#and not enough on sinks or armor to keep it in the fight

[agbpaints]

A convo @novusimperialis and @is-the-battlemech-cool-or-not were having in the notes of my post on how the CapCon are doing reminded me of an old bugbear I had with a Tex video

[neckromantics]

We don't talk enough about how absolutely devastating and romantic and hot the idea is that Astarion would know the scent of your blood anywhere.

How quickly he would notice when you've even the slightest of nics? When, no matter how focused on anything else he might be at the time, he always comes to check it out?

You'll be peeling a piece of apple with your pocket knife when it slips in your grip. The sharp edge of the blade slices a shallow cut into the meat of your thumb, and you inhale sharply through your nose even though it barely hurts at all. Instinct has you sucking your injured digit into your mouth with a soft curse– the sweet juice of the fruit you were snacking on quickly overpowered by the metallic twang of blood.

You nearly jump out of your skin when he appears over you not a moment later. He makes some offhand comment about how careless you are. Takes hold of your injured hand and tuts like he intends to tease, but he isn't fooling anyone.

He stands so close, jaw ticking as he clenches his teeth, a tension in his shoulders that tells you he's doing everything in his power to keep composure. Your blood calls to him like a moth to a flame, and as funny as you find it in the moment, you don't have the heart to tease him for it. It's actually kind of endearing.

He'd only get quicker in noticing as time passes.

Especially after you've been traveling together for a few years, and he's come to know your scent better than his own. Which only makes sense considering how often he's got his nose pressed to some part of you. (He thinks you smell good.)

At this point, when you get injured in battle, he often catches the fragrance before you've even processed that you've been hit.

He'd suck in a sharp breath through his teeth– a hiss so loud that it catches your attention just enough for you to spare him a glance as you fight.

It's all you need to see just how blown his pupils are from where you're standing, mostly because his gaze is laser locked onto you to second you search for him. His movements turn faster. Deadlier, as he scans the field before you. Determined. Hungry. Angry. He's searching for the sorry wretch that dared to get the best of you– that dared spill even a drop of his beloved's precious blood upon the soil.

You've already taken them down, of course. Poor sap might have gotten a good dig in at your shoulder, but ultimately didn't stand a chance once he properly pissed you off.

Astarion's eyes go heavy.

Half-lidded in that special way of his and only darkening further as he appraises you. You can practically feel it as he follows the line of your throat, zeroes in on your pulse point for a moment, before settling to watch the warm crimson that's beginning to soak into the sleeve of your tunic.

You see a bit of concern in those eyes, but then he sees your smile and– A flash of hot, honeyed desire catches you by surprise.

You suddenly can't tell if it's just the blood loss making you woozy or if he's about to make you swoon like a maiden from an old romance novel. You try (and fail) to keep a straight face when he sinks his dagger into his final opponent's neck without so much as a glance their way.

There's a splash of red against pale white skin, and a lifeless body dropping to the grass by his feet. Your heart stutters in your chest, and he all but moans in response to the sound of it. A mere four paces and he's on you– hands and teeth and tongue exploring every inch of your exposed skin, ripping open parts of your armor to gain better access, like you're not stood in a field of gore and ruin and freshly spilled blood.

You cling to him like a lifeline.

Before he drags you away to camp– to a warm tent and a soft bedroll where he can have his way with you for as long as you and your mortal body will allow him– he has you down a potion of healing or two.

And it's a good thing one of you has a Lesser Restoration spell handy somehow, cause you're most definitely gonna need it.

[yandere-wishes]

✮⋆˙Red Hood and The Big Bad Wolf ˙⋆✮

⭒⌒★ Yandere! Jason Todd x Reader ★⌒⭒

゜。♡ 𝓕𝓪𝓲𝓻𝔂 𝓣𝓪𝓵𝓮 𝓐𝓤 ♡ ｡ ゜

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

*ੈ✩‧₊ Thinking about how similar Red Hood is to Little Red Riding Hood, not just in name but also in practice. At their core, they are both things, red things, that survive. Reborn from the lugubre maws of death, forced to live another day, carrying baskets weaved of anguish and instability.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Jason keeps the old picture book tucked in his jacket pocket. He can't quite remember where he found the fickle thing. Can't remember why he chose such an evanescent tale to cling to.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Or maybe he does, maybe he knows exactly why he runs his fingers over his inside pocket after every fight, just to make sure the eccentric fable is still in place. Maybe it's because he understands Red Riding Hood. Knows what she's been through, what it feels like to have your innocence stripped like skin being torn from bones. To be killed and revived all in the same breath. Maybe it's because he wants to know what happens next. What happens when Little Red learns to breathe again? He wants to ask her, beg her to tell him. To be the solution to all his problems.

*ੈ✩‧₊ "How do you swallow the trauma? What do you do with the phantom pain of your heart's reanimation? How do you make the darkness go away? Did you come back the same?

*ੈ✩‧₊ There is only one thing that makes them differ. One fundamental little thing...

*ੈ✩‧₊ Jason doesn't mind the wolf. Pretty pup prowling about. He blames it on his upbringing. He'd been taught to fall in love with such wicked things. From as early as he can remember he's watched bats chase cats across gargoyle-littered rooftops. Watched pretty girls throw themselves at bleached killers. That's why he's quick to be enarmed with the new villain terrorizing the Gotham streets. The girl in a wolf mask, planting bombs in jewelry stores and biting off her victim's ears.

*ੈ✩‧₊ There is nothing scary about the big bad wolf, Red Hood thinks, as he re-reads the page where the wolf and girl meet. Why fear pain when you've been to the end of the road? Why fear something when you're acquainted with its ending?

*ੈ✩‧₊ "Shouldn't wolves only come out when there's a full moon?" He swings in from the skyline, ironclad military boots lodging into your stomach pushing you back into a glass display case. "That's werewolves you idiot" you mumble out of breath, glass shards pocking at your spine. The ticking of your newest explosive rings melodically through the air. He's quick to cut the wires, to defuse your toy without a second thought. Professional you think bitterly as you pounce on his back looking for an opening of flesh to sink your teeth into.

*ੈ✩‧₊ The thing they don't tell you about dying is that you always come back wrong. Primordially, spiritually, the person who closes their eyes, is never the same one who opens them again.

But Red Riding Hood was lucky, her story ended before she realized that dreadful thing. Jason has to deal with it every day, the reverberating scars, the colorless world that fractures and breaks should he let his mind wander astray. The fact that his heart only ever truly beats when he sees the fluffy ears of your cowl and that damn bloodthirsty smirk.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason Todd who's only brave enough to call it love after you stake a knife through his heart. The bulletproof vest and armor keep the damage away, but he can see the murderous intent shimmering in your eyes. It's only then that he pulls you down by the back of your neck. Lips to lips, a messy clash of anathema and apprehension. Your teeth gnaw at his lips while his tongue composes ballads on the roof of your mouth.

*ੈ✩‧₊ He wonders if Little Red ever went back for the wolf. If she ever dares kiss him with all the pain and anguish she has left in her body. Nicking her tongue on his razor-sharp teeth. Guiding his claws to ghost over her frail body. He wonders if the wolf can even hurt her. There's so little left that can hurt you when you've already felt the end.

*ੈ✩‧₊ He knows you stalk him, follow him even during the day. Sometimes he pulls you into the back alleyway. Knife at your throat as he soaks up your ethereal face. Mask on, mask off. In the end, you'd have found out anyway. His hands squeeze at your hips, needing the flesh, leaving his essence over your body. His lips danced over the back of your neck, biting tenderly at the apex of your shoulder.

*ੈ✩‧₊ You seem to like it when his knife cuts deep. When his punches crack bone. When his boots crush you into the pavement. You throw your head back and laugh, witty little threats spilling from your mouth. So this is love he thinks as your claws rake over his biceps ripping the muscle like ribbons, rummaging through the blood and tissue in search of bone. "Poor little puppy" he mocks "looking for a bone to chew on". "Shut up you tomato-looking freak" you scream as his teeth sink into your jaw, crunching of bone.

*ੈ✩‧₊ He thinks you look gorgeous when you're irritated, he thinks you're beautiful when your bloodthirst seeps through the anger. He bites back a moan as your knee nests into his gut.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Did Little Red ever talk to her mother again? Or did she hold a grudge, haunted by her betrayal of sending her into the woods unarmed, heartbroken that she never came looking for her? Jason's thoughts pound inside his head, picture-book illustrations flash before him of Little Red pushing her mother away, of tears streaming down her face, screaming, screaming, screaming. He hisses as his lacerations burn. Hand suspended, pushing down the urge to knock on his father's door. Bruce would know what to do...he always knows what to do. It's such a childish notion, he clings to. Even now, even after he was killed and left un-avenged Jason still wholeheartedly believes in the notion that Daddy will fix everything...He's halfway to the entrance gate when Bruce alls after him, cadence thick with grief and ache. Jason doesn't turn back, he runs and runs and runs.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason who crashes through your apartment window. Pushes you back onto the bed and lies next to you as you squirm and scream. He wraps his arms protectively around your waist and nuzzles into the crux of your neck. Mumbling Little Red Riding Hood's tale until you fall asleep. "How did You know I love the story?" you ask, the next morning to the empty half of your bed. Last night's tremulous dread still laying heavy on your corpse.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason who lays on his window seal, watching as the sun pokes through Granny Red's face. It's funny isn't it, in such a twisted way didn't he also die in his grandfather's house? Only to be reborn while he watched? Didn't the same thing happen to Little Red?

*ੈ✩‧₊ That night Jason dream he's was walking through the grass, headed for the forest behind Wayne manner. He's trapped inside his jejune body, the body of a boy wonder. Clutching a basket with a crowbar inside as dread dances in his stomach. His old red cape taut around his neck, suffocating, skin-tight. He's forgotten how to breathe, puerile fear of those ghoulish old trees clawing at his body. Through the dimness, through lose rays that escape the moon's greed he's able to spot you. Weaving through the bushes and trees, stalking closer and closer. He doesn't know whether to meet you halfway or retreat. Frozen like a robin being pounced on by a sickly smiling cat. His eyes meet yours, right before you attack.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason who misses you, when he doesn't catch you on patrol, of course, he misses you, it's hard not to miss a broken bone. Hard to feel the sting of your wounds and forget who put them there.

*ੈ✩‧₊ Yandere!Jason finally realizes that he just can't bear to be away from you. This love, this mania, it's all for you. He needs you. He's got you corned, the end of a chase. You smile, all teeth and games, "You're pretty when sulk" you whisper, tracing claws up his chest, digging into the space between each ridge. "Oh really? How can you tell when I got this helmet on?" You laugh, coy and flirtish "I just do" you shrug. Pulling his helmet up, lips ghosting over his in a mockery of a kiss. Jason pushes forward, entraping your lips against his. Lost in intimacy he's quick to grab you, to drag you back to his apartment, to lock the doors and throw away the key. To keep the big bad wolf where she belongs, right next to Little Red Riding Hood.

   

🎀I feel like every Batson deserves a villainess to fall in love with. Let's call this one WolfWoman. TBH I feel like I want to write more for her in the future.

[theskywithin]

Pluto in the Signs: My Advice to You

words for the soul that’s here to evolve, even if it means burning first.

Pluto in Aries

You came here like fire, wearing instinct as identity. But there is something beneath your impulse to fight, a softness you don’t show, a fear of stillness you can’t name. Let the world see you before the armor. Let your rage weep once in a while. You are not here to win. You are here to remember that there is power in presence, and godhood in gentleness.

Pluto in Taurus

You’ve mistaken stability for safety so many times, you’ve forgotten how to breathe without clenching. You grip what is known, as if the unfamiliar is a death sentence. Let it die. Let it all fall away. The version of you that survives the storm will not need what you clung to. Trust the crumble. The Earth is not here to betray you. She is trying to rebirth you.

