Out loud, all he can say is, “It… it was too close.”
“Steve,” Eddie says. “No-one got—”
“You’re not listening,” Steve says, and there’s a scream in his throat begging to be released; he doesn’t let it go. “It was too—I almost—almost had to—”
“Steve.”
“S-someone’s gotta call home,” Steve goes on. “And I—fuck, I was so scared I’d h-have to—to tell them that—”
“Steve,” Eddie whispers.
“But I-I would’ve,” Steve says. His voice cracks. “I couldn’t have just—they would’ve got a-answers, I would’ve—”
“I know,” Eddie says softly, and he’s got a hand in Steve’s hair suddenly, guiding him to his shoulder. “I know you’d—hey, I’ve got you. I know.”
The first sob, when it starts, hurts—feels like it comes straight from his stomach. Eddie holds him through it, almost like he’s afraid Steve might drift away to some unreachable place.
“I’ve got you,” he keeps saying. “Oh, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
When it’s over, when Steve gives a final, shuddering breath against Eddie’s shoulder, Eddie murmurs into his hair, “S’too late for any more phone calls, Steve. C’mon. Show me where to sleep?”
It’s not even all that big of a thing, when Steve leads Eddie to his bedroom, lies down on the farthest side of the bed. Leaves deliberate space.
“You don’t have to—there’s a guest room,” Steve says, tongue thick with exhaustion. “Don’t wanna—kinda worried I’ll hit your dressings in my sleep.”
Eddie looks at him from the doorway. “You’ve been patched up too, Steve,” he points out.
Steve shrugs.
Eddie steps into the room. “It’ll be fine,” he says, smiling. “We’ll both be gentle, huh?”
Steve nods through a yawn. When Eddie makes to shut the door, he says, “Don’t, leave it open. Just—just in case the phone… I’ll sleep right through it otherwise.”
Eddie’s still touching the door handle. “D’you trust me?”
Steve’s eyes keep closing against his will. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I trust you.”
Eddie shuts the door so quietly that it barely makes a sound. “Okay. ‘Cause I have, like, freakishly good hearing.” Through his lashes, Steve sees Eddie smirk wryly. “Like a bat.”
Steve thinks he makes a noise of acknowledgement—isn’t quite sure as his eyes have closed.
He feels Eddie lie down next to him, feels the covers being drawn up.
“I’ll hear the phone,” Eddie says. “I’ll answer it, ‘kay? I’ll come wake you up, if I need to.”
A gentle hand on Steve’s forearm.
“Promise,” Eddie says.
Steve breathes in. Out.
“Okay,” he replies, and he falls asleep completely: not needing to stay half-awake, not needing to pick up the phone—not needing to do anything at all.
2K notes · View notes
alizha · 6 days ago
Text
holiday ennui
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
⁀➷ 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗎𝗇 𝗑 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 | 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇 𝖺𝗎
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
𝖶𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖢𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 𝟦.𝟪𝗄 𝖳𝖺𝗀𝗌: 𝗇𝗈 𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗌, 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗑𝗂𝖾𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍
𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒: 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖱𝖾𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗒, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖿𝗅𝗈𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗒𝗌.
❖ masterlist ❖ read on ao3
Tumblr media
The waiting room outside Dr. Keller’s office still bears the cheerful remnants of Christmas, even though the holiday had already come and gone. You’re sitting in your usual chair near the corner, puffy coat hugged tightly around you. Truth be told, the festive decor meant to liven up the room only adds to your listlessness.
There’s nothing wrong with the place as it usually is. The corners and empty spaces of the waiting room burst with vibrant greenery, strategically placed, you suspect, by Dr. Keller herself to maximize patient contentment. You’ve been with her for two years now, so you have a sense for that sort of thing.
A tall fiddle-leaf fig tree stands proudly in the corner closest to you, its glossy leaves catching the soft light filtering in from frosted windows. Now, it’s adorned with twinkling multicolored lights that throw alternating cool and warm shadows on the sage-painted walls. They blink unwaveringly and silently, regularly changing patterns every minute or so, and you can’t help but feel sorry that they’re being wasted on someone who can’t appreciate them.
You’ve been in a bit of a rut since November, something of which Dr. Keller was well aware, of course. She assured you she’d be available through the end of the year, and you’d taken her up on that, keeping up with your weekly visits. At the beginning of the month, she asked you how your Thanksgiving went.
“It was fine,” you’d said. “Quiet. Just me and Elvira.”
“Ah,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Your cat. Still not expanding your social circle, I see.”
You’d resented that. After all, Dr. Keller had told you to to start with things that feel comfortable. And Elvira is very comfortable. Cats didn’t judge, didn’t require any special considerations. They aren’t a challenge—not like people are. People are hard.
“We’re aiming for connections that talk back and don’t require kibble,” Dr. Keller had said flatly.
A big ask, but technically, you managed that the week before Christmas. You’d seen your next door neighbor, Mrs. Leary, when she was taking out her trash. She’d said Merry Christmas, and you said it back. Given the criteria set out for you, you’d say that counts.
You glance at the two doors at the far end of the waiting area leading to the therapists’ individual offices. Dr. Keller shared a space with another doctor, Dr. Madsen, whose names glinted on the brass plates adorning each door. You can practically already hear what Dr. Keller is going to say when you tell her about Mrs. Leary.
“It’s a start, but why not challenge yourself? Go beyond polite exchanges. Did you ask her how her holiday was?”
Sighing, you flit your gaze from the miniature pine tree twinkling at the edge of the low, rectangular coffee table topped with neatly arranged magazines, all holiday editions. Fixating on the strands of tinsel catching the light, each glimmer feels oddly louder than it should in the empty waiting room as you attempt to formulate an answer.
Your desperate clawing through the recesses of your mind for something more substantial than, “It just felt like too much,” is interrupted by the soft chime of the door. You glance up just in time to see him—tall, broad-shouldered, and blond. The man you’ve seen here at the office in passing many times before. One of Dr. Madsen’s patients, you’ve gathered in the time since you started noticing him.
Today, he’s dressed more casually than you’re used to, in a red flannel sherpa over a cream cable-knit sweater. In his arms, he’s juggling a navy backpack and several—maybe four or five—mini rose-gold foil gift bags. He looks even warmer and more approachable than in his usual business professional fare. It makes your stomach twist uncomfortably, a combination of envy and a familiar pang of fear, as he approaches the front desk with apparent ease.
“Morning, Lily,” he says pleasantly.
The secretary flashes him a dazzling smile. “Reiner! So good to see you. Did you have a nice holiday?”
You fidget with the hem of your coat. She didn’t make it sound so hard to ask. Maybe, you could do it, too. Maybe.
“It was fine,” the man—Reiner, you think to yourself—says, absently pushing the small potted succulent on Lily’s desk a smidge further away from the edge. “Quiet, just the way I like it. You?”
“Not quiet at all,” Lily says with a bell-like laugh. “Family chaos. You know how it is.”
“Lucky you,” he says with a faint smile. He adjusts the bags in his arms, pulling one carefully out of the pile by dainty ribbon handles and setting it on the secretary’s desk. “Just had to run into the office for a bit, and my coworker was handing these out. Take one off my hands?”
“Gladly!” Lily exclaims, her face lighting up all over again.
You can’t help but stare at the cheerful, gold-speckled tissue paper peering over the top of tiny curling ribbons. Until you realize Reiner has been glancing around the room, and his gaze has landed on you. Immediately, you look down at your lap, twisting your fingers together awkwardly.
“Still got decorations up, huh?” you hear Reiner say. “Festive.”
“Yeah, I keep meaning to take them down, but they’re so cheerful. Why the rush?”
There’s a shuffling of feet and paper, and you catch a glimpse of red out of the corner of your eye a few moments later. You tilt your head slowly and meet the man’s gaze again. He’s sidled past the coffee table and standing a couple steps away from you—a cautious, non-threatening distance.
“Hey,” he says with a disarming smile. “You… uh, want one of these?”
Your hands instinctively clasp over your knees, breath hitching. Plenty of other patients have tried striking up conversations with you in Dr. Keller’s waiting room before, but no one’s ever tried offering you anything. And it’s not really that you mind it’s just—
You’re no good with people. People are hard.
“Oh, no. That’s okay. I don’t—,”
“They’re just leftover office gifts,” he says carefully, taking a small step closer and holding one out toward her, thumb and forefinger gingerly pinching the sheer pink handle. The gift bag looks dainty and small and oh so endearing in his hand. “One of my coworkers went a little overboard. They mean well, though. Chocolate, I think. Or maybe soap? I honestly didn’t look too closely.”
You shake your head quickly, shrinking slightly. “No, really, I couldn’t—,”
“Please,” he says, his voice softening. “You’d be doing me a favor. Everyone at the office shoved these on me because they said I looked ‘too gloomy’ this season. Guess they thought this would help, but I wouldn’t know what to do with all this.”
His eyes, warm honey hazel, look just genuine and pleading enough to make you hesitate.
“You seemed… gloomy?”
He laughs lightly, a soft rumble of self-awareness. “I guess so. Anyway, I don’t need all these. Someone would enjoy them. I’m Reiner, by the way. And you’re…?”
You murmur your name in reply, barely audible, but he repeats it warmly all the same.
“Well, maybe you could take just one bag? You don’t even have to keep it—you could re-gift it if you want,” Reiner says. “But if I go through the trouble of lugging them all the way home on the bus, they’ll just sit on my kitchen counter until I forget about them.”
His kindness (and perhaps, his admittedly attractive face) placates your nerves just enough for you to extend a tentative hand. He looks pleased, placing the handle of the back in your grip. Warm fingertips gaze across your palm, his touch light and fleeting before quickly disappearing entirely. A shiver runs down your spine.
“Thank you,” you mumble, your cheeks warming.
“No, thank you,” he says with a grin. “Saved me from carrying these around the rest of the day.”
He looks around for a moment before moving to settle into the plush taupe chair beside the fiddle-leaf fig. You try not to look at him again, staring instead at the rose gold bag in your lap, plus still racing as you wait. When Dr. Keller finally emerges from her door and calls your name, you duck into her office and burn under the inquisitive look she gives you and your glittery new acquisition.
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
You’re relieved when you don’t immediately regret leaving your apartment on New Year’s Eve to walk down to the main strip. The street is in full holiday swing, bursting with life and swirling with laughter and music.
Walking at a leisurely pace, you take in the string lights crisscrossing above you, glowing in warm yellows and icy whites. The storefronts are still dressed in their seasonal finery, frosty-edged windows sparkling with fake snow and wreaths and glimmering ornaments. And up and down the walkways, food vendors lined the curb, their carts sending up fragrant plumes of spice and cocoa.
The crisp winter air bites at your cheeks, and you pull the sides of your knitted hat a bit further down over your ears as you reach the plaza at the end of the strip. A towering Christmas tree stands at its center, huge ornaments glinting under the twinkling of a thousand multicolored lights. Beneath the tree, a stage is set up for a local band playing upbeat, jazzy renditions of holiday classics.
You weave through the throng of people gathered around, your breath puffing in soft white clouds. Some of them are dancing, others simply swaying to the music or beaming as they hold hands or clutch steaming cups in their gloved grasps. Everyone seems to be in the companionship of others, though. Not like you.
You hadn’t meant to come out tonight—not really. The thought of spending New Year’s Eve surrounded by so many people had seemed suffocating in the lead up. Yet, staying home had felt equally unbearable. You’d spent hours pacing your tiny apartment, torn between the guilt of declining your family’s invitations and the overwhelming anxiety of going.
So, you’d landed here, out among strangers. Their chatter blurs into a comforting hum in your ears. For once, it doesn’t feel like you have a hundred pairs of eyes on you, watching, judging. Everyone is too busy counting down the hours until midnight to notice you. It’s unbelievably freeing.
You pause by the edge of the plaza and stuff your hands deep into your pockets. As the band starts up Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, your gaze wanders back toward the large center tree, and you squint at a tall figure with short blond hair. That’s when you realize you recognize him from the therapist’s office—Reiner.
He’s leaning against the metal railing around the tree, hands shoved into the pockets of his long camel overcoat. His stance seems relaxed, but his expression is distant, eyes staring blankly into the pavement a few feet away as groups and couples walk past.
Your heart thuds in your chest. Maybe he’s waiting for someone. He doesn’t seem like the type to spend New Year’s alone, so handsome and charming. But he looks almost miserable standing there alone, you wish you could extend some sort of comfort while he waits, at least. Keep him company until his friend (girlfriend?) gets back.
The thought of approaching him paralyzes you with fear. You consider slipping away, pretending you haven’t seen him. Then, Dr. Keller’s voice echoes in your mind.
“We’ve been working on this bit by bit,” she’d said at your last appointment. “Maybe instead of thinking about it as a huge change, we break this down into smaller, achievable goals. Maybe you set a goal to initiate one meaningful conversation—with someone at work or even a cashier at a grocery store. The important thing is that you try.”
You swallow dryly, jaw clenching. You’d promised you would try. Progress wasn’t about perfection, even if you really want it to be with Reiner. But you were being presented with the perfect chance here.
You should take it.
Your legs feel like lead, but somehow, you forced them to move. Each step toward him is like a tiny battle. By the time you reach the railing, your palms are damp despite the cold. You clear your throat, voice coming out small.
“Hi, Reiner.”
He turns, life returning to his eyes when he stutters your name. “Hey,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised.
“I, uhm…” you hesitate, the words catching in your throat, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Didn’t expect to see you either,” he says with a low chuckle. He glances around at the crowd before looking back at you. “Are you… alone?”
“Oh. Yeah.” The admittance tears through your gut like shrapnel.
“Me, too.”
“Oh.”
It comes out sounding surprised, which you don’t mean for it to. You wince inwardly as Reiner awkwardly lifts a hand and rubs the back of his neck, the short of his blond rustling.
“Listen,” he says, shifting his weight and hesitantly meeting your gaze. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Back at Dr. Madsen’s office. Well, I guess you go there for Dr. Keller. I didn’t mean to… uh, well, I guess I had seen you around and thought maybe it would be fine.”
You blink up at him, startled. “No, no, you’re not—,” you hurry to say, but then, you stop, unsure of how to continue.
You can feel the old, familiar instinct to retreat freeing up on you, the urge to politely escape the conversation before it gets too hard. You forcefully swallow down that urge and take a deep breath.
Baby steps.
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” you say. “I meant it’s not easy for me to talk to people, but you’re not, uhm… scary. Not like a stranger on the street or something.”
Reiner tilts his head, his plush lips quirking into a soft smile. “Glad to hear it,” he says. “I’m not sure I could handle being called scary tonight.”
His tone is light, joking, but there’s a quiet hint of genuine relief there. You can’t help but let out a soft, nervous laugh. He really was afraid he had come off badly in front of you, and the thought that even someone like him could feel that way relaxes you in a way.
“It was a bath bomb, by the way. The office gift,” you clarify when he looks at you inquisitively. “Not chocolate or soap.”
“Right,” he says, amused. “Good thing you checked instead of taking my word for it.”
The two of you stand there for a moment, the silence between you surprisingly comfortable. You fidget with the zipper of your coat, searching for something to say. This is the part you normally dread—the moment when the conversation could slip away entirely because you can’t bring yourself to go beyond the pleasantries.
Inhaling deeply, you push out the words, letting them tumble out. “So, uhm… how’s your New Year’s Eve going?”
As soon as you ask, you regret it. Your stomach sinks when Reiner’s expression shifts. Just a slight flicker as his faint smile fades into something wistful before he plasters the cheerful mask back on.
“Well, it’s probably not going all that well if I’m wandering around alone,” he says, his dry tone all but revealing his self-deprecation. “Just came out for a walk, really, and ended up here. But then again, you did the same thing, right?”
You duck your head, cheeks heating. “Yeah,” you admit. “I was supposed to go to a big family thing. I just… I didn’t have it in me. Guess neither of us is really winning at the whole social thing tonight.”
Reiner makes a low, teasingly dismissive sound and shakes his head. “I’m not much of a party guy either. But hey, I wouldn’t count you out just yet.”
You cock your head at him questioningly, and his smile widens.
“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”
You’re shocked. Your jaw nearly drops. Friends? You and Reiner? “Does—does this make us friends?”
Sitting in the same therapists’ waiting room every week, seeing each other in passing once in a while there. You thought being friends required a bit more than that, but Reiner doesn’t seem to think so. Has it always been this easy, and you just stressed yourself out for no reason?
“Sure. Then, we can say we hung out with a friend for New Year’s Eve. I’d say that’s a win,” he says. “I would like to be friends. If that’s alright.”
You look up at him, a hopeful glimmer in your eye. The word—friends—bounces around in your head, thrilling and terrifying at the same time. But Dr. Keller’s been urging you to take steps toward real connection for months. This could be one of those steps.
“It’s better than alright,” you say, the corners of your mouth stretching into a smile. “Dr. Keller’s been insisting my cat doesn’t count as a friend for ages, so it’s amazing, actually.”
Reiner perks up, his brow lifting. “You have a cat?”
“Yeah,” you say, nodding. “Her name’s Elvira.”
“I like cats,” he says. He leans in just slightly, but you get a full whiff of his scent, clean soap and the masculine fragrance of some variety of men’s shampoo.
“Well,” you say, warmth spreading in your chest as you study him curiously, “we’re friends, so you should meet her.”
He looks at you with a mix of surprise and excitement when he says, “Now?”
Your lips part, pulse thrumming fast. You didn’t plan on now, but you also don’t see why not. Reiner was, in your own words, not scary. Maybe this was a good idea and not one of those ideas that landed women on primetime news for entirely the wrong reasons.
“Now,” you affirm with a nod.
Reiner practically beams. “Lead the way.”
⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆
About twenty minutes later, you’ve made your way back up the strip and into your neighborhood with Reiner in tow.
“Dr. Keller said what I’ve been feeling lately is actually pretty common,” you’re explaining as you fumble with your keys.
The faint tremor of nerves is making the metal jangle softly in the otherwise quiet hallway. You’re hoping Mrs. Leary is asleep and doesn’t hear you and Reiner briefly loitering in the hall.
“She called it holiday ennui. You know, that weird, in-between time after Christmas but before New Year’s where everything feels off.”
“I get that,” Reiner says as you get the door unlocked and swing it open. “It’s like you’re supposed to be celebrating, but it feels more like you’re waiting for something to end. Or start. I don’t know.”
“Exactly,” you say, stepping inside and flicking on the light to reveal your cluttered living room. “Sorry, it’s a little messy in here.”
The idea of bringing someone into your space—a near stranger, no less—is something you’d never imagined yourself doing. Not even a week ago. But here you are, walking into your apartment with Reiner. Even the sleek black cat perched on the armrest of your couch looks confused.
“Don’t worry,” Reiner says with a reassuring smile. “My apartment looks like a tornado hit it most of the time.”
You set down your back and start toeing off your boots. “That’s Elvira, by the way.”
Reiner carefully slips off his own boots and overcoat, considerately placing them next to yours on the shoe mat and hanger. Moving slowly, as if not to startle the cat, he pads across the living room and kneels to get a better look. “She’s gorgeous.”
Elvira doesn’t move, her green eyes fixed on him with an imperious stare. You bite your lip and smile.
“She can be a little standoffish, but I’m sure she’ll warm up to you.”
Reiner nods. “Sounds like most cats I’ve met. They make you earn it.”
You settle into the far end of the couch and busy yourself with folding the blanket haphazardly thrown over it, your nervous energy bubbling up. “You’re, uh, welcome to sit. I’m sure Elvira won’t mind.”
He smiles gratefully and lifts himself up just enough before sinking into the other side of the couch. Elvira watches warily as Reiner sinks into the seat cushion, shifting her small paws as if deciding whether to hop down off the couch.
“It’s rough,” Reiner sighs thoughtfully, and you gather he’s picking up where your previous conversation left off. “That limbo during the holiday season. It’s been hitting me hard this year. Well, more than usual. I’m glad Dr. Madsen’s been available through the holidays.”
You fold your limbs cross-legged on the couch. “More than usual?”
“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “I was diagnosed with depression last year. Started seeing Dr. Madsen about it around the same time. He’s been helpful. I mean, it’s not like a magic fix or anything, but it’s something.”
“Oh,” you say dumbly.
Of course, you’d known he was showing up at the same therapists’ office as you for a while, so there must have been a reason. When you think about the times you felt envious of the ease with which he seemed to carry himself, your first instinct is to tell him you could hardly tell he was struggling with anything, but that isn’t always what people want to hear.
Obvious or not, Reiner was getting help. That’s what was important.
“You’re… really good at masking it,” you settle on saying.
“Yeah, well. Years of practice, I guess,” he says. “It’s not like I’m trying to hide it on purpose. Just… everyone deals with it differently, right?”
You nod slowly. “Right.”
Elvira takes that moment to leap down from her perch right onto the center couch cushion between you, landing with a soft thump. You watch with interest as she leans in to sniff at Reiner’s outstretched hand.
“Looks like she approves,” you murmur, a smile touching your lips.
Reiner chuckles, turning his palm face-up to scratch under Elvira’s chin. “Just gotta give ‘em their space, you know? Can’t force anything on them, let them come to their own conclusions.”
The cat settles herself regally on the cushion, neatly curling her tail around her paws, and glances up at you. Perhaps cats didn’t judge the same way people did, but they were still good judges of character. And if Elvira had taken to Reiner, you were inclined to believe inviting him over hadn’t been a mistake after all.
You glance at the time on your phone and realize midnight isn’t far off. “Should we maybe turn on the TV for the countdown or something?”
“Yeah, sounds like a plan,” Reiner says without pausing from petting Elvira. “Can’t miss the ball drop, right?”
Leaning forward, you pluck the remote from the coffee table and click on the TV, flipping through a few channels before landing on a lively New Year’s Eve broadcast.
A glittering stage fills the screen, performers decked out in sequins that throw the spotlights shining down on them in a brilliant cacophony. After turning the volume up a bit, you set down the remote and absently reach over to brush Elvira’s fur. Your fingers caress warm, unfamiliar skin instead, and you realize with a jolt that you’ve touched Reiner’s hand.
With a sharp inhale, you jerk your hand away and snap your gaze to him. Both of you stammer out your apologies at the same time.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean—,”
“No, no, I’m sorry. She’s your cat—,”
You snap your mouth shut and look down at your socks, feeling the heat rushing to your cheeks. His hand is so big and warm, your stomach flutters recalling the fleeting touch. Reiner clears his throat quietly, his eyes glued to the screen.
“Looks like we caught the last performance,” he says.
“Do you usually watch this kind of thing?” you ask, sneaking a glance at him.
“Not really,” he admits. “Usually, I don’t even bother staying up for midnight. But I’m glad I’m doing something different this year.”
He gives you a tentative smile that makes your heart skip a beat, testing the waters. Instead of resuming his petting of Elvira, he relaxes into the couch and stretches out his arm across the backrest, hand resting gently on the cushion.
You return the smile and let your hand drift toward Elvira to scratch behind her ears. The cat purrs softly, tilting her head.
“Me, too,” you say quietly.
As the countdown looms closer, the broadcast on the TV switches to shots of the massive crowd gathered in Times Square. You lean in a little closer, your stomach performing flips as you pretend to adjust your position to better reach Elvira. But really, it’s more about closing the gap between you and Reiner.
You sidle in bit by bit until you’re close enough for his forearm on the backrest to brush against the nape of your neck, and an unexpected shiver runs down your spine. This is a thrill that makes your heart race in a way wholly different from trying to ask for help at a store. This is the kind you’re somehow enjoying, the kind you want to chase.
