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wandascosmic · 4 months ago

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hii! i have a request!

i was thinking about wanda being with reader for some years, dating. and so they decide to take a trip to sokovia together, so reader could know where wanda grew up in. at first wanda was a bit self conscious about it, because it ain’t a very pretty country. but reader was just very sweet about it. and since it’s in europe it’s very very cold. wanda is so used to it it’s scary. she also is a natural vodka drinker, and doesn’t ever get drunk. sometimes just tipsy. she insists on showing reader every hidden spot and corner..,, and maybe steal some make out sessions. wanda realizes she wants to marry her in that trip.

be mine (request)

wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: in which wanda makes sure she wants you to be her wife (though she's known the answer all along)

word count: 1350

tags: unedited, fluff, brief alcohol, you both are the dorkiest duo, wanda loves you a lot, you love wanda a lot, sokovia appreciation, lots of cuteness

You and Wanda Maximoff have been dating for 3 years, and best friends for 5.

Wanda had joined the Avengers shortly after you, wide-eyed, fearful, and anxious having still been riding off the death of her beloved brother.

However, with your help, she found herself once more, and was excited to finally share her culture with the most important person of her life.

“Okay, so it can get pretty cold, most of the time,” Wanda tells you as you’re packing together in your bedroom in the compound. “But it might get pretty warm pretty fast so pack clothes for many different kinds of weather.”

“Got it, Maximoff,” you answer, heading to your closet and grabbing a couple sweaters.

Wanda was excited, but then again, you grew up in California, where there endless beaches, and no war. No run-down buildings, or crazy weather, only endless sunshine.

Maybe she shouldn’t be making you go.

“You know,” Wanda says quietly, and you turn around abruptly, noticing the expression on her face.

“What’s going on?” you ask, putting down your sweaters on the bed and heading over to her.

“Sokovia isn’t very glamorous,” she laughs awkwardly. “I’m not sure you’re gonna like it, and I really don’t want to force you to go somewhere you’re just gonna hate.”

“Maximoff,” you start, cupping her cheek, “You grew up there. It’s your home country, it’s what makes you, you. Of course, I’m gonna love it. Plus, I’m gonna learn so much more about your culture and just you in general, why wouldn’t I love it?”

“Are you sure?” Wanda asks, fiddling with the rings on her fingers. “Yes, I’m sure.”

***

22 hours later, and you’ve finally landed in Wanda’s home country.

She was right, it’s not very glamorous, but it’s still absolutely beautiful to you.

This is where your favorite person in the world grew up in.

However, it was absolutely freezing the second you stepped out of the airport.

You begin to shiver, and look over to Wanda to see if she also feels the effect in her navy blue zip-up.

Wanda doesn’t seem fazed by it, and goes immediately to calling an Uber so you can get to your hotel.

“Wanda,” you ask, making her look up from her phone. “Are you cold?”

“Not really, no,” Wanda shrugs, but suddenly, her eyes widen seeing your shivering form. “Holy shit, detka, you’re freezing!” Wanda takes her sweater off, leaving her in a t-shirt and puts it around your shoulders.

Your eyes widen, and you try to take the sweater off, but Wanda stops you. “Wanda, now you’re gonna get cold.”

“I’m fine, detka,” she says. “I’m pretty used to the weather.”

“Scarily used to it,” you mutter.

“Right, I forgot the cold makes you grumpy.”

“Or I’ve been spending too much time locked up in my bedroom in a huge tower.”

***

“Wanda,” your voice has begun to slur after only your second shot of Vodka. Was the alcohol in Sokovia super-infused or something?

“Yes, detka,” Wanda laughs at how drowsy you look already.

“Jesus christ, Maximoff,” you look over to the array of 5 empty shot glasses of vodka in front of your girlfriend. “You can really hold your liquor.”

“Yes, and you can’t,” Wanda teases, laughing when you give her a pouting expression. She shrugs. “I’m mostly just used to the vodka from being here for so long.”

“Are you sure you aren’t Thor in another universe?” you say, now slurring heavily. “He’s a natural drinker.” You pause, looking around as if you’re searching for something, before making eye contact with your favorite green-eyed witch. “Plus, you’re so pretty you could easily be a goddess.”

Wanda blushes, looking away as her heart fills with adoration.

Wanda felt slightly guilty.

She had only brought you here because she wanted to be absolutely sure she wanted to marry you, having bought a ring around 5 months ago.

She didn’t know why she ever doubted you, but bringing you here, to her home country, was her test to make sure everything would be absolutely perfect if she were to be your wife for the rest of your life.

And you passed the test, with flying colors.

So far, you’ve been adoring every single Sokovian tradition, every Sokovian market, every ounce of this country that made Wanda who she is.

Wanda loves you.

And she was sure she wanted to marry you.

Not in a rowdy Sokovian bar with you so drunk you were blissfully unaware of everything that was going on, but soon, she was sure of it.

***

“Okay, come on,” Wanda was laughing as she was running, holding your hand and dragging you behind her.

“Maximoff, where the hell are we going,” you ask.

“This was my favorite garden growing up, it’s kinda hidden but it’s incredible! Come on,” Wanda continues to drag you towards an apartment around a block from where you learned she grew up, and as Wanda continues to drag you towards a small patch of grass near it, you gasp.

“Oh my god, it’s so pretty,” you say in awe.

“I know, right,” Wanda says, but she’s not admiring the garden anymore, she’s admiring you.

This is where she was gonna marry you.

On this beautiful, isolated, patch of grass with the sacred garden that got her through every ounce of fear she felt as a child.

***

3 months later, she was gonna do it.

She was gonna ask you to be her wife.

It was your 4-year anniversary, and she was gonna do it.

She was going to take you to your favorite restaurant, you would go on a small walk, and she was gonna take you to the Manhattan bridge, also your favorite.

***

“Maximoff, this feels excessive. Why are we just going to my favorite places? You’re half of this relationship,” you ask, as Wanda is bringing you to the Manhattan bridge. Don’t get you wrong, it is one of your top 3 favorite places in New York, number one being lying in bed with Wanda, but Wanda deserved at least some of her favorite things on your anniversary too.

“I don’t mind. My favorite thing in the world is being with you, and seeing you happy, and with this I get both,” Wanda answers easily. However, she doesn’t notice the adoring look you give her, too nervous with the ring in her jacket pocket. She really hopes she doesn’t chicken out.

You both slow as you walk towards the middle of the bridge, you automatically peering over the ledge to look at the water as you’ve done a million times.

And Wanda was betting on you doing that.

Slowly, she grabs the ring out of her pocket, a silver ring with a sapphire in the middle, and gets down on one knee.

She takes a deep breath.

Now only anticipating your turning around.

And slowly, you do.

And your eyes widen.

And a huge smile breaks out on your face.

And a huge smile breaks out on hers.

“Maximoff…” “Will you marry me?” she cuts you off, eyes hopeful and smile big. “Ever since you came with me to Sokovia, I’ve been wanting to ask you constantly, but I didn’t know how. Truth be told, I kinda brought you on that trip to make sure this was the right choice, but I did know that it was from the beginning. It’s just, my culture has a lot of traditions that some people don’t understand, so I thought maybe if I immersed you in that I could make sure that you wouldn’t hate me someday if I did something but I really do love you and–” You cut her off with a kiss.

“Of course I’ll marry you, you dork,” you say, still smiling as you cup her cheeks.

“Really?” Wanda asks, vulnerable, and suddenly wiping tears from her eyes that she didn’t know had begun falling.

“Absolutely,” you nod, giving her your finger for her to place the ring on.

“I can’t wait for you to be my wife,” Wanda laughs.

“I can’t wait for you to be mine.”

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff angst #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wandamaximoff #wanda maximoff fluff #marvel mcu #mcu #wanda x you #wanda x y/n #wanda marvel #anon #answered asks #wandascosmic answers

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deepspacenova · 5 months ago

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for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you

sylus invites you to a valentine's-themed event in Linkon City to help him acquire a a piece of jewelry he'd been eyeing... or does he?

➻➻ ABOUT | 2100 words. sylus x gn!reader.

➻➻ TAGS | mutual pining. daydreaming. valentine's day. inspired by hozier lyrics.

NOTE: Happy Valentine's Day from my corner of the world! xx This one's dedicated to my kindred spirit and fellow lover of hozier, mutual pining, and good ol', sick-to-your-stomach yearning @mythblossoms <333

The heart of Linkon City beat like a hummingbird’s wings, a light but invisible force that made the air feel like a kiss against your skin instead of a bite. Made the bustle of the city sound melodic rather than cacophonous.

Funny, how one day in February could be a pair of rose-colored glasses — slipped on by even the most cynical, turning their surroundings soft and sweet, if only for a day.

You stepped out of the elevator, still debating why you’d agreed to this in the first place.

Or, more accurately, why you hadn’t found a way to decline before Sylus effortlessly maneuvered you into being his date for tonight.

The invitation had come in typical Sylus-fashion — a late-night call, his tone coy and coaxing as he relayed only the vaguest of details. He’d been hunting a rare piece of jewelry, his chance to acquire it would be at a Valentine’s Day event in Linkon City that required a plus-one. You were coming with him.

“And you can’t invite someone else because…?”

“You’re the only person I trust to have my back in Linkon, kitten.”

Matter-of-fact. Little fanfare. And yet…

“And… I wanted to see you in the dress I bought you — the one you still haven’t worn?”

And yet every ‘request’ of his was coated in a helpless, almost longing undertone. It dripped with yearning and tasted like honey.

And you, in turn, became helpless too.

Now, hands hidden within the pockets of his trousers as he stood near the event’s entrance — a rooftop greenhouse decorated in a garden of pink and red — you proved yourself to be the worst person to have Sylus’ back, unable to tear your focus away from him long enough to notice anything else around you.

Despite being possibly the biggest outsider in the room he carried himself like a man who belonged, like a man who owned the room. And as his eyes trailed from your black-heeled feet to your pink-tinted cheeks like two ruby spotlights, he straightened, stepped forward, and wrapped your hand around his bicep like you were the person who owned him.

“I was starting to think you’d stand me up.” His voice was low and warm and just a little teasing.

"And throw you to all these bloodthirsty wolves?" You gestured at the mellow cocktail party in front of you and arched a brow. “The way you made it sound, if I didn’t show up, they’d be scraping you off the dance floor by midnight.”

He quirked those deliciously full, infuriatingly symmetrical lips. “It’s a good thing I have a beautiful and fierce date here to keep me in one piece.” His gaze dragged over you once more, slower this time. And though nothing outwardly changed about his expression, his voice infused more warmth into your cheeks when he murmured, “I knew it’d suit you.”

You fought against the pull of yourself, cleared your throat as every drop of you ached to surge toward its moon, toward him, and entered the room with as much poise and aloof confidence as you could pull together.

The flowers surrounding them were bathed in the light of candelabra stationed around the room. The air was thick with the tang of their perfume and the sharp din of a room full of business-minded guests. These weren’t just wealthy socialites; these were people who knew the game — dealers, informants, fencers, smugglers.

And they were all watching Sylus.

He’d played with this crowd long enough to know exactly how to charm, how to influence, how to make people feel like they were the most important person in the room while revealing nothing of himself.

To them, he was an enigma—a man with resources and influence, yet no verifiable past. They would’ve loved nothing more than to pick him apart. Which meant that any crack in his carefully crafted exterior of ruthless corporate tycoon would draw their attention like blood in water.

He knew how to keep himself possessive but detached. Light touches at the small of a back, gaze wandering when he passed over a glass of wine, no part of his attention ever lingering too long.

But you were more than a crack.

You were a fracture, an earthquake that threatened to shake him, split his chest open, and reveal the fragile, fluttering thing inside of him to the whole room with one glance. One blush. One breath.

Because tonight, you weren’t just a fixture by his side. You were something else entirely. The only scent in his nose, the only sound in his ears, the only sight in his dress.

He should have been focused on the man in front of him, the one he was here to meet, the one whose words he was supposed to be committing to memory.

Instead, his mind spiraled away from him, caught in a tailwind of hallucination.

One that captured the details of your rising and falling chest, your bitten lips, your shifting stance. Coalescing them into the feel of your hand is his when he’d lead you around the corner, away from prying eyes. When he’d feel the heat of your body flush against his own, your fingers branding the nape of his neck, the center of his chest, the waistband of his trousers.

When he’d taste your lips, your wine-tinged breath, the petal-soft skin of your neck beneath his lips. When he’d swallow your gasps and moans with panted, open-mouthed kisses.

When he’d press you into the low garden wall, hoard you in the corner to himself. Not like an object or possession, not you were something. But like you were everything.

Would you want that? Would you let him?

The man across from you both was still talking.

Sylus clenched his jaw, tried to redirect his focus. Forced himself to nod at something and offer a well-placed hum of interest.

But the words blurred as you pulled his attention taut like a rope, fraying it at the edges.

And Sylus wasn't sure he could keep it from unraveling completely.

The evening continued to pass in a blur of wine, small talk, and stolen glances. Sylus played his part perfectly, charming everyone he spoke to and keeping the attention firmly on himself.

But every now and then, you’d catch him looking at you, his eyes dark and unreadable, and you’d feel that same pull between you, the one that made it so hard to remember why this was such a bad idea. That you were a resident of Linkon City, not some anonymous figure who could disappear into the crowd if things went sideways.