Pluto in Gemini

You talk, you think, you dissect, so nothing can sink too deep. Your intellect is a fortress where your wounds dress themselves in clever words. Put the books down. Let the thought dissolve into feeling. Some things can’t be solved. They must be felt until they set you free. There’s a knowing inside you untouched by logic. Go there. That’s where your truth has been waiting.

Pluto in Cancer

You carry a thousand ghosts in your chest, calling them family, calling them home. But you are drowning in memories that were never yours to keep. Bury the past with a prayer, not a chain. You are not their pain. You are not the echo of what hurt them. Make a sanctuary inside your own ribcage. And when you feel unworthy of peace, choose it anyway.

Pluto in Leo

You’ve spent lifetimes performing divinity for those too blind to see your light. And in doing so, you’ve forgotten how holy your silence is. Let yourself be loved without applause. Be seen when you are undone, unmasked. You were never meant to entertain the world, you were meant to ignite it with your raw, radiant truth.

Pluto in Virgo

You cut yourself open to clean what isn’t even dirty. You make a ritual of repair, believing if you can just be perfect enough, you’ll finally be allowed to rest. You were never meant to earn your existence. Lay your tools down. Let your flaws bloom into medicine. Let your soul be a garden, not a lab. There is nothing wrong with you. There never was.

Pluto in Libra

You dissolve for peace. Fold yourself for love. You’ve worn harmony like a costume over wounds that still bleed. Let it bleed. Let it roar. Love is not meant to dilute you. Speak the truth, even if your voice trembles. Choose your own reflection over their validation. Balance will find you once you stop betraying your center.

Pluto in Scorpio

You already know the depths. The ache. The rebirth. The hunger that never leaves. Stop hiding inside your own storm. Let someone witness you without needing to survive you. You are not here to control pain. You are here to alchemize it. Your scars are not secrets. They are spells, meant to guide, not silence.

Pluto in Sagittarius

You flee into philosophies, wear freedom like a flag over the parts of you still chained to fear. You call it expansion, but it’s been avoidance for a while now. Come home. Not to a place, but to the truth beneath the truth. Stop searching long enough to listen. The sky has nothing left to teach you until you learn to trust the ground beneath your own feet.

Pluto in Capricorn

You were praised for what you produced before you even knew what it meant to be. You’ve built empires out of pressure and called it pride. Tear it down. Brick by brick, expectation by expectation. Let something softer take root. You are not the mountain. You are the soul beneath it, aching to exhale.

Pluto in Aquarius

You orbit others like a distant moon, terrified that closeness will erase you. You’ve become an idea, not a body. A concept, not a confession. Let someone reach you. Let them touch your chaos. The revolution you seek out there is first born in here. In the choice to be known. Flawed. Human. Free.

Pluto in Pisces

You’ve dissolved into everything but yourself. A sponge for sorrow. A shadow for others’ light. Return. Not to isolation, but to remembrance. You were never meant to vanish in devotion, you were meant to love without losing shape. Stop drowning for those who never learned how to swim. You are not the ocean’s sadness. You are its sanctuary.

[absurdthirst]

Fight to Get Home to You {Pero Tovar x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 12.3k

Warnings: Hate sex, angry sex, derogatory comments, goading and bickering, anger, confusion and stubborn people refusing to talk, baby!, Pero is a girl dad, mandatory Pero bath, holding a baby for the first time, confessions, idiots in love, oral sex (female receiving), mentions of post baby body, lactation, vaginal sex, mentions of virginity, Pero has a heart, loving making, soft kisses and promises, happy endings.

Comments: Riding with Pero Tovar, you hiss and spit at him, even when he slides into your bedroll at night when the men are sleeping. Until the day you ride away to keep a secret from the prickly Spaniard. One that he discovers when he finds you after his journey to the East is complete. Learning that neither one of you really hated the other.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

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|| MasterList || Pero Tovar MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

The fire crackles, sending a warm glow that chases away the darkness that surrounds you. In the dark, you can hear the horses munching on the little brush that you had managed to find, stopping and occasionally neighing softly as they rest. Happy to have the saddles and bags off their backs for a few hours while the men who rode them slept. The snorts of the men sound like bears hibernating in caves, making you roll your eyes and huff silently, shifting under your blankets as you try to settle in to get your own rest. 

A hand slaps over your mouth, making you reach for the sheathed dagger at your hip. “Fight if you want, amiga.” The chuckle in your ear is warm, making you hiss against his palm, other hand reaching around your body to tear at the laces of your breeches. “You seem to enjoy it more when you do.” Pero Tovar rocks his hips against your ass, pushing the hardness that has nothing to do with armor against you. His cock aching ready to sink into your cunt and he knows you are annoyed that he would climb into your bedroll right here in front of the fire where any man could wake up and see. 

Pero pushes his hand into your breeches, knowing you love when he rubs that little pulsing bundle of nerves. He groans when you reach behind you to squeeze him through his breeches, blindly fumbling to undo the laces but he’s already ahead of you. All you have to do is reach in and pull his hard cock out. He groans into your neck when you squeeze him, loving the way you rock down onto his hand. “That’s it, hermosa.” He murmurs as he works on wiggling you out of your pants. “Please.” You beg, knowing you’ll regret it in the morning but right now, you’re soaking wet for him. He chuckles softly against your ear, “I got you.” You whine when he manages to push the material down enough for his cock to slide between your thighs and you reach down to help him notch himself at your entrance.

You choke out a grunt, trying to keep from being too loud as he pushes inside you. The Spaniard's cock fills you, he’s thick and long, making your eyes roll back when his hips are flush against your ass. You don’t know why you let him fuck you, when the sun is up, he ignores you or the two of you spit and grumble at each other. You don’t really like him, but you let him fuck you until your toes curl and your eyes cross in pleasure. “Fuck.” You roll onto your stomach, taking him with you and enjoying the way he presses you down.

He grunts, shifting to kneel behind you, his elbows on either side of your head as he starts to rock into you, pressing you into the bedroll and your hot walls grip his cock. “Fuck, hermosa. You feel - fuck.” He hisses into your neck, “taking everything I give you like a needy whore.”

That’s rich, coming from the man who would fuck every whore available if he had the coins. The first time he had taken you was leaning against a tree, the blood of the men you had both killed still splatter on your armor. “Fuck you.” You hiss quietly.

He chuckles, making you clench around him. His hips press against your ass as he grinds as deep as he can. “No, I’m fucking you, princesa.” He emphasizes and you reach behind you to grab onto his hair, making him growl and his cock twitch inside you.

You should not let him touch you, but you’ve grown addicted to the way he scrubs against your walls and presses deep. He’s handsome, even if you don’t like him beyond the sex. You get along with William, but he is not your type it seems. Pushing your ass back, you yank on his hair a little harder and smirk when he groans into your ear.

One of the men you are traveling with snorts and Pero freezes for a second until the man begins to snore again. He takes that as permission to go hard so he starts to fuck you, thrusting into your tight cunt and the noise of your wetness makes him chuckle into the nape of your neck. “You love it when I fuck you, don’t you, princesa?” He asks, his voice raspy as it vibrates against your skin.

You roll your eyes at his cockiness. “I could do better.” You huff, fingers curling into fists as he hammers away into your body. The sex is amazing but you can’t help but snark at him while he’s touching you.

Tovar scoffs, “your little fingers wouldn’t be able to reach where my cock does. They wouldn’t stretch you out like I do. I wreck this little cunt. And you fucking love it.” He rasps into your ear as he adjusts the ankle, chuckling when you gasp.

You shudder, unable to deny it even if it pisses you off. The best you can manage is a small snort that masks the next moan. The man across from you around the fire shuffles in his blankets but Pero doesn’t stop rocking into you. “You just like my cunt.” You hiss quietly when the other man settles down. “Better than your fist.”

Pero bites down on your neck and you hiss, “fuck.” He chuckles and licks the skin, “your cunt is better than my fist but I still love that my fist doesn’t throw insults at me.”

You snort and clench down around him. “Then fuck your hand.” You spit back, loving how he groans and twitches inside you. “At least until you can find another whorehouse.”

He hisses when you clench around him, pushing deep into your cunt and he is certain the men would hear if it weren't for the liquor they downed from their flasks before finding sleep. "Why would I when I have my own personal whore right here?" He counters with a growl.

His own personal whore. If it would not cause too much of a fuss, you would push him off of you. Instead, you tighten down as hard as you can around his cock, making him choke out a groan. “I don’t remember your coins becoming mine.” You whisper. “Make sure you give them to me on the morrow.”

He smirks against your neck, “I am the one doing all the work here. Maybe if you ride my cock next time.” He chuckles and pushes deep, needing you to clamp down around him before he finds his own pleasure. He may spit fire at you but he doesn’t want you to say he’s a bad lover.

You snort, knowing the cheap bastard would never give you money if he did not have to. You bite your lip, getting close and you wish that you had the type of relationship to demand a kiss, but that was not something you had done in all the times you gave fucked. “Tovar.” You moan his name quietly, about to cum and needing him to silence you.

He knows what you need so he reaches out to cover your mouth with his palm, loving the way your moan vibrates against his skin. “That’s it, princesa. Cum for me.” He demands roughly against your ear, biting down on your earlobe.

The sharp pinch of pain throws you over the edge. Your cry is muffled by his hand as your walls soak him. Clamping down around his cock and trembling violently while you shake in pleasure. Tovar always manages to make you cum, with the exception of one time and that was only because he had been too pent up, still he had rubbed your clit until you came around his softening cock.

The way you clamp down on his cock has his eyes rolling into the back of his head and he groans, "fuck, princesa. Mierda. I'm - fuck." He pants as he thrusts three more times before he's twitching inside you, painting your walls with his hot spend. He's been pent up all day and your heat sent him over the edge.

You hiss against his palm. You will have to sneak down to the river to wash now that he has filled you up instead of pulling out. Tovar hates to pull out, insisting that the herbs you take to prevent your flow makes it unnecessary for him to do so. Preferring to spill inside your cunt.

Tovar grunts as he relaxes above you, his cock softening and he pulls out before he ends up getting caught. He shifts to his knees and tucks his cock away, tying his breeches. Your ass is on display and he can’t help but smack it. “Good as always, princesa.” He chuckles and shifts to stand up.

You turn around and shoot him a glare. “You should have spilled your seed in your hand.” You hiss quietly. “Now I will have to piss and clean up your mess.”

He chuckles, shifting to stand up, “I know you love it when I fill you up.” He smirks, knowing you have begged him in the past to paint you with his cum. Sometimes, when you’re able to, he likes to see your tits shining with his seed but that’s a rare event to have enough privacy for it.

Huffing, you pull yourself up and drag your breeches up your thighs. “I hope your horse stomps on your foot tomorrow.” You growl, stomping off into the dark to go wash your cunt and give him time to settle down before you say something worse.

Pero snorts as he watches you stride off. He would never tell you but he usually sneaks around to watch your back, make sure no one attacks you while you are washing. He’s back under his blankets before you return and pretending to be asleep but he opens his eyes to look at you when you turn over on your bedroll. He never imagined he’d find a woman like you. He can never have you, not completely.

**** 

“I am leaving.” You had almost slipped away in the middle of the night, deciding to take the coward's way out and not have the conversation that you had been dreading. You had been thinking about it for weeks, but it’s time. “Today.” You look up from your seat on a broken log by the river where the horses are resting.

Pero frowns at the need, “leaving? Why?” He demands to know, wanting to know the reason. He doesn’t like the thought of you on your own out there. It’s dangerous. “What are you thinking? You’ll be killed.”

You roll your eyes. “I have saved your ass more than once, I will be fine.” You knew he would bitch about this, having grumbled when you joined the group. Now he was grumbling you were leaving. “I am going back to my home village.”