Reiner seems to notice, his gaze flickering briefly to you before settling back on the screen. Unimpressed by the shrinking space on the couch, Elvira lifts herself up in a long stretch before leaping to the ground and padding away, leaving Reiner’s warmth, solid and steady beside you. He scoots an inch closer to you, tucking you into the crook of his arm, and your nerves ebb away.
You turn to look at him just as the crowd on TV begins changing, “Ten! Nine! Eight!” only to find he’s already looking back at you. The movement of his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip draws your eyes down, and you guiltily drag them back up, throat suddenly dry. The scant air between you feels charged with something you can’t quite name.
As the countdown continues, Reiner leans in even closer. You can see the patterns in the gold of his irises as he searches your face for some sign that he’s pushed you past your comfort zone. Unconsciously, you hold your breath, your heartbeat wild against your ribcage.
“Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!”
Out of the corner of your eye, the screen erupts into a colorfully dazzling display of fireworks and lights, and a mix of cheers and music fill your small living room. But you barely notice as you close the last bit of distance between you and Reiner and press your lips firmly against his.
He kisses you slow and hazy, with lips that taste like cinnamon cider. The pleased sigh he lets out against your mouth is only a faint whisper, as delicate as the tickle of his stubble against your chin. He brings his hand up to your face, warm fingers now cool against your burning skin as he skims his knuckles down your chin.
Auld Lang Syne plays out from the TV, muffled in your ear beneath the rushing of your pulse as your every nerve alights. Reiner doesn’t rush the kiss, languidly plucking at your lips with his, as if he might scare you away otherwise. His thumb strokes along your jaw, the gesture so gentle that fondness stabs you through the chest.
You reach up to tangle your fingers into the soft of his hair—dragging him closer, slanting your head to deepen the kiss. Encouraging him to be bolder. Reiner groans.
He slides the hand on your jaw around the back of your neck, and heat ricochets through your veins. You add fuel to the fire, wrapping your arms around him, startled by your own brashness. His tongue rolls against the seam of your lips, hot and wet, and your breath hitches, opening yourself to allow him to tenderly explore your taste.
Just as you’re starting to notice the lightheadedness creeping up on you, a dizziness resulting from equal parts excitement and lack of air, Reiner parts from your lips and ducks his head to trail warm, open-mouthed kisses up the column of your neck. When he reaches your jaw, his tongue flickers out to lave at your ear.
A tiny whimper falls from your lips, and you nestle yourself into the juncture of his neck, panting into his flushed skin. The scent of his shampoo invades your senses again, leaves you fuzzy and yearning. Reiner’s fingers skate down the length of your spine to wrap his hand around your waist.
Somewhere in the far flung corner of your mind, you vaguely register that persistent, gnawing uncertainty that screams at you to flee. But the more present part of you drowns that instinct. It compels you to melt into the comfort of Reiner’s arms, hoping that he’ll let you stay pressed against him for a little while longer, even as your tongue twists into knots. You’ve been very good at asking for what you need.
“Been wanting to do that for ages,” he sighs, sounding breathless.
“Happy New Year, Reiner,” you say softly into his ear.
His lips curve into a smile against your hair. “Happy New Year.”
52 notes · View notes
jelzorz · 1 month ago
Text
197.
It feels like treason to think it. Opeli would feel guilty for it on a normal day, she thinks, but the situation is dire and she wonders if anything will ever feel normal again. The Banther Lodge is a far cry from the castle, and it is crowded enough without the kingslaying elephant in the room.
She watches Soren fight Rayla over it.
She watches Ezran hide his tears.
She watches the Kingslayer walk free.
Well, she thinks. There are certainly worse things than thinking it. There are worse things than talking to her friends, her family, who also happen to be part of the council. Worse things have been done than calling a meeting behind Ezran's back, who is the King, yes, but a child first, and he has enough on his hands without this too.
"I don't think Prince Callum can continue being a part of this council."
Soren grimaces. Corvus shifts uneasily on the spot. Barius makes a face and fiddles with his hands.
Opeli stares them down. "Do you disagree?"
A pause. A sigh. Soren huffs and glances through the cellar kitchen window to make sure Callum is still preoccupied with defending Rayla and her murderous father from anyone who dares to look at them the wrong way. "No," he mutters after a moment. "You're right. You usually are, but this... Is Ezran's decision, not ours."
Opeli scowls, some misplaced maternal instinct raising her hackles. "He's dealing with enough," she says shortly. "He's eleven years old, his home has been destroyed, and his own brother returns with the elf that killed—"
"We get it," interrupts Corvus tiredly. "And we're not disagreeing with you. You're right. But what are you asking us to do, exactly? Kick Callum off the council? Is more internal conflict really what we need right now?"
"With respect, High Cleric," says Barius, "are we even supposed to be having this meeting? Isn't it breaking some sort of law to be talking about this before talking to King Ezran?"
Opeli wrinkles her nose at that, the wrongness of this heavy in her gut. "It's not illegal to bring up a concern with members of the council in confidence," she grumbles. It's a weak argument, but it's been played in court before, and she's not above playing the same dirty tactics to keep her king safe. "We are Ezran's council," she asserts. "Our duty is to him and to Katolis and I don't believe Callum's priorities are quite the same. He—" She grimaces too and locks eyes with Soren. "He's starting to remind me of your father."
Soren snorts at that. "Don't I know it," he mutters, and Opeli sees the truth of it in his eyes. Soren would know better than anyone what magic can do to people, the kind of power it gives them, the cleverness they think wielding it grants. "But Opeli, seriously, what are we going to do? We can't just arrest him. All this aside, he's still the prince. He's Ez's brother."
"One might argue that King Harrow was his stepfather, and you can see how much he cares about that."
Another pause. The room flinches because they all know that it's true, what an insult it is to Harrow's memory that his murderer would be allowed to dine at his son's table.
"Have you asked Ezran what he wants to do?" asks Corvus at last.
Opeli winces. "I didn't want to burden him with it," she mumbles. "I don't know that he knows what to do and frankly... I don't either."
"A first," says Barius, not unkindly. "It's all right to be concerned, High Cleric. It's all right not have all the answers."
"Yes, well." Opeli clears her throat and bows her head, hiding her weakness in the way her hood falls over her eyes. "I'm not particularly good at not having answers. I've come to you three hoping you might have them instead."
"I don't think we can help anymore than you," says Corvus wryly. "But our duty is to Ezran, the same as you. Soren and I won't let anything happen to him. The same way Barius won't. The same way you won't. Okay?"
"Call it a secret council pact," adds Soren with a grin. "If Callum does anything else stupid, we step in, no matter what. Deal?"
Hardly, thinks Opeli, even as she nods. She takes what little solace she can get.
46 notes · View notes
gekkosgirl · 12 days ago
Text
fantasy | gekko.
Tumblr media
summary: gekko, after reading a particular book of yours, makes your fantasies come to life
pairing: gekko (mateo) x fem!reader
cw: dom!gekko, sub!reader, dumbification, slapping, hickeys, choking, lots of things i may have missed. read at your own discretion, (also neon makes fun of them, as she definitely would)
notes: i have so much gekko brainrot its not funny, anyways i listened to closer by nine inch nails while writing. ALSO REQUESTS ARE OPEN!
word count: 3.6k
You were so focused on your paperwork for recounting the last mission that you barely noticed Gekko sneak into your room. Seated on the chair at your desk you typed, keys making slight clicks, full attention on finishing the task at hand. Gekko, who was oh so quiet, took his place on your bed, silently picking up one of your strewn books, not knowing its contents.
Only from the shuffling of your covers did you realize he was there, and you smiled without looking away from your paperwork. "Hey, baby." You said, still typing away.
He hummed softly, and you figured he was trying to take a nap. Much to your dismay, he had flipped to a particular page of your book by 'accident', a smirk forming on his face.
Every now and then, you could feel his eyes watching you. Typing up the final report, you forwarded it off to Brimstone, pushing away from your desk with a sigh. Finally, peace.
"Ay, chica?" Gekko's voice asked and you hummed in question, not looking behind you, just basking in the relief that you were done. "Wanna explain to me what a certain Derek and Lyra are doing in this book?"
The tips of your ears immediately tinged pink, your entire body whipping around in the swivel chair as your eyes fell upon the book in his hands. He was laid back casually, head leaning against your pillows, one leg down and the other propped up. A dumb grin was plastered on his face and you couldn't seem to form words.
"Gonna answer me or should I get back to reading?" Gekko asked slyly, you could practically hear the teasing lilt in his voice. Your face flushed deeper as you scrambled for the right words.
“Mateo,” you started, voice higher than usual as you shot up from your chair. “That’s... that’s private!”
He chuckled, fiddling with the pages of the book as you approached, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Private, huh? Didn’t know you were into reading stuff like this, chica. Kinda spicy.”
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I’m going to kill you.”
“Oh, come on, it’s cute,” he said, sitting up now but still keeping the book just out of your grasp. “Derek and Lyra, huh? Guessing Derek’s the broody hero type and Lyra’s... a little like you?”
You froze for a moment, his words catching you off guard. The truth was, he wasn’t entirely wrong, but admitting it would only add fuel to his fire. Instead, you huffed, crossing your arms, not responding.
Gekko tilted his head, studying you with that familiar playful grin. “I mean, come on, I know you better than that,” he teased, leaning back on your bed, tossing the book up in the air before catching it again. “You and your little stories, always with the tension and the, what d'ya call it, smut? Kinda obvious if you ask me.”
Your face went beet red, reaching out to grab the book from his hands. He snapped it closed before holding it over his head, "You're gonna haf'ta get on the bed if you wanna get it."
Taking it as a challenge, you leaned forward, one knee on the edge of the bed, reaching out for the book. With a cheeky grin, he tossed the book to the bottom of the bed, grabbing your hips with both hands now free, pulling you between his legs. Your heart was hammering in your chest, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. Instead, you found yourself frozen in place, unsure whether to laugh or be mortified.
“Mateo!” you exclaimed, voice coming out softer than you intended as your hands instinctively landed on his shoulders for balance.
"Yeah..." He trailed, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "Say my name again." Your mind instantly flew back to the book he was just reading, knowing exactly which scene he had been reading based off that quote he'd just stolen.
Your face went crimson at the realization, and you immediately tried to pull back, scrambling to put some space between you. You attempted to shove him off, but he wrapped his leg around yours, digging his nails into your hips, making it impossible to move.
“What's the matter, chica?” Gekko teased, his grin widening as he leaned in just a little closer, his voice low and deliberate. "Getting shy now? I thought you were all about that stuff." His mocking tone made your stomach flip, and despite yourself, you could feel the heat in your cheeks deepen.
"How many of my books have you read?" You breathed out, his hinting making you suspicious.
"While you were asleep or away on missions?" He asked smoothly, the edge of his voice dripping with mischief. He lifted his hands, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lightly grazing your skin, making it harder to ignore the sudden thrum in your chest.
"You're sick." You accused, not realizing the words could fall back right on you.
"You bought them." He replied, "Why don't we reenact, hmm?"
You immediately froze at his suggestion, heart racing as his words hit you harder than you expected. You could feel the heat crawling up your neck, your mind instantly flashing to the scenes you had read in those books, the ones you’d tried so hard to keep hidden. But now, here he was, throwing your own words back at you with that playful, infuriating grin.
At the lack of response, Gekko only leaned in closer, the smirk never leaving his face. "I mean, you read it for a reason, didn’t you?" His voice was low and teasing, and it sent an undeniable shiver down your spine. "A little fantasy… who’s to say it wouldn’t be better in real life?"
You stuttered, no words coming out, sentences a foreign concept to your embarrassment-fogged brain. Gekko's eyes flitted down to your lips, "We can start slow, mi amor..." His hand raising to brush a fallen strand behind your ear, "Work our way up to the filthy things you read."
Your breath hitched in your throat. It wasn't like you guys never had sex before, in fact, it'd almost become a tradition after missions.
"What do you mean?" You found yourself asking before you could stop it, caving into his suggestion.
Gekko smiled, hand falling back to your hip, rubbing softly against your skin. "Well," He began, feigning a pensive look, "We can start with a kiss, work our way to taking our clothes off, maybe I'll eat you eat, and then, hmm," Your eyes widened at the dirty words that came from his mouth, he'd never talked to you like this before, "I can fuck the life out of you."
"Mateo..." You breathed out, not knowing what to say as he said the words so casually.
His head tilted to the side, pretend confusion etching his brows. "What?" He asked innocently, an undeniable lull to his voice that made your head spin. "I’m just giving you exactly what you want, what you’ve read. You know, it’s funny—when you read about it, it’s all fantasy. But now that it’s here, in front of you? Suddenly you’re not so sure."
"Stop messing with me," you muttered, trying to regain some semblance of control, but the words felt hollow. You couldn’t focus. Not with him so close, his presence so overwhelming, his teasing words wrapping around you like a chain.
He smirked, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Why would I stop? You like it." His voice was smooth, dripping with confidence, and it made you want to argue, to push him away, but at the same time, there was something about it that made you hesitate. "You know you want it..." His eyes flickered to your lips once again, contemplating smashing his against yours so suddenly. "So," He began, "What do you say?"
You held your breath, debating whether or not to continue the banter, but your debate was cut short. Gekko had made his decision.
His lips crashed against yours, his hands pulling your hips forward, bodies finally flushed against one another. You let out a content moan against his mouth, feeling his lips curl into a devious grin.
He pulled back, your lips already turning red, "Why don't we flip over, hmm?" Without an answer, he playfully rolled his eyes, hands tightening on your hips before you whipped the two of you around with his strong arms.
Your back hit the mattress hard, almost getting whiplash from the movement. You let out a soft yelp, soon muffled by his lips one more crashing against yours. He wasn't much of a talker during sex outside of the occasional pet names, so this was a full 180 from your normal encounters. It was almost as if he'd been studying.
Your lips moved in perfect sync with each other, hands in tandem as yours fell around the back of his neck.
He pushed your hips harder in the mattress, all his weight focused on pushing you down. Breaking away from the kiss, his head fell forward, hissing as he grinded downwards onto you ever so slowly. Your hands pulled at the short green strands of his hair, trying desperately to get his lips on yours once more.
He stopped the movement of his hips, one hand detaching from them to reach up, digging a ball of your hair down into the pillow, casting your head back. "Patience." He almost growled, and you sank into his touch. You'd never seen this side of him, something akin to primal.
His movements were still so slow, leaning downwards to attach his lips to your neck. Oh, you were going to get in trouble. Deep purple marks began encasing your skin, and you knew no amount of makeup would dare cover it. But you couldn't bring yourself to complain.
Again, his hips found themselves digging into yours, a guttural moan leaving your lips. You could feel him through his pants, almost bursting at the seams.
You couldn't move your hips as his one hand dug into the skin, leaving yourself at his complete and utter disposal. His grinding grew slightly faster as he pulled away from your neck, sitting up and letting go of your hips and hair.
You sat up too, conflicted as the loss of friction. You lips were now swollen, neck bruised and battered.
"Lay back down." He commanded, puling his shirt off his head, revealing his toned chest and abs.
You laid back, watching as the scenes you'd read over and over were brought to life. He reached forward, tugging at the waistband of your sweats, them coming off easily.
You were left in nothing but your underwear and sweatshirt, that you now fortunately realized you weren't wearing anything under.
He climbed back onto the bed in nothing but his boxers, his arms reaching under your thighs to encase them around his head as he kissed gently atop the fabric covering your clit. You moaned softly, grinding upwards into his mouth, his hot breath adding a tingling sensation.
His nails dug into your plush thighs, warning you not to do that again, but you simply couldn't help it. You grinded up once more, the wetness between your legs growing by the second. His nails dug in even harder, leaving crescent shaped markings in your skin. He licked your panties, leaving you whimpering.
"Mateo, please." You begged, not even quite understanding what you were asking for.
He pulled back, leaving you squirming. "Tell me, corazón," He purred, "What is it you want?"
"Hnng—" You swiveled your hips upward, never being talked to like this before, you weren't sure how exactly to answer.
"Use your words." He said smugly, placing his lips back over your clothed clit. Using his skilled tongue, he looped it under the hemline, moving it to side, licking a long strip up your slit.
"Please..." You said again, a hand falling down to push down on his head.
Gekko cleared his throat, looking up at you warningly. The shift in his demeanor was subtle but undeniable, his teasing grin replaced by something sharper, more intense. Gekko tilted his head slightly, his eyes meeting yours with a look that made your breath hitch.
You let go of his hair, letting your hand fall above your head, shifting under his gaze.
As if getting back to business, Gekko leaned his head back down, sucking hungrily on your clit. Flames burst in your stomach, the sensation so sudden it caught you off guard. "Mateo, baby..."
He hummed against your heat, sending tingles up throughout your body. You hand fisted the pillow behind your head, this time unable to squirm against his newly hardened grasp on your thighs.
You held your lip tightly between your teeth, trying to not let a moan slip out. His tongue pushed within you, and all thoughts vanished from your mind. You let go of you lip, letting out a loud gasp.
"There we go." He murmured against your core before getting back to work, licking faster against you. "Let me hear you."
He brought his thumb from your thighs to circle your clit, the combined feeling driving your mind haywire leaving your body jolting as you struggled to control your breathing. You shuddered as his took in a breath before getting back at it, the cool feeling leaving your hips grinding upwards.
Your stomach began to tighten as he worked, signaling you were getting closer and closer to the edge. He noticed your abs flex, smirking against your core as he pulled back. "Mateo!" You whined, irritated he denied you.
He unclasped his arms from your thighs, moving completely off the bed, standing and looking at you expectantly. "Go on, you know what to do."
Remembering the scene he'd been playing out thus far, your eyes glinted. Finally, you weren't so intimidated, because at least this part you were used too.
You scoot to the edge of the bed, pulling his boxers down with practiced ease. His cock sprang free, and you could never, even after a year of your relationship, get used to his size.
He fully stepped out from his boxers, leaving them tossed on the floor haphazardly. His hand wrapped around the back of your head, entwined with your hair in a ball. He pulled you forward, your lips colliding with his dick, knees hitting the floor.
He groaned as you licked up the bottom, not breaking eye contact with the beautiful man before you. You took in the tip, sucking gently as you always did. But he wasn't satisfied, not this time.
Putting both hands behind your hand, he pulls your neck forward roughly, his dick hitting the back of your throat.
You almost choked, putting your hands on his hips, trying to push him away. He growled, refusing to let you pull away. "C'mon chica, be a good girl."
His praise was unexpected, and you almost couldn't believe your ears. You moaned around his cock, him throwing his head back at the sensation before thrusting into your throat repeatedly.
A slew of moans and groans left his throat, you'd never heard him be this vocal. "So close..." He trailed, and you tried pulling off, trying to give him the same treatment he did to you. "Not a chance, hermosa."
With a few final thrusts, fucking your mouth almost violently, he came down your throat. He finally let you pull off, coughing as spit drooled down your chin.
He didn't even give you time to catch his breath before his hand smacked against your cheek, him heaving. Your hand flew up to cradle your face, and you looked up at him shocked.
His hardened expression turned to concern, before he noticed that your eyes were dark with lust. "Fuck me." You said lowly.
"Beg for it." He replied without missing a beat, pushing you back harshly onto the bed, legs spread open just for him.
You looked ip at him, gulping. Again, you'd never seen him so, dominant.
Gekko laughed, almost menacingly after your refusal to answer, "What'd I say, chica?" Your breath was knocked from your chest as his hand flew to your neck, squeezing tightly. "Do I need to remind you?"
"M-Mateo, please." You whined, "I need you, I need you to touch me, be inside me, anything! I'll take anything and everything you give me, just please. Please..."
"Say the words, princessa." Gekko grinned, "Get filthy."
"Fill me up—" You looked at him, squirming at the edge of the bed, aching for him inside you. You could tell he felt the same, as his cock twitched before your core. "With your cum."
He quirked a brow, challenging you to continue.
"Breed me." You finally said, all dignity out of the window but this point.
"Attagirl." He said, leaning down to kiss you, one hand still around your throat as the other grabbed his own cock, rubbing it against your slick, pulsing folds.
You threw your head back, already feeling full as he edged himself halfway in. Your mouth then fell open as he rammed fully into you, stretching you out deliciously.
He wasn't gentle. Not this time.
"Such a pretty girl," He huffed as he thrusted into you to no end, "Hugging my cock so well— ugh." Gekko groaned as your pussy tightened around him, your abs flexing once more.
He smiled, sweat falling from his forehead onto your chest. Your eyes rolled back as he leaned forward, all the while pounding hard, as his tongue trailed its way around your breasts.
"You belong to me." Gekko declared, grabbing your legs and forcing them over his shoulders. His hands found themselves wrapped on the front of your thighs, pulling your body into his as he fucked you.
Lewd sounds left your mouth, harmonizing with the grunts falling from Gekko's. "Mateo, Mateo, Mateo..." You chanted, words blurring together from your cock drunkenness, the only thing you could fully understand was the man railing you.
"Yes, hermosa?" He huffed out, somehow getting even faster.
"Gonna... gonna..." You couldn't think straight as his hips smacked roughly against yours.
"Go on, tell me how you feel." Gekko demanded, his word slightly breathless as he angled his hips, hitting your g-spot repeatedly, intensifying the pleasure he'd been giving you.
"Gonna cum." You forced the words past your lips as your eyes screwed shut.
"Good girl..." He trailed, huffing and puffing as he came close to his own close. "Such— a— good— girl—" Each word was punctuated by a thrust, your abs flexing tightly, squeezing your walls against him.
Electrified burning flames erupted in your stomach, eyes rolling so far back into your head as your squirted over his cock and lower stomach. It began dripping down, following the lines of his abs.
With a final grunt, he felt himself shooting ropes of white liquid within you, slowly fucking into you as he finished. A few more strokes and he collapsed atop you, a sheen of sweat covering his whole body. His hand reached up to cup your face, thumb stroking your face. "How do you feel, mi amor?"
Your body shuddered, "S'good." You panted, "So, so, good."
Gekko pushed himself off of you, you whining as you missed the heat from his body. "Don't worry. Just running a bath and getting you some water."
You hummed as you felt fabric drag along your nether regions, cleaning you up. Your body twitched slightly as a blanket was tucked over you, eyes opening slightly to see your beautiful boyfriend cleaning up himself.
"I love you, Teo." You murmured.
"I love you too, hermosa." Gekko paused, looking at you sweetly. Your boy was back. "Was that okay?"
"More than."
✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩
You walked into the cafeteria, Gekko's arm falling over your shoulder.
"AHAHA!" Your eyes snapped over to see Neon, doubled over in laughter. She tried stifling it with a hand over her mouth, but it couldn't cover the loud laughter.
Your brows furrowed as you glanced between Neon and Gekko, who was clearly amused by the situation. "What’s so funny?" you asked, though you had a sinking feeling you weren’t going to like the answer.
Neon straightened up slightly, still chuckling as she pointed toward the two of you. "You! And him!” She barely got the words out before dissolving into another fit of laughter, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
“What about us?” you asked, your voice laced with suspicion, glancing up at Gekko, who just shrugged, feigning ignorance but couldn't hide the smirk.
Neon clutched her sides, barely able to contain herself. "You two didn’t even try to hide it!" she gasped between bursts of laughter, her finger pointing directly at your neck.
Your hand flew up instinctively, brushing over your skin, and you froze when you realized what she was referring to. You'd totally forgotten. Heat flooded your face as your eyes darted to Gekko, who was sporting the smuggest grin imaginable. "Mateo..." you hissed, your voice low and threatening.
