#This is behind the Oak Barrel ;)

[memoirsofasim]

[symbiomancy]

be aware wolf —werewolf

—summary: you venture into the woods to hunt for werewolves | 1.5k | AO3 | monster masterlist

—warnings: monster x human, monsterfucking, p in v sex, knotting, creampie, stomach bulge, mounting, outdoor sex, implied voyeurism

It’s a simple cycle. Enter the woods. Keep the local werewolf population under control. Retrieve any animal carcasses you come across in the woods. Make pelts out of said carcasses. Keep them or sell them. Receive payment from the town for your hard work. Pack your things and find the next town with a werewolf problem.

There are quite a few steps, but it’s a simple, straightforward cycle.

You sling your shotgun onto your back and place a hand onto the handgun at your hip. Your other hand rests on the belt of silver bullets around your hips. The ground is dry and this place hasn’t seen rain in weeks. There are no tracks to go off so you settle for scouting tufts of fur.

Something catches in the corner of your eye as you step around a grand oak.

You whip your head to the side and meet the pair of yellow eyes from the distance. It’s late August, and the blessing of the summer solstice only lasts so long. The sun is long gone and the full moon has crested. Darkness creeps around you, the tall trees shielding you from the moon’s glow. A cool breeze caresses your bare arms. You can just about make out the creature’s outline in the shadows. It’s large, maybe about 6 feet tall.

Slowly, you slip the shotgun from your shoulder and raise the barrel in the wolf’s direction. You whistle.

“Here boy,” you call. The pair of eyes blink at you languidly. “C’mere. I got treats for ya.” Indeed, you do; an opened pack of beef jerky in your back pocket. “C’mon, I have a whole pack of you to hunt tonight and I like to be efficient with my time.”

The werewolf rises onto its hind legs. Oh, great, you think, there’s different species in the same genus for these fucks. Perhaps 8 feet tall is more accurate.

You adjust your hold and cock the shotgun.

The werewolf is gone in a blink.

Your pulse picks up and you whirl on your heel, shotgun still raised. These things are fast, always are but they’re also big. How hard is it to shoot one?

The sound of a branch breaking has you whirling around, finger on the trigger to take the shot —

A claw strikes out at you and catches on your belt, ripping it like it’s paper. Your belt and the bullets in their holster disappear from your waist, your pants ripped and a superficial gash in your hip. You lose your footing on a protruding root and fall onto your back, barely keeping your head from slamming against a thick root.

The werewolf drops onto all fours legs, standing over you, its front paws planted on either side of your head. Its warm breath fans against your face, your arms. Its teeth are bared. Saliva dribbles from its maw.

You spare a glance away from its face to assess your situation — maybe there’s a way to roll out from underneath it and scramble towards your shotgun, wherever it landed. Instead, you find yourself staring at its bulbous member, fully erect. It’s long and thick, precum glistening on its tip. You look away, heat flooding to your cheeks and cunt. In your defense, it looked at you first.

You slowly draw your foot back and strike out, hit the beast’s hind leg. It howls in pain and you scramble out from underneath it, roll onto your stomach and stumble upright. Your shotgun is just a few steps to the right.

A heavy weight slams into you from behind and sends you onto the ground. Your jaw collides with the ground and your teeth snap together. You groan, rest your weight on one elbow and place your free hand against your jaw, pressing against the sore muscles. Hot breath fans the back of your exposed neck and something heavy and slick presses against the flesh of your hip. U kick again and scramble forward, your gun just about in reach. Claws swipe at ur body, snag on your shirt and tatter ur barely intact pants.

The cool night air hits your throbbing cunt. You try to ignore it, want to ignore it so bad, to finish the job and go take care of yourself — the werewolf shoves its fanged snout against the back of your neck. You still, heart leaping in your chest. Its heavy member rests on the swell of your ass, hips rocking back and forth, shallow thrusts as if it’s looking for a warm hole. Your pussy clenches at the thought.

It finds that warm hole, pressing its cock against your entrance, just barely breaching it, and you groan. It’s not going to fit but damned if the beast won’t try to make it fit. Maybe it will fit. The wolf grabs your waist — fuck, it’s hand is big enough to nearly wrap around your entire torso — and jerks its hips forward. You gasp as it pushes in all at once, filling you so completely, so deliciously that you nearly see stars. It’s so big and thick, you swear you can feel every vein and ridge of it.

The wolf snarls, beads of saliva dripping onto the back of your neck and thrusts forward shallowly. You struggle onto your knees. It pulls out shallowly and thrusts back in until the bulb at the bottom of its shaft nudges against your pussy.

Heat pools in your stomach as the werewolf drags its cock in and out of your hot cunt. The ridges and veins of his cock feel like bliss, have you gasping for air. Its furry hips connect with yours, the sound of your bodies colliding muffled by his coat. But you’re so wet, every thrust into your sopping cunt is nothing but a wet squelch. It thrusts in without resistance, going in all the way and pulling out with ease. It pushes so deep into you, drags against your walls like nobody ever has. Your thighs are wet, almost shaking at the strain of holding yourself up on all fours.

Your hand slips out from underneath you and your shoulder collides with the ground. The werewolf presses forward — it mounts you, places a clawed hand next to your head for balance and drives in with newfound vigor. The tip of its cock hit so deep in you that you nearly see stars, try to blabber something, something incoherent between ‘no’ and ‘yes’ and ‘more’ and ‘please please please please’. The wolf pistons in and out of our shopping cunt. Its tongue lolls out of its mouth, slobbers onto the back of your neck. The bulb at his crotch nudges against our opening with every thrust and dives slightly in each time. It’s wide and big and you gasp a pitiful sound when it slips into you with a painful stretch. It’s too much and too little at the same time. You try to clench around it.

The werewolf pauses and you want to cry out, beg it to keep going, to bully its way into your pussy until you can take its knot. You’re so full, so full, this thing is everywhere, in your pussy, in your guts, in the back of your throat. All you can manage is a pitiful croak before the beast is back on you again, resting its weight on your back. It picks up the pace, ruthlessly pistoning into you, bullying your throbbing, leaking pussy, rutting his bulb against it, almost stuffing it inside. It places one large clawed hand onto your thigh and pulls it to the side like that will give it more room. Perhaps it does but the stretch of your cunt and your thighs is too overwhelming to not focus on.

You press back against him as much as u can from your contorted position, meet his hips with urs in a frantic attempt to get your release. Your chest heaves as you attempt to match his pace, pressure building in the pit of your stomach. You’re babbling now, you absolutely are, begging for it to push you over the edge and stuff you full. It speeds up as if it understands you, pressing its weight on top you. Your cheek scrapes against the ground and in the corner of your eye, you can make out the bulge in your stomach as the werewolf thrusts in. It’s too much, too good, too deep, rubbing against that spot, knocking the breath from your lungs with every thrust.

You come with a wail, pussy throbbing and clenching around its cock, sucking it back in to keep it there. The wolf howls, head thrown back and buries its knot inside you. Its cock spasms and spills into you. Rope after rope of hot cum coasts your insides until you’re full, and then some. You feel it slide down your thighs, dribble from your pussy. You try to adjust yourself to get a look and clench involuntarily around the beast when you spot the shape of his cock protruding from your stomach.

The cool night air feels pleasant against your heated skin.

You look away from the unholy sight buried in your guts and let your eyes unfocus to bask in your post-orgasmic bliss.

One, two, three, four —

There are at least four pairs of yellow eyes observing you from the darkness.

note: I'm open to hearing about dead batteries!! be as graphic or non-graphic as you'd like:)

banner & divider by @/cafekitsune

[ak319]

Lovesick Childhood friend x f!reader

Headcanon / Intro

Warnings: This story contains matriarchal themes, fem dom such as mpreg, fem dominated world, role reversal, and BXG pairing! Yes, it's a boy x girl, so don't interact if you are uncomfortable! Gonna have historical themes, little age gap (3 years) in terms of historical times, heavy angst, fluff, pining, and drama. The art is not mine, it's from Pinterest. Enjoy reading. ─ m.lists

"but you know what they say,

you can't help who you fall for

and you and I fell

like an early spring snow...."

─────────

1917

"Orsen, you’d better finish your food before you run off to play. Got it?"

"Yes, Papa!" Orsen nodded dutifully, but his gaze betrayed him, fixed on the window behind his father. His eight-year-old eyes sparkled with mischief as he struggled to suppress giggles. Out in the garden, you were pulling faces and breaking into an exaggerated, clumsy dance, clearly determined to make him laugh.

He had to finish his food quickly, before his father noticed anything. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of you getting a light smack on the back of your head from your mother, the estate gardener, who scolded you for goofing off. Orsen bit his lip to stifle a grin.

Without a second thought, he wolfed down the rest of his meal. His father’s disapproving gaze burned into him as he muttered something about unmanly behavior and lack of etiquette. But Orsen didn’t care, not one bit. Ignoring the reprimands, he dashed out of the room when his plate was empty, proving his father right in the process.

But none of that mattered. He’d kept you waiting long enough already.

"Finally! You eat too slow and... way too much for someone the size of a squirrel," you teased, crossing your arms with a smirk.

That earned you a swift smack on the chest from Orsen, who clearly had plenty of energy to spare. Ah, so that’s where it all goes, you thought with a grin.

"COME ON! LET'S START WITH A GAME OF CHASE, THEN HIDE-AND-SEEK!"

"You’re on!" you replied with mock seriousness, already taking off before Orsen could fully process the challenge.

And just like that, playtime began. You were eleven, three years older than him, and yeah, yeah, people might wonder why you spent your afternoons running around with the eight-year-old son of Lady Isolde. Because you were made to since he needed a playmate. You didn’t mind and if you were being honest, it was fun.

"You're too slow, Orsen!" you call out, weaving between the trees with practiced ease.

"I'm not slow! You're just taller!" Orsen huffs, his golden hair flying behind him like a ribbon as he tries to catch up. His laughter rings out, light and carefree, as he nearly trips over a tree root.

"Excuses, excuses," you tease, pausing just long enough for him to barrel into you, both of you tumbling to the ground in a heap.

"I got you!" Orsen declares, his soft hands gripping your arms triumphantly a stark comparison to yours , rough from helping your mother around the estate with tasks.

"You tackled me, not tagged me!" you laugh, sitting up and brushing dirt off your knees. "That’s against the rules."

"There are no rules in chase," he replies matter-of-factly, flicking his long blond hair over his shoulder like some princeling—and it makes you snort.

"Fine. No rules, huh? Then how about this?" Without warning, you spring to your feet and scoop him up by the waist, spinning him around while he squeals with laughter.

"Put me down, you IDIOT! I’ll get you back for this!"

"Sure you will," you grin, finally setting him down. His face is red from laughing so hard, but he immediately points to the swing hanging from the old oak tree nearby.

"Your turn to push me!"

"Your turn? When was it my turn?" you ask, feigning exasperation but already making your way to the swing.

Orsen is already climbing onto it. You steady the ropes for him, watching as he gets comfortable, his small hands gripping tightly. "Ready?"

"Ready!"

With a firm push, you send the swing into motion, the wood creaking softly under Orsen’s weight. He leans back, his laughter filling the air as the wind tousles his golden locks. "Higher!" he demands, his voice bright and full of life.

"Careful, you’ll go flying straight into the bushes," you joke, though you give him another push, watching as his laughter spills into the air like music.

"And you’d rescue me," he counters, turning his head to flash you a grin.

"Obviously," you reply, rolling your eyes but smiling despite yourself. Or else your mother would make soup out of my bones if you even got a scratch.

"See? I’m safe as long as you’re here," he says, his voice lighter, softer, as the swing slows with the waning light. The golden glow of the setting sun paints him in warm hues, his hair a tousled mess, his cheeks pink from play.

You ruffle his hair as he climbs off the swing, earning an indignant squeak. "We should do this every day," he murmurs, looking up at you with those wide, trusting eyes that seem to hold the whole world.

"Yeah," you say quietly, a fond smile tugging at your lips. "Every day, Orsen."

And in that moment, you mean it.

1922

"Brother Orsen?" Rowan called, tugging at his older brother’s sleeve. "She’s calling for you."

Orsen, now 13, was sitting in front of his vanity, carefully sorting through his collection of accessories. He didn’t bother looking up, too absorbed in his task.

The 5-year-old huffed, folding his arms. "She’s calling you to play, not to do a fashion show."

"SHUSH! Rowan, come here for a second!" Orsen snapped, his tone light but firm. Rowan grumbled under his breath but walked over, clearly itching to be anywhere but here.

"Okay, so listen," Orsen began, lowering his voice even further as he picked up a necklace from his collection. "Which one should I wear?"

"Necklace?" Rowan blinked, his frustration barely contained. "You’re gonna wear a necklace to play?"

Orsen rolled his eyes dramatically. "Look, we are not playing instead (Y/N) is taking me out to see a play! To a theatre!"

Rowan’s expression softened at the mention of (Y/N)'s name. "A play? Really?"

"Yes, really!" Orsen grinned, his tone proud but slightly embarrassed. "It’s a big deal. I want to look my best."

Rowan exclaimed, his voice rising in disbelief before quickly quieting down. "B-but mama and papa aren’t home! They told us to stay inside the manor, and what about the stupid nanny? I’m so over him-"

"This is exactly what I’m telling you!" Orsen pleaded, his voice low but desperate. "Just cover up for me, please! And even if Elias finds out, he won’t get mad or tell anyone, I swear, but the other servants, they can’t know, got it?"

Rowan frowned, clearly conflicted. "Are you going on... what mama and papa go to? What’s it called... um... a date?"

Orsen’s ears turned bright red, and a warmth spread through him, making his heart race in an unfamiliar way. His hand paused mid-air, the necklace he was holding slipping slightly as his mind began to swirl. A date. Was it a date? His chest tightened, a fluttering sensation moving through him. He tried to push it down, telling himself it was ridiculous. It was just (Y/N). But still... the thought of being alone with her, of seeing her smile...of being beside her...sitting so close to her...

"Ugh, I-" Orsen’s voice faltered, and he cleared his throat, hoping Rowan wouldn’t notice the redness creeping up his neck. "It’s not a date, okay? Just... something like that."

Rowan raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, but he sighed dramatically and crossed his arms. "Fine, fine, I’ll cover for you. But you owe me big time, Orsen."

Orsen smiled, his heart still racing. "Thanks, Rowan. You’re the best."

Rowan shot him a sly grin before walking out of the room. "Just don’t get caught, alright?"

Orsen watched him go, still feeling the heat of that unexpected moment, his thoughts full of the image of (Y/N) waiting for him. A date... He could only hope she saw it that way too.

The sunlight poured through the trees, casting long shadows on the garden path as you stood by the gate, tapping your foot impatiently. Orsen was late—again. You couldn’t help but smirk, leaning casually against the stone wall, arms crossed and eyes scanning the road ahead.

You had to admit, though, it was kind of cute how he always managed to show up just a little bit after you, acting like you weren’t already getting a head start on your impatience. He always had that timid, apologetic look on his face, but it was like he couldn't help it. It was endearing, even if it drove you crazy sometimes.

Finally, you spotted him.

When he saw you, his face broke into that shy smile, the one that always made your stomach flip, and you couldn’t stop yourself from teasing him.

“Took you long enough,” you called out with a cocky grin, straightening up as he came closer. “Did your vanity mirror take longer than usual?”

Orsen flushed, immediately looking down at the ground, his fingers nervously brushing at the edge of his shirt. He bit his lip, clearly flustered. “I-I wasn’t... I mean, I was just making sure I looked decent,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. "And...was just convincing Rowan to cover up."

“It’s fine,” you assured him, though you couldn’t stop the teasing note that slipped into your voice. “But I almost thought you weren’t going to show.”

He looked genuinely apologetic, his blue eyes wide and full of that quiet sincerity that always made your heart twist a little. “I wouldn’t leave you waiting, (Y/N),” he murmured, his hand tugging nervously at the sleeve of his shirt. “I promise.”

You felt the warmth in his words more than anything else, and it made your smile falter for just a second. Orsen was the kind of person who always tried to do the right thing, even when it wasn’t easy. He wasn’t like the other boys in the town, so confident and sure of themselves. No, Orsen was gentle, and careful, always thinking about others before himself. You could see that quiet, understanding gaze under his straw cartwheel hat , in the way he looked at you now.

“Well, if you’re sure,” you said, your voice softening, “we should probably get going before someone else notices, huh?”

“Yeah,” Orsen agreed, his expression turning a little more serious as he looked over his shoulder. He glanced up and down the street, making sure no one was watching, before taking a step closer to you. “Are you sure about this? I know it’s... a little risky.”

You hesitated, feeling the weight of your decision in the pit of your stomach, but when you looked at Orsen’s face, you felt a little lighter. There was no teasing now, no jokes, just his quiet concern, and for once, it made you feel like maybe this was worth it. You nodded.

“I’m sure,” you whispered back, then added with a hint of a smile, “It’ll be fun.”

“You really are...” He shook his head, his lips curving into a smile despite himself. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what?” You raised an eyebrow, giving him a challenging look. “Make everything seem like it’s no big deal? Maybe because it’s not. And you’re going to learn that today.”

He hesitated for a moment, but when you stepped forward and grabbed his sleeve to pull him toward the playhouse, he followed without protest.

Orsen’s heart skipped a beat as your hand enveloped his, and the warmth of your touch sent a flutter of butterflies through him. His breath caught in his throat, and he couldn’t help but glance at you, his face turning a shade darker. He wasn’t sure why something as simple as you holding his hand made him feel so nervous, but it did. It wasn’t just the physical touch, it was the way you kept him close, guiding him gently, as if taking care of him.

You pulled him to the side of the sidewalk, positioning him on the inside to keep him safe from the traffic and the bustle of the crowd. He felt a sudden surge of warmth at how protective you were being, even if it was just a small gesture. His chest tightened in a way he couldn’t explain, and his steps faltered slightly as you kept him close to you, shielding him from the rest of the world.

His heart raced, faster than it should have, as his mind wandered to those quiet moments when you became reserved, especially during functions. When he told you he was going to one or whenever they were held at the estate, your demeanor always seemed to shift. He noticed the way your gaze would turn sharp and distant, your movements brisk and careful, as though you were trying to shrink away. He hated it.

He hated seeing you as just part of the crowd, working tirelessly around the estate, your hands busy with tasks instead of resting in his. Most of all, he hated the functions themselves. Because while you were stuck there, unspoken and unnoticed, he was dolled up, standing with the sons and daughters of elites, smiling politely in a world that felt hollow. And maybe… maybe you hated that too.

Maybe you hated seeing him like that, all pretty, polished, and mingling with other people, particularly the daughters of noble families, ones his parents made sure he was somewhat acquainted with. Maybe you thought he belonged in that world, with them, rather than here with you.

The thought made his steps falter. A pang of desperation hit him. If only you knew. If only you knew that no crowd, no daughter of any elite, could ever hold his attention like you did.

To him, it didn’t matter how the world saw you or him, what mattered was this. You, walking beside him. You, pulling him to the safer side of the sidewalk. You, shielding him, even when you didn’t know that he was already yours.

At the theatre gate, you hesitated briefly before pulling out the money, the ache in your chest barely masked by the small smile you gave. Each coin was hard-earned, saved from days of labor at the Elaris estate and neighboring homes. As you handed it over, Orsen stepped closer, his hand brushing lightly against yours for just an instant. The gesture was fleeting but warm, like a silent promise that you were not alone.

“(Y/N)... I know it’s not much, but-” He started to say, then hesitated, biting his lip. “I really appreciate you doing this. For both of us.”

You smiled at him, a little softer this time. “You don’t have to thank me, Orsen,” you said gently. “I want to do this.”

His eyes softened, and he looked away briefly, cheeks flushing just a bit. “You always know how to make me feel... better,” he muttered under his breath. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

You couldn’t help but smile at that, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard. “Well, that's my job as your friend.” you replied, quietly. “I won’t go anywhere.”

He gave you a shy smile, more timid than usual. "I know..."

The moment passed quickly, but the quiet understanding between you both lingered as you walked into the theatre together, the world outside fading away. Orsen risked a glance at you, his gaze catching on the way the dim evening light outlined your sharp features. You looked so effortlessly composed, so handsome that it made his breath hitch for a moment. He felt a rush of warmth spread from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, his fingers brushing nervously against the ribbon under his chin as if it could steady him.

It didn’t matter that you were different. It didn’t matter that you came from different worlds. Right now, all that mattered was that you were both here, together, sharing this moment in time.

And for Orsen, that was enough.

── .✦

Orsen sat in his room, absentmindedly tracing patterns on the wooden desk, his mind still occupied with the discomfort that had settled over him the past few days. He hadn’t expected his body to feel like this, unfamiliar, heavy, and strange. The flow had come, just as his father and tutor had warned, but it didn’t make the experience any less confusing or jarring. He had kept to himself mostly, trying to adjust, trying to make sense of what it all meant.

A soft knock on the door broke his thoughts. He looked up quickly, his nerves suddenly tightening. His father, Lucan, stepped in, his posture rigid as always, his dark eyes scanning the room before landing on Orsen.

“Orsen,” Lucan began, his voice steady but tinged with an unfamiliar seriousness. "Wanted to talk about something, love."

Lucan stepped further into the room, his voice lowering, as if the matter was too delicate to say aloud in front of anyone else. “I and your mother think it’s time for you to stop... associating with (Y/N) for now.”

Orsen’s stomach twisted painfully. The words felt like a sharp blow to his chest, though he knew this was coming. His world, for the last few years, had been shared with (Y/N), the carefree days, the laughter, the moments when they were just two children playing in the garden or sneaking out to see a play. It was always natural, always easy, until now.

“Why?” Orsen’s voice cracked slightly, and he immediately regretted it, his cheeks burning as he stared down at the floor. “What did I do wrong? Wh-at did she do??”

Lucan sighed, a heavy sound that made Orsen feel smaller, as if he were a child again, needing to be controlled. "It’s not about you, Orsen. Your mother believes you should start focusing more on your responsibilities. You are no longer a child. Your a man and she...she's a woman. It’s time for you to stop playing games, stop seeking out... distractions."

Orsen felt his breath catch in his throat. Distractions. That’s how his parents saw (Y/N) now? His heart ached at the thought of never being able to run off and play with you again. It felt like the walls were closing in on him.

"You need to start preparing for your future," Lucan continued, not looking at Orsen directly, but at some point beyond him. “Your mother has plans for you, and she expects you to focus on your studies, your family name. No more distractions, Orsen. You’re growing into something much more than that."

The last words lingered in the air, and Orsen felt a sickening knot twist in his stomach. He wanted to argue, wanted to scream at the injustice of it all. Why should everything change now? But the words didn’t come. Instead, he simply nodded, his eyes brimming with the weight of it all.

Lucan turned to leave, but before he did, he paused at the door. “It’s for the best, son,” he said, his tone almost sympathetic. “I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but your mother’s decision is final.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and Orsen sat there, staring at the floor, his hands trembling. The world outside felt so far away now, like it was slipping through his fingers.

It was over. He couldn’t see (Y/N) anymore. He couldn’t run to her and find comfort in her presence. He couldn’t protect her or laugh with her. He was supposed to grow up. He was supposed to follow the path his family laid out for him, to grow into something else. To grow up for rather someone is more like it. To be a good man so that he can be a good husband...

But I’m not ready to let go, Orsen thought miserably. I can’t.

The evening had settled over the manor, but Orsen still hadn't left his room. He had feigned illness, citing exhaustion as the reason for his retreat, and, thankfully, his parents had bought it. His mother, as aloof as ever, didn’t press the matter too hard, but it was clear from the way she sent up his dinner that she wasn’t exactly pleased with him skipping meals. Nevertheless, they left him in solitude, and he barely touched the food. Just a few bites, enough to keep the appearance of complying with his parents' wishes.

You can't be with (Y/N) now...

The words circled in his mind like an endless loop, the cruel reminder of everything he’d just lost.

Society...

Family name...

And all that other bullshit...

Orsen couldn't suppress the bitter curses that slipped past his mental barriers, curses he'd only learned from you. Thanks to you, he had been exposed to the harsher truths of the world, the side that no one of his status was supposed to see, let alone understand. Without you, he would have remained ignorant, a sheltered boy in a world that seemed so far removed from the lives of people like you.

How could he just forget you? How could he ignore the way you made him feel so alive, so seen?

He wanted to lie to himself, to deny the truth, but it was becoming impossible. The feelings he had for you were not just those of a carefree childhood friendship. No, they had evolved into something far deeper, something he couldn’t bury beneath the expectations of his family and the rigid norms of society.

His mind swirled with the questions that had no answers. Had they told you? Did you know the news already? How would you have reacted?

Would you be heartbroken, too? Or would you simply move on, uncaring, as though he had never been a part of your life at all? After all, he was just the son of a lady of the manor, a wealthy, entitled boy. You, on the other hand, probably had your own circle, your own friends. Girls who shared your struggles, who truly understood your world in ways he never could.

The thought burned in his chest like a quiet, smoldering ache. Maybe there was even a boy among them, someone prettier, someone who fit into your life better than he ever could. Someone who could stand beside you without looking like a silly, awkward dreamer. The idea made his heart clench. He wanted to be everything you needed, but deep down, the fear whispered, what if you didn’t need him at all?

Orsen curled into himself, the loneliness settling over him like a suffocating weight. His heart ached with the thought of you, of how far apart he felt from you now. The girl who had been his closest friend, the one who had filled his life with laughter and mischief, now seemed like a distant memory, slipping through his fingers.

Would you even miss me? He couldn't stop the question from repeating itself.

But deep down, he knew the answer. You were strong, capable, too strong, too capable to be held back by someone like him. You had a life to live, a future that didn’t need him to make it complete. And he, a pampered boy who had always had everything handed to him, couldn’t keep up with that.

Still, his heart refused to listen to the logic of it all. It stubbornly clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a place for him in your life still.

But what if...

The thought was interrupted by a quiet sob he couldn’t suppress. His heart ached, and his tears fell unbidden, mixing with the confusion and sorrow that clouded his thoughts.

Just then, the soft patter of footsteps approached, and the door creaked open. Orsen barely registered the sound, too consumed by his own grief to notice at first. But when a small, tentative voice called out to him, it pierced through the fog of his sorrow.

“Orsen?” Rowan's voice was quiet, unsure.

Orsen didn't look up. He couldn't. Instead, he pulled his knees tighter to his chest, willing the tears to stop, though they kept coming. He didn’t want Rowan to see him like this. He was supposed to be the older brother, the one who protected him, the one who had all the answers. But now he felt like nothing more than a broken boy, helpless and alone.

Rowan, being much younger, didn't fully understand the weight of the situation, but he could sense the sadness in Orsen's hunched shoulders, in the way his older brother’s sobs shook his frame. Without hesitation, Rowan crossed the room and climbed onto the bed next to him, his small hands resting gently on Orsen’s arm.

"You’re not alone....You’ve still got me."

Orsen felt the warmth of Rowan’s hand, and it was enough to make him break down completely. The tears fell faster now, as if Rowan’s simple words had unlocked everything he had been holding in. He buried his face in his hands, trying to stifle the sobs, but it was useless. The pain was too much.

“I don’t know what to do, Rowan,” Orsen choked out between his sobs. “I... I don’t want to change. I don’t want to lose her. Why does everything have to be so... so different now?”

Rowan, though younger and not entirely understanding the complexities of the world they lived in, squeezed Orsen’s arm tighter. “Maybe it’s not forever,” he said quietly. “Maybe... maybe you can still be with (Y/N). You’re smart, Orsen. You’ll figure something out.”

Orsen let out a ragged breath, his body shaking as the tears slowly subsided. Rowan’s small voice, his unwavering support, gave him something to hold onto in that moment, something that felt like a lifeline.