If anyone from Linkon recognized you here, if they saw you with him—

Sylus leaned down, breath ghosting over your ear as the owner of Sylus’ mysterious piece of jewelry lead them to another group of tuxes. "Relax, kitten."

"You brought me here, remember?" you said under your breath. "If I get recognized, that's your problem."

"Hm." Sylus seemed to consider what you thought were very valid concerns, until he said, “It's a good thing you’re the only problem I don’t mind having.”

Though he kept his gaze forward, his lips quirked in expectation. Like he was trying to burn the paper-thin wall between you into wisps of smoke.

You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You were already standing too close, already betraying yourself too much. In the way you had to keep forcing yourself to stop glancing at his face. In the way your palm kept tightening around his bicep. In the way your other palm itched to grasp his, which swayed gently between your bodies.

"You keep looking at me like that," he murmured, his voice a smooth, knowing drawl, "and I’m going to start thinking you enjoy spending time with me.”

Your amused scoff does nothing to banish the hot and fluttery thing that unfurls in your stomach. ”I’m looking at you like that because I’m wondering how much trouble you’re going to get me into."

His voice was all sand and gravel. “If I wanted you in trouble, sweetie, we’d be moving away from this crowd not closer to it.”

It was dangerous, how easy this was. How he always knew exactly what to say to keep the sound of your heartbeat echoing in your ears and make the rest of the world fade into the background.

"Besides there's nothing to worry about," Sylus continued, dipping his head just slightly, his breath warm against your temple. "No one here is paying attention to you."

You arched a brow, refusing to let him be the one to make you break character as the tuxes morph into men with voices and bodies and faces. "Except for you."

Again, no change in Sylus’ expression, but his final murmur before he greeted the new group was smug and wolfish. "You say that like I could help myself."

The conversation around you drifted in and out of your focus. A blend of polite pleasantries and measured negotiations that you only half-listened to, which, you supposed you should’ve been grateful for since it only strengthened your role as arm trophy.

Logically, you knew there were eyes on him—some curious, some wary, some openly hostile. Not everyone in this room admired Sylus. Some feared him. Some wanted him gone.

And yet. Despite knowing that keeping your distance kept you both safe, your thoughts grew increasingly more dangerous as you succumbed to the consequences of him.

You imagined Sylus’ hands in your hair, cupping your face and easing your legs around his waist. His voice a low murmur, you have no idea what you do to me, kitten.

You could almost see his shirt hastily unbuttoned and feel fabric bunched at your hips by rough, dominant fingers. You could almost feel his skin against your own, just as flushed, just as feverish.

His lips would descend upon yours, hot and insistent. Your eager fingers clutched at his nape, tracing the broad plains of his shoulders. Your chest could almost feel the expanse of Sylus’ chest pressed against yours until—

You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms, desperately trying to detach yourself from the daydream. You had to push it down, lock it away, keep yourself in check. Because if you didn’t—

You might do something reckless.

Like, close the space between you. Let yourself forget what he was, what you were, and what it would mean to want him.

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you forced yourself to look away, to breathe. The heat in your skin, the ache in your gut — it was just the atmosphere, just the act.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

And yet, as Sylus turned his head slightly, his gaze catching yours with something dark and knowing, you had a feeling he wasn’t fooled in the slightest.

The crisp night air did little to cool the heat still thrumming beneath your skin as Sylus led you outside. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses faded behind you, replaced by the quiet hum of the city. A sleek black car idled at the curb, its glossy surface reflecting the glow of streetlights.

Sylus walked you to the back door and opened it, one hand resting on the door, the other slipping into his pocket.

“See? No troublemaking needed,” he murmured, his tone light, almost teasing. “We make a good pair.”

Before you could respond, something cool brushed against your skin. A whisper of metal sliding around your neck, the weight of it settling just above your collarbone. Instinctively, your fingers lifted to touch it—a delicate chain, smooth and fine, and at its center, a pendant that felt solid against your fingertips.

You look up at Sylus, brows knitting in question, but he only watched you with that same unreadable intensity he had all night.

“What is this?” you asked.

He reached out, his fingers brushing over yours where they rested against the pendant. “A gift,” he said simply. “I… hear you’re supposed to ask when you want someone to be yours on Valentine's Day.”

“You…” you exhaled in disbelief. “You planned this?”

“Silly questions don’t deserve answers, kitten.” His smile was all wicked amusement.

Something fluttered in your chest—part irritation, part something much more dangerous. “So, you didn’t actually need me to get this.” You gestured to the necklace, fingers still resting lightly against the pendant.

“No, that sale was made last week. Tonight was just a hand-off.” Sylus leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted over your cheeks, his voice dipping into something nearly tender. “Like I said, I just wanted you to be mine tonight.”

A half-hysterical laugh bubbles up from your throat. “What if I’d said no? That I don’t belong to anyone?”

"It's alright," Sylus shrugged as if he’d already taken that into consideration, stepping back with one last squeeze of your waist.

“Wouldn't change the fact that I’m already yours."

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archangeldyke-all · 8 months ago

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Hear me out, comforting Sevika.

She just lost the closest thing to her best friend, has to take over his responsibilities, and take over Jinx duties plus the addition of Isha. Poor baby is stressed.

Imagine this. After giving Jinx the guest bedroom, setting Isha up in the same room(I feel like she would want to sleep on the floor, she seems like that type of kid.) Gently coaxing Sevika into the bath, washing her hair with the expensive shampoo and conditioner that made her hair the texture she loved so much. Then settling with her in the bed, bringing out the protein infused Peanut MnMs(I feel like she would be a protein fiend.) and setting her favorite record on before cuddling until you both fall asleep.

Just a moment of peace among a war, I dunno I need to hug her rn,

oh yeah i love this soft shit like this

gonna combine this with two more asks (just to spoil the shit outta her hehe)

@lushh-s3vik4s: Can we hear about the stories when sevika was younger? Like the trouble she got into 🤭 like reader and sev just chilling on the couch and she starts telling reader about what she did as a child 🤭🤭

and @cewl-casper: PLEASE ANYTHING WITH EATING SEVIKA OUTTTTT. The new episodes got me feeling some type of way. I NEED TO BE BRUIED BETWEEN HER THIGHS

men and minors dni

isha eats four servings of dinner, then passes out on jinx's shoulder, snoring and drooling at the dinner table.

you chuckle, shaking your head at the pair. "seems like you've been jinxed, jinx." you say.

she huffs. "she won't leave me alone."

"'s the same thing silco said when he first took you in." sevika mumbles across the table.

jinx rolls her eyes, but you can see a tiny smile pulling at her lips.

you gently nudge her foot under the table, pulling her wandering eyes to you. "tell me the stories about sev as a kid." you request. sevika groans beside you, and jinx grins.

"you never told her?!" jinx asks, pointing at sevika with glee. sevika buries her face in her hands, and you chuckle, kissing her forehead.

"it's fuckin' embarrassing--"

"she'd go up to piltover dressed in this frilly, ruffly dress, find the biggest mansion she could, then she'd put on the waterworks, tears and snot all over. when someone would come outside to see what's wrong she'd say she was lost. 'course the suckers would take her in and call the enforcers-- but by the time they got off the horn she'd be gone-- and so would as much of their silver as she could carry." jinx giggles.

you grin, looking over at your wife. "how old were you?"

"i dunno. i started when i was five but i kept at it until i was like twelve." she says with a shrug. you laugh.

"she tried to teach me and vi how to do it when we were kids, but i could never get the crying right, and vi refused to wear the dress." jinx chuckles.

you smile, kissing sevika's cheek and stacking the plates on the table. "jinx, i want the two of you to stay here until shit up top blows over." you say. sevika huffs beside you, but she doesn't say anything to revoke the offer. jinx pouts, her pink eyes fluttering back and forth as she tries to think of a way to worm her way out of the request. "where the fuck else are you gonna go?" you ask. "half of zaun is looking to turn you in for some cash, and there's a fuckin' team of enforcers gassing the streets to find you. c'mon. take it as my thank you for fixing sevika's new arm."

finally, jinx relents with a gusty sigh. "fine. we'll stay." she says. sevika grunts and takes the plates to the kitchen. when she's gone from sight, jinx whispers. "thank you."

you smile and shoot the kid a wink, walking to the living room to make up the pull out couch for her and isha. you'll make them both bathe tomorrow-- tonight, they need sleep.

isha doesn't stir as jinx settles her under the covers, and before you can even turn the lights off for her, jinx is passed out beside isha, one of her arms curled around the girl.

you chuckle, pulling the blankets over jinx's shoulders before heading to the bathroom.

sevika stumbles in as you're drawing up a bath.

"get in." you gesture to the tub. sevika raises an eyebrow at you.

"you're awfully bossy tonight." she says, slowly working to strip her clothes. you chuckle, holding her hand as she steps into the tub, then gently helping her arrange her new arm so it doesn't get in the water.

sevika sighs, her eyes falling shut and her shoulder slumping as the steam and bubbles envelop her.

"who were you all fighting?" you ask, dragging a stool over to the tub.

sevika chuckles. "vi's an enforcer now. jinx wanted to kill 'er. didn't work."

you snort and shake your head, starting to lather up a washcloth. "poor jinx." you say. sevika quirks an eyebrow at you and you shrug. "lost silco and found out her sister joined the force that killed her own parents within the span of a week. same week she became a mother, too." you say.

sevika snorts a bit.

"isha's a cute kid, eh?" she asks. you chuckle.

"you're a sucker. 's so cute." you tease, leaning forward and kissing her head as you scrub her back.

sevika sighs, leaning into your touch. "you take such good care'a me." she whispers.

you chuckle. "'s sorta my job isn't it? 's why you gave me my ring?"

sevika's responding grin is dazzling, her flesh arm reaching out of the tub to grab your own, fondling the ring she'd given you so many years ago. "guess so, yeah." she whispers, kissing your hand.

you take your time washing her off, massaging her shoulders and scrubbing her scalp, waiting until she's sunk down so far under the water's surface that only her nose is sticking out before pulling the plug and helping her get up.

sevika's sleepy while you dry her off and herd her toward your bedroom, and she doesn't question it when you push her down into bed before dressing her up in her jammies.

it's only when you spread her legs and kneel down in front of her that she starts to catch on, a smirk forming on her lips. "we're doing the whole baby-making thing wrong. think we're supposed to fuck before the kid shows up." sevika jokes.

you snort, kissing up her thigh toward her cunt. sevika spreads her legs farther, sighing as she relaxes back on her elbows. "think you can stay quiet?" you ask, your breath puffing on her cunt. sevika nods down at you with stars in her eyes.

"yeah. i'll bite the pillow." she says, dragging your pillow down the bed to rest beside her.

you smirk, reaching up to pinch her chin and drag her down for a quick kiss, before pushing her down to lay on the bed and burying your face between her thick, powerful thighs.

sevika sighs, pulling the pillow up over her mouth as you start licking long stripes up her cunt, groaning at the taste of her.

there's nothing quite like taking sevika apart like this. she's so fucking strong, her thighs are so powerful-- she could crush you in an instant if she wanted to.

but she doesn't. instead, she lets herself melt into the mattress, giving herself over to you completely. it's a huge show of vulnerability and trust, and it turns you on immensely.

you suck her clit into your mouth and sevika squeaks, her thighs twitching in pleasure. you chuckle against her, sinking your nails into her hips to pull her closer to you. fuck, you could die happy right here, drowning between her legs as she muffles her groans into your pillow.

"you take such good care of everybody, sev." you pull away to whisper, kissing her cunt as you speak. "you gonna lemme take care of you now?" you ask. sevika nods, reaching down with her flesh arm to grab your hand. you chuckle, intertwining your fingers with hers. "fuck. i love you so fuckin' much baby. could die happy between your legs." you sigh before ducking back down and shoving your tongue inside her.

sevika's back arches off the bed, one of her legs hooking around your shoulder to pull you closer to her. you're sloppy and loud as you eat, sucking and slurping on her like she's a ripe peach. you pray to every god you know that jinx and isha are still sleeping, because with the way you're groaning and moaning into her cunt, you're certain you can be heard through your flimsy bedroom door.

sevika's whole body tenses up, her nails dig into the back of your hand, and she cums with a muffled "love you!"

you groan as you lick up her cum, happy to keep eating to your heart's content. sevika has different plans though, and she squeaks as she shoves your face away from her pussy.

you crawl up onto bed beside her, smiling at her as she tries to catch her breath. sevika blushes a little at the sight of you. "you're covered in my cum." she whispers.

"aren't i lucky?" you ask.

sevika snorts, then pulls you in for a kiss. "not as lucky as me." she says against your lips. you grin.

taglist!

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@lavandasz

#sevika #sevika arcane #sevika imagine #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika #sevika smut

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mariasont · 1 year ago

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Office Sleepover - A.H

a/n: this is honestly kind of shit but whatever

might make this a mini series?

part two here!

