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solxamber · 4 months ago

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Guide Rank: Overwhelmed || Malleus Draconia

Being a high-ranked guide is tough—you’re basically a glorified babysitter for overpowered, emotionally constipated espers. But it gets harder when Malleus Draconia, the strongest esper in existence, asks you to guide him. And somehow, despite it all, you’re pretty sure Malleus is the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Or: Guideverse au!

Series Masterlist

The world is a nightmare. It used to be bad enough with things like taxes, slow WiFi, and that one sock disappearing in the wash. But now? Now you have random cosmic hellmouths opening up and vomiting out monsters that think humans are snack-sized protein bars.

They call them Gates. They pop up out of nowhere like your intrusive thoughts at 3 AM, and if no one deals with them, entire cities get turned into discount horror movie scenes.

The only reason people aren't living in a monster apocalypse is because of Espers—overpowered individuals who fight these creatures with sheer force, wild abilities, and a complete disregard for their own safety.

But there’s a tiny problem. Espers have the durability of a wet paper bag. They burn through their energy, go berserk, or outright implode if left alone for too long.

And that’s where Guides come in. Guides stabilize Espers, keep them from disintegrating mid-fight, and prevent them from making headlines as "Local Hero Explodes on Live TV."

And you? Congratulations! You are an SS-Class Guide, one of the absolute best. This should mean power, prestige, and maybe even free drinks. Instead, it means you are a walking, talking, highly sought-after life support machine, and every Esper on the planet wants a piece of you.

And not in a fun way.

You’ve spent your entire career dodging unhinged, desperate, overpowered individuals who think "force-bonding" is a reasonable dating strategy.

Some try to flirt their way into your schedule (bad idea). Some try to bribe you with things like gold, private yachts, and one guy who straight-up offered you a castle. And then there are the truly feral ones, who don’t understand the word “no” and think "What if I just grabbed them?" is a valid problem-solving technique.

One time, an S-Class Esper sent you 72 marriage proposals in a single day. Another time, a different one broke into your apartment and left a PowerPoint presentation on why you should bond with them. With transitions.

If you had a nickel for every time you had to physically dodge an Esper trying to latch onto you like a clingy octopus, you wouldn’t need this job anymore. You could retire to a nice, peaceful life in the mountains, away from all of this nonsense.

But no. You’re still here. Still dodging Espers who treat you like a Black Friday deal at 90% off.

Something has to change.

It’s another day at work. Another day of wading through a swamp of increasingly deranged requests for guiding, because apparently, every high-ranking Esper on the planet thinks you’re the Holy Grail of Stability™.

You take a deep breath, open your inbox, and immediately regret your life choices.

Request #1:

"O Supreme and Benevolent Guide, I have compiled a PowerPoint titled ‘Why You Should Guide Me and Not Those Other Losers.’ Please see attached. I am very persuasive. Also, I have snacks. Just saying."

Attached: A 657-slide PowerPoint presentation with bullet points like “I Only Go Almost Berserk Like Every Other Tuesday” and “Look At This Dog I Found, Do You Like Him?”

Request #2:

"Greatest and Most Esteemed Guide, I humbly request your guidance. I will literally pay you in gold. Actual, real gold. Or cash. Or—listen, name your price. My mental stability is at stake here. I am ONE bad day away from levitating into the stratosphere and exploding like a firework. PLEASE. I am BEGGING you. Sincerely, your most devoted, desperate, and slightly deranged fan."

Attached: A poorly photoshopped picture of you both standing in front of a sunset. You’ve never met this person in your life.

Request #3:

"GOD-TIER GUIDE, PLEASE, I WILL DO ANYTHING. I WILL FETCH YOUR GROCERIES. I WILL WALK YOUR PET. YOU DON’T HAVE A PET? I WILL GET YOU A PET. I WILL BECOME YOUR PET. PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, JUST GIVE ME 10 MINUTES OF YOUR TIME. MY LAST GUIDE QUIT ON ME AND MOVED TO AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION. I AM VERY STABLE. PLEASE."

Attached: A video of the sender crushing a monster’s skull with their bare hands while sobbing.

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

This is your life now.

And then—you see it.

A request.

A normal request.

No groveling. No bribery. No half-deranged monologue about why their existence is crumbling without you.

Just a plain, simple request for a guiding session. No attachments. No drama.

You do not even look at the name or the rank.

You just slam the approve button so hard your screen nearly cracks.

And you schedule them for today.

Whatever poor, normal, well-adjusted Esper just sent that request? You’re about to meet your new favorite person.

You hear a knock on your office door and, without looking up from your third coffee of the afternoon, you say, "Come in." You assume it's just another esper with an unhinged request or a government official trying to bribe you into a permanent bond arrangement (as if free coffee is enough to make up for dealing with an unstable murder machine forever).

But when you finally glance up, you’re met with Malleus fucking Draconia.

SSS-class esper. Only because the measuring device physically cannot display values above SSS. If it could, it would probably just scream in binary before shutting itself down out of fear.

And Malleus, the walking cataclysm, smiles at you. A polite, almost sweet smile that absolutely does not match the soul-crushing amount of raw, unstable power radiating off of him.

He thanks you, so genuinely, for agreeing to guide him, and suddenly, you feel like maybe—just maybe—the guy who sent you a PowerPoint presentation about why he’d be the perfect esper for you would’ve been a safer choice. Because in what world were you qualified to guide Malleus Draconia?

But you’re a professional. A highly trained SS-class Guide. You’ve dealt with terrifying espers before. (You survived guiding Leona Kingscholar, and that man once threatened to bite someone’s hand off for waking him up.) So you take a deep breath, paste on a practiced, reassuring smile, and gesture toward the couch. “Please, take a seat.”

Malleus does, settling in like a well-mannered prince, and when you take his hands, his power hits you like a truck.

No, scratch that. A truck would be merciful. This is like getting yeeted into the sun.

Because for all his outward composure, for all his eerie, elegant calm, his body is ripping itself apart from the sheer force of his own abilities. His energy is so volatile, so uncontained, that even just touching him feels like holding onto a live wire dipped in liquid magic.

You open your mouth, fully prepared to yell WHAT THE HELL, but instead, what comes out is a weak, strangled, “So… how long has it been since your last guiding?”

Malleus blinks, tilting his head slightly, as if the question is odd. “Ah,” he hums. “A rather long time, I suppose.”

You squint at him. "Define 'long.'"

There’s a pause. And then, with the same pleasant smile, he says, “Over a decade.”

…

…A decade.

You stare at him. Your soul leaves your body. Your hands are on him right now, guiding him, and no other guide has touched him for ten whole years??? You’ve guided espers who've almost lost their minds after three months without stabilization, and this man—no, this monster, this eldritch entity in the shape of a handsome Esper—has been raw-dogging reality for a full decade???

And the worst part is, you get it.

You’ve heard the stories. No guide is willing to risk their life guiding him. He’s too powerful, too unstable, too dangerous. But also??? He’s the reason those cowardly soy-latte-drinking guides even get to enjoy their caramel cream monstrosities without getting eaten by a Gate Beast. The least they could do is try.

So you do.

You take all that power, all that impossible, barely-contained force, and you stabilize it. As much as you can, at least, because Malleus is like an ocean, vast and endless, and you are one person desperately trying to keep the tide from sweeping away an entire city. But you manage. And when the strain starts to weigh on you, when exhaustion creeps in, Malleus—ever the gentleman—gently removes his hands from yours before you overextend yourself.

He looks at you like you’ve done something extraordinary. And in that soft, almost reverent voice, he murmurs, “Thank you.”

And when he asks if you’d accept his request again, how could you possibly say no?

You’ve seen Gates before. Too many, in fact. You’ve spent years standing at the edges of battlefields, waiting for Espers to stumble out after pushing themselves to their limits, ready to catch them before they crumbled into a pile of unstable, overpowered problems.

Usually, you’re waiting outside, stationed alongside other Guides, ready to stabilize the Espers who come stumbling out looking like they just did twelve rounds in a blender.

And today? No different.

The Gate suppressors finish their job, and as the shimmering tear in reality finally vanishes, a wave of exhausted Espers begins to stagger out.

Your fellow Guides immediately spring into action, swarming their assigned Espers like the world’s most exhausted yet underpaid nurses. You hear the usual litany of groaning, the occasional complaint about “why does guiding feel like drinking a warm glass of sadness,” and at least one voice yelling, “DON’T THROW UP ON ME, BRO.”

All in all, a standard post-Gate event.

But then—then.

Malleus Draconia walks out.

And the reaction is palpable.

Every Guide freezes. The air itself seems to shift, a held breath, a quiet hesitation, a collective someone else handle it.

Which, yeah. Fair. SSS-class esper. Walking apocalypse. If the world were a video game, he’d be the final boss, the secret bonus boss, and the eldritch horror you accidentally summon if you input the wrong cheat code.

But unlike every other high-class Esper, who would immediately demand a Guide’s attention like a toddler throwing a tantrum in a supermarket, Malleus just… looks around. Sees the other Espers getting help. And without a word, he simply starts walking away.

And something in you breaks.

It’s not just that your fellow Guides are scared of him. It’s the fact that he expects it. That he doesn’t even try. He just accepts that no one will come for him, and he leaves.

It’s one thing for a terrifying Esper to demand your attention, to expect you to fix them as if you’re a mechanic and they’re a car with the check engine light permanently on. But this? This quiet resignation? This acceptance of the fact that no one will help him?

Oh, absolutely not.

You push past the usual crowd of unstable, desperate, feral Espers who are trying to grab at your hands (“PLEASE, I WILL PAY YOU IN GOLD—OR FAVORS—WHICHEVER YOU PREFER”), and you march after him.

“Malleus,” you say, grabbing his arm before he can vanish into the night like a dramatic antihero.

He turns, blinking down at you in quiet surprise. “You’re here.”

“Of course I’m here,” you say, like he just told you the sky is blue. “I’m a Guide. This is my job.”

His expression flickers, the barest crack in his usual calm. “You would guide me?”

“Yes,” you say. “Now sit down.”

He actually listens. Thank the stars. You’re not sure what you would’ve done if he refused. Probably wrestled him to the ground, which would have been a terrible life choice, but whatever.

You sit across from him, take his hands, and—oh.

Oh.

Oh wow.

It's as bad, if not slightly better than the first time.

If guiding most Espers is like sifting through a river, guiding Malleus Draconia is like being pulled into the center of a supermassive black hole. It’s overwhelming, his power a heavy, crushing thing that hums under his skin like an unrelenting storm, pressing at the edges of your mind.

“How long has it been since your last session?” you ask, voice a little strained as you work to stabilize him.

Malleus tilts his head, thoughtful. “My last session was with you.”

Your grip tightens around his hands. “It's been 5 months.”

He hums. “No other Guide has been willing to take me on.”

That—that makes you want to throw something. Because sure, Malleus is terrifying. Sure, he’s a walking natural disaster. But he’s also the reason those Guides get to breathe.

You exhale sharply. “Well. That’s stupid.”

Malleus blinks. “Stupid?”

“Yes. Stupid.” You focus, pouring everything you have into stabilizing him, because you might not be able to guide him fully, but you sure as hell can make things better.

Malleus says nothing. He just… watches you.

And when you’re finally done—when you pull back, exhausted but satisfied—he tilts his head, voice soft.

“Allow me to escort you to your car.”

There’s a weight to the way he says it. A quiet intent.

You glance at the still-lingering crowd of Espers who have been waiting for their chance to pounce, and—ah.

That’s why.

Because Malleus walking with you means no one is about to harass you for an impromptu guiding session.

You glance back at him.

Malleus Draconia. The most powerful Esper alive. Unstable. Dangerous. Literally a walking storm.

“…Okay,” you say.

He walks you to your car, a steady presence at your side, and for the first time in years, you are not approached, begged, or proposed to on the way.

It’s peaceful.

Nice, even.

And as you slide into the driver’s seat, Malleus thanks you again, voice warm, quiet.

And impulsively—because your brain has fully given up on thinking before speaking—you blurt out, “Repay me by taking me out for coffee.”

There’s a pause.

A long one.

And then—Malleus smiles.

Not his usual polite, diplomatic smile. A real one.

And you realize, with sudden clarity, that you may have just changed the course of your entire life.

The next day, you step out of the Guidance Center, utterly exhausted.

You’ve spent all morning dealing with overworked Espers who don’t believe they need guiding until they start twitching like a broken lightbulb. One guy genuinely tried to convince you that he was “built different” and then proceeded to collapse mid-sentence.

So yeah. You’re tired. You just want to go home, take a nap, and not think about the absolute disaster that is your job.

And then you see him.

Malleus.

Waiting just outside the building, standing with the kind of stillness that makes him look more like a painting than a person.

But it’s not just him.

It’s the flowers.

A full bouquet, wrapped neatly, cradled in his hands like something precious.

And when he sees you, he smiles.

Your brain immediately blue-screens.

You walk up to him in a daze, already bracing yourself for the inevitable attention this is going to bring because, let’s be honest—Malleus Draconia standing outside your workplace holding flowers is about to start rumors.

(And by rumors, you mean your coworkers are never going to let you live this down.)

But when you reach him, he doesn’t do anything dramatic. Doesn’t say anything insane like “these flowers pale in comparison to your radiance” or “I will obliterate anyone who disrespects you.”

(You have, unfortunately, received both of those lines from unstable Espers before.)

Instead, he simply hands you the bouquet, his voice warm. “For you.”

And just like yesterday, you realize—this is different.

It’s not some desperate attempt to tie you to him, not an unstable Esper trying to own their Guide before anyone else can get to them.

He’s just… appreciative.

Grateful.

Your heart does something very annoying and fluttery at that realization.

You glance at the bouquet, then back up at him, and—oh.

He looks so pleased.

Like giving you flowers is the highlight of his week.

“…Are you free for that coffee now?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, expectant but unassuming.

And despite your exhaustion—despite knowing that this is probably the beginning of something huge and irreversible—you find yourself smiling.

“…Yeah,” you say, holding the flowers a little closer. “Yeah, I am.”

So far, this coffee date has been perfect.

You’re sitting across from Malleus, ranting about the absolute clowns you have to deal with daily.

“…And then this Esper looked me in the eyes and said, I will literally perish if you do not guide me this instant. Like. Sir.” You slap a hand on the table. “Sir. Please. This is a Starbucks.”

Malleus chuckles, eyes alight with amusement. “And what did you say to that?”

You sigh dramatically, tilting your head back. “I said, ‘Sounds fake, but okay.’”

He actually laughs at that—low and warm, and oh no, it’s really nice.

Before you can spiral about that, your drinks are ready. Malleus, being the gentleman he is, gets up to retrieve them.

And that’s when you feel it.

That unmistakable feeling of being watched.

Your instincts immediately go on high alert. Slowly, casually, you glance at the table next to you, expecting to see some shady esper trying to worm their way into your life.

What you actually see is so much better.

Sitting at the table next to you are three of the most suspicious individuals you have ever seen in your entire life.

The first one is a tiny man drowning in a trench coat three sizes too big, like a detective in a noir film gone wrong. He has an obviously fake mustache that is slightly peeling off his face, and he is watching you intensely.

Next to him, there is a guy wearing a tragically ugly pink wig.

He is asleep on the table.

Just. Fully unconscious. Like someone just unplugged him.

And finally—

A tall guy in fake glasses with an even faker nose, aggressively shoveling cake into his mouth while glaring at you like you just stole his firstborn child.

It’s silent.

You blink.

They blink.

And you immediately have to slap a hand over your mouth to keep from bursting out laughing.

Malleus returns, setting your drink in front of you, and you immediately point at the disaster trio sitting next to you.

“…Do you know them?” you ask, barely holding it together.

Malleus follows your gaze.

Sees the absolute circus happening at the next table.

And sighs.

A long, suffering sigh. The sigh of a man who has seen some things and has just realized he is doomed to see them for the rest of his life.

“Yes,” he says, like the words physically pain him. “Unfortunately.”

And that’s all you need to hear.

You immediately wave them over.

Because honestly?

Why not.

They look hilarious.

And you were right—Lilia (who introduces himself with a flourish and an actual theatrical bow) is an absolute riot. Silver, despite the crime against fashion sitting on his head, is actually very nice. And Sebek—who is still burning holes into you with his eyes—is begrudgingly polite, only because you’ve been guiding Malleus.

It turns into a full-blown sitcom.

At one point, Lilia pulls out a picture of an egg and tries to convince you that it's a baby picture of Malleus. You're not sure if he was serious. Sebek is still glaring at you, but it’s now 30% hostility, 70% begrudging respect. Silver almost faceplants into his drink.

Malleus, across from you, looks like he’s actively questioning all of his life choices.

It’s beautiful.

Eventually, when it’s time to leave, Malleus insists on walking you to your car.

And that’s when you notice it.

He’s pouting.

Not a dramatic pout. But his lips are slightly pressed together, his brows furrowed, like a cat that just got denied a seat on the kitchen counter.

You immediately find it endearing.

“What’s up?” you ask, amused.

Malleus exhales, glancing away. “…I was hoping for this to be a time where we could get to know each other.”

Oh.

Oh, that’s adorable.

You grin.

And before you can second-guess yourself, you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

Malleus freezes.

His eyes go wide. His breath catches. He looks like you’ve just blue-screened his brain.

You step back, grinning. “I'll see you around.”

And before he can respond, you slip into your car.

But as you drive away, you catch a glimpse of him in your mirror—

Standing there, hand pressed to his cheek, smiling like you just gave him the greatest gift in the world.

You hate Gates.

You hate that they can just open whenever they want, completely ignoring normal human schedules like some kind of otherworldly chaos entities (which, to be fair, they are).

But mostly, you hate that they always seem to open in the middle of the night.

Like, is there some kind of Gate Union that collectively decided on this? Do they hold meetings where they specifically vote to screw over guides by opening at the most inconvenient times?

And in the dead of winter, no less.

Truly, suffering knows no bounds.

Still, you drag yourself out of bed, slap on as many layers as physically possible (to the point where you briefly resemble a sentient pile of laundry), and head to the Gate’s location. On the way, you stop by an all-night café, because if you’re going to be miserable, you might as well be miserable with hot chocolate.

You even get two cups.

Not because you always do this for espers (you don’t—they can suffer like the rest of you), but because he is different.

Malleus.

The most powerful esper on the field tonight. The one who singlehandedly keeps half the Gates from turning into full-scale disasters. The one who always acts like he’s completely fine no matter what comes out of them.

And, most importantly—

The one esper you have a ridiculous, stupid, undeniably massive soft spot for.

So, you wait.

And wait.

You’re perched on a bench, holding your hot chocolates, trying not to think about how this is starting to feel like some kind of romantic drama scene, when you finally see him step out of the swirling remnants of the Gate.

Even exhausted, he still looks ridiculously elegant. His coat is dusted with frost, his dark horns curved like the wings of a dragon at rest. His presence—so big, so vast—immediately settles over the field, even as other espers struggle to regain their balance.

His expression is neutral, as always. Composed. Untouchable.

Until—

He spots you.

He blinks, as if surprised to see you.

And his face softens.

He doesn’t react right away, like he’s making sure he’s seeing correctly. But then, when it clicks, his lips part just slightly—an unspoken question, a faintly surprised blink—before they curve into the warmest, most gentle smile.

And wow. Wow.

Maybe the cold is getting to you, because you suddenly feel a little too warm.

You lift a hand and wave.

Malleus immediately starts walking toward you, his movements slow but steady. His eyes stay locked on yours, like he’s drawn to you without realizing it.