“Thanks, Rowan,” Orsen whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "M-means a lot.."

Rowan smiled softly, his little hands patting Orsen’s arm as he snuggled closer. “You don’t have to. I’ll always be here, even when Mama and Papa tell you to stop playing with (Y/N). I'll always play with you!"

Orsen’s heart tightened. His little brother didn’t understand the full depth of what had just happened, but his words meant more than he could ever say. In this moment, Rowan was the one keeping him together, the one showing him that, even when everything seemed to fall apart, he wasn’t truly alone.

── .✦

He was perched at the balcony window, the cool breeze tousling his long, silky hair as he gazed out at the garden below. His fingers lightly gripped the edge of the windowsill as he watched you, working diligently on the grounds below.

You were cutting logs, a task far more physical than what Orsen was used to seeing you do. Your movements were strong, your muscles flexing with every swing of the axe, and it sent a strange flutter through his chest. His eyes followed the rhythm of your body, the way your arms tensed with the exertion. There was something undeniably powerful in the way you moved, a raw strength that both mesmerized and unsettled him.

Orsen swallowed hard, his heart skipping a beat as you wiped the sweat from your brow, revealing the determined glint in your eyes. His breath hitched in his throat as he couldn’t help but admire the way your body worked, every movement fluid and precise. The sight of you, the girl who had always been by his side, now growing into someone completely different, had his thoughts running wild.

Stop it, he told himself, gripping the windowsill a little tighter. This is wrong. She’s... His mind stumbled over the words, his heart desperately trying to calm the fluttering sensation that wouldn’t go away.

You didn’t seem to notice him at first, too focused on your task, but then, by some miracle, your eyes found his. For a moment, time seemed to stretch as your gaze locked onto his, and Orsen’s heart raced in his chest. There was something about the way you looked at him, a kind of unspoken acknowledgment as if you knew exactly what he was feeling without him saying a word.

He quickly forced himself to look away, his face flushing with heat, but not before giving a small, almost timid wave. His fingers, still gripping the windowsill, trembled slightly from the nervousness coursing through him.

You gave a quick wave back, then turned your attention back to the task at hand, but the simple exchange was enough to send a shiver of excitement through him. He leaned against the window frame, his chest tight with something he couldn’t quite name.

The quiet, pounding ache in his chest deepened. He was stuck, trapped behind this invisible barrier that kept him from stepping outside, from being close to you in the way he wanted. You, with your strength and duties, your hands working like they knew no other way of being. And him, trapped in this gilded cage, unable to touch you, talk to you.... to even get close.

His eyes followed your every movement, as if he could somehow close the gap between the two of you just by watching. The ache in his chest grew heavier, and the question hung in his mind like a dark cloud: Why am I feeling like this?

You didn’t even know, did you? Or maybe you did, but... what difference did it make? His hand tightened on the windowsill as he let out a quiet sigh. There was nothing he could do. Nothing he could say. Just... watch.

── .✦

The days passed slowly for Orsen after that encounter. Each morning, he would wake up with an uneasy knot in his stomach, knowing he couldn’t be near you. He could only watch you from his window, his heart aching with every glimpse of you working in the garden, your hands strong and graceful, yet out of his reach.

But then, one day, a small note arrived. It was discreet, slipped under the door to his room by Rowan, who seemed to have caught onto the secret in his own innocent way. Orsen unrolled the crumpled piece of paper, his heart pounding.

I see you watching me these days, Orsen. Are you going to keep staring, or are you finally going to talk to me? Don't be afraid...

Orsen stared at the words, a soft blush rising to his cheeks. You, you, had noticed. He carefully folded the note and tucked it into the pocket of his shirt before his parents could catch him with it. His heart raced, but there was a comfort in knowing you felt something too.

Over the next few weeks, the notes began to come more frequently. They were always passed through Rowan, always discreet, and always full of the teasing, playful energy that Orsen both craved and feared.

One evening, Orsen received another note. This one was a little longer than the others, the ink scrawled with hurried words.

I’m starting to think you’re too shy to talk to me in person, Orsen. It’s just a letter. Why don’t you send me one back? Are you really just going to end our friendship like this...? I am worried for you too...Please answer..

Orsen’s hands trembled slightly as he read the note. He had never written to anyone like this before. He had never had a reason to hide his words. But you, you made him feel things he couldn’t understand, things that burned and twisted inside him every time he thought about you. And now, you were asking for him to write.

The next afternoon, he couldn’t stand it anymore. Taking a deep breath, he took up his pen and began to write:

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to talk to you, not like this. But I think about you. All the time. I can’t stop. But they said to...not to...I want to though. Every day...

It was simple, just a few words, but it felt like the world was contained in that tiny letter. He sealed it carefully, not wanting anyone to find it. Rowan, ever the accomplice, delivered it the next morning.

The day passed in anticipation, and soon, he received your reply.

So you're shy, huh? That’s alright, Orsen. But if you want to see me, if you want to talk to me... I’ll be in the garden tomorrow at noon. I’ll wait. They won't catch us. I promise.

Right... No one would know. It would just be you and him. Just like you promised.

That night, he barely slept, the thought of seeing you in the garden swirling in his mind. And as soon as the clock struck noon the next day, he snuck out of his room and slipped through the hallways of the manor, his heart thundering in his chest.

There, in the garden, you waited. The sun was high, and the breeze was soft. You were working again, your back turned to him as you cleared some weeds. His footsteps were quiet as he approached, but you heard them.

You turned around, your eyes meeting his. The playful glint in them was gone, replaced with something softer, something warmer.

“You came,” you said, smiling slightly. “I thought you might be too scared.”

Orsen’s face flushed, but he nodded, his heart racing in his chest. “I wasn’t sure… but I wanted to see you. I didn’t know how to say it.”

You stepped forward, closing the distance between you. “Well,” you said with a sly smile, “you’ve said it now.”

He swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. But you didn’t give him time to think. You reached out and placed your hand on his arm, the touch sending a shock of warmth through him.

As he looked into your eyes, the teasing, playful energy that once defined their interactions was gone. Now, there was only a quiet understanding, a deep yearning that neither of them could ignore any longer.

Orsen’s breath caught in his throat. His body was still, heart racing, as you gently cupped his face, your thumb brushing the faint line of his jaw. His hands hovered at his sides, unsure what to do, but every part of him screamed to hold you.

"You’ve been so quiet, Orsen," you whispered, your voice softer than he’d ever heard it before. "What’s on your mind?"

The question hung in the air, but before Orsen could form a response, his gaze flickered to your lips. His heart skipped a beat, and without thinking, he leaned in...you did too. The world around them seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you, standing in the middle of the garden.

And then, as if drawn together by some invisible force, your lips met.

The kiss was hesitant at first, tender and shy like two people testing the waters of something new and forbidden. But it didn’t take long for the hesitance to melt away. Orsen's hands found their way to your collar, pulling you closer as if he could feel you slipping away with each passing second. Your hands gripped his slender waist holding him firmly in place as you lost yourself in the feeling of his soft plump lips.

The kiss deepened, and Orsen felt the weight of everything he had been holding back, the feelings, the longing, the fear of losing you, all come crashing down in that single moment. He wanted to say so much, but all he could do was hold onto you as if his life depended on it.

Finally, when they broke apart, Orsen was breathless, his forehead resting against yours. He opened his eyes to find you gazing down at him, your face flushed and your chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

"I… I don’t know what to say," he murmured, his voice unsteady.

You smiled softly, running a finger across his jawline, as if reassuring him. "You don’t have to say anything."

But then, your expression shifted, and Orsen could see the uncertainty in your eyes. It was like a sudden weight had descended on you, something you couldn’t hold back any longer.

You pulled away slightly, looking away from him for the first time in their brief encounter.

"I have to tell you something," you said, your voice tinged with sadness. "I’ve been trying to avoid saying it, but you deserve to know."

Orsen’s heart clenched at the seriousness in your tone. "What is it? You’re scaring me."

You took a deep breath, your gaze returning to his. "I’m being...drafted into the army. I leave in two weeks for training."

Orsen's face drained of color. The words didn't fully sink in at first, but as they did, a chill ran through him. "What do you mean? You’re going away?"

"I have no choice," you said quietly, looking down at the ground. "I have to go. You know I always...wanted that and my mother wants it too. I passed the test. And will have to leave for...I don't know yet. Could be an...year."

The weight of her words hit him like a physical blow. He reached out instinctively, taking your hands in his, as if holding onto you could somehow change everything.

"But we just-" Orsen’s voice cracked. "We just… we just had a kiss. And now you’re leaving?"

You nodded, wiping the tear slipping down his cheek. "I never wanted this. I never wanted to hurt you. But I have no choice. This is what’s expected of me."

Orsen’s heart ached, but as he looked into your eyes, he knew there was nothing he could do to change it. The world was too big, too complicated, and he was just a rich boy who wasn’t allowed to have what he wanted.

He stepped back, releasing your hands, and turned his back to you. He couldn’t let you see the way his eyes were welling with tears.

He swallowed hard, struggling to keep his voice steady. "I didn’t even get to tell you, h-ow much I care about you. And now yo-u’re leaving."

You stepped closer again, gently touching his shoulder, your voice soft. "I care about you too, Orsen. But there’s nothing I can do. I’ll be back. I promise. It's not a big deal. Please...don't cry. I want to see you smile...before I leave...."

"But how long? What if we never-"

"We will," you whispered firmly. "When I come back, I’ll find you. We’ll figure this out, together."

Orsen turned to face you then, a smile weakly tugging at the corner of his lips despite the heaviness in his chest. "I’ll be waiting for you."

"I am doing this...for us. I---I have felt this way about you for very long...and I now know you did too. So... when I return," you said, your voice firm with conviction, "I’ll ask for your hand."

Orsen’s heart stopped for a second. The words you spoke were like a breath of fresh air in a world that had felt suffocating. But then, a cold, sinking feeling crept into his chest. He swallowed hard, his thoughts racing.

"I…" He shook his head, his voice faltering. "My mother… she’ll never allow it. I can’t-"

"Don’t worry about her," you cut him off gently. "When I return, we’ll figure it out. I’ll fight for us. I am not a coward. I won’t let anything stand in the way of what we have."

But Orsen’s mind was already racing, and despite the warmth your words brought, doubt gnawed at him. His mother, Isolde Elaris, a businesswoman, would never allow him to be with someone like you. She would never approve. And no matter how much he might want to be with you, he couldn’t ignore the reality of his world.

Still, as you gazed at him with such earnestness, he found himself nodding, almost against his will.

"I’ll be waiting for you, just like I said, promise. Be safe...for me...please (Y/N)...." Orsen whispered, his voice barely audible, but filled with all the hope he had left.

With that you pulled him into a warm embrace that seemed to melt all his worries, his hands gripping you like a lifeline.

1923

One year later...

You had returned.

A year of training had shaped you into someone different, not just physically, but in ways you couldn’t have imagined. At 17, you were a Junior Sergeant, a rank earned through sheer grit. You hadn’t just survived the grueling regimen; you had thrived in it. Yet, despite all that, none of it felt quite as important as the task ahead.

Convincing your mother had been no easy feat. It took more strength than any of your drills to get her to agree to accompany you today. But, in the end, she relented. She didn’t speak much as you both traveled, but the tension in the air was thick with her reservations.

You heard the standard protests from your parents.

"What if we get kicked out?!"

"There is no match between us and them."

"You’re saying she will marry her son only for him to live in the servant quarters of the manor?!"

"I just want to ask for his hand, not bring him here!" you snapped, your voice steady with the weight of your resolve. "Just an engagement, nothing more, until I’ve found my footing. My own house, where we can all live, where we’ll be happy."

Your words were filled with confidence that stemmed from the one thing that motivated you, the love you had for Orsen. It wasn’t about status, not about titles, or what others thought. It was about him. It was about making him happy, seeing him smile, and one day—maybe soon, building a family with him.

Your mother’s protests quieted as she looked at you, still skeptical but, perhaps, beginning to understand the depth of your determination.

"I will fight for him," you said softly, almost to yourself. "I’ll do whatever it takes."

Orsen’s breath hitched in his chest, his sweaty palm almost crushing his younger brother Rowan's. Both of them stood just outside the drawing room, where you and your mother were speaking with his parents. The air felt thick, heavy with the weight of what you had just said, and Orsen’s anxiety surged with each passing second of silence. He could barely comprehend it, you had said it. You had confessed your love, asking for his hand.

The silence was broken by a furious, sharp voice that made Orsen's heart drop into his stomach.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT! Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Isolde shot up from her seat, her eyes blazing with fury as she pointed an accusatory finger in your direction.

“YOU THINK YOU CAN COME HERE AND ASK FOR MY SON’S HAND, THE ONE WHOSE SINGLE SHOE COSTS MORE THAN YOUR ENTIRE QUARTERS?!” Her voice rang with disgust, the insult heavy in the air.

Orsen felt his knees threaten to give way. He had known his mother would react this way, hell, he had feared it. But hearing her say those words about you, about what you meant to him... It hurt more than he could have imagined.

"Love... love is not something that you weigh, Ms. Elaris." Your mother gripped your arm tightly as a warning, her fingers pressing into your skin as she tried to pull you away, her voice full of urgency. She muttered apologies under her breath, but you remained rooted to the spot, staring straight ahead. Isolde’s presence loomed closer, her fury palpable in the thick tension of the room.

"Oh really?" Isolde sneered, stepping forward with venom in her voice. "Well, your pathetic and nasty feelings towards my son WON'T KEEP HIM FED! IT WILL ONLY RUIN EVERYTHING ASSOCIATED WITH HIM, WHICH IS MY FUCKING NAME THAT I BUILT!"

Her words sliced through the air like a blade, but you stood your ground, not backing down, your voice steady despite the knot of anger rising in your throat. "You think I would have come here for something as trivial as commitment just to let him starve? We both love each other-"

"DON'T FUCKING SAY HIS NAME, YOU-" Isolde's face contorted with rage. Before you could even react, she struck you across the face, the sharp sting of her palm sending shockwaves through your head.

The sound of the smack echoed in the room, and it was all Orsen needed to hear. He couldn’t take it anymore.

"NO! MAMA! Don't hurt her!" His voice broke through the tension, desperate and raw. He dashed into the room, his eyes wide with panic and pain, his feet carrying him faster than his mind could catch up. The sight of you, standing there with a reddened cheek and your heart in turmoil, pushed him past his breaking point.

"Don’t you dare!" he cried out, trying to rush toward you, as his father stopped him.

Isolde turned to her husband, rage still boiling in her voice. "YOU LET THEM PLAY WHEN I TOLD YOU NOT TO!" she screamed. "See?! This is what it fucking results in!"

Orsen ignored her, his focus entirely on you, on the hurt she had caused, and the way it shattered him to see you suffer. He reached for you, but his father blocked his path, forcefully holding him back.

"NO! STOP!" Orsen sobbed, the sight of you being dragged away tearing him apart. His chest tightened, his heart breaking into a million pieces. All he could do was watch as his dreams of being with you, of having a future together, crumbled before him.

"At least think what your son wants! I promise to keep him happy even if it means working myself to death, just give me a chance Ms. Isolde! I'll be forever loyal to-"

Isolde’s voice rang out again, cruel and final. "I WON’T GIVE YOU MY SON IN A MILLION YEARS!" she spat. "Now go home. Pack your bags. GET FUCKING LOST FROM MY PROPERTY!"

The words struck like daggers, and Orsen could only stand there, his body wracked with sobs. The pain, the injustice, the helplessness, it all became too much. You were being dragged away, your love for him still so clear, and yet, everything was falling apart.

And as he watched you being forced from the manor, Orsen’s world seemed to collapse in on itself. He could feel every part of him breaking, every dream he had of a future with you slipping through his fingers like sand.....

Please be a nightmare...please be a nightmare.

Isolde stormed back into the manor, her fury still crackling in the air. "Lucan! Get him inside his room, and I don’t want to hear a single word about that pathetic woman! Neither the sobbing! You hear me?" She didn’t wait for an answer. Without another glance at her sons, she turned on her heel, the sound of her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she made her way toward her study, her anger still seething.

Lucan stood there for a moment, staring at the door his wife had slammed shut, the weight of his own helplessness pulling at his chest. He sighed heavily, then turned to Orsen, whose body trembled with the weight of everything that had just unfolded.

"Orsen..." Lucan’s voice was softer now, but laced with concern. He approached his son, his hand resting on his trembling shoulder. "My dear... calm yourself," he murmured, trying to comfort him as best he could. But it was clear that his own frustrations and regrets were too much for him to contain. "You really thought your mama would let this be? Why did you let yourself fall for her?" His tone was more accusatory than he realized, but it was clear that his anger wasn’t directed at his son, it was just a manifestation of his own disappointment.

Rowan, who had been silently watching the exchange, finally stepped forward. His small hands reached out for his brother, and with the innocence only a child could have, he whispered through his tears, "Orsen, please don’t be sad. I... I don’t like seeing you cry."

Lucan finally helped his son to his feet, though Orsen could barely stand on his own. The weight of his heartbreak was too much to bear, and he leaned heavily on his father, the pain in his chest threatening to crush him with every breath. Rowan followed close behind, his small hands trembling as they touched Orsen’s arm, trying to support him.

"I don’t... I can’t live without her," Orsen whispered, his voice barely audible, a tremble in every word. "Please... I’ll die... I’ll kill myself..." His words hung in the air, heavy with despair. And then, in a moment of overwhelming emotion, Orsen’s world faded to black, his body collapsing in his father’s arms as everything around him went silent.

── .✦

After you left, Orsen felt as though half of his soul had been ripped away, leaving him hollow and incomplete. Lucan had tried to convey this to his wife countless times, but Isolde was deaf to his pleas. She dismissed his concerns about their son with cold indifference, refusing to acknowledge the truth of what Orsen had become, a lovelorn boy consumed by grief. He withdrew from the world entirely, locking himself away in his room. Socializing, already a challenge for him, became impossible. And so, he painted. Over and over again, he painted you.

Each canvas bore your face, your smile, your essence. Every brushstroke was a desperate attempt to capture what he had lost. The paintings multiplied, filling his room with hauntingly beautiful reminders of a love he could no longer hold.

“This is getting out of hand!” Isolde’s shrill voice echoed through the manor as she stormed into the parlor. “I swear to God, if I see one more portrait of that bastard in my house-”

“STOP!” Lucan’s voice thundered, cutting through her tirade. “For God’s sake, Isolde, just stop! Can’t you see what you’ve done? My son, our son, has lost himself because of you! If only... if only you’d handled this with an ounce of discretion, with empathy! They were young and in love for God’s sake! She was young, and she did it, she came here, to us, and asked for his hand. What was her crime? Loving him? That’s not a sin!”

“Oh, it most certainly is!” Isolde snapped, her face flushed with fury. “She did commit a sin because how dare she even think she’s at par with us? How dare she believe she’s fit to be my daughter-in-law? She’s a nobody! And you-” she pointed an accusatory finger at Lucan, her voice trembling with rage, “you need to stop wallowing in pity with him and do your job as his father. Go up there and fix your son instead of standing here arguing with me, your wife! You failed to raise him properly! I want the best for him too! Do you think I’m his enemy?”

Lucan’s jaw tightened, his fists clenched at his sides, but before he could respond, Isolde pressed on, her tone sharp and resolute. “If you won’t act, then I will. I’ll find him a suitor. A proper one. Because clearly, you’re too busy sulking to see what’s best for him. There are plenty of well-established women, daughters of my partners--women who will treat him like the prince he is! Not like some charity case meant to be dragged down by a girl who doesn’t even belong in the same world as us.”

Lucan’s eyes burned with unshed tears, his voice breaking as he whispered, “And what do you think that will do to him, Isolde? You think parading someone else in front of him will make him forget her? You’ll break what little is left of him.”

But Isolde had already turned her back, dismissing his words with a wave of her hand as she walked toward the grand staircase. “You’ll see, Lucan. One day, he’ll thank me for saving him from her.”

However, Isolde’s plans always seemed to crumble before they even began. Every suitor she brought forward found her son either too meek, too detached, or, worse yet, eerily silent. He was almost ghost-like, his quietness mistaken for muteness by many. But it wasn’t silence, it was absence. Every fiber of Orsen’s being was consumed by you. His thin frame seemed weighed down by the memories he refused to let go of.

Because every part of his being was consumed by thoughts of you, his eyes replaying the memories, his hands yearning to be held by yours, his ears straining to hear your voice, his nose craving the faint trace of your scent, and his mind entirely consumed by you. His mind, utterly devoted to you, left no space for the present. How could he be anything but a shell of himself?

The embarrassment came soon enough. The rumors spread like wildfire after one particular incident---a disaster in Isolde’s eyes. Forced to interact with a suitor in private, Orsen, in his dazed and lovesick state, spoke only of you. Your name slipped from his lips like a prayer, every word dripping with longing and devotion. The suitor, bewildered and offended, left without a word. And that was it, Isolde’s perfect plan shattered yet again.

But the world outside was less forgiving.

A boy in love?

The son of Isolde Elaris in love?

And with a mere servant, no less? Tsk, tsk. So unruly...

No wonder he looks so wretched. Betrayed by a woman beneath him, perhaps?

Heard she’s in the army now. But poor as dirt, that explains why Isolde refused.

The whispers, the snide remarks, and the pitying glances reached Isolde’s ears, stoking her fury. But Orsen? He couldn’t care less about the rumors. Let them talk. Let them mock. None of it mattered to him.

His world had shrunk to the confines of his room, where his paintbrush brought you back to life in hues of longing and heartbreak. Your laughter echoed in the silent strokes of his art. Your touch lingered in every corner of his mind. Your memory was his solace and his torment.

He needed nothing else, just the faint traces of you that lingered in his heart. For him, they were enough.

"You destroyed your life for HER?! She isn’t coming back here, and neither am I ever going to accept her, so imprint that in your mind and fix yourself! Otherwise, we will be forced to move to another province."

SLAM!

The door rattled violently as Isolde stormed off, leaving the air thick with tension. All she ever did was talk, command, dictate, and talk some more. Orsen leaned his head back against the wall, letting out a dry, rueful chuckle. Her words barely scratched at the armor of his despair anymore.

"Does your mother always think she’s the empress of everything? Or does she just save that energy for me?"

He could still picture you folding your arms, feigning indignation while your eyes sparkled with mischief. Back then, you’d leaned closer, dropping your voice conspiratorially. "No offense, but I’m half-expecting her to declare a new tax just for looking at her wrong."

That teasing jab had made him laugh so hard he’d forgotten, for a moment, the weight of his world. He could still remember how your fingers used to drift into his hair without a thought, toying with the soft strands as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It always made his cheeks flush, though he never stopped you—he loved it, cherished every touch, every moment your attention lingered on him.

Now, his hands gripped the scissors, the metal glinting faintly under the dim light. His movements were sharp, almost desperate, as he cut through the alluring gold locks, yet there was an underlying tenderness to it, hesitant, like he was severing a connection to you. Gently, because you loved his hair. Aggressively, because he didn’t want anyone else to see it anymore. No suitors, no flattering remarks from his parents. No one deserved to notice him the way you had.

Even now, the memory of you was so vivid it felt like you were in the room with him. Almost. But not enough to fill the void you’d left behind. Nothing ever could.

Meanwhile, you, after being kicked out and shamed by Lady Elaris—were drowning in an unbearable mix of shame and guilt, especially in front of your parents, who were now homeless because of you and your foolish fantasy of being with her son. What were you thinking? Had you been so blind in your naive, reckless love that you lost sight of reality? Your parents should have been your first priority. Instead, you had risked their stability and comfort over a foolish dream.

Your heart broke the day your father had to sell his cherished marriage jewelry, pieces he had once treasured, because your single month’s salary, combined with your mother’s meager savings, wasn’t enough to afford even a modest one-room apartment. It was a moment that crushed you, made you see the depth of your mistakes, and yet, it also became the turning point.

At that moment, you made a promise. You vowed to repay them tenfold, no, a thousandfold, everything they had sacrificed because of you. That vow became your life’s focus, your unrelenting drive. There was no more room for silly infatuations, no place for childish fantasies. Only purpose.

1931

Over the years, countless letters were written by Orsen to you. Rowan, ever loyal, carried each one to the post office, just as he had done when they were boys. But you never wrote back. Not once. Each unanswered letter chipped away at Orsen's hope, leaving him to wrestle with the silence. In his heart, he could only fathom two reasons for your absence: either you had truly forgotten him, abandoned him, played with his heart, or you had simply given up on the dream.

Perhaps you kept the love a secret but he didn't. He kept it as an oath.

He thought it would be a love for the ages. But now, as the days turned into years, he realized he was the only one writing on…pages.

But why? No. No, you shouldn’t have. You promised to fight for him, didn’t you? You were the woman, you were supposed to fight for your love. He had fought for you, hadn’t he? So why didn’t you?

There were moments when resentment clawed at his heart, moments when he hated you for your silence. But his love always overcame it. A quiet voice within reminded him of the guilt and heartbreak he had seen in your eyes that last time, the moment you stood at the threshold of his home. No, he would tell himself, you didn’t betray me, did you?

And yet, the doubt lingered, cold and cruel. Was he really so...forgettable to you?

"BROTHER ORSEN! Orsen!" Rowan's voice trembled as he rushed inside his brother’s room, panic rising in his chest as he saw Orsen hunched over, lost in the sea of his own thoughts. He approached him gently, reaching out to steady him, but it was as if Orsen was made of glass, fragile and on the edge of shattering.

"I-... I did you hear the news...?" Rowan's voice quivered, unsure if he truly wanted to be the one to break this.

A slow, hesitant shake of Orsen's head was all Rowan received—what he had expected, but still, it hurt more than words could express.

"T-the... war is upon us... and..." Rowan’s voice faltered, breaking on the edge of that awful, cold truth. He didn’t need to say more. Orsen’s face went blank, his body slumping further, as if the weight of the world had just pressed him into the bed.

"War..." Orsen’s voice was barely a whisper. It wasn’t the war that had brought him to this point. It wasn’t the world outside that was destroying him. It was the war within, against the memories, the love, the haunting silence.

"Y-yes, brother. War, soldiers are being deployed to the western border... but don’t you worry, she’ll return, she’ll be fine-"

"But she won’t return to me..." Orsen’s words were choked, and Rowan felt his heart fracture as his brother's emerald eyes filled with unshed tears.

"No matter how many wars go by, Rowan..." Orsen’s voice quivered, his body shaking with the intensity of his pain, the weight of years of silence and waiting pressing down on him. "She won’t fight the war... for us. The one war that I was ready to die for."

Rowan’s heart ached, and he reached for Orsen immediately, his hand coming to rest gently over his brother’s lips as if to shield him from speaking the words that were tearing him apart. "Why do you always speak ill of yourself? It hurts me, Orsen. As much as I... support you and love you you need to stop destroying yourself over her."

Orsen’s hands trembled, and his voice broke as he whispered, almost desperately, "Rowan, my heart doesn’t stop! There’s always this voice... this voice that tells me she still feels something for me, that I still live in her heart, the same way mine beats for her. But it’s all I have left. The hope. The hope that she’ll come back... and maybe... maybe it will be enough."

Rowan's throat tightened, but he couldn’t speak, not with the agony in his brother’s voice. His own heart broke for him, but he couldn’t let Orsen sink deeper into the suffocating grief.

"Even if she returns..." Rowan’s voice faltered as he feared what the consequences would be. "Mother will-"

But Orsen cut him off, his voice low, almost too quiet to hear, "It won’t matter, Rowan. I’ve already lost her...I've lost...everything."

One year later...