He had the audacity to look innocent, though his mischievous eyes betrayed him. "What? Don’t look at me like that, chica. You didn’t say I had to be careful."
Neon practically fell over, laughing even harder. "Careful?! Oh my god, Gekko, you left a trail! It’s like you wanted everyone to know!"
You glared at him, your face burning hotter by the second. "I am going to kill you," you muttered through gritted teeth, smacking his arm.
Gekko just chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, it’s not my fault you’re irresistible," he said smoothly, leaning in slightly.
Neon finally managed to catch her breath, wiping a tear from her eye. "Oh, this is so going in the group chat. Everyone’s gonna lose it!"
"Neon, don’t you dare!" you exclaimed, reaching for her phone as she cackled and took off sprinting. You huffed as you knew there was no chance you'd catch her, and now the fear of facing Brimstone kicked in.
41 notes · View notes
flowersandskeletons526 · 1 month ago
Text
"We Need A Tagger" - Warriors Concept Album Fanfic (Part 3/5)
Aaaaaand here's part three. I can't remember where I first saw the idea of Rembrandt wearing a painter's respirator mask but I'm rolling with it because I think it makes her look cool. Already working on part 4. Enjoy! (also want to add that Cowgirl IS coming soon, I feel bad that she's only been mentioned so far cuz she is one of my favorites but she'll be here soon, I promise)
---------
Swan and Ajax stood side by side, watching Rembrandt scale the rusty remains of an old fire escape. Ajax had to boost her up to the ladder so she could reach the edge of the roof and spray their tag. Cleon gave her artistic liberty with the lone directive of “keep it simple.” Rembrandt decided on a fire engine red “W” with a circle around it. Swan compared it to the bat signal from Batman but Ajax liked it well enough.
Swan cocked her head to the side as Rembrandt straddled the railing of the fire escape and leaned out on one arm to paint the tag. “You were right,” she said to Ajax. “The girl’s quick.”
“I fucking told you,” Ajax said. “It took her all of two seconds to get down out of her apartment.”
Swan nodded and lowered her voice. “How bad was it?”
“She would’ve been better off sleeping under the boardwalk with you.”
“Shit.”
“I know Cleon’s gonna help her even if this doesn’t work out but I hope it does. She needs us. She needs the crew.”
“We all did.” Swan cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered, “Rembrandt, that’s good! Come down!” Rembrandt flashed a thumbs-up, pocketed her spray paint, and began picking her way down the fire escape. Swan turned to Ajax. “You don’t think she’s a little jumpy?”
“I think she’ll calm down now that she’s out of that shithole. She keeps eyes on everything, that’s what I care about.”
“I’ll give you that.” Swan bumped their shoulders together. “You did good, Ajax.”
“Don’t condescend me.”
“I wasn’t being condescending.”
“You totally were.”
“How was that condescending?”
“You sound like Cleon!”
“Dude, take the fucking compliment!”
“I swear-”
“Ajax!”
“What!” she snapped, looking up. Rembrandt was halfway down the ladder, waiting for Ajax to give her a hand. “Oh, right. Sorry.” She held Rembrandt by the waist and helped her drop to the sidewalk. She’d seen the way the girl almost toppled when she hit the ground the day before and how she favored one ankle now, trying to keep weight off it, and decided it wouldn’t be great if their new tagger broke a leg before she even started.
Rembrandt pulled off her mask and looked up at the tag. “What now?” she asked.
“We’re done for the night,” Swan answered. “It’s almost morning. We’ll sleep today and go back out again tomorrow.” She gave Rembrandt a fist bump and offered the ghost of a smile, which was the Swan equivalent of a round of applause from any normal person. “Nice work.”
Rembrandt didn’t smile, but her troubled expression relaxed a touch and her face lit up with a spark of something. Ajax didn’t have a word for it. Her best explanation was that it looked like, in some way, Rembrandt had woken up. 
Swan turned and started back towards the apartment. Ajax patted Rembrandt’s shoulder and beckoned her along, walking beside Swan and looking back occasionally to make sure Rembrandt was still behind her. Rembrandt fiddled with a paint can, switching out different caps and barely watching where she was going. She glanced up at Ajax. Their eyes met. They quickly looked away at the same time. 
Swan nudged Ajax. “How many dudes jumped you the last time you were here?” she asked under her breath so Rembrandt couldn’t hear.
“Three that went after me,” said Ajax. “I don’t even remember what gang they said they ran with. They ran pretty quick, though, once they realized they’d need their whole crew to take me down.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Who’s being cocky? I’m just sayin’.”
“Well, good thing you beat them, anyway. I know Cleon was mad about how you did it-”
“I didn’t start it!”
“But we got two more blocks out of it so I’m happy. Best if those guys don’t show up again.”
“Warriors!”
The three women froze. Ajax heard the sound of a switchblade flicking. Swan groaned through gritted teeth. Clenching her fists, Ajax closed her eyes as she tilted her face towards the sky. Rembrandt’s hand landed on her arm.
“Swan,” she growled, “if I turn around and those punks are behind me, I’m going to kill you.”
“Not if Cleon kills us first,” Swan shot back. “Let’s get this over with.”
The Warriors turned. They instinctively stepped around Rembrandt and formed a wall between her and the several gang members staring them down. The big one in front held a tiny switchblade that might as well have been a butter knife for all it intimidated Ajax, grinning wickedly with all his goons wearing the same stupid expression. Ajax rolled her shoulders. She still hadn’t forgiven them for busting her nose and now they were back with weapons and looking for a rematch? Oh, she was going to have fun with this. 
Swan grabbed Ajax’s shoulder like she could read her mind. “You’re on our turf,” she said to the group. “This block belongs to the Warriors. Get out of here.”
“You got it wrong, little girl,” the leader retorted. His hands and eyes twitched uncontrollably, putting Ajax on edge. She never liked dealing with people who were hopped up on something. “This block belongs to the Surf Riders.”
“The Surf Riders?” Ajax repeated incredulously. “What kind of stupid ass-”
Swan cut her off. “You handed this block over to us when you got your asses beat. Now back up, put your blade away, and go back to the puddle where you came from, Surf Rider.”
“Yeah, respect the tags, bitch!” Ajax spat. 
One of the smaller Surf Riders stepped forward. “Hey, that’s the motherfucker that stole our block!”
The leader snarled. “Oh, you’re fucking dead!”
“Rembrandt, run!”
Swan and Ajax lunged. One swift kick knocked away the knife and the standoff escalated into an all out brawl. A few quick jabs to the face and a well placed kick to the dick sent the smaller punks running but the bigger ones gave Swan and Ajax more trouble. Trying to wrestle one of them to the ground, Ajax looked over to see Swan with the leader on top of her, one foot braced against his chest to keep him back as she twisted his nose and rained down blows on his head. Ajax didn’t know what the psycho was on but the hits weren’t doing much to faze him. She smashed an elbow in her opponent’s face and bolted to help her friend.
She grabbed the man by the back of his shirt and ripped him off Swan. She got him in a headlock, squeezing as hard as possible while he choked, and then he bit her arm. He fucking bit her. She dropped him with a curse and was immediately met with a dizzying punch to the jaw. She heard Swan shouting her name but another two Surf Riders had gotten up and were keeping her occupied. Ajax was on her own. There was blood on her face, in her mouth, in her eyes as she tried to dodge and block the hits aimed at her head. She hit the ground hard, seeing stars.
She caught the glint of a knife in the moonlight. A shaking hand closed around her throat. She scratched and bit at whatever flesh she could reach in a desperate bid to escape. 
Shit. She was fucking done for.
A small black blur slammed into the man above her and sent him tumbling away across the asphalt. She turned over, coughing and holding her throat. There was the hiss of spray paint and a bloodcurdling scream. Swan was hollering something as multiple pairs of footsteps raced away.
Ajax sat up. She heard Swan cursing through the ringing in her ears as she ran to her side. As Swan snapped her fingers and waved a hand in front of her face, trying to get her attention, she looked up to see Rembrandt standing with her back to them. 
She had her mask back over her face. Her entire body trembled, panting like she’d sprinted a whole marathon, with an uncapped spray can in her hand and her finger on the nozzle. Her hand was stained red, and Ajax was hurled into utter panic for a moment before she realized it was paint. She saw the Surf Riders running off far down the street. Their leader was staggering, holding his face, being hurried along by two of his underlings, and Rembrandt stood there watching them disappear around the corner.
“Holy shit,” Ajax breathed. 
Rembrandt spun and ripped off her mask. She wore the same look of adrenaline fueled terror that Ajax had seen on her when they ran from her old apartment. Before either of the Warriors could speak, Rembrandt cried, “Does this happen often?!”
“Not as often as it looks like,” Swan replied. “It’s been a really weird couple of weeks.”
Ajax turned away from the two of them to discreetly spit out a mouthful of blood. “Rembrandt,” she said, breathing hard, “what did you do?”
Rembrandt hesitated, refusing to look Ajax in the eye. “He had a knife,” she mumbled. “I… I sprayed paint in his face.”
“What?”
“In the eyes.”
The Warriors stared at her in stunned silence. She closed in on herself, her cheeks darkening, holding her spray paint can close like she was afraid someone might take it from her. Swan let out a quiet, “Hm.” Ajax was too shocked to contain herself. She burst out laughing.
“Fucking awesome, Rembrandt!” she said, and then devolved into a coughing fit. Her throat was still sore from being halfway strangled. 
Rembrandt’s eyes flashed with panic. She rushed to Ajax’s side, hooking her arms under Ajax’s on one side while Swan grabbed her on the other. They helped her to her feet, and while Swan let go once Ajax found her footing, Rembrandt clung to her for a moment longer. She dropped Ajax’s arm hurriedly when she realized she might have been hanging on longer than she was probably supposed to. 
“So!” Swan wiped at her nose, smearing blood from a busted lip across her face. “That sucked. Can we go before they come back with reinforcements?”
“Give me a second, man. My head’s still spinning.”
“Want me to hold your hand?”
Ajax gave her the middle finger. Swan returned it before pivoting on her heel and marching off back towards the Warriors’ headquarters. Rembrandt touched Ajax’s shoulder, and she looked down at her. Her eyes were wide, brows furrowed, lips parted, and she looked like she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if she should. Ajax covered Rembrandt’s hand with her own, tried to smile - which hurt like hell - and jerked her head towards Swan walking away. 
There was an immediate panic from Cleon and Cochise when they got home. Cochise pushed Swan and Ajax onto the couch and rushed to get her first aid kit from the bathroom. Cleon sat Rembrandt at the table, quickly checking on her and waiting for her to nod and promise she was okay before going to Swan and Ajax. 
She disinfected the bite mark on Ajax’s forearm while Cochise cleaned a scrape on Swan’s face. “Six of them,” Cleon muttered to herself. “There were six of them that jumped you?”
“Maybe seven,” Swan corrected. “But I think that one ran before anything really started. Ow! Fuck, man, that stings!”
“Quit being a baby,” Cochise said. “What gang was it?”
“The Surf Riders,” said Ajax, snickering at the name.
Cleon swatted her arm. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” said Swan, and Ajax cackled.
“You had all of this tagged?”
“Yes, Cleon. They were the same ones that jumped Ajax a couple weeks ago. We told them they gave up the territory when they lost the fight and told them to back off and they didn’t and that’s when the fight started. We tried to de-escalate it before anything happened.”
“One of them had a knife,” Rembrandt chimed in.
“Thank you, Rembrandt!” said Ajax. 
Cleon sighed. “How badly did you beat them?”
“Enough,” Swan answered, at the same time Ajax said, “Rembrandt sprayed paint in the leader’s face.”
Cleon and Cochise froze. They turned to Rembrandt in unison. The tagger shrank, embarrassed, and hid the paint can she was still holding. Cleon took a deep breath and asked, “Sprayed him where in the face?”
“His eye,” Rembrandt murmured. “Just one.”
“Ohhhh-kay. We’re gonna talk about that in a minute.”
They finished patching up the injured Warriors in silence. Swan helped Cochise pack up the first aid kit and went to her room to talk at Cleon’s quiet suggestion. The warlord sat beside Ajax on the couch. She leaned in close, glancing over at Rembrandt to make sure she wasn’t listening as she lowered her voice. Ajax gritted her teeth and prepared to get chewed out.
“Rembrandt should not have been involved in this,” Cleon said. “This was her first mission. I didn’t even condone you getting into fights on the gang’s behalf within your first month.”
Ajax shifted uncomfortably. “Cleon, I told her to run.”
“You should have made sure she did.”
“I kind of had my hands full.”
“You all should have run. This was not the mission to take anyone on.”
“What, and just pussy out? They came at us with a knife! We were defending our territory!”
“And if it weren’t for the fledgling recruit coming in with a hail mary spray paint can, you’d both be dead! Don’t think I’m only giving you shit for this. Swan’s going to get this same speech. In fact, she’s probably going to get it worse but you’re first on my list.”
“Cleon, I get it,” Ajax said weakly, hating the way her voice sounded. 
“Do you? Really?” Cleon pressed.
“Yes, I get it!” Ajax snapped. Cleon raised her eyebrows, and Ajax pursed her lips and turned away. Cleon may have been her friend first but she was still her leader and Ajax had enough sense to realize she couldn’t talk to her like that. 
Cleon clicked her tongue and put an arm around Ajax. “No more fights,” she ordered. “Not for a while and definitely not when Rembrandt’s with you. Wait until she’s initiated before you start trying to expand territories with her in tow. Are we clear?”
Ajax nodded. “We’re clear.” 
“Good. Rembrandt!”
“Cleon, no-”
Cleon shut her up with a glance. Rembrandt scrambled out of her chair and ran over, coming to a stop before Cleon as the warlord and the enforcer stood. Cleon laid a hand on Rembrandt’s shoulder, and Ajax watched how Rembrandt tensed but didn’t move away.
“I want you to listen to me very carefully,” Cleon said. “When Ajax tells you to run, you run. When any of us tell you to run, you run. Understand?”
Rembrandt nodded hurriedly. “I understand.”
“You run and you don’t look back. I don’t need you to fight. I need you to stay alive. I need all of you to stay alive. That is your first directive above everything. You hear that, Ajax?”
“Yeah, Cleon, I heard,” Ajax grumbled. 
“Good. Rembrandt, nice work with the tagging. You get a couple days to calm down and then you two will go back out and pick up where you left off,” she said. Rembrandt nodded. Cleon smiled. “And no more tagging faces, please. Stick to buildings, alright?”
Ajax could have sworn Rembrandt almost smiled. “Okay.”
Cleon left to go read Swan the riot act. Ajax flopped back onto the couch and pushed her braids out of her face. Rembrandt didn’t move for a moment, flexing her hands as she looked around, and then finally sat beside Ajax. Neither spoke. Ajax let her head loll to the side to look at Rembrandt. Rembrandt wouldn’t turn, only looking at Ajax out of the corner of her eye. Ajax sighed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That really was not supposed to happen on your first night.”
“It’s okay. It’s not the first time I’ve been around something like that.”
“Yeah.”
“Cleon’s a little strict, huh?”
Ajax chuckled. “I know it seems like that right now but she’s honestly not. She’s let a lot of things go that anyone else probably would have jumped me out of a gang for. She’s more understanding than she lets on because she knows where we all come from and knows we’re not just psychos like that motherfucker back there.”
Rembrandt shifted, wringing her hands as her shoulders drew up to her ears. “How much did you tell her?”
“I told her you needed to stay here with us,” Ajax said. Rembrandt nodded. “Thanks for saving me tonight. That guy was going to kill me if you didn’t step in. But Cleon’s right, next time if I tell you to run, you need to run for your fucking life, got it? I hate running. I won’t do it unless I have to, so know that if I tell you to, you better do it.”
“I got it. Thanks, Ajax.”
Ajax flashed a grin. To her utter surprise, Rembrandt returned it with a tiny smile. Ajax was struck by how… beautiful it was. Sad and quiet and reserved but also full of life lingering just below the surface, it lit up Rembrandt’s tired features and even seemed to make the bruises fade. All Ajax could focus on was that smile and Rembrandt’s big brown eyes and her wild curls and the smell of spray paint that clung to her. 
She was suddenly struck by the embarrassing idea that she might have been staring for too long. She looked away and jumped to her feet. Rembrandt followed.
“Here,” she said, clearing her throat. “You need a bed. Help me fold the couch out, it’s a pain in the ass to do by myself.”
Rembrandt’s smile only grew.
21 notes · View notes
the-cookie-of-doom · 1 year ago
Text
Not for the first time, Kim wishes he had been born an only child. 
“Wik is too well known,” Kinn had said, logical as always. “It’ll raise too many questions if he suddenly disappears.” 
“And it’s your fault!” adds Tankhun with an imperious huff. “If those thugs hadn’t thought he was you, they wouldn’t have taken him!” 
“I wouldn’t have been taken,” Kim says, because he’s an asshole, and he really, really hates his brother. All of them, really, but especially Wik. “Maybe if Wik wasn’t so—”
“Kimhan.” Their father, this time. “Had you completed your mission, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Consider this your penance. You will act in your brother's place to ensure he is not missed, while we attempt to find him, before he’s killed.” Because of my mistake, Kim thinks.,
And that’s the end of it, really. Kim may hate his brother the way you can only hate yourself, but that doesn’t mean Kim wants him to suffer for his mistakes. 
And now he’s here, strutting into Anantremeka university with a guitar across his back that he barely remembers how to play, and way too many eyes on him. 
Kim tells himself it’s going to be fine. He only has to go to class for a few hours. This isn’t the first time he’s impersonated his twin. It’s been years, sure, but he slips into character… not easily, but with a kind of familiarity that makes it feel like ease. 
Only a few hours. 
He can do this. 
***
“P’Wik! PWik!” 
Kim’s face hurts from smiling. Still, he turns around to face the boy shouting his name, and once again engages a practiced, disarming smile. He knows he looks sweet, harmless, and endlessly patient for the thousandth person to come running up to him today. 
“Hello,” he greets warmly. The boy comes to a crashing stop before him. His hair is messy and wild around his face—cheeks flushed, of course, embarrassed and exerted—and he’s carrying a guitar. Kim gave up on his own half-way throughout the day; he didn’t seem to need it, and he certainly wasn’t going to play it otherwise, so he’d abandoned the prop to his car during lunch. 
“P’Wik,” the boy gasps. “Are you okay?”
What? 
“You missed our session, and when I tried to call, you didn’t answer—” the boy twists his hands in his sleeves. Offers a sheepish smile, shyly meeting his eyes. “I—uh—I got worried? It’s okay if you were busy! I know stuff comes up, I was just…” he finishes lamely, shrugging, his smile never once wavering in the face of Kim’s stunned silence. 
What, exactly, is the kind of session he apparently missed? Since when does Wik willingly spend one-on-one time with his fans? 
What the fuck is going on? 
“I’m sorry,” Kim says, when he realizes the silence has stretched too far, and the boy is starting to look the wrong kind of nervous. “I did. Have something come up. I would have called, but I broke my phone—I don’t have your number.”
The lie comes easily. The boy relaxes, his entire body going soft in a way that makes the predator in Kim want to bite, and he makes some confusing gestures that Kim doesn’t try to follow. 
“Oh! That’s okay. As long as you’re okay, I mean, if everything is okay.”
My brother is probably being tortured because he was too incompetent to keep himself from getting kidnapped, and it’s my fault because I failed to kill the people that did it, but otherwise…
“It is.” 
“Okay. Good. Cool.” 
The boy—Kim really needs to find out his name, if this is someone his brother knows, and therefore Kim will be expected to spend time with—fiddles again with his sleeve. Kim slips his phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to the boy. 
“Give me your number?”
“Sure!” The boy takes it, eagerly typing in his contact information. Kim eyes the name when he passes it back—Porchay—and fires off a quick text so that Porchay will have his number, too. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t want this boy having access to him like that, but it’s the kind of thing Wik would do. That a normal person would do, exchanging this information like it was nothing. “Do you—I mean, we don’t have to reschedule if you’re busy—”
“I’m not. Anymore.”
“O-oh. Great! That’s great. When do you…?”
Kim mentally reviews the schedule he memorized last night. He has classes until this evening. He was going to spend the remaining hours of the day digging into his brother’s disappearance, even though Kinn assured him it was being handled by their own staff. 
He could just… skip his afternoon class. It would serve his brother right, tarnishing his perfect reputation just a little bit. Tankhun would never forgive him, though. 
“This evening,” Kim sighs. “Five o’clock?” 
“That works! Do you want to meet in the studio again?”
“Yes.” Kim will need to find out which studio, exactly, they’ve been using. His brother has access to several. 
“Okay. I’ll see you, then! Thank you, P’Wik!” 
Then just as quickly as Porchay collided with Kim, he’s bouncing away again, and Kim finally registers he isn’t wearing the university uniform. Instead he was dressed in a light blue shirt with BOC International emblazoned on the chest. Kim waits until he’s out of sight to google the emblem; it’s a high school. 
What are you doing, Wik? 
82 notes · View notes
autistic-sidestep · 4 months ago
Note
OH ALSO FOR THE SHIP BINGO. Sura and Mortum because i KNOW that's brewing in your brain rn and I want to hear more about them 👀👀
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
suramortum!!!!!1 fuck it took me 5 months to answer this anyways throws this under the cut (it gets slowly more incoherent towards the end because i am very tired)
so suramortum. i hadnt considered them as a thing when i first played but gradually through codediving and exploring more of mortum's route i really liked the new dimensions it showed of sidestep + how multifaceted the good doctor was. I’ve been fiddling a lot with sura + made it more ruthless + calculated, therefore nudging itself further away from ricardo/heroic persona, and mortum represents a lot more present/future thinking whereas ric’s looking back at the past.
to me i think sura did earnestly first fall for mortum all the way back in rebirth at the cape scene:
You watch the image of the armor rotating in the air as Dr. Mortum adds a variety of capes to the sleek image. There's a look of almost childish joy on her face that makes it hard not to smile in return. "I didn't know you were so fond of capes," you tease. "I'm not." There's a pause, and a sheepish shrug. "Alright, maybe I am. It adds a sense of style that I feel most people these days lack."
someone else who also enjoys design and knows there's power in appearances and genuinely just being able to collaborate with a fellow artist was really nice for sura
Besides the t4t they’re both lonely people starved/desperate for connection and that juxtaposition w/ the fronts they maintain to keep themselves safe, and mortum's route really hits the heart of sura’s issues. eg at the gala:
"It's an interesting feeling, isn't it?" Dr. Mortum looks around the crowd for a moment before returning ${mhis} gaze to you. "To look back and realize how much you've changed. How far you've come." "I suppose." You snort a little in amusement. For a moment, you can see your younger self, standing in a party not unlike this one, feeling completely overwhelmed for very different reasons. "Never thought I'd end up like this." "For people like us, the first time stepping out of line means stepping into our own. I recognized a kindred spirit in you from our first meeting." You turn to look at the good doctor, frowning a little as you try to decide how you are supposed to handle this conversation. $!{mhe} has turned out to be more perceptive than you bargained for.