Pero looks over at William, the three of you the only ones remaining before you venture across the sea to the east. “You do not need to return there. Come with us to the east. We will care for you.” Pero demands and William smirks, having been aware of your dirty little secret but he’s never voiced it.

“No.” You shake your head. “I have made up my mind. If I leave now, I can be settled before the winter sets in.” You bite your lip, smirking slightly even though you don’t feel nearly as confident as you would like. “It will be the first night I’ve had peace since I’ve met you and I’m looking forward to it.”

Tovar shakes his head and opens his mouth to protest but William places his hand on the Spaniard’s shoulder. “Don’t, brother. Let her go.” He isn’t stupid, he knows what has been going on between you. “Besides, I thought you’d be happy to be rid of me.” You chuckle and Pero bites his lip, holding back what he wants to say but he’s spiteful when he says “only your cunt.”

You clench your jaw, biting back the angry words that come so easily when you talk to him. You had hoped that this would be easy, that he would be relieved that you are leaving, but obviously not. Or he truly only did like your cunt for company. “Well.” You slap your thighs and stand up, dusting yourself off. “Then I have nothing left to say.” Your horse is already saddled, like theirs are, and you have made sure to pack some of the rations for yourself, not too much, but enough to get you home. “Don’t poison the buzzards when they eat your carcass.” You snip, swinging up onto your mount’s back. “Be safe.” It’s directed towards William, but it’s meant for both of them. You know that the Irishman will watch Pero’s back.

Pero clenches his jaw, wanting to demand you don’t leave but he can’t do that. It’s not his place to control you, you don’t even like him. He sighs and shakes his head, “don’t die out there, princesa. Your body won’t rot away. It will be used.” He warns you, knowing how vile men can be. That’s why he wants to keep you close but he can’t. You hate him. That’s why you’re leaving.

You don’t say anything else, just nodding to the two men and urging your horse to start walking, turning his head away from the camp. Not looking back before the horse breaks into a run, eager to eat up the distance between here and home. You need to get away from Pero. You can’t be around him and keep your secret.

****

Pero is grumpy and ferocious from that moment on. After returning from the east barely alive, he’s pent up and wondering where the hell you are. William stayed with the General and Pero is alone. He hates being alone. Even if he’d never admit it. He tries to remember what you told him about your village and he remembers that it was at the bottom of a mountain in a valley about four days' ride from where you left. Pero decides to try and find you. He stops in every village, asking for you, to no avail. He sighs and shakes his head, making his way to the next village after spending the night in the whorehouse. He is a man with needs after all. He makes his way to the next village and the priest’s eyes widen when he asks after you, “she lives near the stream.” Pero’s heart pounds and he swings his leg over his stallion after tossing some coins to the priest, “for my sins.” He declares before he rides off. He finds the small cottage, it’s picturesque by the stream, the mountain looking behind it, and he swings off his horse, swallowing harshly. His boots crackle with the gravel as he makes his way to the front door and knocks.

Expecting the tanner to come and take the skins from the animals you had trapped, you wipe your hands and move to the door. It had taken some time to get used to wearing skirts again, but you still wore breeches when you were hunting or working in your vegetable garden. Usually keeping the more feminine wear for when you were going into the village or when the few merchants who would come to you would arrive. “I have quite a few-“ you stop dead as you open the door to reveal someone unexpected on your doorstep. “Tovar.” You hate how your heart pounds and you wonder why he’s here. “What are you doing here?” You demand. “How did you find me?”

Pero inhales sharply, you look just as beautiful as you did the day you rode away from him and William. "I - I wanted to see you." He says lamely, "we went to the east and William remained there so I- I wanted to see you and I-" He cuts himself off and swallows, "it was a bad idea. I'm sorry. I shouldn't - I'll go." He promises, starting to back away from the door when he hears a baby cry.

Your eyes widen, hoping that the baby would have slept through this surprise. “I-“ you don’t say anything else, just turning and rushing towards the screen that separates the bed from the rest of the house. The small cradle you had lain in when you were a baby is now holding your own child and you lean over and coo to her. “Why are you so fussy?” You hum softly, picking up your months old daughter and putting her to your chest while you pull down the front of your dress to give her your breast. “Is my little button hungry?” You coo, smiling when she immediately latches on and suckles hungrily.

Pero can’t help but enter your home, watching with rapture as you cradle the baby suckling on your breast. He frowns at her dark mop of hair and he counts the months. Wondering if - “is she mine?” He chokes out, curious and his heart pounding.

Your eyes flicker up to find him watching you, horror and curiosity burning in his eyes. “No, she’s William’s obviously.” Annoyed that the Spaniard would think that you were fucking anyone else while he spent the months you rode together fucking you. You look back down at her, her little eyes drifting closed and smile softly before you frown and glance at him again. “Why are you here, Tovar?” You demand. “Felt like fighting again? Or do the whorehouses not accept your coin?”

He’s speechless, watching you gently rock the baby and he swallows, his throat dry. “I- I can’t - she’s - a girl. Princesa.” He chokes as he takes a step over to you. “You were alone and I - I wasn’t here to protect you.”

“Yes, she’s a girl.” You narrow your eyes, angry that he seems disappointed that you did not birth him a son. “A girl bastard is better than a boy.” You hiss. “I was capable of protecting myself. I did. I gave birth with the help of a midwife from the village. What could you have done?”

Pero’s stomach twists and he shakes his head, “I never - I would’ve been here.” He promises, “but you left and - did you know? Is that why you left? Why you didn’t come to the east with us?” He narrows his eyes as he accuses you.

You snort and shrug, “What does it matter?” You ask. “It would have been dangerous for me, and I was only as useful as my cunt, so I would have just put both of you in danger.” You don’t add that he never would have known if he had not come to find you. “It is your fault for continuously spilling inside me.”

Tovar has the emotions to feel guilty but he swallows harshly and nods, “you’re right, princesa. I - I shouldn’t have gone. We were nearly killed. Several times and I- I got greedy. Tried to steal and it nearly cost me my life. I am sorry for putting your life in danger and leaving you full of my child.”

You’re surprised that he will admit that he was wrong, Pero never does that. “You? Greedy?” You snort, shaking your head. “I never would have imagined it.” You tell him sarcastically. The baby pulls off your breast and you shift her to your shoulder to burp.

He watches you as you burp her and then cradle her in your arms, rocking her as she sleeps, and Pero's heart lurches. "I am truly sorry, princesa. I - I'll go." He stumbles back, knowing he isn't wanted here.

The sun will set in an hour and you know the inn in the village will charge him an outrageous amount for a bed. You sigh and roll your eyes. “Stay.” You huff softly. “Unless you plan to camp outside.”

He frowns, “I was planning to. I didn’t - I never want to assume that you wanted me here. I figured you’d be spitting venom at me like you used to. I just…I had to find you. I will go if you wish me to.” He promises and bows his head slightly.

As if to protest, your daughter gives a small cry, her face screwing up in anger and looking just like the man who sired her before she settles back down in your arms. You look down at her and then back up at Pero. “You will need to bathe if you are to stay.” You huff. “I don’t want her to get sick.”

Pero is surprised you’re letting him stay but his heart thumps at the news and he nods, “of course. I have been traveling for many months. Let me - I can go to the stream.” He offers, not wanting you to go through any trouble for him when you are giving him a bed to sleep in.

“There is a barrel by the door.” You roll your eyes, aware that the man might be a pig when he travels, but he loves luxury. He paid for a hot bath at every inn you had stopped at. “Bring in water and we will heat it.” You instruct. “The stream will not get you clean enough.”

He nods, secretly relieved, and he sets his satchel down and makes his way over to the door to fetch the buckets of water. He really is filthy. He barely stopped in an inn to find you. He was desperate, especially since he’s alone. He sets the barrel down and watches as you set the baby in the cot, shushing her before you turn to start working on hearing the water for the tub in the corner of the room.

You feel that he is watching you. Making you aware that it’s the first time that Pero has seen you in skirts. “You said William stayed?” You ask as you work. “He’s not dead?”

He watches you as your skirts sway and he thinks you look beautiful. You seem to have a glow about you. Home life suits you. You’re clean and you look comfortable. “He’s alive. He decided to remain in China. He met a woman. She’s a firecracker. He loves her and I told him to stay. So he did.” He explains, “never imagined the poor bastard would be in love.”

Surprised to hear that, you hum. Whoever the woman was, she must have been special. “So now you are seeking another companion to sell your sword with.” You understand, nodding as you move to get the crock of soap and a drying cloth while the water warms. After that, you will make sure that there is dinner for you both. Tomorrow he will be gone and you can continue your simple little life.

He sighs and shakes his head, “I don’t know. I didn’t really think ahead more than finding you. I need - I want to be here. With you. And our daughter.” He declares, “I will go if you send me away but please let me try to be there for mi hija.” He pleads a little, knowing you’ve never heard that from him.

You almost snort, but you catch yourself. Arguing with Pero will just make him dig his heels in. Just to spite you, he will stay longer than he ever planned. Instead, you just hum. “I have not sent you away yet, have I?” You ask, knowing that he would be bored to tears in less than a week.

He shrugs, “I know you hate me, princesa. Even more so now that I left you with child.” He says and you snort, “I left on my own accord.” He stands, helping you fill the tub, and he groans as he starts to strip off the armor after the tub is steaming. “You left because of me. I- I know you still hate me.”

“You made your own feelings about me clear.” You remind him. “You wanted to steal my horse and leave me alone on the road when you discovered I am a woman.”

Pero snorts, working on his chest plate after setting his sword down. “You lied to us. You tried to steal. If you would’ve told us-” You scoff and spin around, “told you? You would’ve dropped me at the next village.” You spit and Pero nods, “and you would’ve been safer. The road is no place for a woman…even one as skilled with a sword as you.”

“I am no longer on the road.” You remind him, grabbing another bucket of warm water and setting it down next to the bath. “My sword is now only for protecting myself and my daughter.”

His stomach twists, knowing he has not earned the right to be called her father or for you to even let him into your cottage. He’s said some terrible things during your journeys together. “Then she will be protected.” He declares and reaches for the hem of his tunic after he sets his boots aside. Your eyes avert as you pour some oils into the hot water and his naked body is on display as he sets his dirty clothes aside.

You don’t look over at him at first, even though you have never seen him completely nude. Your liaisons had never had the privacy or time for such things. It’s not until he steps into the bath that you turn and look, getting a good view of his strong, scarred back and his small but nice ass. “My father died right after I returned.” You tell him. “So I had a home to keep her safe in. That is all that matters to me.”

He nods, groaning as he steps into the tub, “that’s good. I’m glad you had somewhere to live. I - I should’ve made sure you had somewhere to go but I was angry that you were leaving and-” He cuts himself off as he sinks into the water.

“I wasn’t your problem.” You remind him. “You couldn’t stand me, so I have no reason to believe that you would worry about my well being.” You turn towards your table to start cutting up vegetables for a meal.

Pero swallows, knowing he cannot disclose his true feelings. "You hardly felt warm and fuzzy for me, princesa." He reminds you, "you would spit venom at me with every breath you took." He snorts, "but I - well, it doesn't matter." He sighs and reaches for the rag to start cleaning himself.

You snort, busying yourself as you hear him splash behind you. “I know we did not care for each other.” You chop the root vegetables very fine and sigh yourself. “But I do not expect anything from you. Except a civil tongue around my daughter. When you find a wife and have legitimate children, I will not tolerate her being abused for being a bastard.”

Pero scoffs, “I do not wish to find a wife.” He insists, his eyes watching your back as you cut up vegetables. He continues to wash, “she is not a bastard in my eyes. She’s our child and I - I want to get to know her.” He declares, his stomach twisting as he imagines you laughing in his face and tossing him out with the bath water.