After years of bloodshed and sacrifice, the town whispers of your return. At 25, you walk back into the place you once called home, no longer the wide-eyed girl who had left at 17, but a woman hardened by the brutal realities of war. Your uniform, now adorned with a sergeant's insignia, tells the story of your rise through the ranks, your resolve steeled by every battle fought and every friend lost. The air feels different, heavier, almost suffocating as you step through the town’s familiar streets, but your heart remains unyielding, barricaded from the past. Orsen’s letters are still tucked away, unopened, each one a reminder of a love you’ve forced yourself to forget. You’ve accepted it. You were never meant to be, and no amount of hope could change that now. The weight of those letters no longer tugs at you, not when you’ve fought and survived so much more.

Dear Orsen,

I know you’ve been waiting. I know you’ve sent me countless letters, filled with hope that I would somehow return to you, to the life we once dreamed of. But Orsen, I can’t. I’ve read every word you wrote, and yet I find myself unable to respond in the way you so desperately long for.

I wish things had been different. I wish I could turn back the clock and be the girl who ran away with you in her heart, the girl who believed love could conquer everything. But that girl no longer exists.

You were my first love, Orsen, and you will always hold a piece of my heart. But that piece is buried deep now, and I cannot let it resurface. You deserve more than the shadows of someone who cannot return your love. You deserve someone who can give you all the things I cannot.

Please, move on. I’ve had to. And though it breaks me to say this, I need you to as well. There are things we can’t undo, and I’ve learned that some battles are meant to be lost.

I wish you nothing but happiness, Orsen. Please find it, for both of us.

Yours,

(Y/N)

Orsen read the letter over and over again, the words blurring as his tears fell onto the paper. He could feel the weight of her words, the finality in them, but it didn’t matter. She was back. She had sent a response. That was all that mattered. He could still feel the flicker of hope inside him, despite the pain.

"See, Rowan?" Orsen's voice trembled, filled with a raw, desperate conviction. "She does care... she did come back! And she sent a response! After all these years, after everything..." His hands shook as he held the letter, his eyes wide with disbelief, as if the letter were some miraculous token of proof that his love had not been in vain.

Rowan stood still, watching his brother, his heart aching with the quiet sorrow that had always lived within Orsen. He had been there for all of it, the hopeless days, the constant painting, the letters, the belief that (Y/N) would return. But now, even with the letter in hand, he knew nothing would ever truly change for Orsen. The boy who loved her so deeply, so painfully, would never let go.

"Orsen-"

"I told you, Rowan!" Orsen interrupted, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that sent a chill down Rowan’s spine. He didn't even hear his brother’s voice, his focus solely on the canvas beneath him. He dashed to his desk, where he'd been working for hours, and pulled out the latest painting of her, his masterpiece.

He held the canvas in his arms like it was the most precious thing in the world. His hands, once trembling with uncertainty, now steadied as he placed a soft kiss onto the painting of her.

"I knew you would," he whispered into the stillness of the room, the words soft, almost a prayer. "I knew you would, (Y/N)... I knew you’d come back to me."

His lips brushed the painted figure as though it were real, as though he were holding her in his arms once more. He collapsed beside it, curling up against the canvas as though it were her embrace. The painting of (Y/N) became his only solace, his only love.

And though the letter told him to move on, to accept the impossible, Orsen couldn't. He wouldn't.

He would live in his world of painted memories, of moments stolen from time. If that was all he could have, then that was enough. His heart belonged to her, now and always.

Rowan sighed, a heavy, sorrowful breath, and sat beside his brother, not knowing how to save him from the pain that would never fade.

── .✦

The years had been kinder to you in some ways. You had finally earned the respect you'd dreamed of, built a stable life, and found a steady income. Your parents, once worried, once ashamed, were proud now. They had a bungalow, a car, and all the comforts that came with your hard work. Adrian was a good man, his steady smile and warm presence had become a source of quiet comfort. Your parents approved of him, and in public, he fit the role of what they had always envisioned for you.

You had met Adrian at one of the official functions after the war, an event meant to honor veterans and those who had served. He had approached you politely, a charming young man from a good family, well-educated, and well-spoken. It was easy to fall into a comfortable conversation with him. He was kind, and considerate, and seemed genuinely interested in your experiences, nothing too probing, nothing too personal, and a touch of flirty which you found attracted to. The connection had been easy, and effortless. Over time, he had become more of a presence in your life, someone to lean on, someone to rely on when the weight of the world felt too heavy.

But in the quiet moments, when you caught him smiling or when his gentle presence filled the room, you couldn't help but wonder what it would have been like if Orsen were here instead of him.

Had he listened to you? Had he chosen a different path? You had told him to move on, to find happiness elsewhere. But as you thought of him, still alone, still stubbornly clinging to something that had long since slipped away, you felt an overwhelming ache. You wondered if he was doing well if he had found peace, or if he was still trapped in the same loop of memories, the same quiet obsession that you had once shared.

The whispers that reached your ears spoke of his isolation. They called him a "spinster" in the most cruel terms, among their circle blaming him for wasting his life over a dream, for not letting go, and for refusing to welcome suitors. The town had forgotten the love he had once held for you, reduced it to mockery and judgment. And it stung more than you cared to admit. It wasn’t just the cruel words, they blamed him, not you. But you still felt the guilt gnaw at you. If only you could have done something differently. If only you hadn’t pushed him away if only you had stayed.

You wished things could have been different, so different. Sometimes, you would drive by the road that led to the Elaris estate, the place where it had all started, where it had all fallen apart. You grimaced each time, your mind filled with the memories of Isolde’s cold arrogance, her cruel insults hurled at your mother, the disdain that had torn everything apart. You would never forget the way she looked down on your family. Never forget the way her words had stung.

And yet, despite it all, the quiet moments still haunted you. Adrian was everything you had ever been told to want. He was good, stable, and kind. But whenever you saw that smile, whenever you felt his hand on yours, the image of Orsen would slip into your mind, and for a fleeting moment, you wondered, what if?

"Ready for the date, love?" you asked, a playful smile on your lips as you slid into the driver's seat of your sleek Packard coupe. Adrian hopped in beside you, his excitement palpable as he fastened his seatbelt. The polished chrome gleamed under the fading sunlight, reflecting your success.

"Ready as ever," Adrian grinned, leaning in for a quick peck before you revved the engine.

As you pulled out onto the road, Adrian’s eyes sparkled with energy. "Oh my God, baby! Look! An exhibition! We should totally go there!"

"But what about our reservation?"

"We can eat somewhere else," he said, his voice bubbling with excitement. "I'm in the mood to go there now! And it’s going to be fun!"

"As you say, doll," you laughed, making a sharp turn, and Adrian’s hand instinctively gripped your arm as the car glided smoothly along the streets.

The gallery was quiet when you both entered, the sound of hushed conversations echoing in the background. But as soon as you stepped through the door, you both stopped in your tracks.

Every single wall was covered in paintings. And what made your heart skip a beat, what made the air feel heavy, was that every single painting was of you. Each canvas captured a moment, an expression, an angle of you. The portraits were hauntingly familiar, your face, your eyes, your presence, all staring back at you in ways that felt too intimate, too familiar.

Adrian stood beside you, his mouth agape as his eyes darted between the paintings. "What the hell is this?" His voice trembled with confusion, but his gaze never left the artwork.

You didn’t respond, your heart pounding in your chest. The words caught in your throat as the reality of the situation sank in. How had this happened? Why had someone done this?

You felt the walls closing in, the weight of every portrait suffocating you. The paintings weren’t just of you, they were a testament to someone who had been watching, remembering, and never letting go. They were not just of your face, but in parts too but all those parts...made a story , the story you were all too familiar with.

The garden...

The swing...of you pushing a boy...you knew too well.

your eyes...

your lips nuzzling in golden hair...

you working in the garden but the painter drew it as they...were in some balcony...

Adrian looked at you, searching your face for an explanation. "Do you know who did this?"

You shook your head, your voice barely a whisper.

"Is this… is this really me?" you whispered, feeling a tremor in your voice.

Adrian stood beside you, studying the painting. He gave you a gentle nudge. “Of course, it’s you. Look at that, love. It’s beautiful. Who could capture you like that? It's like they’ve seen the real you.”

Your mind was however not registering his words as you turned your eyes to the next painting. Another portrait of you. And another.

The entire gallery was filled with paintings of you. Each one more personal than the last.

Your breath hitched. The familiar, almost painful pull of longing twisted in your chest. The artist, who could it be? Why was this happening? You didn't want to think it, but you knew deep down. You knew this was Orsen’s doing.

Adrian sensed your shift in mood, his brow furrowing in concern. “What’s going on? This... this doesn’t seem like you to be so quiet.”

You turned to him, the weight of the paintings and your tangled emotions making your heart ache. "It’s… it’s him. Orsen."

Adrian’s face softened in understanding, his eyes scanning the gallery around you. "I thought you'd told me you had moved on from him. That you had buried that part of your life."

“I did,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I thought I had. But I didn’t expect this… to see him like this. To see him still... holding onto me."

Adrian studied you, his expression a mixture of concern and something softer, more understanding. He took your hand, gently guiding you towards the painting of you in the center of the room. “(Y/N), listen to me. This… this is what he’s been doing all this time. This is his heart, laid out on canvas. But you, you, need to follow yours now.”

Your heart raced as you turned to look at him. “I don’t know if I can,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “His mother… she ruined everything. I ruined everything.”

Adrian’s hand squeezed yours gently, and he looked you in the eyes, the sincerity in his expression unwavering. “But you’re not her, (Y/N). Don’t let her shadow stand in the way of what’s real. You feel it, don’t you? You feel that pull. The ache in your heart. You’ve never really let him go. He’s still there, inside you. Maybe it’s time to go to him. Maybe it’s time to follow your heart, before it’s too late. Be the woman you should be. For him."

You swallowed, the weight of his words sinking deep into your chest. Adrian’s eyes softened as he added, "Go to him, (Y/N). You owe it to yourself."

For a moment, you stood there, torn between the past and the future. But deep down, you knew what you had to do. Adrian was right. You had buried the love you shared with Orsen for too long, hidden behind walls of fear and shame. You couldn’t pretend anymore. The paintings were his way of reaching out to you, of showing you that he never stopped loving you, even when you were too proud or too afraid to admit it to yourself.

With a shaky breath, you turned to Adrian and smiled softly. “Thank you. I don’t know how to repay you.”

He smiled back, brushing a lock of hair from your face. “No need for that, love. Just be happy.”

After a comforting and final farewell with Adrian and dropping him you drove towards the Elaris estate. Your heart thudded in your chest, each beat louder than the last. You knew what was waiting for you. You knew that, despite all the years of pain and regret, Orsen was still out there, still holding onto you, waiting for you.

You didn’t know how you would face him, but you knew one thing for sure, you had to try.

When you arrived at the grand estate, it felt like stepping into the past. The familiar sight of the towering gates, the ivy-covered walls, all of it reminded you of everything you had left behind. Your hands trembled on the steering wheel, but you didn’t hesitate. You got out of the car and walked up to the grand doors, your heart heavy with the fear of what you might find.

Orsen’s mother answered the door, her face cold and dismissive as ever. “You’ve come back for more, have you? He’s upstairs, but don’t think this will end well.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. She could fuck herself.

Taking the stairs two at a time, you arrived at his door. You hesitated for just a moment before knocking.

"Orsen?" you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and hope. “Orsen, it’s me.”

For a long moment, there was silence. But then, the door creaked open, and there he stood, your Orsen. His eyes widened in shock as he saw you, standing there on his doorstep after all these years.

“You came,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “I came, Orsen....I did..."

The years between you didn’t matter anymore. The world outside could’ve been falling apart, but in that moment, all that mattered was him. And you. Together, at last.

Orsen’s voice trembled as he spoke those words, his hands shaking as he reached for you, his face painted with disbelief. "I never stopped loving you. I never gave up on us."

You stood frozen for a moment, your heart hammering in your chest, and then, without another thought, you stepped forward. The distance that had kept you apart for so long seemed to vanish as he collapsed into your arms.

Orsen's breath hitched as you wrapped your arms tightly around you, You could feel his tears against your neck, the way his body trembled as he let out a sob, quiet at first, but then growing louder, more desperate.

"I thought you were lost to me forever," he whispered between gasps, his voice cracking with emotion. "I tho-ught--I thought you would never come back."

You ran your fingers through his hair, pressing your cheek against the top of his head as he cried. His sobs were broken, painful, as if years of longing and heartache were finally being released. It hurt to see him like this, but it also made you realize just how much you had missed him, how deeply he had always felt for you.

"I’m here," you whispered softly, your voice barely audible, but the words felt like a promise. "I’m here, Orsen. I never wanted to leave you. I was a coward--a fucking coward...a bastard. That's what I am."

Orsen pulled back just slightly to look at you, his tear-streaked face full of vulnerability. He reached up to touch your face, your jawline, his fingertips brushing gently over your cheeks as though he couldn't quite believe you were really there.

"You... you never stopped loving me?" His voice was raw, a mix of hope and doubt.

"I never did, never" you said, your own tears starting to slip free. "I just... I was afraid. Of everything."

He shook his head, a soft smile breaking through the tears, though it was a broken one. "Yo-u are not a coward....you are my everything...I-I feel as if I can breathe ag-ain (Y/N)...I love you..."

"Oh Orsen..." You pulled him to your arms again as you both now sat on the carpeted floor. " I love you too. Always. I am so sorry.."

You hugged him tighter, your body pressed against his as he continued to sob in your arms, his tears soaking into your clothes, but you didn’t care. You held him, the warmth of his embrace grounding you, making you realize that all the pain, all the time spent apart, didn’t matter anymore. You were here now, together.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself cry, the tears falling freely as the weight of everything you had been carrying finally lifted. His arms were around you, and he was holding you so tightly, as though he would never let go again.

And in that moment, it felt like the world had stopped turning. All that mattered was the two of you, your past, your fears, your love, all of it was there, unfolding in his arms. Orsen had always been your home, and now, finally, you were both back where you belonged.

It didn’t matter that the world outside remained uncertain, that Isolde still cast her shadow over Orsen’s name, or that the whispers of the past lingered like unwanted ghosts. When you finally stood together with Orsen, hand in hand, the rest of the world fell away. You had spent too long apart, too long in the agony of wondering “what if,” but now, there were no more questions. No more waiting.

As Orsen stood beside you, the man who had loved you for all these years, he seemed almost too perfect to be real. His emerald eyes, the same ones that had once searched for you in the distance, now held you in a steady, comforting gaze.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered to you as you exchanged vows, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought I was never going to feel your arms around me again, never hear you say my name.”

“You never lost me, Orsen,” you responded, your voice steady, but your heart thundering in your chest. "I was always here..."

And then, as if nothing else mattered, you sealed your promises to each other with a kiss that was as soft as the years you had spent apart, as fierce as the love you now shared.

The years of separation melted away in that one, perfect moment, and for the first time in a long while, the weight of your past was lighter. You had come back to each other, and that was all that truly mattered.

After the wedding, life settled into a quiet rhythm. You and Orsen moved into the bungalow. It wasn’t grand compared to where he came from, but it was nonetheless a heaven for him. Every room held a piece of you both, and slowly, you began to build a new life.

Orsen often found himself in the garden, his hands in the dirt, tending to the flowers that now bloomed as brightly as his heart. You would watch him from the kitchen window, leaning against the frame, a smile tugging at your lips as you admired the way he made everything seem so effortless. The way he painted in the garden. His laugh, when he caught sight of you watching, was soft and full of warmth.

At night, you would share simple dinners, just the two of you, with candles flickering in the dim light. Orsen would tell you stories of his of the times when he had been filled with hope and dreams, waiting for you to come back to him. You shared your own tales, of the war, of the triumphs and the losses, the people you met, and the battles you fought. And yes of course, talking about the memories of your childhood...the most cherished ones.

But the best moments, the ones you cherished the most, were the quiet ones. The evenings when Orsen would in your lap, his arm around your neck as he clung to you, as you both listened to the wind rustling through the trees, and the sound of crickets filling the air.

You never spoke of Isolde much. She remained a distant, bitter part of Orsen’s past. And while she still tried to cause trouble, trying to remind Orsen of what he “could have had,” you both knew that she no longer had a place in your life. She had lost him, and that was all that mattered. You had heard how she had suffered losses in her business and for Orsen and you, it seems like she was facing the consequences of her ego and stubbornness.

Sometimes, you would take walks through the town, just the two of you, your fingers intertwined, the sun setting in the distance. The people who had once whispered about your union now smiled, and you would catch the glint of admiration in their eyes. You had proven that love, even in the face of all odds, could survive.

One evening, as you both sat on the porch, the stars beginning to twinkle above, Orsen turned to you, his eyes soft and filled with a quiet happiness.

“Do you ever think about what could’ve been?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper.

You smiled and shook your head. “No. I think about now. I think about you and me. This. That’s enough for me.”

And Orsen, ever the poet, kissed you gently, his lips lingering on yours in a quiet promise that this love, this life, was all that mattered now.

The past was gone. The future was still unwritten, but you were both finally, truly together, and that was more than you had ever dared to dream.

In the warmth of each other’s arms, you knew, finally, that no matter what the world might throw your way, you had everything you needed. You had each other.

You did it. You fought for him...no, you both did, in fact you felt ashamed sometimes that it was Orsen who really did. He remained true to his word, his love.

Now none of the bitter past mattered. What mattered was that you two were now bound.

And that was enough.

── .✦

The sun had just begun to set, casting a warm golden glow over the bungalow, and the soft hum of evening filled the air. The days had stretched into years, and now, the soft patter of little feet echoed through the house.

The twins, Isla and Blair, were running around the garden, laughing as they chased each other between the rows of flowers that Orsen had lovingly tended. Isla’s bright curls bounced with each step, her fiery energy matching her mother’s, while Blair, a little more reserved, hid behind a bush before springing out with a playful shout. You couldn’t help but smile as you watched them, so full of life, so full of joy.

Orsen stood beside you, a proud smile on his face as he adjusted the collar of your shirt, though he couldn’t keep his eyes off the children for long.

"Think they'll ever slow down?" he asked, his voice warm, though laced with a hint of exhaustion.

You chuckled softly, resting your head on his shoulder. “Not as long as they have that energy. They're just like you at their age, honey."

"I was never that much trouble," Orsen said, feigning innocence, though his smile betrayed him.

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You want me to remind you about the treehouse incident?”

He laughed leaning back on your chest, the sound rich and full. "Alright, alright, maybe I was a bit much. But they’ve got your fire in them, that’s for sure. I see it every day. It’s like they’re part of both of us."

"You can say that again. Isla's already giving Rowan a run for his money with her mischief."

You then nuzzled the side of his soft and milky neck, feeling the warmth and peppered light kisses as he giggled. "And definitely got your streak of being a brat."

"Oh, shut up you..." His voice softened, looking up at you with a dreamy gaze. He cupped your jaw gently, his thumb brushing the line of your cheek as his eyes traced the lines of your face. "You know...this was my dream, and I would sacrifice everything a million times for this... for you."

You shook your head, smiling tenderly as you brought his soft hand to your lips. "You sacrificed enough. It's my time to do that." You kissed his forehead, feeling the heat of his skin and the quiet ache of love that swelled in your chest. He swore he melted right then and there, his heart swelling with emotion.

"I WANNA KISSHY TOO!" Isla’s voice broke the moment as she wobbled over, her little face scrunched with exaggerated impatience. You chuckled, easily scooping up your three-year-old daughter, her giggles filling the air as she flung her arms around your neck.

"Do you now?" You teased, smiling at her. "Then kisshies you get. And you too, little mister." With one swift motion, you scooped up Blair in your other arm, planting kisses all over both their little faces. Their giggles filled the space around you, a sweet symphony of innocence and love.

Orsen laughed softly, his eyes twinkling as he watched the scene unfold before him. The sight of you, his family, so full of life and laughter, was a dream he had never dared to speak aloud, one he was living every single day. He sighed in contentment, his heart swelling at the sight. It was everything he had hoped for and more.

All his art had come to life, and it was more beautiful than he could ever have imagined. Every brushstroke, every moment of uncertainty, had led to this, a home filled with love, with laughter, with a family bound by unspoken understanding, and, most importantly, by the love that had always been there.

© ak319. All rights reserved.

[rememberwren]

A Dichotomy of Thought || 2

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Further Parts

Simon thinks of a way for you to make up to them almost hitting Johnny with your car.

#

It’s not all blackness. There are white days.

White nights, too. Just not in the way Johnny might have hoped for. Instead, the blinding glare of sun on snow makes his eyes water. His sunglasses have been dislodged in the crash, lost somewhere. His arm, too. Fire crackles, the sound dampened by the snow. His leg is crushed beneath a piece of scrap metal that’s been bent like a twig, and all around him is the smell: smoke and gas and blood.

Ghost is there, too. Ghost peeking up out of the snow, his white camouflage and Johnny’s double vision disguising him until only the black outline of his mask is visible over the glare of all-else. Johnny blinks hard but Ghost only ever swims into focus for a moment. Around the edges of his vision, it’s all darkness, darkness.

“Where you been?” Johnny croaks, tasting blood.

“Been here all this time,” Ghost says, mask flexing where his jaw moves.

Johnny wakes up then. Because Ghost wasn’t there, and that detail is enough to break through the all’s-well fog that seems to lay over dreams like a fine mist. If Ghost had been there, it’s likely that he would have been lost like the rest of the crew. Then what would Johnny have left? An artificial knee; a weak arm; headaches twice a day. Everything a boy could have ever dreamed of.

Johnny wakes from these white dreams with his heart pounding, Simon’s hand on his shoulder urging him awake. Simon isn’t sleeping these days—at least not when Johnny might catch him in the act.

An hour before sunrise, the sky the same color as a fresh bruise, Johnny croaks out in the darkness of their bedroom: “C’n we have eggs for brekkie?”

#

Johnny used to do all the cooking, back in the Before times as Simon has taken to calling them in his mind, but Simon is a quick learner; he always has been. It’s one of the (many) reasons why he had managed to move up through the ranks in the military so quickly. When he has a problem, he develops a narrow-minded focus that has been referred to more than once as a ‘dog with a bone’ mentality.

But he’s learning that Johnny is not a problem that he can fix.

Simon becomes excellent at seeing everything and nothing at once. His head is expertly turned to keep his lover only in the periphery of his vision. In that way, he pretends not to see the way Johnny first goes to the counter, intending to shift himself up and sit on it the way he used to in the old days before the helicopter went down. He’s almost there when he must remember that he has only one arm, one weak arm. One throbbing leg. Perhaps he could scramble up onto the counter like old times, but perhaps he couldn’t, and his pride is too beaten to take the risk. So he goes to the kitchen table, the one made of mismatched chairs and scratched oak wood, and Simon has to pretend that he doesn’t see the way Johnny struggles to even pull his chair out.

Grab it from the middle, Johnny, he wants to say, but he doesn’t. Help is not wanted here. Help is the opposite of helpful. Already the frustration is building behind Soap’s eyes like a balloon filled with too much air, latex creaking, ready to pop at a moment’s notice or less and send all that fury rushing out. Simon can take it. He can take it—but he dreads it.

It’s not him, he tells himself, scrambling an egg in the pan. It’s the pain. It’s the fear. It’s poisoning his boy’s head, and he doesn’t know how to help. Doesn’t know what to do except endure. Put his head down and barrel through the storm and pray that when he comes out on the other side, Johnny is still there with him.

Johnny has his head in his hand when Simon sets the plate in front of him, the eggs cut into bite sized pieces—and that’s a battle they’ve already fought a thousand times before Simon could convince Johnny to just accept his help, just let me cut up your fucking food Johnny for fuck’s sake let me do it so you don’t starve yourself to death.

It’s familiar to fight beside Johnny; it’s surreal to fight against him.

“Thank yeh,” Johnny mutters morosely. He perks up a little when Simon adds two pale green ovals to the table beside his orange juice, marked with 33’s. He takes those first, on an empty stomach no less, but drains the glass of orange juice which Simon figures is better than nothing.

“How’s your pain?”

“A five maybe.”

Simon internally adds two. There was a pain chart posted up in Johnny’s hospital room in the ICU: a barrage of circular faces displaying the spectrum from peace to agony. Little tears had been coming out of the corners of the face’s eyes at the SEVEN marker, its color just beginning to turn a fiery red. It’s been three months since they were stuck in that tiny, hellish room, but whenever Johnny gives a number for his pain, the chart is the first thing Simon thinks of.

The two eat together. Afterwards, Simon takes the dishes to the sink.

“Let me help.”

Simon doesn’t bother telling him no. When Johnny gets an idea in his head, for worse or for better, it’s better to let him see it through. Even if it inevitably ends in rage.

Simon takes his time washing each individual dish, making sure not to have too many dishes waiting to be rinsed at once, even if it means polishing the same fork over and over while Johnny struggles to relearn doing anything with his non-dominant arm. His crutch is propped up against the corner where the counter turns, watching them.

Their shoulders brush. Johnny looks up at him with pupils blown wide and then ducks his head, nuzzling his temple against Simon’s jaw. It’s the most affection they’ve shown each other in weeks.

“‘m sorry for how it’s been lately,” he says, water dripping off his elbow and onto the floor. “How I’ve been. A right angel, aren’t I?”

“Always.” Angels make him think of death, and death still makes him think of Johnny. How fucking close he came to scattering his lover’s ashes instead of passing him dishes to be rinsed. He tells Johnny the same thing he tells himself: “Things will get better. You get stronger every day.”

Johnny laughs weakly. “My arse.”

“It’s a fine arse.”

“Better ‘n fine. Jesus fucking Christ, this is harder than it looks,” Johnny says. He’s breaking out in a sweat, turning over his clean juice glass beneath the clear stream of water. Part of that sweat is pain, part exertion.

“You’re doing—“

The glass slips from Johnny’s fingers, and he tries to catch it with a hand that’s no longer there. It shatters against the laminate flooring, scattering glass like a bomb scattering shrapnel. They both stare long enough for a single beat of their hearts before Johnny brings his good fist (his only fist—Simon has taken to calling it his Good Fist in his mind) down on the lip of the sink, bellowing a curse that probably has the neighbors jerking in fright.

“Just a glass,” says Simon. But he knows better. “Come here. Don’t step in it. Y’re barefoot.”

He guides Johnny out of the danger zone and into the living room, pausing only to backtrack for his crutch when he notices the way his lover struggles to walk a straight line.

Simon gives him the remote and sweeps up the glass. By the time he comes back into the living room, Johnny is asleep, head back against the headrest of the couch. If it weren’t for the soft snores, Simon would feel the need to check if he were dead.

#

Simon sits in the armchair with a book in his lap. The words swim on the pages. He has never been this tired in his life; not even on missions where sleep seemed contraindicated. But behind his eyelids he sees a car bearing down on his Johnny, and stupid, foolish Johnny stepping out to meet it. He can’t even step out onto the balcony for a cigarette, not without worrying that when he comes back he’ll find—

A slamming of a door startles Simon awake from where he had begun to drift into a nightmare. Glancing toward Johnny first to make sure Soap hadn’t woken—and he hadn’t, though his head had fallen into an uncomfortable position that would surely leave him with a crick in his neck—he gives a dark glare toward the door.

Ever since the old man in the apartment beside them had died, it had been a never ending parade of fuck-ups in and out of the place.

Being angry is addictive. He finds himself wanting to feed his fuse, putting his book down and going to the door and throwing it open, ready to leave a lasting impression on any misfortunate soul left in the hallway.

Figures it would be you.

Your eye looks better today. It is less swollen, less pink. You’re sitting slumped against the door of 7C, ready to fall backwards should it open too abruptly, but at the sound of Simon’s door opening, you jerk yourself into a standing position

You gape in horror at the sight of him, and Simon gets a sick sense of pleasure from it. Make that equal parts pleasure and guilt (he usually doesn’t get off on frightening women, though it happens more often than he intends it to). He glances towards his door, peeking in through the crack to spy Johnny’s slumped, sleeping figure, assuring himself that it’s still there.