  #I'm curious about what ${mhe} thinks of me, so I will let ${mhim} continue leading the conversation.     "Really? What kind of a kindred spirit is that?" You smile a little coyly, pushing back your nervous twitch about being investigated like this.     "Someone who is in the process of reinventing themselves." $!{mhe} rubs ${mhis} chin a little, looking you over. "Into what, I'm not sure."     "Isn't that true for everybody, though?"     "Sadly, no. Most people are satisfied with what life has given them. They might whine and complain, but they will make no attempt to change their circumstances."     "But I am?"     "Are you telling me that I'm wrong?" Dr. Mortum looks honestly puzzled, as if nobody had ever dared to do that before.     "Not exactly…." You drag out the pause a little too long. "Just that I'm uncomfortable with being scrutinized this closely."     "I'm not your enemy, ${title}." $!{mhe} smiles a little as ${mhe} looks into your eyes. "Quite the opposite, in fact."
the transtalk during the lovers scene route (which i am always at least a little irritated that sura can’t reach naturally because being intersex and trans are mutually exclusive so i edit the savefile just for that) and the (good) reveal scene really cemented junomortum/suramortum for me though.
Sura’s always masking and acting and lying because it’s an ingrained habit from the Farm and a defense mechanism (and we also can’t forget those identity issues). mortum is one of the few people that's perceptive enough (and that's allowed) to see through some of sura's facades (partly because there's none of the baggage of knowing what sura Used to be like the way it is with chen and ortega)
trans lovers talk:
"I'm sorry," you say [...] "I didn't mean to touch a nerve." "You didn't." She pats you on the back, pulling you a little closer. "Some people…they do. There's this morbid curiosity I can't stand. Like I'm a slab of meat they are trying to find fault with. But you, ma cherie, you…" This time she looks you straight in the eye. "I what?" You are the one turning away your gaze this time. "I get the feeling you understand." "Maybe I do." You can't hide your sigh because you do. Not in a way you can explain to her, but you do. "I wasn't sure at first. You look rather…comfortable with yourself for…" She doesn't say it out loud, but you know what she implies. Juno comes across as so confident, it must be hard for someone else to imagine how much of a mess you are. "I'm good at keeping up appearances," you say, and it's not even much of a lie. Layer the masks thick enough, and they become armor. <- sura's motto right here
"You are," Dr. Mortum admits, but she keeps looking at you with the faintest of frowns. "A little too much for your own good, I think." "No, I like being inscrutable." You slide from her grip, giving her a pat on her shoulder. "Roll over. You're looking at me too much." "Even to me, ma cherie?" But she follows your command, rolling over on her stomach. "Do you still need to hide who you really are around here?" "Yes." You slide on top of her, starting to massage her shoulders. A little rougher than you need to, but she deserves it. "You don't have to," she gently suggests. "I don't judge." "That's what everybody says." You lean into your hands, finding a particularly tense muscle. "Right before they judge you." "I can understand your paranoia, but…" "If you do, then drop this subject, and I'll think about it." That's a lie, but she doesn't need to know that. Your mask is the only thing keeping you safe, no matter how much she claims she would understand. Agh. How did you end up getting caught in another anxiety loop brought on by your own damnable curiosity?
i just. [clenches fist]
also the post-confession stuff! since sura gets stuck in juno (puppetcrash + puppetstuck) i love that mortum even as justifiably upset as she is still cares enough to rescue puppetstuck sura after they'd assumed all bridges between them had been burned (outside scar w/ a lot of self loathing and a self-destructive streak whoops). it's so messy and complicated and i just love them being able to pick through the mess and slowly progress forward (with a lot of apologies, effort and reconcilliation on sura's part). they're not good people but they can still find solace in eachother.
(i think sura's probably headed for a bad ending but mortum might be able to change the trajectory with a bit of luck)
also mortum's audhd and sura's autism ! neurodivergent couple :3 i love that mortum's always checking for consent and how much she cares.
also!!! mortum and sura being the hottest villain powercouple on the west coast is very hot. im thinking about coordinated costumes for annual halloween villain galas and just massively ruthless competence. they can cover eachothers blindspots since mortum's the tech person and sura's got the contacts and the charisma as argos.
sura's down just. horrendously bad for the good doctor. i've likened them to an aloof/hissy housecat with everyone else but a very affectionate lapcat with Only mortum. i'm picturing all kinds of silly domesticity in the lab. in a good end au sura gets its cat back from elena's place and the three live together :'3
13 notes · View notes
gingerlurk · 7 months ago
Text
Binding | Part II
Tumblr media
Din Djarin x f!Reader
A Lovers' Crest one-shot (in three parts). Complete on A03.
Prev | Next
Here's the LC Masterlist.
Summary: Lost and alone in a dark cave, you need to figure out what happened to the Mandalorian.
Word count: 6.5k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, established relationship, characters in peril, mind control, evil droid, being restrained, canon-typical violence. Also, lots of action, characters in peril, lots of peril, sorry. Please let me know if there's more to add I am rusty.
A/N: This story won't make much sense if you haven't read Lovers' Crest. Or even if you have, it may still be nonsense. I'm not sure. I really put all the characters through it here. The next chapter is well cosy though, I promise.
--
With a pained gasp and a flailing of limbs, you break the surface of putrid water. 
Breathless and sputtering, you struggle to keep your head above the stinky pool you’d plummeted backwards into right after Din’s helmet had disappeared from view. You twist and thrash around for a bit before realising you’re unhurt, just treading water in total darkness. 
It still takes several deep breaths before there’s enough air in your lungs to call out.
‘Din?’ You shout, craning to look back up. Back to where you had fallen from. ‘Din? Grogu?’
No answer. You jab at the light strapped to your arm, it buzzes a few times before fizzling out to nothing. But it had flashed just enough for you to spot a bit of rock poking out of the water. Strike out in that direction, kicking until you can smack a hand onto it.
Feeling about, you find the rock is quite large. Haul yourself out of the wretched water and sit, elbows on knees and panting. You look up again.
‘Din?’ you call, pushing down panic. Nothing. ‘Grogu?’
At that, a beam of light appears up above. The faint nervous trills and grunts of the child echo down to where you’re perched. You’d estimate it to be a ten metre drop.
‘Grogu? Hey, kiddo? Are you okay? Where’s Din?’
The pod drifts out into the open air and descends to you. The kid is now chittering with insistence as he comes level with where you sit, blinding you with his lamp. You shield your eyes to see him and take in the wide-eyed worry.
‘Hey baby,’ you gesture him closer and dig into the side of his pod for your little field tool kit. ‘It’ll be okay. Sit tight.’ 
Tugging the device off your arm, you motion for him to direct the light so you can see your work. You’re focusing hard on practical steps. Rather than the primal dread crawling up your spine. Steps like ‘need light fixed’. And not, Where’s Din? Where is he? Where did he go? Where– No, need light fixed.
Step one. Fix light.
A bit of fiddling and it blinks back at full force. You huff an exhale and point it around you and the child, who’s still murmuring and anxious.
This rock is indeed a small island in the middle of a vast underground lake. It must be one of the spots where the aquifer breaches the rock layer. You direct the beam up the sheer cliff. Next practical step is ‘need back up there’.
‘Okay Grogu, bud,’ you lay what you hope is a reassuring hand on the child. ‘Think you can manage a miracle?’ He’s squeezing his eyes shut and focusing before you finish the sentence. You manage a half smile, ‘Nice.’
Closing your eyes too, you try to channel energy toward his efforts, feeling, as always, that vast and intimidating power that lives on your periphery. It stirs, begins to move. Within yourself it is a fuzzy and flickering thing. When you see it in Grogu, it’s like looking into a sun.
Next thing you know, you are weightless. The sharp rocks that were digging into your legs drop away as you begin to float. You fight vertigo and fear, trying not to grip Grogu too tight. He raises you and the pod, depositing your feet right back on the spot where that creature had smacked into you.
Shining a light around the carnage, you will yourself to contemplate the next task. Find out what happened to Din.
‘Alright bud,’ you say, still with a hand on Grogu, ‘can you show me?’
He ‘wahs’ a little before raising a claw to clasp one of your fingers. 
The vision sweeps across your mind’s eye. Din, on his knees, leaning over the edge to look down at you, raising a forearm to engage his whipcord. Behind him, a long, segmented mechanical... thing snakes across the ground. Toward him. It snaps a clamp over his ankles and drags him backwards. Back... that way... you turn and walk in the direction the vision showed.
Come to a dead end.
With shaking hands, you reach out to feel about the rocky wall. Nothing. It’s just a rocky wall.
‘Fuck.’
But Grogu saw him pulled this way, so there must be something. You decide to give this a go yourself, unwilling to ask more of the child. He’s already looking drained after the ambush of monster bugs and saving your ass. He needs his strength. And all of you are a long way yet from being out of danger.
Turning your inner eye to the energy dwelling within, you bid it to approach. It’s already uncoiled and slides into your senses. Changes the shape of the universe as you funnel the power of the Force down into understanding this cave wall.
And it becomes crystal clear. Not a wall. A hard light shield masking a weapons-grade bunker. A heavy door sealed shut via an… an access panel right… over there…
Trailing a hand along the illusion, gritty rock becomes smooth and glossy under your fingers. Opening your eyes to look, your lamplight shows you’re still just touching a natural feature. But the modular beeping and responsive hum under your palm indicates it’s a piece of tech.
Okay, now… How do I… On instinct, you press your whole hand flat to the panel – jump in surprise as it activates.
Well, that was easy.  
It cycles loud. You push Grogu’s pod and back away with it to take cover behind a large granite pillar – watch a surreal process of the barrier grinding open to reveal a dim light just beyond its threshold.
Those hideous bugs would have drowned out the noise of the door opening. And you were a touch too distracted by being hurled off a cliff in any case.
But whatever that snaking thing was, it dragged Din in there.
You force yourself to wait a good thirty seconds and, when nothing appears and no movement can be seen, edge out to approach with cautious steps. The child follows close behind, quiet – just the hum of his pod echoing behind you.
A narrow corridor opens into a true nightmare and you have to work to beat back a rising hysteria. A cavernous space made difficult to comprehend by the chaotic array of items, paraphernalia, and junk scattered around and piled high. You spy everything from broken pieces of armour through to what looks to be a speeder’s engine mount.
Bones too. A lot of them.
With an arm up to keep Grogu back a ways, you continue to cast around, searching the place for any sign of--
Your sweep halts and blood freezes in your veins. A sight that is familiar and frightening all at once.
The angular chrome catches the beam of your torch. High arches you would know by touch glimmer in the low light. The dark T-visor stares, reflecting your wide-eyed horror. 
But there’s no reaction to your gasp of shock. None at all. The Mandalorian’s helmet doesn’t move an inch. 
Because it’s not Din.
It sits alone, still and silent, on a small mountain of discarded tech. 
No life in there.
You take a trembling step toward it.
‘Now, now—'
A reverberating drone peels across the silence. 
‘You wouldn’t be thinking of stealing from me, would you?’ 
Nothing about the voice makes sense save for the language you recognise. It’s ungodly. The sound of it grates on your ears like a corrosion – words being pushed through mechanical parts. It’s coming from all around you, disembodied and loud. 
‘Because that wouldn’t make you a very worthy guest, now would it?’
Unable to place its source, you take another step – fingers desperate to make contact with the beskar piece.
‘Ah, ah, ah!’ clicks the noise in a mocking admonishment. 
Another step, just a few more before you can lay hands on--
‘Wow,’ comes the staccato. ‘So rude. I think I need to have my new toy deal with you.’
From a darkened passage on the other side of the space, a new sound emerges. This one you know. Know it as well as you know the helmet just beyond arm’s reach. It sends a cascade of gooseflesh over you.
The clinking, steady footfalls of Din Djarin grow louder until he emerges from the darkness. There’s not even a shred of relief felt on seeing him. Something is badly wrong. 
He’s not in there. Not at home. A blank, glassy-eyed expression tracks the room and peels over you and Grogu like you’re just features of the bunker wall.
And, somehow even worse, he walks right by the pile of junk on which his helm rests, no inkling there at all that it’s his sacred property. He comes to a stop in front of you. In the dim light, you can make out a blinking chip-like array at his left temple. Angry red lines radiate out from the attachment. The eye there is bloodshot and weeping.
It’s horrifying.
‘Grogu,’ you whisper, sights fixed on your vacant partner. ‘Go.’
The baby whines at the instruction and you wave toward the way out. 
‘Go, go! Get Gaius. Get--’
He hasn’t moved yet when the grisly robotic voice clicks an indifferent, ‘Kill them, if you please.’ Din moves into motion so swift you shout in alarm. 
His arm is up and bringing a savage swing down toward Grogu’s head that you only just manage to intercept, twisting into his elbow and throwing your whole weight into diverting the blow. It’s what it takes, his raw strength such that you have to body his entire limb just to counter.
It happens twice more, him swinging with vambraced arms as you lurch and throw yourself between him and the child. Grogu seems to be frozen in fear, staring up at his father with a trembling disbelief. 
‘Grogu!’ you try again, caging Din’s wrist with both forearms to direct it into open air, rather than the hovering pod. ‘Go! ’
He still doesn’t move, paralysed. 
Just as you drive a desperate shoulder into the possessed man’s fist, you twist flush to Din’s chest, lean into his cuirass and use the purchase to lift a foot and kick the baby’s pod away.
It does the job – Grogu whirrs out of reach and flops back with a grunt. But before you can move, a huge arm locks across your throat. It compresses your airway with a discompassionate ease.
Blind terror rips a strangled scream from you before losing breath. Gods it hurts. An instant burning. You claw and wheeze. Drown in the horror that this is how it ends, so sudden and so random. It crawls in your heart and you sob. Not Din... please not by him... It’s sapping strength as oxygen becomes an unknown to you. Arms drop and flail at the armour-clad tower behind you.
Futile. This is it.
But the muscles holding you firm ease. Just a little. Just enough so can you gasp air and drop weight to your knees to get free of the chokehold. You make a half-roll and leap to your feet to look back at him, hands to your throbbing – but open – throat.
He’s frozen, stock still. And you see it. You see him. His eyes are alight with horror, with fear and panic. Dark irises track over you, stare at where you grip your neck. He starts to spasm and shudder, like something is fighting to burst out of him. He whimpers your name and then—
‘Run,’ he gasps. A plea through shredded vocal chords, ‘Run!’ 
His eyes go blank again as you pivot on the spot, set your sights on Grogu’s pod that is now – mercifully – racing away, and bolt. Through ringing ears, you hear the voice crackle in delight, ‘Oh she’s fun! Secure the female alive. Kill the small thing.’
You can’t handle this alone. You don’t know what to do. Din groans and snarls behind you, in a war with himself and the alien tech trying to hold him in thrall. He fights it long enough for you to get a decent lead, then he’s chasing you down. Thundering boots send hammers of black dread to beat against your spine.
As you run, you manage to make three observations. One, he hasn’t used any of his own equipped weapons yet. Two, his attacks were clumsy – nothing like his usual precise and practiced brutality. Three, he’s gaining on you.
This last observation comes as you breach the cave opening into the white hot light of the surface. Your feet kick up dust that cakes on the soaked fabric of your pants. It swirls in the billowing tempest wrought by the Mandalorian closing the distance between you.
Time slows.
The first thing that happens is a hand landing hard on your shoulder. The other reaches to hug your ribs firm. You’re pulled into him and forced forward at the same time, held in an embrace of violent control. The ground rushes up to meet you. Like a ragdoll, you’re twisted side-on to slam into it, so hard the momentum of your legs carry on in a disorienting cartwheel over yourself. 
You’re winded so full-bodily you can only go limp, try to brace your arms but it’s no use. 
Shoved over, face and torso into the dirt, you’re helpless as he throws his full weight on top of you. Just trying to catch your breath – everything burning, throat, lungs, limbs. There’s nothing you can do against being straddled by him as his grip shifts on your body.
He takes your upper arms and – with a vicious yank – the ground tips away as you’re hauled up into a vicelike hold, pulled flush to hard beskar chest yet again. 
Sagging in his merciless restraint, there’s just enough mental will left to observe that Grogu is nowhere to be seen. The barren terrain around you is quiet.
He got away… at least he got away…
Your captor comes to the same conclusion with a grunt of frustration.
He turns in a full circle, evidently unclear where to go in the hunt for his assigned target.
Huh, you think. He doesn’t know which way his ship is? That’s interesting.
After twisting and turning about, jerking you to and fro, he stops – seems locked by indecision, unable to fulfil one of the directives issued by that voice back in the cave.
‘You may as well just take me back,’ you say, sounding raspy – feeling the effort burn your throat. ‘You won’t find him.’
Wind and dust float around the two of you as he remains still, incapable of choosing a path forward. You’re craning your neck, pressing it into his shoulder to look up at him, when you see the chip at his temple blink a harsh blue light. 
Orders coming in?
Your guess is confirmed when – with another frustrated snarl – he begins to move.
Back toward the opening of the cave.
You let yourself feel some kind of relief that Grogu has escaped – mostly so you don’t slip into hysterical terror.
He drags you into the dark and, as you struggle and plead to no avail, back into the hoard of horrors. 
‘Chain her,’ the alien speech greets you, and you’re pulled to a wall dripping with cables and restraints. Arms are tugged behind your back for loops to be coiled around and around, secured – tight – until you’re bound against the solid surface.
The whole time Din does this – winding chains with clumsy hands – you’re murmuring to him, trying to get through. Din? Din – you’re in there, I know you’re in there. C’mon, Din. It’s me, it’s me. Din!
But you get nothing, and your arms are locked behind you so tightly, you begin to worry about circulation. Then he steps back. Goes still.
You have no idea what to do. Bide for time?
It’s all you have.
‘So,’ you start, speaking into the void. Have to clear your throat a few times, wincing. ‘What are you? One of those kid-enslaving droids?’
A long pause like it's considering whether or not to engage. 
‘Technically…’ it grates. ‘I’m supposed to be. Up there.’
Another pause. Then talkativeness seems to win out.
‘But it’s just been so boring since the change,’ it reverberates and grinds. ‘I’m not even needed, really. Here is much more fun. Do you know how many like you I’ve rustled out of these caves?’
You could take a guess, looking at the huge amount of pillaged equipment and torn clothing piled and scattered about.
‘They just. Keep. Coming!’ it crumbles on. ‘And they. Never. Leave!’
Nauseated, weary, you let slip a morose conclusion, ‘You’re a monster,’ you say.
‘Hah! Yep.’
‘Why do you do this?’ you ask. Not really wanting to know, but trying to keep it talking – afraid of what comes next.
‘It’s fun. Watch this,’ it says. ‘Go stand over there.’
That blue light emits from Din’s temple again and he responds in an instant, turning away from you and walking to a random point in the room. It blinks off again when he stops moving.
Huh, you think again. Interesting.
‘But it wears off, yeah?’ you say. ‘He’ll be able to break out eventually, has done it once already – right Din?’ You look over to him. Get nothing in response. Direct your attention back to empty air. ‘So what then?’
‘Oh, no no no,’ it belches. ‘Nooo this is a modified device of my making. Once that pesky little breakdown starts it’ll ffzzzzz,’ it makes a horrible sound like a wet blender on turbo, ‘Scramble ‘em up real good.’
You swallow acid, feel the horror swell hot within you. Wrench on the bindings so hard your muscles scream. 
‘Fuck you,’ you spit. It bursts out – you’re trying to convert fear into anger. Trying to muster something to get you and Din out of this. ‘Fucking, fuck, I am going to fuck. You. Up--’
‘Hah!’ it cranks. ‘My, my, I’ve had some feisty ones in my time but you – you take the crown.’
You brace a foot on the wall and try to—ugh, it’s too tight—try to twist side-on to get some slack in the chains. Fuck, owww, it has more effect on your shoulder joints than anything else. Pins and needles fizz in your hands.
‘And now,’ says the droid, projecting a low menace that vibrates the air. ‘Now it’s your turn.’
You freeze. No.
No, no, no no no no!
Your renewed struggles echo loud, bouncing around the place along with your cries of distress.
‘Go over there, pick it up,’ it intones. 
Din’s movement summons your attention, pausing your desperate efforts. He strides to a wide bench littered with debris and tools, with weapons and circuitry – ignores it all to pick up a singular object. 
A twin to the one clamped to his temple. 
‘Put it on her,’ comes the command from all around.
Din turns with the thing in hand. He takes steps toward you.
‘No,’ shaking your head. ‘Don’t, don’t.’
As he gets closer, you can see little tendril-like appendages unfurl from a blinking body pinched between his fingers – they sway in the air, seeking flesh to latch onto. 
Recoiling, you shrink against the wall. Try with all your might to get away from it.
‘Din, Din!’ you’re shouting, on the verge of screaming. ‘Fight it! Fight it, please.’
Muscles shriek in protest and your hands feel like they are going to explode, but you just thrash harder, mind blank with terror. He holds the thing out in front of him as he walks. Your head jerks back, smacks into the hard wall and your vision swims. 
Groggy, disoriented, you sag in defeat and muster everything left into one final plea. A final beseeching of his name.
‘Din!’ It’s a cry of pure fear.
His steps halt. Almost within arm’s reach of you, he stops like an invisible wall has blocked his path. He lurches like half of him wants to carry forward but the other keeps him locked in place. The device in his hand continues to sway and seek, but it’s not getting any closer.
Working to calm yourself. Not sure what to do or say, lost and fretting over the thing blinking by his eye, you just ramble, ‘It’s me, it’s me. Please. It’s me, and I need you.’
Maybe- maybe if you can get him to free you, you can get that thing off before it kills him.
‘Please, I need you t—'
Din convulses. He shudders all over. 
Hot dread washes over you as he takes another small step forward. No, gods, please!
But a grunt of pure grit coming from deep down bursts forth and he staggers back.
He twists from you in a clumsy pivot, almost falls to his knees but stays upright to lunge away. With an arcing arm, he hurls the device to the other side of the space. It hits a wall and clatters into a pile of litter.
A half a second to feel relief when--
‘Ugh,’ the droid hacks. Oh no, fuck, in the last few moments of panic – you’d actually forgotten about it. You stare at Din in desperation. Tears spring in your eyes. ‘Never had one go so quick,’ it goes on. ‘How annoying. Oh well, say goodbye to your--'
‘Now Grogu!’ Gaius’ voice. 
From the shadows, the kid is a blur through the air. He leaps a massive distance across the bunker to land on Din’s twitching shoulder. Clamps a clawed little hand to the atrocity latched to his father’s head. With a pained ‘hhhhheh’, he channels his Force energy. You feel it flutter and writhe in your consciousness – a duel unfolding between it and the horror tech. 
Din lets loose a torn scream – face a rictus of agony. But Grogu doesn’t let up. His energy growing and expanding, radiating in waves around the room. You watch, transfixed, beset with fear and hope.
The binding gives a violent whir and, at a final shout of pain from the towering figure, it detaches – the tendril-like appendages lifting from the skin of the temple. It wriggles in Grogu’s grasp like a caught insect.
The Mandalorian jolts and stumbles back a few steps. The child tumbles off his shoulder and into his arms, dropping the device. It clatters to the ground, where a huge boot is rising to slam down onto it. Din cradles his son as he grinds his heel before kicking the crushed object away and falling to his knees with a pained heave of breath. He takes a moment to tilt his head back in surrender, and relief.
Over the speaker, the voice that had been commanding this entire horrorshow clacks a sudden string of static.
‘Wait!’ it shrieks. ‘Wait, wait, wait, what are you—Who? No, no you, you can’t, you can’t. S-stop. Stop!’ It devolves into a kind of nonsense circuitry as the sound of metal crunching and mechanical joints being ripped apart echoes off the cave walls. With a final, khirrrrr… the place is quiet again.