“You’re here,” he says, voice carrying that soft rumble that’s way too nice to listen to at this ungodly hour.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, Gates don’t believe in work-life balance, apparently.” You hold up the second cup of hot chocolate. “Here. Thought you could use something warm.”

“For me?” he asks, sounding so genuinely touched that your heart does something stupid.

“No, for the other giant dragon esper who just walked out of that Gate,” you deadpan.

Malleus huffs out a soft laugh, the kind that makes you think he doesn’t do it nearly enough. He takes the cup from your hands, fingers brushing against yours, and you don’t miss the way he lingers there for just a second too long.

“You should let me guide you,” you say, reaching for his free hand.

Malleus makes a vague sound of protest. “That isn’t necessary.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

And then, before he can argue further, you unleash your most powerful technique.

“Please?”

Malleus Draconia—the Apex Esper, the one who holds dominion over storms and shadows, the one who can level an entire battlefield with one command—

Folds like a house of cards.

“…Very well,” he murmurs, looking a little defeated, a little amused.

You beam and take his hand, immediately pressing your energy into his.

And wow, yeah, he definitely needed this.

His presence, which is usually so steady, flickers faintly at the edges. He must have been holding himself together through sheer force of will, because the second you start guiding him, his shoulders finally relax.

Not that he’d ever admit it, of course.

You feel his weight lean into you ever so slightly, just enough that you know he’s letting you support him. His energy curls around yours, vast and dark but gentle, like the hush of a midnight storm.

For a while, neither of you speak.

The night is quiet, save for the distant sounds of other guides working, of espers coming down from battle-highs.

You steal a glance at Malleus. His eyes are half-lidded, his breath even, his fingers curled loosely around yours.

“…You do this often?” he asks suddenly.

“What, guide tired espers?” you shrug. “Yeah. Someone’s gotta be here to catch them before they crash.”

Malleus hums, a thoughtful sound.

“…No,” he says. “I meant… this.”

You blink. “This?”

“Wait for me.”

Oh.

Your grip tightens slightly, a flicker of warmth creeping up your neck.

“I—” You hesitate, then exhale through your nose. “No. Not really.”

Malleus watches you closely. You can feel his gaze on you even as you pointedly avoid meeting it.

“…Then why?” he asks, and his voice is so quiet, so genuine, that you feel yourself falter.

You take a deep breath.

And then, before you can overthink it, you grin.

“Well, you always push yourself too hard,” you say, squeezing his hand once for emphasis. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t keel over from exhaustion.”

Malleus huffs, clearly amused. “I assure you, I would not—”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

He laughs, quiet but real, and your heart skips a very concerning beat.

“…You are quite peculiar,” he muses, gazing at you like you’re some kind of strange, fascinating mystery.

“Yeah, yeah, I get that a lot,” you say, waving a hand. “Now, if you really wanna thank me, take me out for coffee again later.”

Malleus pauses.

You watch, in real-time, as your words settle.

And then—

Slowly, slowly, he smiles.

“…I would like that,” he says, his voice quiet, but so very certain.

And suddenly, the cold doesn’t feel quite so biting anymore.

It was late. Too late. So late that if anyone dared to bother you right now, you would simply keel over and die on the spot out of sheer spite. You had finished your work, logged everything, and were seconds away from clocking out and going home to live as a blanket cryptid when someone grabbed your wrist.

That was already mistake number one.

You turned around, tired and mildly homicidal, to see one of your fellow high-ranking guides standing there. You recognized them—someone competent, someone respected, someone you had never spoken to outside of required work matters.

And yet, here they were, gripping your wrist like you were about to reveal the secrets of the universe to them.

"You got a second?" they asked, eyes shining with something too intense for this ungodly hour.

No. You did not have a second. You barely had the energy to stand upright, let alone entertain whatever nonsense this was about to be. But before you could tell them that, they were already pulling you off to the side, lowering their voice like they were about to ask you for classified information.

"How’d you do it?"

Your brain, already running on fumes, barely processed the question. "Do what?"

"Don't play dumb," they said, looking equal parts exasperated and impressed. "How'd you bewitch Malleus Draconia?"

Your mind, previously sluggish and exhausted, full stopped.

The sheer audacity of the question short-circuited your ability to respond. You just blinked at them, waiting for them to explain whatever the fuck they were talking about.

They misinterpreted your silence as playing coy because they leaned in conspiratorially and hissed, "Don't gatekeep. We want a bite too."

It was at that moment you considered committing actual murder.

"I'm sorry. A bite?" you echoed, voice dangerously calm.

"You got Malleus Draconia—Malleus Draconia—to let you guide him, regularly," they stressed, looking half in awe and half like they wanted to shake you for answers. "No one else has ever gotten close enough to work with him like that. If we knew he was harmless, we would’ve stepped in ages ago. But we weren’t going to take the risk."

You could physically feel something in your brain snap.

So that was it. That was why. It wasn’t that they hadn’t had the opportunity to guide him—it was that they had actively chosen not to. They had taken one look at Malleus, decided it wasn’t worth the effort to risk handling someone as powerful as him, and just left him alone.

And now, because you had proven he wasn’t some terrifying force of destruction, they suddenly wanted in? They suddenly thought they deserved him?

Like he was some exclusive club they wanted membership to?

Your hand twitched. You ripped yourself free from their grip, scowling. "Screw this."

Their eyes widened slightly, clearly not expecting that reaction. "Wait—"

But you were already storming off, anger burning through your exhaustion. You didn’t even realize where you were going until you stepped outside—

And saw Malleus standing there.

Waiting.

For you.

His sharp eyes flickered with concern the second they landed on your face.

"Are you alright?"

Your rage didn't cool, but it twisted into something tighter, something that made your throat close up for an entirely different reason.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached out, grabbed his hand, and started dragging him down the street.

Malleus didn’t resist. He simply followed, letting you pull him along like this was perfectly normal behavior.

The café door chimed as you shoved it open with more force than necessary, still stewing over the conversation from earlier. Malleus, utterly unbothered, stepped around you to order both of your usual drinks without hesitation.

The fact that he had memorized your order without ever asking, without making a big deal of it, without using it as some kind of flex, made something in your chest ache.

You sat down at the table, staring blankly at the surface as you tried to untangle your emotions.

Why were you this angry?

Was it because they had ignored him? Because they treated him like some kind of trophy instead of a person? Because they had assumed the worst of him and only changed their minds when it was convenient?

Yes. Absolutely.

But then—why did you also feel like crying?

Your fingers curled into fists on the table.

And that’s when it hit you.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

You liked him.

Like like liked him.

Like the kind of like that made you want to scream into your hands and never recover. The kind of like that made you want to turn back time and stop this from happening before it was too late. The kind of like that meant your life was now ruined beyond repair.

Your whole body tensed, brain going into full meltdown mode.

And then—just to make everything infinitely worse—

A cup slid into view.

You looked up, and there he was.

Malleus.

Standing in front of you, holding out your drink.

His eyes were gentle, studying you carefully, like he could see every single thought racing through your head. "Are you alright?" he asked again, voice quiet, sincere.

And in that moment, you realized you had two options:

• Stay here, drink your drink like a normal person, and accept the horrifying truth of your newfound feelings.

• Launch yourself out of the nearest window and never be seen again.

Option two was looking real tempting right now.

Another night, another gate opening at the worst possible time.

You were so tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary, existentially exhausted. The universe seemed determined to ensure that you never got a full night’s sleep, and you were starting to take it personally.

Still, you were here, bundled up against the cold, sipping a hot drink as you waited for Malleus.

The gate was a high-level one tonight. You knew it had to have been difficult—he was strong, but no one walked out of those things completely unscathed. So you were already standing up, ready to meet him halfway, when—

That guide.

The one who had all but interrogated you last time.

They stepped in before you could move, approaching Malleus with their best professional smile, like they hadn’t spent years pretending he didn’t exist.

"Do you need guidance?" they asked smoothly, their voice dripping with the absolute audacity.

Malleus blinked at them, clearly surprised. Because why wouldn’t he be? No one else but you had ever offered before.

And your chest burned.

Of course he’d pick them.

They were higher-ranked than you. More experienced. More respected. Malleus, despite everything, was still an outsider to most of the guide network, and it would make perfect sense to accept help from someone with more prestige.

You braced yourself, swallowing the bitter feeling threatening to rise—

But then—

He looked past them.

His eyes landed on you.

And then he smiled.

"I must decline," he said simply, voice polite but final.

And then—much to their visible horror—he walked right past them and straight to you.

The sheer triumph that surged through you was immeasurable.

You barely stopped yourself from cackling, but as you took his hand, guiding him like always, the urge to turn back and stick your tongue out at that seething guide was so strong.

Malleus, oblivious to your inner gloating, watched you with a softness that made your heart ache.

And then, suddenly, it all just—

Hit you.

The sheer depth of your feelings, the way your chest tightened at the sight of him, the way everything in you just settled when he was near—

You broke.

You grabbed him, yanking him forward, and before he could even react—

You kissed him.

Malleus let out a surprised sound against your lips, but after only a second of hesitation—

He kissed you back.

It was warm, steady, and when you finally pulled away, he was glowing, his expression soft in a way that made your breath catch.

"I like you, Malleus," you confessed, your voice quieter than you expected.

And his smile—

It was like you had given him the world.

He cupped your face so gently, kissed your forehead like he was sealing the moment into reality.

"I have feelings for you too," he murmured.

You melted.

You leaned against his chest, warmth seeping into you despite the cold night air.

And as his arms wrapped around you, as you felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, you couldn’t help but be so glad you had accepted his guidance request all that time ago.

(And okay, maybe you were also smug as hell about it. Because when you glanced back at that other guide—

They looked ready to throw hands.)

You had been waiting.

Patiently. Lovingly. For months.

Malleus loved you. You loved him. You were in a relationship, you slept in the same bed, you guided him, he refused to let anyone else even offer—so what the hell was taking him so long?

Why wouldn’t he just ask?

It was infuriating. It was agonizing. It was the most painfully obvious conclusion to your relationship, and yet—

Malleus refused to bond with you.

And frankly? You were at your limit.

So tonight, as you lay wrapped around each other in bed, his arms comfortably encircling your waist, you finally decided to just ask him.

"Malleus," you said, looking up at him, voice soft but firm. "Why haven’t you asked me to bond yet?"

He stiffened. Just slightly. His fingers twitched where they rested on your back.

And then—

He gave you that look. The sad, gentle smile. The one that made your heart clench because it meant he was about to say something infuriatingly self-sacrificial.

"If you ever regret me," he murmured, "you won’t be able to guide anyone else." His thumb traced circles on your back, soothing even as his words infuriated you. "I don’t want that for you."

You froze.

You stared at him.

And in that moment, you were torn between laughing at his stupidity or crying because how could someone so powerful be so utterly dumb?

So you did neither.

Instead—

You kissed him.

You kissed him until he was breathless, until his arms tightened around you, until his body melted into yours and he let out the softest, neediest little sound against your lips.

When you pulled away, his pupils were blown wide, his expression dazed, and you felt the way his heartbeat had turned erratic beneath your palm.

"You," you whispered, pressing your forehead to his, "are the only thing I've ever been sure of in my life."

Malleus let out a shaky breath.

And then you kissed him again.

You pressed him into the bed, slotting yourself against him, feeling his hands grasp at you like he was afraid you might disappear.

But you wouldn’t.

Because you were here. You chose him.

And that night, you finally bonded—just as you always should have.

Malleus had always been powerful. From the moment he was born, strength had been woven into his very being.

His draconic lineage alone made him stronger than most, but when his Esper abilities awakened, it had set him apart even further. Too far apart.

The strongest being in the world.

And because of that, people had feared him.

It had been that way for as long as he could remember. Even other Espers, who should have understood, kept their distance. Some whispered about him behind closed doors, about how a being as powerful as him didn't need guidance in the first place.

It had been Lilia who had guided him for most of his life, a steady presence who never flinched, never wavered, never treated him as if he were something to be afraid of. But when Lilia lost his guiding abilities, that stability was suddenly gone, leaving Malleus untethered.

For years, he had gone without. And then, one day, he heard about you.

You were a Guide who accepted nearly every request. You had guided Espers with overwhelming abilities, those who were labeled as difficult or too much to handle. You had never turned anyone away. And so, despite knowing the likelihood of rejection, Malleus sent a request.

He had expected nothing to come of it. But instead, he got you.

You had seemed nervous when you first met him, but it wasn’t the type of nervousness he was used to. There was no fear in your eyes, only cautious curiosity—an instinctive wariness, perhaps, but not rejection. And despite whatever initial hesitation you had, your hand had reached for his without trembling. You had guided him.

For the first time in over a decade, Malleus had felt light.

And then, the first time you guided him outside a Gate—

That had been a key moment in his life.

He had stepped out, battle-worn, expecting emptiness. And instead—you had waved at him.

You had smiled at him.

He had thought, at first, that perhaps you had simply been assigned to check on him. That maybe it was some unspoken duty, a requirement of your role. But then, as if that warmth weren’t enough, you had asked him to coffee.

He had expected a quiet outing, a moment to rest and speak with you in a more peaceful setting. Instead, Lilia, Sebek, and Silver had shown up, disguises both laughable and obvious, as if the flimsy mustaches and oversized trench coats could fool anyone. He had braced himself for your irritation, for exasperation or a resigned sigh.

But instead—you had laughed.

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, you had welcomed them to join you.

That had been the moment he first thought, perhaps, he liked you.

The first time you had brought him hot chocolate would forever be etched into Malleus’ memory.

It had been a bitterly cold night, the kind where the air cut through even the thickest of coats, where breath curled in the air like mist, and the sky was so crisp and clear that it felt endless.

The battle had left him drained, his energy worn thin in a way he had long since grown accustomed to. He hadn’t expected you to be there. There had been no reason for you to wait for him—you could have guided someone else, finished your duties quickly, and gone home to rest.

But instead, there you were.

Sitting on a bench, bundled in layers, your arms crossed to hold in whatever warmth you could, with two cups of hot chocolate in your hands. You had waved at him like it was the most normal thing in the world, like of course you were waiting for him. Like of course you had brought him something warm to drink.

He had been so startled by the sight that for a moment, he simply stood there, staring, trying to commit every detail to memory. The way the streetlights cast a soft glow against your skin, the way your breath curled in the cold, the way your fingers tapped against the side of the cup as you held it out to him.

He had taken it without a word, still dazed, still trying to process why you had done this. And then, as if you hadn’t just shaken the very foundation of his existence, you had grinned and asked him to take you out for coffee again.

Malleus had never known such warmth, even in the frigid winter.

Then there was the day he had waited for you.

He had been standing outside the guidance center, patiently waiting for you to finish your duties. It had been something of a habit by then—he always waited for you when he could, just as you waited for him. He enjoyed the way your eyes lit up when you spotted him, the way you always greeted him like you had been expecting to see him there.

But that day, when you finally stepped outside, there was no warm smile, no familiar greeting. Instead, you stormed out, eyes blazing, frustration radiating off you in waves. Malleus had barely opened his mouth to ask what was wrong before you grabbed his wrist and started dragging him down the street.

He followed without hesitation, allowing you to pull him along, his mind still catching up to what was happening. You had led him straight to your usual café, barely stopping to take a breath as you shoved the door open and beelined for your favorite spot. Malleus sat across from you, watching with quiet curiosity as you fumed, hands clenched around your menu, your foot tapping aggressively against the floor.

And then, as the tension in your shoulders refused to ease, as you let out a frustrated huff and glared at your drink like it had personally offended you, you had finally told him what had made you so upset.

They had questioned you. They had asked how you had bewitched him, of all people. Like he was some trophy, some untouchable relic that no one had dared lay claim to until you had somehow managed to crack the code. They had assumed that if he were harmless enough to guide, then they would have taken him for themselves. They had spoken about him like he was something to be owned.

Malleus had expected you to be upset. What he hadn’t expected was for you to be so furious on his behalf.

And he shouldn’t have liked it—shouldn’t have felt anything beyond quiet gratitude for your defense of him. But there was something ugly in his chest, something selfish and dark that thrived off the way your anger was so fiercely his.

For so long, people had feared him, had rejected him, had kept him at a distance out of self-preservation. And yet, here you were, not just standing by his side, but fighting for him, defending him, choosing him.

And he wanted that.

He wanted the way you almost stormed into battle for him. He wanted the way your voice shook with anger because you cared about how he was treated. He wanted the way you grabbed his wrist without hesitation, the way you dragged him to this café because he was the person you sought out in your frustration.

He wanted you.

And as you finally sighed, your anger fading just enough for you to take a sip of your drink, Malleus came to a quiet realization.

He had liked you before. But now?

Now, he was falling.

Malleus had never expected to be offered guidance by anyone else.

It had never once crossed his mind as a possibility—he had long since grown used to being avoided, used to the way others hesitated to even meet his eyes, let alone reach out to him. The moment he stepped out of the Gate, still feeling the lingering exhaustion of battle, he had been prepared to find you, as he always did.

And yet, instead of you, there was someone else.

A guide—one he recognized, one who had been among those who had always turned away from him before. And now, suddenly, they were standing before him, offering their assistance as if it were something he needed, as if he should be grateful.

Malleus didn’t even consider it.

How could he? How could anyone else fill the space that was meant for you? How could he even entertain the thought of accepting someone else’s hand when your hand was the only one he ever wanted to hold?

So he simply stepped past them, not bothering to spare them a second glance, not wasting a single breath on an answer. Because they were irrelevant.

Because you were there.

And the moment he spotted you, standing just a few steps away with that bright, warm expression that was meant only for him, he felt something in his chest ease. Like everything had shifted back into place, like the air had cleared, like he was where he was supposed to be.

And when you laughed, really laughed, like this was all some great joke only the two of you were in on, he thought it might be his favorite sound in the world.

And then you took his hand, and the moment your fingers intertwined with his, he knew with absolute certainty—there was no one else for him. There never could be.

And then you kissed him.

For all his years, for all his strength, for all his wisdom, Malleus Draconia had never once been prepared for this.

You had grabbed him, pulled him in, and pressed your lips to his, and Malleus had let out an embarrassingly surprised sound before his instincts took over, before his hands found their way to your waist, before he was kissing you back like he had been waiting for this moment for centuries.

And maybe he had been.

Because when you pulled back, just far enough to whisper, “I like you, Malleus,” he felt like the world had stopped spinning, like time itself had come to a halt just to give him this moment, just to let him have this.

And when he smiled, it was because it felt like you had just handed him the world.

So he kissed your forehead, let his lips linger against your skin, and whispered against you, “I have feelings for you too.”

And when you leaned against him, when you let yourself rest against his chest, Malleus felt something settle in his soul.

He was home.

Then you asked him to bond.

And Malleus hesitated.

Not because he didn’t love you—he did. He had never loved anything the way he loved you.

But because he was afraid.

Because bonding with him meant forever. It meant you would be tied to him, it meant you would never be able to guide anyone else, it meant that if one day you woke up and realized you regretted him—realized you wanted something else, something more, something that wasn’t him—then you would be trapped.

And he could not, would not, allow that to happen to you.

So he had told you no. Not because he didn’t want you, not because he didn’t ache for you in ways he could never put into words, but because he would die before he let you shackle yourself to him forever.

And then you had kissed him.

Hard.

You had pressed him into the bed, breathless and unyielding, your lips against his like you were trying to prove something.

And maybe you were.

Because when you finally pulled back, when your fingers threaded through his hair and your forehead rested against his, you whispered, “You’re the best decision I’ve ever made.”