It surprises you and you turn around to face him, telling yourself not to look below the waterline. Even if you have seen it before, his cock is not yours to admire. “Have you ever even been around a baby before?” You ask curiously. He’s rough and quick to temper, easily goaded into a fight, which you do not want for your daughter. She will not tiptoe around in fear of her father’s wrath.

He shakes his head, "no. I have not had the chance. I have been too preoccupied with a sword in my hand but-" He lifts his hands from the water, "I would never hurt her. Once I am dressed, I would like to try...under your guidance of course."

“I can show you what to do.” You nod and turn back to your work. The cauldron is one your parents had cooked in all your life and it’s a comfort to know you will cook your own daughter’s meals in them. You bite your lip and move over to the meat hanging in the corner and cut down a larger chunk than you normally would, knowing Pero eats a lot. “She is still just taking my breast to eat.” You warn him.

He hates that his cock twitches at the thought of his child suckling on your breast and that makes him fluster slightly as he continues washing himself. “Would you mind cutting my hair?” He asks, his hair starting to get in his face.

It is almost instinctual to hiss at him to do it himself, but you need to temper your tongue. “Let me get the stew started and I will.” You nod, bringing the hunk of rabbit meat over to chop up for the meal.

He can see your back tense and he knows you are unhappy with him being here but he has a child and he can’t walk away. Not yet anyway. He sighs and continues washing while you work on preparing dinner.

Once the heavy pot is swung over the fire in the hearth, you cut up the remainder of your loaf of bread. Sighing softly when you realize you will have to bake more. “Did you find the black powder?” You had been swayed by the thought of the prize, but you could not risk your daughter once you realized you had missed your monthly.

Pero scoffs, unable to help himself. “I did. I- I was a fool. I tried to sneak it out from the wall with someone and he - well, he was a snake. I ended up in shackles but William saved me. I left with my life.” he shutters as he remembers the monsters and how he was nearly killed in the fight before he left the wall.

You snort. “You have always been greedy.” You muse. “It is nice to know that some things have not changed.” You move over to the trunk at the end of your bed, behind the screen and the leather straps of the hinge creak. Inside are some clothes that your father had. You wear them at times when you are lonely, but if you know Pero, he has no clean clothes. You also pull out the shears that you use when you are sewing and clothes from the trunk. “Are you ready to cut your hair?”

He nods, knowing it's matted and itchy from not stopping after he arrived back from the east. He desperately wants to feel clean and trim his beard. Despite a harsh life on the road, he actually prefers to be clean. And fed. “Yes, princesa.” He says as you come back over with the shears.

You roll your eyes, but he doesn’t see that since you’ve already taken position behind him. “It looks like you did not cut your hair at all.” You grunt, starting to cut off large chunks of his hair.

Pero sighs, closing his eyes, “I got a haircut at the wall but I wanted to find you when I got on that ship. I didn’t care about my hair or clothes. All I wanted to do was find you.” He confesses softly, thankful you’re behind him so you can’t see his face.

“Why?” You frown. “You hated me, but you wanted to find me? It does not make sense. Did William put you up to this?” Your fingers still, tangling in his hair and you wonder if the man had been sent to you by his friend for some reason. William liked to tease you that Pero was charmed by you, even though he had nothing but contempt for you unless he was fucking you.

Pero flexes his fingers, his heart in his throat as clumps of hair flutter to the floor. “I never hated you.” He confesses, “you annoyed me. Frustrated me with your inability to listen and be fucking sensible. But I never hated you. I liked the way you’d spit at me, made my cock hard. I like the way you don’t take my shit. I- mierda. You know I’m not good at this kind of thing.” He shakes his head and opens his eyes, wishing he could see your face.

You are unsure of what he means. He's not good at talking to women? The women who like the dark looks of him have always been a bolder sort and you would watch him charm and flirt shamelessly when he thought you were a man. You were a woman who liked the look of him. Starting to cut his hair again, you swallow harshly. “I didn’t hate you.” You promise. “You seemed to not want anything to do with me unless you were inside me, so I would make you work for it.”

Pero sighs softly, knowing that your fighting was vicious but he never saw the vitriol in your eyes. “You spit venom at me as soon as I discovered you were a woman. It’s not my fault I came to the stream for a piss onto to find you naked and washing yourself. Princesa, I liked the fact that you stood up for yourself. I liked fighting with you because that was the only time you’d talk to me.” He confesses softly, “you’d speak to the Irishman but you wouldn’t even look at me unless it was to fire scathing words in my direction.”

“You made me nervous.” You admit with a rueful sense of irony. “You were handsome and quick, I thought I would be thrown out of your party. I would have been if those bandits had not attacked.”

Pero shakes his head, “I can’t believe…well, that’s history now. I’m here and you’re here and we have a child. I want to be there for her, princesa. I want to be her father if you’ll allow me the chance.” He declares and you pause cutting his hair, making his heart pound in his chest.

“You might not like being a father.” You remind him practically. “You sell your sword and travel. It is no life for a child.”

“I have sold my sword since I was ten and three years old. I do not wish to do it anymore. I’m old. That’s why I wanted to find you. The battle in the east…I was nearly killed several times. I’m exhausted, princesa. I don’t want to fight anymore.” He confesses wearily, “I have enough coins to see out the rest of my life.” He admits, knowing his satchel is full of coins and nothing else. “Do you wish for me to go?” He asks, not wanting to force himself on you.

Running your fingers through his hair, you sigh. “I will not turn you away.” You promise. “I know you will probably build a house, find a wife even though you say you don’t want one, but you can stay here until you decide.”

He nods, knowing you won’t want him to stay too long and he doesn’t answer you as you start to wash his hair with the soap and water you have next to the tub.

“Winter will be setting in soon.” You tell him softly. “I’ve got to put up the rest of the vegetables from the garden and run my traps.” You grin. “The tanner is supposed to come by and get the latest skins.”

“You are incredible, hermosa.” He compliments you, unable to stop himself. “You have done well on your own, especially with a child.” He says and tilts his head so you can wash his hair. “Whatever you want help with, let me know.” He orders and closes his eyes.

“Rest for now.” You murmur. “I know the journey was a long one. You have to be tired.” You had been exhausted after your own trip home and you had not even gone as far as he had. “Then I will order you around.”

He chuckles, keeping his eyes closed as he relaxes in the tub. He has to cut his beard and shave but for now, he rests knowing he’s found you and he isn’t fighting for his life.

Pero falls asleep in the bath. You’ve heard jokes about it, but you have never seen someone fall asleep until now. He starts to softly snore after you finish washing his hair and you decide to leave him there. Getting up from the side of the tub where you were kneeling and moving over to the fire to stir the stew before you take his clothes outside to soak. The clean ones are near his drying cloth and he will see them when he wakes up.

When he wakes up, the sun has set and the fire is going. The water he’s sitting in is cold and his toes are pruned but he wakes up feeling relaxed and safe. Something he hasn’t felt for so long. He grunts and looks around to find you cradling the baby, the pot of stew cooking and he rubs his cheek.

“There’s going to be a man’s voice.” You murmur softly. “He can be gruff, but he won’t hurt you.” You would never let him hurt her even if he wanted to. “He is your papa. The reason you are here.” Your daughter gurgles at you, waving a small fist and you laugh quietly. “I love you so much.”

Pero listens to you, his heart fluttering, and he bites his lip, wondering how he’s going to be a father to the little girl. He’s never even held a child before. He stands up, cold water dripping off of him, and he reaches for the sheet to dry off before he dresses in the dry clothes you left out for him.

You hear Pero and you look up from where you are sitting on your bed. You can’t see properly beyond the screen, but you can imagine. “Are you dressed?” You ask after a moment, wanting to give him privacy.

He works fast and says, “yes. I’m dressed.” His feet are bare and he slowly pokes his head around the screen. “How is she?” He asks, his voice soft and he’s nervous, hoping you will let him hold his daughter for the first time.

“She’s perfect.” You promise, smiling down at her again when she makes a happy noise. “I have changed her. So she is all dry and she’s in a mood to be entertained.” You look up at Pero to see the longing on his face. “Do you want to sit at the table and hold her while I finish cooking our meal?” You offer.

He nods, eager to hold his child, and he makes his way over to the table. He pulls the chair out and sits down, his heart already pounding in his chest as he looks towards you as you carry the baby over to him. “How - how do I-?” He asks awkwardly, unsure and not wanting to hurt her.

It would be amusing, since this is the first time you’ve ever seen the Spaniard panic, but you know his concern is for your daughter. “Hold her neck with the back of your hand, like this.” You shift her and hold her where she can look up at you. “And hold her bottom”

He nods, his palms a little sweaty as he wipes them on his pants before he holds his hands out and you gently place her in his hands, helping him position her. He inhales sharply when you step back and he gets a good look at his daughter for the first time. He takes a moment and then he’s smiling. “Hola mija, soy tu papá.” He introduces himself softly and she coos, making his heart swell.

There have been plenty of times that you cursed Pero. Especially when you were in labor and pushing her out of your body. Now, you feel like you are about to cry from the simple beauty of watching him with his daughter. “Her name is Oriana.” You tell him softly.

He mouths it at first, watching her squirm slightly before she relaxes into his touch, “Oriana.” He coos, unable to stop himself as he leans down to kiss her forehead. “She’s beautiful. You- you are so strong, princesa. Bringing your daughter into the world alone.” He murmurs in awe, knowing he can’t say his daughter when he wasn’t here.

“I grew her for months, pushed her out of my body and she looks just like you.” You snort, shaking your head. “She gets this fierce scowl on her tiny face that is just like yours. And she has your eyes. Staring through me.”

Pero stares into her eyes, her eyelashes fluttering as she watches him, and he can’t stop smiling but he manages to glance over at you, “I’m sorry. The Tovar breeding is strong.” He confesses, knowing he looks like his father and his father before him. “We made her.” He murmurs in awe.

“We did.” You wish you could remember this moment forever. He looks completely enchanted with his daughter. “On the road to the East, you managed to create a legacy.”

“My only legacy.” He sighs, “I didn’t find the riches I fought my whole life for but I did find enough to provide a decent living. I want to provide for her, give you enough coins that you never have to worry.” He declares without taking his eyes off her.

“We will make sure she is cared for.” You promise, not wanting his coin. Watching him with your daughter has changed your view of him. Making you think that he could put down his sword and raise a family. Or at least raise a daughter. “She will inherit this house, the taxes are paid, and the root cellar is starting to be filled.” You smile. “Having her papa around will only be a boon.”

Pero looks over at you again as he gently cradles her, "you will allow me to stay?" He asks and you nod, "of course. But there are rules." He doesn't argue, knowing you are the one in control right now. He must adhere to your wishes so he can be with his daughter, "rules?"

You look at Pero, your brow arched seriously and you start to list off your terms. “You will not fight, either selling your sword or getting drunk and brawling in the tavern like a barbarian.” You start. “Babies cry, often in the middle of the night. You will not grumble or get agitated with her.” You smirk slightly, “you will have to learn to have patience.” Pero nods, and resists rolling his eyes. “Is that all?” He asks, making you shake your head. “No sex.” You tell him firmly. “There will be no sneaking into my bed and planting another child in my belly. You are here to be Oriana’s father and nothing more.”

Pero clenches his jaw for a second, reminded of your haughty nature but he reels himself in and nods, "of course, princesa." He won't argue, especially when his relationship with his daughter is on the line. "I no longer wish to sell my sword. I am too old. I expected to be killed before now. I nearly died on the wall. I will not mock God by putting my life on the line again."

Somehow, you believe him. You nod and sigh. “There is a sleeping loft, but the space is narrow and you will not fit comfortably.” You can tell him this now that you said there will be no fucking. “You will have to share my bed until we can decide how to proceed.