“You…live here?” You point at 5C, from which Simon has just exited.

“No. I broke in,” he deadpans.

“Is he okay? The…the guy I almost—“

“He’s fine.” Truth is, he’s so far from fine that Simon doesn’t think he could find fine with a map and a compass. But technically from her standpoint, it is true. She didn’t hit Johnny. If Johnny hadn’t stepped out in front of her, they never would have come so close in the first place. But clearly she doesn’t know that, and Simon isn’t going to tell her.

“Thank God,” you mutter, fresh sorrow in your warbling voice. “Tell him I’m so sorry. Again.”

“Shouldn’t be driving like that,” Simon says, while he’s in the habit of being a dick. He nods his chin towards your face. “Can you even see?”

“Better today,” you admit. “Please, if there’s anything I can ever do to make it up to him, and to you, let me know—“

And suddenly, like rays of light spilling down from parted clouds, he knows what he wants. What is within your power to give him, that is.

“Give me five minutes,” Simon says.

He watches a series of complex emotions flit across your face. He’s never been good at reading people; he doesn’t know what any of them mean. At length, your shoulders lift toward your ears as you steel yourself. You say: “You’ll have to talk to my boyfriend first.”

“For five minutes?” Simon asks, glancing back at the apartment door as if Johnny is liable to be standing there. He lowers his voice a little. “I just want one fucking cigarette without worrying about him taking a swan dive off the balcony. Please.”

You give him another strange look. But this time something that he says has gotten through to you. Looking every bit like a woman being coaxed to the gallows, you ask: “Five minutes…and all I have to do is what? Watch him?”

“Yes. He took two oxy at breakfast, he should be out for a while. Five minutes, you have my word. Give me your phone.”

“I don’t have one.”

Who doesn’t have a fucking phone? he wants to ask, frustration rising sharp and noxious in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t. He works his own phone free from his pocket. There isn’t any passcode on it, no thumbprint requirement or otherwise. He’s never kept secrets from Johnny.

“You know what a seizure looks like?”

“No,” you admit, mouth slipping into a comfortable frown.

“You’d recognize it if you saw it. Call an ambulance.”

“Is that—could he—?”

“He could. But he won’t. Five minutes.” Then, because he’s a piece of shit and because he can tell you’re thinking of chickening out: “You owe us.”

That steeliness appears back in your eyes. You nod grimly, clutching his phone in your hand, and go to slip past him into the apartment. But first…

Simon grips your wrist. His grip is gentle, but it has you going stiff and still all over, like a rabbit in a dog’s jowls. Playing dead, you are. Then he whispers: “That’s my boy in there. You do anything to hurt him or get any funny ideas, I’ll break your legs off. ‘m I clear?”

“You’re clear,” you whisper, voice in that strange warble again. This time you wait for him to nod his head in permission before slipping past him into the apartment, shutting the door behind you with a quiet click.

#

It is strange, being in someone else’s space. Eager as you are to intrude as little as possible (you’re more than happy to assuage the guilt that has roosted something foul in your belly since yesterday’s near accident in the parking lot), you can’t help but snoop. It’s human of you. Somehow, after everything, you are still human.

There are photographs on the walls of strangers: pretty girls who share a familial resemblance with their arms around each other; men in combat fatigues with weapons slung across their shoulders; a young blond boy and a German Shepherd. The space is tidy and small, a mirror image of your own apartment next door with the kitchen on the south side and the living area to the north instead of the other way around. The scent of breakfast clings to the air, and there are clean dishes drying in the dish rack.

On the couch is a man, his head lolled forward until his chin rests against his chest. He snores softly. Dressed in loose fitting pants and a t-shirt, his crutch rests against the couch. His right arm is missing.

You can barely breathe for how badly you don’t want to wake him. You can’t help but trace your eyes over his features though: the arch of his cheekbones, the lines of his jaws, the fullness of his mouth. There are scars along his temple, a livid purple in the morning light that streams in through the window.

He’s drooling on his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. He flinches in his sleep, and it sobers you. No more talking. The last thing you wanted him to do was to wake and catch you looming over him. You can almost hear his rough, accented voice: Did Jesus send ye? Did He tell ye to finish the fucking job and do me in?

You have just made a second near-silent circuit of the apartment when the door opens and the larger man re-enters, slightly out of breath. You glance down at his phone and see that only three minutes have passed. Stepping out into the hallway, he gives the sleeping man a lingering glance before following after you.

“You’re early.”

“Yeah, well. Couldn’t relax for fuck all. Thanks anyway.” You can’t help but take note of this man’s exhaustion: the solid darkness beneath his drooping eyes, the way his huge form seems to sag in on itself. It doesn’t take a psychic or a sleuth to put together that he hasn’t been resting, and you can guess why.

“You need your rest too,” you remind him.

“Thanks for the tip.” He says it with all the charm he might say, Fuck off.

You lift your hands in the universal sign of surrender. Message received. You’d overstepped enough with your car. The last thing he needed was advice from you. Glancing toward your apartment door, that old phrase comes into your head “No good deed goes unpunished”. But if all punishments are for good deeds, you must have been a saint in a past life.

Still, you find yourself offering: “If you ever want me to watch him again while you smoke or shower or nap or something. You know where I’m at.”

He stares at you. His eyes are so dark, you can barely tell pupil from iris. He’s not conventionally handsome—not the way the other man is, perhaps—but he is striking: brow low and strong, eyes dark like coffee without cream, mouth full and unhappy. Like Nietzsche said, you look into him and he looks into you. Then he nods, and without even telling you his name, disappears back into his apartment.

You stare for a long moment, feeling oddly bereft at the abrupt ending to this communication. Eventually, you try the doorknob on 7C.

Still locked.

[a-jynx]

care to stay? (astarion x reader)

i'll let you guess, it's kinda angsty!

warnings; a lot of blood talk, injuries, hurt/comfort, a bit of angst to keep it spicy, and maybe some ooc astarion! enjoy!

Sharp whines pierced your skull, licking at the contents inside as your eyes twitched open. Squinting at the ache in your thundering bones, you slowly rolled onto your back, sitting up onto your elbow with a groan.

What in the Hells happened...? Pushing up with your shaking limbs, you staggered, falling into a cracked and crumbling wall. Squeezing your teeth that caused a dull ache behind your jaw. Glancing around, you watched as the flames flickered and danced among the rubble. The crumbling surface around you reeked of smoke powder and copper, along with the putrid stench of smoked flesh. Swallowing thickly at the dirt that coated your throat, you gripped your side while stumbling through the scattered bodies. Flashes rippled through your groaning and thrumming mind.

Your party. Your brain scattered, thinking of everyone within the walls. Shadowheart, Gale, Karlach... Astarion.

Goblins had ambushed you. Shadowheart and Astarion were busy trying to keep them off of you and Gale, whilst Karlach had gone into her fit of rage.

The smoke powder barrel. You remember shouting as the Goblins fire arrow whizzed past your lot, your eyes wide as you all ran towards the exit as the explosion boomed.

Groaning, you dragged your feet through the clutter, your boots catching on jagged stones and the thick, blackened goop of blood stuck to your boots like sap. Swaying towards another door, it's once oak colored darkened from the blast, a handprint of blood smeared across the handle. Wetting your lips, you drew your dagger and shouldered through, only to sigh as you spotted Karlach helping Shadowheart with Gale's wounds.

"My Gods," Karlach laid Gale back against the bed, quickly moving towards you as you stumbled into her hold, not caring about the sizzling as she moved you towards the other bed. "Solider, are you alright? You took the blunt of the blow, if I'm being honest, I'm shocked yet thrilled to see you alive."

You winced away from the burning sensation as your back met the soft, yet dirt-covered mattress. "Thank you, Karlach," your voice rasped, soot still coating it and resting among the blood in your teeth. "Where's Astar-"

"He went to find-"

You jumped as the door slammed open. "I can't find them anywhere! There's more goblin guts and d" his voice staled when his eyes landed on your shaking figure, Karlach's hand still hovering over. "By the Hells! Watch where you're aiming those torches," he hissed, moving to the other side of the bed, his arms over his chest as Karlach rolled her eyes.

"They're fine, Astarion, they're our fearless leader, remember?" Her comment held bite as you winced, searing pain rippled through your melting mind. Astarion's lips moved to speak, his eyes glanced towards you as he gently gasped. Blood leaked from your ears, decorating the mattress and your hair below. Eyes clenched shut as you gritted your teeth, more pain shooting through as if your jaw would splinter.

"Heal them now, dammit!" Astarion shouted as Shadowheart finished healing over Gale, who slowly sat up in bed, groaning and clenching his shoulder. The cleric moved quickly, her hands already glowing a crisp, bright blue before laying them on your temples. More searing caressed your aching skull, yet this time it felt calming. Like that of an animal licking at its wounds. Soothing. Your body shook, feeling the bond shake and mend within your soup-like mind. The sharp whines became whimpers of your own voice. A gasp ripped through your burning throat as the crackle of your rib mended itself back into place.

"Is it working? Will they be alright?" Karlach stood closer to Shadowheart as she sighed, her fingers began to shake. She was growing weak...

"I'm not sure how much more I have in me-"

"You'll continue to heal them until Avernus freezes over if it'll help them," Astarion snipped, one of his hands had moved amongst the blood and dirt, caressing your fingers in a way of saying 'I'm here'. Your chest clenched as a blood-curdling scream wretched through your throat, rattling your still bubbling mind. Shadowheart grimaced, yanking her hands back with a shout, her hands stung with a rose-like red blistering her palms. Karlach gently caressed Shadowhearts' armored shoulder and moved towards Gales' bed, who stood in shock. Astarion had moved to sit on the bed with you, his arms holding onto your shoulders as you shook and cried out.

Her healing had worked, but its' effects worked through each injury like a professional seamstress. Weaving through your veins, smothering in and over your bones' marrow, and licking at your popped eardrums and rattled brain damage from within. You withered in Astarion's grasp, shaking as tears streaked down your dirty cheeks. "I- I tried to save us," your voice shook. Astarion frowned, his thumb brushed against your skin. "Just rest, darling.." His voice was a gentle whisper, his cool skin pressed against your sweat-covered skin. Sighing against his chest, your eyes fluttered close. The soot and dirt caused a soft grimace, yet there was a comforting scent hidden amongst it.

*******

You blinked awake, wincing as you slowly sat up from the bedroll beneath you. "What the Hells," you winced more at the sound of your gravel-like voice. Humming, you took in your surroundings. Soft pillows and carpets surrounded you, a gentle candlelight flittered within the bright red tent. Goosebumps travelled up your skin as you glanced down, noticing your tunic missing and dull-white wrappings secured around your ribs. Crimson blossomed across the wrappings causing you to frown.

Jumping as the tent flaps opened, revealing Astarion with a bowl and prime white wraps resting across his forearm. His movements paused, your eyes met as he sat the bowl down and moved towards you, grabbing your flushed cheeks and slamming your lips together. You gently moaned into the kiss, flinching at pain that shot through your side. "Thank the Gods you're awake," he mumbled against your lips, resting his forehead against your own. "I thought you were gone..." His voice lower, barely a whisper.

With a smile, you rested your jaw against his rough palms, relishing in the callouses he's gained over your time together. "And leave you all alone with Gale? I couldn't." You couldn't fight back the grin as he rolled his eyes, leaning back on his calves and helping you lay back against the cot. "Because you know he'd be insufferable for me to endure alone," he smiled gently, brushing your hair from your eyes. Sighing, you leaned further into the bedroll, Astarion reached back and grabbed the bowl, dipping the piece of cloth into the cool water and dabbing it against your sweltering forehead.

"How're the others?"

"They're fine, we need to worry about getting you back to proper health, my dear," he hummed, dropping the rag back into the bowl. His fingertips dragged gently over your ribs, watching as your body jumped from the soft touches. Your brows furrowed, gently grabbing his flittering touches. "Star... Please,"

"They're alright, my love, I promise.." He sighed, gently undoing the wraps and frowning at the snarled wound. The blast had cut through your flesh like butter. Soot and dirt had embedded itself into your wound and clung to your hanging flesh, it had caused him to cringe inward at the sight of your gnarled flesh. He worked quickly, dabbing the wet cloth against the charred skin, sighing as you flinched away. Wrapping the new bandages, he sat back while wringing out the blackened and bloodied rag. "And how're you...?"

The water dripping ceased as his lips pressed into a tight line, the rag dropped next to your arm as you pushed up onto your elbows. "Star..?" You frowned, rolling onto your non-injured side as he turned towards you, his hand cupped your jaw as you reached up, catching his with a sigh. Tears brimmed his ruby colored eyes. "I thought we lost you when you fainted. There was just... So much blood. Your blood mixed with that dirt and soot, and I couldn't-" His voice caught, choking in his throat as he shook his head. "The mere scent of your blood mixed with such retched things; it made my stomach churn. Caused the bile to claw up my throat."

You stared at Astarion - you both had found safety in one another. Trust had built quickly with how many battles you both had gotten into together, the stories shared amongst with goblets of wine, confiding in one another when everything seemed hopeless. And of course, with your shared comfort came... Feelings.

Astarion hated it.

He wasn't supposed to fall for you, it was the simplest plan for him to follow, yet here he was. On the verge of crying while he coddled you close, his fingertips ghosting over your new bandages. Gently wrapping your arms around him, you tugged him down to the bedroll, racking your fingers through his thick, white curls. You shared a comfortable silence as he wrapped his arms around your chest, as carefully as he could, his hands still trembling. You fitted yourself against his chest, sighing while twisting a wild curl around your finger.

"You can touch me, my Star, I'm not made of glass-"

"No, but you need your rest... I should go-"

"Please... I don't want to be alone," you murmured into his shirt, tightening your arms around his waist as he moved to leave. Blinking, his hands hovered over your shivering skin. His lip slightly trembled before he swallowed thickly. "Ask me to stay," his voice shook as you squeezed him close, feeling your own tears well up. He believed he would hurt you more than help you. "Ask me to stay, and I will." Leaning up onto his chest, you leaned up and pressed a tight kiss to his lips.

Your mouths moved together. Teeth and tongue clanking and grinding against each other. Astarion's hands settled on your hips, soft circles tugged at your loose pants, his nails scrapping by the edge of your bandages. A gentle shudder ran through your bones as you maneuvered yourself on top of his lap, gritting your teeth to keep the pained moan buried in your throat. Pressing soft kisses to the corner of your mouth, his lips trailed down your throat to the scarred bite mark. Your body moved gently against his lap, rolling circles into his hips before he rolled you off of him, chest heaving.

"Astarion, wait,"

"We're... Resting." His voice slightly wavered, his nails gently digging into your shoulders before he moved to lay beside you. Tugging your body closer, smothering his nose into your hair, deeply inhaling as you wrapped your arms around his chest.

"When you're not constantly bleeding," his voice muffled as you rolled your eyes. His fingers gently pinched at your thigh. "Then, we'll have all the fun you deserve, my darling."

*****

You awoke to quiet murmuring - distant, gentle - as if not wanting to break the silence the moon had brought on. Lighting your pinkie, you moved to light the candle beside your bedroll, only to jump when a pair of arms tightened around your waist.

Astarion's body quivered against your own, his arms tightened. You cringed at the pain shooting through your body, but gritting your teeth, you turned over as much as his grip would allow. Grasping his shoulder, you gently shook the somewhat whimpering elf.

"Astarion, honey, wake up." You murmured into the air, huffing as he released your waist, one arm slipping from around you as it grasped at his tunic, tugging on the slightly tattered tunic. "My star, please," his fangs dipped into his bottom lip, blood dribbled from the nibbled skin. "Astarion, wake the hells up!" You shook him more, ignoring the searing pain as his claw-like nails dug into your skin. His eyes snapped open; a gasp choked through him as tears leaked down his cheeks.

Elvish ripped through his lips before he could even comprehend the words his tongue spilt. Your eyes widened, quickly setting up on your knees, both hands grasping his sticky cheeks. "Astarion, my love, breathe, please." Grasping one of his shaking hands, you placed his palm against your heaving chest, your heart beating heavily. His eyes caught yours, more tears leaked past your hands as you rubbed your thumb against his cheeks. "Breathe, my Moon, follow my rhythm."

His hands trembled against your skin, slowly his eyes blinked as he seemed to finally focus on your eyes. Swallowing thickly, he licked his lips and slowly reached up, locking his hands through your locks. Astarion tugged you into his body, his hands shook as he held you close. His breathing shook as he tightened his grip, making you whimper in his hold.

"Astarion, are you alright... Do you need a minute?" Your voice was low, attempting to keep the peace within your shared tent. You held each other close, gentle kisses caressed his skin as he leaned further into you. "Ask me to stay, and I will." You murmured into his hair, cradling him further into your body. You wanted to shield him away from everything. The fear and anger that tries to eat away at him. He looked up, slowly leaning back, but keeping his hold on you. Astarion licked his lips slowly, a shaking sigh passed through him as he moved to hold your cheeks.

"Care to stay?"

[pedrospatch]

a safe haven | three

Jackson! Joel Miller x Female Reader

series masterlist

summary: You and Joel get to know each other better and the two of you share a private moment out behind the barn under the stars; an unexpected guest shows up to the party; Tommy gives Joel a second and final warning about you.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. (TW) MENTIONS AND IMPLICATIONS OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE/ABUSE. PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS. alcohol consumption, mutual pining and yearning, Joel sings to reader a bit (that is its own warning), soft Joel, overprotective Joel, and a slight hint of jealous Joel. Tommy seems like kind of an asshole but he’s just trying to look out for his brother, okay?

word count 6.6k

About an hour later, after tossing back about three or four bottles of Seth’s crappy beer, you’d started feeling a lot livelier and a lot more like yourself. It was a glass of his delicious, oak-barrel aged whiskey that you had wanted more than anything, but with Esther over at the bar openly flirting up a storm with Joel Miller, you pushed down the desire for scotch and settled for the bitter lager instead.

It tasted awful, but it did the job well enough. The best part was that the bottles of beer were all readily available in coolers all around the barn, and you didn’t need to go up to the bar to get one. 

The last thing you’d wanted was to find out what was going on between Esther and Joel.

“And the next thing you know, poor John is being chased all around the chicken coop by a bunch of broody hens!” Martha finishes her story, throwing her hands up in the air. “God, I wish I would’ve had a camcorder in hand. It was the funniest thing I ever did see in almost two damn decades.”

Everyone sitting around the table bursts into a fit of loud, hearty laughter.

“Oh okay, so then that would probably explain why there weren’t many eggs in stock at the market the other morning,” you tease, only fueling the commotion.

John glares at you, and you shrug innocently, fighting back another laugh. Six foot two with big, broad shoulders and arms, you found it both very difficult and very amusing to picture the bulky blond man being chased around by a flock of pissed off chickens.

“I’d really like to see any of you guys try and take a broody hen’s eggs away from her with ease!” John huffs out before taking a gulp of his beer. He’s red in the face, and it’s hard to tell if it’s from the alcohol or the embarrassment. “Assholes.”

Martha leans over, whispering, “See? I told you it would make him mad.”

You giggle, lightly shaking your head at her. “Talk about ruffling some feathers, huh?”

She snorts into her plate of potatoes, jabbing her elbow into your side. “Let’s stop before he really gets all riled up, or else we’re going to get an earful.”

“Oh come on, John. Lighten up,” you grin over at him from across the table. “I know what’ll make you feel better. You guys want to hear a really, and I mean really embarrassing story?” You pause for a second or two, just long enough for everyone to nod eagerly. “Let me tell you about what Stella did to me the other day in her stall when I tried to take her temperature, it was absolutely awful. Okay, so there I am about to—”

“Sorry to interrupt you folks, but do you all mind if we steal this sweet little lady here for just a minute or two?” The sound of Tommy Miller’s smooth, deep voice causes you to stop abruptly mid-sentence. You glance over your shoulder only to see him approaching the table. He’s closely followed by Maria, who had traded her usual patrol duty attire for a light blue denim dress that sat off of her shoulders, the flowing skirt falling just above knees. Her white cowboy hat matches her husband’s.

“Aw c’mon, Miller! She was just about to tell us a story!” Peter, Martha’s husband, exclaims as he drapes his arm around his wife’s shoulders

Tommy chuckles, shaking his head. “I promise we won’t keep her too long, alright?”

You immediately notice that he’s holding a drink in each hand, each glass filled almost to the rim with a bold, rich amber liquor over ice. The only reason that you’d immediately known one of the two drinks was meant for you was because Maria had just discovered that she was pregnant. It was still a secret that very few people knew about, but the minute she confirmed it with a pregnancy test earlier that month, she’d come running to your door to tell you. It’s the reason she’s been avoiding booze all evening—she’s been sipping on lemonade all night instead. 

“Excuse me,” you nod politely to the group of friends you’d been sitting with and stand up from the table. You follow Tommy and Maria over to a far corner of the barn where the three of you could talk somewhat privately. Accepting the glass from Tommy, you offer him a grateful smile, pleased that you’d gotten the drink you had wanted after all. “Thank you.”

“‘Course.” He nods and tips the brim of his cowboy hat to you in his typical, gentleman-like manner. He’d never lost an ounce of those Texas manners.

Maria loops her arm through his. “Well, it looks like tonight was a real success,” she states as she glances around the room, her pride written clearly across her face. “Wouldn’t you say so?”

“Absolutely,” you agree, enthusiastically. You smile again and lift your glass to the couple as you toast, “Another year and another success. Here’s to many, many more to come.”

“Cheers to that, little lady,” Tommy grins and lifts up his glass, clinking the rim of it to yours before taking a generous drink, nearly draining it in one single gulp. “Thanks for stoppin’ by earlier and helpin’ set the place up, by the way. We really appreciate it.”

You wave your free hand at him. “Oh, no need to thank me at all. You already know that I was more than happy to help out,” you tell him as you take a careful sip of whiskey. The hard liquor burns its way down your throat in the sweetest way. Taking another sip, you turn to look at Maria, unable to help yourself from admiring her gorgeous, natural glow. “How are you feeling?”

“Not too bad,” Maria replies with a smile, placing her free hand over her flat stomach. At only a few weeks along, she still had quite a long way to go before she began to show. “Just a little bit of morning sickness here and there, but so far, so good.” She pauses and leans her body into Tommy’s side. “I never thought I’d be having a baby in my forties,” she muses with a laugh. “I thought that train had left the station a long time ago. But I guess life had something else planned for me.”

“For us,” Tommy corrects, playfully nudging her.

“For us,” Maria echoes, giving him a loving kiss on his cheek. “Luke calls it a geriatric pregnancy. He told me I’m automatically considered high risk, due to my age and all. But we’re hoping it’ll go smoothly.”

You detect the genuine concern behind her optimistic smile and reach out, gently touching her arm. “I’m sure it will all turn out fine. You just have to make sure that you’re taking good care of yourself and getting plenty of rest.” You point a finger at her, wagging it back and forth. “So, that means no more patrol duties for you, Mrs. Miller.”

“Oh I know,” she laughs again. “I’m on light work duties starting next week and in a few months, it’ll be strict bed rest for me. At least, that’s what Luke recommended, but I’m hoping to stay on my feet for a little bit longer than that.” She tilts her head curiously to the side as she looks at you. “Speaking of Luke, is he around? We haven’t seen him at all tonight.”

Throat bobbing, you grip your glass tightly in your hand. The corners of your mouth threaten to turn downward, but you manage to hold your smile well enough.

At this point, you had pretty much lost track of the number times you’d been asked about Luke.

Where is he? Why isn’t he here with you? Do you think there’s a chance he’ll show up tonight? Can’t you go home and convince him to join us? 

You just about loathed the way he was considered to be a hero in Jackson. The way that every single person in the community adored the man to pieces made you sick to your stomach—Luke was anything but a hero, but nobody knew that. Not a single soul knew the real him, the monster that emerged behind closed doors, the terrible things he did when no one was around.

There had been an occasion or two where you had considered going to Tommy and Maria about it, to tell them all about the horrors that went on within the walls of your home. But even when they’d point out a bruise on your arm or a scrape on your cheek, you would lose the courage and chalk it up to a clumsy accident or injuries sustained while on the job—hell, just a few months ago, you’d blamed an injured shoulder on Ranger, telling Tommy that his beloved stallion had accidentally kicked you during one of your routine examinations. You wanted nothing more than to tell him that it hadn’t been his horse who put you in a sling for three weeks, it had been Luke. But how the hell could you do that?

Luke is the commune’s physician. The commune’s only physician. 

Besides the two older nurses who worked in the clinic along with him, he was the only medically trained professional who knew how to treat severe injuries, perform minor surgeries, and diagnose illnesses—as much as you hated to admit it, Jackson needed him. If you told Tommy and Maria about everything that he’d done to you over the last two years, then you’d risk getting Luke locked up in the town jail, or possibly even thrown out and exiled from the settlement. What would that mean for the people in the community who fell ill or became injured and needed a doctor?

Maybe he wasn’t a hero to you, but to everybody else, he was. People could die without him and his medical knowledge. Hell, Maria would need Luke now more than ever now that she was pregnant.

For as much as you wanted to tell them the truth about him, you just couldn’t find the guts to do it, not when the decision would impact every single person in Jackson.It would be too selfish.

So, you kept quiet and continued to let it happen because what else could you do? 

Nothing. 

There wasn’t a goddamn thing you could do about it.

Tommy says your name, snapping you back out of your thoughts. “Hey, you alright?” he asks you as he gingerly touches your shoulder. “You zoned out on us for a minute there.”

You blink. “Yeah sorry, I’m alright. Um, Luke decided to stay at home and get some rest,” you reply as you shift awkwardly from boot to boot, feeling a sudden heat flood your face. “He’s been working a lot of hours at the clinic and making house calls as well, so he’s just been really tired, you know?”

“Oh, well that’s too bad,” Maria frowns. “Tommy and I were hoping we could say this to the both of you together, but I suppose you’ll have to give him the message on our behalf when you get home to him later tonight.”

You shoot her a puzzled look. “What is it?”

“We know we don’t say this as often as we should, but you and Luke do so much for us. So much for Jackson,” Tommy says, sincere gratitude dripping from his tone. “We’re damn lucky to have the two of you here. Me and Maria, and everyone in this community, we’re all deeply indebted to both of you for all you do.”

You stare at him. “Everyone here works very hard, Tommy—”

“Now, I ain’t saying they don’t,” he interrupts you by holding up his hand. “But let’s be honest here. Luke, he takes good care of all of our people, you take good care of all of our horses—people and horses, that’s what keeps this place runnin’ like a well oiled machine and you know it just as well as we do. Without the both of you lookin’ after our two most important resources, I ain’t all too sure where the hell this place would be.”

Maria nods in agreement with her husband and squeezes his arm. “Oh, don’t be so modest,” she remarks upon seeing the bewildered expression on your face. “He’s right. And we need you to know how much we appreciate everything the two of you do for this community.”

Tommy grins, raising his glass in a toast. “To you and Luke.”

Stomach churning, you flash them your very best smile and lift your own glass, clinking it against his and then to Maria’s bottle of lemonade. “Well, I will certainly give him the kind message when I get home tonight. Thank you.” You take a quick sip of your drink, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. The room feels hot, like it had been lit on fire and you were standing too close to the flames. “It’s starting to feel a bit warm in here. I’m going to go outside for a minute to get some fresh air. Excuse me.”