And Malleus—Malleus, who had spent his entire life waiting to be chosen, waiting to be wanted—felt his walls crumble.

So he let himself believe you.

He let himself hope.

And when he kissed you again, when he let his hands roam over your skin and let himself take you, it wasn’t just an acceptance of your love.

It was a promise.

A promise that no matter what, no matter where life took you, no matter how much time passed—he would always be yours.

And as the bond settled between you, as he felt the pull of your soul entwining with his, Malleus let himself hope for more.

He hoped you would be with him forever.

You woke up feeling warm.

Not just from the blankets wrapped around you, or the way the room was still dim from the early morning light, but from the way Malleus was wrapped around you.

His arms held you firm but gentle, his breath soft against your forehead, his body curled protectively around yours. It was comfort in its purest form.

You smiled, still basking in the afterglow of your bond, and tilted your head up to kiss him.

Malleus stirred, letting out a sleepy hum as his lips curved into a small, contented smile against yours. His eyes fluttered open, still hazy with sleep, and you both just… looked at each other.

The love in his gaze was overwhelming.

So, naturally, you asked the most important question of your life.

"Was the egg picture that Lilia showed me actually you?"

Malleus blinked.

Then blinked again.

And then, to your absolute delight, he looked flabbergasted.

"You—" He stopped, as if trying to process the sheer absurdity of your first words after bonding. "That is the first thing you wish to ask me?"

You nodded, completely serious. "I've been meaning to ask for a while."

And then—

Malleus laughed.

Laughed and laughed.

Deep and rich, his chest vibrating against yours as his entire body shook with amusement.

You pouted and waited for him to get it together, only for him to kiss your forehead, still grinning.

"Yes," he admitted, eyes twinkling. "That was me."

You gasped. Vindication.

Finally.

The mystery that had plagued you for months was solved.

With a triumphant little noise, you snuggled back into him, pressing your face against his chest as sleep threatened to claim you again.

Malleus chuckled, tucking you closer, and as he rested his chin atop your head, he couldn’t help but think—

Despite your eccentricities, he had never been happier than being yours.

Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #malleus x reader #malleus draconia x reader #malleus draconia #twisted wonderland malleus #malleus draconia x you #guideverse x reader #guideverse #࣪ ִֶָ☾. guideverse

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bi-writes · 5 months ago

Note

What do we think about price x young!Wife reader who is kept away from the team (for obvious reasons) and when she is on base to bring some important files to his office, world collide

I think it would be really cute if she gets mistaken for a recruit

he's not moving fast enough for you.

you roll your window down even more, sticking your head out, and you slide your sunglasses down your nose so you can meet eyes with the muppet standing guard at the gates.

"repeat that for me?"

"you're not on the list," the man repeats. he narrows his eyes at you. "all guest personnel must be approved before they enter. i don't make the rules, but i do enforce them."

you raise a brow. your manicured finger slides down the steering wheel, tracing the leather of it, and you let out a deep breath before laughing humorlessly.

"okay. i need you to get on your stupid radio and get captain john price on there. then, you're going to tell him who exactly is waiting here, and then after he informs you that you will let me through, i'm going to make sure you spend the next two weeks scrubbing fucking toilets." you sit back in your seat. you don't mean to be rude or mean, you're usually very kind and very considerate, but you are about to blow the roof off of your patience after the day you've had, and you just want to drop john's things off and go.

the guard scoffs, picking up his radio. he rolls his eyes at you before he goes back into his little office. after a few minutes, he comes back out. his eyes are on the floor, and he comes up to your window and gives you back your id. you toss it into your purse, and he clears his throat nervously.

"i-i'm so...i-i'm so sorry, mrs. price, i--"

"save it."

you put your car in drive and step on it. the purr of your pretty german car leaves the guard in the dust, and you park haphazard, taking up two spots, but you just grab your purse and john's papers and turn the car off anyways.

you're mrs. john fucking price. you'll park how you please, and they can get over it.

you're dressed more casually. you're wearing dark green cargo pants, a white t-shirt, sneakers, and one of john's army-green jackets. when you see yourself in the reflection of a window, you realize you kind of dressed appropriately for the setting, without even meaning to.

you open the door to the building john texted you about, and you walk in with your sunglasses still on. there's a lot of desks around, offices, an ugly mess of couches around a tv that a bunch of recruits are playing team fortress 2 at. they're whooping and yelling, but you pay them no mind as you follow a sign towards the office number john gave you.

you bump right into a big chest. you stumble backwards, scoffing, and you pull your sunglasses off as you tip your head back and glare up. there's some big, giant bear-man standing in your way, and he isn't moving.

"excuse me," you say firmly. "do we have a problem?"

the big dude tilts his head to the side, like he's sizing you up (which is stupid, since he's probably bigger than anyone). he's wearing a DIY skull mask, something messily sewed and painted with thick fingers, and you really want this halloween-enthusiast to get the fuck out of your way so you can leave as soon as possible.

"we? i don't got a problem."

his voice is deep. all gravel, very low, and his tone is very condescending. you may be smaller than him, but your teeth are sharper.

you're sure of that.

"but you've got one," he continues, narrowing his eyes. "those nails aren't regulation."

"excuse me?"

"you heard me."

"i did, but you must be fucking out of your mind if you think i answer to you."

"listen 'ere," the man spits. "i'm a fuckin' lieutenant, and y'r gonna talk t'me like i'm one before i have y'r arse--"

"get out of my way!" you snap at him. "as far as i'm concerned, i outrank every single idiot in this entire fucking building. i don't care if you're a sergeant, a lieutenant, i don't care if you're fucking royalty! move, or i'll make you, so help me god."

"simon."

at the sound, the bear turns around, stepping aside. when peek around his arm, you see your husband, arms crossed over his chest casually as he leans against the wall. he's got a relaxed smile on his face, boonie hat tipped back a little.

"well, this isn't how i wanted you two to meet," john chuckles.

"what, you know this meathead?" you scoff, and the lieutenant, simon, snarls like a dog at your response.

"simon, this is my wife."

simon steps back from you as if you'll sting him. he swallows, his face relaxing under the mask, and you glare at him. you don't expect an apology from someone like him, but you guess the way he reverts his eyes from you is the equivalent of it. you don't think a man like him ever feels out of place or threatened.

"love, this is my lieutenant."

"the lieutenant."

"quite right."

you let out a harsh breath through your nose. you don't say anything more to simon, just give him your back as you walk past him towards your husband. he's saved your husband's life before, so he can be let off easy.

this time at least.

when you lift your hand to give john some papers, simon zeroes in on the giant rock on your left hand, the several carat diamond that sits there.

fuck.

"next time you need something from home, i'm gonna need the red carpet rolled out for me, understand me, john?" you tell him. john smiles, crow's feet deepening, and you narrow your eyes. "say you understand me, john."

"mhm. i understand."

"i don't mean just making sure my name is on some list, i mean an escort and a voss water. in the glass bottle."

"of course, sweetheart."

he bends to kiss you, and you let him. you put a hand under his jaw, thumbing at his beard, and the hat covers the way he lets his tongue slip out and into your mouth. if you didn't have an audience, the taste of tobacco on his tongue would be enough for you to kneel and suck his cock, but he's busy, and you have a hair appointment to get to.

you pull away slowly, touching his bottom lip.

"you better be home in time for dinner," you say. "seven. don't be late."

"won't be late."

his baby blues are so bright, even in the awful fluorescent light. you kiss him again, cupping the back of his neck, and when you pull away, you put your mouth to his ear.

"your office? got ten minutes?"

"no, sweetheart," he murmurs. "don't have it."

"john..." you grip the sides of his tact vest, pouting. "please? please?"

john sighs, shaking his head. he kisses your forehead before nodding behind you, to his lieutenant that still won't leave.

"walk her out, simon. make sure she leaves alright."

"olright."

simon opens your car door for you, and when you get in, you shove your seatbelt into place, angrily starting the car up again. you're having a bad day, and you're horny now.

"goodbye, lieutenant," you say smartly. "by the way, there's some smartass at the front that i told would have to scrub toilets. i trust that you can carry that out for me."

"'ow long?"

"told him two weeks, but i think a day will do just fine."

"'n why's tha'?"

"well, i'm not mad at him anymore, but i'm still a price. and price's follow through on their threats, lieutenant."

you put your sunglasses on, and the window goes back up. simon watches with rapt attention as you pull out with a rev of the engine, and when he glares at you, you smile, raising your hand to flip him off.

the big diamond on your hand blinds him as you drive off.

#captain john price #john price #john price x reader #john price x you #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #price thoughts

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a-bit-of-writing · 2 months ago

Text

08/30 - Negotiate

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Characters: Astarion x Reader

Words: 1,291

Summary: Astarion is used to giving… in exchange for something. Blood, pleasure, favors - everyone wants something. So when you do something kind with no strings attached, he’s suspicious. Then he’s confused. Then he’s undone. Because no one ever offers him company without a price….until now.

note: been wanting to do this for a while now - so I consider this the 1st chapter of my yet to be announced full story. For now, it serves as Day 8th of my fanfiction challenge,

Moonlight silvered every broken column around the camp, catching on pale birch trunks and the scattered shards of shattered statues. The others were asleep or on watch, their muted voices drifting somewhere beyond the ruined archway. Only Astarion remained in the central clearing, lounging with theatrical languor on a fallen pillar, crimson-lined cloak spread like spilled wine across the stone.

You approached with a small mending kit cradled in one hand. His white silk shirt - savaged by a ghoul’s claws earlier - gaped open at the shoulder, fraying threads fluttering against alabaster skin.

Astarion’s eyes flicked to the kit, then to you. One pale brow arched in lazy appraisal. “Darling, if you were desperate to get my clothes off again, you only had to ask.”

You ignored the bait, sinking to your knees beside him. “Hold still.”

“My favorite command,” he murmured, voice a purr shaped for dark corners and entanglements. “Though I usually prefer it whispered.”

You threaded the needle. “And I prefer my patients quiet.”

His lips parted in a small, delighted “ooh,” but he obeyed. Only the occasional hiss of thread sliding through cloth broke the hush. When your knuckles brushed his skin, cool as porcelain beneath moonlight, he glanced down, lashes half‑lidded.

“Must you be so gentle?” he asked, faux‑petulant. “I fear I’ll become accustomed to it.”

“You could learn to enjoy softness,” you said, tightening the final knot.

“Oh, I enjoy many soft things.” His gaze dipped, undeniably appreciative, before returning to your face. “But softness always comes with a bill.” He flashed teeth - not quite a smile, not quite a threat. “Shall we discuss payment?”

You finished snipping the thread. “There is none.”

A laugh burst from him, bright and brittle. “Adorable. Truly. But come now - everyone wants something.” He rose, looming above you, silk settling over lean muscle. “A kiss? A bite? A night tangled in sheets until dawn burns us both? Name it.”

You stood, brushing pine needles from your knees. “Not interested.”

“In me?” He pressed a hand theatrically to his chest. “Impossible. Or perhaps coin, then? Secrets? I have centuries’ worth - recipes for poison, noble scandals, the names of hidden vaults.”

You shook your head.

His smile thinned. “Power, maybe? A favor owed by a monster with sharp teeth. Very useful, our kind of favor.”

Still you said nothing.

Astarion’s mirth cooled into suspicion. He prowled a half‑circle around you, predator graceful despite the torn shirt. “Fine. We’ll drop the flirtation. What darkness do you hide, sweet thing? Are you planning to trade my gratitude for someone else’s misery?”

“Astarion—”

“Or do you fancy ensnaring me?” He leaned close, breath velvet and iron. “Make me yours the way Cazador made me his? I’ve worn chains before; I can spot new ones being forged.”

The hurt behind the venom stung more than the words. You inhaled, steadying your voice. “I don’t want chains. Not on you. Not on anyone.”

He scoffed, but the sound wavered. “Then what do you want?”

You hesitated. Because the truth felt too small, too fragile for a man who thought currency only came in blood or lust. Yet you spoke it anyway, quiet but unwavering.

“Your company,” you said. “Your presence. Sit with me awhile. Just talk. Nothing sexual, no favors owed.” You met his eyes. “That’s all.”

A bark of incredulous laughter escaped him. “That’s rich! You mend my shirt and ask for tea‑time conversation? Darling, is this some new kink I haven’t heard of?”

“I’m serious.”

“People do not help Astarion Ancunin for conversation. They help for pleasure, profit, or pity and I despise all three.”

“I’m not offering pity,” you answered. “And conversation is a pleasure, at least to me. If you’d rather walk away, you can.”

He opened his mouth - surely to deliver another teasing barb - but the words died. You watched his expression shift, glittery amusement draining until confusion sat naked on his features. It lasted only a heartbeat before he hid it behind a smirk, but you’d seen it: the startled child beneath the painted masque.

He licked his lips, voice softer. “You truly expect nothing else?”

“I expect you to keep the shirt intact,” you said, folding your kit. “Beyond that? No.”

Silence unfurled, heavy as velvet. The campfire popped; an ember drifted skyward. Somewhere distant, a nightjar called.

Finally, hesitantly, Astarion settled back on the pillar and patted the mossy stone beside him. “Well. If conversation is the price, it would be rude not to pay.” His tone aimed for flippant but landed shy of conviction.

You sat, leaving a respectful hand’s breadth between you. He glanced at the gap, then at your face, as though trying to discern an angle he could exploit. Finding none, he exhaled - a soft, bewildered sound.

“What would you have me speak about?” he asked. “I warn you, my tales skew toward decadence and gore.”

“Tell me what you miss,” you said, staring into the fire. “Before all this.”

He blinked. Perhaps no one had asked him that in two centuries. You could almost hear the rusty gears turning.

“I…miss flavor,” he said at last, voice contemplative. “Food was pointless after Cazador. Imagine recalling the taste of wine, but every sip now is ash unless it’s blood.” He forced a laugh. “That’s terribly morbid dinner chatter, isn’t it?”

You shrugged. “Dinner’s long over.”

He studied you. In the fire‑lit dark, his crimson eyes caught sparks of gold. “I used to love pastries,” he muttered, as if confessing sin. “Piled high with sugared berries. There was a bakery near the palace in Baldur’s Gate. Dawn‑rise steam in the windows, the scent of yeast and honey.” A wistful curl shaped his mouth, bruised by longing. “I would sneak out with friends after magistrate meetings. Ruin my appetite before banquets.” He huffed. “Petty rebellion, but mine.”

You listened, neither pitying nor prodding. The quiet between you carried no demand. He seemed to feel that difference - like cool water on burned skin.

“Your turn,” he said, after a while. “What do you miss?”

You told him: moonlit windows in a city far south, the hush right before summer rain, the way fresh parchment smells when you crack open a new journal. Small, human things - evenly traded.

Time blurred. He lounged with one knee drawn up, cloak draping elegant folds. Anecdotes slipped free - barbed jokes about Balduran nobles, sly impressions of Cazador’s fawning spawn. Each story left a little more daylight between him and his fear.

When the fire dwindled to a glowing heart, Astarion stretched lithely. “Look at that - we’ve nearly talked the poor flames to death.”

You offered him the blanket draped over your shoulders. “I’m heading to my bedroll. Keep warm.”

He accepted it, fingertips brushing yours - a touch light as breath, yet enough to raise gooseflesh. He noticed, of course; his lips tilted upward in the faintest, most genuine smile you’d seen.

“I’ll return it tomorrow,” he said. Then, quieter, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

A pause. “For deciding I’m worth more than barter.”

You gave a small nod and started toward your corner of camp.

At your first step, his voice followed: dry, teasing again, yet threaded with something softer.

“Just so we’re clear,” he called, “if you ever want to renegotiate - say, trade polite company for a night tangled in scandalous positions - you have only to ask.”

You laughed, glancing back. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He watched you until you vanished beyond the ruined archway. Only when the night quieted did Astarion glance at the neat stitches on his sleeve. He brushed them with one thumb, as if testing reality.

For the first time in two hundred years, someone had offered him kindness priced not in flesh, coin, or fear but in presence. A currency he scarcely believed existed.

And in the hush of crumbling moonlit stone, Astarion found himself strangely, achingly…rich.

#my: stories #fandom: baldur’s gate 3 #astarion #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate 3 #astarion bg3 #astarion x reader #astarion baldurs gate #astarion x you #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion fanfic #bg3 x reader #30 day fanfic challenge

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spurbleu · 4 months ago

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141 x reader. cw. dubcon very much on the verge of noncon, implied drugging

price and kyle who, under the maple light of the underground pub scene, sniff you out. sweating over the jostled, unkempt desire to be seen. hands flirting between your drink and your hair.

it’s like you’re asking for it.

kyle, the more outrageous of the two, places a hand on your lower back. you jolt, but his eyes are the stove to your butter. orders you a drink. slides it in place of your empty glass.

“my husband and I thought you were gorgeous, darlin.”

you stare. glance past him to find a new pair of brick shoulders. a harsh, formidable jaw. blue eyes that you cannot read.

you down the drink. it tastes like brown sugar and leaving with the two men who gave you an out.

syrupy blinks. weak knees. cotton mouth that drools when you watch the brick man drive. lucid body that melts further into the stove man and his wandering hands. you cannot bring yourself to care about their real names.

you really should have.

as you’re about to find out, they’re not married. the strange, two men at the gate call them Price and Gaz. The larger of the two carries you into the house that looks a lot different than yours.

vicid, tired muscles. they lie you down. panic is a small, quiet bird in your chest. there, but not loud. it’s long until the morning, so she doesn’t sing. not yet.

she flutters when you watch stove…Gaz and a man with a mohawk play a hand game to decide who “works you open”.

Price and the one with the skull mask fiddle with their belts.

the liquor solidifies over your vocal cords, and your left dumb and mute. when you open your mouth, a pathetic croak grabs their attentions.

their eyes eat you before their teeth do.

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leyavo · 4 months ago

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| I am my father’s daughter | 5 |

💖 Dad!Price & Daughter!reader, eventual Soap x reader

PART FIVE: John Price hasn’t seen or heard from his daughter in over a year, but that changes when she calls him one night asking for help. 2,908words

[18+] MDNI | TW: hurt/angst/mentions of abuse/ complicated father-daughter relationship

Previous parts > [Series Masterlist]

🔈Reader’s view of John is different, he’s come and gone in her life etc so she thinks he’s not that great. So don’t send me hate

The whirring heater on John's desk blew a cloud of dust in his face as he flicked it on. He didn't know when it had last been used, the halogen bulb glowing orange, blinding him. The small cubicle office they'd assigned him looked like it hadn't been touched in over a decade. Thankfully it had been dusted, a little musty, nothing a cracked window couldn't solve.

The autumn weather dropped considerably the past week and John still couldn't wrap his head around the fact that you didn't have a proper coat. His fleece lined and cord jacket weighing you down, but you wore it with no complaints. He tried to search your bag, but you interrupted him before he could figure out what size in clothes you were. Every one needed a thick coat for the autumn, winter. A staple in the wardrobe, something to pull out every year.

Now that he thought about it, you didn't complain about much. Definitely nothing like your mother, she enjoyed picking fights with him over anything and everything. Not that he'd compare you much, you're your own person. You’re an adult now and he’s starting to feel like he isn't needed, but that’s when parents are needed most, right?

Doesn’t matter how old you are, he wants to help.

A knock sounded on the other side of the door, the person however didn't wait for a response to enter. Kyle walked in, dropping to the seat opposite the captain. He winced, shifting in the hard plastic chair trying to get comfy.

"Little early for our meeting later," John grumbled, gaze flitting to the clock on his computer screen. He picked up the chipped mug and sipped the warm coffee.