He doesn’t argue, knowing the effort will be futile when you are as stubborn as he is and he wouldn’t mind being able to help when Oriana cries in the middle of the night. He wants to be there for his daughter. He looks down at her and her eyes are sleepy, a yawn escaping her lips that makes him chuckle, and he’s content to hold her as she sleeps.

“She has been sleeping much of the time.” You explain. “As she grows, she will be more active.” You move over to the pot and stir the stew. “Supper is ready, do you want to put her down?”

He nods, cradling her, and he’s nervous but you watch as he shifts to stand up, keeping her in his hands as he carries her over to the cot and he gently sets her down on the sheet, watching her stretch out before she settles down, still asleep. He can’t help but stare at her, seeing your features in her, and she’s beautiful.

You laddle up big bowls of the stew to put on the table with the basket of bread, knowing he will be starving. “I have some ale, or water to drink.” You offer.

Pero knows he shouldn’t drink, especially around the babe, so he says “water, princesa. Thank you.” He groans at the smell of the stew. It’s the first proper meal he’s had since he left the wall. “It smells delicious.” He murmurs, watching as you sit down with two cups of water in hand.

“There is plenty.” You promise him. “We don’t have to be as stingy with our rations as when we were traveling.” You snort to yourself and push his bowl towards him. “Eat. I know you are hungry.”

He picks up the spoon and digs in. He knows he looks ravenous but he’s been on the road far too long and he hasn’t had a proper meal during his journey to find you. He’s hunted and foraged but didn’t allow himself the luxury of an inn during his quest to find the woman who left him on her horse. “It’s delicious.” He confirms when he finally comes up for air.

It’s impressive that he managed to eat so much in so little time. You’ve barely eaten a portion of yours and you stand to pour him up some more. “I’m glad you like it. Cooking on the road when you stop to rest your horses for the night is never tasty, just filling.”

Pero nods, “exactly. I hunted and cooked to survive. My only goal was to find you.” He reveals, his eyes focused on you as you set his bowl down in front of him.

“Why?” That is the part that confuses you the most. He didn’t hate you - you now know - but Pero is not a man who enjoys socializing with people. His main reason for searching for you has not been very clear, clouded by the knowledge now that he is a father.

He bites his lip as he sets his spoon down in the bowl, "I- I missed you." He confesses softly, "I wanted to find you because...apart from William, you are the only person I've felt a connection to in between the killings and the chaos. I missed you." He states plainly, hoping you don't laugh in his face.

Your eyes widen slightly and you bite your own lip. Trying to rationalize that knowledge from what you had thought you knew about Pero Tovar. “I never thought I would see you again.” You confess, reaching out and touching his hand. “I cried as I rode away from you and William, but I thought it was the best thing for me, for our child.”

He can’t argue with that. “It was. Now that I know the truth, you made the right choice. If you had come with us and been with child during…I would’ve killed every monster, man, and being that came near you.” He promises, his eyes flashing as they meet yours. He would have been feral to protect you and the babe in your belly. He squeezes your hand, “you made the right choice, hermosa.”

“Monster?” You frown and tilt your head, unsure of what he means. “What happened on that wall?” You demand softly.

He closes his eyes as the memories flash past his eyes, “they - when we arrived…we were after the black powder but they attacked. Only William and I survived. They attack every sixty years. The Tao Tei. Fucking beings from beyond and they are vicious. We fought them and nearly died before we - us and an Englishman - made a plan to steal the powder. William, he changed his mind and I knocked him unconscious before we left with the powder. The English bastard betrayed me and left me for dead but I was found and arrested. William - he left to fight in the capital and for helping them win, he was offered the powder but requested my release instead. After I was freed, he decided to stay with his love and I came back to find you.” He tells the story solemnly and slowly, brow furrowed as he relives it.

Your eyes have widened as you try to imagine what he went through, mouth slightly opened. He could have died, probably should have if God had not intervened. “I see what you mean by not testing God.” You murmur slightly, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. “I- I am glad you didn’t not die. Either by the monsters or by a hanging noose.”

Pero inhales deeply, looking down at your hand, “I have learned many things but the biggest lesson was to not let go of something you love and that is why I had to find you. Even if you sent me away. I just wanted to see you again.” He confesses, knowing his gruff nature has been pushed aside to allow him to be vulnerable.

“You love me?” Your brow furrows, but you don’t pull away. “Pero- I- you love me?” You never would have imagined that. You cared for him, but you never imagined that he held a fraction of the affection for you beyond physical that you had for him. “Are you sure? I was a bitch to you.”

He bites his lip before he answers, “and I was a bastard to you. I watched you. Far more than should have been appropriate but you are so strong and - and unbelievably smart. You held your own against men in battle and you never wavered in your fight. You fought me verbally but that made me like you more. You weren’t scared of me. For my entire life…since I was given this scar as a child by my father who was drunk and furious that I stepped between him and my mother when he wanted to hit her…people have been afraid of me but not you. You weren’t scared to fight me and I love that. You are strong and beautiful and - and you’ve proven how incredible you are to bring our daughter into the world alone. I love you. Even if you do not return my feelings, I will always love you.”

“I love you.” You know that there is still so much to be uncertain about in this life, but there are never any guarantees. He never hurt you, he pushed you mentally and verbally, but he never hurt you. He’s not a drunkard, even though you’ve seen him drunk. If you can trust him with your daughter, you can trust him with your heart.

He inhales sharply at your confession, certain that you would reject him and laugh in his face, and he swallows harshly, lifting your hand up to his lips so he can softly place a kiss on the back of it. “Then allow me to be the man I should’ve been from the beginning.” He requests as he lowers your hand.

“What man is that?” You ask, curious to see if there is more to Pero than just the gruff and fierce mercenary. You’ve seen glimpses of it with your daughter but you never expected it towards you.

Pero looks down at the wood grain in the table that your father likely made. “I- I want to be the father I wish I had. I want to be the partner I wish my mother had. A good man. An honest man. I want to be a family man and not sell my sword to survive. When I was in my cot on the wall, I imagined being able to die warm in bed knowing I am leaving behind people who will cry for my death. To know that I loved and was loved.” He admits and his dark eyes glaze over and he avoids looking at you.

“Your daughter will grow up to love you.” You predict softly, your heart clenching and raw for the yearning you hear in his voice. “And I will be right beside you. If that’s what you want.”

Pero’s eyes flick up to you and his mouth drops in shock. He never imagined you’d be by his side, that you’d feel the same way. “I do. So much.” He promises and he can’t help but smile softly. You stand up and walk around the table, shifting to sit in his lap and you lean in to nudge your nose against his. He reaches up to cup your cheek and you lean closer, pressing your lips to his. His heart is pounding in his chest and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.

You have just given him rules and you know that you will break them. You want to break them. They were for when you thought he didn’t love you and only wanted your body for release. Sinking your fingers into his hair, you moan softly into his mouth, not even able to remember if you’ve ever kissed before.

Pero has never kissed you and his mouth is gentle before he turns ravenous, his tongue sliding into your mouth. He moans into your mouth when you eagerly slide your tongue against his and he loves the hungry you return. His cock twitches in his pants but he doesn’t push for more, content to kiss you.

Eventually, you pull away, gasping for air as you stare at him. Chest heaving and your core is soaked because of how sexy that kiss is, how your entire body responds to Pero. Apparently you’ve both been fools but you don’t want to be anymore. “I have changed my mind.” You hum quietly. “I want to have you between my thighs when we go to bed tonight.”

Pero frowns at you, “are you sure?” He doesn’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do. You nod and he groans, his hand sliding from your waist to your ass, “I missed you and I missed your body. Imagined you several times with my fist around my cock.” He confesses, starting to harden beneath you.

“I have not taken anyone into my bed since you.” You admit, biting your lip. “Could you- can it be a little more gentle than normal?” You ask softly. “Since I have birthed our daughter, I do not know how I-“ you break off, embarrassed.

He slides his hand back up to your waist, “of course. I do not wish to take you like I would. I want to show you how I feel about you, hermosa.” He murmurs, tilting his head to press a soft kiss to your jaw.

“Finish your food.” You kiss his lips and smirk slightly. “We will go to bed early so we have plenty of time before our daughter wakes up.”

He nods and you shift to move away but he keeps his arm around your waist. “Stay here, princesa. I want to hold you.” He demands, picking up his spoon and he starts to eat, even faster than before in his eagerness to have you again.

You hum and wrap yourself around him. “You always eat with a hunger I admire.” You chuckle. “Like someone is going to steal it if you look away.”

Pero snorts after he finishes his bite, “because my entire life has been someone attempting to steal food from me. I’ve had to fight for everything I have.” He confesses, “perhaps…being in your home will allow me to relax and enjoy my food.” He admits and takes another bite, slower than before.

“We will have to work for our food, but the village is peaceful. As long as the garden is prosperous and the hunting good, we will not be hungry.” You promise. Your life has been different from his, you have not had to fight for survival. “But if you are to stay, then this will be your home as well.”

Pero caresses your back, “I understand. I know that we will still struggle but I will never let you go hungry. I’ll work hard to provide a life for you and our daughter.” He promises and leans in to nudge his nose with yours, his empty bowl pushed aside as he focuses on you.

You smile and caress his cheek, your fingers running through the thick beard he hasn’t trimmed yet. “Do you want to bank the fire and I will get ready for bed?”

He nods, leaning in to kiss your chin before you shift off his lap. He takes the bowl and carries it over to the bucket of water to rinse it. “Go get ready for bed, hermosa.” He orders and he walks over to the fire to handle it before he retires to your bed for the night. He takes his time and gives you some space, his stomach twisting and he’s nervous. This isn’t some romp under some blankets in the middle of nowhere. This is your home. Your bed. This is love and comfort.

You check Oriana and tuck her in a little more snuggly, “goodnight sweetheart.” You whisper before you start to undress. You untie your skirt and let it drop before you step out of it and hang it on a peg that had been driven onto the wall to hang your clothes. You wonder if Pero will be disappointed in your cunt now that you’ve given birth. It’s not like you had talked to many about the intimacies in a marriage. Waiting for him after you pull off your shift and slide under the covers nude.

He walks behind the screen to find you under the sheets and his heart is pounding in his chest. He’s nervous and that’s an unusual emotion for Tovar. He reaches for his shirt, pulling it over his head before he walks over to the bed. He doesn’t pull the covers away and he shifts to kneel on the bed above you. “You are so beautiful.” He murmurs, leaning in to kiss you softly.

You accept his kiss and his praise, your cheeks heating up. “It feels so strange we are not clawing at each other.” You admit with a sheepish grin when he pulls back, your hand sliding down his chest. “But I feel like this will be special for us.”

Pero smiles and he twitches in his pants, his cock hardening, “I think so too. I want it to be.” He murmurs and leans in to kiss you again as he shifts to lay down beside you. “I want you, hermosa. I want you to be mine. I always wanted you to be mine.” His hand slides along your side.

“I want that too.” You promise, reaching for the laces on his breeches. “I want you to be mine too. We will have and protect each other. Love each other. Pleasure each other.”

Pero pulls the cover down and he inhales sharply at the sight of your body. He groans and leans in to kiss you, kissing along your neck, and he caresses your waist, sliding his hand up until he’s cupping your breast.

This is so much different from the hurried, rough fucks you had while you were traveling together. His touch is gentle, like he has all the time in the world. You lean into the kiss, moaning softly.

He slides his tongue against yours, his cock aching in his breeches as you reach in to take it out and he groans, loving the way your fingers feel wrapped around his cock. “Princesa.” He whines and pushes your hand away, “let me taste you. I’ve never tasted you.”

You smirk slightly and squeeze him softly. Humming when you feel him twitch in your hand. “You know how?” You ask playfully, throwing him a doubtful look. “Eating a cunt isn’t like eating a bowl of stew.”