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: in which reader gets put on a hit-list and has to stay in the office (kind of based off when penelope got put on a hit-list by the dirty dozen)

warnings: reader kind of flashes hotch, really inconsistent with how the gov works i'm sure, there's also definitely not an oven in the break room but in my world there is <3

wc: 3.8k

Hotch's voice reached you, but the words tangled into an indecipherable code as they hit the air. You nodded, a reflex, but it was as if your brain had short-circuited. You could make out fragments--a hit on you, stay at office, 24/7 protection, you can take the back office. But no matter how many times he said it, it seemed to ricochet through your head, making less sense each time. You were on a hit list? A hit list?

It all felt very made up, like a script ripped straight out of a tv show. Risk was a part of the BAU job description, but a hit list? For a fleeting moment, a chuckle hovered at the brink of your lips, but it was swiftly swallowed by a wave of dread that rose in its place. You blinked a couple times, probably too many in a vain attempt to clear the fog and bring Hotch's face into focus.

"But what about all my stuff? And you want me to camp out here in the office? For how long, Hotch? I mean, I'm all for overtime, but this is... this is a lot, and I--," you babble, your speech racing ahead of your thoughts. "And my baking? That's my biggest stress reliever. Not to mention my DIY projects--I can't just abandon my half-finished throw pillowcases. Plus, how many pairs of shoes is too many for an office closet?"

Your pout formed a delicate bow, and though he said nothing, his eyes softened. Hotch could feel the frown marring his features. He might never say it, but seeing you like this struck a chord, making it a little hard to breathe.

Circling the desk, he planted himself in front of you, his hand settling on your shoulder. "Hey, take a deep breath," he urges softly. "Let's take it one step at a time. List out what you need, someone will bring it here. Your baking supplies, DIY projects, even your shoes."

True to Hotch's word, as usual, you found every piece of your life carefully compartmentalized into cardboard boxes, lined up carefully in the office that now doubled as your temporary room. There was an odd sense of dislocation in finishing your workday and needing only to count about thirty steps before arriving at your room.

You swung the door closed, the sound sealing the room as a deep sigh wrapped around you and you started sifting through the boxes. The pullout couch serving as your bed was less than appealing, its worn fabric making you grimace internally. Nevertheless, you diverted your attention, busying yourself with the organizing of your extensive collection of things. Spencer would definitely shake his head at the sight of the vast amount of clothes you had brought.

The irony wasn't lost on you; surrounded by the office's ceaseless motion, yet you felt more alone than in the stillness of your own apartment. God, this was pathetic, and you needed a drink, but you had a nagging suspicion the office handbook would have a thing or two to say about that. You spent a solid two hours attempting to infuse the sterile space with a touch of home, it wasn't perfect (at all), but it would have to do.

Rossi knocks on the doorframe, poking his head in with a grin. "I didn't realize we were redecorating the bureau in shades of bubblegum," he teases. "How you doing, kid?"

"Actually, it's blush," you correct with a mock-serious tone, meeting his smile with one of your own. "I'm fine," you insist, but Rossi's knowing look prompts a quick add-on. "I am, really, I mean I've always said I wanted my own office."

"An office with a view of the bullpen, no less. You're living the dream," he says, his eyes scanning the room. "Need any help with anything? Or anything else from your place? Maybe your favorite mug to make feel more like home?"

"Don't worry, I'm already one step ahead of you," you assure him, revealing a drawer brimming with mugs.

Rossi lets out a low appreciative whistle. "Why am I not surprised?" he chuckles with a broad grin. "Well, I'm heading out for the night. Remember, I'm just a call away if you need anything. And Hotch is still here, buried in paperwork as usual."

He left, and you were alone--a cue to try and cling to some normalcy of your routine; you drew the blinds and slipped into the comfort of your pajamas. You hauled yourself off to the office bathroom, reluctantly at that, and proceeded to attend to your skincare, brush your hair, and polish your smile with a thorough teeth brushing.

Eyeing the hallway warily, you made a silent exit from the bathroom, the carpet softening your footfalls. But in your rush to avoid prying eyes, you crashed into a solid wall of a figure, the force sending you tumbling backward. You hit the floor with a muted thud, your ass hitting the ground, legs splayed inelegantly in front of you. Your eyes rose to meet the firm, penetrating look of Hotch. Of fucking course.

There was a pause as Hotch's eyes drank in the sight of your flushed complexion and the wide, doe-like eyes that seemed to capture the light just so. He felt like his heart could stop then and there. And he knew it was wrong, but he certainly liked the sight of you sprawled below him. He blinked, breaking the trance, and offered a concerned, "Are you okay?" His hands were outstretched, ready to pull you back to your feet.

Your cheeks turned a deeper shade as you held onto Hotch's hand, the feeling unexpectedly comforting, rough in yours but nice. "What? Oh, yeah, I'm all good, sorry about that," you managed to say, the words squeaking out a tad too eagerly.

You stood up, and his closeness was all-consuming. You were suddenly intensely aware of every breath, every throb of your heart, and your mind went blank; the usual stream of thoughts replaced by a buzzing silence.

His eyes held yours for a fraction longer than necessary before he stepped back, creating a respectful distance. The hallway's warmth seemed to dissipate with the space, leaving you with an unexpected stab of disappointment.

"Rossi said you'd be here. Anything I can do to help?"

You rationalized the offer as a gesture of your goodwill, but a small part, well a big part, of you knew just wanted to be close to him, to be alone with him maybe--in the office, after hours, in his office. This was weird, I mean, you'd always admired your Unit Chief, but this was different. You chalked it up to the day's unfortunate series of events--you were tired, and lonely, and you needed desperately to snap out of it before you made a fool out of yourself.

"No, you need to rest. It's been a long day, and you've been through enough." He paused, his gaze assessing you. "How are you holding up?"

"At this rate, I'll need a sign that says 'I'm fine,' to stop the check-ins." Although you silently doubted that would deter him. You gesture to the surroundings. "And this? It's like a sleepover at work. Just hoping this so-called hit man doesn't show up."

Hotch internally recoiled at your words, leaving him with the sensation of a cold grasp tightening around his heart. He cleared his throat, the joke falling flat in the gravity of his concern. "I'll be here for a while longer. If you need anything, don't hesitate to come find me," he managed a nod before retreating to his office.

A while longer? You knew Hotch was a workaholic, but it now occurred to you that he must never sleep. Quickly, you gathered your scattered belongings, and made your way to your office.

The pull-out couch seemed even less inviting than you remembered, if that was possible. You perched on the edge, the metallic frame cold through the thin mattress. As you lay down, the couch seemed to swallow you in its awkward angles. Perfect. Tossing and turning, you struggled to find a comfortable spot. Eventually, exhaustion won over discomfort, the rhythm of your own breathing lulling you into a fitful sleep.

Your eyes flickered open at some point during the night and the blinds drifted apart, as if by an unseen hand, and through the gap, your eyes fell on a hooded figure, the face not visible in the dim light. Your muscles locked in terror, an icy fear clawing its way up your spine as you tried to move--to reach for your gun, to call out for Hotch, to do anything. But as if imprisoned by an invisible force, you could only watch, confined to the bed, as the figure crept towards the door.

A scream tore from your throat, a raw and piercing sound that ricocheted off the walls and echoed through your eyes. This was it, you thought.

Then, in an instant, you were awake and disoriented, your breaths coming in short bursts, and your body covered in a sheen of cold sweat. Your fingers clenched the sheets, the fabric twisting in your grasp as you fought to decipher what was reality. Your eyes snapped to the blinds, half-expecting to see the figure from your dream materialize, but the emptiness beyond them slowly calmed your racing heart.

With a throat dry as parchment and your pulse still echoing in your ears, you drifted from your room towards the break room. As you ambled past Hotch's office, you paused. The door, slightly ajar, felt like an invitation. Despite knowing better, a foggy curiosity nudged your feet forward. With a shaky breath, you eased the door open wider and slipped inside.

His office felt different at night--it was quieter, more personal, and you felt like an intruder on Hotch's private world. You took a moment, absorbing the sight of his meticulously organized desk, the case files that were always present.

It was tempting to try to piece together the man from his workspace, but you held back. As you turned to leave, a familiar scent stopped you--the subtle hint of his cologne hanging in the air. It wrapped around you, easing the tension that had sunk into your limbs. Almost without thinking, you found yourself sinking into the couch.

The room, infused with his distinct scent, seemed to have your blinking growing heavier, more intentional. You nestled deeper into the cushions; the fabric familiar beneath your fingers, lulling you into a sense of security. Just five minutes, you thought.

Hotch's steps were slow, his eyelids having a hard time staying open as he made his way through the bullpen. He carried his briefcase, the leather handle worn and conformed to his hand. He contemplated a detour to your office, a silent check-in to ease his mind, but he dismissed the idea--you were probably still asleep, and he'd definitely look like a creep. Reaching his own office, he noticed the door ajar, a sliver of morning light spilling through the gap.

He stepped into the room, and time seemed to stand still as his gaze landed on the couch. There you were, fast asleep on his couch. Your hand lay gently under your cheek, a makeshift pillow softening the hard angles beneath, while your nose gave the faintest twitches. Your lips were parted as if mid-whisper and strands of your hair were splayed in a disarrayed crown around your head. He knew that in no way could that have been comfortable. It hurt his back just looking at you, but still you looked so peaceful.

He moved with quiet steps, heat creeping up his neck as he placed his things on the desk. Turning back to you, he couldn't help but notice the gentle dishevelment of your pajamas, buttons undone in innocent disarray, the fabric parting to reveal the gentle slope of your breasts. He felt an odd mix of emotions--a gentle chiding for finding you in such state, and the guilt of finding the sight so undeniably sweet.

A quiet cough escaped him, more out of habit than necessity, as he approached a cabinet where blankets were neatly stacked--a nod to many nights spent just as you were. He draped one over you, his movements slow and unhurried, shielding you from potential curious eyes before finding his normal place behind the wooden desk.

He tried to focus--really, he did. I mean, he had a towering pile of paperwork and responsibilities that demanded his attention. But despite his best efforts, his gaze involuntarily drifted to you time and time again. It was as if he needed visual confirmation of your steady breathing to assure himself that you were okay. He thought about you here all night, alone, and he found his knuckles whiten against the grip of his pen. He knew you had security on you at all times, but somehow, he found no comfort in that.

Hotch's eyes flicked to the clock--7:30 am. You still had at least another half an hour before you technically needed to start work, although truth be told he would let you sleep as long as your body allowed. There was no way in hell he was going to disturb you when you looked so content.

As Hotch worked, the morning light grew stronger, casting a warm glow over his desk. It was nearly 9 am when the sound of shifting fabric eventually roused you. You were waking up, blinking away the remnants of sleep, confusion etched on your face. As your eyes caught sight of the clock and Hotch, mortification set it.

"Oh my gosh, Hotch. I am so sorry," you blurted out, embarrassment coloring your cheeks. "You could've woken me up--I... I should've set an alarm. And I shouldn't even be here, but I can explain, sort of..."

In a flurry of motion, you leapt from the couch, only to feel a sudden tug at your chest as a button from your top snagged on a stray thread. The fabric pulled open, revealing way more than what was appropriate for your boss to see. Your face turned a shade redder as you scrambled to cover up. Hotch, momentarily sidetracked by the sight of the cleavage of your tits once again, quickly refocused and interrupted your flustered explanations.

"It's fine," he assured. "Given everything that's happened, you needed the rest." He nodded towards the couch. "You're always welcome to sleep here if you need to--though I can't promise it'll be any more comfortable next time."

"Oh no, it was super comfortable, really," you insist, despite the awkwardness clinging to your words. Hotch gives you a look that says he's not entirely convinced. "Okay, well, I'm going to uh... go," you mumble, stopping short at the door with a sudden concern.

Hotch understands immediately and offers, "They're all in the briefing room--won't be out for a while."

With a relieved nod, and minimal eye contact, you dash out, hoping to reach your office unnoticed. But because the world just hated you these past days, just as you're rushing by, Morgan's hands come to your shoulders to stop you.

"Easy there, mama," he teases, a smile on his face. But as he gets a good look at your attire, his grin grows wider. "What in the world...?" he starts, laughter in his voice. He glances from you to Hotch's office door, then back again. "Hold up, hold up--you didn't... with Hotch? Are you?"

"What? No, Morgan, absolutely not! Why would you even--oh my god," you gasp, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. God, I mean, the day hasn't even started, and you needed it to end. Realizing your voice has risen in your flustered state, you quickly lower it to a harsh whisper, your eyes darting around to ensure no one overheard. "Why would you even suggest that?"

"Um, maybe because you're making a grand exit from the boss man's office in your PJs? Just a wild guess."

"No, Morgan, it's not what you think," you insist, but your attention snaps to the sound of the team's voices nearing the door. "I don't have time for this," you mutter, darting back to your office.

In a whirlwind, you shed the pajamas, slip into your work attire, and hastily run a brush through your hair. Good enough.

You threw yourself into work, the stack of papers becoming a welcome distraction, a rare sense of relief rather than the familiar dread. It was a considerable effort to divert your mind from the distractions--Hotch, the hit man, and Morgan's incessant teasing. Not that anyone would believe that you and Hotch were together; he was the very definition of sophisticated, handsome, and successful, and you were just, well, you.

Not that there was anything wrong with you. You liked yourself just fine; you laughed too loudly at jokes, talked to your houseplants as if they were your old friends, and you had an odd fascination with weather patterns. These things made you wholly you. You just knew you couldn't be more different from Hotch.