"Well, Toff passed Si on her way in and gave him a bag of interview clothes. He's been roped into being a fashion advisor," Kyle chuckled, finger prodding Price's name plate back into the centre of the desk.

John eyed the clock again, two hours till your interview and five till the meeting with Laswell. “And you left him?” John’s brow raised, smile tugging his lips.

That John had to see, he logged out of the computer and rose from his seat, tugging the fleece draped over the armrest. He’d woke a few hours earlier to clear some of his work and have the hour to take you to your interview. You were going to take the bus, which took a lot of convincing for you to give in and let him drive you. There was no way he'd leave you waiting around.

“Maybe you should ask him for some pointers too,” Kyle said, dodging the stress ball flying at his head. "Still at the res' house before Laswell's?" He called over his shoulder, chair tipping onto its back legs as he tried to catch John's gaze.

"Yep, don't be late," John snapped, pushing the back of Kyle's head and setting the chair back on the floor with him. "You boys got everything."

"All set Cap."

Nodding, John shrugged on his fleece and readjusted the knitted fisherman's hat under his hood. The rain lashing against the windows didn't deter him as he pushed the emergency doors open. A group of sergeants acknowledged him, but he didn't stop to chat like he usually would. He flashed his military pass at the gate, squeezing through the gap instead of waiting for it to slide open and allow him entry.

The cluster of houses all the same, red brick exterior and dark wood doors. Thick blocked pavement slippery under his boots, he rushed down the pathway and unlocked the front door. Your voice echoed through to the porch, soft and light as you asked questions.

John inched round the corner, hanging back to take in the moment. You were holding up two belts in your hands and asking Simon which one would be better. Simon's head tilted up at the ceiling, his arm hung off the back of the sofa. You might as well have been talking to the void. He was surprised Simon was still there.

"Never mind, the black is the probably the safest. You're not very good at this," you muttered to yourself, too focused on pulling the belt through the loops of your suit trousers. "I should tuck my shirt in, right?" You glanced to Simon, shaking your head as you realised he wouldn't give you any input.

"Tucked in, Kiddo," John said, sitting on the edge of the arm of the sofa. The bag of clothes that Toff had given you were more than enough, four different suit bags filled with matching pieces. You'd chosen the simplest one, navy straight leg trousers and a crisp blue shirt. A blue pin striped blazer slung on the coffee table. He'd have to thank Toff later.

Simon muttered a thank fuck under his breath, his gaze sliding to John's. He stood from the sofa, walking to the kitchen and flicking the kettle on.

John turned back to you. You buttoned up the blazer, only to undo it and throw a satchel over your shoulder. Something Toff said you could keep, the worn leather had seen her through university and she hoped it'd hold out for you too.

"Ready," you said, standing in front him. You glanced at the watch on your wrist, "takes like, twelve minutes to drive there."

The loafers on your feet are shiny, Prada badge telling him that those too were borrowed from Toff. Maybe he'd be able to take you shopping for a few bits, if and when you got the job. Or just give you his credit card and you order it all.

"Thanks Simon," you said as you passed him on the way out, he raised his cup of tea to you and retreated to his bedroom.

John couldn't get over how grown up you looked, he kept glancing at you and you raised a brow at him, as if you thought he was judging your attire. "Come on, let's get a move on," he said, unlocking the trucks door and opening it for you.

You shifted in your seat, smoothing out the creases in your trousers and pulled the seatbelt, clipping it at your side. The satchel on your shoulder rested on your lap, fingers playing with the buckles on the front.

The truck started on the third turn of the key, the colder weather making the engine stutter, but it always started. Your grip on your bag loosened and your eyes flitted to each road sign and street John drove by.

The passenger window rolled down, glass panel screeching as you turned your face towards the rush of wind entering the truck. Your leg bounced up and down, lips moving silently as if you’re practicing a script for the interview.

“You’ll be alright kiddo. A firm handshake and clear speech, all you need.”

Exhaling, you draped your arm out of the open window. "Can we not," You mumbled, hand pushing against the cool breeze. "I don't wanna talk."

He didn't take it to heart, you were always a quiet kid. John would have to sit in silence till you were ready to speak. A little hand holding onto his pointer finger, head leant against his arm as if you didn't want him to leave again. Each time he came back from an op, it was like you knew he needed grounding and the weight of your touch reminded him that he was a father. Sometimes you'd sit beside the couch by his boots and watch tv with him until you warmed up to him again and climbed into his lap.

Never allowed in their bed because of his nightmares, no you self soothed probably as you never knocked on your parents door. The only time you sobbed into his chest was when he had to return to work, his sleeve twisted in your grasp as he tried to climb into his truck. He tried not look in the mirror as he drove away, didn't want to see you still watching him disappear for who knows how long.

Your mother used to make him stay at the base till his wounds had healed, blaming him for scaring you the one time he came home battered and bruised. John hadn't shown up like that ever since, afraid to cause you any harm.

In some ways he can still see that little girl. Hesitant to reach out, as if you're trying to figure out the kind of man he is now. John doesn't blame you for it, not after he picked you up that night. Not after he found out the type of guy you'd been living with. The thought alone is enough to anger him, but he shoves it down. That's the last thing you need, rage and violence.

John parked in the nearest space, cutting the engine and flinging his seatbelt off. "Good luck, Kiddo."

Forty, fucking minutes you were in the building. You jabbed the down button and waited for the lift. The thumping in your head chipped away, eyes squinting as the metal doors opened and your vision flooded with the harsh florescent lights of the lift. You'd spent the last fifteen minutes staring at a computer screen and filling out test spreadsheets and doing bloody maths.

The lady that interviewed you looked like military. Her hair scraped back so tight it gave her facelift, the pant suit she wore tailored to the curves of her body and clung to the defined muscles of her biceps and calves. You found yourself calling her Ma'am, sitting up straight in your seat and looking her in the eye.

You stared out at the carpark, hoping that you'd be using it soon. The wound on your back burnt, your hand patting the area as you tried to stop the itching sensation rubbing against the scab. You shrugged off the pin stripe blazer and draped it over your arm, the cool cotton shirt light against your shoulder blades. The less weight on you the better.

The mirror beside you highlighted every flaw, the yellow lighting drew out the scar above your brow. Deep rims under your eyes as if they'd been carved there and would never go away. You pressed your finger to the spot, nose scrunching up at your reflection. You tried not to look too long, never were one to look in the mirror.

Another reminder of everything. Another mark to remind you.

Stepping out of the lift you're met with the same receptionist, her head nodding and smile pulling her lips. You handed over your guest I.D and signed your name out, waiting for the security guard to buzz you out.

The cold hits you, but you don't bother slipping on your blazer. The drop of temperature soothing your aching body. You preferred the cold, always easier to make yourself warmer. Walking around the side of the building, you had to do a double take. Your dad's brown truck still parked at the side of the road.

You slowly walked to the truck, the captain too engrossed in the newspaper spread across the steering wheel. A take away coffee cup in one hand and a croissant in the other. As you crept closer you could see the flakey crumbs in his moustache, the sports radio a dull hum of presenters talking about some football league. His window rolled half down, he probably smoked whilst he was waiting for you.

"You're still here," You blurted out, "I mean don't you have work or something to do?"

The Captain didn't even flinch, he folded the newspaper and stuffed the half eaten croissant back into the paper bag, dropping it into the centre console. He leant over to unlock the passenger door, pushing it open as you rounded the truck.

"Don't you worry about that, Kiddo," he said, waving his hand in the air and sipping his coffee quickly before placing it back in the cupholder. "Coffee and a pastry there for ya." He dabbed his face with the scratchy tissue, crumbs falling into the newspaper which he tucked into the side of the door.

The interior reeked of tobacco, another pine tree air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. As if that would make a difference when the Captain smoked like a chimney. There's still an underlying smell of old spice, the same old aftershave that you used to mix in the sink when he was still living with you and your mum.

"Uh, thanks." You're still getting used to the small stuff, the little things your dad gives you without you even asking. You pick up the paper cup and lift the lid, a sweet aroma escaping with it.

The car stuttered to a start, indicator ticking away. The Captain glanced to you, "caramel, you still like that?" He says it like you change your mind weekly, but who are you to turn down a free coffee? Or whatever pastry he's just dumped into your lap.

You don't even know the last time someone had bought you something. It's been ages since you've had the money to buy yourself a coffee let alone be given one.

"Yeah, I still like caramel." Of course you do, he used to bring you caramel chocolates every time he visited when you were a kid, the only reason you liked it so much. It's not till now that you realise it.

The car ride back to base is silent, thankfully the Captain's figured out you aren't one for small talk. Nothing but the football stats blaring through the speakers, the tick of the indicator with each turn. You can't wait to change out of the formal clothes and hide out in your dad's room until the house is empty whilst they're at their meeting.

The Captain swore under his breath as his sacred team's dropped down the league table, finger switching the radio to some classic rock station. You bit your lip trying to muffle the laughter, but his gaze swept to yours, hand squeezing your knee. Another thing he used to do to you as a kid, a yelp leaving your lips. You rubbed the spot, swatting his hand away as he tried to go for another.

You don't wait for the truck to roll to a stop, flinging the door open and slamming it behind you. The Captain calling after you, muffled voice telling you not to slam the bloody door. You're not too bothered though, the safety of the front door in your reach, but it's snatched away as you set foot in the porch.

The guys are all huddled in the kitchen, Simon stirring something in the pot over the cooker. Kyle setting the table and Johnny's leaning against the counter tasting what ever's on the spoon. So much for eating in the canteen.

A hand landed on your shoulder, "Why don't you get changed and we'll have some dinner. The boys made stew," the Captain said, giving you a light push towards his room.

You nod, not quite sure why they're all having dinner so early, but you don't question it. Their laughter and voices echoed down the hallway, Simon asking Johnny to speak English another round of laughter erupting. You shred the suit and chuck on some comfy clothes, slipping back out.

Just like everything else, they move in sync with each other. Like a family would, well that's what you've seen in movies. You sink into the chair beside the Captain, staring at the placemat and cutlery set in front of you. Everything mismatched, the weight of the knife and fork different.

The guys took their seats at the table, Kyle stood over the casserole dish in the middle with a ladle in hand. "Anything you don't like?" Kyle said, ladle paused above your bowl before he adds all of the food to it.

You shook your head, "I'm not fussy." It was food at the end of the day, you weren't going to turn down a warm home cooked meal. Soft beef, carrots, potato and dumplings swimming around the casserole dish. Kyle served up three spoonfuls and placed your bowl in front of you.

Apparently Kyle's the designated person when it comes to dishing up equal proportions, but he gave you extra according to Johnny. Another reason they go to the canteen on base, so they can help themselves to food and not worry about sharing. That and the convenience of going whenever they've got the time.

"So how'd it go?" Johnny asked between bites, he sucked in a breath trying to counter the heat of the food in his mouth. His spoon already digging for the next load.

"I think it went well, won't hear back for a couple days," you replied, pushing the dumplings around in the stew.

Simon's elbow knocked into your arm, your spoon clanging back into your stew. You're squeezed between him and your dad, both of them invading your space. He doesn't say anything, just dropped a dumpling into your bowl instead of an apology. pointing his fork as if to tell you eat up.

“I’m sure you’ll get it,” Johnny said, scraping the last bits of his food off his bowl. “How about you help me clean this up?”

You nodded piling up all the stuff the on the table and dumping it in the sink. Maybe staying here wasn’t so bad after all.

[PART SIX]

✨ Thanks for reading I hope you enjoyed it :) there might be some errors/mistakes as I'm dyslexic, I do check my work a couple times, but I do miss bits and pieces - Leya

Taglist: @unclearblur @enfppuff @reiluvr @elita1 @tired-writer04 @kaoyamamegami @gallantys @leon-thot-kennedy @trulovekay @harley101399 @misshoneypaper @rpgsandstuff @tomatto1234 @lolyouresilly @madsothree @astrothedoll @grandfartvoid @delaynew @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @little-mini-me-world @exitingmusic @majocookie @elegancefr

(Some of the tags wouldn't work so sorry if I didn't tag you. If you would like to be added just let me know)

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miaaaxxz · 2 days ago

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Bush Man | CL16

summary: It was supposed to be an ordinary night.Just a walk home after the club, the familiar silence of Monaco in the early hours. But then you found him. In your bush.And nothing about that night or the morning was normal. word count: 1.2K

pairing: charles leclerc x female!reader

NOT PROOFREAD

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After another race where Ferrari had managed to screw him over , again, Charles Leclerc flew back to Monaco with a head full of noise and no desire to hear anyone’s voice but his own.

Summer break had officially started, but instead of rest, he felt hollow. Drained. Like something inside him had burned out quietly while no one was looking.

He didn’t even unpack. He just threw on a jacket, grabbed his wallet, and left the apartment. No plans, no texts. He needed to not think. So he went where thinking was nearly impossible: a club.

The lights were too bright. The music too loud.

He hadn’t meant to drink that much , a couple shots, just to take the edge off. But the edge only grew sharper. The music blurred into a hum, the voices faded into static, and at some point, the idea of staying in that room, in that body, became unbearable.

So he left. Alone. Jacket forgotten somewhere. Phone slipping in and out of his hand. His steps unsteady as he wandered through the warm streets of Monaco, passing bars, cafés, glowing storefronts he’d known since childhood.

He didn’t know where he was going.But eventually, he saw it. A patch of green. A quiet little garden in front of someone’s house. And for some reason it looked inviting.

So Charles Leclerc, Formula 1 driver, Ferrari’s golden boy, collapsed into a bush like it was a luxury mattress.

જ⁀➴

You had just said goodbye to your best friend at the corner of the street, the two of you walking home from a night out that was supposed to last one drink and ended five hours later. Typical.

Lina lived a few houses down. You were staying at your aunt’s place for the summer, which thankfully wasn’t far. She made sure you got to the front gate before turning back, still talking about some guy in the club who had danced.

“Text me when you get in” she grinned.

“Only if you promise not to drunk-message your ex again.”

You waved her off with a lazy smirk and headed inside. Within minutes you were out of your dress and into the comfiest t-shirt you owned. The one with the slightly faded print and sleeves you always rolled twice.

You had just sat on the edge of the bed when your phone lit up.

Lina. Again.You frowned, picking up.

“I don’t wanna scare you or anything, but I think you have a Charles Leclerc in your bush.”

You blinked. “…I have a what in my bush?”

“A man. In your garden. And he looks exactly like Charles freaking Leclerc. Like... Monaco’s price. Ferrari golden boy"

You sighed. “You’re drunk. Lina, babe, we’ve talked about this. You can’t just manifest men into existence.”

“I’m dead serious. Come outside right now. Bring a flashlight. Or a bat. I don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

She hung up.

Still half-convinced this was some sleep-deprived prank, you shoved your feet into the first pair of slides you could find and tiptoed down the stairs of your aunt’s house. The summer air in Monaco was heavy and warm, humming faintly with the remnants of club music from the hill above.

Lina stood dead still near the front hedge, phone flashlight trained at something just beyond the leaves.

“There. Look,” she whispered dramatically. “I swear is him”

You squinted. There was definitely someone in the bush. A figure lay curled up awkwardly in the bushes, one shoe missing, hair a chaotic mess, muttering low curses in French.

“…Oh my God,” you breathed.

“Right?” Lina hissed. “Tell me that’s not him.”

You angled your phone light closer to his face.

Brown eyes squinted open, immediately scrunching shut again. He groaned.

“Putain de lumière… qu’est-ce que c’est…”

Yep. That was him.

That was Monaco’s golden boy. Passed out in your shrubbery.And definitely very drunk.

“What do we do? Call someone?” you whispered, panic rising. “Ferrari? A manager? The Pope?”

Lina looked down at him, then at you. “You want me to call Ferrari and say ‘Hi, your driver’s in my garden and it's look like he's dying'"?

“I don’t know!” you hissed. “Check if he has his phone or something.”

She leaned down, carefully patting his pockets while trying not to fall over.

“Found it!” Lina pulled out a sleek phone completely black.

“…It’s dead.”

Of course.

You both stared at each other for a long moment, like you were in the middle of some weird alternate universe.

“What now?” Lina asked.

You glanced down at him again. He groaned, rolling slightly, trying to find a comfortable position in the shrubbery.

“…We drag him inside.”

“What?”

“We can’t just leave him in a bush, Lina!”

“I’m not dragging an unconscious Formula 1 driver into the house like it’s normal!”

You sighed. “Help me with his legs.”

Lina groaned. “This is how people end up on the news.”

“He’s heavier than he looks,” Lina hissed, practically folded in half as she tried to lift Charles by the shoulders.

You had one arm under his knees and another gripping the back of his now grass-covered shirt. “Why is he so floppy?”

“Because he’s unconscious. And a man.”

You adjusted your stance, your sock sliding slightly on the tile as you both finally dragged him through the front door. He groaned low in his throat, head lolling against Lina’s shoulder.

“Shhh,” you whispered instinctively, though no one else was home.

Your aunt had left for Nice that weekend, a spontaneous getaway with her best friend.

“I think my spine just snapped,” Lina muttered as you both half-carried, half-dragged Charles into the living room and awkwardly maneuvered him toward the couch.

“I think my soul just left my body.”

You bumped his legs against the coffee table on the way. He barely flinched. Just let out another dramatic groan in slurred French and melted deeper into your grip.

“Almost there,” you breathed, sweat prickling the back of your neck.

With one final push, the two of you managed to drop him gently, but not gracefully onto the couch. He slumped sideways, one arm flopping dramatically off the edge.

You both stood back, panting.

Lina placed her hands on her hips. “Well. That’s probably the closest I’ll ever get to Charles Leclerc’s thighs.”

You gave her a flat look.

She smirked. “Too soon?”

You walked over, grabbed the soft grey throw blanket from the armchair, and unfolded it.

“Help me roll him.”

“What are we, paramedics?”

“Shut up and lift.”

Between the two of you, you managed to get him somewhat properly positioned head on the pillow, legs stretched out, arms tucked in enough to not dangle off the sides.

You pulled the blanket over him, tucking it slightly around his shoulders, then stepped back and stared at the scene.

Charles Leclerc.Formula 1 driver.Sleeping like a tranquilized bear in your aunt’s house.

“What even is my life right now?” you muttered.

Lina flopped onto the armchair. “Honestly? I don’t know, but I think I love it.”

Eventually, Lina stood up and stretched. “I should go before I start making questionable choices.”

You walked her to the door. “Thanks for helping me not drop him on the front steps.”

She winked and disappeared into the night.

You closed the door behind her, locked it, then turned back to the couch.

Charles was still fast asleep, mouth parted slightly, one hand now curled under the pillow like he’d always belonged there.

You sat cross-legged on the rug, watching him for a moment that lasted longer than it should’ve.

Then you muttered to yourself, “Tomorrow is going to be weird.”

જ⁀➴

Sunlight poured gently through the curtains, casting long stripes of gold across the wooden floor.

The apartment was still. Quiet. Still half-asleep.Until a soft, muffled groan broke the silence.

Charles stirred on the couch, head sinking deeper into the pillow before lifting suddenly, his brow furrowed, lips dry and slightly parted.

His body ached. His mouth tasted like regret. And his brain? Foggy. Useless.

He blinked against the light, squinting as he tried to figure out... anything.

This wasn’t his house.This wasn’t anyone’s house he recognized.

He sat up slowly, groaning again as the blanket slipped off his chest.

The first thing he noticed was the unfamiliar living room: warm-toned walls, a throw blanket now puddled in his lap, the scent of lavender lingering faintly in the air.