Before either of them can utter another word, you spin around on your heel and hastily make your way across the barn towards the exit, being careful not to bump into the dancing couples on the dance floor along the way. Even as you hurried out, you’d caught sight of Ellie sitting with Dina at one of the tables, digging into her plate full of barbecue. Dina had leaned over and whispered something into Ellie’s ear and Ellie let out a loud, obnoxious cackle through a mouthful of food.

Despite the circumstances, you can’t help but smile—an actual, genuine smile this time around.

At least Ellie seemed to be having a good time.

That’s more than enough for you.

Joel glimpses over Esther’s shoulder. 

His eyebrows pull together in a mixture of confusion and concern as he watches you practically run out of the barn alone with a drink clutched in your hand and a strange expression on your face—you appear to be upset over something.

The blonde in front of him had been going on and on about where she was from, although he hadn’t quite been listening to her the entire time she had been talking—or at all. 

Had Esther said Vermont? Or maybe it had been Virginia?

Joel wasn’t all too sure, but he didn’t care enough to ask her to clarify. Besides, his thoughts were far too busy preoccupied with someone else. Someone he needed to make sure was alright.

“Listen Esther, s’been real nice talkin’ to you,” he states as he offers the woman the most polite smile he can possibly muster up for her. He tries to ignore the awkward way she’d pouted her lips at him, a sad, disappointed look flashing in her eyes. “But I’ve gotta go and take care of somethin’ for a minute. Will you excuse me?”

He doesn’t even give Esther the chance to respond. Setting his drink down on the counter, he gives her a quick nod goodbye and steps around her. He starts towards the barn’s exit, but before leaving, he tosses a quick glance in Ellie’s direction just to make sure she’s still doing okay without him. He had been keeping a close and watchful eye on her from the bar the entire time. After a while, it soon became apparent to Joel that Ellie had been doing just fine. She’s scarfing down another heaping helping of bison and potatoes, grinning from ear to ear as she talks with Dina, who seems to be enjoying her company despite her poor table manners.

Joel steps outside into the night and he takes a look around, searching for you among the small, scattered groups of people who stood mingling with one another. Gossiping women, drunk and rowdy patrolmen, children running around—he jumps slightly as a giggling little redheaded girl who can’t be older than five circles around his legs with a curly haired boy who is about the same age chasing after her. He lightly shoos them away from him and they take off running in another direction.

He scans his surroundings once more.

You’re nowhere to be found.

Humming, Joel glances down.

He notices a long trail of footprints left behind by what had to be a pair of cowboy boots, similar to the ones you’d been wearing. The strange way in which they veered off in a random direction away from the rest of the crowd tips him off almost a bit too easily—he knows they belong to you. Without giving it a second thought, he starts to follow your tracks and they lead him all the way around to the back of the barn.

That’s where Joel finds you, leaning against the wooden paddock fence. You’re back is to him, your head tilted upwards. Your gaze seems to be lost somewhere up in the velvet, purple night sky and you’re swaying along to the pretty country melody that, even outside, can still be heard coming from inside the barn.

Turn around, a sound voice in the back of his mind tries to reason with him. Go go back inside.

He ignores it, his legs moving forward, eager to close the distance between the two of you.

The sound of his heavy boots crunching on the rocks in the dirt as he draws closer to you causes you to jump. Whirling around, you gasp and your free hand flies to your chest.

“M’sorry,” Joel quickly apologizes, holding up both his hands to show you he’s not a threat. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Joel?” You’re surprised to see him.  “What are you doing out here?”

The area out behind the barn is just as dark as it is secluded, however, the moon is full, big, and bright, its silvery glow illuminating each and every single one of your features in such a beautiful way that it makes his throat go dry, just like it had earlier that evening when he’d first seen you in that dress.

“Well ain’t that funny. I was actually just ‘bout to ask you the same exact question, darlin’.” He falls into step beside you, leaning back against the fence. “What are you doin’ out here all by your lonesome?”

“Oh, I just needed some fresh air, that’s all,” you reply with a small, light shrug of your shoulders. You turn back around, leaning your forearms on top of the wooden fence, both hands wrapped firmly around your glass of whiskey. You’re standing so close to Joel that your shoulder touches his, though neither of you make a move to put space in between your bodies. “What’s your excuse?”

“Needed a breather from Esther,” he confesses. 

It was partially the truth. 

He couldn’t tell you he’d really come outside to check on you.

“What do you mean? Didn’t you like her?”

“Don’t get me wrong, she’s nice and all,” Joel says, letting out a chuckle. He shakes his head. “She just ain’t the kind of company I’m lookin’ for tonight, y’know?” He pauses for just a brief second and crosses his arms over his chest, his sudden change in position causing his shoulder to press even closer against your own. “Tommy mentioned her to me when we were havin’ lunch together yesterday. Said he’d be willin’ to set us up, but I didn’t think his dumbass would actually follow through with it.”

Confused, you shoot him a strange look.

“I’d told him I wasn’t interested in meetin’ her, but Tommy’s always had a real habit of not listenin’ to me,” he remarks, shaking his head once again.

The question falls from your lips before you can even think about trying to stop it. “Why aren’t you interested in her?” you blurt. Awkwardly, you clear your throat and add in a nonchalant tone, “Esther’s gorgeous, Joel. Most guys around here would jump at the chance to be with her.”

“S’like I told you. She just ain’t the kind of company I’m lookin’ for tonight.”

“So then, what kind of company are you looking for?”

Joel hesitates, then answers honestly. “Yours.”

“Oh,” you breathe out, your heart skipping a nervous beat.

He tests the waters. “That alright to say?”

“Mhm,” is all you’re able to utter.

Fighting to take a steady, even breath, you clutch at your glass even harder. 

“Y’know, when I was on my way out here, I saw Ellie and Dina still sittin’ together,” Joel finally says after a minute or two, breaking the silence. “She honestly seems to be havin’ a real good time with her.” He nudges your shoulder with his own, a hint of amusement in his voice as he turns to you and asks, “Now tell me why I’ve got this strange little feelin’ that you had somethin’ to do with that?”

Your immediate expression of guilt prompts his grin. 

You’d been caught red handed.

“Okay, so I may or may not have talked to Dina earlier today while we were setting up the barn for the party. I asked if she could do me a favor and at least try and talk to Ellie tonight,” you admit, sheepishly. “I told her about how much Ellie reminds me of her, and how I thought they would get along.” You feel his dark eyes fix themselves intently on you and the heat creeps to your cheeks as you continue to explain yourself to him. It’s only just now occurred to you that perhaps you should have ran the idea by Joel—he’s her guardian and the last thing you want to do is cross his boundaries. “It took a little convincing, but she agreed. Dina can still be quite shy sometimes, but she’s a really good girl, Joel. I promise.”

Joel raises an eyebrow at you, letting his arms fall down to his sides. “Really? You did that?”

“Yeah. I did.” Anxiously, you take a long sip of liquor before adding, “I hope that’s okay.”

“‘Course it is, darlin’. I really appreciate you doin’ that for Ellie.” Joel’s gaze softens and meets yours with genuine sincerity. “I appreciate everythin’ that you’ve done for her. It means a lot to me. More than I can probably even explain.”

“I can tell how important she is to you.”

Joel nods. “Ellie’s the most important thing in the world to me.” He stops, exhaling a long, heavy sigh. “She’s been through a whole lot—a hell of a lot more than anyone her age should have to go through.” Once again, he pauses momentarily, trying to keep his emotions in check. He swallows harshly and subconsciously leans closer towards you without realizing it. “Ellie, she ain’t my blood, but she’s my daughter. For a long time, I thought I couldn’t take care of her. I thought that I didn’t have what it takes to protect her.”

“And what about now?”

“Now that we’re here, I feel real different ‘bout it all. I finally feel like I can keep Ellie safe, y’know? Give her the life she deserves,” Joel states, sounding a bit relieved, almost like he’s only just now made the realization that things are different now—it’s not like it was while they’d been out on the road. Each day isn’t a fight for survival, a game of trying to stay alive long enough just to see the next. Sleeping in the dirt, watching her go hungry, seeing her have to wear the same dirty clothes for weeks at a time, those were all now things of the past.

Pulling yourself back from the fence, you glance up at him with a curious expression. 

“Ellie hasn’t told me all that much about what she’s gone through—about what either of you have gone through.” You catch sight of the worry that flashes in his eyes and reassure him, “And I don’t plan on asking because it isn’t any of my business. But in the short time I’ve gotten to know Ellie, I’ve already seen it in her eyes, Joel. It’s all there.”

“What’s there?”

“Every bad thing that’s ever happened to her.”

Joel hangs his head. “Jesus.”

And just like that, he somehow feels like a fucking failure all over again.

“I know that you’re worried about her, Joel. I don’t blame you, but you’re doing all that you can do,” you remind him, the kindness in your voice bringing him the warmth and comfort he’s been needing for far too long. “You’re here in the community now and she’s safe. That’s what matters—all the rest is going to fall right into place soon enough. Just give her a bit of time and don’t put so much pressure on yourself.”

Joel sighs. “I just want what’s best for her, y’know? Just like any normal parent would want for their kid.”

“And you are doing the best that you can, just like any normal parent would.” You reach out, gently placing your hand on his bare forearm, your thumb brushing his warm skin. Your mere touch sends a tingle up his spine, and he can’t help but wonder if the connection had done the same for you. “It’s easy to see how much you care about her. How much you love her.”

“I do love her,” he murmurs. It feels odd, almost foreign for him to say it out loud. Of course he loves Ellie, and although he’s fairly certain she knew that and she loved him too, those three specific words had never been exchanged between them, and he had a hunch they never would be. “All I want is to do right by her. After everythin’ she’s been through—I just want her to finally be happy.”

“That says a lot about the kind of man you are.”

Biting back a scoff, Joel shakes his head. He doesn’t want you thinking he’s a good person—you’d be horrified if you knew about all the blood that stained his hands, about all of the things he’d done in the last two decades to survive. He’d stolen, he’d destroyed, he’d murdered. He’d lied.

He was not a good man. 

Your hand drops away from his arm, a lot sooner than either of you would have liked.

“So, what’s your story?” he asks, deciding to switch the focus of the conversation onto you. “How’d you end up in good ol’ Jackson, Wyoming?” 

“You take another sip of your drink, which is now completely watered down by the melted ice in your glass. “Well, like I told you, I grew up in New Mexico on a horse ranch. It was me, my parents, and my little brother,” you start to explain. “After the outbreak happened, me and my family ended up in the Albuquerque QZ. We were there for quite some time, until there was a breach at one of the gates and the zone was overrun with infected.” You pause briefly as the memories of that night come flooding back. By now, you’ve repressed them enough that they don’t bring you to your knees the way they used to when you had been younger. “Me and my dad made it out alive, but my mom and my brother didn’t.”

Joel frowns. “Shit. M’real sorry, darlin’. I shouldn’t have asked—”

“It’s okay,” you assure him with a tiny nod. “After me and my dad made it out of the zone, we found this group of people who were heading east, trying to get to Boston. It wasn’t long before everyone started to get picked off one by one—by infected, raiders, and even slavers. Somehow, me and my dad survived all that, but we found ourselves alone again. We were starving, had no shelter, and winter was just around the corner. We honestly didn’t know what we were going to do, and even though neither of us ever said it to each other, we were both so sure we were going to die. But then Tommy and his patrol group came across us one night. Once we proved that neither of us were infected, he brought us in.”

“You’ve been through a lot,” Joel states. He never would have even guessed.

You just seemed so well put together.

“Haven’t we all?” You let out a humorless laugh.

A silence falls like a curtain over both of you, but it’s comfortable.

Tranquil. 

Although it had been a warmer night, it was now much later into the evening, and a chilly breeze whips its way through the settlement, whisking its cool and crisp fingers through your hair. It causes the white daisy you’d been wearing to fall, and the flower flutters to the ground, landing right in between Joel’s boots. Without giving it a second thought, he reaches down and picks it up, being careful as he gingerly dusts the dirt off of the delicate petals. He turns to you, tucking the flower back behind your ear. As his hand falls away from you, his index finger accidentally grazes the soft skin of your cheek, and every part of him floods with the burning desire to feel more of you.

“M’sorry ‘bout that,” he mumbles sheepishly.

“It’s quite alright,” you say—and you mean it. You can’t even remember the last time someone’s touch set you on fire like this. You’d been feeling cold and empty and numb for so long, and while all of the things that Joel’s making you feel had become almost foreign to you, they’re starting to reignite that spark of life inside of you that you thought you’d lost a long time ago.

From the inside of the barn, you and Joel hear the band begin to play their cover of Can’t Help Falling in Love. 

“Elvis, huh?” Joel muses with a hum. He sounds impressed.

You’re not sure if all the alcohol you’d been consuming throughout the evening has only now just decided to kick into full gear in your system or whether you really do just lack any kind of common sense, but you find yourself looking up at him shyly through your eyelashes. “How about another dance?”

His lips part slightly in surprise. “To this song?”

Every inch of your skin burns hot with embarrassment and your fingers curl tighter around your glass. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just that I really love to dance,” you sputter out nervously, wishing you had kept your mouth shut. You only dig yourself further into the hole as you continue to ramble. “Luke doesn’t like to dance. He never wants to dance with me—”

That’s all Joel had needed to hear.

He reaches for your glass, prying it out of your grasp. He sets it down on top of the fence and holds his hand out to you. “I’ll dance with you, darlin’.”

Looking up at him in surprise, you accept and place your hand in his. His other hand finds your waist and the two of you begin swaying along to the music—a smile that could light up the entire town breaks out across your face. 

Joel didn’t know Luke, but he couldn’t fathom how the man you were married to wouldn’t do just about anything to see that smile.

“Wait, I thought you couldn’t dance,” you tease, noticing that he’s leading you.

Flashing you a cocky grin, he shrugs. “Guess the kid was right. I ain’t so bad for fifty six with creakin’ knees.”

Remembering Ellie’s words from earlier, you throw your head back and laugh.

His stomach turns, twisting in a tangle of desire and nerves.

You’re married.

But that does nothing to stop the want, the need. 

For either of you.

Being in his arms, it’s wrong.

It’s more than an innocent dance—it’s the beginning of something that’s bound to lead to nothing but trouble and you both know it.

Joel continues to lead you and begins singing along to the familiar lyrics, quietly, but just loud enough for you to hear the sultry richness of his voice. “Like a river flows, surely to the sea,” he sings, subconsciously giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “Darlin’ so it goes, some things are meant to be.”

Impressed, you raise an eyebrow at him. “You’ve got a nice voice, Joel.”

“Y’think so?”

You nod. “I do. What, were you a singer in your first life or something?”

“Close.”

“Really? What did you do?”

“I was a contractor,” Joel replies, grinning as he elicits another sweet laugh from you. “Owned my own construction business with Tommy. I did enjoy singin’ though—and playin’ the guitar too. But it was a hobby more than anythin’ since I don’t think music would’ve paid the bills.”

You smile up at him. “Oh, well now you’re going to have to play the guitar for me sometime. Maybe even treat me to a whole song?”

“I still owe Ellie a song,” he remembers, shaking his head. “But I don’t have a guitar, so it gets me out of it.”

“Well then, we’re going to have to find you one and when we do, you’ll have to play something for us,” you tell him. “Deal?”

“Deal.” Joel agrees without thinking. He starts singing along to the lyrics again. “Take my hand, take my whole life too—” 

“But I can’t help falling in love with you.” You try not to laugh again at the shock on his face as you finished the lyric for him.

“Hey now, you’ve got a real nice voice yourself, darlin’.”

Darlin’. 

You shouldn’t let him call you that.

Out of respect for your husband, you should tell him it’s not okay. None of this is okay.

But it is okay. 

“Oh, now you’re just trying to flatter me, Miller,” you accuse him, playfully. 

The song ends and neither of you make a move to let go of one another.

Joel’s eyes fall to your pretty, plush lips and it takes every ounce of strength he has inside of him not to lean down and press his own lips against them.

Finally, he forces himself to let you go and takes a step backward, clearing his throat. “I should, uh—I should go and find Ellie so I can get her home. S’gettin’ kinda late.”

You nod, your heart slamming painfully against your sternum. “Of course,” you say, slightly breathless. “I’ll come along with you so I can say goodnight to her.”

As the two of you make your way around the barn and back towards the entrance, Joel sees a tall, slender man with short dark hair approaching. He’d called out your name and something inside Joel’s mind just clicks together—he knows exactly who the man is before you’ve even had a chance to open your mouth and say his name.

“Luke?” Stopping abruptly in your tracks, you stiffen and squeak out his name. “What—what are you doing here?”

“There you are, honey.” He comes up to you and immediately takes your arm, pulling you from Joel’s side and over to his. “Tommy told me you might be out here. I was just coming to look for you.”

It takes thirty seconds for Joel to size him up. Luke’s younger than himself, definitely closer in age to Tommy—somewhere around his mid to late forties. He’s a lot more clean cut than most of the other rugged men in the commune with his short, neatly kept dark hair and a clean shaven face. Though he’s on the thinner side, he’s in decent shape, but Joel’s wider, broader and far, far more intimidating.

“What are you doing here?” you ask again.

“Now, is that really how a loving wife should greet her husband?” Luke laughs, pulling you even closer into his side. 

Joel isn’t all too fond of the way he’s holding you. 

He’s rough, harsh.

“I decided to come and check it out. See what all the fuss is about,” Luke says. He glances at Joel, his green eyes giving him a once over—sizing him up, just like Joel had done to him. “Don’t be rude, honey. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friend here?”

You speak softly, almost too softly.

“Luke, this is Joel Miller.”

“Ah. You’re Tommy’s brother, right?”

Joel tries not to sound too curt, but fails. “That’s right.”

“Joel, this is Luke.” You can’t even look him in the eye as you introduce your spouse. “He’s my husband.”

Luke extends a courteous hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Joel.” His other hand finds and takes yours. “I do hope that my wife here hasn’t been bothering you tonight. She can be quite the little chatterbox. Makes me wish she came with a mute button sometimes.”

Joel’s dark eyes briefly flit to Luke’s hand holding yours, taking note of the way he’s gripping it so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. Between that and the comment he’d just made about you, Joel had every fucking desire to connect his fist to the side of Luke’s face.

“Luke, please,” you whisper, throwing him a tiny glare. 

“Oh come on now, honey. Where did your sense of humor go? You know I’m only joking,” Luke states, squeezing your hand a little harder, causing you to squirm.

Something tells Joel he’s not kidding around.

He’d meant what he had said.

“She hasn’t been a bother at all,” Joel speaks in your defense. “Actually, I came out here to talk to her and to thank her for bein’ so kind to my kid, Ellie. Your wife here, she’s been nothin’ but good to her since we arrived.”

“Well, as long as she wasn’t being a bother.” Luke glances down at you. “If you’ll excuse us, there’s a few people that I still need to see and say hello to inside. Come along, honey.” He glances at Joel, a strange glint in his eye as he tells him, “Welcome to Jackson, Joel.”

His jaw clenches as he watches him drag you into the barn.

Nothing about Luke sat right with him.

The way he’d spoken to you, touched you, treated you.

And then there was you.

The light had instantly left your eyes the second he’d come around. 

Something wasn’t right.

A rough hand on his shoulder startles him out of his thoughts.

“Really, Joel? Really? Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Tommy hisses, yanking him over to the side of the barn where nobody would overhear him. “What the fuck did I tell you yesterday in the mess hall?”

“The hell are you fuckin’ talkin’ ‘bout?”

His brother glares at him. “I know that you ain’t as fuckin’ dumb as you look, Joel. What the fuck were you doin’ out here alone with her? Huh?”

Joel purses his lips together tightly in silence.

What had he seen?

Having read his mind, Tommy shoves his shoulder. “You were dancin’ with her you fuckin’ asshole? Did you fuckin’ forget that she’s a married woman?”

Joel rolls his eyes at him and aggressively shoves his hand off of his shoulder. “We were just dancin’ together, alright? Ain’t like we were makin’ out, Tommy. Can you fuckin’ relax?”

“I don’t give a fuck, Joel! If I saw any man that wasn’t me dancin’ with Maria like that, I’d be fuckin’ pissed. I’d kick his fuckin’ ass,” he spits. “Her husband just showed up to the goddamn party. You’re fuckin’ lucky that it was me who saw you out there with her and not him. What if he’d seen you two? Then what?”

“Christ, Tommy. Relax,” Joel tries again to calm him. “It was just a dance, alright? It was nothin’ more than that. Okay?”

“You listen to me and you listen to me good, ‘cause I ain’t fuckin’ gonna say it again, big brother. Don’t go gettin’ any ideas ‘bout her. I don’t need you to go around stirrin’ up any kind of trouble,” Tommy says, his voice firm. “We can’t have that kinda shit here. Maria won’t tolerate it, and y’know what, I won’t either. Don’t fuckin’ cause problems. Got it?”

“Didn’t plan on it,” Joel mutters, bitterly.

Tommy narrows his eyes at him.

“Just fuckin’ watch yourself, Joel,” he warns. “I fuckin’ mean it.”

[neiptune]

bûche de noël with kaeya please! with the prompt "stop trying to get me under the mistletoe!"

kaeya alberich x stop trying to get me under the mistletoe!

There are a few things people know Kaeya is.

An excellent swordsman, the trusty cavalry captain of the Knights of Favonius, a regular visitor of the Mondstadt taverns once the sun sets and a blanket of promised quiet is draped over the city. He’s a familiar presence, the best drinking companion, reliable but not entirely predictable, often at odds with his brother.

Many fell prey to his confidence and charm over the years and still do, easily lured in by an irresistible magnetic field that feels so natural, so secure. How many of those people, you wonder, take the time to notice how his entire life seems an ad-hoc project? Brick after brick of carefully calculated demeanor and charismatic smiles, patiently positioned on top of one another ever since he was so young.

Kaeya as a project, an adoptive son, a troublesome brother with an exasperating flair for drama, a great fighter, a selfish, giving, lonely, popular man.

This is what you saw at first, the same things he allowed everyone else to see. You, the child of a foreign merchant who’d begged and begged Crepus to let him become part of the flourishing winery business in Mondstadt. As he listed countless ingredients coming from remote lands and the men initiated a detailed discussion involving all the seasonal variations their range of wines could acquire, you silently wandered away from the dimly illuminated room. Anxious to explore the estate and its vast vineyard, you still remember the fragrance of grapes filling the air as you walked around with your nose wrinkled in skepticism.

Sure, it was cute. But it all still seemed far below the warm, colorful, spice infused surroundings of your land, smells and flavors that already felt like they belonged to a previous lifetime. That’s when you first saw him, swinging around a wooden toy sword all by himself, half-hidden behind an oak barrel. The flash of a periwinkle stare that looked comically suspicious on a child only lasted a few moments as Kaeya casually invited you to play with him. Since you look so upset. Always the infuriatingly perceptive observer.

He still looks at you like that sometimes, when suspicion crawls from the depths of his guarded brain. Are you planning another surprise birthday party? What are you and Diluc laughing about? Where on earth did you hide the Dandelion wine? Are you absolutely certain you can love him of all people?

You are now allowed to see what others can only dream of coming across.

Kaeya looks especially good in the early morning light, right before he puts on the eyepatch his navy bangs barely hide, when softness and sleep are still clinging to his lazy smile. He never has to be drunk to actually speak his mind, likes to keep his voice low when having a sincere conversation, loves it when you run your fingers through his hair, can get extremely cold and defensive, has so much blood on his hands. More than anything, he’s in love with you. Desperately so. You may be the only person he truly trusts in this life and you’re far too aware of how much of a privilege that is.

However, still not a good enough reason to give in easily or pretend you don’t notice what he’s been trying to do ever since you started decorating the small house you share for the upcoming festivities.

“Can you come help me with the batter? I think it’s too runny”.

You don’t look up from the book you’re reading at the kitchen table.

“I’m sure it’s fine”.

“But what if it’s not? How will you sleep tonight, knowing that these cookies could’ve been saved?”.

“Very well”, you put the book down and make your way to the counter. Except you approach him on the wrong side and hide an amused smile at the outraged look Kaeya does nothing to conceal. His frown deepens when you casually grab the bowl, your head never close enough to be resting underneath the flash of green hanging from the cabinet on his left.

“Looks good to me”, you grin and press a quick kiss to his cheek before leaving him cold once more.

When Kaeya offered to help you decorate the house, you couldn’t have anticipated how stubborn he’d become about something so silly. It soon became an unspoken challenge between you two, a christmas themed cat and mouse game. Mistletoe would appear hanging from the strangest, most unexpected places: above the couch, from the stairs, on the backs of some dining room chairs, cabinets, even underneath the freaking table. You only found out when he had casually dropped a napkin and asked you to please get it for him.

And so you giggle to yourself, run through open doorways, movements quick and calculated to avoid being caught underneath it, while your lover grows increasingly grumpy.

“Kaeya, I have to go! You know how your brother gets when I’m late”. You’re the only person allowed to refer to Diluc as such, the one person allowed to hear Kaeya call him that. Diluc himself hasn’t heard the word in years.

“You’re free to go”, he narrows his pretty eye at you.

“Stop trying to get me under the mistletoe!”, exasperated, you slide away from his gentle hold and hurry through the bedroom door. He’s onto you in a second, caging your frame against the wall with a petulant pout.

“Why won’t you kiss me?”.

“I kiss you all the time”.

“But I want a special christmas kiss”.

“You’re gonna have to wait until christmas, then”, with a wink, you pinch his nose and chuckle at his groan.

It is not without a significant amount of crankiness that he succumbs to your iron will at last, still grumbling about how you’d only unfairly grant him regular kisses. His annoyance reaches never before seen levels when voices of how wonderfully decorated for the holidays the Ragnvindr estate is reach him, your touch apparently evident in sparkling ornaments, gingerbread houses, tinsels and so much mistletoe.

Truth is, you can never resist Kaeya for too long. Riling him up is an exquisite pastime but you’d never pass up the chance to remind him of how special and deeply cherished he is.

Christmas eve is still more than a week away, therefore you’re certain he doesn’t expect to find you waiting for him so early, the table set and filled with all his favorite dishes. You’re particularly busy this time of the year and Diluc isn’t one to turn a blind eye just because you’re his friend: orders are piling up and it’s not like the fault isn’t to attribute to your father’s delicious, spice infused holiday wine. You now occupy the role that was once his, surely demanding but also so rewarding.  

Kaeya doesn’t have much of a reason to entertain himself at different taverns until late anymore, not when someone is either waiting for him or he gets to make sure a nice dinner is ready by the time you tiredly shuffle through the front door with a sweet smile.

“What is this? How are you home so early?”, he doesn’t hide his surprise when he walks in, a few snowflakes still melting on his shoulders.

You hum, feigning meditativeness. “I can go, you seem disappointed”.

“Don’t you dare”, Kaeya closes the short distance between you two in two strides, you’re already giggling when he tenderly takes your face in his cool hands and presses a kiss to your lips.

It doesn’t have to be christmas, to be special. The cavalry captain of the Knights of Favonius watches you intently as you share details of your day over dinner, basks in the familiar warmth of your voice, the most insignificant story about inadvertitely mixing up barrels for a very important order gaining an inexplicable fascination if it’s you who’s narrating it. When he looks at you, candles and seashell table lamp causing the light to dance gently across your features, his heart fills with gratitude. He never allowed himself to expect much from life but you proved every single one of his predictions wrong, continuing to do so each day.

“Put your cape on. The one with the hood”.

You tilt your head to the side.

“What? Why?”.

“Captain’s orders”, Kaeya winks, charming, a boyish grin softens when he rises from his seat, “just do it, please”.

You comply, albeit confused. He loves that particular cape on you, always says it makes you shine. The fact that its color could make one think of his own outfit is, obviously, a mere coincidence.

Kaeya smiles when you get back into the living room, where he awaits with an extended hand.