From the direction that a possessed Din had first marched out of the dark, Gaius shuffles. Eyes glassy, expression blank. For a fearful second, you worry they’ve been put into binding too, but there’s nothing at their temple. Face clear, but in shock.
They’re holding the head of a droid in one hand and a phase driver in the other – look between the two items for a moment before jamming the tool into one of its eye sockets and giving it an angry twist. They drop the lot and slump against the wall. 
‘My whole life,’ they gasp. ‘Been wanting to do that to one of those things.’
You’re taking that in when hands are on you. You jump with fright. But it’s Din. He’s put Grogu down and is by your side, releasing the chains on your arms. That dexterous precision is back, you can feel seeking fingers moving over your limbs, checking and testing for injury at the same time as he releases the locks. You try to make eye contact, but he won’t look at you.
The second your arms are free, while rubbing blood back into them, you dash to the junk pile to retrieve the helmet, stride back to him.
‘Din?’ you ask, searching his face, needing to confirm he’s still in there. ‘Hey, please look at me.’
His eyes shift to yours. 
Seeing what you need to see, you give a sigh of relief and lift the helmet to gently lower it over his head. A desolate expression settles on his features, gaze dropping to stare into nothing as the helm goes back in place. You run each hand along the sharp arches on either side, look straight into the visor.
‘It’s alright,’ you say. ‘We’re alright.’
No response.
But you can’t linger in front on him. Have to trust that he is gathering himself behind the safety of the beskar. 
You cross the cavern to where the droid’s head had rolled to a clanking stop. Pick it up and tug the driver out to peer inside it. Tilting it to and fro for a minute, you close one eye, hold it close – spot just what you were looking for. Sticking the tool in a pocket, you keep hold of the head and pace to where Din had hurled the grotesque little device. The one that had been intended for you. Shove down fear to lift it with ginger fingers, observing the thing’s chip for a moment.
‘Thought so,’ you say. 
‘What’re you—’ Gaius starts, straightening up and getting closer. But you just move past them, on a warpath of your own now. 
Heading into the dark, it’s only a few steps before a circular control room opens up. Banks of panels and stacks of camera screens line the space. You scan them. See footage of the tunnels you’d come through, the cliff edge where you’d fought the bugs, and the cavern – where you are pained to see that Din hasn’t moved an inch, though Grogu is at his feet, looking up.
The headless part of your tormenter remains in place, sitting in the middle of the surveillance set-up, plugged into multiple ports with various coupling appendages branching out from its chassis. 
You move toward it, intent on your plan. Gaius has followed and gives a cry of alarm as you plant the thing’s head back onto its body, yank the phase driver out and start to affix the neck with angry little twists.
‘Wh-!’ they exclaim in horror. ‘What’re you d—’
‘Don’t worry,’ you say, not looking up. ‘You’ve fried its mobility array. It can’t move. But…’ with a violent stab of the hand tool into the top of the unit, you drag the whole back half of the cranium down.
‘It’s still networked this way,’ you go on. ‘With the system, and these things.’ You lift the binding monstrosity. Gaius recoils at it, watches with naked disgust as you hold it in the light of the monitor screens. 
There’s a little port on the wide desk that houses the device perfectly. When you drop it onto the glowing surface and slap a button, an exploded diagram of the chip is projected in a holo floating in front of you. You point. The component is clear as day.
‘What am I looking at?’ they ask.
‘Data stream,’ you say, shift your direction to a similar looking shape inside the droid. ‘Connected to this. That’s how it could make commands by just saying shit.’
Technically, it didn’t need to say anything at all – could just transmit orders in an instant – but this fucker liked to showboat apparently.
‘Incredible,’ Gaius stares at you with awe. You turn away, land eyes back on the screen that is recording the cavern. See that Din is no longer where you left him. It’s a brief spark of panic when you can’t locate him on the monitor, but it drops when you hear footsteps approaching. He emerges into the room a moment later, the child on his heels.
He looks around, but doesn’t speak. 
‘Just in time,’ you say. ‘I’m gonna fry all the droids. Shut ‘em down.’
‘You- you can do that?’ Gaius asks. ‘You’re going to do that?’
You just shrug.
It’s a few more steps. Jamming the phase driver into the droid’s screw plate, you wedge it tight so it destabilises the override.  
Then you step to a keyboard and begin punching in a program you’d created during the trip to this cursed planet.
‘Will it hurt it?’ they ask.
‘Uh, yeah,’ you say, finishing up the last few lines of code. ‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘Good.’ Gaius and Din are a chorus, spitting the word out in unison.
With a final adjustment, you set the program running. The droid’s coupler arms begin to twirl and tool in the inputs. It’s an awful sound, like it's protesting with all its will against carrying out the commands you’d dumped into it. But it’s helpless and – as you all watch – red alerts begin to blink on, a few, then a few more, then more, then the whole bank is alight.
The room pulses a deep bloody colour and you fiddle with dials under the monitors. They cut to various feeds inside the factory and you get to view in glorious fuzzy resolution droids all over the place begin to spasm and drop. 
‘Look,’ you say, pointing to a stream showing a set up similar to the one you stand in. Another insect-like droid – your original target, up on the factory’s command floor – whirrs in confusion. All of its alarms are chiming as well and, after a moment, the screen whites out as sparks and flames consume it.
You flick a few levers and the red alarms wink out, the room fades back into a mute grey. It’s silent for a long beat, until Gaius speaks up.
‘Now what?’ they ask, sounding a bit dazed.
In answer, you spin the dials again, find a feed of some kind of production line – where kids are stumbling backwards, dropping tools, leaning into each other. Touching disbelieving fingers to the sides of their heads. Looking all around.
‘Gaius,’ you say, stepping close. ‘The binding won’t work without the droids. The kids are free. Your sister’s free. We just need to find her.’
They stare at you, eyes filling with tears, before pulling you into a tight hug. You let them, looking over a shoulder at the Mandalorian, who’s still and watchful.
‘I can’t believe you did all this.’ Gentle sobs into your ear.
You lift shoulders and drop them again, ease out of the embrace after a moment.
It had always been the plan.
From the very moment you’d learned this tech existed, you’d been hellbent on destroying it. Rescue the sister, but end all this as well.
You’d needed to improvise, sure. But it had always been the plan. It’s why you took the job.
At what cost though, you’ll need to figure out later.
You move in front of Din, take his hands in yours and look into the centre of his T visor again.
‘C’mon,’ you say. The dark visage is on you, and you imagine a pained expression behind it – teeth clenched and eyes swimming with remorse and anxiety. ‘Let’s finish this.’
He squeezes your hands tight. 
‘We’ll finish this,’ you continue, letting go and readying a weapon. ‘And then we can go home.’
He nods, draws a blaster, and follows you without hesitation.
There were no contingencies. No back-ups. No failsafes. The hubris of this tyrannical regime was such that all you needed to do was walk to the front gates and open them up.
So you get to stand and watch as crowds of children, youth, young ones, stagger out of the gaping maw of the facility, rubbing at their eyes and peering around. Get to watch a similar cohort of adults gathering at the threshold, moving into a kind of organised thrum to corral the children in and start to sort out who’s who. 
Blankets appear, trays of food and hydration, little field med stations are whipped up in short order.
It’s so organised, it seems premeditated. Like something had been planned this whole time. Like they’d never really given up and, taking this boon, were ready to move and bring these kids into a safe haven.
You watch from a distance, and feel warm.
They also seem ready – as you observe a rank of the adults quietly emerge from the crowd, armed and in formation – to take the fight to the faceless cohort responsible for all the suffering they’d endured. 
You see Din move toward the group, making motions to the gigantic building at your back and activating his vambrace to show the holo map of the facility. Pointing and gesturing to indicate the best approach.
Taking action, it’s where he finds comfort.
Cracking knuckles and adjusting each wrist bracer, you wait until it’s time to fall in and aid their endeavour. Because yes, you are going to finish this. Fully. The scramble you’d left running in the system to wipe all data related to binding was the penultimate step.
This last thing, taking down those who created it, is the least you could do.
Then you can leave this place and never look back.
Gaius appears at your side, a girl on their hip with arms wrapped all together. Her temple’s already been patched up and she chews away on a sweetbar. You try to make eye contact with her, give a wave. But she’s shy, and turns away, burying her face against her older sibling’s neck.
‘Gods,’ Gaius mutters. ‘You’ve gotten heavy.’
They give you a lopsided smile, which you force yourself to return. 
‘Still can’t believe you did all this,’ they say. ‘You… are a miracle. And I’m sorry that-- I got there as fast as I could…’
You kick a stone to skitter along the dust. ‘We even now?’ you say, give up a sardonic brow.
‘Hah,’ with a long exhale and a disbelieving shake of the head. ‘I will never not be in your debt. But, we probably won’t be crossing paths again, will we?’
You nod, look out across the landscape.
‘Hell,’ they continue. ‘Running into you at that hub probably used up all the luck in the galaxy.’
A beat more of contemplation. The squad is moving toward you, Mandalorian in the lead. You shift your stance.
‘Tell you what,’ Gaius says. ‘My ship is still at that hub. Bay lease is good for another couple months. You can have it. Sell it. I um, don’t think I’ll be needin’ it anymore.’
You’re speechless, raise a hand on reflex to accept the keycode they tug from a pocket and drop into your palm.
‘Okay…’ you say, too stunned to argue. The irony of it almost making you laugh. Or scream. But you give yourself and shake and ask, ‘You gonna stay here for good?’
‘Think so. Lot needs doin’, but,’ they smile. ‘I’m ready to work.’
Din has come flush to you now, and you turn with him. Ready to follow. But you look back for a moment, a thought occurring.
‘You know,’ you say. ‘That droid down in the caves and the one up on the command floor are toast; but the hardware’d still be good on the rest. You folks could reprogram them? Get their help?’
‘Mm,’ they respond, ‘maybe.’
‘Okay,’ you say, satisfied to have planted the seed, letting it go. ‘Take care, Gaius.’
With a final nod, they hoist the kid up a little higher and move off, toward the bustling reunion efforts.
Later, back on the Razor Crest with streaks of hyperspace flying past, you tilt the controls to standby, flick off all the diagnostic dials, and stand from the pilot chair. Din has already unbuckled and ducked out of the cockpit, the waves of brooding energy flowing off the beskar telling you to give him space. 
So you sit down on the floor and engage Grogu in a game of Force catch, the little silver ball whizzing back and forth between you. 
Though you’re both quiet, pensive. Shared thoughts drift on the air, united in a preoccupation with the third member of the crew, somewhere deeper in the hull. More than once, Grogu glances to the door with a little ‘ doo’, but there’s no movement beyond.
You chew on thoughts of how you’ll help Din process what happened. How you’ll apologise for putting him through all that. Try to frame it in your mind for when you are back home on Navarro.  
Praying he’ll be okay.
The kid gives a diminutive little yawn. Fatigue pricks at the sides of your mind too. Raising Grogu back up into his pod, he starts to nod off. You leave him there to doze and curl up in the flight chair the Mandalorian had vacated. Let your eyes drift shut and hope there’s no nightmares awaiting you.  
Prev | Next
--
Planet scale says what? No sorry, yes. It’s just one gigantic factory. What’s your point? And did I spiral on the morality of killing droids? Also yes.
Thank youuuuu for reading x
16 notes · View notes
the-starry-seas · 8 months ago
Text
it's Star Wars Day and I probably can't actually keep fiddling with this so hey, why not post it? :) anyway it's been a year and I still think that Paz dying was bullshit so here we are, I'm unburying my gays so they can kill people on their date
The thing is, Fury’s used to loss. 
It’s all a clone is expected to know. Losing brothers to injury, disease, enemy soldiers, sometimes even their Jedi commanders – they were made to be killed. They were meant to be disposed. 
Mandalorians aren’t like that. They’re built on community. On hope. He’s seen it, over and over again. Even in Boba and Jango, who were isolated from their culture for so long. The strongest of lone wolves yearn for a pack. 
Which is why it makes sense that Paz would risk his life for his tribe. They all do, in every battle. There’s never any guarantee that any one of them will come home, no matter how much they want to, or how well they fight. It’s the risk of being a solider. They all know that. 
But that doesn’t mean he’s ready to let Paz go. 
So when the blast door starts to come down, Fury does the only thing he can: he drops and rolls, the bottom of the door scraping the paint from his pauldron as he narrowly avoids getting pinned to the floor. 
“What are you doing?” Paz demands. 
Fury doesn’t answer, just headbutts him, hard. Not the tap-together of foreheads that symbolises affection, but anger, more real than he’d like it to be, because if it’s real, it can hurt him. 
Paz can hurt him, too, more than he knows. 
“This is not the time!” Paz adds, as if Fury could just go back to safety with the others. 
“It is now,” Fury snarls at him, and turns to shoot at the kriffing Imperials. 
He can hear the beat of Paz’s cannon to his left, steadier than his heartbeat, and focuses on shooting to the right. The most important thing he can do is watch Paz’s back. That cannon will handle most of the rest. 
When he hears blaster bolts pinging off Paz’s beskar, he flinches, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t fear death the same way as natborns, not when it’s been staring over his shoulder every time he’s looked in the mirror since he was a cadet, but Paz’s death? 
That terrifies him. 
That’s why he’s here. 
And fortunately for him, no matter how stars-damned stupid Paz may be about himself, he protects his family. It’s half of what Fury loves about him, even if right now, it’s also incredibly infuriating. 
There’s no time to talk or think when you’re shooting your way out of an ambush, and it’s probably for the best, considering what Fury wanted to say when he rolled under that door a minute ago. Part of him still wishes he was yelling right now, but the more talking he does, the less shooting will happen. 
Of course, the shooting ends eventually. There’s only so many soldiers that a hidden base can throw at them, but more than that, there’s only so long that Paz can run that cannon before it overheats. The place falls strangely silent, then there’s the sound of a few blaster bolts, a grunt, and the impact of armour against armour. 
He turns. Paz is knocked down to one knee, holding the Imperial back but not able to get to his feet again when they have leverage. His boot slips on the rock.
With no time to reload, Fury tosses aside his blaster and tackles the Imperial over the edge. His jetpack gives him the advantage, aiding in a flip that slams them against the wall of the cliff, loosening their grasp just enough for Fury to kick them loose. 
He doesn’t stop to watch them fall, just scrambles back up, narrowly ducking under a soldier thrown doll-like over his head. There’s only three left. Two halfway across the platform, and the third with Paz’s hand around their throat, blood spilling over the edges of their cracked visor as their feet twitch feebly in midair. 
A handful of drops sizzle against the barrels of Paz’s cannon, laying at his feet, and then the soldier is flung aside, unmoving. 
The other two try to run. Paz’s jetpack sparks as he looks up, half-crouching like he always does before taking flight, but Fury’s is in good shape. He snatches Paz’s vibroblade from his belt and launches upward, slitting one Imperial throat before crushing the next against the wall in a full-body blow. Whether they’re stunned or dead doesn’t matter; they hit the floor near Paz, and he kicks them over the edge to drop with the others. 
When Fury lands, he flings the blade down between them, and the hilt cracks down the middle. Neither of them give it more than a passing glance. 
“What were you thinking?” Paz demands, flinging his left arm to the side in a gesture that encompasses half the area. He hunches over slightly when his arm extends all the way, and Fury knows the signs of him being hurt. 
Doesn’t matter right now. He’s too pissed off. 
“I was thinking that you were trying to be an absolute kriffing moron,” he snarls, “by staying here alone! What was supposed to be the point of that?” 
“To give you the chance to escape. To get out of here.” 
“How dare you?” Fury takes his helmet off. A stupid decision so soon after a battle, but one he makes so Paz can see the full extent of the hurt on his face, so that the tremble in his voice doesn’t get smoothed out by his vocoder. “How dare you think I would leave you?” 
His fingers curl around the edge of his bucket as he steps forward, just enough to reach out and set his fingertips over the iron heart on Paz’s chest. 
“You’re my heart. Don’t you remember me promising? Because I could never decide to walk away from you.” 
“There are no easy choices in war.” 
“This one was. And you tried to take it away from me.” 
He can only share secrets when they’re wrapped in layers of late nights and early mornings, and he doesn’t have to look at anyone. But they’re still told, one little detail at a time, like tiles of a mosaic being pressed into place. Paz has heard, over and over, that the clones weren’t allowed to choose anything that mattered, anything that could change their lives for the better. 
It was the hardest learning curve in their relationship. The clone who resented anyone that made a choice for him after years of slavery, and the Mandalorian who made things happen his way so he could more easily protect people. 
Sometimes they’re a shitty pair, even after they learned how to compromise. Paz still overrides other people, when there’s no time for discussion. Usually it doesn’t matter, but sometimes it just sparks the wrong way, and the fact that Paz has never hurt him intentionally just makes it harder to deal with. It would be so much easier if he could say you hurt me without Paz being hurt in return. 
“E'tad'nare,” Paz says quietly, holding his hand out palm-up. 
He can’t say he’s sorry. Probably never will. 
But that’s okay. 
Fury sets his hand in his riduur’s, fingers flexing for a moment over Paz’s palm before they lace with his. 
“E'tad'nare,” he whispers back. Seven Actions. The six that govern all Mandalorian lives, and the seventh – to love his husband, unflinching, to forgive mistakes and be forgiven in return. 
They’re not good at I’m sorry, but they’re good at I love you eternally. He kind of likes that about them. 
The moment evaporates when they hear a scrape of metal against metal. Fury’s helmet is on in a moment, but even before the HUD flickers back to life, Paz has rushed one of the red-armoured guards. Protecting his riduur, as he’s meant to. 
Fury draws his own knife, and follows him. 
The electro-weapons make things difficult, but there’s no backing down. The other blast door won’t open, and the hole that kriffing Kryze put in it with the darksaber isn’t big enough to fit either one of them. 
Whether she knew Fury would stay with Paz, or just can’t plan for shit, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t matter. He’s punching her either way. 
At least if these red troops don’t kill him first. 
They converge on Paz, and they’re doing a pretty good job of beating him to a pulp before Fury catches up to them. 
He carries a long blade, Whisper’s influence, and its sharpness means it gets through the fabric underarmour with almost no resistance. It pierces lung and heart before they realise they should be afraid of him. 
When the body drops, the other two draw back. This is where it will get hard, but he’s never been afraid of hard. If he was, he would have gotten wiped out on his first deployment. Honestly, the only thing he’s really afraid of is Whisper before xe's had xeim caf. 
Paz snatches up the soldier’s dropped weapon before one of the others has time to reach it. He won’t know how to use it, but he’ll learn from watching the others. When they strike, he’ll know how to strike back. 
“Back up,” Fury says in Mando’a. 
He and Paz move in sync, Fury matching his movements, the soldiers advancing at an equal rate until Fury says to stop. His blaster might not be much help against that armour, but he can only imagine what he’d hear when they got back home, if he left it aside while a fight happened. 
In the time it takes him to reload, both guards lunge, trapping Paz between them. One has their whip wrapped around his throat, pulling him off-balance, and the other is raising theirs sword-like, ready to run him through. 
Fury does the first thing that comes to mind, and shoots them. Several bolts hit them in the side and under their arm, injuring them enough to knock them back, but not enough to take them out of the fight. 
It’s enough time for Paz to surge upwards like a wave, roaring indistinctly as he falls to crush the soldier strangling him against the concrete floor. Their grip loosens just enough for him to get free, his jetpack sparking atop his shoulders.  
He wrenches it loose and flings it away behind him, hand outstretched toward Fury. There’s only one thing he could need, and Fury tosses him the blaster without hesitation. Paz nearly fumbles the catch, but salvages it just in time, twisting the moment his finger touches the trigger. 
The jetpack explodes, taking the guard with it. Fury spares no glance for the crater left, beskar gouged into shrapnel, intestines roped across the floor. Not when there’s still one left. 
Now that they’re alone, they look nervous, fingers clenching and loosening around the hilt of their whip as their weight shifts side to side. 
Good. 
Fury’s not usually the kind to take pleasure in a death, but this time, it’s personal. 
He and Paz move together, tossing out the occasional coordinating word in Mando’a, but mostly working quietly. They learned the steps of this dance a long time ago. And even though it doesn’t carry over into the bedroom, it’s still the fun kind of dancing. 
All they need to do is get Paz back to where he’d dropped his cannon earlier, the barrels cooled enough to fire again without warping or exploding. The moment his gloves touch the metal, it’s over. The soldier in the red armour, whoever they are, doesn’t have time to scream before whatever was under their helmet is turned to paste. 
“Well, I didn’t approve of that shit at all,” Fury says conversationally, taking his blaster back to holster it and hooking his thumbs in his belt. He shifts his weight, rolls his shoulders, tilts his head. No injuries. 
Now he just has to figure out how to get them both out of here. The blast doors were never an option, not with it being sealed from the other side and them having nothing to cut with. He could take the same route as the ships from the hangar… but his jetpack won’t carry both of them. 
There’s a clatter, and he stills, looking for what made the noise. Just Paz. Picking up his broken knife and discarding it again. Fixing it would be as expensive as getting a new one, and vibroblades can get… independently minded, once the internals are affected. 
“Are you all right?” Paz asks. 
Fury tilts his head to the side. Hm? A glance downwards tells him what Paz is worried about. 
“Not my blood,” he says. 
Paz steps closer anyway, the fabric of his glove rough but his movement gentle as his fingertip lifts Fury’s chin. Fury can feel his cheeks heat at the quiet, murmured good. 
“This is not the place,” he mutters. 
“It’s a little bit the place.” 
“It’s not the time,” Fury adds, laughing despite himself, even as he doesn’t turn away. Paz knows better than to get distracted at a time like this, but there’s still room for teasing. 
“What’s your plan for getting us out of here?” 
“Oh, it’s my plan, now?” 
“You’re the smart one.” 
“And the hot one, which leaves you to be the funny one, I guess.” 
“I have jokes.” 
“You have the worst ideas imaginable,” Fury corrects him, “that are delivered with the cadence of a joke. Even Jules hates them.” 
“Jules hates everything except your flatbread.” 
Mm, true. Their kid’s at that special age where all he thinks about is fighting people and causing trouble for his parents, preferably both at the same time, when he can manage it. 
“I’m going to call in Racer for a ride out,” he decides. 
“Come on,” Paz protests. 
“Stop whining about her flying.” 
“No.” 
“Racer,” Fury says, talking over Paz’s further complaining, “Paz’s jetpack is gone. We need a flight out, can you ping my helmet?” 
There’s a laugh in his earpiece, then nothing. Well, at least she heard him. 
He and Paz pat down the bodies, while they wait, and find nothing but the weapons. They can be turned off, fortunately, so they each coil one on their belt, for later. Fury knows without asking that the third will go to the tribe’s leader, giving her the chance to reverse engineer it for others in the covert. Speaking of which… 
“Your mom’s going to be furious when she hears about your jetpack.” 
Paz pauses, as if this thought had not yet occurred to him. It might not have. Then he shrugs and gets up from where he’d been crouched over the body of the third soldier. 
They both know he’s right, so there’s no argument. Instead Paz sits with his legs over the edge of the ledge, staring above them as the occasional fighter whizzes by. 
Fury can imagine his face under the helmet, calm – for the moment – and curious. Shame they’re not alone, because the blindfold is tucked into Fury’s utility belt like always, and he always loves the taste of Paz’s mouth. But Paz would never risk breaking the Creed that means so much to him, and Fury would never ask him to think about it. 
“Coming in hot,” he says a minute later, echoing his sister’s words. 
Paz scrambles up and away from the edge, which seems a very reasonable reaction to Fury, considering he’s already tucking himself under an overhang by the blast door. It’s the most sheltered spot on what’s otherwise a flat span of concrete, and he’s going to need it. 