The second thing he noticed... was you.

Curled up in the armchair across the room, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, a half-full mug resting on your knee. You looked like you’d just woken up too, hair messily tied up, but your eyes were fully on him.

He stared at you.

You stared back.

A tense beat passed.

He ran a shaky hand through his hair, trying to remember how he’d ended up here.

He opened his mouth, voice dry and cracked.

Then, he finally spoke.

“Where am I?”

You stretched and yawned softly, pushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“You’re at my aunt’s,” you said simply. “She’s away for a few days, so I’m looking after the place.”

Charles blinked, trying to piece together the foggy fragments of last night.

Then the memory hit or at least part of it.

“…Did I…?” he asked, voice hoarse. He gestured between the couch and where you were sitting. “Did we…?”

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

“No,” you said, lips twitching into a small, amused smile. “ Babe, I just found you in the bush.”

Charles stared at you.

“…Sorry, what?”

“The bush,” you said again, nodding toward the window. “Outside. You were face-down in it. Very committed, honestly.”

He let out a noise half groan, half mortified choke. His hands dragged down his face as if he could wipe away the entire memory.

“Putain…” he muttered, muffled.

You took a slow sip of your coffee. “So no, nothing happened. ”

“God…” he muttered again, now flopping back against the couch, blanket tangled around his legs like it was trying to strangle him out of pity. “Please tell me no one saw that.”

You tilted your head.

“Are you asking if I’m going to tell anyone, or if I’ve already drafted the tweet?”

He cracked one eye open. “Both.”

You smirked. “Depends.”

His brow furrowed. “…On?”

You leaned back, swirling your mug slowly.

“Do I get free paddock passes for life if I keep it a secret?”

His groan echoed through the room as he dropped his head back against the pillow.

“Please don’t blackmail me.”

You grinned. “Too late.”

Another pause.

Then silence again. But this time, a little warmer. He peeked at you from under the blanket.

“I really was in a bush?”

You nodded. “Dead center.”

“…That explains the scratches on my neck.”

“And the bit of leaf still in your hair.”

He reached up immediately, running his fingers through it. You pointed. He missed it. You walked over, leaned down, and gently plucked the small, crumpled green leaf from behind his ear, holding it up like a prize.

“Souvenir?” you asked.

He let out the softest, defeated laugh.

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

@luvs4haechan @emneedshelp @thepassionatereader @paaarrriiiii @formula1fordisaster @vinylphwoar @virtualperfectioncat @sltwins @lost-library-of-violets (Tagging based on previous fic! If you don’t wanna be tagged in other future things I post, just lmk 💌 part 5 of Unfinished Business soon)

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hederasgarden · 6 months ago

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The Price of Survival (2)

Summary: Rescued by a stranger from a dangerous situation, you quickly find yourself thrust into an even more perilous one, forced to depend on him for protection in a world where survival means trusting no one. Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 2.4K Rating: 18+ only, mature themes. Modern zombie AU, references to attempted SA, overall dark/gritty themes. Not all themes will be tagged. A/N: Thank you to @ryebecca and @aninnai for looking this over! Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Part 1 ♡ Gladiator Masterlist

You follow behind Lucius, tethered to him by the short length of rope he holds. His steps are steady, his pace unhurried despite the darkness, but you can’t help checking over your shoulder. There hasn’t been a hint of the undead for hours, and the silence only makes you more uneasy.

As you turn to glance behind you once more, your toe catches on a rock, and you stumble. But Lucius is quick, his hand steadying you before you can fall. It happens again moments later, and without a word, he closes the distance, slipping his hand between your arm and side to pull you closer. You keep your gaze fixed ahead, your fear coiling tighter with every step.

Now that the rush of adrenaline and fear has settled into a steady pulse of terror, the sting in your wrists grows unbearable. The skin is tight, itching as the blood dries. Your shoulders ache from the strain of your bound arms while your side throbs, bruised from your fall. Your feet feel almost numb from the cold water.

A hundred questions press against your tongue, but Lucius hasn’t spoken a word since he tied you up so you swallow them all. You know where he’s taking you, back to the settlement the other men mentioned. It’s not hard to guess what’s waiting ahead, and the thought makes your stomach twist. You think about running again even though you know it’s futile. Lucius has shown you what he’s capable of.

You’re tired, your legs unsteady as you force yourself to keep moving. After a minute or two, the dense forest begins to thin, and the darkness lifts slightly to reveal a clearing ahead. A massive wooden wall looms in front of you, so high that you have to tilt your head back to see the top. Lucius steps forward, his voice cutting through the still air as he calls out to someone on the wall. A figure appears on top, a man with an arrow notched in his bow. He stares down at you, surprised by your presence.

“That’s a strange looking deer,” he calls down, watching you with a curious, open smile.

Lucius exhales sharply, irritation creeping into his tone. “Viggo and the others are bringing the game back. Open the gate.”

The man shakes his head, muttering something you can’t hear and then calls over his shoulder for the gate to be opened. You glance nervously behind you, the words Lucius and the man trade feeling painfully loud. Lucius seems to sense your unease, glancing back into the dark woods.

“There are no undead near the settlement,” he says. “We cull them when they get too close to make sure their numbers don’t grow too great.”

An opening appears in the wall, a door so small that you and Lucius must duck to pass through it. You can’t help but wonder how much longer the safety of this settlement will last or how long the culling will keep the dead at bay. There were rumors of places like this, outposts that managed to carve out some semblance of peace. But every one your group found had been abandoned, overrun by the undead, or collapsed under the weight of its own people.

As you enter, the man from the wall slides down a thick length of rope, his movements swift and practiced. He’s dressed in worn fatigues and lands with a muted thud. His eyes scan you briefly before settling on Lucius.

“Macrinus will want to see her. He’s in the canteen.”

Lucius nods sharply and roughly jerks you forward.

Torches line the path, their flickering flames casting a soft glow that illuminates the way ahead. You pass a dozen small cabins, each spaced evenly apart. There’s no sign of life as Lucius leads you forward, the stillness around you thick and unsettling. It’s only when you reach a large wooden lodge, standing apart from the row of smaller cabins on the other side, that Lucius finally slows. To your shock, artificial light spills out through the wide windows that line the front of the building. The sight is jarring, electricity was something you never thought you'd see again.

The porch creaks under your combined weight when you both climb the steps. Lucius pushes open a heavy set of double doors, and you’re hit with a rush of warm air and the rich scent of food. Your stomach growls painfully and your mouth salivates in response. The three long tables that dominate the center of the room are full of men, women, and a few small children. The murmur of their voices rises and falls in conversation, punctuated by the quiet clink of cutlery. No one notices you enter but as Lucius takes you deeper into the room, the chatter slowly begins to cease.

It doesn’t escape your notice that there are nearly twice as many men as women here. The few women present watch you carefully, their expressions hard to define. You catch the eye of a woman seated near you. She rubs her swollen belly and exchanges a look with the woman beside her who subtly shakes her head, some silent warning passing between them.

Lucius comes to a stop before a small table set off to the side, where an older, strikingly beautiful blonde woman sits beside a bald man. She watches Lucius intently, the only sign of any emotion you see is the subtle tightening of her jaw. The man beside her seems oblivious to your presence, casually rifling through a bowl of fruit, his fingers moving leisurely from one piece to the next. Though there’s nothing overtly threatening about him, your heartbeat picks up when he looks at you.

“Lucius, my boy,” he greets, leaning back and spreading his arms wide. “You’ve brought us a new guest.”

The man beside you nods, his tone neutral. “Macrinus.”

Macrinus chuckles, unbothered by the cool greeting he receives. He rounds the table and approaches you. “Come now, is the rope really necessary?” he asks, glancing at Lucius.

Lucius unties your arms, and the older man steps closer, his smile widening as he studies you with a calculating, almost predatory interest. It’s not the crude desire you felt from those men in the woods, no, it’s something far worse. It makes you feel small and insignificant, like an insect under a microscope. You rub your aching forearms, forcing yourself not to retreat. With Lucius standing so close, his shoulder brushing yours with every breath, you feel hemmed in.

“It’s been a while since we’ve found any survivors,” Macrinus says before introducing himself and the woman beside him as his wife, Lucilla. “You must be hungry,” he continues. “Come, let's feed you, and then perhaps we can get you some clean clothes. We have hot water for a shower, too.”

There’s something unsettling about the warm, friendly demeanor of the man in front of you. The veneer of his kindness feels thin in light of Lucius’s tense silence and the behavior of the women. There’s a trap here but you’re uncertain of what will spring it.

"Am I...a prisoner?" you ask hesitantly.

Macrinus laughs, shaking his head. “Heavens no, but we must be careful about who we take into our settlement." He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper as if he's sharing a secret just for you. "Lucius is just the cautious sort," he adds.

Cautious. You think about the way Lucius killed those men in the woods to protect you, his brutal efficiency. You stare back at Macrinus, unsure what to say. He sighs and leans back on the table, crossing one foot over the other.

“You are free to leave if you wish but I hope you’ll hear me out. If you’re not satisfied you can go,” he promised solemnly.

“Please, sit with us,” Lucilla says with a gracious smile. “If Lucius brought you to us, you must be special.”

“Very special,” Macrinus echos.

You glance at Lucius but find him staring straight ahead. For a brief moment, his gaze sweeps to Lucilla before quickly shifting away.

“Some food for our guest please,” Macrinus commands.

He snaps his fingers at a young man sitting nearby who springs into action. Lucius pulls out a wooden chair, his touch gentle as he guides you to sit. When he takes the seat beside you, Macrinus spares him a brief, displeased look.

“We’ve set a place for you with your men. You should join them.”

“I’ll eat here, with my mother,” Lucius responds.

You take in the newly revealed information with a surprised blink, looking between both pairs of blue eyes, their expressions carefully neutral, unreadable. Lucius takes a steaming bowl of soup from the young boy and places it in front of you, accompanied by a small piece of bread. You hesitate for a moment, fingers hovering over the food. The bread is soft, its yeasty scent warm and inviting, a comfort you haven’t felt in what feels like forever.

Your stomach growls, reminding you just how hungry you are, though a sharp edge of nausea lingers. You take a bite, savoring the warmth that spreads through your belly. The stew is rich, hearty, and full of flavor. It’s been so long since you’ve had something like this, something that feels real and sustaining. It tastes like before.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, and you blink rapidly, willing them back.

“I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through out there,” Macrinus says, shaking his head. “The hardships you must have endured. It’s a miracle you found us.”

He pats the back of your hand, but this time you can't help the involuntary flinch that passes through your body. Too many hands have touched you tonight, unfamiliar and heavy with intent. The thought of another hand on you churns your stomach.

“Our rules here are simple. Everyone contributes to keeping the settlement running. If you stay, we’ll find you a suitable job based on your skill set,” he continues, popping a strawberry into his mouth. “We work hard here and in return you’ll never go hungry or cold.”

As you and Lucius eat, Macrinus explains the rules, most of them simple and easy to follow. By the time he finishes, your spoon scrapes against the bottom of the bowl, the last of the soup gone. You feel uncomfortably full, a heaviness settling in your stomach.

“There is one last rule.” He pauses, leaning closer and Lucius stiffens beside you. “We don’t allow unattached women in the settlement.”

Your brow furrows. You look from him to Lucius and his mother but their expressions offer no clarity.

“I-I don’t understand.”

“It’s not anything personal,” he says. “It’s for the safety of the settlement. Women, unattached women…well, things can get complicated. Tensions can rise. Things...happen.”

Macrinus leans back, casually draping an arm over the back of Lucilla’s chair. His hand brushes lightly over her shoulder, a gesture that might have seemed comforting if not for the sharp, unsteady breath she takes in response. A faint shudder ripples through her, as if his touch stirs something deep within, something unsettling. She clears her throat and beside you Lucius’s fingers tighten around his spoon, his knuckles turning white.

“There were incidents when Macrinus first founded the settlement. Violence, discord. It almost didn’t survive.” She pauses, her eyes flicking briefly to her son, then back to you. “The rule was put in place after that, to keep things...stable.”

The spoon in your hand slips from your fingers, clattering against the bottom of your empty bowl. For a moment, you feel numb, frozen in place as the weight of their words sinks in. Unattached. The word echoes in your mind, a cold realization dawning. You remember the cryptic conversation between Lucius and Viggo earlier, the undercurrent of something unspoken that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“If you decide to stay, you’ll be given time to decide the right match for yourself,” Macrinus assures you. “And if, at the end of that time, you don’t feel this works for you, you’re welcome to leave.”

You swallow hard, struggling to keep the rising tide of horror from breaking free. Now that the truth is finally clear, you understand exactly what it was Lucius had tried to warn you about.

Macrinus stands smoothly, his voice rising above the conversation of the room. “Everyone in this settlement is here because they chose to be.” You don’t need to turn around to know every eye in the room is fixed on your table, waiting for your reaction. “Plenty of others have taken their chances outside. The choice is yours.”

What kind of choice was that? You want to ask, but the words die in your throat. Outside these walls, there’s nothing left but death and suffering. You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, but the grief you haven’t even had time to process crashes over you like a wave. The handful of people you could rely on in this shattered world are gone, taken from you only hours ago. You are utterly alone now. The only thing you know for sure is that it’s not freedom that Macrinus offers.

You don’t even realize you’re standing until the sharp clatter of your upturned chair jolts you back to reality. Your progress is abruptly halted by Lucius, his hand closing around your wrist. His touch burns and a soft, pained sound escapes your lips. When you look up at him, you see that his gaze is fixed, not on you, but on his mother.

“It’s a lot to take in,” Lucilla murmurs softly, her voice sweet as she rises from her chair. She brushes her hand lightly over Macrinus' arm and watches him through her lashes. “Let me help her get settled for the night.”

Macrinus stares at her for a moment before he gives a small nod. Lucius releases your wrist as his mother rounds the table.

“Come,” she encourages you, offering you her hand. When you hesitate, her expression grows more brittle. “Please.”

After a brief moment, you place your hand in hers, allowing yourself to be gently pulled to her side. She leads you back the way you came, her steps slow and deliberate, guiding you past the row of tables and the silent onlookers. As Lucilla ushers you into the cool night, the door closing softly behind you, you catch one last glimpse of Lucius. He stands motionless, his hands hanging loosely while his eyes burn bright with a storm of emotions you can’t decipher.

#lucius verus #lucius verus x reader #lucius verus x you #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #The Price of Survival #paul mescal

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angel5ofp0rn · 1 year ago

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♡ part eleven ♡

ExHusband!Price x f!reader

You have been re-married to your former ex-husband John Price for a few days now. Because, at the end of the day, John is a gentleman and would be damned if he were to have a child out of wedlock.

He’s at the grill on your back porch, beer in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other. A few of his SAS buddies, who came for the small re-marriage ceremony and are leaving tomorrow, are chatting with John while you greet the parents of your children’s friends for your youngest’s birthday party.

“Another little John, huh?” Kyle, one of John’s SAS buddies, nods towards your barely-visible baby bump and takes a sip of his beer.

“Another little John.” You confirm with a grin and rub a hand over your bump that is mostly concealed with your sundress.

“Gonna keep trying until one of ‘em finally looks like you?” He matches your grin.

“That, or until John gets his own personal football team. Whichever comes first.” You joke. Kyle just shakes his head with a chortle.

You look back towards the porch, watching John expertly handle the grill. He catches your eye and gives you a wink, making your heart flutter despite the years and the complications.

"How’ve you been holding up, then?" Kyle asks, a bit more seriously now, his eyes searching yours. “Heard you just found out about Nadia and Theo a few months ago.”

You smile softly, looking out over the yard where the kids are playing, laughter and shouts filling the air.

"It's been... an adjustment. But we're making it work."

Kyle nods, his expression understanding. “‘Course. You two’ve always had something special, haven’t you?”

Before you can respond, a small hand tugs at Kyle’s pant leg. You look down to see your oldest, wide-eyed and bouncing with excitement. "Uncle Kyle, can you play socc- I mean, football with us?"

Kyle grins, setting his beer down on a nearby picnic table. "Sure thing, champ. Let's show these old folks how it's done."

You laugh as Kyle and your oldest head off further in the yard, the other children tow. As you watch them play, you notice Matt walking through the gate with his daughter.

A small knot forms in your stomach as the man approaches, a polite smile on his face. "Hey there," he greets, his eyes flicking to John at the grill before settling back on you.

"Hey, Matt," you reply, trying to keep your tone light. "I'm glad you and Emma could make it."

His daughter, Emma, runs off to join the other kids, and Matt stands there awkwardly for a moment. "How’ve you been?" he asks, his voice gentle.

"Good," you say, nodding, blushing. "Things have been good."

John, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, wraps an arm around your waist, the other still holding a beer. "Mark," he says with a nod, his tone neutral. "Good to see you."

“You too, John," Matt replies with a smile. He’s not phased by the purposely incorrect name, or at least he’s not showing it.

You nudge John with your elbow and he covers his smirk by taking a swig of his beer.

Matt eventually joins some of the other parents in watching their children play football or jump around in the bouncy house.

“Why do you have to be such a jerk?” You glance up at John.

“What?” He gives you an unconvincingly innocent look.

You roll your eyes and grab the nearly empty lemonade pitcher from the table. You take in inside to refill it, leaving John outside with everyone else.

You hear the sliding glass door open while you’re slicing fresh lemons to put into the pitcher. John appears behind you, his hands finding your hips and pulling you into him. His facial hair tickles your neck as he presses a few kisses there.

“C’mon, love. Y’r not upset with me ‘cause of Mitch, are ya?” He murmurs.

“His name is Matt.” You correct, still focusing on the lemonade. “I just don’t know why you have to act like that. His daughter is one of Gabriel’s best friends, I see him all the time at school pick up and at soccer practice. It’s already awkward because of that date we went on; I don’t want it to be even worse every time we see each-“

You gasp when you feel John lifting the skirt of your dress up your thighs.

He hooks his index finger around your thong, moving it to the side for access. “Ya still have feelings f’r him? Hm?”

You shake your head ‘no’, setting the knife and lemon down on the cutting board. John hums as if he’s considering your answer.

You hear his belt coming undone. Then his zipper.

“Saw how flustered and red you got when he was talkin’ to you…” John mumbles, his hardness pressing up against your entrance. “Can’t have that, now, can we?”

You slowly shake your head again.

John’s head pushes past your lips and he sinks into you slowly, wanting you to feel every inch pushing deeper inside of you.

“Y’think he could make you feel like this?” John whispers, his breath hitting the back of your neck. “Think he’d know exactly how you like it? Hm?”

“N-no,” You shake your head again. Your hands ball up into fists as you try not to moan too loudly. “John, the party-“

“It can wait.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

John reaches a hand around to stimulate your throbbing clit with his middle finger while your walls tighten around his thick member.

“All mine,” John grunts as he thrusts deep into your tight little pussy. “I don’ care if I have to fuck you in front of him to make it clear.”

You both come within a few minutes. Your eyes roll back, you can hear your heart beating in your ears.

“Uncle Si? Is my mummy getting the cake?” You hear your youngest ask outside. Your eyes widen for a moment and you almost push John off of you, but Simon casually redirects the birthday girl away from the house and back into the yard.

John finally pulls out and tucks himself back into his pants. He adjusts your dress for you, gives your ass a slap and takes the pitcher.

“Go get y’rself cleaned up, lovey. We’ll do the cake when you get back.” He presses a kiss to your temple and heads outside.

You stand in the kitchen, dizzy and blushing…

And triumphant, because your little plan to make John jealous worked.

A little drama never hurt.