He smirks, “my first lover. She was a whore that my friend paid for. She spent three days with me. Took my innocence and showed me how to pleasure a woman. She showed me how to taste a woman.” He confesses as he pushes your hand away and he kisses down your stomach as he shifts to lay between your legs.

You bite your lip and look down between your thighs. “You look good there.” You moan, spreading your legs wider and wait to feel his tongue against your cunt. For all your bravado, you’ve never had a man do this for you.

His beard is long and brushes your thighs as he pushes them further apart to accommodate his broad shoulders. He leans in, his dark eyes focused on you as he parts your folds with his thumbs and slides his tongue through your soaking slit. He groans as the taste of your tangy arousal hits his tastebuds and he flicks the tip of his tongue over your clit.

Your eyes close and your head flops back down onto the pillow. “Pero.” You moan softly, not wanting to wake the baby, but you can be louder than a whisper now that you aren’t surrounded by sleeping men. “Oh fuck.”

He loves hearing your moan and it spurs him on. He slides his hands to your thighs, pushing them further back as he laps at your cunt, his nose nestled into the curls above your clit that he sucks on, making your chest heave.

The small cottage is still pretty well lit from the banked fire, the coals giving the open space a cozy glow that radiates beyond the screen. The door is barred and the baby is asleep. It’s the perfect moment and your own hands cup your breasts tenderly, careful not to squeeze so you don’t cover yourself in milk. They are bigger than the last time he had seen them.

He’s determined to show you how he feels about you, to show you that the venom he spat your way was his defense and not your fault. He wants to make you feel loved so he pushes his tongue deep and nudges your clit with his nose, starved for your whimpers and moans as the cabin glows around him.

Your hands slide down and tangle into his hair, rocking your hips up in pleasure. “Pero, oh god.” You whine. “This is- it is fantastic.”

He’s pleased you are enjoying his pleasure and he groans, his hard cock pressing into the mattress and he hisses at the way you tug on his freshly cut hair. He buries his face in your cunt, not caring about the need to breathe when his aim is to make you fall apart for him.

The pleasure coiling in your belly suddenly snaps. It’s so different from when he is pounding into you and making your knees weak with the force of his thrusts. It’s still powerful, making your hips rock up and your throaty cry rips from your throat. “Pero!”

He loves the way you cry out for him, making his cock throb, and he hisses when you squeeze his head between your thighs. He loves it. He loves you. He moans and works you through it until your grip loosens and you relax beneath him. “So beautiful.” He murmurs, kissing along your thighs as you inhale deeply.

Your body is humming pleasantly and you would want to go to sleep any other time, but you miss the feeling of him inside you. “Come here.” You tug on his hair lightly and kiss his lips, not caring that you can taste yourself on them. “I want-“ you push him away and onto his back. “Let me ride you this time.”

He looks up at you as you straddle him and he’s in awe of you. You’re so strong, so capable. You’ve survived on your own without him, giving birth and having your daughter, and he is honored that you’re not pushing him away. He loves you. His hands caress your waist as you settle on top of him, his cock pressed against your pelvis as you lean down to kiss him.

Your lips are pressed to his, moaning softly as you reach between you and wrap your fingers around his cock as you start to lift your hips. You want to keep kissing him, never want to stop, as you line him up and start to slowly take him inside you. His groan being pushed into your mouth is sexy and you give it right back to him.

He groans into your mouth again as you sink down onto his cock, enveloping his cock in your warmth and he swears he has come home. Gone is the frantic fuck paired with hissed insults and in its place is soft love making and murmured words of affection. He wants this. He wants you.

There is a moment where you just need to feel him, stretching you out. It’s not painful, but it has been a long time since you’ve felt this particular stretch and it’s wonderful. Your eyes flutter closed again and you murmur his name.

He kisses your chin as you take a moment before you start to rock on top of him. Your body is hot pressing against his skin and he’s missed you so much. So many lonely nights during his travels to find you have led him to right now and he’s so grateful he found you. “Amor.” He murmurs, “you feel so good.”

“I love you.” You moan softly. “I love you Pero.” Your hands are braced on his chest and you slowly roll your hips, loving how deep he is in this position. “I want you to stay with me. I used to dream of it, you knowing about Oriana and being happy to be a father. Settled and content.” You admit softly. “That you loved me and now you are here.”

“I’m here.” He promises roughly, “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere, princesa. I’m here for you and our daughter. I love you. So much.” He vows hoarsely as he lets you take what you want from him.

You whimper and roll your hips. Leaning down and pressing a kiss to his lip again and moaning against them when he twitches inside you. “You are here.” You pant, nodding as you clench around him.

He caresses your back, “and I’m staying.” He promises, his hands sliding lower to squeeze your ass and he loves the way you moan again when he twitches inside you. “Take what you need, princesa. I’m yours.” He vows softly.

You love how gentle he is. This is a man who never wanted you to take charge of anything and yet he is letting you control his pleasure. “I will.” You promise, kissing him again and sitting up to start bouncing on his cock again.

He watches you in awe, your breasts bouncing as you ride him and his hands caress every inch of skin he can reach. His toes curl when you clench around him and he swears his heart is about to beat out of his chest.

You lean back, closing your eyes and moaning softly. “Fuck.” You whimper after you grind down on him even more. “You- god, you have such a good cock. Every time it feels so fucking good.”

You rest your hands on his knees and his dark eyes are black as he watches you, his gaze drifting down to watch where he disappears inside of you. “It’s your cunt. Tight and wet and hot.” He groans, his fingers digging into your hips.

“You have fucked so many others.” You know he has not been a celibate man. “I- you have been my only lover.” You confess breathlessly. “I do not know why I didn’t bleed our first time.”

He freezes under you, his eyes widening, “I was your first? And I- mierda. I’m a bastard.” He curses himself with a hiss, “I should’ve - why didn’t you say anything?” He demands to know, stopping your movements above him.

“Because I wanted you.” You admit, embarrassed because he looks so upset. “I did not think it would matter. You were not marrying me, and I did not want to give you more to boast about.”

He grips you and turns swiftly so you are beneath him, “I wouldn’t have fucked you in the middle of a forest against a tree if I knew it was your first time. I am many things but I am not an animal, hermosa. You should’ve told me. I would’ve - well, I probably wouldn’t have touched you. I didn’t deserve you. I still don’t. Let me show you how I should’ve touched you that first time.” He begs softly, nudging his nose against yours as he rests his weight on his elbows.

“I didn’t mind.” You remind him, reaching up and stroking his hair covered cheek. “It was our beginning, no matter how you would change it, I would not.” You tell him. “Because if you hadn’t touched me, our daughter wouldn’t be laying in her cradle. But show me how you would have taken me.”

He sighs, knowing he can’t change the past but he feels awful for how roughly he took your innocence. He presses his lips to yours as he starts to move, slowly rocking his hips to show you how he would’ve taken you. His lips are soft and his tongue caresses yours, his body covering yours as he makes love to you.

The pace is even slower than the one you set when you were riding him. Your legs hitch up onto his hips and you moan into his mouth. It’s almost torturous as his cock drags against your walls. Teasing you.

He groans, loving the way you feel beneath him, naked for the first time ever. "Hermosa, mi amor, you feel - it's like nothing I've ever experienced before." He murmurs, kissing along your jaw as he rocks into you.

“You- I love you.” You pant breathless, unable to think of anything else while he slowly breaks you apart. If the rough and harsh pace had satisfied you, this is making you melt into a puddle on the bed. Your cunt gushing around him every time he pushes slowly into your body.

He groans as he presses kisses to your jaw until he pauses, "I love you." He murmurs and he rocks into you. He grips your thigh and pushes it higher, rocking into you, and he hisses when you clench around him. "That's it, hermosa. Want to feel you fall apart for me."

You whine, nodding as he continues to push you closer with every thrust of his hips. Holding you close and making your body cry for that burst of pleasure until it happens. Your squeal is cut short, slapping your hand over your mouth so you don’t wake the baby as you come apart on his cock. 

He smothers your moan with his mouth after he quickly pulls his hand away from your lips so he can taste your cries against his tongue. You clamp down on his cock and he groans into your mouth, his cock twitching inside you as he gets closer. It’s been far too long without your body beneath his and paired with the newly confessed emotions between you, he’s closer than he’d usually be. He pants, his lips hovering against yours as he starts to feel his stomach clenching. He doesn’t know what you want so he pulls free of your warm cunt, his cock throbbing as he paints your mound and lower stomach with streaks of his hot seed.

You whimper, body shaking as he covers you in his seed. Thankful that he had been conscious of the possibility of getting you pregnant again. You hadn’t been thinking although the midwife had warned you that it was easy to do when you are nursing. You had dismissed the information because you hadn’t expected to see Pero again. “I love you.” You murmur softly as he pumps himself of the last drops.

He is cautious to not spread his seed over your skin as he leans in to kiss you, his heart thumping in his chest. “Te amo, princesa.” He exhales, shifting to lay beside you and he wraps his arm around you to pull you into his side. “We shall raise our daughter in love and warmth.” He promises, “and I will always protect you both.”

You know he will keep that promise. Pero Tovar has been many things. A liar, a thief and a killer, but now he is a father. He had done the impossible by surviving China and finding you. The rest of your lives will be much easier than that. Especially since neither one of you truly hates the other. It was just the aggressive form of love.

[rin-sith]

Finally, I am happy to present to you my ...

EPIC: THE MUSICAL | ACT I [Character Design project]

I have been working on these for a long time and I am very happy with how these turned out. I am a huge fan of visual character design and I simply needed to do a full lineup.

Act II will follow shortly (it is all done except for Ithaca Saga, which I will add as soon as it drops.) Please enjoy, and read below for some thoughts and background on some of my design choices!

TROY | CYCLOPS ft. Odysseus, Athena, Eurylochus, and Polites

With Odysseus, I really wanted to emphasize his free spirit in this era and mark him as Athena's warrior, so I gave him a special belt and some armbands that represent her (this was inspired by some of @mircsy's work). He also has heterochromia; his left eye is green, representing his cunning, wisdom, and spirit; his right eye is gray, representing his ruthlessness and warrior side.

I simply love Athena in purple/gold. Her mask is a symbol of her invulnerability and comes off only during "My Goodbye" when Odysseus tells her that she's alone. Her cape can also transform into wings, and her eyes are actually golden without the mask.

I had to give Eurylochus his large anime sword (it's just as heavy as it looks but he likes it that way because that means no one besides him is strong enough to wield it ... I imagine Eurylochus can bench press at least Odysseus' and Polites' weights combined. He and Polites are also wearing variants of Odysseus' armor, indicating that they belong to the same army.

Listen, I can vibe with Eurylochus' giant sword but I draw the line at Polites with glasses, sorry. He still gets the hairband, of course. He's also dressed more casually, and without a weapon, because of his pacifistic outlook. He's the physically weakest among the trio by far but also still an inch taller than Odysseus (it's fine, Odysseus is still like 5'10, his friends are just all so freaking tall...)

OCEAN ft. Aeolus, Poseidon, and Odysseus

Not gonna lie, I LOVED designing Aeolus' outfit. She's playful and mischievous and loves to hang out in the clouds all day; her outfit is probably made out of clouds let's be real. Also yes, her image on the windbag moves to make cheeky faces.

Poseidon I cannot imagine without tentacles anymore thanks to @gigizetz's "Ruthlessness", idk it just fits him so well. He definitely got all dressed up to go and sink Odysseus' fleet that day, he has a reputation, you know? And he just likes the shiny gold and accessories; the ocean is full of them so why wouldn't he?

Edit: I actually updated this design somewhat significantly; if you're interested in the current one, check here! He still has a tentacle/monster form, but it's not his only one.