With a bit of luck and purposeful avoiding, your day passed smoothly, sparing you any unnecessary run-ins with Hotch. Everyone had gone home for the day which is why you stood in the break room attempting some baking recipe from Pinterest.

The slippers on your feet padded against the carpet as you hummed around the room. With swift motions, you ushered the coffee cake batter into the oven, then turned to tackle the mess you had created on the countertops. Cleaning as you go wasn't your usual style, but office break room didn't seem like the place for your usual creative sprawl.

Your phone had buzzed incessantly with Penelope's calls--her offers the keep you company is why you loved her, but you weren't going to subject her to that, no matter how many times she said she didn't mind.

Hotch's office was quiet, save for the soft scratching of his pen against paper as he finally closed his files. He moved into bullpen and as he passed the breakroom, the soft hum of the light and faint sound of movement drew him in. There you were, engrossed in tidying up, with your hair casually gathered above your shoulders and wearing your sweats, Hotch found him instinctively pausing to watch.

He knew he shouldn't bother you, knew he was likely the last person you'd want to see, yet he found himself rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on you, the warmth in his chest intensifying with each fleeting second.

The moment you turned and saw a figure, a sharp gasp cut through the silence, and the icing in your grasp became a sweet projectile that flew across the room. Relief washed over you as you realized who it was.

"Jeez, Hotch, give me a heart attack why don't you," you said, half-laughing as your heart rate settled. "Especially when there's a hitman who might beat you to the punch."

Hotch parted his lips to speak, but you were quicker, a stream of thoughts tumbling out before you could stop them. "I thought everyone was gone. You weren't at your desk earlier--oh wait, you had that meeting with the DOJ, right? Did they have anything about the people who marked me?"

In your haste, you closed the gap between you, and only then did you spot the icing on his cheek. "Oh, sorry about that, Hotch," you said with an apologetic grin, reaching out as if to wipe it away.

As your palm made contact with his skin, a shared realization of the intimacy of the gesture washed over you. Time seemed to slow as your thumb traced a lingering path through the icing, your whisper barely audible, "There."

The word seemed to hang in the air as you froze, the proximity suddenly overwhelming, your breath caught in your throat. Hotch's backward step was almost imperceptible, but it was enough. You cleared your throat awkwardly, cheeks warming with a flush. "Um, did you need something?"

Hotch shook his head slightly, "No, just wanted to check on you before I head out."

You gave a thumbs up, mustering a smile. "Well, consider me checked."

Hotch nodded, his expression unreadable. "Goodnight," he said, to which you echoed in response as you watched him leave.

Alone now, you slumped against the counter, your hand pressed to your face. Consider me checked? God, someone needed to tape your mouth shut.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #criminal minds fanfic #hotch #hotchner #aaron hotch hotchner #ssa hotchner #agent hotchner #cm #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotchner x fem reader #Spotify

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invincibledc · 1 month ago

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⊹ ࣪ ˖͙͘͡★JEALOUS, JEALOUS, JEALOUS, BOY

. ݁ ˖꩜ KOLE ANDERS (OC) X BATSIB!READER

ᯓ★SYNOPSIS: yknow how Starfire was back in teen titans 2003 when Kitty asked robin for a date to her prom and she got jealous badly? Well, you have to go on a date with a son of a drug lord to find out what his father does only for Kole to not hold his jealousy in well.

ᯓ★GENRE: fluff + silly

ᯓ★INFO: takes place in the dcamu universe. this OC is an OC I’ve written for my own amusement. He’s the adoptive son of Kori/Starfire. Full HUMAN name, Kole Anders. His Tamaranean name is Koldond'r. Reader is the twin sibling of Damian, but Damian is the older twin of course. Im only a writer so you can imagine who he looks more like but all I can is he is handsome canonically, plus freakishly tall like a Tamaranean should be.

ᯓ★WC: 1,131

“You are what?!” Kole exclaims incredulously as you receive your assignment to go undercover and meet the son of a drug lord.

“I’m going undercover to go on a date with a—” you begin, but Kole interrupts you, his surprise palpable.

“That’s absurd! My mother cannot seriously think this is a good idea! Why not send your twin brother, Damian?” He rushes over, gripping your shoulders, his expression a mix of disbelief and concern.

“Because Damian has made it clear he refuses to take on this mission, and frankly, he’d probably mess it up anyway with his liking for Raven,” you reply calmly. Kole's glowing green eyes narrow, and with a flash, he takes off, carrying you with him.

Before you know it, you're standing in front of the team and Kory, who is already aware of the chaos unfolding. Kole releases you, striding over to his adoptive mother, sharing her fiery curly mane of red hair.

“Mother, you must find a better candidate for this mission!” he implores, his voice filled with urgency. Kory anticipated his reaction but understands how critical your involvement is for gathering information about the upcoming ambush.

“I’m sorry, my little Bumgorf, but you know Y/N is the only one capable of handling this successfully,” Kory asserts, crossing her arms.

“He’s a manipulative gremplork, unworthy of Y/N's time!” Kole retorts, pacing furiously behind you. “Language,” Kory interjects, her tone firm as she frowns at him. Kole's frustration intensifies as the realization sinks in that the person he deeply admires is going on a ‘date’ with someone he views as a threat.

“I need to know more about this person,” he demands, his voice steady. Everyone around him—Raven, Garfield, and Jaime—watches in stunned silence as Kole, typically the soft-spoken one, displays an intensity fueled by concern.

“His name is Seth. He’s connected to Miguel, possibly his son. Y/N must approach this mission alone,” Kory explains, presenting the details to Kole.

“Hmph!” he huffs in frustration, floating beside you, his gaze burning a hole through you as he processes everything.

☆

You sit across from a guy attempting to project a tough image; a skull tattoo sprawls across his left hand, dominating its appearance. His table manners reek of disrespect, and his posture screams laziness. Honestly, you find yourself scolding him in your mind, channeling the voice of Damian as he would at the dinner table back home.

“So, what do you do, sweet thang?” he drawls, putting on a fake accent that’s painful to hear. You mentally cringe but choose to don your father’s persona— a player.

“Oh! I love computer science and mostly enjoy creating designs,” you reply, infusing your voice with cheerful enthusiasm. You use hand gestures to emphasize your points, feigning deep consideration over trivial topics.

The conversation rolls on smoothly until he starts to invade your personal space, attempting to touch your hand. Yikes. You pull back and feign fixing your hair, humming to distract him. The server has just delivered your drinks, so you pivot the discussion to his profession. He hesitates at first, but he eventually can’t resist showing off how "cool" he is. You suppress a smirk, realizing you’ve finally got him to divulge details about his father’s shady dealings.

Men are often easier than you expect; they wear their ignorance like a badge. Just as he dives into tales of his father's crimes, your attention shifts as you catch a glimpse of fiery red hair approaching.

No. Way.

You can't believe it when you see the tall, handsome boy with shimmering golden skin walking toward you. His wild curls are styled in a low ponytail, he’s rocking a green jersey with a purple top, ripped jeans, and Jordans. For someone still figuring out Earth culture, he��s mastered streetwear effortlessly.

“Excuse me! I need to use the restroom!” you state, making a beeline for the tall teen who seems to be scanning the area for you. Spotting you, he raises an eyebrow.

“Kole?!” you exclaim, quickly moving him away from the table you just vacated. “What are you doing here?!”

“My mother’s orders to investigate this boy. I intend to conduct a thorough investigation. Plus, I believe you might need saving. This Seth appears to be a monster in disguise,” he says, glaring at the guy who’s currently picking at his teeth.

“Kole, PLEASE don’t do this,” you implore, fully aware that you can't calm this towering alien.

“I am doing this,” he insists, his soft voice hardening.

“No, you’re not.” You gently cup his face, knowing he melts at your touch. “I absolutely am,” he retorts, grabbing your hands away from his face.

This is a disaster. You understand Kole's jealousy issue, and his stalker-like behavior is far from ideal. He starts walking towards Seth, but you tug at his hair, successfully arresting his attention.

“Kole. Listen, I’ll finish this up quickly, and we can watch those cartoons you love. Okay?” you negotiate, hoping to pacify him. When he turns to fully face you, you release his hair.

“Fine. But if he dares to touch you, I will step in,” he declares, settling back down with his arms crossed. You nod quickly and return to your booth. Kole doesn’t take a seat until a waiter guides him to a table. However, his gaze remains fixed on you as you feign naivety to play the part. This infuriates him, but what ignites his anger is when Seth dramatically wipes something from your lips.

“Here you go, sir—” the waiter starts, but the glass in his hand shatters under the sheer force of Kole’s grip.

The waiter scampers off, clearly spooked by the display of strength. Kole seethes, his glare locked on Seth. Each moment in the booth is torture for him. But as Seth leans in for what he intends to be a kiss, Kole is suddenly up, his hands radiating a green glow, ready to unleash a starbolt, when he finds himself encased in a swirling black ball of magic with purple lines, whisked away to where the team is gathered.

They’ve been keeping watch over you, especially since Damian, the overprotective brother he is, won’t let anyone take their eyes off you.

“Kole, calm down,” Raven advises, releasing him from her hold. He scoffs in disbelief. “How can I calm down when Y/N is being all overrun by some Zarbnof?” Jaime quickly covers his mouth, but that only makes things worse, as Kole thrashes against him, desperate to act.

“Seriously, never let us assign Y/N to these kinds of missions,” Jaime quips, and the others nod in agreement.

After the mission, you find yourself confined to Kole’s room in the Titans' tower, wrapped in his strong arms as he plants soft kisses all over you.

Never again it seems.

Kole Anders tag: @no-bishes @darkfaethedestroyer @dead-ry-walking @chalkadow @eclecticeaglebluebird @mistake34 @dandelion-delusion

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negrowhat · 4 months ago

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QUICK! Choose Your Fave From My Fave: Bathtub Scenes

HEY FRIENDS! I'm back with another BL Poll! Y'all say you like them so I'll keep doing them until y'all tell me to stop. Plus I love choosing random themes and having y'all pick a fave from them! This is strictly tubs but I could do a shower poll if you all want.

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salem-s · 1 month ago

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02 ── TEMPORARY TRUCE ── RAFE CAMERON

SYNOPSIS you absolutely can't stand your roommate's brother, and Rafe can't not take an opportunity to poke fun at you every chance he gets. but when you both accidentally have a jello shot infused with molly, you decide to have a temporary truce and enjoy the night. SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT PART

WARNINGS language, drug usage (molly), fluff, mild violence and mentions of blood. 18+ mdni. please i am not condoning drug use don't take after these idiots for the love of god.

WORD COUNT 7.9k.

SONGS OF THE CHAPTER pyramids by frank ocean and redbone by childish gambino

When you and all your friends arrive to Sarah's favorite club, you feel a little lighter than you did an hour ago.

You started feeling the effects in the cab, as every touch, sight, noise make you a little amped up then normal, a drastic contrast from what you thought you'd feel like. Your skin is burning, but not in a horrid way, in an excited, anticipated way, as you brushed shoulders with Rafe and you both beamed at each other at the contact.

It starkly contrasts how you normally react when he touches you: with the compulsive urge to punch him in the face. You figure that that means the drug is definitely taking effect.

But the club atmosphere only amplifies all of your senses, dialing them to an eleven. The hot, sweaty temperature only seems to cling to your skin like pin prick needles, as the kaleidoscope of lights make your heart soar, making you feel alive and grounded in this very moment under all the colors. Your eyes feel wider, your smile bigger, your heart thumping.

A hand on the small of your back lulls you from your appreciation survey of the room, and you turn your head to look up at Rafe, who's closer than he ever has been before looking prettier than under under the purple and blue and red hues. His hand is searing hot against your body.

"Hey," he shouts over the music, yet his voice feels like it's the only thing you can hear. "You good?"

You think you nod.

Truthfully, you aren't really sure. All you know is that you're smiling because apparently that's the only thing you know how to do on this drug, as you can feel yourself beaming wider than ever before. Plus, the lights keep distracting you on how well they reflect off the features of his face, occasionally glistening the thin chain around his neck.

Rafe seems pleased at your response (or lack thereof), as he hands you something ice cold that makes you furrow your brows, nearly jolting from the contact. Soon, you look down and see you're cradling a plastic cup full of water.

"I told John B a vodka cran," you pout with befuddlement, frowning up at him as if it's his fault.

And it is, because he shakes his head slightly in disbelief at you. "Only water tonight, remember?"

You find yourself rolling your eyes, but the airy smile on your face gives away your indifference as you watch him raise a brow, a knowing one, because he had promised he was going to take care of you tonight, even though you know Sarah and John B are probably tripping, too, and are drinking on top of it.

It's funny, though, (if that's the word you can use) that he's hardly paying attention to the birthday girl, to his sister, using up all his time to watch you, stick with you, care for you instead of her.

Although you push the implication to the back of your mind. You know Sarah's done molly before, so Rafe probably isn't worried since she knows what to expect. Plus, she has John B. And Kiara. And Pope and Cleo. You'd say JJ, but he is objectively the least qualified person on the planet to be trip sitting anyone, let alone an inanimate object. He killed a plastic plant once.

"What about them?" You nod towards your friends at the bar. Rafe lazily follows your gaze as you watch them juggle drinks and mosey onto the dance floor in a make-shift conga-line. "They're drinking. What if I feel left out?"