“What are you doing?”, you chuckle when he brings you close, body warm and solid pressing to yours, hands resting on your hips as your arms find their designated place, loosely wrapped around his neck.

He starts swaying, a gentle melody hummed in the quiet of the evening. You recognize it easily: he sings it to himself at times, when no one can hear and thus be blessed with yet another piece of the mystery Kaeya Alberich is. His voice is velvet, the tune nostalgic. “From my childhood”, was the only thing he revealed when you once inquired about its roots.  

You don’t immediately understand why he pulls your hood up, until you catch a glimpse of the familiar glow of his vision. He evokes snowflakes that fall delicately upon you both, they melt on your clothes and the wooden floor. It’s never really cold if he’s there.

“I love you”, Kaeya whispers, face hidden in the crook of your neck.

“Give me a special kiss, then?”, he is only briefly stopped by the way you start rummaging through your pocket, eyes shining with mischief. He chuckles when you take out the mistletoe at last.

thank you for your generosity and for supporting @ficsforgaza. request a character + prompt here :)

[littlewriters-posts]

My Experiment - Cooper Howard/The ghoul x OC

Plot: Cooper finds his way to a little shop on the outskirts of an extremely rough town. When he meets the owner, he's shocked how such a sweet face could survive in such a miserable place. Only he's about to find out exactly what made you the way you are.

Warnings: Er...violence, mentions of sexual assault and I think that is it.

The day Cooper Howard first met Addy, he was in a very bad mood indeed.

Cooper Howard was feared by many people, even those he had never met before. He found himself staring at newcomers with their wide eyed fear in contempt. He didn't want to be feared, not at first, but it did come in handy when he wanted something.

The best way to survive in the wasteland was to make sure you didn't need anything from anybody else. That way you could just live in solitude.

Unfortunately for Cooper, Radway was something he needed, and didn't know how to make.

So there he stood, in a small town shop with a handful of a caps and a devilish grin.

"You know what I'm here for," he said gruffly, and the shopkeeper squeaked in fear.

"Listen, I'm sorry but we are all out," the man seemed to tremble under the gaze of the ghoul. "You'll have to go elsewhere,"

Cooper frowned "Elsewhere?" he asked snidely "I was under the impression you have what I want,"

The man just shook his head. "Please don't kill me, my wife, my kids they need me," he begged.

Cooper raised an eyebrow.

The wife, a stout lady with a wooden leg burst through the door, her hands on her hips.

"Try Addy's." she said gruffly "Up the street about half a mile, turn right when you go past the big oak tree. You'll see it, she hard to miss,"

Cooper tipped his hat to the woman before turning back towards the man.

"Your wife got more balls than you," he commented, before glancing at the woman "Though if you've sent me to some kind of trap, you can be damn sure I'll be back to finish you off,"

The woman sneered "Addy's sent many a men back here with their tails between their legs, but she'll have what you want,"

Cooper nodded, and set off on his way, wondering who on earth this Addy was, and why he had never heard of her before.

The woman was right though, it was hard to miss. A short but long building, kept incuriously clean, with a large pink sign out front.

Welcome to Addy's, come on in!

Cooper's brow furrowed, as his hand found his gun. This place screamed trap, but he needed his radway and would be damned if he didn't get it.

He practically knocked down the door from the hinges as he kicked it open, his gun staring down anything that looked his way.

Not that anything did, the shop was empty. If he could call it that, it was more like an old bar. A long table stood at the far end of the shop, with smaller tables dotted around with chairs like some sort of diner.

"There's no need for that my dear, I'm not going to hurt you," came a sweet voice. Cooper turned, his eyes narrowed at the person in-front of him. She was clean, was the first thing that he noticed about her, her hair seemed washed, her face was smooth and unblemished, and her clothes neatly pressed. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"And you are?" Cooper asked, his gun not wavering from her face. The girl smiled.

"Can't you read honey? I'm Addy. Now why don't you put that gun down and we can get you what you need."

She didn't seemed bothered, nor the least bit threatened by him as she walked behind the long table and retrieved a large box, full of tiny little vials.

"Ghoulie ...I expect you're looking for Radway?" she asked sweetly "Though there's free water by the owl clock if you need," she gestured to a couple feet to his right where a barrel full of purified water sat.

"You're just giving away this shit? You could be rich," Cooper asked, his gun lowering a little.

Addy smiled "And what good will that do me? I've got everything I need - now why don't you sit for a bit, bounty hunter like you gotta be on his feet a lot,"

Cooper didn't need telling twice, though his eyes still darted around the shop, as if waiting for someone to come and attack.

"And you haven't been raided?" he asked eyebrow raised "How many people know about this place?"

Addy shrugged "Couple people have tried, they've never succeeded though," she said nonchalantly, before handing him three vials "First three are free sugar, after that you gotta pay me,"

Cooper dug in his pockets for his caps, but Addy shook her head.

"I don't bother with those bits of junk." she said, scrunching her nose up.

"Then what do people pay you in?" Cooper asked, his hand twitching towards his gun again.

Addy grinned "My, you're not very trusting are you honey?" she said gesturing to where his hand rested on the hilt of his weapon "People pay me in favours sweetheart. Sometimes I need bread, or I run out of milk," she said listing it off on her fingers.

"Well I ain't no farmer sweetheart," The Ghoul mocked.

Addy shook her head "No, but I might need you to find someone for me, everyone got their talents,"

Cooper nodded slightly "So I want eight of these, how much that gonna cost me in favours then?" he asked, still ever so slightly suspicious of her.

Her response was interrupted however, by a loud bang.

Cooper jumped up, gun in his hand, only to find a young girl running across the room, frantically knocking everything in her path.

Addy frowned "Laya?" she asked.

The little girl stopped, staring at the two adults. She couldn't have been more than twelve years old, but what caught the attention the most was the blood running down the inside of her thigh.

"Addy-" she gulped tears streaming down her face "I didn't want them too Addy, they wouldn't stop," she stuttered, her pale face turning a sickly green.

Cooper grimaced, he might have been evil, but he would never even dream of doing something like that, much less to a child.

Addy collected the little girl in her arms "Were your followed?" she asked sternly "It's okay if you were, I can take care of...how many were there?"

The little girl gulped "Five," she whispered "Please don't let them take me again,"

Addy nodded before turning to the Ghoul. "For five vials I want you to take that little girl to the back room back there. Do not let her see anything and do not come out," she said sternly "Not until I call you,"

Cooper shook his head "You want me to believe a small thing like you can take on five grown men? You're gonna need help with that,"

Addy raised her eyebrow "You asked me why I never got raided, and it's not because I had some Ghoulie doing my dirty work," she reprimanded "No go on sweetie, he's not gonna hurt you,"

She gently pushed the little girl into Cooper's arms, and hurried them into the back room.

The little girl immediate ran to the corner, her eyes never leaving the Ghoul in-front of her. She clearly didn't trust him in the slightest, but he paid her little attention.

Instead he looked around the room in surprise. The first thing he noticed again was how clean it was, even the rickety old bed was neatly made up. Dozens of trinkets, old tapes, an even an old TV stood in vicarious positions among the room. But what made his heart stop, was the blue and yellow uniform that hung on the back of the door, adorning the yellow number 4.

Addy was a Vaultie?

He snarled slightly, of course she had more than everyone else, the girl was a vaultie, she probably got sent supplies from people whilst the rest of the people starved.

"Stay there," he said to the little girl, who nodded in fear.

As he opened the door, he quickly ducked under one of the tables as five men walked into the bar, each with sickening grins on their faces. Cooper debating on helping the woman out, but the Blue and yellow uniform couldn't shake from his mind.

"Morning Addy, you haven't seen a little whore back here have you?" the front man snarled.

Addy looked at him coldly "No. I've seen a little girl, but there is no way in hell you are going to get her,"

Then men clicked their guns together menacingly. "And what's a pretty thing like you gonna do to stop us?"

Addy stared at him, "Violence never solves anything," she quipped.

The man sneered "Let's just put a bullet through her head and be off with it," he practically begged the other man. One of the men sighed and nodded.

"Look if you don't let us pass we are gonna have to shoot you," he said feigning sadness.

"I'd like to see you try," Addy replied politely, as if they were just having an honest conversation.

Cooper sighed, realising that this Addy girl was defiantly going to die and he was going to be stuck with a traumatised child to take home.

The man raised his gun, firing before Cooper could react. Addy whirled around, her fingers stopping inches before her face.

Did she just catch the bullet?

One of the man snarled, firing round after round, but Addy ducked under one of the tables, crawling along until she found -

"I thought I told you to stay in the fucking back?" she hissed at Cooper.

"You never mentioned you were a vaultie," he hissed back angrily.

Addy blinked "Oh shit I forgot to put that away - listen I'm not what you think," she said quickly, ducking again as more bullets fired there way into the hardwood. "Just give me five minutes and I'll explain everything,"

"Five minutes?" Cooper scoffed "With these guys?"

Addy nodded "And stay down. I don't need a ghoulie fighting my goddamn battles,"

He watched as the strange woman lept into the air, running along the table and diving off of it, taking down two of the men as she did so.

She snarled at the other three, two of which dropped their weapons in fear. For her face, her smooth dainty face had changed, warped into something they couldn't quite place. Large fangs protruded from her mouth like some kind of deranged animal, and her eyes darkened until they formed black holes.

She swiped at them, her claws scraping across them, cutting through their skin like butter. They howled, falling to the floor in agony, but didn't move again.

When she stood, she found the Ghoul pointing his gun at her as well, a strange feeling in his eyes. He hadn't felt fear in a long time, but this was something completely different. He didn't even know what to make of this.

Addy's face returned to normal, though the blood splatters on her skin did not.

"It's alright ghoulie I'm not gonna hurt you," she soothed "I told you to stay in the back room," she added, slightly annoyed.

"What the hell are you?" he asked his gun never wavering.

Addy groaned "For fuck sake," she said before sitting down on one of the chairs, her head in her hands.

Cooper didn't quite know what to do, his old self would have just shot her, his really old self would have tried to comfort her.

Addy sighed "You're right I am a vault dweller but not in the way you might think. My brother sold me, he wanted to be one of the overseers, so he sold me to Vault 4, the vault run by scientists. They had this sick thing where they wanted to create something half human, half animal," she laughed humourlessly. "Pulled me apart, put me back together until they got what they fucking wanted,"

Cooper lowered his gun. The clogs in his mind whirring, desperate to try and figure out exactly where he knew that girl from. He knew the overseer's of the vaults, or some of them anyway, could she be someone he used to know?

"You're Amy MacLean," he realised. This whole time he knew there was something familiar about her, but he couldn't quite place what. And now he knew.

Amy Maclean was the runner girl on the sets back in his days at Valt-tech, She must have been turning seventeen when he last saw her. Sweet, he remembered, always bringing him something for his dog to eat whenever she could.

Addy looked at him sharply "Haven't heard that name in a long time," she said. "Ghoulies live longer I suppose,"

Cooper frowned "How long have you been on the surface," she didn't appear to be that much older than when he last saw her, sure she was definitely late twenties to early thirties now, her baby-face teen look had shattered completely, but she didn't look 200.

Addy eyed him slightly before kicking her legs onto the table "70 years, I was here before the last bombs dropped on Shady sands," she said "Whatever those people did to me slowed down my aging process,"

Cooper finally lowered his gun "We should check on that little girl," he said, but Addy waved him off.

"Let her be on her own for a bit. Last thing she needs is people crowding round her,"

Cooper didn't dare ask how Addy knew that, he didn't want to know.

"You've been here ever since?" he asked. Addy nodded.

"Learnt how to purify radioactive water, takes a long time but you don't have to do much. I give the village fresh water, chems for illnesses and stuff. In return they don't kill my ass or raid me." she said with a sigh "It's not much, but it's about as safe as you can get round here,"

Cooper nodded slightly. It was impressive, what she had built, but part of him wished he had been there to protect her. She was just a kid, and now she's all grown up, and refused to let her heart harden to the world like he had done to his all those years ago.

"You can take nine vials, in return for the girls safe passing back to her house," Addy said "I'll throw in a hot meal too if you promise not to frighten her,"

"Deal," Cooper said " I gotta ask lady, how are you getting all these vials? These days they're hard to come by,"

Addy smiled up at him "I make it sweety. Radway was made by vault-tech, and when I escaped I stole their Chem book. The ingredients are damn hard to find, but it's an easy make after that,"

Cooper grinned "Well I know where to come back to then," his smile to anybody else would have been deemed threatening, as to anyone else his entire presence would have them quaking in their boots, but the strange girl just smiled up at him.

"You're always welcome here Mr Howard," she said softly.

It wasn't until Cooper left, the little girl trailing behind him did he realise, he had never told her his name.

Part two

[forwards-beckon-rebound]

batfam fragrance hcs pt 1

ft. bruce, dick and jason

bruce

as brucie? my man is old money, he's screaming penhaligon's to me

they have a very long history (est 1870) seems like the type of thing where like his father would've used it and so he picked it up

probably has a few from them, i'm imagining when he's trying to lean more into the billionaire playboy aesthetic he goes for the dandy

the dandy is an homage to endless nights. vintage whiskey from the oak barrel swims above a fruity finish of bergamot and raspberry. a woody celebration blended with mischief.

for more formal business settings, i imagine he'd go with the tragedy of lord george

yes, the irony of the name is not lost on me, especially when i think this would be more similar to what thomas wayne would wear

you can't tell me this doesn't look like it could be found in wayne manor

from the reviews, seems like it gives off 19th century gentleman's club, woody and warm with heart notes of tonka bean

noble patriarch, paragon of masculine elegance, lord george welcomes with a scent of shaving soap and warming rum. But what secrets hide behind tradition?

as batman? i don't think he'd wear any cologne just so that there's no identifiers

like imagine if his secret identity got found out because of his cologne, i fear THE batman would have already planned for that

if anything he probably sprays one of those like scent neutralizers so you don’t smell like anything

i think he would just smell like leather and metal from his suit and gadgets, that's' it

that goes for all of the batfam tbh bc bruce trained them better than that

dick

fresh, i feel like like out all of them he'd have the least offensive cologne (or maybe i’m just saying that because i hate the majority of men’s fragrances)

probably pretty light too, like mostly citrus, and fresh notes

imagine it's unisex but still leans masculine

so basically in the least weird way possible he smells absolutely delicious

i think he’s so acqua di parma coded, like very bright, complex blend of citrus. just evokes bright sunny days in the mediterranean

but i will say that some acqua di parma perfumes are almost a bit too citrus forward? and the ones that aren’t i don’t think really fit him, like colonia which is their signature is nice but feels a bit old fashioned for him

especially bergamotto di calabria, which has nice top notes of bergamot but also an interesting hint of ginger that sets the fragrance apart from other citrus perfumes on the market

i feel like it’s a very dick grayson thing to have a twist to his cologne

bergamotto di calabria is characterised by effervescent top notes of bergamot fruits. at the heart of this eau de toilette, accords of red ginger and cedar wood bring a calming note while the base is rounded off with a unique combination of vetiver, benzoin, and musk.

jason

i fear he would use axe body spray

JK but like i feel like growing up he did not have time to care about that type of stuff so he would just smell like whatever deodorant was the cheapest. and then once he got adopted by bruce, he was too busy juggling school and being robin

i personally subscribe to the hc that all of his senses were heightened by the lazarus pit. i also know that in the comics as well as canon there have been discussions about things that might trigger his panic attacks (or if they’re not canonically panic attacks, as someone who has them they certainly feel very panic attack coded) and i think one of those triggers might be certain smells for him

jason todd whose throat closes up when he smells smoke or burning wood. who can’t stomach the metallic tang of blood on iron so he wears the helmet to limit his sense of smell

anyways! so yeah i think like dick he doesn’t want a reminder of his patrols but for a different reason

some sources also recommend focusing on 5 things that you can sense around you to help ground yourself so i could see him seeking comfort in a familiar scent

sad stuff aside THIS LIT NERD WOULD LOVE IMAGINARY AUTHORS

for the uninitiated, they’re a niche fragrance house that specifically has a story around each perfume

so like the notes are meant to evoke aspects of the story

in their “about us” they literally say that they view each fragrance as a book. each bottle’s side is literally designed to look like the spine of a book. jason would eat that shit up and you can’t convince me otherwise

i think o, unknown! would be a really good fit for that situation

notes of black tea, musk, and sandalwood that is both sweet and soothing

i think it would remind him of his days spent at the manor, having afternoon tea with alfred

tea time on a train, the powder room at a lavish gala, something so familiar yet you can’t quite put your finger on it. this is the story of a man grappling with the meaning of life as he grasps at life’s last vestiges

i think the cobra and the canary would really suit him as well

for more day to day stuff

likeeeeeee he just screams woody spicy to me

in theory it has lemon (according to the creators) but it’s definitely more leather and hay funnily enough than anything else

very biker core are we surprised

leather, lemon, asphalt, hot summer road trips, visions of your dad back when he was cool, crossing state lines with your sidekick, slicking your hair back and getting in a metaphorical knife fight with your old self

each stop finds the friends inventing new pseudonyms and personas for themselves, their innocent game hurtling them into the throes of decadence and desolation

not to show my obvious bias by making jason’s section way longer than everybody else’s butttttt i also quite like aesop for him

i feel like they are a bit strong so i don’t know if he would like that part (even for somebody who does not have the most sensitive sense of smell i can say they get a bit overwhelming)

but if you can tone them down i think they’re quite nice, technically unisex but a lot of them lean more masculine since they’re more earthy and musky

most of them have vetiver which just seems very jason coded to me

i think hwyl especially just seems like it would fit him

also process of elimination, he would probably go for woody, which is basically every single aesop perfume. citrus and floral notes don't really fit him that well (ik i mentioned cobra and the canary but it's not as citrus forward as the aesop citrus perfumes), and nothing opulent or too musky either

but honestly a lot of aesop perfumes are fairly similar but will just react to your skin's chemistry differently, so who knows

an intriguing fragrance with a hint of eccentricity. reminiscent of a Hinoki forest, smoky notes descend into subtle spice and dark green, earthy accords

[unholyhelbig]

hold on can we have more firecrest?

Title: Firecrest (Part 3/???)

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Summary: Kate Bishop and y/n have an unspoken agreement that revolves around being enemies with benefits. But when Kate's new mentor is someone Y/n is very familiar with, things become complicated.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, Sub/dom dynamics, strap-on, nipple play, nipple clamps, Slight edging (idk I don't write smut often), horrible parenting, talks about neglect, horrible grammar

[A/n: For some reason, this is the only story that I can sit down long enough to write, so let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

Her apartment was located above a pizza shop that operated well into the early morning hours. You’d never seen in truly closed but had only been here twice before. There was the constant acidic scent of tomato sauce that somehow bred comfort.

A man was hunched on the curb, folding a slice of dripping pie at an angle that covered his face in the greasy discharge. He had mumbled something to you around mouthfuls of cheese and dough, nodding vaguely at the cement block that propped open the door to the units.

You thanked him with a nod and slid into the air-conditioned corridor. The coolness seemed to bring clarity with it, but you didn’t stop your legs from sorely dragging you up the steps towards the unit. Why were you here? Kate Bishop was not your girlfriend. Not really.

She was cocky, and clumsy, and the object of your fathers desired attentions. For all intents and purposes, she should be your worst enemy. The bane of your existence, and in some moments, she was. But right now you swallowed your pride and realized that you needed her. Even if she didn’t need you.

You were entirely confident that Kate would turn you away. It was late. You’d spent most of the day shut-in your own apartment; the blinds drawn and mindless movies bathing you in a blue glow. You hadn’t eaten, or showered, or done anything that was considered productive aside from icing your knee with a bag of peas.

When you knocked, you hadn’t expected a muffled bark as an answer. Maybe you had the wrong apartment, or at least, you thought you did until you heard Kate’s tender admonishing. Three deadbolts clicked and clacked until the door was swung open.

Your mouth went dry at the sight of her. Kate’s hand gripped the doorframe, her muscular frame hugged by a tank-top and a pair of purple boxer shorts with little arrows sprinkled across the fabric. You could see her abdominal muscles as she steadied her breath. Her cheeks were tinted a light red.

You’d seen that look before. It was arousal. The sweet smell of sex was emanating from her, a light sheen of sweat catching the overhead lights with each inhale. She panted out “Hi,”

“I’m sorry,” You shook your head, blinking a few times “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything, I can just-“

When you attempted to take a step back, her hand darted out and grabbed onto a fistful of fabric, pulling you out of the hallway by your shirt. You dumbly allowed her to manhandle you and stumbled into her space before she closed the heavy oak door.

“No, you’re fine I’m… alone.”

You lifted an eyebrow, and she gave you a nervous smile, unhanding you and wiping her palm on the front of her own shirt. You opened your mouth to rib her (just a little) but caught the sound of nails clicking against linoleum. A smile, a genuine one, spread across your lips.

A blur of fur, golden and soft, failed to hide excitement as a dog clomped towards you. He stopped a little short, sliding on the floor and barreling into your legs. You knelt down and scratched behind the marvelous creatures ears, noting that he was a bit of a misfit like you, pirated and plagued with one eye.

He licked your face generously and you giggled. Actually giggled, because you had forgotten the audience in the room. Suddenly screwing your face back into it’s signature scowl and flicking your eyes back up to Kate. She bit the side of her hand to hide her own grin.

“I thought you said you were alone, Bishop.”

“Oh, this free-loader? Lucky doesn’t pay rent, so he doesn’t count.”

“Lucky,” You breathed, carding your fingers through his fur. He wiggled with excitement, his tail pounding against the floor as he shoved his head under your chin, nudging you to get closer than he already had. “You’re a good boy, I bet. Don’t listen to your mean old landlord.”

When you stood, much to Lucky’s dismay, Kate was staring at you with a starry look in her eyes. You narrowed your own, crossing your arms over your chest. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing. I’ve just never seen you like that.”

“Like what?”

“Soft.”

You scoffed indignantly “I am not soft!”

She hummed dismissively and padded across the room until she reached her kitchen. Kate popped the fridge open and that was enough of a call for Lucky to abandon you (maybe he was a traitor) and wait expectantly for something to drop. Nothing did, and Kate squeezed the tip of an orange juice container before chugging diligently from the carton.

Kate was captivating like this. You’d seen her in many settings, but relaxed like this, was not one of them. Her hair was slightly muffed and she was mostly bare. The cold of the room made it hard for you not to notice the way her chest perked up under the thin fabric of her shirt.

You were in deep, down bad. Not having been sexually satisfied by anything more than your fingers since the little arson incident. So, you cleared your throat and sidled up to the other end of the kitchen island. At least there was that separating the two of you. She set the carton down and leaned forward, pushing her breasts out.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, y/n?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet her eyes. She knew exactly what she was doing, and the smirk on her face eluded to that. It was a subtle shift, from being embarrassed about her current state, to milking the arrogance.

“Nothing I just… was restless, I guess. Didn’t want to be alone.”

Her expression softened “Did something happen?”

You shook your head. She didn’t need to know about Clint and his valiant effort to protect the one he really cared for. It would throw her into turmoil, threaten something she had worked so hard for. You may resent your father, but you were a far cry from resenting Kate.

“You’re pent up, then?”

“Excuse me?”

She shrugged her shoulders and took another long gulp of orange juice. You felt your mouth dry as her throat worked at the drink. Even with the carton blocking her expression, you could see that she was smirking. Her eyes gave her away, and she didn’t break contact with you for a single moment before pulling it away, and predictably throwing it into the trashcan with accuracy.

“We could go upstairs,”

Kate closed the distance between the both of you. Your skin felt like it was on fire, arousal shooting straight from your gut the second you could smell the dangerous mix of wintergreen and citrus on her breath. She had a few inches on you, her arm snaking around your mid-section. She pulled you flush against her with a quickness that took your breath.

“That is, if you promise to not to get fire-happy.” Her slender fingers started to play with the silver necklace hanging between your clavicle. “I just repainted after the last one.”

“The last one?”

Kate didn’t’ answer you, instead she pressed her lips against yours, her tongue suddenly exploring your mouth. There was a sour, orange taste to her kiss and you sighed into it, seemingly melting into the archer. Hell- you could ask her about the fire after your mind stopped fogging.

There was a something so alluring about Kate Bishop that made your mind shut-off. You’d do anything and everything she said and that was apparent from the first time the two of you had laid together. She had you on your knees in a matter of minutes, completely stripped nude of your own accord. Her fingers were between your legs and nothing else mattered. You knew that she would take care of you, and you her.  

She pulled back and nudged her nose with yours. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” You whispered, voice tinged with lust.

A yelp escaped you when she hauled you up into her arms. Her hands grasped at your ass, holding you in place as you encircled her hips. You knew Kate was strong, but you were a rock yourself. She seemed to hold you effortlessly, not looking where she was going as she ascended the steps and nipped sloppily at your neck.

Stars swallowed you, heart pounding in your chest. You’d been here before, yes, mostly to drop off something for Eleanors fundraisers, or to return a gym bag that was left behind. They were short interactions that certainly never led to the bedroom.

For all of her haste, Kate set you down gently on her comforter. It smelled overwhelmingly like her. There was something digging into your spine, and you squirmed, propping yourself up on your elbow and producing the silicone vibrator that had been keeping Kate company. Of course, it was purple.

“Seriously?”

“Shut up,” she husked, snatching it from you and throwing it down onto the carpeted floor. “I have better toys than that.”

That did effectively silence you, blush coloring your cheeks. She was smiling down wolfishly at you, so much so, that an attractive growl that bordered human escaped her. You’d never heard a more attractive noise following a statement so bold. Desperately you craned your neck and kissed her, hard.

Her fingers were cold, goosebumps rising against your skin as she moved them under your shirt and scratched down your ribs. You desperately moaned into her mouth and she swallowed the sound effortlessly. Her hand had found your right breast, and you twitched as her thumb brushed over the sensitive bud.

“What,” You snarled into her mouth, each one of her exhales splaying against your cheek. “Kind of toys?”

A look of apprehension seemed to cross her face. The archer was completely on top of you, grinding down against your body in a motion that gave way to the desperation that you felt. Both of her hands were planted on either side of you, holding herself up.

Kate had suddenly switched back to her bashful self, and while the expression was cute, you were thoroughly worked up. You tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and spoke softly. “Hey, you aren’t going to break me, okay? If I’m uncomfortable with something, I’ll tell you.”

“I know it’s just,” she paused, frowned in almost a pout before a look of finality crossed her face. “what if I want to break you?”

While you were rendered silent, you felt a pang of arousal swim to your gut. A noise had pushed past your lips. Something that was so desperate, you weren’t sure it even came from you. Here was this girl, this person that you’d wanted to beat your entire life, and she had you pinned beneath her.

“Kate, I think I’ll physically die if you don’t take what you want, and fuck me until I’m dumb.” You arched yourself from the bed, stopping just short of pressing your lips to hers. You murmured against her. “Use me.”

That vicious spark returned to her eyes and she was suddenly scrambling off of you. For a moment, you were worried that you’d scared her off, but she nearly tripped over her discarded combat boots trying to get to her walk in closet. You could hear things clanging, falling over, and being sent across the room.

“Just, hold on! Don’t go anywhere!” softer, mumbled with a poisonous determination “I know it’s here somewhere.”

When she remerged, she was out of breath and leaning suavely against the door. The bulge that pressed against the opening of her boxers, you had seen before, many times. Kate had never used a strap on you before. Most of your intimate interactions were isolated to storage closets, or locker room showers. Her’s, of course, was bigger than you expected, and the same royal purple as the rest of her personality.

She held something in her right hand, something you had, of course, seen while your Bluetooth headphones were on and saving you the embarrassment of playing porn out loud. A silver chain that ended in crocodile clamps on each side. Black rubber tipped each clip for comfort. A bigger silver ring sat comfortably in the middle, the perfect size to wrap two fingers around and tug.