•••

You lean down to press a kiss to your oldest’s head from where he’s fast asleep, lying on top of Kyle on the living room sofa.

“Little man partied hard.” Kyle grins. You offer to take him up to bed so Kyle could relax more comfortably, but he waved you away. He said something about how he couldn’t let you carry anything, let alone a five year old, while pregnant.

You just shrug and head upstairs. Simon is on his third or fourth bedtime story, and your youngest is trying her hardest to hold her eyes open.

“Goodnight, birthday girl.” You press a kiss to her head.

“Mummy, you forgot uncle Si.” Your now three year old yawns and rubs her eyes with her little fist.

“Goodnight, Simon.” You grin, then press a kiss to the top of his head as well. Your daughter burst into giggles.

“g‘night,” Simon mumbled shyly. “Now, li’l miss. This is our last book, got it?” He warned your toddler in his fake-stern tone.

You finally get to your room and immediately walk to the master bathroom. John’s already in the shower and hasn’t noticed you walking in.

You’re quick to undress and toss the clothes into the hamper before stepping into the shower behind your ex husband.

You wrap your arms around his waist, hugging him close to yourself.

John doesn’t even flinch- he never does. He just continues washing his hair as if you’d been here the whole time.

“Kids asleep?” He asks casually, turning to wrap you up in his own arms.

“Kyle’s got Gabe, Simon has Lins.” You confirm as you let your eyes close, resting your head against John’s bare chest.

“And who has you?” John asks with a lazy smile. He begins to wash your hair for you without you asking, as if it was just natural for him to care for you.

“You have me.” You murmur, still hugging him. “‘m all yours.”

“That’s wha’ I wanted to hear.” John has his hands on either side of your head. He tilts it back just enough for him to give you a proper kiss on the lips before going back to washing you.

<< prev next >>

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stargirlygirl · 6 months ago

Text

their omega

જ⁀➴ chapter one: good purchase

alpha! bakugou, kirishima, denki, sero x omega!fem!reader⋆｡°✩ — angst, hurt/comfort, you get dropped off to your new home, smau + fic, 1.7k words

m.list

a/n: '🌽⭐️s' gc from denki's pov

fic underneath smau

You open the passenger door of the dealer’s car, looking out at the beautiful house that you will soon call home. Not willingly of course. The dealer grunts at you to get out of the car, and you obey. Your skin is like porcelain it’s so flawless and delicate looking. That is of the skin revealed by your basic dress. The dress that is worn by all of the omegas when they’re taken to their new ‘home’. But beneath that dress was bruised skin and aching muscles.

You shut the door beside you and do your best to remain expressionless as you walk to the black-coloured gate. It slides open, revealing a blond man. He looks sheepish and you can smell him from where you are. His scent is overwhelming. Something sharp, tangy, citrusy even. It makes you gulp.

He comes over to you both and shakes the dealer’s hand.

“Hey,” he says, drawing his hand back. He turns to look at you, his golden eyes focused on your own. He holds your gaze, making you whine. At the high-pitched sound, he chuckles nervously and looks back at the dealer.

“So,” he starts. “Do I need to sign anything or?” The dealer nods and pulls out the contract. The contract signing your life away to this alpha. You notice how agitated the blond seems, tapping his foot as he reads over the agreement.

“Didn’t I sign this last night?” he asks with a creased brow.

The dealer replies, “That was for the buying price and handling fees. This is the terms and conditions of your purchase.” The blond nods and signs the paper, officially taking ownership of you. The thought, the sight has you crying out internally. You want to scream and run; escape. It doesn’t matter if you get caught later, you have to try now.

You gulp and start looking around with wide, frenzied eyes. You notice the neighbourhood isn’t busy. You have no idea where you are, of course. You are fairly new to Japan, and then you happened to get kidnapped and well… Even if you run for it right now, there’s no way you can make it down the street before the dealer drags you back here.

“You’ve made a fine choice, Mr Kaminari,” the dealer grins. He shakes the blond’s hand again before giving him his copy of the contract. The dealer then turns to you and says, “You.” He grabs your elbow tight and pulls you into his side. You yelp out in pain. Your eyes are even wider than before as you stare at the blond before you. He watches this interaction with a frown.

The dealer whispers in your ear, “Be good. Just like we practised, yea?”

The blond clears his throat and says, “She’s mine now, so you can back off.” The dealer lets go of you and leaves. As you watch his car drive away, the man in front of you stares at you. His eyes trail over you, taking in how god-awful that dress looks on you. Maybe it’s their marketing scheme, he thinks. Present wrapped so terribly you gotta tear it off immediately.

He laughs nervously as he says, “So…” You gaze back at him, expecting him to grab you and force you into his house just like all the other girls told you the alphas would once you were sold off. He has such sweet features, you think. Most alphas had sharp features, but he looked very boyish even though he would have been what? 25? 26?

“Do you, uh, wanna come in?” He finally says. You nod falsely. You want nothing more than to NOT go inside that house but you don’t have a choice. He owns you now.

You two walk through the gate and up to the house. You stay behind him, watching him carefully before looking at the exterior. The garden is overgrown but the house up ahead is quite nice. Minimalistic yet stylish.

Your quads cry out as you walk up the few steps to the front door. He opens the door and the scent inside washes over you. Like a riptide, it drags you under until you’re surrounded. And you realise it’s not just his scent but a mixture of them. You’re silently praying to the lords as you take a step inside that he had friends over last night or something. The last thing you want is to be owned by an alpha, let alone be shared between alphas.

You’re choking back tears as you take off your shoes, following the blond’s lead. You can hear the thump of footsteps drawing closer, confirming your suspicions. You gulp and look up at the blond with big, glassy eyes. And he looks back at you dumbfounded.

Your gaze flickers to the red-haired man who walks down the entrance hall towards you two. He’s tall and is wearing an apron with the words ‘MAN APRON’ on his chest. He smells earthy, you note. As he comes to the edge of the main level, the blond turns back to look at him.

The blond whines, “I told you to look presentable.”

The red-haired man laughs and says, “Like you look any better.” The blond grumbles as the other man chuckles.

“So,” the redhead says as he looks at you. “Where’re your bags?” You choke back a sob and you shake your head. You don’t think you’ll be able to stop yourself from breaking down if you speak. His short brows furrow as he stares at you. He gazes back to the blond and says, “Where the fuck are her bags?”

The blond exclaims, “Oh shit! I think the dealer drove off with them. Hang on—” He pulls out his phone. “I’ll call him now.” The redhead groans.

“No!” You cry out. Their attention snaps to you, both staring at you with wide eyes. You gulp and say, “You don’t need to do that. I-I don’t have any-any bags.” You got real quiet at the end there as your thin control over your emotions ceases to exist. All of it comes rushing forward at once and swallows you whole. Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes as you look down at your bare feet. You sniffle and wipe your nose with your hand.

Someone clears their throat and you look up, catching the end of a glance between the two men. The redhead looks at you and motions you forward with his arm. You obey, stepping onto the platform. You sniffle as you slip on a pair of way too big house slippers.

He wraps a muscular arm around your shoulders and guides you into the house. He says softly, “I’m sorry. This must be very frightening for you, huh?” He rubs your shoulder as you walk. You keep sniffling and cry into your hands, paying zero attention to where you’re going.

He continues, “Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll get you some water?” You rub your eyes with your hand and look down at the table and cushions. You nod and sit down on the first cushion, placing your elbows on the table and sobbing into your hands.

You feel a warm hand on your back and you flinch. You look up and see the blond kneeling next to you. His gaze is gentle, and his full lips are in a pout. You return to crying into your hands. Your shoulders tremble as your chest heaves from your sadness. You’re too focused on the fear and anxiety wracking through you to notice the red-haired man place a glass of water in front of you.

As you cry, the two alphas stare at each other and mouth their confusion. The redhead points to you while the blond while the blond shrugs. You stay like this for a bit, just getting out all of the feelings you have locked up deep within for the past month.

Once your sobs become quieter and trail off into jolty sniffles, you look up and reach for the glass of water. You gulp down the entire thing in one go before going to wipe your eyes with your hands. You whimper as a large hand catches your wrists. You see the redhead looking at you, gaze soft as he holds your hands.

He shakes his head at you before nodding to the tissue box the blond is holding. The redhead grabs one and starts dabbing your cheeks and eyes with it. His touch is careful and light like he’s afraid of breaking you. Like you’re so delicate, he doesn’t want to leave a mark behind if he’s too harsh.

The gesture has you on edge. A gesture so sweet and caring that has you second-guessing your impression of him. You were expecting them to tell you to shut up once you start crying, not be so patient and attentive. Did you misjudge him? Both of them? Or was this all an act to gain your trust and then breed you against your will?

Such thoughts trigger more sobs from you. The redhead lets go of your hands as you pull them back and return to your former position to cry.

The blond leans over to the redhead and whispers, “I think you made it worse.”

The redhead scowls at him. He stares the blond down before eventually sighing and saying low, “You should give up your room then so she can have some privacy.”

The blond scoffs. He whisper-shouts, “As if! Why don’t you give up your room, manliest man?” The redhead frowns at this but thinks it over. If it would get you to stop crying… But maybe it would make it worse since it smelled of him so strongly.

You sniffle particularly loudly and shift back, wiping your eyes with your arm. Your voice is heavy with sadness as you choke out, “Wh-where’s t-the bath-bathroom?” The alphas look at each other before the blond helps you stand up and leads you down the hall. He slides open the door and gestures for you to enter. You scramble inside, and he shuts it behind you.

You jump up onto the edge of the sink and sit there, crying and crying for what feels like forever.

taglist - @qyuin @nervoussangel

#bnha x reader #bnha omegaverse #★’s works #denki x reader #kirishima x reader #bakugou x you #sero hanta x you

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jisanvai · 10 months ago

Text

Comprehensive Guide to Automatic Sliding Gate Opener Prices: What You Need to Know

When it comes to enhancing the security and convenience of your property, an automatic sliding gate opener is an invaluable investment. With the ability to open and close gates smoothly and efficiently, these systems offer a blend of functionality and modern convenience. However, understanding the cost and features of these openers can be a bit overwhelming. This guide aims to break down the factors affecting the price of automatic sliding gate openers and help you make an informed decision.

1. Introduction to Automatic Sliding Gate Openers

Automatic sliding gate openers are designed to automate the process of opening and closing sliding gates. They use a motorized system to move the gate along a track, providing easy access without the need for manual operation. This technology is particularly useful for both residential and commercial properties, offering enhanced security, convenience, and aesthetic appeal.

2. Factors Influencing the Price of Automatic Sliding Gate Openers

a. Gate Size and Weight: The primary factor affecting the price of an automatic sliding gate opener is the size and weight of the gate it will operate. Larger and heavier gates require more powerful motors and robust mechanisms, which increase the cost. For instance, a gate that weighs up to 1,000 pounds might cost between $300 and $500 for a basic opener, whereas heavier gates can push the cost to over $1,000.

b. Motor Power and Type: The motor's power, measured in horsepower (HP), directly influences the price. Higher horsepower motors can handle heavier gates and provide more reliable performance. Typical openers range from 1/2 HP to 1 HP. A more powerful motor generally costs more, but it ensures better durability and efficiency.

c. Material and Build Quality: The build quality and materials used in the gate opener also affect the price. Openers made from high-quality, weather-resistant materials tend to be more expensive but offer better longevity and performance. Look for openers made with corrosion-resistant metals and durable plastic components for enhanced durability.

d. Features and Technology: Modern automatic sliding gate openers come with a range of features that can influence their cost. Basic models might include simple remote control operation, while more advanced systems offer features such as:

Keypad Entry: Allows access via a numeric code.

RFID Technology: Uses radio-frequency identification for keyless entry.

Battery Backup: Ensures operation during power outages.

Safety Sensors: Prevents the gate from closing on obstacles.

Smartphone Integration: Enables control through mobile apps.

Each of these features can add to the overall price of the opener.

e. Installation and Labor Costs: Installation costs can vary based on the complexity of the system and the region. Professional installation is recommended to ensure proper setup and operation, and these services can range from $200 to $500 or more, depending on the installation's complexity and your location.

f. Brand and Warranty: Reputable brands often charge a premium for their products due to their reliability and customer support. Additionally, a good warranty can add value by providing peace of mind and protection against defects and malfunctions. Extended warranties or service plans can also impact the overall cost.

3. Average Price Ranges

To give you a clearer picture, here’s a general breakdown of the price ranges you can expect for automatic sliding gate openers:

Basic Models: $300 to $500

These are suitable for lighter gates and offer essential features such as remote control operation.

Mid-Range Models: $500 to $800

These often come with additional features like safety sensors and battery backups, and can handle medium to heavy gates.

High-End Models: $800 to $1,500+

These are designed for heavy-duty gates and include advanced features such as smartphone integration, robust safety systems, and high-powered motors.

4. Choosing the Right Opener for Your Needs

When selecting an automatic sliding gate opener, consider the following:

Gate Specifications: Ensure the opener you choose is compatible with the size and weight of your gate.

Feature Requirements: Determine which features are essential for your needs and budget.

Installation Needs: Factor in installation costs and whether you need professional help.

Long-Term Costs: Consider the durability of the opener and potential maintenance costs.

5. Conclusion

Investing in an automatic sliding gate opener is a smart choice for enhancing your property’s security and convenience. By understanding the factors that influence the price and carefully evaluating your needs, you can make a well-informed decision that balances functionality, durability, and cost. Whether you opt for a basic model or a high-end system, the right gate opener will provide years of reliable service and added peace of mind.

#Automatic Sliding Gate Opener price #Automatic Sliding Gate

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on-a-lucky-tide · 5 months ago

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can i request some price/ghost fluff if you have the time? (and if simon is capable of relaxing enough for that) tr53for532tr sorry my kitty stepped on the keyboard. he says hi

Your wish is my command, sir.

Price and Ghost do a late night Asda run.

cw: humour, kisses.

Price slumped back in his office chair and blinked slowly at the ceiling. A dull ache had settled in his shoulders and behind his eyes from too many hours spent slumped at this bloody desk. He slapped a hand onto his phone and flipped it over enough to glance at the time. 10.30pm.

He should hit the sack, but his brain was still chugging like a runaway diesel engine, too overcooked to do anymore work but too active to sleep. That left sex or exercise to burn it out.

Price opened WhatsApp and tapped Simon's picture, thumb drifting between y for 'you up?' and g for 'gym?' His stomach offered a solution when it gave a mutinous growl, and instead he typed, 'The Asda?'

The message had barely whooped before Simon's typing... flicked up at the bottom. '5 mins' was the response. Price grabbed his jacket and car keys before heading out to the car park. By the time Simon flopped into the passenger seat, baseball cap pulled low, hood up and cloth mask in place, the Landie had managed to choke out some heat.

"Finished?" Simon asked.

"Not even close," Price responded morosely.

"Me either. S'gonna be an all nighter."

They were both up late finishing reports. Garrick was on leave in London and MacTavish had hit the town with some of the other squaddies. There was a time in his life when Price might have joined them, but the thought of getting rat-arsed with a bunch of lads in their mid-twenties filled him with an kind of exhausted dread. He'd drink them under the table, but his hangover would last three days while they would hop out of bed like spring chickens the next morning.

Simon fiddled with the radio until he found a channel belting out some generic classic rock and slumped back in the seat, eyes closed. Price let him doze as he picked up the A road that would carry them out to the twenty-four hour supermarket on the outskirts of town. He only jerked awake again when they parked up, handbrake ratcheting up with an audible grind.

They skipped the trolley and grabbed a basket each as they walked through the foyer. The security guard eyed them from behind his podium, offering a Price a nod when he made eye contact. They'd done this little night time trip so often that they let Simon's masked, hooded face slide. Price touched the inside of Simon's elbow, a brief reassurance that he was nearby, and they both stood on the inside of the gates, staring at the leftover meal deal sandwiches.

Price wasn't sure when the supermarket run had become a staple of their odd arrangement. He reckoned it came from the shared experience of hiding out in the local Morrie's as a teenager. When it was cold outside but going home wasn't an option, a young man in trackies could waste many an hour mooching around the aisles of a supermarket, inspecting shit he never intended to buy, just... browsing to while away the time and put off facing the clusterfuck that awaited back at his gaff.

They were putting off their reports and finding that old comfort now, drifting in between the refrigerators and stacked shelves to prod at packets and inspect price tags. Simon made a beeline for the rotisserie chickens, grabbing himself one of the last from the shelf before wandering off towards the bakery. Price pondered for a bit, plucking a bag of Doritos from the end of an aisle, and paused near the drinks to inspect the expensive cordials.

After about fifteen minutes of aimless wandering, Price headed for the books. There was a new Lee Child he'd had his eye on, and the blurbs on the back of romance novels amused him. It was just as he had picked up a saucy looking number to chuckle at that a looming figure appeared at his shoulder.

"Filfy slag," the shadow said.

Price felt his ears redden despite his huff. "Jus' checkin' out what the girls are inta these days."

"Bullshit," Simon grunted. "Gonna tell Johnny."

"No you fockin' ain't, or Johnny finds out about Minsk."

Simon's eyes narrowed suddenly and Price's eyebrows perked up in challenge. The stand off lasted only about ten seconds before Simon drifted away, leaving Price to place the book back on the shelf in favour of the novel he'd actually been looking for. Barely twenty seconds later, a nerf gun bullet clocked him in the side of the head.

"Oi, ya muppet." Price glowered to his left hand slapping against his stinging ear, and saw Simon smirking back... well, his bloody eyes were smirking anyway, the remains of the nerf gun's box on the shelf. "Ya gotta buy it now."

"S'fine, I'll find a use for it." Simon dumped the nerf gun in his basket and they headed into the "home' aisle. Price stopped by the candles, overlooking the cheaper options that smelled of the kind of chemicals Kortac used to poison them in favour of a brand called Chesapeake Bay. The last one he'd bought had worked wonders. Simon grunted at his side. "Wossis for?"

"You stink up my room when you kip in it, sweaty bollocks."

"Charmin'."

"You asked," Price murmured, picking one off the shelf called 'Peace and Tranquility'. Truth was they helped Simon sleep without him even realising, and they were one of the few brands that didn't trigger one of Price's migraines.

"What about this one? 'Love and passion'." Simon uncapped the orange candle to give it a whiff through his mask, and then thrust it under Price's nose.

Price sniffed and then shook his head. "'m I not passionate enough for you?"

"Hm, for twenty quid, yeah, fink you are."

Price thumped him on the shoulder and chucked 'Peace and Tranquility' into his basket. They weaved through a few more aisles, bypassing the laundry detergent and toilet roll, and ended up near the drinks again. Simon stopped by the protein powder and Price glanced at the shot of coke-flavoured pre-workout he plucked from the shelf. "That shit'll rot your guts," Price said as he grabbed a handful of gel sachets.

"Save it, old man. S'fer Johnny." Simon dropped a handful in the basket on top of his white chocolate chip cookies, rotisserie chicken, raspberry Relentless, nerf gun and king-sized bar of Dairy Milk. There were some new cotton pants in there as well, Price noted. Simon saw him looking. "You keep stealin' my shit."

"I ain't stole your bloody pants, Simon."

Simon lifted an eyebrow and before Price could stop him, he grabbed Price's belt and yanked the waistband of his jeans far enough away from his lower belly to reveal that he was, in fact, wearing a pair of Simon's boxers. "You were sayin'..."

"Shouldn't leave them on my floor then," Price grumbled, smacking Simon's hand away just as a bright lime green fleeced employee rolled down the aisle with a stacked cage of coca cola boxes. "C'mon, you done? We need to be headin' back."