He turns back to you with a knowing look. A warning.

You nearly shrink under it, absolutely knowing that you're contradicting yourself from the bundle of nerves you were emulating merely an hour ago. But you can't help but feel a little out of the loop, despite the concerns you had about accidentally ingesting an ungodly amount of the drug a little while earlier. Your friends can handle doing both, so why can't you? Why won't he let you? What obligation is he under to micromanage your beverage intake?

Normally, you'd be so infuriated to fumble under one pointed glance from him, but right now you can't find yourself caring, and bring the water cup up to your lips for a small sip, seceding.

Rafe seems pleased with how he can get you to fall back into line without even having to say anything.

"Good girl, Star," he says low.

Curse the lightness in your chest for responding to that with a sheepish smile, instead of your trademark scowl or eye roll.

"Whatever," you mumble, trying to maintain your stoic dignity but only making things worse when all you can do is fucking grin, and you know he is absolutely relishing in your rare portrayal of sweetness. "You take this. I wanna dance."

"One more sip."

"Rafe-"

"A big one. C'mon, one more than you can go."

You narrow your eyes. "Only if you have some, too."

Rafe rolls his eyes, but there's no malice to them. Instead, they twinkle with amusement. "Alright, if that's what you want."

"That's what I said."

"Okay, so drink."

And you do. You take a few small sips, and you can't help but sigh at how refreshing it is, especially given how hot it is in the club and how nice it feels going down your throat, almost grounding you. Taking a big inhale through your nose, the airy chill of the ice stings your nostrils. You manage to take one more small sip, but you nearly cough it up when you realize he's been staring at you the whole time.

He's taking this whole protector bullshit thing a little too serious. Although you blame the fact that Sarah would kill him into next week if he appointed himself the role of trip sitting you but let something happen.

Generously, you hand over the half-full cup to him, who takes it gingerly from you and downs the rest of it in one go.

A few droplets dribble down his chin, and you can't help but scoff jokingly.

"Show off."

Rafe hazardously chucks the empty cup behind his back with a chuckle, gripping your forearm as he begins to drag you into the crowd to find wherever your friends disappeared to. The skin-to-skin contact sends electricity through your veins, amplifying your already heightened mood. A wave of pride swells in your chest that he grabbed you. Out of all these girls dancing around him, eyeing him as he towers over the crowd, he's with you.

The thought makes you reel, as it inherently contradicts everything you feel about him soberly. You shouldn't care about that, and the newfound possessiveness makes your stomach churn.

As he essentially drags you to the dance floor, people bump into you with no consequence, drinks sloshing and elbows digging into your arms, one in your back, and someone even steps on your foot. The grip on your forearm gradually sneaks lower, and lower, and lower, until he's lacing his fingers through yours, gripping tight and secure. You slip a little at the transition, nearly dropping his hand in the process, though he doesn't let that happen.

Because one thing is for certain, which is that Rafe Cameron is not letting go of your hand no matter what.

Eventually, you find yourself walking into his back, unaware that he stopped bulldozing through the sea of people and instead is still, on high alert. You look at your surroundings, frowning when you don't see any of your friends around, instead seeing faces of strangers dancing and laughing and having a great time.

"I thought I saw Sarah," Rafe mumbles yet you hear him just fine, scanning the crowd irritably and running a hand through his hair. "What the fuck."

"How did you lose her? You're seven feet tall."

You stifle a laugh at how fast he whips his head to look at you, glare at you, but it bears little to no threat as you still remember the big, bad Prince of all Pricks is still holding your hand as if it's the only thing grounding him to earth. That hardly intimidates you.

"Now we're stuck here," he snaps, annoyed at the predicament he got the two of you into. "It'll take forever to get out."

You frown up at him, then take a second to take it all in: the people dancing and singing, the heat of passion, the mixture of blues and reds and greens so pretty there might as well be glitter embedded in it, how the thump of the bass feels like your heartbeat, how you fucking love this song. It's almost as if the universe is telling you to slow down, to embrace the present, to enjoy the moment.

Whether you admire the scene for five seconds or five minutes, the difference feels like nothing to you as you peer back up at him again as you watch him scan the crowd hurriedly with furrowed brows. Frankly, you aren't sure why he's so stressed out, because you friends are somewhere nearby, and you know you'll find them eventually.

You're not sure where this newfound nonchalance is coming from, but you bite your lip with anticipation as you slowly loosen your grip on his hand, and with his attention solely on trying to locate his sister, he doesn't notice that you let go of his hand.

But once the contact leaves, Rafe is snapping his gaze down to meet yours.

"What are you-" He nearly snatches your arm.

But you swerve his grasp and feel yourself swaying to the music, moving in unison with all the other people surrounding you. "Dancing!"

"But-"

"No buts, Cameron," you nearly tease, patting his chest right above his heart almost to ease him, but instead it makes his breath hitch. The contact makes your palm feel light. "Would it kill you to enjoy a few songs?"

"Yes."

You roll your eyes, yet refuse to let him damper the mood. You fully embrace your love for this song by twirling and bumping into people around you, but no one notices because everyone's doing the same.

Closing your eyes, you let yourself succumb to the tune, letting the melody fuel your movements and the lyrics quietly utter from your lips. You feel no need to scream them or let your voice go raw, instead murmuring the words you know and letting your body do all the communication.

You might as well be floating. Well, at least that's what it feels like. Despite the choking hot environment, your skin feels like it's burning, but not uncomfortably, with liveliness, airiness, a newfound joy shrouding your senses. Truthfully, you have no idea what you were so worried about before.

After what feels like an hour until the song is over, you peek your eyes open and blink a few times to adjust to the jet streams of light, looking around for Rafe.

Only to discover him staring unabashedly at you.

Despite the heat that rises to your cheeks at the intensity of his blue-eyed gaze, you can't help but tilt your head at him in mock irritation.

"You aren't dancing." Not a question, rather a statement.

His brows raised in offense, as if you asking that is detrimental to his character.

You pout. "Why?"

Rafe snorts, his shoulders jerking lightly from the gesture. "I don't do that shit."

"You too good for dancing?"

"Don't know how," he says before he can take it back. "So I won't."

You frown. Such a simple sentence reveals so much about him.

To outsiders, he's the untouchable Rafe Cameron: the tall, epitome of anger and impatience who definitely has a glaring problem when it comes to him openly disliking something or someone. He has no problem voicing his grievances in order to get exactly what he wants, no matter who he stomps in his path. People have told him he resembles that of a guard dog, nothing short of a protector, something scary and uncertain to strangers. He's not perceived as someone who indulges on something as silly as dancing, as it would taint his character. It serves no purpose, so he's not doing it.

To his friends, he's the fiercely loyal companion who still has a very defiant glaring problem, but it's usually done out of caution or in teasing. He's quite the joker in a deprecating sense, and loves to fulfill dares even if they are unreasonably dangerous because he craves having something to prove. He'll do anything for the people he cares about if it means stepping into a role, providing whatever he needs to in order to deem himself worthy. Still, he'd never be caught dead doing something as stupid as dancing, as he sees it as something for his friends to make fun of him for, something pointless.

Despite all of it, you hate that he feels that he can't indulge into one of simplest pleasures of life because he simply won't allow himself to.

Because it has nothing to prove.

Before your mind says no, you find yourself lunging forward and grabbing his hands, bicycle wheeling them in a poor attempt to make him move, to feel, to dance. You ignore the jolt of warmth that shoots up your arms at the contact, and you hypothesize he feels the same given the way he sucks in a particularly harsh breath.

He lets you have your fun for a moment, but not without a dejected sigh as if you're making him do manual labor.

"Star." A warning.

But you continue, grinning. "Nope, don't Star me. Don't you dare tell me that you don't feel the slightest urge to dance right now."

Rafe opens then closes his mouth, pondering your prompt. For a moment, his eyes travel down to your connected hands and then quickly back up to your face.

"Nope."

"You hesitated."

"Wh- I did not."

You spin yourself using his hand that's practically limp in yours, nearly spilling the drink of the girl behind you. When you nearly stumble back into him, you laugh. "That was so awesome. You should try it."

"St-"

"Nope." You cut him off, one hand gripping his like a lifeline and the other practically shoving at his ribcage to try and get him to spin around. "C'mon, temporary truce, right?"

He scoffs in disbelief. "You're being-"

"What?" You interrupt annoying. "So much fun? A blast? A hoot?" When he opens his mouth to retort, you cock your head to the side and squeeze his hand particularly for emphasis. "You're tripping on molly in a club, and you're telling me you're not going to dance? Not even a little bit?"

All Rafe does is stare at you for a moment, and time seems to slow under the flashing lights and the bass booming through the floor. There's a small tug at the end of his lips, threatening to become a smile despite his portrayed annoyance. Whether or not he means to, his fingers twitch against yours and it makes your heart pound all the same.

As if he snaps out of a trance, you watch him roll his eyes so hard you can see the whites of them before indulging in your request and ducking so he can spin under your raised arm.

It's hardly graceful at his abnormally tall stature, and he looks like he'd rather be doing literally anything else, but at your wide grin, he can't help but nearly shrink under your spotlight.

"See?" You muse, grabbing his other hand so you can continue bicycle wheeling them in between your bodies to keep him moving. "Wasn't that awesome?"

"Thrilling," he deadpans, almost sheepish.

The song switches from something you didn't recognize to another one of your favorites, and you let your eyes close as you hum in approval. Now with your sight dark, your other senses kick in: the warmth of his hands in yours as well as the heat radiating from the surrounding bodies, the bass thumping through your ears, the intrusion of his cologne that smells like something expensive.

Without meaning to, one of your hands leaves his to brace itself on his chest in the heat of the moment, lightly tracing the ridges of his muscles as you get lost in the song.

As soon as you realize what you do, who you did it to, your eyes snap open and you remove it as if your palm is on fire.

"Sorry," you say sheepishly, taking in his amused blue eyes looking down at you. "I didn't-"

"Nah," he hums, low and teasing. "Don't get all shy on me now."

It isn't until you feel his unoccupied hand slither around your waist, snaking under your tank top so that his calloused palm meets the smooth surface of your bare skin, where you have the realization that you're dancing.

With Rafe Cameron.

Your mind tells you to retort back and keep up your normal demeanor of bantering with him, but your body betrays you as it leans into his touch. In fact, your body practically craves it as the pads of his fingertips feel like a million pin pricks digging into the soft flesh of your skin, a rush of ecstasy that you've never felt with anyone else's touch. It also doesn't help that you try (and fail) to suppress a smile at the sensation of it all, of how alive you feel despite the club feeling like a furnace.

Your hand eventually finds its rightful place back on his chest, instead inching up towards his shoulder and feeling the sleek material of his - no doubt - hundred dollar t-shirt. Normally, you'd reel at the proximity due to how detailed you can make out the beauty marks on his face and the specks of blue in his eyes, but you're simply leaning into your agreement, your temporary truce.

As you feel each other up as if life itself depends on it, you figure it couldn't hurt to let yourself indulge in the pleasantries of the narcotic effects. Because when you both come down from the drug, everything will resume as usual and you won't have to ever be this close to him again.

Good riddance.

Despite how dismissive he is about it, it seems like he relatively enjoys dancing- at least this version of dancing that's swaying with the thump thump thump of the bass and mapping regions unknown on the bare skin of your back. Your hips move in unison yet don't connect. Your shoulders roll to the melody as his try and emulate your motions. Your eyes scan his face for any doubts or discomfort, but he eventually starts to look sure of himself when he stops darting his gaze to the people around him in worry and rather focusing on you.

Slowly, but surely, you watch him gradually let his guard down, leaning into the moment and simply enjoying the song.

Simply enjoying doing something without anything to prove.

And when your eyes eventually leave his to venture down to the long column of his neck, staring a little too long at the smooth skin that has you wondering how it would feel to nuzzle into the crater to mold yourself to him, it feels as though everyone else around you has disappeared. There are no more bodies bumping into you. No more laughing and singing and screaming. Nothing.

Just you, him, and the music.

Especially when you glance up again only to find his eyes staring right at you.

Now it really feels like you two are alone.

The implications of being in a crowd to suddenly being alone aren't feasible in the slightest, but your brain doesn't care about the logistics of it all, instead solely focused on Rafe in front of you. Tall, broad, warm Rafe, who's holding onto you as one would grip a lifeline, as one would grab something to mark their territory. He's intoxicating, alluring, and emitting everything you need in this given moment.

At one point, he takes your head and spins you around, shoving your hip with the other to give you momentum. You laugh boisterously under the kaleidoscope of lights, barely flinching when his palm comes back to rest on your waist, of course, under your top, which seems like its rightful place despite how audaciously shameless it is in any normal circumstance. But not now.

"See?" You drawl out, tilting your head to the side. "Told you you'd enjoy it."

Rafe mimics your gesture, cockily smirking. "Oh, did you?"

He's so fucking close you swear you can hear his thoughts.

Yet you push that to the back of your mind. "Mhm. And I love being right."

"When are you ever right about anything?"

"Um, all the time? Literally last week when I told you not to drink after you took ibuprofen because it'll make you sick, and you still did it?"

Rafe scoffs playfully. "Jesus-"

"And what ended up happening?"

He rolls his eyes.