“Huh,” you let the corner of your lip quirk up affectionately.

“Oh god, you hate it.”

“No, no. I didn’t say that. Just surprised is all.” You sat up entirely, feeling your pulse point at your core. You were still much too clothed for your liking. They started to itch against your skin. You were going to lose it if she didn’t’ rip them off soon. “Impressed, actually.”

She lifted an eyebrow at you and once against closed the distance. She towered over you completely, standing between your legs in the same exact way she had at the gym. You couldn’t stop your mind from wandering dangerously to how she’d feel inside of you, stretching you.

“We should have a safe word,” She purred, brushing her hand against your cheek. “You need to tell me if you’re uncomfortable.”

“Okay, what do you suggest?”

She smiled “Flame-on”

You groaned and buried your nose in the warmth of her neck. You could feel the vibration of her glorious laugh and the quiet it brought you was unmatched. You knew you were fucked, but it was easier to ignore the looming thoughts of something more in exchange for this.

“Fine, fine. Not a fan of Johnny Storm, then?” You pulled back and leveled her with a glare. You’d never met the man and frankly despised the notation that everyone with pyrotechnic powers knew one another “How about red?”

Contemplating didn’t take long. It was a simple color that reminded you of stop. You didn’t want to tell Kate that most of your forays into the depths of the internet involved the very items that she held in her hands. This seemed to be new for both of you. Red was good. Red was comfortable.

“I’m all yours,” You wrapped your arms around her waist, her stomach level with your eyes. You peered up at her, knowing that they glowed with your own arousal. “Do what you want with me.”

“Take off your shirt.” She snarled, suddenly switching back to that dominant woman who had carried you up here. Now that the rules were set, you were confident that she wouldn’t be edging into her demure nature anytime soon. “I want to see what’s mine.”

You didn’t have to be told twice. Kate had seen you naked before, but each time, she got a misty look in her eyes that spurred you on. She seemed to admire the expanses of skin that she could nip at, and soothe with her tongue. The burn scars that never quite healed. All of you, she found beautiful.

Her stare moved down to your front-latching bra, head tilting to the side. “Wow. Were you expecting something to happen tonight, slut?”

The word sent shivers down your spine, especially when they came from her mouth. Kate straddled you then, her weight familiar. You moved to encircle her, hug her close, but her hand splayed against your chest and held you there. “No touching. I’m in control tonight.”

You nodded, too desperately for your liking. Her fingers dragged down to the latch and unhooked it. The familiar pressure was instantly relieved and Kate’s eyes hungrily devoured your breasts. You knew she had a thing for them- always had- which is why the shock wasn’t so visceral when it came to the clamps.

Kate’s strap was aligned with your stomach, but, she didn’t seem to notice how intimidating her length was. Her mouth dropped to your breasts and a content sigh escaped you. Your hands itched to run against her, but that would just delay the pleasure that she offered.

Her tongue expertly circled one nipple, while she teased the other between her forefinger and thumb. You arched towards her and gasped as her teeth scraped against the sensitive area. In a matter of seconds, she had you writhing under her, a complete mess.

“God, you’re desperate.” She hummed against you. “I’ve barely touched you, baby.”

You were well aware of that. An embarrassed flush crept across your neck. Normally, you wouldn’t let Kate have the satisfaction. But right now, you would let Kate have anything she wanted. The chain made a soft noise. You shuddered as it’s chilled surface was dragged between the center of your breasts.

You took a deep breath, Kate’s stare dominant, but questioning all the same. You were both well-aware that this was on the tamer side of things. But you’d never let someone have full control before, including her. She was taking this slow, and it was something you appreciated. Something you needed right now.

When the first clamp was placed, you couldn’t help the shudder that rocked through you. It was an odd, pinching sensation that was soon replaced with a bolt of pleasure. Kate’s thumb brushed lightly against your other nipple, not letting up on it’s torment. She clamped the second one on and this time, a heated groan left you.

“Fuck,” She gripped your sides, moving back to get a good look “You look so beautiful like this.”

Her hands moved down to your hips and in a swift, possessive, movement she had you flipped onto your back. She unbuttoned your pants and started to slide them down your legs. You were impossibly wet, having soaked through your underwear. If you prayed that Kate wouldn’t notice, your hopes were dashed by her cocksure smile.

“Katie,” You whined, the cold air hitting your legs just seconds after she had discarded your jeans. Your fingers brushed against her side, instantly conjuring goosebumps. “Please,”

She hissed through clenched teeth, grabbing both of your hands and pinning them above your head with one, strong grip. When she pressed the lower half of her body down on top of you, you felt the pressure of the much-too-intimidating strap.

“I said no touching, remember?” She lilted her head, took the slack of the chain and twirled it around her finger “I would hate to have to punish you, pet.”

You wouldn’t. There were a few seconds where you contemplated testing your luck, being a brat, just to see if you could get a rise out of her. But she pulled the thin strip of fabric covering your core to the side, dipping her finger into your heat.

“Oh, fuck.” You arched your back off the bed. “Kate, I’m… I need you inside of me.”

You reveled in the way a chill ran through her, her grip on your hands slackening just a moment before it tightened. “Just checking to see how ready you are.”

Beyond. You nearly folded when you felt her guide the cool tip of the strap against your entrance. It’s head pushed the smallest bit into you. Truthfully, you had never taken something this big. But you were nothing, if not determined.

Kate pushed her full length into you in a soft motion, all the while tugging at the center of the chain. The combination of sensations brought a stream of expletives that you hadn’t used in years. Both of you seemed to forget about Kate’s rule about not touching.

She pumped in and out of you, keeping a steady pressure on the chain. Your moans seemed to synch, her overwhelming warmth increasing the building peaks of your core. You hugged her as close as you could, hands splayed against her back.

“Shit, you’re so tight, baby.” She growled into your ear, “You take me so well. Such a good girl, taking everything I give you.”

She shifted, hitting your g-spot with ferocity. Each thrust pushing a satisfied moan from your lips. Between each one, you exhaled “I’m going to come, shit, Katie.”

“Not yet. Not until I give you permission.”

She was getting close, you could feel the subtle tightening of her stomach. Kate had a tendency to bury her face in the small of your neck when the tension built like this. Two more even pushes and her nose was against your throat, feeling the pulse point that quickened with each passing moment.

“Come for me, you desperate, little slut.”

Again, she pulled on the chains, distinct pleasure rushing through you. You tightened around her, the moans becoming more desperate. Kate came with you, breathing heavy, mewling against your throat. You could feel her heart against your chest, could feel the fire brewing just below your fingertips. You were true to your word, however, and kept your promise. No arson.

A whimper escaped you when Kate unclipped the clamps, still inside you. Feeling returned to your nipples with a blast of pleasurable pain followed by a wave of warmth. She smirked at you, face red and hair messed up. She sat perfectly on your hips, you still twitched around her.

“Jesus, y/n.” Kate panted, leaning down and kissing you sweetly. You eagerly returned it, still able to taste the citrus on her tongue. “Who knew you were a little freak?”

Her hand pressed down on your stomach with the slightest pressure as she pulled out of you with a wet noise. She landed next to you, trying to catch her breath. You found yourself laughing, fully sated, fully pleasured.

“That? It was nothing.” She gave you a mock frown, and you backtracked “Expertly done, and very, very hot. But it’ll take more than that to break me.”

“Who said I was done?” Kate smiled lazily at you, “I’m just going to… rest my eyes for a second. Get ready for the second pounding of your life.”

You watched as her eyes slowly closed, a look of pure bliss on her face. It was a thing of beauty, one that you could get used to. She could sleep anywhere, falling into unconsciousness with a graceful ease that you lacked.

She’d hug her gym bag close as a pillow under the florescent lights of the convention centers you frequented in childhood. She’d curl up under a tree when you both attended university together, often getting patterns burned into her skin, easy to make fun of.

It was always endearing, but it settled you with an admired warmth right now. You easily shifted her until she was laying comfortably, pulling her duvet up to her chin. Kate made a small noise at the back of her throat and curled into a deeper slumber.

God. You were so fucked.

The sun flitted the industrial windows in Kate’s apartment that you hadn’t noticed before. They were dusty with time, but still allowed a considerable amount of light. The whir of a fan in the corner lulled you into a peaceful afterglow.

Sleep didn’t come easily for you. Sometimes, you would drift into a half-state of lucidness on the sofa, the movie you put on as some form of noise droned on and you’d always startle awake with a kink in your neck and a strange tiredness clinging to you.

Your therapist had suggested practicing healthy sleeping habits. Only use the bed for sleep, don’t read there, don’t doom-scroll on your phone. You were meant to utilize the exhaustion in your bones to your benefit. And for the first few nights, it had worked.

But, then the nightmares that often accompanied the rem cycle started to push to the forefront of your mind. The same terror on your mothers face as a cobalt blue clouded your vision. It was suffocating, and the sharp burning in your chest would bring you back to the inky black, too-cold, room.

A sleepy groan escaped you, pressing your face closer into the warmth that you embraced. Kate lacked her signature scent, and she seemed… furrier than usual. You didn’t want to pry your eyes open yet. You didn’t want the lazy morning to end with the harsh reality of feelings you were less than enthusiastic to explore.

It took you three more seconds of pressing your nose into something that smelled suspiciously like dog, to realize that’s exactly what it was.

Lucky was fast asleep, pressed flush against you over the duvet that you had shimmied under at some point in the night. He was a buffer between you and the empty half of the bed. You figured Kate was an early riser, or something had stirred her. She spooked easily. You hoped desperately that it wasn’t you who had scared her.

She was rifling around in the closet. Your hand splayed against golden fur, you absently ran you fingers through it. He was a lazy dog, and it was something you appreciated. Both of you watched with unimpressed eyes as she emerged, not expecting you to be awake.

Kate smiled at you, and then seemed to realize that it was effortless, because it took a few moments for her to school her features into something stoic. She was still wearing her boxer shorts and tank-top from last night. You fought back a frown. Kate had gotten you naked without even trying. Your own clothes were scattered across the room.

“Promise you won’t freak out?”

You propped yourself up on your elbow. Lucky huffed in annoyance. “I can’t promise that”

She gave you a nervous look and tossed a sweatshirt towards you. The fabric was soft, and it was her signature purple color, and what she was rifling around the closet for. You felt your cheeks heat up, holding the cool garment flush against you.

“Clint is on his way,”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah, oh my god.”

Pretending to be anything more than friends with benefits sounded good on paper. It made Clint irate and that was good for some cheap thrills. But the two of you hadn’t practiced any form of affection outside of the bedroom. You had a cold exterior, and a single look could send Kate into a rambling mess, as if she’d been injected with truth serum.

“I can sneak out the window?” You pulled the sweater over your head, reaching blindly for your jeans. The button had fallen off, and you couldn’t locate your underwear. Kate watched you with a quiet amusement until you stood across from her. “Second floor isn’t too bad. The daylight kills my cover a bit, but-“

“You should stay.” Her voice came out a little too loud. She took a deep breath, “I want you to stay.”

A pang of affection ran through you, reflexively you dropped your hold on your jeans. They fell around your ankles in a pool of denim. It earned a snicker from Kate, but you didn’t’ mind. The sound was heavenly and made your head feel unbelievably fuzzy, despite the embarrassment.

She wordlessly thrust a pair of sweatpants into your hands. It was soft, and you would swim in it. This would be easy, a simple way to pull at Clint’s nerves. Cruel, maybe, but each time you imagined that pitying look on his face as he pleaded with you to leave Kate alone, that rush of anger came back.

When Kate turned, you pressed you palm to your lips to keep from yelping out a laugh. Kate’s tank-top was still it’s stark white, just with two scorched marks in the shape of your hands. You had kept your promise, not catching anything on fire, but you came pretty damn close.

You wanted to tell her, really, you did. But the sound of the front door opening and closing caught your attention. Lucky let out a terse bark and cut through the both of you to fling himself down the stairs. Clint, you had heard from your mother, had a way with all animals. Not just birds.

“Katie Kate! I grabbed some bagels from the bodega on the corner. I know you only have one knife but I grabbed extras.”

She gave you a sheepish smile, leaning forward and kissing the corner of your lip. You froze, Kate’s hands squeezing your arms. The archer didn’t pause in her movements, as if they were second nature. She started to head down the stairs, leaving you in a bewildered state.

You let out a shuddered breath, clenching your eyes shut to steady yourself. Not even the dog was left in the room. A simple display of affection that seemed to just be for the two of you. This warmed you like no one-night-stand and horrible instant coffee could.

Clint noticed you instantly, using a plastic knife to separate two halves of a doughy bagel. His movements stilled; taking in your disheveled hair and the oversized clothing that you dawned. It was more than clear that you’d spent the night and his mouth opened with an audible pop.

Kate was pouting quietly at the empty carton of orange juice that she had drained last night. Lucky padded over to you, pushing his cool nose into your palm, tail thumping. Clint watched the interaction, one half of the bagel hitting the kitchen island with a plop.

“Good morning, baby. Sorry if we woke you.” Her scent was suddenly invading your space, another kiss, this time, more than chaste, landed on your lips. Clint paled, swallowing hard. His eyes flicked to the scorch marks on Kate’s shirt.

“Mm, not at all. Good morning, Clint.”

“Morning, y/n.”

Kate wrapped her arms around you effortlessly and hugged you against her front. Her chin rested on your shoulder, cheek pressed to your own. You were convinced that she could feel how rapid your heart was beating.

She had fit into the role of girlfriend perfectly. You, on the other hand, bit your tongue to keep from malfunctioning. Last night was so effortless. Your lust drove you, and your skin prickled at the memory of Kate’s tongue between your breasts. You shivered now, and she smirked into your neck.

“What are you guys up to today?”

You asked the question out of politeness, but your voice wavered all the same. Kate gave you an encouraging squeeze. Clint darted his eyes back and forth. An air of panic seemed to seize him and he made quick work of putting cream cheese on an untoasted bagel.

“Nothing.” Clint is quick to dismiss you. There was almost a hint of jealousy there, something that Kate picked up on too. The twitching of her fingers against the smoothness of your skin was enough to alert you to the fact.

You drew out your next word “Okay, I suppose I should get going, then.”

Playing the part, Kate let out a dissatisfied groan in response. You turned in her arms and gave her a look that was met with concern. Real concern. She pressed her forehead against your own and whispered ever-so-gently. Are you okay?

And you nodded, because you were. At least of the time being. The disgruntled actions of your biological father was enough. Having Kate hold you, even if it was all for show, was enough.

The key turned in the lock with an audible click. You made a point, when entering your mother’s shared space with Lance, to make as much noise as possible for both your benefit. The buttery scent of pancakes overwhelmed your senses and filled you with warmth.

It was Sunday, all of the windows open and an incredible dosage of sunlight filling the home. You’d grown up here between your travels and training. Bobbi had kept your room the same, hadn’t dared touched the pictures that lined the stairway. Professionally done and the portrait of a perfect family.

Your mother sipped a glass of orange juice at the table. Lance was humming a disjointed tune as he flipped a blueberry pancake, perfectly cooked and golden brown. He was wearing his glasses and a pair of plaid pajama pants. A far cry from the suits you were used to seeing him in, lately.

Bobbi’s pale green eyes flicked up from the paper she was reading, then back down before darting towards you again. Her fingers tightened around the glass. “Good morning, darling. Purple suits you.”

Lance turned with a furrowed expression. You’d worn the color before, it wasn’t as if there was an aversion to it. You’d successfully macgyvered your jeans before leaving Kate’s this morning, but you were still swimming in her sweatshirt. You found the minty scent comforting.

“A bit big, isn’t it?”

Bobbi was smirking behind her glass. You fought the urge to roll your eyes as you flopped down into the chair next to her. You leveled her with a glare that held no malice. She knew exactly what it was like to fall for a Hawkeye. They were charming, persistent, and overall, annoying.

The latter was starting to ebb away in the furthest reaches of your mind. There had always been jokes made by the elite families of New York, the ones who ran in the same circles that Eleanor and Lance did. Tabloids that voyeuristically took interest in the Bishop and Morse heirs.

Eventually, everyone proclaimed through silent looks and not-so-silent gossiping, you and Kate would end up together. The fire had squashed those rumors, and then reignited them glory. The attention made it hard to do your real job. But your chest oddly swelled with pride when Bobbi lifted an eyebrow at you.

“Is there something you want to tell us?”

Lance had flicked off the stoves burner and set a steaming pile of pancakes in the center of the table. None of you dug in. Your parents watched you, instead, almost giddy. They’d both had their fair share of run-in’s with Kate Bishop.

During your senior year, you would storm into the house and pace back and forth, seething about an award that Kate won or a competition that ended in a tie. They’d bide their time and wait. They waited for years and part of you dreaded giving them the satisfaction. You straightened in your chair, ran a finger over your fork.

“Not that I can think of,” You smirked.

“Okay,” Lance nodded “be that way.”

You huffed and reached for the plate, but he pulled it back slightly. A scrape sounding as porcelain hit wood “No Pancakes for you.”

They were enjoying this too much. You crossed your arms over your chest and stared at them with shock. Blueberry pancakes were your favorite, and you had a less than satisfactory morning. This felt like the SHIELD torture techniques they’d taught you years ago.

“Fine. Kate and I are seeing each other. Happy?”

You reached for the pancakes again, and again, Lance slid them back. “For how long?”

“Awhile”

“That’s not enough.” Bobbi cut into a pancake she had transferred onto her own plate, soaked in syrup and dripping. She took a bite and moaned in bliss. “Wow, babe, these are your best yet.”

“Before the fire at the benefit.” You supplied, hating the desperation that was in your voice. The way your stomach squeezed in hunger fueled your need. “She’s been my girlfriend for months.”

The words sent a thrill down your spine. They were entirely untrue, but your mother and Lance didn’t question it. In fact, he pulled out his time-worn wallet and produced a twenty-dollar bill. Bobbi took it wordlessly with a shit-eating grin on her face. She pushed the plate back in your direction.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“You were betting on us?”

“It’s more of a pool, really.” Lance defended, having the decency to blush.

“Unbelievable!”

Really, it wasn’t. Not with the rumors that swirled around the two of you since sandbox days. Your hunger overtook your indignance and you pulled two fluffy pancakes onto your plate. Angrily (as angrily as you could) you cut them into little pieces and chewed slowly with a frown.

Bobbi returned to reading the paper and Lance raised his hand for a high five. You scowled at him, shaking your head. Sheepishly he lowered it and returned to his own breakfast.

You’d scarfed down food faster than necessary before pouring yourself a cup of coffee and retiring to the wooden swing on the front porch. You breathed in the early morning air, the cool mist that coated the lawn. It was a quick moment of peace to settle your thoughts.

Your toes pushed against the porch, settling into an easy sway. You were left to your own devices, letting the rising sun warm your bones. Eventually, Bobbi joined you with her own cup of coffee, cupping the mug and lowering herself onto the other end of the bench with a slight groan. The chains screeched in protest.

Her hand found it’s way to your knee, giving it a slight squeeze. “We haven’t really had a chance to talk.”

You knew exactly what she meant. It wasn’t about Kate, though, you could sense the buzz of questions at the tip of her tongue. The two of you hadn’t addressed the Clint shaped elephant in the room, and you bit into the soft flesh of your cheek to calm the storm that washed over you in an instant.

“Are you okay?” She whispered

“I don’t know.”

The silence returned, and you wanted so desperately to break it. But you didn’t know what to say. Your throat tightened and you swallowed a gulp of scalding coffee. The heat pinched at your eyes and they watered listlessly.

“I hate that he matters. Clint Barton is a stranger to me, but he still holds this… this power.” You drew one leg up to your chest. “I wasn’t enough for him to stay.”

“Oh, baby”

Her gravelly words of comfort made you fold into the overwhelming emotions. Bobbi’s arm was around you and your face buried into her neck. You knew your nose was cold against her skin, but she said nothing. She gripped your side and pulled you close to her. You suddenly felt like a child again.

“That’s not true,” She pulled back, cupping both of your cheeks with her hands. She frantically wiped away your tears with her thumbs “We were both kids when we had you. I grew up, and he didn’t. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t want you to doubt yourself. Your potential.”

“He…” You swallowed thickly, the words bitter in your mouth “he loves her more than me.”

It was an accusation that had tremendous merit. There was no malice towards Kate, not this time. She’d fallen into his good graces by pure luck. She’d told you the story as over two amber bottles of IPA that went down less than smooth.

“I mean, fuck, mom. He gave me the shovel talk.”

She frowned and pulled back, a certain anger falling over her facial expression. Your biological father warning you to stay away from his protégé was in bad taste. It left an ugly film over your skin. A seed of doubt that was planted by the man who abandoned you.

“You’ve never made me doubt myself. Every day of my life you’ve reminded me of my value, of what I’m capable of. I don’t want him to come over and blow that all down like the big bad wolf.”

“Sweet girl,” She pulled you back into her side, her floral scent coating your lungs. You hadn’t realized how cold you were until you cuddled into your mother as if you were nothing more than a scared child. Your fingers grasped at the fabric of her shirt like a life raft. “We’re stronger than that.”

Tag List💕: @noturlondonboy, @slvtformaria

[angelbaby-fics]

Winter Wonderland

Pairing: Daddy!Lee Bodecker x Little!Reader

Word Count: 850

A/N: In my drafts, this was originally titled "Lee's Country Christmas", but I realized the fic itself doesn't actually have much to do with Christmas but rather winter... so I wanted to save the title for another one perhaps 🤔 hehe y'all know I'm always soft for that big soft sheriff daddy hehehe 💕

Lee made sure you were bundled up tight, ever the protective caregiver. He didn’t care about most people, not long ago he didn’t even care about himself, but he’d burn the world down just to keep you warm. You were practically immobilized by the amount of shirts and coats and stockings and scarves wrapped around you as you braced to face the snow. Your knees could hardly bend as you waddled out into the winter wonderland outside your shabby little home. Lee followed, leather sheriff’s jacket zipped up to his chin, his cheeks flushed red in the cold. 

Normally, Lee would have no interest in even leaving his bed on a day like this. Before you, he’d have stayed in bed all afternoon, rousing only for a cup of coffee with a little kick in it to keep him warm. But how could he ever say no to your big eyes and excited voice when you woke up to the snowfall outside? Even though he’d tried to pull the covers up over his head as you bounced on the mattress next to him, Lee found your smile even warmer than his bed, now the outdoors didn't seem so cold. 

When you plopped onto your bottom down in the middle of the yard, Lee got worried. He ran over to you, flailing in the snow, but as he got closer he found what he’d thought were distressed cries were in fact giggles of joy. You were making a snow angel, or at least trying to, as your excitement got the better of you and it turned into more of a snow-mess. He still praised your hard work, to Sheriff Bodecker it was the prettiest angel he’d ever seen. You were his little angel, after all.

Lee had opted not to make a snow angel, deciding he’d rather keep his clothes dry. Not on your watch! Didn’t he know you couldn’t have a proper snow day without a snowball fight? You waited until his back was turned, a rare opportunity since gazing at his babydoll was a favorite pastime of the sheriff’s. A bright red cardinal perched on the bare branches of the big oak tree, and Lee couldn’t take his eyes away as it preened its crimson feathers. That’s when you got him. 

The snowball smacked against Lee’s back and exploded into a burst of white. The sudden disruption nearly knocked him off his feet and sent flecks of ice down his collar. Scowling, he whipped around, ready to tell off whatever neighborhood menace was trying to start war, but his expression softened when he saw you giggling behind mittened hands. Shaking his head, he bent down to scoop up a ball of softly packed retaliation. Careful not to hurt you, even the slightest bit, even on accident, he chased you through the yard until he was close enough to splat the snowball right on your little woolen hat. Then, he picked you up and spun you around, his eyes not leaving yours as he set you back down in the snow. The tip of his nose was bright red.

“Angel, I’m gonna go inside and work on supper. You wanna play for a few more minutes?”

You nodded eagerly and went to busy yourself in an extra snowy patch of yard while Lee headed inside. He could still see you through the kitchen window as he turned the stove on under a saucepan. He didn’t consider himself a particularly smart man, but he knew that winter days went perfectly with hot soup. It wasn’t much, a couple cans of store-bought chicken noodle on the stove, but he added extra salt and a pinch of paprika, and when he ladeled it into two bowls, he put a sprig of rosemary on top to make it more special. He set the table, a big bowl and spoon for him and little ones for you, then opened the front door to call you back in. 

Lee caught you as you barrelled through the doorway, saving the house from a barrage of wet footprints. He freed you from your coats as you pulled yourself out of your boots. Now in just your dry underclothes and stockings, your daddy picked you up and carried you over to your highchair at the dining table, strapping you in before he took his own seat. He fed you first, taking bites for himself while you drank from your bottle. After a long day of outdoor play, you were nearly falling asleep into your bowl by the time you had emptied it.

Big strong hands lifted you out of your highchair and carried you over to the couch. You struggled to keep your eyes open while Lee settled himself into the sofa, before he pulled you into his lap and wrapped a throw blanket around your shoulders. The soup had settled warmly in his tummy and you didn’t hesitate to make it your pillow. Lee’s hands traced shapes all across your back as you let yourself drift off into dreams of a winter wonderland.

[thetravelingtyper]

One and the Same pt 1(Wolf!Simon X Gn! Sgt! Reader)

After a mission goes haywire and Simon is killed you and Riley escape into the woods...

Warnings! Angst, mentions of wounds, general violence, and hint of a character death...

AN! Just a little multi-part story to have some fun! Might be 2-3 parts!

Masterlist!

You had been running for hours, sweat and blood mingling sweetly down your face as you perked up at every sound in the forest—evergreens and oak, with warred and scared bark rough against you. To say you were in trouble was an understatement, but you made it out. Your tactical vest was long gone and the one weapon you had made you want to cry, the last of Simon's knives. Tears burn your eyes before a bark calls out like a signal of the end. Before you can climb a shape bursts through the darkening leaves and you are about to scream when the form barrels into you. 

You thought it was the end as your eyes closed, but a warm lick to your face has you crying out in joy.

“Riley! Thank Christ!”

The German Shepard, having torn free of her restraints cries into your side in excitement.

“Good fucking girl.”

You huddle into the dog a moment more before there is a far-off shout. 

Shit! 

It was starting to get dark but you needed to move. You check your right leg, the cuts weren't deep as you had struggled out of the man's grasp but he had gotten you good with his knife. You suck in a strangled breath as you get up and wrap your overshirt tighter around the wound. Riley jumps to attention. 

“You gotta lead me somewhere girl.’

She barks lowly, tips her head in the air, and looks back at you with sudden attentiveness. As she looks at you her ears perk up where there is a lone low howl somewhere behind you. You freeze as you suddenly hear the sound of yelling and gunfire. 

“We need to move, now.”

Riley takes off in the brush and helpless to the sounds of terror coming from the compound you take off after her.

-----

The sounds of terror go silent after about 10 minutes. You gulp as Riley barks to alert you and you blink when see a growing light.

It was a cabin! You ready the knife and whistle lowly for Riley, she returns to your side as you circle to the back of the building. You see a water hose that cheers you up, a bath sounds fantastic. But as you edge to the only door you find the cabin just opened and in a state of rushed abandonment, there is still a meal on the table.

After a quick scan and round of the parameter, you usher Riley inside quietly before shutting and barring the door.

All you can help yourself to do is find a quick meal and pass out on the thick rug.

---

You are woken a few hours later by a low growl circling the cabin. Riley is awake and alert, a low rumble in her chest as you jump up, grasping for the knife before deciding you need to investigate.

You slowly make it out the front of the cabin at the edge of the light when you see it.