Paz follows him, pressing close, standing between him and the hot gusts that will fly off from the ship’s engines as it lands, a few moments from now. 
“Hi,” Paz murmurs, their chestplates scraping together as he breathes in. 
“Hi,” Fury repeats, and leans a half-step closer. 
A shuttle rockets through the crack in the ceiling, swooping down to spin in place an arm’s length away from them before the hatch slides back to reveal the pilot. The circle and a half was just for show, he’s certain of it, and she’s much too close considering how wide the rest of the ledge is. 
“Kriff me,” Fury mutters, scowling at her even though she won’t see it through his visor. 
“Thought you just said we couldn’t,” Paz replies, and grunts when Fury punches him in the shoulder. 
“Hey,” Racer bellows, smacking her palm against the shuttle’s side, “stop making out and get in the stars-damned back already!” 
“I’ve heard before that in-laws are the worst,” Fury says. 
“You like my mom.” 
“Yeah, but me? I come with a five-ring circus.” 
Paz shrugs. “I like it.” 
“Good, ‘cause I like you too.” 
Paz steps aside, and Fury squeezes his hand in passing. He hops over the shuttle’s low door, landing with his boots on the seat and half-falling down to sit. Paz takes his time a little more, circling around the back of the shuttle to take the seat next to him. 
“Seatbelts!” Racer hollers over her shoulder, and flies off at a much faster speed than would be safe whether they wore them or not. 
Fury rests a hand on Paz’s knee, his other reaching for his blaster in case anything comes up next to them, wanting to shoot them out of the sky. It pays to be prepared, just in case. And it pays to be with his riduur, who always makes sure he comes home. 
7 notes · View notes
theycallme-thejackal · 2 years ago
Text
One MidgeLenny x TSwift Fic Per Day
167. Message in a Bottle
"I can’t sleep.”
Midge inhales sharply in surprise. It’s the first time she’s heard from him since Carnegie Hall, and it seems they’re skipping right past that fact.
Honestly she doesn’t mind it. “No?” She asks, rolling over onto her back with the phone pressed to her ear.
“Nope,” he confirms.
She laughs softly. “Well I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do about that.”
There’s a pause on the other end - like he’s considering whether or not to voice his next thought. “You know...that night...”
Midge bites her lower lip gently and shifts to sit upright. “I do know that night,” she confirms.
He chuckles. “Up until you got out of bed...that was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time.”
“I would’ve come right back,” she replies quietly. She hugs her knees to her chest, the bed suddenly feeling very cold and empty.
“No you wouldn’t have,” he insists, and she has a flash of that bag in his bathroom. The bag they haven’t talked about yet. “It’s gone,” he promises. “I’m...I’m getting clean.”
A shaky exhale passes her lips. She doesn’t know anything about what she saw. Just that a bag full of needles and vials can’t be anything good. “Is that why you can’t sleep?” She asks quietly.
She hears him inhale, undoubtedly around a cigarette. “Partly,” he admits. “But also...”
He pauses for a long moment, and she can’t help but ask, “What?”
He sighs. “I miss you,” he whispers.
She can’t help but smile at that. “You do?” She breathes.
“Yeah.”
There’s another long silence, the familiar, heated kind that often lingers between them. “I should have found you again at Carnegie Hall,” she says.
“I didn’t expect you to after I yelled at you.”
“But you were right,” she admits. She starts fiddling with the edge of the blanket as she dips her head. “And I should have told you that sooner.”
He exhales another sigh. “You’re just so good, Midge. And I couldn’t just watch you tank your career without saying something.”
“I know,” she breathes, tugging at a loose thread in the blanket. “But...I’m working again. I’m not...” She takes a deep breath, remembering the last time she saw his face. “I’m not going to break your heart.”
She sits there, waiting for him to respond, and after a moment, he quietly replies, “Well that’s a relief.”
She grins and leans a little further into the headboard. “So...where are you? It’s a little after midnight here, so I can’t imagine you’re still in California.”
“Keeping tabs on me?”
“Always best to know which way the sneak attack is coming from.”
He laughs again. “Not too far, as it turns out,” he answers.
“No?”
“I’m in Hell’s Kitchen.” Midge raises her eyebrows in surprise. “I got a place. Putting down some more permanent roots. Trying to make it so that my kid can come stay with me.”
She smiles again. "You know, it’s funny...”
“Most things are with us.”
She giggles. “I just mean...I know what your dick looks like, but I don’t know your daughter’s name.”
It’s his turn to laugh, then. That short, staccato laugh that she would recognize anywhere. “Her name is Kitty,” he reveals. “She’s six...going on thirty-five.”
“You miss her?”
“Every fucking day,” he answers immediately. And then he adds, “She’s the only person I miss more than I miss you.”
Midge feels her cheeks flush at that. “You know...Hell’s Kitchen isn’t too far from the Upper West Side.”
She can hear the smirk in his voice when he asks, “It’s not?”
“Twenty minutes on the subway maybe?” Her legs involuntarily squeeze together. “If you’re having trouble sleeping alone...”
“Mrs. Maisel,” he drawls. “Are you propositioning me?”
Her lip is nearly raw from how many times she’s bitten it while talking with him. “I’m just saying maybe we could not sleep...together.”
He inhales sharply. “Am I going to be bombarded by your family in the morning?”
She considers telling him the truth - that her parents are in DC visiting her brother and her kids are with Joel - but instead she just asks him, challenging, “Would that stop you?”
A short pause, and she sighs in relief when he replies, “Twenty minutes, you say?”
“On the train. Half that time if you spring for a cab.”
“...ten minutes, then,” he replies.
She can’t help the broad grin that meets her lips. “I’ll see you in ten minutes, then.”
He arrives about fifteen minutes later, blaming the lack of cabs at quarter past midnight for his tardiness, but she just tugs him down by the back of his neck to kiss him tenderly.
“I missed you, too,” she whispers against his lips.
He holds her tightly around the waist and kicks the door shut.
60 notes · View notes
draconic-ichor · 11 months ago
Text
The Cat, The Sun, and The Moon
Chapter 6
Fnaf fanfic
Sun/Moon x female oc
Warnings: strong language, sexual themes, obsessive behavior, angst, bruises, sickness, medication use, mucus mentions, infection, hospitals, delirium
Summary: Tabby’s lungs were weakened in their escape from the fire. When a small cough starts to appear it may signal something much worse than allergies…
Feedback appreciated, 18+. This was getting a bit long so the spice is saved for next chapter!
Tumblr media
After the ‘bad day’, Moon was much more reserved. Whatever progress he had made to come out of his shell had seemingly vanished. He took up movie watching much more frequently, to the point Tabby subscribed to a streaming service just for him.
He’d watch, optics dimming to almost black, and with that common scowl he would frequently wear.  His responses to Tabby reverted as well, mostly answering her with one word sentences or just not answering all together. Tabby gave him space.
Tabby sat on the edge of the tub, legs within to shave. She only truly needed to shave about half the skin now; even with that fact she didn’t save any time given that extra care had to be taken to avoid the scar tissue that twisted around her legs. Since she shaved with her night shorts on and an old tshirt Sun was allowed to hang out in the bathroom with her.
He was curiously shifting through the toiletries that littered the sink.
The sink was a sore subject between them: it being the epicenter of a previous small fight. Tabby was a messy person, but it was a calculated chaos to her mind. Sun was the opposite, enjoying organization and stacking objects around, that fact Tabby letting go in most of the house. But when it came to her makeup she put her foot down. While she was at work, Sun ‘organized’ the bathroom sink, while also throwing away any outdated products.
Tabby wasn’t amused.
In the wake of that little incident Sun was not allowed to interfere with her sink messes. He was allowed to peruse, just don’t move stuff around.
Sun picked up the bottle of mouthwash, the bright, candy colored liquid within captivating him. He opened the lid, faceplate turning over the top. Outside of detecting smoke or blood, he truly didn’t have a good sense of smell at all, that being replaced with his sense of taste.
He tipped his head back, drinking a swig. As soon as the liquid passed his mouthparts, disappearing into that mystery cavity, he began to make choking and sputtering sounds of displeasure.
“Maybe don’t actually drink that, big guy?” Tabby raised an eyebrow to his antics.
“Why does it burn?” He asked, sitting the bottle down to flap his hands.
“It’s not made to be drank!”
“But it looks so fun and is made for your mouth!” He protested.,
“Just to slosh around a spit out!” She argued, a giggle to her voice, “You don’t actually eat the toothpaste either.”
He frowned, looking almost guilty, making her burst out laughing.
“How many inedible things have you tried in here?!” She snorted.
Sun looked even more like a naughty child, rays dropping as she laughed harder.
He pouted a bit as she finished up, drying off her legs to then add the towel to the overflowing laundry basket.
“I guess I need to do laundry again…” she sighed, hand on her hip.
Sun brightened, asking, “Can I help?”
Tabby took a second to think it over before answering, “Well, it’s still in the apartment…and you have different clothes and stuff now.” She thought, “It should be ok.”
“Yeah!” Sun celebrated.
The laundry machines were located in the apartment’s basement, multiple coin operated machines lining one wall. Tabby pulled Sun down, instructing him to keep his rays fully retracted, before pulling his hood up over his head. It wasn’t perfect, but she was hoping from a distance people would think him just a lanky human.
They carried the large baskets of dirty clothes down to the basement, Sun helping separate them into loads when they got there. Once all three washing machines were going he fiddled with his own hands awkwardly.
Tabby was playing on her phone, oblivious.
“Star?” Sun asked.
“Hm?”
“What do we do now?”
She closed her phone, shrugging, “We gotta wait.”
“You wait here the whole time?” He looked upset.
“I don’t trust my stuff alone here.” She put a hand on her hip, “Do you know what some people would do with my stuff.”
“Take it?” Sun ventured.
“If only just that…” she sighed.
“W-What else would they do?” He asked cautiously.
“There’s men out there that want women’s panties.” She explained, “Especially ones that have been worn before.”
“Why would they want those?”
“It’s a fetish thing.” She whispered back, leaning on the washer.
“…oooooh.” Sun frowned. He was still for a moment fiddling with his hoodie before asking, “How do you know about that?”
“Oh, everybody does.” She waved away the question, smiling nervously.
M: She’s made approximately 586.64$ selling used panties in the past.
S: HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?!
M: heeeheeheehee
Sun’s optics narrows at Tabby making her blush deeper.
As the clothes spun around in the dryer, Sun groaned audibly. “This is taking fooooorever!” He whined, faceplate to the sky.
“The joys of laundry.” Tabby sighed, adding wistfully, “Hopefully, one day we can have a real house with our own laundry room.”
Sun tilted his head, “Us there too?”
“Only if you want to.” She smiled.
Sun nodded, feeling warm inside. He suddenly sobered, thinking.
“We agreed to tell each other things right…?” Sun’s voice sounded guarded.
“Yes?” Tabby put her phone down.
“Well…” Sun rubbed his shoulder, looking away.
M: Don’t.
Sun closed his optics, steeling himself. “Moon has been upset for a while.” He finally blurted.
Tabby stood, face concerned.
“He uh…really misses his hat.” Sun explained, “He was very attached to it…something special to him. And…”
“Oh no, his hat!” Tabby suddenly realized. In the chaos after the fire she’d completely forgotten.
“Yea…he’s been a bit on edge about it.” Sun nodded, quickly adding, “That doesn’t excuse the…outburst…but it may have contributed to raised emotions.”
“Well make him a new one!” Tabby announced, “I have so many clothes I never wear, some of them must be the right colors.”
“Really?” Sun’s face brightened, rays spinning.
“Sure!” She smiled back, “Can you sew?”
“I can learn.” Sun nodded, excited, “He will be so happy.”
~
Sun was sat cross legged on the floor, carefully looking over all the clothes Tabby had dumped on the floor.
“Are you sure, Starlight?” Sun asked worriedly, touching over the pile of clothes before him.
“Yep!” She nodded, “I haven’t worn this stuff in forever…”
“Okay…” Sun gave a little nod back, starting to sift through the pile.
Tabby sat next to him, asking after a moment, “What would he like? We can do anything.”
Sun paused, eyes going far away. She waited patiently as they spoke. Blinking, he came back. “A darker blue base with stars, like before, but if possible he’d like the stars to be metallic.” Sun put a curled finger to his chin, eyes narrowing with concentration, “He’s also a fan of a furred brim.”
“Well I definitely don’t have any real fur but…” Tabby stood, going back to the closet, thinking.
Sun pulled a blue hoodie from the pile, holding it up.
S: This blue alright, Moony?
M: …yes
S: Swell!
“Look!” Tabby announced, spinning round to show them her find. She held a cat eared hat covered in a soft white-grey faux fur. “We can use this for the fur!” She beamed.
“Are you sure?”
“It’s from my scene kid days…” she shrugged, “Moon will get much better use out of it.”
“Thank you!” Sun lit up, adding that to the blue hoodie, “Now we only need the stars and maybe something to line it to give more stability…”
They shifted through the pile, Tabby adding certain things to a box as they went, for donation. Sun found a pair of pants of a more substantial material to use as a lining. As they reached the end, Tabby spired something metallic, pulling free a shirt with shiny gold shelves.
Sun gasped, hands to his face in a showy display of excitement, “That’s perfect!”
“I thought I had some gold stuff somewhere.” She smiled, handing it over.
Over the next few days, during Sun’s allotted free time, he practiced sewing, just on scrap pieces of fabric at first. Being what he was and given that the task was fairly repetitive, he picked up the skill quickly; moving on to cutting out shapes from the chosen clothes.
Moon was more the one to hack into devices or record others without their knowledge; digging his fingers through all the data he could, like a sick hobby. But Sun was also capable of such things, in smaller, more easier to to justify to himself  doses.
He particularly excused the small video files he’d collected over the recent weeks. Small clips of Tabitha doing mundane things, mostly. Sun noticed that she would carefully cover most of her legs whenever going out; be it with stockings, thigh high socks or pants. She would only show her legs within the apartment, even though it used to be common for her to wear clothing with exposed legs in the past. So it wasn't her usual attire choice.
It had to be because of the burn scars that now decorated her legs like a patchwork, Sun ventured to guess. She was self conscious about them.
But…
Not here.
His optic followed her as he sewed, noting the contentment she held in his presence. Did she forgo covering up her concerns because of a level of true closeness or was it merely she did not view him to the same standards of a fellow human?
He looked back to his project, thinking.
She refused to get naked in-front of him, seeing that act as being intimate. So by that logic she viewed him as enough of a person to illicit embarrassment from ‘inappropriate’ interactions for their current relationship status.
He hummed a bit.
The fact alone she called their interactions a relationship was good.
He looked up the definition of relationship: the way in which two or more concepts, objects, or people are connected, or the state of being connected…..
People.
The way two people are connected…
M: Think any harder and you’ll blow a fuse…
Moon scoffed in their shared headspace.
S: Well then, give me your illustrious insight.
M: If you still need to think if she cares about us as people you need more help than I am qualified to give.
S: I need a great many things you are not qualified to give.
Sun gave a sharp smile to himself, fingers never slowing in their task.
M: Well then you better stop thinking a hole in our head and do something about it.
S: It's not that easy. Especially not after your little stunt. These things take time.
M: uuugh
S: You aren't even talking to her, making things more difficult for us both…
Moon was silent, retreating back, ashamed.
S: I’ll do what I do best, and clean up after your messes.
Sun hissed in their mind.
“You ok?” Came a worried ask, snapping Sun back to the present.
He blinked his optics, seeing Tabby giving him a look. “Of course, Sunshine!” His voice was just a bit too forced, “Why do you ask?”
“You just looked…off?” She murmured.
“Just concentrating.” He held up the hat a little, wiggling it for emphasis. He shut Moon out silently.
“Okay….” She didn’t sound convinced, “Don’t strain yourself though, ok?”
“The only thing I can strain is my patience.” He smiled, “Don’t worry.”
“Hmmm.” Her eyes narrowed, but she thought it better not to press. Sun could be quite threatening if he wished to be, could get that look about him with an overly enthusiastic smile.
~
“It’s finished!” Sun announced, holding out the hat to Tabby.
Tabby took it, looking it over. There were a few places where the stitches showed on the stars and the bell was a bit oversized but it made it all the more perfect.
“He’ll love it!” Tabby smiled, trying to hand it back.
“No, no.” Sun tilted his head, a soft smile, “I want you to give it to him…”
“Are you sure?” She looked over it again, thumbs rubbing over the fur rim, “…He hasn’t wanted to talk to me much.”
Sun had been careful to shut Moon out in preparation for the surprise, that fact giving him courage to say more. “No…” Sun’s smile faded, “He wants to talk to you so badly.”
Concern shadowed her, an understanding filling her eyes. She bent forward a bit, tilting her head toward him. Sun mimicked the movement, softly bonking his forehead against hers.
“So will you?” He asked, optics opening. Their eyes were so close. His optics cast a soft glow over her features.
“Yes.” She smiled, face lighting up even more.
Sun’s fans kicked up audibly, making Tabby giggle. He pulled away, embarrassed, Tabby catching a small puff of steam escaping a crack in his exoskeleton.
They didn’t have to wait long, night rapidly approaching. With Sun having shut him out right after their argument, Moon had assumed something was wrong.
His optics blinked worriedly at Tabby as he came online, realizing she was standing right in front of him. His gaze shot around the darkened room to get his bearings, posture anxious.
But Tabby didn’t look cross.
No.
She looked…happy? Excited even?
He loosened the stiffness in his form, tilting his head curiously, first to one side then the other with a ‘click’.
“We have a surprise for you!” Tabby announced, stepping closer.
Moon finally noticed her hands behind her back. His fans kicked up loudly.
Tabby revealed the surprise, holding out a folded fabric bundle.
Moon cautiously took it, moving it about his hands to loosen it open. He froze, optics wide.
A new hat, finished and in his hands.
His fingers felt over the fabric, his movements causing the bell to make sweet tinking sounds.
“Do you like it?” She asked excitedly.
Moon’s thumbs felt over the fabric again, optics blinking up to look at her now. Her smile turned gentle, seeing him trying to swallow back emotion.
Moon carefully lifted the hat, clipping it to the special clamps that kept the hat in place and would allow it to shift with their transitions. The bell gave a soft tink as he situated it to his liking.
He finally looked complete, hands coming back down to worry together. Optics shifted around, awkwardly, unable to look at her.
Tabby bounced a bit, giddy. She surged forward, hugging Moon. Moon froze, his fan kicking up loudly. He looked down, face plate painted in surprise. Tabby squeezed him, face pressed into his chest.
Moon’s hands slowly moved to hug her back, hold melting into something closer as he realized she was genuine.
“…Starlight?” His voice was hardly over a whispering rasp.
“Hm?” She didn’t move.
He made a swallowing sound before speaking, “I…am dangerous..”
Tabby made a snorting sound, looking up without breaking contact. “You and every other man.” She said so matter of fact. There was something hidden and dark woven into the words, it made a pang shoot through Moon’s chest.
He held her a bit tighter.
Moon listened to the pittering of rain on the windows, optics trained on Tabitha’s sleeping form.
He was recording her, like he did most nights, this time it was from a place of growing concern. His sharp toothed smile had fallen, head tilting to the side. With every exhale her breath wheezed from her lips, sounding like a failing voicebox in a way.
M: ….Sun?
S: Yes?
M: She’s wheezing when she breathes.
S: How long has that been happening?
M: For a while…but it’s been getting worse the last three nights. Has she been coughing or anything during your time?
S: A bit, yea.
M: And you think that’s ok??
S: Well no! But I figured it’s from the fire?
M: shit…
S: Don’t.
M: I can say whatever I want now, tightass.
S: You’re so immature.
M: Back to the real issue. I’m sending the recordings of her sleeping from the last few nights to you. When should this be brought up as a problem?
S: She's very adamant about not wanting to see a doctor. I’ll review the tapes and look through our files but we really only have general first aid…
M: uhhhg…
S: ?
M: We are useless…
S: No! I’ll think of something!
M: Sure…
The room was illuminated for a split second, not long enough to elicit a transformation but enough to make the animatronic tense. Rolling thunder followed, making Tabby stir.
“Moon?” Her voice was thick with sleep. The glow of his optics emanated from the corner, stone still.
She’d started to get used to his nightly presence, it spooking her less and less every time.
Lighting cracked outside again, making her jump. When her attention went back to Moon his head was turned 180 degrees, regarding her silently.
Thunder rolled overhead, drawing a wince from her.
“Scared?” His voice rasped.
“I didn’t used to be.” She admitted softly.
Soft clicking was audible as his head smoothly rotated back.
“Little kitten, scared of rain and thunder.” He jeered, smile sharp.
She rolled onto her side, pulling the blankets closer as another crash of thunder rattled the windows. “Come here?” She reached out, voice a soft question.
His smile faltered, blinking at the offered hand. Had he had eyebrows they surely would have been furrowed.
After a moment of stalemate she withdrew her hand in defeat. Feeling foolish as she rolled the opposite way, no longer facing him.
The bed suddenly creaked with added weight, Tabby sitting up, surprised. Moon sat on the edge, watching her. She hadn’t heard him move over the pounding of rain.  A smile reached her face, scooting over to give him more room. She patted the space beside her as if he were a cat.
Moon moved slowly, as if the bed itself would break from under him. Ever so carefully, he laid down beside her, still as a board as his faceplate pointed to the ceiling.
Tabby got comfortable, her modest bed putting her along his side. An optic was trained on her, glowing iris tilted to the side as far as it’d go so not to move his head.
She watched him back, cuddling into her blankets.
“Sleep.” He finally instructed, sensing her heartbeat lowering.
Her eyes were growing heavy before he’d spoken, not needing any persuasion.
“Thank you.” She murmured, sleep overtaking her.
He didn’t respond, but remained there until morning.
~
“Tea?” Tabby questioned, looking down at the hot cup before her.
“Yes!” Sun smiled widely before turning to pack her a lunch for the day.
“But why tea?” She pressed, used to coffee.
“It’s good for you.” Sun answered simply, turning his faceplate only slightly away from his task.
She sipped the hot liquid, grimacing at the herbal taste. Just as it started to sooth her scratching throat a cough rattled through her. Tabby had to quickly sit the cup down, hacking into a paper towel.
Sun watched, concern painted over his features. “Maybe take the day off, Sunshine?” He ventured, “Take it easy?”
She shook her head, catching her breath. Finally able to talk, she argued, “I’m fine, just a little cough.”
Sun made a sound, optics narrowed.
Her face grew stern, pointing at him, “Don’t you scan me!”
His optics narrowed further as she voiced her irritation more loudly.
“Hmmmmm.”
“So what’s so wrong with me Dr. Smartypants?” She asked sarcastically.
“That’s Mr Dr. Smartypants, thank you!” He corrected offendedly, wilting to answer more seriously, “And I don’t…know…”
Tabby snorted, “See, I’m fine.”
“My scans are for general health concerns.” He informed, reaching over to grab the soiled paper towel from the counter. His voice became earnest as he opened the towel, revealing a green sheen to the mucus, “But that color isn’t ‘fine’.”
“Gross.” Tabby grimaced again, pushing him away.
“Mhm.” He huffed, balling up the paper towel before disposing of it.
“I’ll take some allergy meds before I leave.” She shrugged, heading towards the bathroom to finish up.
That night Moon could hear her coughing from her office, face falling with worry. He wandered in, seeing her wrapped up tightly in a blanket.