"You got sick, and John B had to take you home early."

"Okay," he secedes. "That was one time."

Yet you grin proudly, relishing in his rare moments of fluster. "No need to be embarrassed, Cameron. Just admit that I was right."

In your faux attempt to have the high ground, you nearly miss how his hand has traveled up your arm and is now resting against your neck, so large and firm that it keeps your head in place. His thumb traces light circles along your chin, barely - just barely - brushing against the swell of your bottom lip as if he's testing the waters, calculating to see if you'll pull away.

But you can't. You refuse to.

The heat is almost unbearable, as his touch electrifies your vocal cord and seers hot against your skin, as if it's conforming into the shape of your body and sinking into your flesh. Yet his palm is molded as if it was made to nuzzle here, and it feels so fucking nice that you wouldn't dream of pulling away.

You can't believe you've spent all this time not touching Rafe Cameron, not having Rafe Cameron touch you. Is this really what you've been missing out on? All this time spent shoving him away before he could pull the lint off your sweater or the leaf out of your hair. Have you been self sabotaging without even knowing?

"Star," Rafe muses low, darting his gaze between your eyes with a rare look that you've never encountered from him. "There is never a scenario where I'll ever admit that."

You pout in faux irritation. "Never?"

You try and ignore how his eyes momentarily glance down to your lips, then come back up to look at you as if it means nothing, as if he hasn't just wordlessly revealed his desire to close the distance. Although something falters in his gaze, a sliver of the playfulness leaving the gleam of his eye and instead replaced with something softer, more genuine, something that makes your heart skip a beat at the rawness of it.

"Never," he responds quietly, yet despite the loud music, his voice is the only thing you hear.

When his gaze flickers down to your lips again, you find yourself parting them out of sheer surprise at the audacity of him to shamelessly stare at you like this not once, but twice, to shamelessly express what he wants without having to say anything, not explicitly, anyway.

Yet you understand him all the same.

His hand seems to press impossibly tight against your waist, and you can't deny how fucking good it feels to be caged in by him, surrounded by him, as almost all of your senses are fulfilled by him: his fire palm on your burning skin, his cologne infiltrating your nostrils, his baritone voice alluring you as a siren would her prey, his beautiful blue eyes scanning your face with a newfound possession that makes you reel.

Just one sense is missing, and your lips tingle at the anticipation.

You swear Rafe begins to lean in.

"There you are!"

The two of you blink out of your trance, startled by the body nearly shoving you out of his grasp.

You're no longer alone with him, as everyone has returned in the crowd closer than before. Blinking once, twice to take in your surroundings, you realize that someone bumped into you. Purposefully.

You spin around to meet the culprit, expecting Sarah and your friends, but are instead met with the pretty blonde from earlier, the girl who tried to take the jello-shot from JJ but was thoroughly denied, the girl that Rafe was trying to pick up at the party. More so, the girl who was shooting such aggressive fuck-me eyes at him that you swore they would pop out of the socket.

Her eyes narrow slightly at the sight of you, darting between you and Rafe in confusion, before eventually settling on him, batting her eyelashes up at him with faux sweetness as if she wasn't (probably) cursing you and your bloodline in her head.

"Hi," she says brightly, "I've been looking for you everywhere."

His hand that was previously cradling your neck falls to his side, but the other hand still seers hot on your hip, almost reluctant to let go of his one chance to touch you.

"Alyssa," he responds almost breathlessly, caught in a weird scenario. "I didn't-"

"Annalise," she corrects quickly, her charming smile faltering for a second before returning to its normal state. "Wanna continue our convo from earlier?"

Her question lays thick in the air, as Rafe furrows his brows as he looks between you and her, almost startled at the intrusion but also still recovering from the close proximity shared with you in a way he's never experienced before. He's never endured something like that, and never expected to in his entire lifetime.

Especially with you. The girl who never let him get too close.

You reel at his reluctance, almost letting out a sigh of relief that nothing escalated, because how would you explain that to your friends? To your best friend, your roommate? His sister? Besides, this is the guy who drives you up the wall every time he's in your vicinity, and it would be an utter disaster to venture into uncharted waters with him, of all people.

At his silence, she suddenly turns to you, jabbing a thumb in Rafe's direction. "You're not with him, are you?"

A laugh bubbles in your throat at the mere insinuation of it - at the audacity of her to think you'll ever be with a guy like Rafe Cameron - but you don't let it escape because you frankly don't want to sound like an asshole.

You're too happy right now, too airy on cloud nine that you don't want to dwell on the implications of your little moment with him. Plus, you don't want to cock-block him. You saw how cozied up they were in your apartment, and figured something like this was bound to happen anyway, knowing your truce was only temporary and nothing more. Of course, you're a little surprised it's happening so soon into the night, arguably at the peak of your trip, but you should've expected this.

Especially from him.

So you flash Annalise a smile, one that she probably doesn't deserve since she nearly shoved you to the ground just moments ago, and step away from Rafe's grasp even though your body screams at the loss of contact.

"No," you respond politely. "No, we're just friends. He's all yours."

You nearly double take at Rafe when you hear him say your name, a mix between in warning and disbelief.

Watching Annalise grip his arm and curl a talon around his bicep, you dart your gaze back to him, whose blue eyes are so piercing that you almost lose your breath, adding on top of your initial breathlessness at the fact that he used your name, something he almost never does unless he's actually upset. A gloss of anger flashes across his features, but it's hard to mask it over the sliver of worry that you've never seen on his face before.

Part of you understands his apprehension: you're supposed to be joined at the hip, in this trip together, but you saw how annoyed he was with JJ when he scared Annalise off with the shots, and you don't want to be on the receiving end of his irritation. Besides, you planned for this. Partially.

You send him a reassuring smile. "I'm good. Honest. I'll dance nearby, okay?"

His response is immediate. "You'd tell me if you weren't okay?"

The near possession almost makes you reel, and part of you wants to push further and scold him for being so overly cautious with you (as always), but you notice the anticipation of Annalise's hands trailing up his chest and skimming the curt edge of his jawline, ready to fill your shoes as soon as she gets the green light.

And honestly? No, you probably wouldn't tell him in a normal scenario. But right now, you certainly feel fine.

"Yes," you reiterate. "I'll be around, okay?"

Rafe is reluctant, that much is obvious. He barely pays attention to the girl practically clinging to him as he solely focuses on you, staring at him with unwavering certainty so that he'll give in and enjoy his night. Something foreign glosses over his eyes, and you spend a moment trying to decipher the wordless code, but come up short on its implications.

Eventually, after a second of him trying to find any faults in your stare and coming up short, you nod at him again to emphasize that he has a very pretty girl all over him and he's not doing anything about it, and he seems to circle back to planet earth, resting a light hand on her waist to test the waters, to please you.

You try to ignore how he looks uncertain and slightly uncomfortable, probably at the thought of leaving him alone, so you put on your best reassuring smile and send him a wink that has him shaking his head in disbelief at you, a smirk tugging the edge of his lips.

With that image, you twist away from him and venture into the crowd. Yeah, you think as you scan the crowd for cute guys, he's fine.

After a minute of searching, your eyes land on a handsome brunette talking animatedly with a group of guys, assumingely his friends, and you waste no time planting a gentle hand on his bicep to grab his attention, figuring someone like him will do for the time being, figuring you can find your friends after a couple songs because you'd still like to dance for a while longer.

He looks down at you with his pretty brown eyes and blinks, as if he's trying to decipher if you're real.

"Hi," you say sweetly over the music. "Wanna dance?"

The guy huffs in disbelief as he takes in your figure. "Shiiiit. If I ever say no to that, shoot me."

You roll your eyes, yet nonetheless grab his unoccupied hand and lead him a little ways away from his snickering friends, finding a quaint spot smack-dab in the middle of the dance floor as the song morphs into something sultry and melodic, still with the thrumming bass strong enough to vibrate your bones. The contact with him is immediate.

Unlike Rafe's teasing yet firm touch, this guy - who you're gonna call Polo given the ridiculous collared shirt he's wearing - has no problem letting his hands shamelessly wander over your body, over places Rafe wouldn't dare venture in fear of losing a limb.

Not that you necessarily mind, because every touch on your bare skin feels like flashes of lightning igniting in your veins.

His hands are everywhere: your waist that was once electrified by a certain person's touch earlier, your ass, your chest through your tank top, as his lips duck dangerously low to your neck, whispering sweet nothings that you - quite frankly - don't bother to pay attention to. His voice isn't baritone or sultry enough to get you to listen, nor does the temporary solace make you feel as if you were on fire, not like before with-

Then you reel. Why are you comparing this random to Rafe Cameron?

The Rafe Cameron who steals your snacks instead of his sister's, who threw you in the ocean after getting your hair done because Pope bet him a case of beer that he wouldn't, who plays with girls' hearts like it's his day job, feeling little to no remorse on the notion of recycling through his roster to broach some excitement in his life, who has driven you up the wall for a year now.

You've loathed him for all that time. Sure, you're cordial to him for the sake of Sarah, who watches your arguments like a tennis-match and always sides with you out of amusement to piss her brother off, who uses all her excuses to force close proximity between you and him, claiming she needs a form of entertainment for the next few hours, who knows how you feel about a guy like him when it comes to dating.

If it was up to you, you just wouldn't see him at all. But no, he's always there, because she wants him to be. Because she wants both of you in her life. You and-

Rafe.

Who's staring at you across the dance floor.

You meet his piercing gaze when you suddenly get a vantage point over Polo's shoulder, nearly gasping at the intensity of it. Annalise clings to him, arms strung high around his neck as she sways to the beat and essentially grinds herself against his front, but his hands never venture lower than her waist (that are barely touching her, by the way), as he shamelessly glares between you and Polo.

Through the sea of people, through all the constantly changing strobe lights, he sees you. Out of everyone. He finds you.

You barely register Polo's lips on your neck, slowly making their way up to your jaw until his shoulder blocks your view of Rafe, instead being met with his chest. You blink a few times to try and decipher if that was real or not, but you don't get too far in your findings before Polo leans down and connects your lips in a heated kiss.

You try to lean into it. You really try.

Because, frankly, Polo's a pretty good kisser and his hands feel nice against your ass, but you can't help that nagging voice in the back of your mind yelling you that it's not who you want it to be, the nagging image of Rafe staring at you through the crowd with such a dark - almost possessive - gaze that it sent a shiver down your spine, the nagging feeling that something feels wrong, everything feels wrong because it isn't him.

And that thought scares you.

You blame it on the fact that you're high off a drug you've never indulged in before, blaming your racing thoughts on the effects of something you're experiencing for the first time. The cause is the jello shot you took all those ages ago, the effect being delirium.

Without even registering it, your hands are bracing on Polo's chest in an attempt to get him to stop kissing you.

With furrowed brows and puffy lips, Polo looks down at you incredulously, almost offended. "What? What's wrong?"

You open your mouth to speak but the words don't come, and it looks like he's about to add another response.

Until he's suddenly ripped away from you.

You blink once, twice, almost gasping at the sudden sensation of being alone, of nothing touching you. The motion is quick, it startles you, as you try and recover from stumbling as all of your weight was leaning on Polo and now it's dependent on the open air in front of you. You stagger, trying to find your footing as you stare at the scene in front of you.

And holy shit.

You nearly reel at the sight of Rafe with a fist full of Polo's shirt by the back of the neck, holding him as one would scruff a loose puppy, yanking him until his hands are no longer groping your ass, until his lips are away from yours, until he's no longer in the relative vicinity as you.

Once he sees that no one is touching you, Rafe lets go of Polo's shirt as quickly as he grabbed it.

But Polo doesn't let that slide, angrily whipping to face Rafe and shove him particularly hard into a poor group of girls behind him, who scream and shout and cover their drinks to no avail, as some splash onto the ground at the contact.

"The fuck, man?" Polo shouts, confused and irate and a little too drunk to be in his right mind. "We were in the fucking middle of something!"

Rafe barely pays him any mind, instead turning to you with a gaze so serious you can't help but gawk at him. "Found Sarah. Let's go."

You stupidly blink back at him, darting your gaze between the two guys in disbelief that there wasn't a drop of blood spilled. You've never, ever heard of Rafe Cameron getting into a fight and not finishing it, not hitting back, as his trademark is that he'll start a fight and end one. Sarah told you about all the times he'd get into fights in high school, even fights with John B for fuck's sake, and even then he never lost, never backed down, never let someone else get the last hit.

And as you peer up at him now, your shock must be evident as he simply waits for your words, for any indication that you're ready to move again. But you don't give him any, as you're frozen in place and still reeling at the fact that he didn't hit back. Why didn't he hit back? Why did he start this shit in the first place?

He says your name once in warning.

You don't get the chance to respond when Polo reaches forward and shoves Rafe again.

"Hey, jackass," he hisses loudly. "I'm talkin' to you!"

Rafe stumbles one, two steps, darting his gaze towards the guy with furrowed brows as if the whole thing is an inconvenience to him.

When Polo angrily huffs at his silence, he lunges again towards Rafe in preparation to shove him again, but one side step to the right and Polo's missing his target, and - instead - nearly collapsing into you.

The force almost knocks you off your feet as you fall into the group of girls behind you, gripping one of their shoulders ferociously tight to refrain from meeting the sticky ground. One of them, thankfully, snatches your arm so goddamn tight that you yelp, but she undoubtedly saved you from making a quick trip to the ground.