You yelp, It has found you. Before you was a beast of another age, a large timberwolf, drenched in shadows. It looks to you with burned ember eyes, face pulled into a snarl when Riley comes bounding from behind you. She makes no move other than to approach almost submissively, putting herself between you and the wolf. This flips a switch and a low growl reverberates from the beast, its enormous form ruffled and…slick? You gasp, you could see now there was blood soaking its course fur.

“It was you.”

The wolf goes silent when it hears your voice and you think you see something…change in the beast. Riley whimpers before barking at the wolf and its head tilts a fraction. There is a glint of steel and then you see the wire, through the light at the edge of the cabin, and the full moon, prickly wire has tangled itself in the wolf’s fun.

“Well fuck me buddy.”

You groan to yourself still tense, the wolf turning to you as you make up your mind.

“I better get some good karma for this shit 'cause God knows I need it. Alright, buddy-” you gesture the knife to the wolf and its eyes focus on the silver metal of the blade, glinting in the moonlight. A glint of recognition and the wolf does something that scares you shitless, it pounces.

One moment it's there then the next its lunging at you and you scream, dropping the knife in shock as a canine larger than an Irish hound comes at you. You scramble back as you hear Riley yelp, but? The next second you refocus you are on the ground with a heavy weight blanketing your form as a furry head burrows into your neck, a deep sniffing sound before there is a low whine.

You hear Riley scamper over in the dirt before you can turn your head to the side, she's fucking play-bowing! A puppylike enthusiasm that Simon always scoffed at, 

“She spends too much bloody time with Johnny.”

But now you about cry in relieved laughter. You test your sanity a little more by reaching a searching hand and brushing the wolf, at your touch the beast only whines more, digging further into your prone form. The whines almost sound like cries and it's eerie hearing and seeing such a reaction from a wild animal. But you weren't one to look a gift wolf in the mouth.

“Hey, can I get up big guy?”

You turn your face up and are met with a scarred canine face with brightened umber eyes that dilate when they make contact with yours. You open your mouth again to speak but are met with a warm tongue dragging across your face frantically as the woll lifts itself off you and about licks you half to death. 

You gasp out before wiggling under the beast. 

“What is wrong with you mutt? Jesus stop!” 

And it does with an alarmingly amused-sounding huff. The wolf steps backward, letting you up before it sits on his haunches. In the low light, you make note of something else, a strange white and grey tinted marking over the wolf's face, you pull yourself up and find that the wolf comes up to your stomach. Riley pads over to it and sits beside it as the wolf's head dips to hers and nudges it with a low growl. She just whines, pressing licks to the wolf's face as you finally approach.

A shaking hand reaches for the wolf's head and there is a tear of fabric as something comes loose in your hand, you gasp.

Simon’s faceplate!

You look down at it in shock, tears filling your eyes at the remembered sight of his lifeless body tossed into the cell next to you, whatever they injected him with taking him quickly. As you clench the faceplate tears run down your tipped-down face, gathering blood and dirt before hitting the ground. SImons knife glimmers at your feet kicked to the side during your confusion, and as you silently reach for it a large paw covers the handle. There is a low whine before a snout comes into your vision as the wolf dips its head in your way. You try to reach for the knife but your hand is bumped by its head. You reach again only for the same thing to happen and you can’t help the frustration welling up in you.

On the third attempt you snap,

“WHAT!?”

The wolf freezes and you hear Riley whine, leaving her place to nuzzle at your side as you drop the faceplate to ball up your fists as untethered grieving rage barrels through you. You give a clenched scream before kicking the face plate and swinging around as you give a pained wail, finally able to safely cry. You drop to just sit in the dirt, putting your head in your hands as you cry. There are a few minutes of you just sobbing, getting the trauma and pain out before a large form approaches and the face plate is dropped in your lap. You look up.

The wolf stands staring at you, umber eyes dark in the moonlight. It just stares at you and you gape at it.

“I never got to tell him I loved him.” You just mutter a blank stare past the wolf, through it more as you disassociate, hands grasping for the skull like a lifeline. The words are barely a whisper but the wolf’s eyes widen as there is another shock of recognition, the wolf stumbles backward and you look up as it just sits and stares at you, its eyes dilated and wide.

You just numbly acknowledge the sight as Riley pads over and nuzzles into you. You just clutch the mask tighter before spotting the knife. You had one thing you could do. You push the feelings down into the back of your mind before scooping up the knife and mask. 

The wolf just watches you as you approach it and run a hand through its fur, not even flinching as you cut and untangle the wire. It is only when you move back, finished with the bloody task does it move. As you wrestle with the wire you curse when you cut your hand before tossing it at a bush, the branches effectively trapping the wire. You move to leave for the cabin when there is a gruff bark. You look to the wolf as it stands shaking itself off before looking into your eyes, some strange resolution set in its eyes. 

“You can go free bud. Come on Riley.” 

The shepherd hops up at your call and looks to the wolf before racing towards the cabin. You turn to follow but there is a padding of feet and the wolf comes to stand alongside you. You move forward into the light flittering through the trees, but the wolf only follows.

“Why are you following, you need to go you are free now.” You think of Simon and swallow down your tears, the emotion bleeding into your voice but the wolf only pads forward and knocks into your hand, the plate bumping up its snout so the mask rests over its eyes. 

The eye holes are not wide enough but in the growing warm light, one umber eye of the wolf shines through the wide empty sockets and your heart freezes.

You know those eyes.

You drop the mask and it tumbles to the ground as your hands shake, knife clenched between tense fingers. The wolf looks back up at you before digging its head into your chest as your heart pounds and realization lights up like a starburst.

“No, I saw you die, they locked you up, then they-” There is a low growl, deep from the wolf's chest as it, no he curls around you, haunches raising. 

Don't you dare say that. 

You could hear the warning as clear as day in the growl, what they had done to you. Your cuts were clear through the shirt you wore and the drenched overshirt around your leg. 

“Simon?” You breathe it out and the wolf rumbles, head turning into your chest as you drop the knife and latch onto him.

“What have they done to you? But you're alive!” You sob into the neck of the wolf as you feel him rumble. You think then, the strange realization before you freeze pulling back almost ashamedly, looking away from Simon, whose eyes focus on you.

“So about that confession, can we just for-”

Wolf Simon growls lowly and you feel a blush run up your face, he tucks his snout into your palm before butting both against your frantically beating heart. The action speaks wonders and steals your breath as you gape at him. Your head dips as fresh tears run, but there is a bark from the cabin and a sound of thunder above.

“We better get inside and clean up.”

Simon looks up to you before dipping his head in a nod and moving back, but he remains close enough to brush along your side as you both make it to the safety of the cabin before the storm unleashes a torrent below.

[aggro-my-beloved]

Angel Face → David Shaw x Reader Imagine

note: i can’t write a grumpy david shaw i’m sorry he’s like .03% tsundere in this re-imagined meet cute between him and angel and his anger isn’t even directed towards them. i’ll be leaving a poll at the end for which paring you’d like me to write for next in this scenario. please like and reblog as it’d really mean a lot!

pairing: david shaw x gn!reader

summary: solstice bar is packed tonight for an up-and-coming performance by a local band, and security guard david is left as a stand-in for the usual bartender. just when he thinks he’s at his wit’s end, a stranger in desperate need of conversation and something to soothe their nerves makes this shifter’s thursday a bit more tolerable.

warnings: mentions of alcohol, mild swearing, damn crew as frat bois and other shenanigans

wc: 2.1k

estimated reading time: 10.5 mins

“Welcome to Solstice!” 

At a certain point in the night, the patron’s slurred chattering morphs into white noise for David’s ears. While manning the bar, beckons and calls for another round are less distinguishable but still audible if he concentrates hard enough. 

“Kitchen’s closed!” 

“Soda or seltzer?” 

“Special is a…” he turns the still full bottle on the center of the bar to face him. “A Port Charlotte single malt whiskey. You in?” Seconds later, he heaves a mix between a grumble and a sigh. “Course not.” 

“I said the kitchen’s closed!” 

“Try saying it louder,” chortles Milo. His dark stature barrels through the swinging door leading to the kitchen, behind the bar. Amidst his rapid collecting of fingerprint-stamped brandy bowls and red-kissed crystal stems, his hand flies up to release his chestnut waves from the hairnet securing them. “Don’t think they heard you the seventeenth time.” 

“Remind me why I agreed to pick up a Thursday for Sam. I never work Thursdays.” David raises his voice the farther Milo retreats into the kitchen. The clinks of glasses tickle his ears but do little to nothing to ease his nerves. The cook returns with a pristine array of cocktail glasses sat on a black tray. If there’s anything David admires more than his colleague’s house-made wings, it’s how he can make the same dingy glasses sparkle night after night with a quick wash. 

“Because…” he sets down the tray carefully on the open bar space perpendicular to David, in between the ripened limes he prepped hours ago, and the beer taps. “Ash and his band finally wrote enough decent songs for a gig here and we agreed to be here tonight to support him.” What Milo didn’t know is that the extra tips made between David and Asher tonight were in contribution to the soot-covered kitchen drawers at their home–courtesy of the main act’s drummer insisting he fulfill his oatmeal craving. There wasn’t a chance in hell those two were getting the security deposit back, not if the cherry-oak wood soaked in gray and smelling of cinder and their landlord’s new vendetta had anything to say about it. The two shifters were already ripped a new one last week for their scratch marks on the recently renovated hardwood flooring, which they credited to “dog sitting for a friend.”

“And no more animals!” The unempowered and oblivious landlord scolds them, red in the face. 

“Yes sir.” They reply in unison.

Ash tries choking down a smug laugh and fails miserably. David smacks him on his chest. 

Milo grabs a handful of peanuts from a stray bowl set aside to be washed, and pops them in his mouth, savoring the salt dancing on his taste buds. “Also,” he makes out through munches, “Sam’s out tonight from sun poisoning.”

David scoffs at this. “So he says. Tank was flirting with him so much last night, I could hear them from my post at the front giving stamps.” The promises of what his younger sibling would do to the fanged creature behind closed doors cued David to shudder. Before disappearing behind the kitchen door once again, Milo quips:

“Better hearing it than smelling it.” David refuses to ask the cook to elaborate and instead shifts his attention to the front entrance, where drunken yells and chants resound. His lips curl down in a fierce scowl as the melded odor of sweat and liquor becomes six bodies more pungent. Like a cavalry, they march in with arms looped through one another’s to keep stable. If the young faces weren’t already a dead giveaway for what would be in store for David tonight, their tacky shirts did enough talking. Each one color-coordinated for a significance the man was too exhausted to mull over, but all reading: “Straight Outta D.A.M.N” in giant, bold font. 

“You’ve gotta be shitting me–Hey, Milo, were you just not gonna tell me it’s the E and E’s Annual Frat Bar Crawl tonight? Because that’s a pretty fucked up thing to do to a bartending security guard!” 

“What!” Milo’s accented shriek rings through the building, and he peeks his head out of the aluminum swing door to view the staggering group of drunkards for himself. “Ah, fuckin’ hell..” He fully steps out from behind the door and cups his hands around his mouth. “Hey, hammered frat dudes!” A couple of heads from the group turn in his direction. “Yeah, you guys! Kitchen’s closed!” He turns to pat David on the back of his shoulder, over the white rag he’d been drying glasses and countertops with all night. “You got this, buddy.”

“Uh uh, I don’t think so.” The man shakes his head in disbelief, and a chorus of whines echo from the group of empowered frat members. One brave soul steps forward, the beefiest of them all. He dons a shamrock green shirt with the sleeves (poorly) cut off and a pleading set of eyes. His deep voice floats to the bar from where he stands, almost devastated. “Even for fries?” 

Milo is halfway through his strut back into the kitchen but is halted by David’s hand gripping his shoulder. “Even for fries, Milo?” The man cocks his head to the side, jutting out his bottom lip in a pout. They both knew why he was playing so coyly; resorting to the rarely used puppy dog eyes; mimicking the man’s tone from moments before. It was the same reason they consulted Asher’s band to play tonight. As much as either of them try to deny it, the bar needs the business. And if Sam’s claims during their Super Smash Bros tournament from weeks beforehand weren’t all talk, he’d hate to see what the vampire could do with just a walker and pure unbridled rage at tonight’s numbers. 

Through gritted teeth, the shorter of the two mutters something about putting his hairnet back on before continuing his journey to the clean fryers. 

“Come on in, people!” He waves a hesitant arm in his direction, encouraging the clan to venture further. The solemn whines morph into cheers as they proceed their march to the bar.  Though he was dreading it at first, the orders were easy enough. Bud Lite, Rum and Coke, two more Bud Lites, another Rum and Coke, and a Mojito. In addition to this, anungodly amount of fries, but that is for Milo to deal with. 

Halfway through the intoxicated army's orders, he spots a straggler trying to squeeze through the ever-growing crowd anticipating their next round and tonight’s show from the local, up-and-coming Howl’s Highway. Asher thinks the name is awesome. David thinks it’s one step closer to breaching covert to several unempowered beings who may be wandering into Dalia from out of town. They agree to disagree.

“Excuse me,” the voice croaks. “Sorry.” It pipes up every few seconds, complemented by the sight of shuffling bodies. Finally, a face pops up before him, splotched with red and with bloodshot eyes, but not from any addictive or bitter-tasting substance, other than heartbreak. David can sense their aura with the proximity. They are devastated, even more so than the student begging for a plate of fries. 

“Evening, Angel. What can I get for you?” The patron’s mouth falls open, and without intent, David does the same. He was never fond of pet names at the bar, rather he viewed it unprofessional as much as he did embarrassing. This is why Sam mans the bar, and he manhandles the bastards before they can order a drink. But no, tonight he needs to strip off the leather jacket and tough exterior and ask himself: what would Sam do? 

I can name someone. 

Milo, politely get the fuck out of my head and cook your goddamn–

“Uh…” The unempowered stranger gnaws on their bottom lip in thought. 

“Hey man, we weren’t through ordering!” His mouth retraces the snarl from earlier, and he apologetically directs his attention away from the distressed figure and to another fart member. The most inebriated and demanding of them all, if David had to guess from his words coming out like fondue. This one had a red shirt and an overall bad attitude. 

“Ah,” he holds a finger up, allowing the man to pause. “Let me take their order, and I’ll come back to you, okay?” He offers a thumbs up to the man, hoping this will mollify him. 

“No, not okay.” He crosses his arms, a newfound flame lit in his eyes. Oh great, just when I thought I was done putting out fires this week. Now the red shirt makes sense–fire elemental. “We were here first-“

He hopes for his friends’ sakes, he’s much more pleasant sober. 

“Dames,” Greenie butts into the argument. The one in red simmers down at the feeling of the large hand resting on the small of his back and drawing gentle circles. “It’s alright, he’ll only be a minute.”

“Y-yeah, maybe we can go find some uh–some good seats for the band tonight and come back?” A meek voice offers. He’s hidden behind the other members of the group, all that is visible of him is a pair of round frames and a flash of gray on his upper body. Similar to how they breached the entrance of the place, the squad links arms to continue their journey deeper into the crowd.

 

“God, those were some tacky shirts. Straight Outta DAMN? What does that even mean?” The newest customer shakes their head in disgust as they eye the backside of the frat disappearing into the sea of bodies. “Seems like you’ve got your work cut out for you tonight.” 

“Who, the Bud Lite bunch?” He waves a hand nonchalantly. “We get ten of those on nights like these.” 

“Well, I hope that was your tenth and final bunch of the night. I don’t do too well around rowdy people.” 

“So what brings you to one of the most packed bars in town tonight?” David quirks a brow at the stranger. 

“Well, the pictures online made it seem a lot less busy.” They rub the back of their neck with a sheepish smile coating their face. “I just needed to get away from…I got dumped tonight and wanted to drown my sorrows.” David tries not to be offended by how invisible they are to the public and the stranger’s acknowledgment of it. The bigger chains are killing them. More recently, they’re treading on the outskirts of Dalia and monopolizing over each empty plot of land they deem a cash cow.

“Your wish is my command. What’ll it be?” David crosses his arms, causing his muscular arms to bulge against the thin fabric of his white tee. Simultaneously, the hem of his shirt rides up to reveal a very tan, very toned v-line vulnerable to the wandering eyes of the one sitting before him. They try not to make it obvious. Menu, eyes, menu, abs, arms, back to menu. 

“Maybe an Espresso Martini?” They peer up to lock eyes with him again. Truthfully, they hadn’t read a description of any drink on the list and were taking a lucky guess. 

A few seconds of silence transpire before David responds firmly. “No.” They almost choke in disbelief, and their heart rate picks up.  

“Pardon?” 

“You need something stronger.” He decides, ultimately picking up a few bottles that the dejected newbie couldn’t decipher the labels of. Their eyebrows stay furrowed as David fills the cobbler shaker with a handful of ice cubes and a generous amount of liquor. 

“C’mon, trust me. What’s in here,” he shakes the stainless steel vigorously for emphasis, “ain’t gonna kill you.” 

“I think a hole-in-the-wall bar is the last place I should be told to trust  a stranger.” David considers this and hums. 

“I think the alley in the back of this place might take the cake.” Wiggling in the leather barstool from anticipation, their eyes stay concentrated on the clear glass as a slow strain of amber liquid occupies it. Before sliding it to their side of the bar, David is sure to garnish it with some orange zest.

“Go ahead, it’s on the house,” David smirks, before retreating to the kitchen to help Milo plate the heaps of fries. 

“For real? No, I have to owe something.” 

“It’s a new recipe. I wouldn’t even know what to charge you.” The man admits. “Go on,” he insists, prior to disappearing behind the swing door and being greeted with Milo’s sassy commentary on how David’s going to be working overtime to help him clean tonight. 

As the cook is balancing plates onto his arms, he hardly feels the burn of ceramic against his arms. For all his senses are concentrated on his new patron–more specifically, the sound of them sipping his innovation and a delightful hum leaving their lips. 

“Damn, that’s good.” 

He ponders shortly after, amidst delivering fries to the ravenous elemental crew, I think I’ll call it Angel Face.

＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊＊

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Okay, let's get a little spooky with the early 18th century Wingfield House, Wingfield, Wiltshire, UK. The 4bd, 3ba home underwent significant expansion in the late 19th century when there was a demand for additional entertaining rooms and separate wings for bachelors and children. During WWI, the manor was used as a military hospital. In the 1940s, the property was divided into four separate dwellings. £1.250M / $1.530M

The newer portion of the house was done in Gothic Revival style, while the original is Georgian.

The home is accessed via an enclosed communal courtyard and a Gothic revival doorway. This opens to a double-height entrance hall paved with York flagstones.

The impressive ballroom off the main hall features a timber barrel-vaulted ceiling.

Tudor-arched fireplace has the Caillard family arms (owners that renovated the home after WWI) above the arch, along with a French motto on top of the fireplace. Note the large Inglenook and window openings in the fireplace itself.

39 ft library hall, (and the oldest part of the house), with six floor-to-ceiling oak bookshelves, giving both open and closed storage options.

 

Drawing room with early Georgian plaster is finished in a vibrant shade of turquoise and has a white marble fireplace dating back to 1760 that came from the Circus building in Bath.

Large kitchen and dining area with cream-painted cabinetry. Wide, stripped timber flooring and an original limestone fireplace create focal points in the room.

Ascending to the first floor via a fine early Georgian staircase with waist-high paneling and a delicate domed skylight above is the remarkable primary bedroom suite set in the corner.

This space was meticulously crafted by the current owners including Gothic-inspired doors and built-in seating in a contemporary oriel window inspired by the Pre-Raphaelite movement. 

A modern marble shower room cleverly concealed behind double wardrobe doors. That's how ya do it- this is a great idea.

Secondary bedroom adjacent to the primary has a beautiful built-in closet and window seats.

On the floor above is a bedroom under the eaves with thick original beams.

What a magnificent home- look at the architecture. Lovely pond on the property, too.

Horticulturist's delight is a modern greenhouse on the property.

There's a plethora of different plant and tree species on the property, all meticulously maintained.

[valentine-cafe]

. ˚◞♡ 𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒎 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓◞ ₊˚

. ˚◞ ꒰ verse 9948e meng yao ꒱ grim reaper x reader ⊹ ۪ ࣪

you comfort your girlfriend through her hardships with motherhood

the soft sweep of the wind touches the grass outside. the green straws that shine in the lantern light of the gardens dancing merrily between one another. while you finish your cup of tea.

with a content sigh, you lean back.

a day of duty finished. a night of relaxation and rest dancing around you. while the celestial body high up in the sky shines down at you with silver light.

“i do feel your presence, mrs. yuè. there is no need for such silence.” you chuckle, paying note to the woman standing behind you. leaning into the arch of the doorway.

bare feet curl together with anxiety. the notion of one being caught when they do not wish to. the lady of the sanctuary resonated to such heavily, despite her cheery attitude during daylight hours.

to her, the garden she steps out into, that she has raised and watered for centuries now. seems as though it crackles up and dies a bit more as days pass.

roses burn when she touches them. as intensely as the one within her heart.

“I did not wish to disrupt the peace, my dear. i thought. . .” with the trailing off of words. a brow curls softly, and you turn to look back at your lady.

“madame?” you murmur with concern. “what ails you?”

“i thought, perhaps if i stood in your presence, i’d feel such peace too.” her sigh is heavy, just as the pair if oake feet that drag towards you. a deep-purple hanfu interrupts the sight to the garden, as the tall woman moves to stand before you leaning down and looking into your eyes with her dioxazine ones.

tired, with large droplets of tears at the bottom of them spilling out.

“my lady—” you call out softly and reach out for her to pull her in for a close hug. she simply collapses into you, inhaling quietly. yet the sharpness of it does not escape the atmosphere of the garden. cutting the warmth of this late summer’s night and turning it colder than you’ve felt in a while.

“I fear.” she rasps into your shoulder, gripping onto you for dear life.

“fear what my lady?” you coo at her soothingly. running gentle circles around her back with the palm of your hand, while the other rests on the crown of her head and brushes her hair with care.

and oh the night goes quiet all the more than it had before.

for what does the lady of the yuè sanctuary truly fear? well. . .

the loss of her kids. distancing, death, disagreements. her heart has seen and had enough of it already with the loss of her son. the busy life of her youngest, her disagreements with her 4th oldest.

the riots in the streets. wondering if all will come home at the end of the day. humanity. she’d never admit to it out loud. but a fear stirs, rises ever so slowly within her. slithering up through her gut and to her brain.

humankind, the same beings she was once so fascinated with. she had grown to mistrust as years passed by. only recently had the yuè sanctuary recovered from ugly graffiti and people massacering a few barrels of harvested food for reapers to eat as they came to rest.

all by younger humans who knew no better in her eyes. their actions taught to them by their elders. who had been taught by their elders. a generational hate, for beings like them and many other.

you snap her out of the thoughts. the thoughts that makes everything around her dim, the ones that snap her into paranoia when she travels out into the world. what if she doesn’t get to return to her children—

“madame yuè.” you call, this time a little louder, while giving her a gentle shake on her shoulder.

“madame yuè, please breathe.” with a flutter of lashes and a simple wipe of a sleeve against teary eyes, you watch as she inhales deeply and exhales. frown tugging at her lips, while a pair of dioxazine hues find roses to gaze at.

“you don’t have to tell me, i believe i know already. but when you are ready, please speak. stay with me.” you coo out softly. handing her a cup of tea after pouring water into the delicate porcelain cup.

“just stay here with me.” you hum.

“the roses are burning.” she mutters with a evident sob wishing to break free from the place it has been trapped in inside of her throat.

“i know. that is why we feel, my dear.” you whisper in response, giving her a soft smile. thumb stroking along the swell of a sharp cheekbone gently. “don’t pack little pistols my lady. you deserve nothing but passion and freedom.”

with a soft sigh, and the closing of eyes. mèng yáo leans into your lap, and drapes her long sleeves across your waist. spilling tears willingly onto the fabric of your robes, while crying quietly, nodding in nothing but agreement at the truth of your words.

[theother456-stories]

In a small mountain village, news had spread of the mysterious disappearance of cattle. Farmers were at a loss, waking each morning to find their fields empty and their herds vanished without a trace. Whispers of wolves, bears, and even mythical creatures filled the town, but none seemed plausible given the sheer number of missing animals.

One late evening, as the moon rose high over the valley, a young man named Eli sat beneath an ancient oak tree, chuckling to himself with a belly full of satisfaction. Not just any belly, though—Eli’s middle had grown to monstrous proportions, so large and round it pressed against the sturdy trunk behind him, filling the clearing with its massive girth. His entire form was draped in stretched, patched-up clothing, remnants of an outfit that hadn’t stood a chance against his recent… “adventures.”

It had all started as a challenge. Eli, known for his insatiable appetite, had overheard rumors about an ancient “feast rite” that, according to legend, could grant anyone the power to eat and grow to their heart’s content. Thinking it was just a story, Eli had laughed it off—until he found a dusty, old tome hidden in his grandfather’s attic, detailing the rite in great detail. With a mischievous grin, he decided to give it a go. After all, what harm could a little fun cause?

Except, the rite had worked. And it had worked too well.

Eli found himself able to eat anything and everything without ever feeling full. At first, it was amusing; he started with the pantry, emptying entire shelves in mere minutes. Then he moved on to the baker’s shop, devouring rows of bread and pastries. But as days passed, his appetite grew, and soon, he was visiting farms late at night, enjoying whole barrels of milk, stacks of hay for flavor, and, eventually, entire herds of cattle.

Tonight was no different. He lay back, his belly sprawled over a pile of cattle bones beneath him, remnants of his most recent feast. Each breath caused his stomach to swell and contract like a hillock shifting under a gentle breeze. The sheer size of him was astounding; he’d become a legend in his own right, his shadow cast by the moonlight reaching far across the meadow. His body groaned and creaked with the pressure of his size, yet he seemed delighted, grinning as he thought back to each meal.

A twig snapped nearby. Eli’s ears perked up as he noticed a small group of villagers had gathered at the edge of the clearing, their faces frozen in awe and terror. They had come to investigate the disappearances, never expecting to find the culprit sitting happily with a mountain of a belly, surrounded by the evidence of his deeds.

“Oh, hello there!” Eli called out, raising a hand in a friendly wave. “I was wondering when you’d catch on!”

The villagers, too stunned to speak, simply stared as Eli chuckled, patting his enormous stomach proudly. “You know,” he said, leaning forward with a glint of mischief in his eye, “I don’t regret a single bite. Best meals I’ve had in my life!”

The crowd murmured, unsure whether to run or laugh at his audacity. One brave soul stepped forward and asked, “Eli, how on earth did you manage to… eat all of this?”

Eli laughed, the sound rumbling like thunder through the night. “Magic, my friends! Turns out, if you want something badly enough, sometimes the universe provides.” He winked, giving his belly a hearty slap that echoed through the trees. “Though I didn’t expect quite this much help!”

The villagers, sensing the good-natured humor in Eli’s tone, couldn’t help but chuckle along with him, their fear melting into disbelief. After all, what could they do? The man was larger than a barn, and he’d clearly enjoyed himself more than anyone in the village could have imagined.

With a grin, Eli reached into a pouch at his side, pulling out a small loaf of bread, his “snack” for the evening. “Well, don’t worry, friends. I’ll make it up to you somehow. Maybe throw a feast for the village—my treat!” He laughed heartily, his stomach rumbling in agreement.

As the villagers dispersed, each one still shaking their head in disbelief, Eli leaned back against the tree, taking a contented breath as he gazed up at the starry sky. This was only the beginning, he thought. If he could manage this with a few herds of cattle… imagine what he could do with an entire banquet hall.

And with that, Eli closed his eyes, already dreaming of his next meal, proud and unashamed of his newfound title as the village’s most legendary—and voracious—giant.