He padded closer, realizing her desk held a mountain of used tissues and her face was red.
“Sick.” Moon frowned, hand coming up to feel her forehead.
Tabby made an upset sound but didn’t move away from his touch.
Moon’s frown deepened, “Fever.”
She didn’t fight him as he urged her to her feet, leading her to the bedroom. Moon helped her into bed, sitting next to her protectively.
“I don’t work this weekend…I’ll just rest and get better.” Tabby sighed.
Moon didn’t look convinced, standing to leave the room for a moment. He returned with medicine and a glass of water.
 He resumed his place beside her, helping her sit up to take the medicine.
She cuddled up beside him, needing extra pillows to keep her head elevated. Moon reached out, brushing away her bangs from her face. Tabby blinked up at him.
“Pretty.” He smiled, voice scratchy, “Pretty Star.”
She gave a weak giggle, “I look so gross right now, I’m sick.” She said the words like facts, but Moon looked at her in full belief of his previous statement.
He ran his fingers through her hair again, smoothing it back, eyes half lidded. “Still pretty.” He murmured.
Tabby feebly smiled, easing into the contact as sleep threatened her. She reached up, taking his hand. Moon froze, optics widening. Tilting her head up a bit, she softly pressed her lips to the back of his hand, still feeling the cracks under the silicone.
Moon’s fans kicked up as she let him go, relaxing into bed. He stayed beside her.
As she fell into a fitful sleep from the coughing Moon filed away the sounds of her breathing: labored, with a strained wheezing sound to follow.
The first day of the weekend, Tabby spent most of it in-front of the computer, hacking into tissues and drinking the many cups of tea Sun would bring. The medicine eventually couldn’t soothe her symptoms, and by the second day she didn’t leave her bed…
“Here, you need to eat.” Sun helped her sit up, carefully placing the tray before her. Tabby blinked down into a hot bowl of soup.
“We didn’t have soup.” She wondered, looking up at him.
“I made it.” He answered gently with a soft smile.
She blew on a spoonful, trying it. Her face brightened as much as her poor state would allow, gushing, “It’s so good!”
Sun continued to smile, sitting on the edge of the bed. There was a tight worry hidden under the smile, eyes betraying him.
He watched her eat, relieved she still had an appetite.
When she couldn’t take another bite, exhaustion taking over again, she lay back on the bed. Sun moved the tray to the floor, shifting back to tuck her in.
Her breathing came out with little wheezes, dark circles under her eyes.
“The soup was so good.” She smiled weakly, trying to look at him. Her eyes were so heavy, “You are getting good at cooking.”
Sun reached out, caressing her cheek, gently moving to smooth back her hair. The touch was loving, soothing Tabby to close her eyes and rest. Sun repeated the movement, his concern finally cracking over his face when she was asleep.
“She’s getting worse…” he whispered.
Moon wasn’t as in practice as Sun with such matters, although neither truly had any direct experience with sickness. He stayed by her side constantly, despite that.
He lowered his temperature in an effort to soothe her fever, causing his systems to slow and become sluggish. Having to enter into a partial rest mode, he lay beside her with a cool hand over her forehead.
The morning brought another issue: she was scheduled to work.
Sun scanned her, seeing her vitals were even lower. There’d be no way she could go in, and he wasn’t even sure if she could even make the call herself. The sickness was starting to cause small bouts of delirium to weed into her.
Sun paced, phone held up to the side of his faceplate, waiting as it rang.
“Yes, Hello.”
“I’m calling for Tabitha Penn…..Yes.”
“She will not be able to come in today…..Yes……Yes, I apologize.”
Sun spoke to the other on the phone, keeping a professional tone:
“She is very ill, and has a high temperature….yes.”
“Who am I?” He echoed the question, mind racing for a moment. He glanced at the bed, Tabby seemingly asleep.
“This,” he lied, “This is her husband….Yes. I apologize again for this inconvenience.”
“Thank you for the understanding.”
“I will…thank you.” He sighed, hanging up the phone.
Sun closed his optics, worry thick in his rigid posture. As he tapped the phone against his faceplate in thought a sound roused him. He blinked, turning back towards the bed.
Tabby smiled weakly to him.
“Hey starlight.” He came to the bedside, kneeling down, “I called work for you, you just rest. Everything is taken care of.”
“You said you were my husband.” Her voice slurred, fever causing slight delirium to fog her mind.
Sun started to apologize but her next words stuck him silent.
“I’m your wife.” She giggled, “That means you like me.”
“I like you.” He nodded, voice soft. He smoothed her hair from her face adding, “And you are very sick.”
“I like you too.” She reached out, taking the sleeve of his hoodie in a weak hold, “You are so nice and funny. I’ll be your wife. It’s ok.”
Sun pet her gently, “You are just sick. You need to rest.” He urged.
She was already nodding off from a mixture of the medication and his soothing touch, murmuring, “Even when I’m not sick.”
“Hm?”
“I’ll love you.” She whispered.
Sun’s hand froze, optics widening. Tabby was out, wheezing breathing deepening.
She’s just sick….
He told himself, leaning forward to softly press the mouth of his faceplate to her forehead.
Things didn’t improve in the night. Moon laid beside her, playing soft tunes on his music box, unsure of what else to do as she drifted in and out of consciousness.
By the morning she stopped waking up entirely.
“She’s so much worse.” Sun held his faceplate, “We have to do something.”
He looked towards her phone, hearing Moon protest in his head.
“We don’t have a choice, she needs help.” Sun argued, moving towards the phone.
“Arav….It’s Sun.”
“Please…We wouldn’t have contacted you unless it was an emergency…..It’s Tabitha.”
“She’s…she’s very sick.” Sun explained, “We can’t drive…please can you take her to a hospital…please. We didn’t know who to call.”
“Yes…”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He chanted, relief heavy in his tone.
Arav was there within the hour, the seriousness of the situation truly crushing him when Sun showed him to Tabby’s room.
Sun helped him get her down to his car, careful to retract his rays and keep his hood up. As he placed her in the seat, he squeezed her hand, heart breaking he couldn’t go with her.
He stayed on the sidewalk until the car was long out of sight, feeling useless…
~
“It’s a bacterial infection in her lungs. She has to stay overnight but if she’s awake by tomorrow then she should be able to come home with antibiotics.” Arav explained, “Can you take care of that when she’s back?”
“Yes, we can take care of all of that.” Sun nodded.
“They are giving her fluids right now, I’ll let you know if I find anything out.” The man promised. He had stopped by the apartment on his way home from the hospital. Still not fully understanding the depths of the animatronic’s personhood, the fact they called him alone earned more respect in his mind.
“Thank you….” Sun looked down, “Thank you for helping her.”
“Tabby has been a good friend…in her own way.” Arav shrugged, “I’ll do what I can.”
 
The silence in the apartment was deafening. All tasks quickly completed and the cage-like area that was their new boundaries meticulously cleaned without anyone flesh and bone to make any messes. Sun reverted back to the corner, curling in on himself and forcing a partial rest mode. He kept certain systems on alert, for any calls or news.
Moon fared no better, wandering from room to room aimlessly in the pitch darkness. He listened to the muffled sounds of other tenets, scratching at the places the baseboards met the walls. If Sun felt restless then he was utterly agitated.
On the second day, they finally got news: she was coming home.
Sun saw Arav’s car pull along the street in front of the apartment, almost tripping over himself to run out onto the balcony. He watched him go around, opening up the side door, Sun began to flap his hands excitedly with the first little flash of pink hair.
Tabby walked out onto the sidewalk, a bit shaky but standing on her own.
Sun about fell off the balcony as he leaned over the edge, calling out happily, “Star! Starlight! Staaar!” Waving like mad.
“I think someone missed you.” Arav chuckled, grabbing her bag from the back seat.
“Oooh I don’t know…” she jested to Arav, watching Sun flap his arms wildly to be seen.
“Now she has to take these twice a day with food and this one once a day with water.” Arav instructed, showing each pill bottle respectively. He pulled out a discharge pamphlet with even more detailed information.
“Got it!” Sun gave him a thumbs up, smile never wavering.
Arav was careful to make sure Tabby was in the bathroom before speaking again, “She asked for you, you know?”
Sun tilted his head, curiously.
“Yea…” Arav admitted, “Quite a few times. But I don’t think she remembers much. She had that infection for a while.”
The animatronic nodded, mirth faded a bit.
“But…she was in pretty good condition all things considered.” He sighed, eyes drifted to the closed bathroom door. True concern burner in his dark eyes, before he looked back to Sun, “Keep it up, I guess. Taking care of her.”
“It’s our job.” Sun smiled.
Arav nodded, looking worn out. He said quick goodbyes, declining to wait for Tabby, citing that she needed rest.
Sun looked at the door long after it closed, something in his chest feeling both heavy and light at the same time. He didn’t break out of his trance until the bathroom door clicked.
“We missed you so so so so much!” Sun chanted as he hugged her tightly.
“Careful.” She warned gently, making him quickly loosen his hold.
Sun apologized profusely, moving to look her over. She took off her coat, revealing some heavy bruising in the crook of her arms from previous ivs. Tabby gave a weak smile as Sun began to fret over her anew.
“Sun.” She sighed, when he didn’t hear her over himself she said a bit more pointed, “Sun!”
“Oh, sorry.” He took a step back, worrying his hands together.
“It’s ok.” She soothed, but added, “I’m gonna go lay down though, okay big guy?”
He jumped a bit with realization, “Yes, yes, yes….of course.”
He followed right on her heels as she went into her bedroom, head clicking back and forth. Tabby placed her phone on the nightstand, taking care to plug it in before sitting on the bed. She started taking off her shoes and long socks, pausing after to look up at Sun.
His idle swaying stopped in its tracks.
“Could you…turn around for a second?” She asked, a blush to her cheeks.
“Oh!” He jolted in realization. Never one to do anything in half measures, he spun around on the tips of his toes, crouching slightly and covering his eyes showily. The pose was reminiscent of what he would do when playing hide and seek. It made Tabby crack a small smile with amusement. She stood, turning her back to him, just to be sure, peeling off her clothes. There was already a set of pajamas ready on her bed for her, she thankfully took them.
Hearing a little click of gears she warned, “No peeking.”
The clink was quickly echoed as he moved back to the original position.
Finally dressed she crawled into bed, sighing, “Ok.”
Sun instantly jumped to attention, shifting to look at her. He came up to the bedside, reaching out to smooth down her hair.
Tabby leaned into the contact like a cat, closing her eyes a bit. Her body ached, exhaustion tugging at her mind.
“Sun?” She murmured.
“Yes, Sunshine?” He smiled.
Tabby shifted closer to the wall, out of his reach. Sun tilted his head, face a mixture of hurt and confusion.
It was short lived as Tabby patted the newly opened spot in the bed, asking a bit bashfully, “Would you want to cuddle, maybe?”
Not needing to be asked twice, Sun instantly crawled into the bed beside her. His movements were eager as he got comfortable beside her. Unlike Moon, Sun took no time before shifting to cuddle her, pulling Tabby close to his chest.
He was incredibly warm, heat radiating from his metal exoskeleton. Tabby relaxed into him, the warmth a soothing balm to her aching body. She could hear his fans whirling loudly, tiredness threatening to drag her under.
Sun resumed his petting, the movements soothing her into sleep easily. Once she was out he pulled her even closer, curling a bit protectively around her. His faceplate pressed into the crown of her head, eyes closing happily.
10 notes · View notes
writer-darling · 2 years ago
Text
Are You Ever Dreaming of Me?
Chapter 4: Invisible String | Read Chapter 3: Love Story!
I NEVER USE Y/N OR ANYTHING LIKE IT THANK YOU SO MUCH :)
Rating: M - MATURE (for now, but there WILL BE explicit stuff later sooo (18+ MINORS DNI)
Pairing: Ezra (Prospect, 2018) x F!Reader
Warnings: Good old enemies-to-lovers trope. age gap (10 years). Nothing super descriptive for Reader but they are described as having hair. Tension, ofc, especially sexual tension out the wahzoo. Adult language. Alotta feelings and things of that nature. Banter. Fighting. Insults, Flirting. It’s E-to-L, you know where this is going. Feral Ezra (he starts at a 60.6% but ends up at about a 72.8% in this chapter). A bit of violence (in defense of another). A little existentialism. Some crude language. Good ol' sexism (and sl*t-shaming). If there are any that I missed, please inbox me to let me know and I will add them in :)
Word Count: 4.3k
Summary!: A reclusive Ezra decides to take matters into his own hands; he wants a clean slate.
A/N: REWRITTEN AND REFORMATTED ON: 12/27/23
******
“Were there clues I didn't see?
And isn't it just so pretty to think
All along there was some invisible string tying you to me?”
It’s a couple of days later before things go back to normal. Well… semi-normal. Ezra seems even more pensive and reclusive than before. His stares continue, but his chattiness is almost kaput, making you wonder what’s going on with him. 
You’re out on the digs when your radio dings before a voice comes over the signal. You pause and switch channels, finding the right signal after some fiddling.
“Colt, good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, sir?” You say, confusion in your voice. He rarely, if ever, used his private channel, preferring to speak to any and all crew members through the group’s shared Channel 5 if you all were using your radios.
“We’ve got one man down. You haven’t seen Ezra today, have you?” You’re a little surprised at his question. Why would he ask you of all people?
“Uh, no sir I have not. I haven’t seen him since last night at dinnertime.” You realize. He makes a nonchalant hum in response.
“Would you mind heading out to look for him? Tell him to get his ass back out here for his shift or he’s not keeping his earnings for the day. I’ve been monitoring him the last few days and he seems… distracted. I need someone to get him to focus.” It’s not a question. You try your best not to sigh and instead press your lips into a thin line for a second.
“....Yes, sir.” With that, you turn towards the tents. You remove your helmet to get some fresh air as you walk, the smell of wet earth still present in the air even though the rain finally stopped the morning before last.
You find Ezra easily, sitting outside the dining tent, under the nearest tree. He’s in his uniform, his helmet beside him, one of his legs is straight out in front of him while the other is bent at the knee, his elbow resting on it as he seems to just be watching the forest, but his gaze is far away.
“Hey,” You say, as you walk up to him. “The boss asked me to come find you. Everyone’s been wondering why you didn’t show up for the morning shift.” You say. One corner of his mouth quirks up into a semi-apologetic smile.
“Figured that was gonna happen.” He says. “I was hopin’ I would hold out ‘til lunchtime, though.”
“Yeah well, everyone’s been missing your cunning wit lately.” You try to sound sarcastic as usual, but it feels more hollow than it usually does. You expect him to smile or at the very least smirk, but his eyes stay on the forest ahead. He grabs a cigarette from his breast pocket, quickly lighting it and then taking a long drag before he finally answers,
“Ya know, rook, over the last few days, I have spent a lot of time thinkin’ about my place in Kevva’s grand scheme.” He says pensively. You raise an eyebrow silently and now he smirks, just for a quick moment. “That ol’ ‘what’s the point of all this?’, ‘what’s my place in the universe?’, etc.” He takes another drag.
“Is this your way of ignoring the subject at hand?” You ask him, as calmly as possible as you lean against the nearest tree, holding your helmet at your hip.
He pauses at your question, his expression blank and for a moment it seems he’s going to argue with you. But, then for several moments, he says nothing, just stares at you in complete silence. "You are correct," he finally says, rising to his feet. "I did not mean to avoid that, my apologies." He says before he smiles a bit. "You have a great way of seein’ to the root of the matter, rook."
You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose for a moment.
“What’s going on with you, Ezra?” You ask him. “The boss has been keeping a close eye on you and he says you’ve been out of it. I know we had our… confrontation the other day but that doesn’t mean that you should be so distracted… it’s not like you.” You say, frowning slightly. You’re trying your best to be as neutral as possible.
Ezra takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. His brow furrows slightly and he looks at you for one more long moment before speaking as he inhales another bout of smoke.
"I have been... tryin’ to unravel things. The past is a web, rookie. And it is difficult to extricate myself from it. But I must." He says. "There are forces at work that I do not fully understand, and I am tryin’ to grasp them and comprehend why things have occurred as they have." He says, closing his eyes for a moment. "Do you believe me?"
“Forces at work?” You ask. 
He shrugs lightly, “Somethin’ akin to fate or destiny. Maybe divine intervention. One thing I have found is that even the most fated and preordained among us can deviate from their paths. We are not puppets on strings. We are the authors of our own story." Ezra says. "And I am goin’ to write my next chapter."
Your frown deepens slightly. “Ok… well, what does your next chapter include then?”
Ezra's face softens slightly, "Well that is the hard part," he says. "I cannot know, not completely. A writer sets out with a beginning, a middle, and an end. But along the way, things happen, and they change their stories accordingly, yes?” You nod silently and he continues. “Well, perhaps we change the endin’ to accommodate the unexpected. I am simply tryin’ to be the writer of my life." He gives you a light chuckle.
“And… What was it that changed your story?” You ask him.
“You,” Ezra says simply. He gives you a long, hard stare as if trying to see into your heart. After an awkward moment of silence, he finally speaks again. “I have had time to think. To reflect on things I did and said. To put it frankly: I was a fool. The other day at the pool, I asked you why you could not be vulnerable with me. After some necessary self-reflection, I realized how hypocritical and insensitive a question that was. I asked you to be open with me when I have not even offered the same in return.” He smiles a little but it’s a wry and embarrassed smirk before he sombers again. “I wanted to apologize for that.” He says.
“It’s ok.” You say simply. You’re a little shocked that he’s being so open with you like this. This is a side of him you haven’t seen yet. A side you’re not well-equipped to handle. You know arrogant Ezra, you know talkative Ezra, hell you even know angry Ezra. But vulnerable Ezra is a whole other beast. And that makes you feel vulnerable. Because you know damn well no one else on this crew’s ever met this Ezra yet.
Your alarms go off, Denver calling you two back to work and you sigh. “Look, we’ll talk about this later alright? We really should get back to the site.” You say quietly and there’s a hint of regret in your tone. You were genuinely wondering where this conversation was headed
"Yes," Ezra says, "We should." He pauses, takes a deep breath, and turns to face you again. His expression softens, and he speaks. "What we have..." he says, gesturing between the two of you, "...is rare. And it is worth fightin’ for. Never forget that, rook."
With that he turns and walks toward the dig site with you, his head held high, but with a certain softness in the set of his shoulders and the swing of his steps.
When you two return to the site, the stares are obvious. It seems like lately, this is becoming more of a common occurrence. Good to know gossip is genderless and nosy people have seemingly zero limitations. You sigh and begin to work, watching as Ezra goes over to a spot between two prospectors, his expression a little bit lighter than it was when you found him. This time, you’re the one sneaking subtle glances at him and the energy between you two feels different once again. A little calmer but also a little… anticipatory. 
By the end of his shift, Ezra’s made up his mind. He’s going to do something stupid, something that will either make him the happiest he’s been in a while, or that will end in the deepest possible humiliation. He’s going to make an honest plea. He just hopes it’ll be enough.
The day's ending when you go to the dining tent to grab some food. As you enter, you spot Ezra sitting at a table in the corner but you don’t approach him. As you make your way silently to the buffet line, you can feel his eyes on you again but you do your best to just trudge on. You can hear the prospectors mumbling about you and Ezra and the situation earlier, glancing between you both. You roll your eyes at their behavior and get behind two men who keep glancing back at you with interest.
Ezra sighs as he watches you pass him by, not even giving him a second glance. He knows that this isn't exactly the best way to win you over, but he's not sure what else to do. He takes a deep breath, trying to summon up the courage to approach you. Finally, he pushes himself to his feet and starts towards you, not caring what anyone thinks anymore. He's going to tell you exactly how he feels, and hope for the best. But before he can make his plea:
"You think he's banged her, yet?" One prospector asks the other, grinning. The second one looks over at you and looks you up and down. 
"If he hasn't yet, probably one of us will." Your entire face feels like it’s on fire now as red-hot anger goes through you. Your hand is already reaching for your thrower when a movement catches your eye, stopping you.
Ezra stops in his tracks for only a moment at the prospector's crude remark, a burning rage quickly filling his chest. He doesn't even think twice about it, he just marches up to the two men, not even bothering to say anything. He grabs them both by their collars and slams them into the nearest wall, glaring at them with utter contempt. 
Denver stands up to see who’s involved in the commotion but when he sees that it’s Ezra, then his eyes shift to you, he sits back down, though his eyes narrow inquisitively as he watches everything unfold. 
"That's enough," Ezra growls, bringing your attention back to him. "I won't have you talkin’ ‘bout her like that," he says, his voice filled with a fury like you’ve never seen before.
You freeze at Ezra's sudden outburst and a shocked silence fills the dining hall. The two men in front of you go slamming into the wall and they're completely dumbfounded by his reaction too. Ezra's grip tightens around the men's collars, the fury in his eyes burning hot. 
"You'll leave her alone," he says, his tone menacing. "Or I'll break your arms." He slams them into the wall again, this time a little harder, just to put the emphasis on his threat. The two men glance at each other, trying to decide what to do. Finally, one of them nods and lets out a gulp. 
"We didn't mean nothing by it, sir, it was just-" the man tries to explain, but Ezra doesn't give him a chance. He shoves them away and turns, walking straight toward you with a purpose.
You watch him approach and you can't even move, just completely taken aback as he makes his way over to you. Ezra comes to a stop only inches away, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries to slow his breathing. He meets your gaze, his face unreadable. Finally, he takes a deep breath, trying to steel himself for what he's about to say. "Rookie," he says as if testing the word. Just hearing your familiar term on his lips sends a wave of emotions through him. "I- I need to talk to you if you will listen..." He trails off, the words seeming to struggle to leave him. Despite his anger from moments before, his tone is gentle, almost timid. He’s not forcing you.
You want to say no and just leave, but he just stuck his neck out for you. You owe him. You see the prospectors all watching you now and you clear your throat uncomfortably. "Fine… but not here." You say and leave your tray on the line. You grab his gloved hand in your own, pulling him out of the tent and away from the crew.
Ezra's hand slips into yours surprisingly easily, and he lets you lead him away from the tent and away from the prying eyes of the prospectors. He follows you in silence, his footsteps quick and steady behind you as his heart feels like it's beating out of his chest. When you two find a more secluded spot, he stops and turns to look at you, taking a deep breath before he begins to speak, the words all tumbling out of his mouth now like water from a broken dam. 
"Look, I know we haven't always gotten along. Hell, I don't even know if you can stand to be around me anymore. But I have somethin’ I-" He stops as the words seem to catch in his throat, just staring at you in silence as he tries to find a way to say what he needs to.
"Wait," You say, taking advantage of his pause as you have a sneaking suspicion where this conversation is going. "Before you go on: thank you." You say simply, seriously. "Thank you for sticking up for me back there."
Ezra pauses, surprised at your gratitude. He had half-expected you to get mad at him, tell him to mind his own business or something. But instead, you thank him. It takes a few seconds for that to fully sink in before he just nods. "Of course," he says, a small smile coming to his face. "You didn't deserve to hear that kind of talk." He shakes his head, as if still disgusted at what the prospectors had said. "No one does."
"Still, you went out of your way to stand up for me, when you didn't have to. That took guts, I respect that." You say firmly, nodding at him
Ezra's smile grows bigger as you compliment him. "Honestly, I was just... pissed off," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've heard these men talk about other women like that, and I know how disgustin’ it can be. I knew I'd regret it if I didn't say somethin’." He sighs, running a hand through his hair, before finally looking back up at you. This is it, he thinks. He can't stall any longer. "Look, I've had my eye on you... for a while now," he says, surprising himself with the confession. "A long while."