Since breaking up with Athena, Odysseus lost her belt and armbands. He's still wearing her brooch because he couldn't bring himself to fully throw that away as well yet. Polites' hairband around his wrist reminds him of what he's fighting for and what to live by ... for now (Poseidon is about to ruin this man's whole career...)

CIRCE | UNDERWORLD ft. Circe, Hermes, and Tiresias

I wanted to give Circe the "witch" vibe while putting a Greek spin on it and I actually adore her design. She seems both immortally youthful (something I aim for with all my god designs) and motherly. There she was, gathering some herbs when a bunch of strangers crash onto her island ... Oh well, at least this man was a good man this time.

Hermes is kind of just Hermes. I wanted to keep him shaded, a bit impish, and definitely up to no good. He's wearing the contrasting colors on purpose, by the way. And yes, his hat can fly on its own ... But for it to do that he'd have to actually be willing to show his face which he seldom does unless he really trusts you.

Tiresias is a soul, so he has the same kind of ageless youth as all my gods (something that goes for souls of dead people too, since I like to think they get to appear at whatever age they want after death.) He's looking a bit regal since he's a prophet, so I imagine regarded highly, even in the Underworld. Instead of the blindfold, his hood covers his face, adorned with a symbolic eye to identify him and his skill.

***

Well, that's it for ACT I, friends, I hope you liked these! I will upload ACT II asap. Please comment and/or tell me your thoughts about my designs! And feel free to ask any questions you may have! I would love to talk more about these.

[diamonddaze01]

hi tara! if the prompt already hasnt been asked for, can i request 86 "Please just leave." with mingyu? thank you <3333 reading all the drabbles now hahahah

silence, at its loudest

pairing: mingyu x reader | wc: 1.1k prompt: "Please just leave." au: chef!mingyu | warnings: angst! and tears a/n: TIYA HELLO! thank you for this req it was so sad to write but i hope you love <3

The apartment was suffocatingly quiet for a fight. No music playing in the background, no rain against the windows to soften the edges of your words—just silence, heavy and dense, pressing against your chest, making it hard to breathe. Mingyu stood in the center of the living room, his coat still damp from the storm outside, water dripping from the fabric, leaving a faint puddle at his feet. His tall frame seemed out of place here, as if it didn’t belong in this small space, weighed down by the tension between you both.

You were perched on the couch, arms crossed tightly, a defensive shield you knew wouldn’t protect you from the pain of this conversation. You wanted to retreat into the softness of the cushions, to sink away from him, but you couldn’t move. You couldn’t look away, even as your chest tightened and the cold of the room seeped deeper into your skin.

“I don’t even understand what I did wrong!” His voice cracked, frustration and confusion lacing his words. He ran a hand through his damp hair, as if trying to shake the tension out of his mind. “I—I’m here, aren’t I? Why is that never enough for you?”

Your breath hitched, your heart pounding in your throat, but you didn’t back down. You couldn’t. The words you’d been holding back for so long finally broke free, raw and cutting. “It’s not just about you being here, Mingyu. It’s when you decide to show up. You don’t get to keep ignoring me until I’ve hit my limit, then think you can fix everything by standing in my living room and saying you care.”

He took a step forward, but his eyes were desperate, pleading for some sign that you still cared, that there was something left of the person he used to know. “I don’t understand. I’ve been working—working to build something, something for us! And when I’m finally here, you still—”

“You’re always working, Mingyu!” Your voice cracked under the weight of the frustration that had been building for months, maybe longer. “When was the last time you didn’t have your phone on you? When was the last time you didn’t cancel on me because ‘the restaurant’s short-staffed,’ or you just need to finish one last thing?” Your breath came out in short, shaky bursts. “You didn’t even call me back when you knew it was my birthday. That’s what hurts the most.”

The words hit him like a blow, a quick intake of air following the realization. His expression faltered, the first cracks appearing in his armor. “I... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah, you didn’t mean to,” you interrupted, voice soft but heavy with disappointment. “But it keeps happening, Mingyu. You keep doing it. You keep saying it’s not intentional, and then you walk through the door like everything’s fine, like you haven’t been neglecting me for weeks.”

He froze. The tension between you thickened, hanging in the air like smoke that wouldn’t dissipate. “I wasn’t ignoring you, okay? I was just trying to... I thought you’d understand. I thought you’d—”

“No, you didn’t think, Mingyu. You assumed,” you said, bitterness seeping into every syllable. “You assumed I’d be fine with it. You assumed I’d be okay with the empty promises, the unreturned messages, the way you disappear whenever things get hard. But I’m not fine. And I’m so tired of pretending that I am.”

His hands shook as he stepped toward you again, his voice breaking with a softness you hadn’t heard in months. “I’m sorry. I know I screwed up. But I’m here now. Let me make it right. I’ll... I’ll stay. I’ll be here for you. I’ll make things better.”

You shook your head, stepping back, distancing yourself both physically and emotionally. “That’s the problem, Mingyu. You think that just showing up, just being here in front of me, is enough to make everything better. But it’s not. It’s too late for that. I can’t just pretend like everything’s okay when it’s not.”

His eyes softened, and for a moment, the boy you fell for peeked through the cracks. The one who used to wait outside your office just to walk you home, who stayed up late to hear every mundane detail of your day, who never left you wondering where he was or if he cared. That version of him felt like a distant memory now, buried beneath layers of missed calls, broken promises, and unspoken words.

You could see it in his face—the hurt, the regret—but the distance between you both felt too wide to cross anymore. “Please... Don’t do this,” he whispered, stepping closer, his voice raw with emotion. “I need you. I need us.”

You swallowed, your throat tight with the weight of everything you wanted to say but couldn’t. “I can’t keep waiting for you to care when you decide it’s convenient for you, Mingyu. I can’t keep putting myself through this. I can’t keep pretending that it’s enough just because you’re here when it suits you.”

The silence stretched between you both, suffocating and heavy. His hand reached out, fingers trembling as if he wanted to hold you, to make things right, but he stopped himself. He knew, deep down, that it was too late. That the bridge between you had already collapsed, one small misstep at a time, until there was nothing left to salvage.

“Please just leave,” you said quietly, the words slipping from your lips like they didn’t even belong to you. They were heavy, final, like the last breath of something you once held dear.

His breath hitched, his chest tightening, but you didn’t look away. You couldn’t look away from the wreckage that was left between you both, and you knew that leaving now was the only way to preserve whatever was left of yourself.

He stood frozen, his hand still on the doorknob, his body shaking like he was fighting to say something, anything, to change the course of what was happening. But the words wouldn’t come. There was nothing left to say. The silence stretched until it became deafening.

With one last look, he stepped out, the door closing softly behind him. You stood there, motionless, listening to the sound of his footsteps fade away into the distance, swallowed by the rain and the night.

The apartment was cold now, emptier than it had ever been, the silence louder than any argument. And when you finally exhaled, it was like the breath you’d been holding for so long had escaped—too late, but finally out.

But the ache in your chest remained.

send me an ask for my drabble game!

[revelboo]

It’s already out on digital! Instant purchase 🤣 I know what I’m doing on my birthday Saturday- rewatching this and assembling TF models

It Had to Be You Pt 7

TFO Megatron x Reader

• Grip tightening as his servos tremble with the exertion of mass displacement, it’s almost like a gift when you stop trying to shove him away. When your breathing hitches and you relax that tiny bit against him. Submitting to his touch and resting your cheek against his chest. Internal systems rumbling, he runs his servos through your hair and down to cup your nape. Those little hands still on him, but not pushing weakly at him. Not clinging to him the way he’s gripping you, either. Venting raggedly, he just enjoys this victory.

• That unwanted feeling of rightness spills through you in a warm wave. Coaxing you to just give in to whatever this is and stop fighting so hard. And you want to even as you hate yourself for it. Don’t want being held like this to feel achingly like coming home. For your fingers to itch to reach up and smooth the furrow you can just see under the severe angle of his helm, because that impulse is dangerous. That familiarity.

• Servos delving into your hair, tangling there to keep you from trying to pull away, he feels a tension he’s carried for so long it’s just become a part of him easing just a bit. Soon enough, you’ll snap out of your surprise and start fighting him again, but for now everything feels right. And, truth be told, he does enjoy watching you struggle. Seeing those eyes flashing with anger at him. So small, but fierce despite knowing you can’t win. Despite knowing you belong to him.

• He doesn’t have a heartbeat, but there’s a steady thrum inside him that you can feel like a sweet, ache deep in your own bones where you’re pressed against him. The hand pressed to his chassis shifts, fingers sliding up toward the center of his chest. Seeking out that sensation pulling at you. And his free hand seizes your wrist before you can get close, his grip firm but surprisingly gentle. Still enough to snap you out of whatever that was. Your eyes dart up to his and you’re snared again in the red stare. He’s not angry, though. This expression you haven’t seen before, but it’s hungry and it sparks through you.

• He slides a servo against the palm of that soft hand, his hide still humming from the feel of your fingers gliding over him. Exploring. It’s too intimate. Doing things to his spark that are alarming and intoxicating. Like wonder what those little hands would feel like roaming all over him. If you’re that soft everywhere. You tug at your trapped wrist, face reddening as your eyes drop and he uses those servos tangled in your hair to force your head back. Hearing the startled noise that more surprise than actual discomfort as your lips part. Dangerous, obscene things run through his processor and the servos on your wrist tighten. Just a taste can’t hurt. Just a touch to put an end to this madness. This obsession.

• You can’t pull away with his hand fisted in your hair and panic and heat both trip through you. Wanting to get away. Needing more. His mouth claims yours, warm living, malleable metal moving against yours in a kiss. And your wrist is free as that other arm curls around you to keep you pinned to him. His glossa slides against the seam of your mouth, demanding you yield to him. Submit. It’s the feel of that big hand sliding down to cup your butt and press you more firmly to him, hips pinned to his that makes you gasp so he can take advantage. This isn’t a kiss, it’s a domination. A conquest. Especially as he rocks himself against you and you sink your fingers into the seams of his armor, arching into his warm frame.

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[daylighted]

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ one more minute, it all burns down / they're all telling us to get out / ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤyou and i / we keep living in a burning house . . .

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤSIREN SOUNDS.

summary it's been dying for a while, hasn't it? but it's comfortable, it's familiar; the flames licking at your skin and sinking its teeth into your heart is as much of a home, now, as dean's love used to beㅤㅤㅤwarnings sadㅤㅤㅤnow playing siren sounds, tate mcrae

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤdean winchester x gf!reader.

sorry didn't cut it anymore. it didn't solve the gnawing ache in the center of your chest, festering more and more with every unresolved fight and every ignored red flag.

he was different now, dean. so long ago, he loved you shamelessly. he poured all of the love inside of him into you because he wasn't capable then, either, of sparing any expense for himself.

dean held your hand. he kissed each of your knuckles twice, in case the first that he did forgot the tenderness. he gave you his jacket when you were cold. he hugged you from behind, chin in your shoulder, eyes closed so he could properly breathe you in.

now, it was lucky for either of you to go a day without fighting. always something stupid, always something that felt earth shattering in the moment but could have been resolved if the love was put away, and not left out to rot.

you've been together long enough to know the patterns. he says things he doesn't mean, his anger like fire in his eyes, burning and dismantling and lighting every single match inside of you that you'd been trying to swallow down. you throw his flaws in his face, those same little details once being building blocks to the love you felt for him. but it was all broken, now; pieces strewn about and crackling with the flames of your decimating relationship.