"Yeah. I'm done."

Simon still grabbed a bag of blue Doritos from the end of the aisle as they walked past, and Price grabbed some pre-packed Deli ham for when he had a hankering for some protein. He had a snowball's chance in hell of getting a single bite of the rotisserie chicken in Simon's basket.

They rang up on the same till and Price tapped his card, ignoring the way that Simon twitched from foot to foot until he saw him digging at the cuticle on his thumb with his forefinger. "Stop," Price said softly, touch lingering just long enough on Simon's wrist to still his hand. "S'nothin. Bit of choccy and bloody chicken."

Simon grunted and Price watched those dark eyes waver over the basket. "Thanks," he said, finally.

"Welcome. Not quite a Michelin star meal, but maybe next time."

"Dunno. The cookies are pretty decent."

Price grinned, only to blink rapidly when Simon's fingers smoothed through his beard to squeeze his cheeks. Feeling his smile. Price let himself have a moment of tenderness, tilting his face into Simon's palm for the lightest of kisses before he grabbed their bags and headed for the door.

He left Simon to slump into the passenger seat while he went to pay off the parking. They'd overstayed their half an hour courtesy parking by fannying around for too long, avoiding work. When he climbed into the front seat, Simon had cracked open the cookies and had pulled down his mask to eat one, content that his face was disguised by the dark. He tilted the pack towards Price without looking away from the windscreen, and Price slid one out. "Fuck me, Simon Riley sharing food..."

"When the reports are done," Simon said dryly, wiping the crumbs from his lips. They both stared into the dark car park, the only noise was the rustle of plastic and the crunch of biscuit. Price finished his and opened his mouth to say something only to have it covered by Simon's. The kiss took him by surprise, the taste of sweet chocolate carried on Simon's tongue, tinging the crowns of his teeth, one big hand curling behind Price's head to keep him there as Simon took what he wanted; a deep, possessive kiss that made Price feel hot and tight under his clothes. When Simon drew away, he peppered a few more light kisses against Price's damp lips.

"What was that for?" Price asked, voice croaking and breathless.

"I don't need a reason," Simon replied. "Yer mine, ain't ya? So I get to kiss ya. And you get to buy me chicken."

Price was glad the dark hid the flush in his face. "Yeah, guess so."

Simon grunted. "L'ess go 'ome. Sooner we get those fockin' reports written, sooner I can shag ya brains out."

Price chuckled as he coaxed the Landie to life. Suddenly, he had all the motivation in the world to get those damn things finished.

#captain john price #simon ghost riley #ghostprice #two lads dossin around in the Asda

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fnzktn · 23 days ago

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burnout pt. 2

nonidol!haerin x fem!reader

synopsis: you met kang haerin in 7th grade, back when everything still felt uncertain. nothing about it felt big at the time—just slow afternoons, shared silences, and a closeness that never asked to be named. years later, it’s still her.

includes: slowest of the burn <3, soft jealousy, underage drinking, strangers-to-situationship-to-lovers, inspired by sugarfree's burnout but happier! english translation

word count: 5.3k

11th grade

the uniforms haven’t changed, but the air has.

there’s a new stiffness in the morning hallways—one that doesn’t come from nerves exactly, but from a quiet awareness that something’s shifting. you feel it in the way students glance at the unfamiliar stairwells labeled “senior high,” in the way teachers nod at you like you’ve suddenly aged, like your footsteps sound heavier now. you feel it in your bag, slightly heavier than last year’s, your planner a little too clean, your pens too sharp. you feel it in your chest, too, but you can’t name it yet.

you’re early. earlier than you meant to be. but haerin’s already there.

she’s leaning against the corridor wall near the HUMSS cluster, her back pressed to the cool painted concrete, one strap of her bag slipping off her shoulder. her arms are loosely crossed, but she’s not closed off—she’s just waiting. the way she always does.

you walk toward her slowly, the corridor mostly empty. she doesn’t see you at first—she’s looking out the open window, watching the leaves stir above the gate. there’s light pouring through the glass, soft gold filtered through dust. it settles against her cheek like a secret.

you stop a few steps away.

“hey,” you say.

she turns. her face softens. “hey.”

that’s all. but it’s enough to make something loosen inside you.

—

your homeroom is a floor below haerin’s, but your classrooms are close enough that the mornings stretch between you easily. gehlee waves to you from the other end of the hallway, already half-pulling danielle toward a bulletin board. their laughter echoes. you wonder, not for the first time, how lucky you are that gehlee ended up in the same strand. that haerin did too. that the spaces between you haven’t stretched too far just yet.

the first class is light—orientation and icebreakers, teachers making jokes about how you're the "big kids now." you listen. sort of. your mind drifts more than once. to the way haerin had brushed your elbow when she walked past earlier. to the sound of her voice, low and steady when she greeted you. to the way she stood there waiting like it was the most natural thing in the world.

at lunch, the six of you somehow manage to sit at the same table. hanni and minji, flushed and already flustered from their STEM placement exams, collapse into their seats with matching groans. gehlee complains that the canteen raised prices again. danielle steals your banana cue. haerin eats only half her rice and slides the rest to you without looking.

you don’t even blink anymore. just eat it. it’s a thing now. it’s yours.

—-

you walk haerin back to her classroom after lunch. not because you have to, but because your next class is still ten minutes away. she doesn’t say anything about it. doesn’t tease. she just walks beside you like always, like gravity has started to figure out what to pull toward what.

“do you want to visit hyein later?” she asks softly, right before the stairs.

you blink. “you remembered?”

her expression doesn’t change much, but there’s a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “you said you missed her.”

you smile back. “i do.”

and so, after the last bell, you slip past the guard’s half-distracted nod and head down the slope toward the junior high school building. the crowd thins the deeper you go, most students already pouring out the main gate. you find hyein easily—she always waits by the mango tree, scribbling something on her notepad or eating leftover siomai.

today, it’s both.

“you look taller,” you say as you approach.

she rolls her eyes. “you say that every time.”

“because it’s always true.”

hyein grins, wide and open and so different from all the silence you’ve been steeping in lately. she starts talking right away—about a new subject teacher she’s unsure about, a group project with impossible deadlines, a stray cat she wants to adopt but can’t. you listen. you nod. you let her talk until she gets tired of hearing her own voice, which takes a while.

and through it all, you feel a warmth you didn’t know you needed.

when you return to the senior high wing, the sun is lower now. gold light clings to the edges of the hallway, painting everything a little softer, a little sadder.

you find haerin sitting alone on the low wall near the HUMSS cluster. she’s reading something—maybe notes, maybe a book. her bag’s still zipped up. untouched.

she looks up when she hears your steps.

“how’s hyein?” she asks, already scooting over to make space.

“talkative,” you murmur, sitting beside her. “but i missed her.”

“i figured.”

you sit together in that long quiet, watching the school slowly empty around you. footsteps echo and fade. the air smells faintly of mango leaves and asphalt. someone laughs in the distance, then silence again.

haerin shifts slightly. your knees touch.

neither of you move.

and for a while, that’s all that needs to happen.

—--

it begins in gestures.

not the kind people notice. not the kind loud enough to echo across hallways or make your friends nudge each other and laugh. just quiet, habitual offerings that slip easily into the spaces between you—softly, unannounced.

like the books she starts giving you. no words. no explanation. they simply appear. slipped into your bag during dismissal, or placed wordlessly on your desk during the first bell. always something different. always something marked. a page dog-eared. a sentence underlined. one time, she gives you a slim, weathered copy of a poetry chapbook. on page thirteen, a single line is circled in pencil: “love is the quiet persistence of choosing someone, over and over.”

you don’t ask why. you just finish the book in two nights and place a post-it inside before handing it back.

you start doing the same after that. leaving her books you think she might like, even if you’re not sure. underlining something without thinking. not to be understood—but to be felt. and she always gets it. always returns them with folded corners or small notes in the margins.

a language is forming. and neither of you needs to name it.

—

there’s a thursday where she’s picked to present during oral recitation. she doesn’t move at first. just stares at the sheet of paper in her hand like it’s suddenly too heavy to hold. no one notices. not really. not like you do. you’re across the room and still, you see how her breathing changes—just slightly. how her grip tightens.

that afternoon, you find her by the gym bleachers. not hiding. not waiting. just... there.

you don’t ask if she wants to practice. you just hand her the copy of her outline and say, “start anywhere.”

her voice is soft, unsteady at first. each paragraph like walking over uneven ground. you nod when she hesitates. when she looks at you between sentences, you give nothing but calm, steady presence. her words begin to unfold smoother. surer. like maybe it matters that you’re here to hear them.

when she finishes, she doesn’t look proud. just relieved. but there’s something in her eyes when they meet yours—a flicker of warmth that doesn’t ask for praise, only recognition. you give it, without saying anything.

and that’s enough.

—

she draws you one day.

you’re half-asleep in class, chin propped on your palm, the lecture blurring into a monotone hum. you don’t even realize she’s watching until she nudges you and slides a folded piece of paper into your notebook.

you open it after class. it’s you—sketched roughly, softly. a little slouched. your expression calm, faraway. there’s something vulnerable in it. something only someone who’s been watching you closely could get right.

you don’t ask when she made it. you just fold the paper back into its creases and tuck it between the pages of your planner.

a week later, you try to sketch her back. you give it to her without a word. she doesn’t respond either. but the next day, it’s pressed into the transparent sleeve of her binder.

you don’t talk about it.

but you both know.

—

you miss a day of school. low fever. pounding head. nothing serious. but you sleep through the morning and only check your phone late in the afternoon.

the next day, there’s an envelope on your desk. your name’s written in her handwriting—plain, lowercase, tucked into the corner. inside are photocopied notes, an extra pen, and a piece of candy you mentioned once was your favorite.

she doesn’t bring it up when you thank her. just says, “you didn’t miss much.” and continues eating her bread.

but her eyes linger on you a second too long. and somehow, that feels like everything.

—

you still sit across from her during lunch. not always side by side, but always within reach. it’s routine now—the tray passed to you halfway through her meal, the last bites left untouched, quietly slid your way.

“you’re doing it again,” you say once, smiling.

“doing what?” she answers, already knowing.

“letting me finish everything.”

“i don’t let you. you just do.”

you give her a look. she just shrugs, and there’s that smile again—half-hidden, lazy, soft. “besides,” she says. “it tastes better when you eat it.”

you don’t know how to answer that.

so you eat the rest. and she watches.

—

there’s a moment in late october.

a break between classes, everyone sprawled across desks and chairs and the tiled floor. danielle is humming something. minji’s in the middle of explaining a physics meme. gehlee’s trying to write an essay due in twenty minutes. someone passes by your group—an upperclassman, probably—and says, “you two are basically a couple.”

the laughter is automatic. casual. but you freeze.

you glance at haerin, expecting discomfort. a reaction. anything.

but she just meets your gaze calmly. and smiles.

and you smile back.

no one says anything else. but something shifts quietly inside your chest. like maybe you’ve crossed a threshold neither of you were entirely aware of.

—

november ends quietly. no birthday candles. no celebration. you don’t mind. you’ve never liked making a big deal out of it.

but that afternoon, haerin leaves a small box inside your locker. there’s no note. just your name scribbled in ink you recognize.

you wait until you're home to open it.

a pen. smooth, dark, heavy in your hand. your initials carved—delicately, not factory-done. and underneath the soft lining, tucked into the base, a note.

you unfold it once. your throat catches.

“you’ve always been more than you let on. i notice. i always have.”

you read it again. again. you don’t reply. you don’t bring it up the next day.

but she looks at you a little longer when you sit beside her. and that’s enough.

—---

you’re walking home again. school let out early—some meeting for the faculty—and the sun is still warm, bleeding between buildings like honey. you don’t speak for a while. just move in rhythm, step after step on cracked sidewalks, past rusting gates and stray cats and the hollow thump of basketballs from a court you can’t see.

you feel her hand brush yours once.

then again.

the third time, she doesn’t pull away.

you don’t either.

it’s like that for a while. just the two of you, walking in parallel. the space between your shoulders full of silence that doesn’t ache. a breeze tugs at the hem of her uniform. you watch the corner of her mouth pull into something thoughtful.

“you always wait for me,” she says eventually.

you blink. “of course i do.”

she’s still looking ahead when she speaks again. “even before i knew it, you were always just… there.”

her voice is soft. like she’s speaking to herself as much as to you.

“i think,” she continues, “i started loving you the first time you walked all the way home with us. back in eighth grade. when the jeeps were too full. you didn’t complain. didn’t even say much. just walked. like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

you remember that day. the heat. the ache in your feet. the way her silence then felt so different than it does now—tighter, more careful. you hadn’t known her yet. not really. but you remember watching her trail behind gehlee, her bangs sticking slightly to her forehead from sweat, her eyes focused somewhere near the sidewalk. you’d wanted to say something. anything.

but you didn’t need to.

she’d offered you her water bottle halfway through, unspeaking. that was it. the first kindness. the first crack in the distance.

“i kept waiting for it to go away,” she says now. “the feeling. thought maybe it was just because you were kind to me. or because you understood the quiet. or because—i don’t know. everyone else was so loud, and you weren’t.”

you glance at her. the sun gilds the edge of her cheek.

“but it didn’t,” she adds. “the feeling. it stayed.”

you stop walking. gently, pulling her to a halt beside you.

she turns to face you, finally. really face you.

you look at her, at the shadow in her lashes, at the small tension in her jaw. she’s nervous. not scared, just holding something too big for her hands.

you want to say something steady. something certain.

so you do.

“i think i started loving you when you first gave me your lunch.”

she blinks. you keep going.

“you didn’t say anything. you just pushed it toward me and kept eating. and you kept doing it. like it was obvious. like you knew i’d always take it.”

she lowers her eyes. you’re not done.

“but maybe even before that. maybe it was the books. or when you gave me that sketch. or when you stood outside my gate with pan de sal and said nothing about my fever, just handed me a pen and said it was from your house.”

she laughs, breathlessly.

“i don’t know when it started,” you say. “but i know that it’s always been there. like breathing. like how i look for you in every room without realizing it. like how your silences are the only ones that never make me feel alone.”

haerin takes a small step closer. your fingers find each other—not laced, not clutched. just held. carefully.

her voice is quieter now, like the sun’s almost gone. “i’ve loved you for a long time.”

you nod. “i have too.”

she closes her eyes, just for a second. then opens them again. and when she speaks, her voice is steady.

“and i’ll keep loving you for longer.”

you feel the weight of that. how simple it is. how full.

“please do,” you whisper.

and just like that—no announcement, no line drawn in sand—you become something real.something not new, but finally named.

—---

you’re walking her home.

not for the first time. not even the hundredth.

but this time, there’s something different—something fragile between you, balanced like a secret on the tip of your tongue. not tension, not quite, but the soft hum of something inevitable. like a page about to turn.

it’s been a quiet walk. you’ve been taking this same path for over a year now. nothing new about the cracked sidewalks or the fence with too many vines, or the way her shoulder hovers just close enough to yours to feel warm. the scent of damp earth. the faint clatter of a distant tricycle. all familiar. but today, the silence feels thicker. fuller. like both of you are waiting for something neither of you can name, though it’s been on the tip of your heart for weeks now.

she pauses just before her gate, turns to face you. her eyes are soft, unreadable in the golden haze of sunset. you can see the way the light hits her lashes. the flutter of something nervous, not fearful.

"this is me," she says.

you nod. you know that. you’ve known it since the first time she walked away and didn’t say goodbye, and you stared at the shape of her back until it turned a corner. that ache has never quite left.

today, you don’t want to watch her walk away again.

so you stop her with a hand. not forceful. just enough. and then, without thinking too hard about it, you lean in.

it’s not dramatic. not breathless. not even planned.

it’s just a kiss. a soft press of your mouth to hers—barely there, like the end of a sentence. like a promise you finally let yourself say out loud. like a breath you’ve been holding for months finally being released.

when you pull back, she’s staring at you.

eyes wide. not in shock, but something else. something quieter. her hand squeezes yours.

she doesn’t speak. doesn’t ask. just reaches for your fingers.

and holds them all the way until you’re back where the streetlights begin, where shadows stretch longer than your thoughts.

—

nothing really changes.

but everything feels different.

it begins in the quiet ways. in the small things that used to pass unnoticed.

in the canteen, she stands a little closer to you now—close enough that your arms brush when you both reach for the same bottle of calamansi juice. she doesn't pull away. just tilts her head, pretending to look at the lunch options, and lets her sleeve stay pressed against yours for a moment longer than necessary.

there’s a day when your spoon slips off your tray and clatters to the floor, and she picks it up before you can bend. she doesn’t say anything, just swaps hers with yours and keeps eating like nothing happened. like caring for you has become second nature.

during break time, she lingers by your classroom door instead of waiting at the benches. you notice her silhouette before you see her face, but you recognize the way her fingers curl slightly against the straps of her bag—like she's steadying herself just by being near you.

and then there’s that one afternoon. minji walks past your table, notebook in hand, and without looking up, says, "finally." like she’d been waiting for it. like everyone else already knew. dani follows behind, dropping a sandwich in front of you with a wink and walking away before you can respond.

no one brings it up again.

you and haerin don’t talk about it either. not in words.

but she walks you to class now, even when it’s out of the way. even when it makes her late.

and you carry her umbrella, even if it isn’t raining. you just like the feeling of something shared between your hands.

—

some things stay the same.

but now, they breathe differently. deeper. warmer.

riding the tricycle home becomes an unspoken ritual. you no longer sit stiffly. your legs naturally find their place beside hers, your knees often bumping with the curve of a turn. her pinky always finds yours beneath her school bag, just a slight hook, light enough that it could be accidental—but it never is.

one time, the tricycle driver hits a pothole and she instinctively leans into you. her cheek brushes your temple and stays there for the rest of the ride. neither of you move away. there’s no need.

and after you get off, she adjusts the strap of your bag before walking off toward her street. a quiet, habitual kind of care.

at lunch, she never finishes her food. she gives you the rest without needing to ask. just gently pushes her plate closer, nudging a spoonful of rice and leftover egg toward you like it’s always been yours. you pretend to protest, but you take it anyway. every time.

these moments stack like slow-dancing puzzle pieces. simple. familiar. but whole.

—

the tapsilogan across the school hasn’t changed.

the tables are still sticky in places. the fan above the counter still rattles when turned on high. the owner’s son still asks if you want extra egg without waiting for your answer.

but now it feels like a place you share, not just a spot to eat. your names are etched in the table’s corner now—carefully carved with the tip of a mechanical pencil one rainy afternoon when you had nowhere else to go.

she likes to sketch in her notebook while waiting. usually small things: a cup, your hand, the edge of a menu. once, she drew you mid-bite, and when you noticed, she just grinned and flipped to another page.

while you study, her foot always finds yours beneath the table. sometimes she taps out a rhythm. sometimes she just rests it there, still and certain.

you start showing her your essays before you submit them. she marks them with tiny stars in the margins. once, she rewrote a sentence to make it sound more like you. you left it that way.

this is where your worlds overlap gently, without asking for permission.

—

you don’t realize how natural it’s become until one afternoon at the library.

she’s tired. you can see it in the slope of her shoulders and the way her eyes blink slower than usual. still, she sits beside you, close enough that your arms touch as you both read.

her head drifts toward your shoulder. barely noticeable at first. you shift slightly, just enough to make space.

and then she’s there. leaning fully. soft and warm against your side.

you keep reading. you don’t know why your heartbeat feels louder than usual. maybe because her breath is warm against your collar. maybe because you never thought comfort could feel like this.

the bell rings eventually.

but she doesn’t move.

not until you both have to.

you look across the table and gehlee’s watching you with a look that’s part amusement, part something else. but she doesn’t say anything.

and neither do you.