You almost laugh, but he's serious. "You're kidding." You say, and it's not a question.
Ezra chuckles a bit, a nervous sound escaping him as he takes a step closer. "No, I don't usually kid about stuff like this," he says sincerely, a soft smile on his face as he stares into your eyes. "I know we've had our problems. Hell, I've probably caused most of ‘em. But... there's somethin’ between us. I know you feel it too. Don't deny it." His look turns more passionate as he waits for your response, just staring into your eyes.
"Ezra, there's no way." You say chuckling now and shaking your head. You drop your arms. "There's just no way."
Ezra's face falls as you laugh, a deep sense of disappointment washing over him. He knew this was a long shot, but he thought - maybe, just maybe - if he laid his heart out, you might... you might just understand. But he was wrong. "Why not?" he asks softly, the hurt apparent in his voice. "Don't you feel anythin’ at all for me? Not even a little?"
"Oh, I feel something alright:" You say, beginning to pace back and forth in front of him. "You annoy me, exasperate me, you frustrate me. Blessed Kevva, you damn near drive me insane!" You say with an incredulous laugh.
He watches as you pace, listening intently to your words. He's taken aback by the intensity of your emotions, but he tries to hide it. "Those aren't exactly the things I was hopin’ to hear," he says, another small chuckle escaping him, this one more morose than the last. "I guess I kind of set my expectations a little too high," he shrugs. "I'm not denyin’ the frustration, though. Blessed Mother knows we've had our fair share. But... that's part of it, isn't it? We've always been complete opposites, and well... I've always thought that was part of the allure."
You shake your head. "Actually, it’s the opposite: we’re too alike. We’re both stubborn, argumentative, quick-tempered.” You're correct, and he smirks in agreement. You keep talking, “And well, while it's true that I had feelings for you once, maybe, I quickly got over that." You say and almost regret admitting it. But if he's laying it all out on the table then so should you.
Ezra is stunned by the confession. He never expected to hear anything like that out of you, and for a moment, he just stares at you. Finally, he takes a breath and tries to gather his thoughts. "Is that so?" he asks, his voice a little more hopeful - his demeanor clearly changed. "I don't suppose you wanna... I don't know, elaborate on that?" His tone is a tad more cautious now.
You sigh and run a hand through your own hair. "I joined this crew five months ago, right?" You ask rhetorically. "I'm the only woman on this team and, and you were the first person I bumped into. Literally. I was going into the dining tent and you were coming out of it at that same moment. There had been some sort of scuffle with you and some other members of the crew and you were so caught up in that, we bumped into each other. But, even though you were upset, you still apologized and briefly smiled at me before you stormed off. And... I remember being... attracted to you… briefly." You trail off for the moment, meeting his eyes for only a microsecond before the embarrassment makes you look away.
"Wow," Ezra mutters, his eyes fixed on you. "That's certainly a more interestin’ story than I remember it." He says in a teasing tone, though he can't hide the surprise in his voice. He stares at you, suddenly finding his words caught in his throat. For a moment, all he can do is think back to that first encounter. He can picture you so clearly, the sunlight streaming through your hair as you stumbled into the dining tent and right into him. He had immediately been drawn to the color of your eyes as they had widened in shock, the shape of your mouth as your lips slightly parted in surprise. But he’d been too flustered and upset to do more than offer a dismissive apology and leave. He shakes his head, still amazed that that little accident led to this.
"Shut up." You mumble with a half-amused smile. "Anyway, I was happy, ya know? I figured I had made a friend, at the very least someone I could talk to while I got settled into this Boys' Club... But then I tried to talk to you a couple of times after that and you just... brushed me off." You say, your eyes accusatory. "It felt like you didn't even care that I existed like you didn't even know I was there! So, I gave up. Found it easier to pretend I hated you until eventually, I did." You finish, sighing with a soft shrug.
Ezra nods as you speak, listening intently as you share your side of the story. He can see the pain in your eyes, and he's filled with regret at the thought that his neglect might have pushed you away for good. But he can also feel a sense of hope, knowing that you once felt something for him. He takes a step forward, closing the distance between you two until you're only inches apart. "Rook, listen to me," he says, seriously now. "I was wrong, okay? I should have paid you more attention, and you deserve better. But that doesn't mean I ever stopped carin’."
"How the hell was I supposed to know that??" You ask. "You annoyed me every hour of the day, you never once talked to me unless it was to make some snarky remark, and you could never look me in the eye unless you were teasing me."
Ezra takes a deep breath, trying to keep his emotions in check. "I should've been better, okay?" he says, meeting your gaze. "I should've let the jokes and sarcasm go for a while. I just didn't realize... well, just how much I was hurtin’ you. I'm sorry. Just... just let me start over again. I'll do better, yeah? Just give me a chance." He says earnestly now, his voice sincere. The ball’s in your court now.
"You want to start over?" You ask him, raising an eyebrow.
He nods, taking your question seriously. "Yes, I do. I wanna start over, from scratch. No sarcasm, no jokes, no nicknames. Just..." He trails off, searching for the right word. "Just honesty," he says. "I promise to be open with you and to be better. To do things right. All I ask is for one chance, and I swear I'll do it right this time. I'll show you that I can be better."
You let his words linger between you two, mulling it over as your eyes glance up at the stars above you. You take a deep breath in and out, feeling conflicted. This could be either the best or the worst thing you've ever agreed to. "Alright... fine." You say after a few tense moments, looking back down and meeting his eyes. "One chance. But that's it. You screw this up and I'll really hate you." You say and even though your tone is lighter, you're being serious.
Ezra breathes a sigh of relief, his whole body relaxing when you finally agree to give him another chance. He can see the trepidation in your eyes, and he knows he needs to tread carefully. But he's willing to do anything to win you over again, and he's fully committed to making this work. "Deal," he says, a smile forming on his face. He extends a hand, looking into your eyes earnestly. 
You hesitate for only a second before you grab his gloved hand in your own, shaking it in agreement. "Deal." You say and offer him a small smile, the most sincere one he's ever garnered from you.
"Good," Ezra says, his smile growing bigger as he shakes your hand firmly. "I promise, I'll do everythin’ in my power to make this work. To make you happy." He says, his tone earnest. "And this time, no more jokes. No more sarcasm. Just two people... tryin’ to make a connection. Just... two friends." He says, hoping that you'll appreciate the sentiment.
You nod and feel a little hopeful and even kind of excited at the idea of this fresh start. "Friends." You say with a soft nod.
Ezra's smile broadens as he hears your response. "Friends," he repeats, his voice full of warmth. He pauses, thinking for a moment. "So then, what do friends do?" He asks, half-joking. "We talk, right?"
"Yeah," You say with a soft laugh. "Though I didn't get a chance to eat, those two jerks at the dining tent ruined my appetite and now I'm too embarrassed to go back in there." You admit.
Ezra's expression softens at that, and he gives you a small smile. "Why don't we go get food somewhere else?" He suggests making a mental note to make sure those two jerks don't mess with you again. "My treat. Just... no talkin’ about work, no sarcasm, no jokes, okay? Just... just two friends, enjoyin’ a meal together." He says. His tone is sincere, but there's also a bit of light teasing in his voice. He wants to make this as easy and comfortable for you as possible.
You raise your brows at him. "Where would we go? We're in the middle of nowhere." You say
"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," Ezra says with a smile, raising a finger in the air. "I know of a special place, just a short walk from here. There's a little spot by the river, perfect for a private, quiet meal. What do you say?"
You mull it over but the idea of a nice quiet place where you two can just talk and set everything from the past aside sounds... really nice. "Ok, lead the way I guess."
******
Ok soooo please ignore the fact that it's been a month since I last updated ok thank you so muuuuuch. I've been crazy busy with grad school stuff and also been traveling quite a bit so I just haven't had the time to edit and post. Whoops. But I'm making up for it - hopefully - by posting this chapter and the previous one all at once! Anyway, that’s it, thanks a million, hope you all enjoyed, and see you in the next one!
Tag List: @pedrocentric @luz-introvertida @castleamc @moralesfish @klara-luise18 @supernaturalgirl89 @december-gal1 @pbeatriz @castleamcc @hillarymurray4 @supernaturalgirl @supernaturalgirl20 @sherala007 @littlemisspascal @practicalghost @donnaa @scorpio-marionette @kayleezra @amandanik23 @maxpbxtch97 @mandy-sings @lowlights @shadesofnerdlygrace @harriedandharassed @carefulnowprincess @amneris21 @horton-hears-a-honk @xdaddysprincessxx @trickstersp8 @mswarriorbabe80 @permanentlydizzy @teddy2510 @bitchwitch1981 @jedi-in-crocs (hope it’s ok that I’m tagging you all!)  
Links!
Join the Tag List here
Ao3 link here
TikTok here
Story Playlist here
The Masterlist here
Read Chapter 5: Gorgeous!
33 notes · View notes
hoomandoescosplay · 1 year ago
Text
Too Much Love and Fire Whiskey | Albus Potter x Scorpius Malfoy
Tumblr media
As I'm sitting at the Slytherin table in the great hall with Scorpius I notice Rose is making her way over here. I turn to Scorpius to see if he's noticed her as well and he gives me a look to show he's not sure why she's coming over either.
Rose takes a seat across from us at the table and tries to make small talk. "Hey Albus," she pauses then glances at Scorpius giving him a small nod, "Scorpius. You two must be excited for this year finally wrapping up." She exclaims.
I nod, giving her a questioning look. "Do you need something Rose? You don't usually just come by here to talk." I say trying not to come across as rude.
I can tell she's caught off guard from my directness and she replies slowly. "Well..." She starts, thinking over her words as it looks like she's considering the best way to approach this situation. "Since you're both in Slytherin I figured you both heard about the party happening tonight." She pauses and looks between Scorpius and I. "And I was wondering if you two were going to go to it." She gives us a big smile and I can tell that she's indirectly implying she wants us to go.
Scorpius pipes up. "Oh yeah, that party that's tonight? We're probably just going to chill in our dorm instead." He turns to me making sure we're on the same page. "Yeah," I start to say. "Parties aren't really our thing, you know that Rose." She pouts at our answer.
"Really? Not even for one last party before school gets out? It's the end of fifth year guys, we need to celebrate that." She adds trying to convince us to change our minds.
Scorpius takes some candy out of his robe to eat as I continue the conversation. "How about we'll see. I'm not making any promises but I know you'll stay here until you get something other than no."
I can tell Rose is still determined to get a yes out of us but she backs off for now. "Fine, fine." She says with a small pout still. "Well, if you end up changing your mind I think both of you will have some fun. It would be a great way to let loose especially after how much happened this year." She stands up after that saying bye to both of us and heading back to some of her friends at the Gryffindor table.
"Well she sure was determined to get us to go." Scorpius says continuing to eat some candy. I nod my head in agreement. "Yeah, I think she wanted to see us get a little more wild tonight than maybe we're up for. I think she was hoping to see a side of us that she hasn't seen before." I grin slyly and Scorpius chuckles.
I'll admit we definitely do have a wild and rebellious side but we don't show it off often. Especially with our reputation at Hogwarts we'd rather keep a low profile most of the time.
I reach out my hand for a piece of candy and he gives me a few in return. "Thanks Scorp." Smiling he replies, "You're most welcome. I think sharing is the best part of having candy." He smiles then pops another candy into his mouth. It's also a convenient excuse to touch Scorpius a bit I think to myself without realizing.
Soon after, many students exit the great hall for many reasons. Some go to finish up last minute assignments, some hang out with friends before heading home for break tomorrow, while others find a nice place to relax.
Scorpius and I are some of the ones who choose to find a nice place to relax a bit before going back to our dorm. We ended up just choosing to relax in a quiet corner of the common room that's out of the way and has a couple of chairs.
I plop myself down into one of the chairs and look at Scorpius, waiting for him to join him in the other chair. Scorpius sits down a second after and starts to fiddle with his wand.
I quickly notice how I can't keep his eyes off of Scorpius, watching him fidget with his wand. I absolutely love observing Scorpius when he does these small things; it's sweet and playful.
I can't help but smile at him especially since it's clear he isn't aware of my observation as he continues to fiddle with his wand. I eventually speak up. "Do you think we should try going to the party? Rose has got the idea stuck in my head now." I sigh.
Scorpius takes his attention off his wand to look up at Albus. "Hmm..." He pauses for a moment debating it. "I mean we could go," he says, not entirely convinced. "It might be fun to get out and see what everyone else is up to."
I take a moment to think. "Yeah you're right. It could be fun I guess." I get more comfortable in my chair before continuing. "Worst case we could always just go to our dorm if we get bored." Scorpius nodded at the idea which made me smile.
"Yeah, that sounds great. We could try the party, and if we don't like it, we'll just go back to the dorm. We don't have to stick around if it sucks." Scorpius grins, thinking about how much fun they could have at this party which makes me smile wider.
"It's settled then. We'll be partying it up tonight." I say laughing at the thought as Scorpius joins in. "Yep, sounds like an excellent way to wrap up the year. Who knows, maybe we'll have the time of our lives tonight." He gives me a cheeky smile. His smile makes my whole body light up and I smile with him.
I stand up dusting off my robes turning back to face Scorpius. "Wanna head to our dorm to chill before they start setting up for the party down here?" I ask as he nods his head. "Sounds good to me." As he stands to start walking towards the stairs I follow him getting excited to go to a party with him later.
─── ☾ ⋆*・゚:⋆*・゚ ───
The music from the party is pumping even all the way back down in the Slytherin common room. It's obvious that this is going to be a very high-energy party.
I crack a smile as I hear the music, and Scorpius follows my lead. We walk down the stairs eager to go and see what this party has in store for us.
I quickly scan the room and notice that I recognize a lot of the people at the party; most of which are fellow Slytherins and some from other houses. It's interesting seeing everyone in a different light outside of the classroom.
"There seems to be a lot of older students as well as some fellow 5th year classmates." Scorpius says close to my ear making sure I could hear him. I feel my face heat up from our close proximity as I nod. "It's probably how they were able to get so much fire whisky for the party." I point out glancing at the drink table.
My comment makes Scorpius chuckle. "Yeah, I forgot that they wouldn't have as much trouble getting a hold of fire whisky, and it looks like they got an insane amount of it." Scorpius says, looking at the table with all the bottles.
We both notice that there's no shortage of students already taking full advantage of this free alcohol and getting pretty tipsy pretty quickly.
Scorpius's heart flutters as he feels Albus's hand on his. Something about their physical closeness is so exciting and thrilling!
"Hmm..." Scorpious starts to say, looking back over at the alcohol with a grin on his face. "It would be rude not to have a couple of drinks, wouldn't it?" He smirks back at me, making my heart flutter.
"Why yes it would be very rude not to have at least a few." I reply playfully. "Well, I guess let's start getting tipsy, shall we?" Scorpius says with a wry smile, holding my hand a bit tighter and leading me over to the table of free alcohol.
After we both grab a cup we walk towards one of the sofas to sit down and watch the party in full-swing around them. Scorpius takes a swig of fire whisky and I follow suit so we're both on the same level.
We both observe the people around us, many of whom are already noticeably tipsy from the fire whisky. "You know this isn't so bad. Watching everyone is actually pretty amusing." I say getting more comfortable on the sofa.
"Yeah it is," Scorpius agrees, taking a few more gulps from his cup. "People-watching is a fun activity, especially when people are getting a little tipsy. It's incredible what people will do when they're feeling the effects of the fire whisky and their inhibitions are lowered." I hum in response, taking another swig from my cup.
We continue to talk about random topics that come into our minds as we continue to drink more of the fire whiskey. I'm starting to feel a bit tipsy myself but I try not to show it too much.
I never thought I was much of a light weight until now. Scorpius has had about two more drinks than me and he's not even half as tipsy. "I never imagined I'd get tipsy so easily," I mumble from his place next to Scorpius on the sofa.
"Hmm? Sorry, what was that?" Scorpius asks me, noticing that I said something but not sure what. I blink a bit, realizing that Scorpius didn't hear what I said. I speak up a bit louder this time, slurring slightly. "I said I never imagined I'd get tipsy so quickly. This fire whisky is strong, you know?"
Scorpius gives me a warm smile. "Yeah it's definitely a bit stronger than usual." I lean my head on his shoulder letting out a sigh. "Mhm, very strong." I mutter.
Feeling comfortable I lean over a bit, moving my body to be even closer to Scorpius. Looking down at me I can tell he's noticed how tipsy I've actually gotten. In response, I feel Scorpius wraps an arm around me pulling me even closer to give me more support.
A few minutes pass with both of us just leaning on each other until Rose and James Sirius walk towards us.
I can tell Rose and James are also a bit tipsy from the fire whisky as they greet us with big smiles on their faces as they seem eager to talk. "Hey guys!" Rose calls out happily. She sounds a bit slurred but still mostly coherent. "I have to admit I'm shocked you both actually came to this."
I lift my head off of Scorpius and shrug. "We got bored and figured it wouldn't hurt to come for a little bit." I replied.
"At least you two had a choice." James says. "She dragged me to this against my will." Rose just rolls her eyes at his comment. She then smirks with amusement and nods at Scorpius and I.
"Boredom is certainly a good reason to come to a party. So how's the party so far?" She asks, her eyes taking in the scene and she takes a sip of her fire whisky.
Scorpius answers her question this time. "Not bad actually. We've actually been having a blast just watching everyone. Very entertaining stuff." He says making me laugh.
Rose seems to appreciate Scorpius's answer, as she chuckles as well. "Yeah, there's been a good amount of entertainment at this party so far," Rose says, looking around at all the people. "Plus there's plenty of drinks all around." She sips her fire whisky and smiles. It's clear that she's quite enjoying herself.
James agrees with the fire whiskey comment and takes another sip of his own cup. "This party is really kicking it up a notch," James says with a grin, holding up his cup of alcohol.
Rose smirks. "Yeah that's for sure, you can thank the older years for bringing all of this fire whisky. They really know how to throw a party." She turns her head at the sight of something and her eyes light up. "Oh one of my other friends just got here, let's go say hi." She quickly drags James off leaving Scorpius and I alone again.
The conversation seemed to sober me up a bit which is good. Tapping on the rim of my cup I look towards Scorpius. "So," I begin, sipping some more of my fire whisky, "Are we really just sitting here, watching everyone, because we don't know what else to do?"
Scorpius thinks for a second. "It seems like we are." He laughs. "Yeah... it does seem that way," I laugh as well and take another gulp of my fire whisky. I then pause for a moment, taking a second to think. "You know, in all honesty, I'm not complaining." I smile at Scorpius.
I look at Scorpius for a few more seconds before blurting out. "You have really pretty eyes by the way." I immediately get flustered by my own words as Scorpius lets out a small laugh and gets up.
"Wait, where are you going?" I mumble, not wanting Scorpius to leave me for too long. "To get you some water. You need some." Scorpius replies with a smile still on his face.
I can feel my cheeks burning even brighter from that smile on Scorpius's face. "W-well, I mean, yeah... but... you don't need to, I'm fine." I mumble, hoping that he'll just sit back down with me instead of leaving.
"If you give me your cup I'll sit back down." Scorpius bargains. My heart skips a beat as I hear this from Scorpius. I'm so focused on wanting Scorpius to stay that I almost immediately hand my cup to him. Realizing, I make sure to take a second before passing it off though in the back of my mind I'm waiting eagerly for Scorpius to hurry and sit back down.
Instead Scorpius takes the cup then reaches his free hand out. "Let's walk around a bit to get you to sober up." I blink a little as I feel my heart pounding in my chest, as all of this close proximity and the lingering effects of the fire whisky have me feeling so many intense emotions. I take Scorpius's hand without saying a word, letting him lead me.
─── ☾ ⋆*・゚:⋆*・゚ ───
As Scorpius leads me around the room all I can focus on is him and only him. I can tell the walking isn't helping as much as he thought it would because every so often another new compliment for Scorpius will come tumbling out of my mouth.
Each time I see the corner of his lips curl upwards into a smile. Eventually Scorpius stops walking as we near a mostly unoccupied corner of the room. He pulls me a bit closer to him and whispers in my ear. "You know, I could spend all of the rest of the night just looking at you." Scorpius whispers, letting his voice grow more flirty playing along with my tipsy state.
I'm left completely speechless as Scorpius's words and actions slowly start to race through my mind. Between the fire whisky lingering through my body and all these intense emotions before I know it I blurt out something I never thought I'd ever say out loud.
"I am hopelessly and utterly in love with you Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy and I don't know what I'd do without you." I say as I wrap my arms around him in a tight embrace. As I rest my head in the crook of his neck I register what actually just came out of my mouth and I instantly tense up.
Lifting my head from his neck I immediately let go of him and started rambling trying to explain what I meant without confessing anymore than I already have. Before I know it Scorpius's lips are on mine making me go silent. After a moment I close my eyes and kiss him back. My whole body feels as though it's on fire and every place Scorpius is touching makes my skin tingle.
Too soon he ends the kiss and all I can do is stare back at him. "And I thought I was the one that talked a lot." He says laughing while holding onto me still. I feel myself smile and my face turning even redder.
I internally curse the fire whisky I've had as I can barely wrap my head around what just happened. "Did you mean to do that? I mean- I'm not complaining if you did I just-" Scorpius interrupts me with a laugh as he says "Yes I meant to kiss you Albus. Did you honestly think I didn't also have feelings for you?" I blink at him a few times trying to force myself to sober up a bit more.
After a few seconds I grin and wrap my arms tightly around him in an embrace. "I really hope this fire whisky isn't making me imagine this." Scorpius wraps his arms around me tighter as well confirming this is in fact real.
The embrace could last forever and it wouldn't be long enough, as I continue to hold Scorpius close and tight. I'm reeling from the overwhelming feelings of love and adoration, finally getting to embrace the person I've crushing on and finding no resistance from Scorpius but instead only love.
I finally let go of Scorpius while laughing. "I guess this party was worth going to after all." I say making Scorpius laugh with me. I can only laugh from the sheer joy that this evening has brought me. This is everything I could have ever hoped for right now - this night, this party, and above all else, this boy.
"Oh, it was MORE than worth it." Scorpius beams leaning against the wall were standing near. I follow his lead leaning against it as well while reaching my arm out to intertwine our hands together.
We stand there for a few seconds in silent bliss until I hear Scorpius whisper something. "I am hopelessly and utterly in love with you too, Albus Severus Potter."
─── ☾ ⋆*・゚:⋆*・゚ ───
Bonus:
Rose and James were standing near the drink table talking about random topics jumping from each thought with a nice flow. From the corner of her eye Rose's head snaps in the direction of the opposite side of the room.
Her eyes widen as she slaps James's arm repeatedly. "Geez Rose what is it? Calm down will you?" He rolls his eyes at her sudden outburst and sees her silently pointing across the room.
He ruffles up his hair as he turns to look at where she's pointing. "Holy-" James stop's mid sentence utterly shocked. "Is that-" he starts as Rose continues for him. "Scorpius and Albus? YES!" She shouts the last part loudly making some Slytherins glare at them.
"Ahh they're kissing. Merlin, they're actually kissing!" She grins while jumping up and down excitedly. James laughs at her and at the fact those two finally confessed to each other. "Well, I did not expect that to happen tonight."
As Rose continues to celebrate what she just witnessed James leans against the table smiling genuinely happy for his brother.
─── ☾ ⋆*・゚:⋆*・゚ ───
8 notes · View notes