Polo's elbow particularly jabbed your ribs so hard it'll definitely bruise, and you wince at the commotion and stumble like a baby fawn trying to find its footing as he recovers from the unmistakable miss in his target.

Rafe notices the flicker of pain across your face in an instant, and - with the green light to do so - balls his fist tight and brings it down fast and hard against Polo's cheekbone.

A sharp gasp leaves Annalise's mouth, who you didn't even know had been standing here the whole time, and all you do is helplessly blink down at Polo's groaning figure on the gross, sticky floor. People create a circle around the chaos, muttering yeeshes and fucks in between song lyrics as they take in the scene in front of them, eyes wide as they dart from the guy on the ground to the guy who threw the punch, whose surprisingly calm.

Whose eyes are on you.

You barely register Rafe's fingers circling your wrist, grounding you back to reality.

Just as you're about to scold him, to ask him what the fuck he was even thinking, a flashlight beams onto Rafe's face, and his pretty blue eyes squint at the ferocity of it.

A burly bouncer, the one with the flashlight, joins the circle and takes in the scene in front of him: Rafe shaking out his knuckle as Polo spits up blood on his hands and knees on the ground.

Seeing enough to make a verdict, the bouncer grips harshly onto Rafe's shoulder, while Polo's friends get him up off the floor (not without shooting daggers at the culprit, and at you for getting their friend into this mess in the first place). A flicker of panic rises in your chest, and his fingers around your wrist are providing the only solace you can find in the moment.

"Yeah, you're done," the bouncer chuckles huskily. "No fighting."

He begins tugging Rafe away who doesn't complain nor attempt to plead his case, instead walking alongside the bouncer and outstretching his arm to where you stand, unmoving, until his hand is ripped from your grasp and he's disappearing into the crowd.

Fuck.

There's no way you're going to be able to deal with this alone, let alone face the effects head on and maneuver through a crowd to attempt to find your friends who have been missing for what feels like ages. You watch your lifeline go, disappear into the mess of bodies as a needle is flung into the haystack, probably not to be seen again unless you do something about it.

Your heart is in your throat, and you let out a ragged breath.

But it's as if your brain suddenly flips a switch, and you find yourself maneuvering quickly through the crowd, even going as far as pushing people to catch up to the bouncer.

You don't think twice about lunging forward to grab Rafe's hand.

His head whips back in confusion to find the culprit, ready to cuss them out, but you swear his eyes soften when he realizes it's you.

You, the girl who hates any form of touch from him, clinging to him, lacing your fingers with his and trailing his escort out of the club.

If you didn't know any better, you swear that he's fucking grinning under the strobe lights, apparently pleased that you decided to chase him through a sea of people and join his walk off the ship's plank.

The bouncer reaches the side door, opening it for Rafe and looking back to you in surprise, not expecting anyone to have followed him. But, frankly, he could give less of a shit, and merely opens the door wider for you to leave with the culprit.

"Front door bouncer knows what you look like," the bouncer says to Rafe, his voice deeper than you've ever heard before. "Don't try it."

The door is slamming in your face before you even know it, and the silence quickly consumes the two of you, frisked by the breeze and standing alone in a dingy alleyway. Your heart is thrumming in your throat, and it takes a few moments to realize the drug is still fully having an effect, since you notice it now more than ever since there aren't any strobe lights or loud music masking your senses.

Now it's quiet. Your heartbeat is in your ears. Your hands are on fire. The cold breeze feels like a hug.

"Didn't expect you to follow, Star."

Rafe's voice pulls you from your thoughts, nearly scaring the shit out of you as you jump at the sound of his voice, whipping your head to face him.

Cursing yourself, you really wish you hadn't looked, because the expression on his face makes your blood boil.

You nearly want to slap that smug smirk off of his face and call him something abhorrent. But when his gaze darts down for a fraction of a second, you realize he's not being a prick at the notion of you following him through a crowd of hundreds of people, or how your notorious scowl is back on your face, or how he's probably got a hundred lewd comments cycling in his brain at the two of you now alone at last, no.

He's grinning at how you're still holding his hand.

With the discovery, you drop it as if it's on fire. You try and ignore the cocky tilt of his head, egging you on as if it isn't one of the most embarrassing and self incriminating things you could ever do to yourself.

"Whatever," you manage to say, "you're the one stupid enough to fucking punch the guy. Who absolutely did not deserve that, by the way."

Rafe merely shrugs, as if he's not entertaining the thought.

"And now," you continue with a hiss, "we're separated from our friends who are probably in there either having the time of their lives or graciously worrying about us and how we're not with them."

"Maybe," he says lazily. "But you still followed."

The simplicity of his words make you falter, because he's got you between a rock and a hard place. Yes, you can say all you want about how stupid he is and how angry you are at him because he decided to go all caveman and beat his chest. But the fact of the matter is that you saw all of this go down, you nearly got involved yourself, and you still decided to stick with him.

And you have to suffer the consequences because of your choice.

Your eyes narrow at him, feeling light and airy in the breeze and trying to remember why you're here with him, what you both agreed to at the beginning of the night, the reason why you followed him and nothing else. (Because it genuinely, genuinely has to be because of this and no other reason.)

"Temporary truce, right?"

Rafe's eyes widen in amusement, and the pretty blue hues shine with something other than pride, something deeper, darker, something that nearly makes your knees buckle. It's almost as if he knows that's an excuse, a front, a cover to mask what you really want to say to him, what you really feel.

Frankly, what you really want to say to him is a mystery, not even you know that yet. And what you feel is beyond that, it's a complete unknown.

All he does is hum, unconvinced. Something soft glosses over his features, and you barely have time to register what it means before he's flashing you that million dollar smirk that he loves to pull out of his back pocket, one he has on the ready.

"Right. So, now what, pretty?"

notes channeling the beard after hours episode of ted lasso.

#rafe cameron #salem-s works #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron fluff #rafe x reader #rafe x y/n #rafe x you #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron outerbanks #rafe cameron outer banks #outer banks #reader insert #Rafe Cameron x female reader #rafe x female reader #rafe cameron x reader insert #rafe cameron x fem!reader

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dragonridersandhighlords · 2 months ago

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Hey gurllll....can I request a fic of Aaric x reader where his father finds out their relationship and tries to kill the reader (the ending is upto you though)

Heyyyyyy! Thank you for requesting! I really hope you don't hate this because I TOTALLY went off the rails a little but it took a mind of its own🤣😅

⚠️ONYX STORM SPOILERS AHEAD⚠️

It All Ends Now | Aaric Graycastle

Summary: When you entered the Rider’s Quadrant, you didn’t think you’d see Aaric again. Then he got placed in your Squad and you were overjoyed and angry at the same time. Ever since Conscription Day, you’re had a weekly aassanation attempt thanks to the King who was convinced you kidnapped his son. When Halden shows up as Basgiath and the attacks increase, Halden even putting his friends in danger, Aaric is slowly losing all composure.

Pairing: Aaric Graycastle x f!reader

Warnings: Major Onyx Storm spoilers, fluffy angst?, mentions of blood and assasination attempts, reader is protective of Aaric, Aaric is protective of reader, Halden Tauri is his own warning lol

Word Count: 3.9k

Masterlist | FW Masterlist

"Again?!" Aaric’s voice cut through the tense silence of the dimly lit room, echoing his frustration. His green eyes, usually so warm when looking at me, now blazed with a frantic intensity.

"Aaric, I'm fine," you insist, though the tremor in your voice betrays your bravado.

"You're literally bleeding, y/n," he shot back, his concern etched into every line on his face. You could see the pulse of fear thrumming beneath his skin, a reminder that we were constantly teetering on the edge of chaos.

“Bleeding. Not bleeding out,” You replied, forcing a lightness into your tone even as you winced while adjusting the makeshift bandage wrapped around your arm. The crimson splotch seeping through the fabric was a stark reminder of the last assassination attempt that could have been so much worse.

“I should just go home. That will put an end to all of this,” Aaric muttered, burying his face in his hands, the weight of his despair palpable in the air between the two of you.

"Your father will forever blame me for your disappearance,” You countered softly, moving closer to him, your heart aching as you stood beside where he sat on the desk. “Going home will just hurt you more than anything.”

His shoulders sagged, and a heavy sigh escaped his lips. “They target you when you’re alone.” His voice cracked, revealing the rawness of his emotions. “I can’t protect you here, but I can at home.”

"Aaric, I hate to break it to you, but Camlaen Tauri is dead. Aaric Graycastle though?” You smiled gently, your fingers lifting his chin with a tenderness that countered the turmoil you faced. “You are alive. Bonded to the coolest dragon and so much happier than you ever were in that castle. Plus, I’m here. Do you really want to go back to a life without me?"

He shook his head. Leaning forward, he rested his head against your stomach, a fragile moment of vulnerability where the world outside faded into insignificance. “I love you, y/n. I just don’t want you to get killed because of me.”

“If I die because of an assassination attempt, at least we’ll know I fought till the end,” You whispered, running your fingers through his tousled hair, the strands soft and warm beneath your touch. “And I love you too. Now let’s go to class, okay?”

You felt the gentle rise and fall of his breath against me. He finally nodded, a small, reluctant smile breaking through the storm cloud that had settled over you.

Ever since Violet got a hold of her father's journal, a relic infused with memories and secrets, thanks to Dain sneaking into his father's quarters, everyone has been working tirelessly to decipher the cryptic riddle keeping it locked.

First loves are irreplaceable.

Ridoc, perched between you and Violet on the first row of seats, had taken it upon himself to pry into Violet's family history and their love lives.

"Who's Mira's first love?" Ridoc questioned.

Violet's fingers fidgeted with her conduit band, her brows knitting together in thought as she replied, "I’m not sure she’s ever really been in love. Or if she has, she’s never said anything to me about it.”

"You hadn’t even seen Xaden when your dad met Malek—” Ridoc trailed off, his tone shifting from interrogative to contemplative, and then he snapped up like he had the best idea. “Hello, who is your first love?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Violet freeze, her demeanor shifting as if she had been struck by an unseen force. "My father couldn’t stand the first guy I really dated and never knew about the second.” Her voice was steady, but the flicker of vulnerability in her eyes betrayed a deeper complexity.

Aaric and you exchanged glances, both of you understanding exactly who she was alluding to. The past lingered between you like an uninvited guest. "How many letters?" Aaric ventured, his voice barely above a whisper, yet imbued with a knowing urgency.

"Six," she shot back, her glare directed at you with a fierceness that threatened us if we spoke his name.

"It fits." You shrugged. "It could very well be—"

"Absolutely not," Violet interrupted with an indignant shake of her head, her resolve firm as she attempted to close the door on that chapter.

“Hold on.” Ridoc’s expression morphed into a blend of confusion and intrigue, his eyes darting between the three of you as if you were all harboring a secret beyond comprehension. “Are the first-years entitled to information we don’t have—”

"Good afternoon," Xaden—Professor Riorson— greets as he enters the Infantry amphitheater with Garrick.

"Ooh, Imogen is going to love having class today— Ow!" Ridoc's playful remark was abruptly cut short as he rubbed the back of his head.

“Riders, if you’ll take your positions as you did last class. Hopefully no one gets performance anxiety, because as you can see, we have a full house today.” Xaden’s voice rang out, steady and authoritative, and we all turned to behold the sea of Infantry blue uniforms that filled the amphitheater.

"Lieutenant Tavis here is an incredible Wind Wielder and has agreed to let you try your best to bring him--" Xaden's voice faltered slightly, a sudden cough catching him off guard. You exchanged a knowing glance with Violet, her smirk hinting at her mental mischief in her and Xaden's mental bond.

Bonded dragons, you thought with an eye roll, a mixture of admiration and annoyance coursing through you.

“--down. Lieutenant Tavis will be your sparring dummy.” His declaration hung in the air, a mixture of excitement and anxiety washing over the group as they prepared to face the imposing figure.

As each cadet stepped into the circle, the atmosphere thickened with anticipation. Ridoc’s voice broke through the tension, “That’s... unnerving,” he muttered, his eyes wide as he witnessed a fire wielder struggle against her own flames, thrown back towards her thanks to Garrick's signet. The thought of standing in her place sent a shiver racing down your spine.

"We go as a team," Rhiannon whispered, her voice a soothing balm against the nerves.

"Good idea," Violet nodded, her eyes glinting with determination.

"You ready to join in, Second Squad?" Garrick's voice cut through the air, taunting yet encouraging. Together, you, Violet, Rhiannon, Cat, Quinn, and Ridoc stepped into the circle.

"How exactly is this fair?" Garrick questions, getting into position.

"We're never alone on a battlefield, are we?" Violet points out, her smile never faltering.

"Fair point." Xaden agrees before instructing the challenge to begin.

With a shared nod, Quinn, Cat, and you sprang into action, causing a distraction while Ridoc built an ice wall. Meanwhile, Violet and Rhiannon worked together for the final take down, their movements synchronized. You focused on dodging your flames that were inevitably thrown back at you. You ducked and rolled, narrowly escaping as the flames washed over you like a wave of blistering heat.