—

the museum isn’t crowded that day.

it’s the first sunday of the month—free entrance. you’d forgotten, but haerin hadn’t. or maybe she did, and just came on a whim.

when you see each other in front of the building, there’s a moment of stillness. a pause that stretches into a smile.

"hey," she says.

"hi," you return, shyly. like it’s the first time.

inside, the air is cool. silent. you walk together, shoulder to shoulder, not speaking much. just pointing at pieces. lingering a little longer at the ones she likes.

she stops at a painting of two figures walking side by side under an umbrella, faceless, surrounded by soft blue tones. "this one," she says, "feels like us."

and it does.

after, she buys you a soda. you buy her cotton candy. you sit beneath a jacaranda tree and watch the petals fall.

her head finds your shoulder again. you let it stay.

—

the notes begin slowly.

a folded piece of paper tucked in your pencil case. one in the front pocket of her bag. sometimes under your lunch tray.

they’re never long.

"you did well today." "meet me by the stairs?" "you looked really beautiful when you laughed earlier."

hers are even shorter. sometimes just a star. or a sketch. or your name in soft letters. but she folds them into shapes. stars. hearts. cranes.

she doesn’t explain them. but you keep every single one.

you make playlists for each other.

hers is called soft armor. yours is tahimik pero akin.she doesn’t comment on the title. but one afternoon, as you wait at the tapsilogan, she hums the first song on the list. eyes closed. fingers tapping.

—

you still visit hyein in the junior high building sometimes. it’s always in the late afternoon, after last period, when the sun casts a hazy gold over the campus and the hallways have quieted into soft echoes of earlier noise. she waits for you just outside her classroom, arms crossed, a grin tugging at her lips before you even round the corner.

"you’re late," she teases, but she’s already pulling you into a half-hug.

you talk about everything and nothing. she tells you about her new science teacher and how the new school rule about socks is stupid. you laugh. you tell her about your world religions projects and how gehlee fell asleep during an oral defense and still passed.

sometimes haerin comes with you. sometimes she doesn’t.

but when she does, hyein’s smile is a little wider.

and when you leave, hyein waves with both hands and yells, "don’t be a stranger!" like you’re not going to see her again next week.

but you always do.

—--

you’re pacing.

not much. just small, slow steps along the edge of the rooftop, sneakers scuffing lightly against the tiles. the sky above you is slipping into that soft, bruised kind of twilight—neither day nor night, just the quiet in-between. fairy lights flicker against the railings, strung haphazardly but lovingly. paper stars hang from nylon thread. danielle spent a full hour taping them into place, tongue between her teeth, carefully balancing on minji’s shoulders while gehlee held the ladder.

someone’s old bluetooth speaker plays a song you once sent haerin months ago. she never said anything about it. but two days later, she used one of the lyrics as her folder name in your shared drive. you noticed.

everything smells like warm dust and late afternoons. cotton and sweat and the faint sweetness of cotton candy—hyein insisted on bringing some, “for softness,” she said. the whole place is glowing.

it feels like a dream someone had for you. but it’s yours. all of this is yours.

danielle had said, “we’ll help you make it feel big, without making it feel loud.”

so here it is. a space that feels sacred, like a held breath. a love letter without paper. something quiet and shimmering and full.

you hear the rooftop door click open.

you don’t move at first.

you just listen to the soft sound of footsteps, hesitant ones. and then, a voice:

“gehlee said she—”

haerin’s words fade the moment she steps into the light.

she stops completely. her eyes scan the scene. the lights. the photos pinned to the railing with small wooden clips. the sketch of an umbrella taped to the wall. a stack of tapsilogan receipts arranged in the shape of a heart. a folded hoodie. the headphone splitter. the small trinkets that no one else would understand, but she would.

and then she sees you.

you smile, barely. your chest is tight. not with nerves, exactly. more like... fullness. like standing on the edge of something you’ve already jumped into, long ago.

“hi,” you say.

haerin doesn’t speak.

she walks slowly. carefully. the way she does when she’s unsure but drawn forward anyway. like she’s following something she already trusts.

when she reaches you, there’s just silence again. not awkward. just soft.

her eyes are wide. not because she’s surprised, but because she’s letting herself feel everything.

you inhale. then let the words come, slowly. gently. like offering her something tender and real.

“i know we already said we love each other.”

your voice wavers, just slightly.

“and i know we’ve been choosing each other. every day. in every quiet way.”

you swallow. look at her, really look at her.

“but... i want to name it. not because i need to—but because i want to. because i’ve loved you in every way there is. and now i want to love you this way, too.”

you reach into your pocket. pull out a folded note. she recognizes it immediately—the first one she ever gave you. you looked really beautiful when you laughed earlier. her handwriting. soft and slanted.

you hold it out. your fingers are shaking.

“will you be my girlfriend, haerin?”

you smile—this time fully.

“officially. for real. for longer.”

haerin doesn’t speak. not right away.

she steps closer. so close you can see the way her eyes shimmer in the dim light. so close you can smell the faint citrus of her shampoo. so close you can feel the breath between you.

then, softly—so softly you almost miss it—she says:

“you already are.”

she exhales, like it took her years to say it.

but then—more firmly, with a kind of trembling joy behind it—

“but yes. yes. i would still say yes. a thousand times.”

you don’t kiss her right away.

you just look at her. and she looks at you. and it feels like your heart is finally speaking the language it’s been trying to learn for years.

then her arms find you.

not just a hug. something more. something grounding. her cheek against your shoulder. your hand against her back. her breathing slowing against your neck.

behind you, the rooftop door creaks again.

hanni peeks through first. then danielle, wide-eyed and grinning. gehlee is biting her lip like she might cry. hyein claps, softly, like she’s seen a love story finally find its ending. minji just smirks.

someone whispers, “that felt like a proposal.”

you laugh into haerin’s hair. she’s laughing too, but her forehead stays pressed to your collar.

“maybe it was,” she whispers back.

but then, before either of you can respond, the quiet thrum of a speaker kicks in—staticy, uneven—and then, unmistakably:

“oh kay tagal din kitang minahal...”

you freeze. haerin lifts her head. both of you turn.

danielle’s already mid-dance, cotton candy in one hand, her other arm windmilling above her head like she’s at a full-on concert. “you’re welcome!” she shouts over the music, grinning so wide her eyes crinkle.

“who queued this?” you ask, laughing, heart still thudding.

“haerin did!” hanni yells back, already dragging minji into a two-person mosh pit.

“no, i didn’t—” haerin starts, but her blush betrays her.

“months ago,” hyein clarifies, smugly. “she snuck it into our ‘study’ playlist.”

gehlee’s the one who starts the chorus—off-key, too loud, absolutely unashamed. she clutches her chest like she’s in a drama series, yelling the words with full sincerity. minji joins in next, dramatically pointing at no one in particular like she’s on stage. then hanni, dani, and hyein jump in, no harmonies, no coordination—just pure noise and pure joy.

you don’t mean to sing.

but then haerin’s hand finds yours, and she tugs—just slightly—toward the center of it all. and when she starts mouthing the words, softly at first, barely louder than the breeze—you follow.

and then you’re both singing. if it can even be called that.

yelling, really. shouting the chorus like it’s an exhale you’ve both been holding in for years. like it’s not a breakup song anymore. like it’s yours now—yours to scream and twist and laugh through. because this love didn’t end. it just kept becoming.

you throw your head back. haerin’s laughing now, eyes nearly closed, body swaying beside yours, hands tangled in your jacket sleeves like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the moment. dani jumps behind her, wrapping her in an exaggerated bear hug before spinning away. hanni and gehlee are linking arms and doing something that vaguely resembles choreography. minji is drumming against the railing with a chopstick she found somewhere. hyein is jumping up and down, singing the wrong lyrics on purpose, cackling every time someone notices.

someone turns the volume up. the fairy lights flicker wildly with every stomp and spin. the rose petals you didn’t notice earlier get kicked into the air like confetti. and for a second—for a heartbeat—you swear it feels like the whole rooftop might lift off the ground from the weightless, ridiculous happiness of it all.

and in the middle of it: her.

hair messy. cheeks flushed. eyes bright. laughing with her whole chest. holding you like you’re the chorus she’s never forgotten.

no label ever could’ve held this.

but tonight, you said it. you chose it.

and now you get to scream it into the sky.

oh kay tagal din kitang mamahalin.

#newjeans x reader #njz x reader #haerin x reader #kang haerin x reader #haerin fluff #haerin angst #newjeans fluff #newjeans haerin #njz haerin #newjeans #njz

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nemo-writes · 1 month ago

Text

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; departures loom as quiet preparations fill the manor—trunks packed, ledgers sealed, and final words exchanged. change echoes in every hallway, but so does the slow, steady rhythm of something new taking root—one built from choice.

⚠️ warnings; none

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

Leah’s impending journey left the manor rooms half-filled with open trunks and neat stacks of parchment. In the west corridor, she knelt beside a cedar chest, carefully rolling traveling cloaks treated with preservation oil. You sorted ledgers on a low table nearby—closing the last of the spring tariffs, sealing envelopes with the coven crest. The two of you worked in a companionable hush broken only by Sybil’s nails clicking as she padded from doorway to doorway, supervising.

“This one is ready,” Leah announced, snapping brass latches shut. She rose, brushing rogue strands of hair from her face. Even in departure, her touch on your household felt gentle but final—folding linens the maids missed, labeling apothecary vials so the next hand could find them.

You nodded, sliding the final ledger onto the Done pile. “That’s the last of the correspondence for the western enclaves. Once it’s posted, the council can’t claim delays.”

Leah smiled—proud, bittersweet. “You’ve become frighteningly efficient.”

“Necessity,” you murmured, yet some warmth crept into your tone. She had been a steady right hand, the hollow her absence would carve already ached.

While you finished waxing the envelope, Leah’s gaze drifted to the open panes framing the distant town. “The pack has been busy,” she said casually, but her eyes shone with curiosity.

You arched a brow but didn’t look up. “Busy?”

Leah took the hint of permission. “Price mediated a land dispute between a goblin smith and a human black-powder guild—apparently finished it in two hours what the local arbiter stalled for weeks. Gaz dismantled a set of counterfeit ward stones at the southern gate yesterday morning. And Soap…” her lips twitched, “…fixed half the thatched roofs on Market Row in one afternoon—by hand.”

You sealed your letter with a brisk press, muttering how all these letter could've been an email. “They promised to help the town, not crowd me.”

“They’re not crowding,” Leah answered softly. “Just… proving they can be pillars worth leaning on.”

Reports had reached you too—via merchants, watch-captains, even the high-strung florist who never kept a secret. Each story chipped at the jagged edges of old hurt, reshaping anger into something harder to name.

Leah crossed the rug, placing a calming hand on Sybil’s head when the hound sensed your shift in mood. “Time changes all things,” she said. “Even hearts.” She hesitated. “That includes mine. I’m not leaving because I doubt you. I’m leaving to be sure of myself—so I can return on my own terms, not as someone you feel responsible for.”

You swallowed, then met her gaze. “And I’m letting you go because I trust you’ll find what you need—and because the door will stay open.”

She smiled, eyes bright. “Exactly.”

A bell chimed in the courtyard; a messenger waited to take the sealed ledgers to town. You handed the satchel over. As his footsteps faded, you turned back to Leah and the half-packed trunks.

The pack was keeping its distance, yet every day their actions left fingerprints of loyalty on the town’s pulse. You could ignore the stories, but not the results: fewer petty squabbles, quicker aid, safer streets after dark.

Leah closed the final trunk and laced the lock. “See you later?” she confirmed.

“Later,” you echoed, voice steady.

She reached out and you clasped forearms—an oath of equals. Sybil leaned against both your legs, tail giving a single, approving wag.

The following days would bring departures and decisions—old allies gone, new pillars rising, and the lingering choice of whether to let four stubborn men stand at your side once more. But tonight there was quiet work completed, trunks packed, and an ember of possibility warming the halls of the manor.

. . .

Ironically, it was your mothers who made their exit first—leaving the manor’s drive before Leah could even finish packing.

Dawn spilled across the manor grounds like diluted gold, catching in dew-beads and turning every spider-thread in the gardens into a line of fine fire. From an upstairs balcony you had watched light crawl over the eastern hedge maze, breathing it's chilly perfume of wet boxwood and lilac, until the orange disk of the sun finally cleared the orchard rooftops. Only then did you descend—robes cinched, posture iron—ready to escort the last of the old guard on their journey into retirement.

The staff had risen early to help with the move. Soft beeswax rays of sunshine flickered over portraits of long-dead matriarchs: stern faces, jeweled collars, eyes painted to follow passers-by. Those ghosts had loomed over your girlhood like judges; today they bore witness one final time to the woman the coven had named First Seat.

Your Mother—the Matriarch no longer—waited in the foyer, spine poker-straight. She wore traveling wool the color of river slate, her dark and silver braid coiled so tightly you wondered if it hurt. Cath Palug, sat perched upon her shoulders like a living stole, pale green eyes glimmering beneath the hood. The cat’s tail flicked; its gaze settled on you with its usual inscrutable feline calculation.

König and Horangi waited up ahead.

Even dressed for civilian travel, König still looked hewn from a mountainside: his usual mask hid all expression, a fitted black bomber jacket stretched over a broad frame, dark turtleneck and cargo-cut trousers tucked into matte combat boots. Horangi, by contrast, balanced ease and polish in a charcoal pea coat, slim chinos, and polished oxford shoes, a muted cashmere neck-scarf knotted with effortless style. The two would accompany your mothers only as far as the lakeside estate; after that, they’d chart their own paths beneath wider skies.

You felt the peculiar tug of nostalgia and unfinished sorrow. Months earlier, König had confessed a devotion that had grown quietly, dangerously, into love. You had refused with the harsh but fair words; he had bowed his head in mute acceptance. Since that day, he had served (sometimes) without complaint, but his eyes sometimes drifted toward the windows as though they were thresholds to a horizon his soul already crossed.

Today those windows were open.

Parked at the foot of the marble steps waited a familiar midnight-blue luxury sedan—sleek lines, chrome accents throwing sparks of sunrise. Its engine idled in a low, velvety purr, headlights winking pale gold under the growing dawn.

You descended first, Sybil padding at your heel. She paused on the threshold, nose lifted to taste the scent of journeys and good-byes. Then you faced the house again and extended your arm to your Mother. She hesitated only long enough to let pride stiffen her posture before she accepted. Her palm was cool, bones delicate as the carved ivory clasps she once favored.

Halfway to the waiting sedan she slowed, forcing you into step with her measured gait. The foyer’s hush swallowed every sound but the soft tap of her shoes and the faint purr of the idling engine outside. At the final stair she stopped entirely, hand still resting on your forearm, pale eyes searching your face for cracks you refused to show.

“Remember,” she began, voice low enough that even Sybil’s ears barely twitched, “inheritance is heavier than it first appears.”

You let a thin, knowing smile curve your mouth. “And remember,” you replied, matching her hush with a whip of sarcasm wrapped in silk, “I never said I’d carry your inheritance. I promised I’d build a legacy of my own—one made for me, not a relic on loan from centuries of your design.” You tilted your head, letting the words settle like frost on marble. “So you can retire comfortably now. Truly.”

A small flicker crossed her expression before she spared you a single regal nod. No blessing, no apology; simply the tacit acknowledgement that the torch had passed and would burn in hands she could no longer guide.

Suddenly, Cath Palug leapt from your Mother’s shoulder to König’s, claws kneading into the cloak like a cat perched upon a familiar stone pillar. König endured without flinching. When they reached the open car’s door, he stooped, turning sideways to help your Mother ascend it. She moved with dignity if not ease, the stiff line of her back broadcasting refusal of pity. Her familiar slipped inside first, tail curling around the doorframe like black smoke before vanishing into the velvet interior.

At the top of the stairs, your Mom finally appeared, her chair coming alive, its curved walnut legs unfolding from beneath the seat—six slender, jointed appendages that clicked softly against the marble. Barghest trotted proudly alongside, tongue slipping past sleek jaws each time she leaned to murmur reassurance. Behind them hurried attendants bearing wicker baskets: tins of her favorite teas, extra shawls stitched with protective sigils, and leather-bound volumes whose margins were dense with your Mother’s uncompromising spell-theorems.e margins were latticed with spell-theorems written in your Mother’s ruthless hand.

You knelt beside your Mom, Barghest pressed like living obsidian against her calf. She raised a hand to your cheek—not with tender awe, but with the brittle gentleness of someone who knows she’s fractured things beyond easy repair. Her thumb paused on your jawline, as though weighing whether comfort was hers to offer.

“I failed you in more ways than one,” she said quietly—no quaver, no dramatics. “But I did not fail Leah, and I won’t pretend that erases anything else.”

A rush of complicated heat flickered behind your eyes, but you held her gaze without softening. “You saved her, yes. And for that I’m grateful. It doesn’t wipe the slate—but it means something.” You exhaled, steeling your tone. “We both have to live with the rest.”

Something like resolve settled over her face. She gave a single, accepting nod—no weeping farewells, no pleas for absolution. It was the cleanest honesty the two of you had ever managed.

Horangi stepped forward to take the chair’s carved armrests. With a murmured command the walnut legs folded beneath the seat, locking into travel form. He guided the floating chair to the sedan’s open door; Barghest vaulted gracefully inside first, turning once before settling on the floor mat. Horangi braced Mom’s forearm, helped her pivot smoothly into place, then collapsed the enchanted chair into a lacquered case that slid into the trunk with a soft click.

König hefted the last two pieces of luggage—one hand each—stowing them with methodical care. The early sun gilded the scars slicing across his jaw, though the black cloth mask hid the rest of his expression. When the boot snapped shut he returned to you, towering, immense, but strangely hesitant.

He removed a glove, brushed a warm, leather-scarred palm over your hair, and bent to press his masked forehead to yours—an old battlefield benediction. “Mountains will bow to you,” he rumbled. “If one refuses… you know the name to call.”

Your shoulders eased—just a fraction. “Go find a home that belongs to you,” you answered. “Thank you for guarding mine while you did.”

Horangi then reappeared, catching your hand. He offered a subtle wordess bow, lips grazing your knuckles with knightly grace. Then he nodded and slid into the passenger seat.

König circled to the driver’s side, massive frame folding behind the wheel. The engine’s purr deepened. As the sedan rolled down the gravel lane, you watched your Mother’s silhouette hold perfectly upright in the rear window—neither apology nor condemnation in her posture, only acceptance of the future she no longer controlled. The car turned at the orchard bend and was gone.

Silence expanded in their wake. Sybil pressed against your thigh, catching the tremor that rippled through you now that witnesses were gone. Leah stepped from the doorway, cloak draped over her arm; she met your gaze with a bittersweet nod, understanding the hollow that follows farewell.

You exhaled, fogging the cool air. Two pillars of the old age were gone and another friend would leave in the days to follow. Change pressed against you on all sides—heavy, uncertain, alive.

Yet the manor’s wards thrummed reassurance beneath your skin; the orchard beyond glittered with dew; somewhere on Market Row, townsfolk would be opening shutters to a day safer than the one before, partly because four wolves now patrolled its borders. Your legacy—your own, not inherited—beat like a budding heart in the chest of every new dawn.

You set your shoulders, turned back toward the house, and Sybil matched your stride. Each step felt lighter than the one before.

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