Then, a lightning bolt crackled through the air, splitting the sky and illuminating the ring in a blinding flash. The world seemed to hold its breath, the chaos momentarily stilled, and you felt time stretch as everyone froze, eyes wide with disbelief.

“You really did it,” Garrick’s voice broke through the silence, awe etched across his features as gasps and murmurs rippled through the audience.

“I did,” Violet replied, her voice steady, but it was the unwavering gaze that accompanied her words that sent chills down your spine.

"Hate to tell you, Sorrengail," Garrick smirked, "but not only did you leave yourself exposed, you also missed."

"Did I?" Violet’s finger pointed defiantly at the smoking dagger embedded in the ground just behind Garrick. The collective gaze shifted, fixating on the destruction she had wrought. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. And if I'm exposed, fine. The rest of my squad is alive."

Garrick’s shock mirrored your own, eyes wide, as you caught a glimpse of the fiery determination sparking within Violet. Just then, a slow clap resonated from the back of the arena, a mocking rhythm that drew attention and stole the moment's tension.

Your heart sank, dread coiling in your stomach as you turned to see who was at the center of this unwelcome applause. Your eyes searched for Aaric, but he was nowhere in sight. Thank Amari, you thought, relief mingling with unease.

“His Royal Highness, Prince Halden,” the herald proclaimed, his voice booming through the amphitheater, pulling every head to turn in reverence. The crowd rose as one, a sea of blue and black uniforms standing in respect.

"Sit," Halden commanded, feigning annoyance at the fanfare, yet the smirk on his lips told a different story—he was reveling in it. "Impressive," he said, stepping into the fray, his gaze holding Violet's before sweeping to meet yours.

As he made eye contact with you, a chill raced down your spine. You felt the weight of his gaze, sharp and knowing, and instinctively, both you and Violet surged forward, a whirlwind of determination now aimed at the infantry-clad prince.

“What are you doing here?” Violet’s voice cut through the tension like a blade, her sharp gaze locking onto the prince, a storm brewing beneath her calm exterior.

“Learning, of course, like everyone else in this arena.” Halden’s tone dripped with sarcasm as he scanned Violet from head to toe, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “Never figured you for rider black, but power looks good on you.” His eyes sparkled with amusement, as if he were inspecting a rare piece of art, yet his gaze held a hint of condescension.

"Don't." Violet's voice hardened, her back now turned as she returned her focus to the match unfolding before them. "I don't mean in the Arena. What are you doing at Basgiath? It's not exactly Alumni Weekend."

“Straight to business? You aren't even going to ask how I've been? My brother is missing, you know.” Halden’s demeanor shifted, the joviality fading as he turned his attention toward you. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?” His fingers reached toward your chin, an attempt at intimacy, but you swiftly snatched his wrist, halting him mid-motion.

“Despite what your father seems to think with his assassination attempts, I don’t know where Cam is.” The firmness in your voice echoed your determination. You dropped his hand, letting it fall back to his side like a discarded weapon. “And don’t touch me if you want to keep your hand.”

“Is he really missing?” Violet interjected, her brow furrowed. “Or did Cam just need some space from your ego?”

Garrick began to instruct on your groups strategies, but your focus remained fixed on Halden, the air thickening with tension as he scoffed, turning back to Violet. “Seriously, though. No hello? Not even a compliment on the tailoring of my uniform? Or my fresh haircut? I’m heartbroken, Vi.”

“You’d have to own a heart to break it.” Violet’s retort was swift, and a laugh bubbled up from within you, drawing a sharp glare from Halden. “And the only hair I remember is your professor’s covering your face when I walked in on her riding you. It was auburn, right?”

“That's what happened?” You whispered, caught off guard by the unexpected revelation, your curiosity piqued as neither you nor Aaric knew the full story.

“Ouch. You wound me. Yes, I cheated, but you have to remember, I was still suffering from the loss of my twin. I was...”

“A dick?” You quipped, as Violet continued to unleash a few far kinder insults.

“Grief doesn’t excuse any of that. Never did,” Violet added, her expression fierce.

“And here I thought you’d thank me for offering to step in and agree with you regarding your upcoming mission, including my brother’s kidnapper as you continuously request.” Halden sighed, his tone shifting back to a businesslike demeanor.

“I’m gonna say it again, Halden. I. Don’t. Know. Where. Cam. Is.” Your voice was strained, frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

Halden then pulled a missive with a broken wax seal from Viscount Tecarus, handing it to Violet. “Here. Grady is taking too long and has yet to present a clear path that satisfies my father. I like this option.”

Violet leaned closer, pulling you aside, whispering urgently, “Go check on him. I have Halden.”

“Are you sure?” You asked, concern etching your features as she nodded resolutely. You walked over to where your bag rested, Xaden not far from the seats.

“He's around the back, should be headed back to the Quadrant, but you know how protective he is.” Xaden’s words were a lifeline, and you quietly thanked him before sprinting off to find Aaric, the pulse of uncertainty quickening in your chest.

Halden, in fact, did not get you on the squad for Violet's mission. Instead, his presence had escalated the tension in Basgiath, bringing with it an increased wave of assassination attempts that had plagued you for the past month. Then when Violet finally relayed the news of Halden's actions in Deverelli, you could see the fury ignite within Aaric.

"I have to do something," Aaric declared, his voice resolute, yet tinged with desperation. He had been pacing the length of your room for hours.

"What can you do, Aaric? She needs a royal representative to appease the island royals," you countered. You watched as realization dawned in his eyes, a flicker of hope amidst the chaos. But as soon as it sparked, you immediately fought it. "No. Nope. Not an option."

“It could work,” he argued, his voice lifting with a brightness that illuminated the gloom of the past month. For a moment, he wore a smile that felt like sunshine breaking through heavy clouds. “It would get Halden away from Violet, and I could put you on the squad like you should’ve been. No one can try to kill you then.”

"What if they drag you back? What then?" The thought unsettled you, a dark cloud overshadowing the bright idea he presented.

"I'll negotiate like the prince I am." His tone was playful, but the determination in his eyes gave it weight. There was something inherently charming about his confidence, an unwavering belief that made your heart race. “Your safety comes first, and once I finish my three years, I’ll return to Calldyr without complaint.” You opened your mouth to argue, but he silenced you with a look. “I’d burn the entire continent to keep you safe. Let me do this one thing.”

With a heavy heart, you nodded, a mixture of fear and trust coursing through you as you moved toward the flight field, each step echoing the weight of the choices ahead.

Dain had found you both in the dimly lit hall. He walked beside you, each step resonating with unspoken understanding as you both turned your gaze toward the sky watching Molvic and Neim land beside the squad. The fog was thick and wrapped around you and your dragons, shielding you from the prying eyes.

“No!” Violet's voice sliced through the quiet morning, sharp and urgent, as she sprinted toward you, her features contorted with concern. “Don't do this!”

Aaric's brows furrowed, his expression resolute as he adjusted the collar of his flight jacket, the leather creaking softly against the mounting pressure. “I’m not going to sit aside and watch while Halden gets you all killed,” he defended, his tone laced with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

“This isn't what you want,” Violet pressed, her desperation palpable. She pivoted, gesturing toward Dain. “Don’t let your brother's actions force your hand—and don’t let him do it!”

Dain threw his hands up in exasperation, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. “How in all that is holy am I to blame for this?”

“He’s a first-year, and you are the Wingleader!” Violet shot back, her frustration simmering just below the surface.

“Vi, Aaric outranks Dain right now,” you interjected, your voice steady as you jumped to Dain’s defense.

“And you!” Violet retorted, pointing an accusatory finger at you now. “You know how much he needed his freedom from them. Everyone will know if he does this.”

“It’s his choice, Violet. I’m not a royal. I can't stop him even if I wanted to.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Xaden's voice floated in from behind Violet, a calm counterpoint to the tempest of emotions swirling around you.

“Want? No,” Aaric sighed deeply, the weight of his resolve heavy in the air. “But I need to. And as much as I don’t mind Halden making your life fucking miserable, I do mind him condemning the Continent to death by dark wielder because he can’t take a deep breath and count to three when he gets mad. Plus, I'm mostly negotiating for y/n's safety. She doesn't deserve to be targeted for my choices.”

With a reluctant nod, Violet turned, leading you both back toward the rest of the group, the gravity of your decisions looming over you like a storm on the horizon.

“Looks like you won't be needing that basket after all.” Xaden smirks, a glimmer of amusement dancing in his eyes as he takes in the scene. “We found another prince.”

Halden’s jaw drops as he locks eyes with his little brother, clad in a black flight uniform.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Aaric rolls his eyes.

“Don’t look…” Halden shakes his head slowly, frustration pouring from him like an overfilled cup. “You’ve let us run all over this kingdom searching brothels and gaming houses for you, and all the while, you’ve been here?” The accusation hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of betrayal.

“The fact that you went searching your favorite haunts for me is just the start of where you went wrong,” Aaric replies, his annoyance lingering off his words.

“You’re a Rider?” Halden’s incredulous shout pierces the air.

“As the dragon would imply.” Ridoc gestures toward Molvic, his massive form looming like a sentinel, wings folded against the morning mist.

“He could have let you think he was dead,” Mira mutters from her spot next to Teine.

“He’s going to be when our father hears—” Halden begins but you interject.

"Then go fucking tell him.” Your voice cuts through the escalating chaos, firm and unyielding.

“While you're at it, tell him to cut it out with the assassination attempts. I made my choice, so leave her out of it!" Aaric, defends but Halden maintains his focus on you.

"You said you didn't know where Cam was! You lied to a royal!" Halden practically screeches, the indignation echoing off the mountains.

"I didn't lie." You shrug, a smirk playing on your lips as you gesture toward Aaric. "You asked where Cam was. I don't; I know where Aaric is."

Aaric’s presence radiates strength, and as he steps forward, you can’t help but feel pride swell within you. “I crossed the parapet because I was sick of sitting by knowing you and Dad weren’t going to do shit about the dark wielders, and I’m not going to sit by now and watch you run our only hope into the ground. I’ll be going as the royal representative.” His voice is steady, firm and you’ve never looked at him with a brighter face.

Halden stiffens, disbelief etched in his features. “Absolutely not, Cam.”

"It's Aaric." You step closer, standing toe to toe with the older prince, the determination in your stance unwavering. “And frankly, he’s more adept to be the representative than you. Not only have I watched him grow as a leader, even as a first-year, but he doesn’t have the emotional range of a two-year-old. He keeps his head on during stressful and important situations. Can you say the same?”

“It was you who breached the total vault.” Halden's glare shifts from you to Aaric, who meets it without flinching, a fierce light in his eyes. “Father blamed me.” He attempts to step toward his brother, but you quickly position yourself between them, unwilling to let him near Aaric. “Did you stay in Basgiath? Or fly with the rebels?”

“You already know the answer.” Aaric replies, his gaze locked on Halden, a silent challenge lingering in the air.

“Go back to the quadrant. I’ll be the only royal—”

“Good luck getting another gryphon to carry your basket.” Aaric laughs under his breath, the sound unexpectedly light, a brief respite from the tension, before he strides toward Molvic.

Halden's gaze, a mixture of sorrow and resignation, shifts back to you. “Y/n,” he begins, his voice surprisingly gentle, a tone you've never heard from him.

You can see it in his eyes—the sadness welling deep. The weight of expectations hangs heavy on his shoulders, and you wonder if, just for a heartbeat, he wishes to escape the royal constraints, just as Aaric had done.

“If you can promise that we’ll both be safe from your father’s assassins and carry on with our lives,” you say, your voice unwavering, each word solidifying your resolve like steel forging in fire, “I can promise you I won’t let anything happen to him.” Your heart races, fueled by a mixture of fear and fierce protectiveness, as you draw in a breath, the words spilling out with conviction. “But I don’t need your promises to know that I’d die for him.”

At those words, a flicker of surprise dances across Halden's features, his brow furrowing as if he’s grappling with the gravity of your devotion. “I’ll speak with my father,” he finally replies, his voice tinged with reluctant acceptance. “You’re good for him, you know.” The unexpected kindness leaves you momentarily stunned, the shadows of the past lifting slightly as you shake your head at the improbability of it all. “Thank you for looking out for him.”

“It all ends now, Halden,” you assert, the weight of your words resonating with the clarity of truth. “You’d never get him back if your father succeeds in killing me.” The finality in your tone is unmistakable, like the tolling of a bell, marking a line drawn in the sand. With a nod, Halden retreats from the flight field, his figure gradually swallowed by the mist that clings to the ground, leaving you standing amidst the chaos, a pulse of determination coursing through your veins.

Turning back, you move toward Neim, heart racing as you prepared to climb. Glancing behind you, Aaric stands beside Molvic following your every move. “You okay?” you call out to him, your concern weaving through the air.

“Never better,” he replies, a smile breaking through the tension, illuminating his features as he climbs onto Molvic. You climb onto Neim, whose scales shimmer like emeralds in the rising sunlight.

As you settle in, your heart swells with a fierce pride for the man beside you. Aaric is not just a prince; he is a beacon of hope in these dark times. The wind picks up, swirling around you, as if echoing the tempest of emotions within. He meets your gaze, and in that moment, you can see it—the unspoken connection that binds you.

Aaric’s own thoughts bubble to the surface, a whirlwind of determination intertwined with a flicker of admiration as he quietly said, “She’d make a great queen.”

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