"fix this!" you'd yell it, scream it until your throat was raw. it was easier to blame him with all of the guilt he already carried like lead weights on his shoulders. it was easier to ignore the fact that he didn't seem to want to fix this when you hid it beneath your desperation to not lose him. not dean.

there are easier ways to fix something broken. fixing is repairing, not tearing it apart to make something anew. the shards were everywhere at your disposal, and yet you kicked them back and forth between each other. you blame him; he blames you to downplay all of the guilt he feels for it.

either way, the fight ends with you both entangled in his sheets, nothing resolved but at least the fire went somewhere. the next day would be the same. a dying fire was so easy to bring to life again when you had so many matches in your throat, so many weapons to wield and no armor to protect your chipping resolve.

dean winchester did not talk feelings. he deflected them, buried them, swallowed them. he did anything he could to avoid the fact that all he knew was crumbling, and he was partial for the blame.

you were too alike, you and him. sam used to watch you two with a cautious gleam in his eye, like he knew that the passion would eventually crumble into bitter tension. how many times in the beginning did you both threaten to leave? how many times did you come back, and suddenly the words i'm done and i'm leaving lack any meaning?

it wasn't always like this — it wasn't. the fight was inevitable but you both lingered in the ashy remains of your crumbling home for a reason.

dean watched you in the mornings when he woke up before you, if he even slept. he'd trace his fingers along your cheekbone and marvel at the sweetness of your expression, how unmarred by the damage he couldn't help but cause. he'd kiss your cheek every time you came into a room or he was leaving. he knew your favorite foods by heart, knew which wine to buy when he went on a run. he still smiles when you laugh, even if he makes sure his back is turned away and you can't see it.

it's comfortable, lashing out. dean keeps thinking that if he does it enough, it'll all fall apart on its own, and he won't have to keep carrying the fact that he had too much wrong with him now to deserve you how you were.

people change. they evolve. they crumble. they rise again. the newest version of dean was not someone that he wanted you to be stuck with. he did not understand or consider the fact that your love was a conscious action of commitment, and something that you didn't feel stuck in.

dean would never understand that you'd pick him, over and over again. but he wasn't capable of letting you go. he'd let himself get weak around you, and now that the hurt of the world had creeped in when his walls were down, he managed to somehow seal you out when he rebuilt them, and he didn't trust himself enough to open the door and let you in.

so your relationship burned. a flame that never died, an ache that never dulled, something precious left to rot. the fire would just have to take the both of you out; neither of you were leaving, out of fear the other would stick around to try and put it out — even if the both of you, at this point, already had one foot out the door anyways.

notes. "dahLiA WHy dID u wrITe THIs" IDK!!!! bc i'm sad !!!! ceo of tate mcrae bc this song dropped like two hours ago tops & here i am on my bullshit. anyways sorry 4 this also new format !? word up

tags. @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @honeyryewhiskey @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @theosaurous @stereotypicalbarbie @whyyouegg @eepwtf @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @aileenunfiltered @abox-of-rocks @sunsbaby @bluemerakis @jollyhunter @misatxox @sunsettsam @angelblqde @bombarda-babe @unfortunate-brat @funkycoloured @chevroletdean @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @voidsuites @bitchykittenconnoisseur @beausling @soldiersgirl @dulcescorderitas @hyacinnths @couturewinx @blushpinkdoll @mccartneyqp @svbnra @angelicalm3ss @nperoconelcositoarriba

[moodymisty]

Author’s note: This entire idea belongs to @bispecsual , who snapped my ass like Thanos with it at 3am. My eyes might’ve been burning, but I saw the light with this message.

Relationships: unnamed Lamenter/Gn!Reader

Warnings: You could say it’s a lilllll lewd, Blood/vampire kink stuff, Bruising

He looks so large even without his armor. He’s managed to find a moment of time to spend with you now that his round of duty is over, though he had to wake you up to do it. You don’t mind, but you can tell in his face that there’s something gnawing at him.

“You’re hungry,” You suddenly blurt out, looking up at him. He looks at you and his eyebrows raise with surprise, but he doesn’t deny it. He looks away briefly when you offer yourself once again.

“I’ve waited longer, I won’t so soon after the last time.”

You shift under the blankets to look more towards him.

“You don’t have to wait, it’s fine.”

He’s beating himself up in his head, you can tell. Berating his lack of restraint. You know from experience he fights it until he’s right at the edge of the cliff, and only then does he dare to ask. But you feel fine, and helping him is the least you can do. The Lamenters have done so much for you; He’s done so much for you.

“I’m fine. If you need it, take it.”

It seems the battle in his mind only concludes with your gentle insistence, and he moves closer to you. You watch as he slowly crawls onto the bed and his hand presses down by your shoulder. His gaze is intense and you can’t help but look away, exposing your neck at the same time.

He can see the little marks where he bit the last time, on their last few days of healing. As he leans in his hot breath brushes over them, as does his lips. He hesitates for a moment, and you think he might pull away, before he finally sinks his teeth in right below your ear.

The blanket shifts up your bare legs to your hips as your legs kick, landing just below your underwear. His knee presses down between your thighs precariously close to their apex.

His teeth shift in your neck and your fingers tighten on his shoulder from the twinge of pain, but his weight holds your upper body completely still. He doesn’t want you to move even an inch and risk hurting you.

You swear you can hear his hearts, his tongue lapping against your neck and wiping away the tiny beads of blood before he moves to bite again at your collarbone.

It tastes incredible. He’s been starving, his last mission ran him ragged, in his armor for 2 weeks with barely any rest, and your blood is like the finest wine. He’s never tasted wine, but he supposes must taste incredible, as your tone of voice had implied.

His eyes want to close, he wants to get lost in its but he knows he has to stop. It’s still so soon after the last time he bit you, he know he can only take enough to satisfy him for now. So that gnawing can finally get shoved to the back of his mind just for a little while.

You’ve already been so generous, he doesn’t want to wear it out. To take advantage of your rare kindness. He pulls away sees the bruising wounds of your neck, as he glances down at your inner thigh. He sees the fading marks of bites there, where he thought they’d cause you less pain. It caused something else however, and he vows not to do so again unless he can fulfill you afterwards.

He slowly lowers again until his head lays against your chest. Your fingers wrap in the short, messy chop of his hair. Your eyes are closed, but you still talk to him.

“I’m fine,” You whisper, knowing why he’s doing this. The assurance that you’re still alive and well. That he didn’t go too far this time. But sometimes you wonder if he’s becoming unhealthily attached to you. He depends on you in a way oddly enough; With his curse gnawing at him like a never-ending sickness. He’s implied before that his superiors might do something about it if he can’t keep it under control. If this saves him, then you’ll do whatever you can to protect him mentally while he physically protects you.

Because you’re the only thing that cures him; Your blood satiates the hunger and your presence makes him feel alive. The warmth of your skin against his own. The sound of your heartbeat fills him with relief that you’re fine, he didn’t lose himself for a moment.

“How can I repay you for your kindness?” He speaks quietly. You laugh.

“You don’t have to do anything.” He leans close to you and you can feel his nose barely brush against your own.

“I should. There are not many who would willingly give their blood to feed the Red Thirst.” You smile and your hand lands on the scarred skin of his arm.

“I don’t mind, as long as it’s you.”

A brief moment crosses his mind at the idea of another Lamenter biting your neck- of being this close to you. His hand clenches just a bit before he swallows that feeling of rage and leans just that little bit closer to you, pressing his lips to yours.

You lean into him, ignoring the ache in your neck and tasting iron on his lips.

[animezinglife]

Girl Dad Cassian Headcanons

Cassian is the classic dad in which the response to, "Your daughter got in a fight today," is, "Did she win?" Nesta pretends to be annoyed, but is secretly proud to learn that their daughter did in fact win the fight. Cassian calls her on it.

Elain comments on how beautiful and intricate her young niece's braided hairstyle is and tells Nesta she had no idea she could braid hair like that. Nesta tries not to laugh and tells her she didn't do it. Elain's and Feyre's eyes both drift to Cassian and realization sinks in. They're more than a little impressed.

Naturally, one of the few things Cassian's daughters won't have a say in is learning how to defend themselves. He and Nesta both believe it's a necessity, but he makes it fun and lets his daughters "win" a lot to build their confidence. As important as that is, though, he takes his girls' tea parties every bit as seriously as their self-defense training. The tiara he wears at them might as well be his at this point.

Nesta teaches her girls to dance, but always tries to make it fun for the girls instead of a tool for them to wield later in life. Cassian is the ideal dance partner, though that mostly consists of him picking them up and spinning them around until they're cackling and borderline puking. He also learns the females' dance steps and demonstrates them complete with leaps to get the girls laughing so hard they're crying.

The eldest goes through a major attitude phase where any time they walk somewhere in Velaris, she struts up ahead of her family. Cassian copies her so precisely that Nesta has to stop and cover her mouth to keep from wheezing.

When it's time for either daughter to learn to fly, Cassian shows up grinning and fully prepared: wearing full Illyrian armor and giving her a tiny set of her own, a helmet, and their world's equivalent of a neon safety vest. His daughter is mortified, which is exactly what he was going for. Nesta thinks it's kind of sweet though because she realizes he's actually nervous about it.

Nesta loves to read bedtime stories to her girls, but Cassian takes it to another level when it's his turn and both acts them out and does funny voices. This annoys Nesta at first since it has the opposite effect and instead has the girls laughing and not sleeping, but she realizes the memories he's building with them are worth it.

Nesta is constantly worried she's not being a good enough mom, and while she's not perfect (no one is), Cassian listens to her concerns and reassures her that she's doing a wonderful job. He likes to bring up a lot of situations Nesta doesn't always see on her own: like her daughters soaking up everything she does like a sponge, how the eldest in particular tries to copy her in everything she does, and how strong, confident, and safe their daughters feel.

Their youngest daughter is a bit more like Aunt Elain in her interests, and it's her idea to bake Nesta a birthday cake. Cassian and the girls get to work, and although he secretly recruited Elain to share a recipe with them, the cake looks concerning and Cassian somehow ends up with flour all over his face. While it's not pretty, it tastes fantastic, and Nesta's heart is full as she kisses her girls and brushes the flour from Cassian's face.

He is genuinely the sweetest dad with the goofiest sense of humor. He's fair and occasionally embarrassing (on purpose), and the girls grow up never feeling like they aren't loved by both of their parents.

[katerinaaqu]

Odysseus and weapon of choice (a small analysis)

I find it interesting how the majority of artists and art depict Odysseus using bow and arrows exclusively and honestly I can see why. The reason is very good given how his bow is the most iconic weapon we see in the Homeric Poems and a weapon everyone remembers (pretty much the same as the great shield of Achilles if not more) and we do speak on Odysseus's great skill as an archer.

However...

I find it interesting how, ironically, Odysseus's weapons of choice is usually the spear. During the events of the Iliad Odysseus is mostly praised on his skill on the spear (compered to it even with great names like Achilles and Ajax), in most of his battles during the events of the Iliad (for example his fight against Socus and the Trojans in the 11th rhapsody) or in other events like the Odyssey Odysseus is observed to be armed usually with a spear (for example when he wears his armor to protect his men from Skylla he is seen to hold two spears in his hands) or even during the boar hunting scene, Odysseus's weapon of choice was not the bow and the arrow but it was the spear.

The fact that Odysseus has the bow as an iconic weapon is definitely not by chance given how Odysseus is known for his unorthodox methods that prioritize his safety over glorious battles. The bow and arrows usually were criticized as weapons of action by the Greeks as a cowardly weapon, something that is not supposed to be used by a warrior that respects himself. Known archer criticized for example was no other than Paris himself (ironically the same stigma didn't seem to apply to warriors like Philoctetes, maybe because of his fame and his importance as Heracles's companion, or Teucer most likely because Teucer was already stigmatized as illegitimate in some versions and being half-Trojan) It is not by chance that Odysseus begins his revenge against the suitors with a bow and arrows. It is a weapon that allows a cunning person deal damage from a distance and manage to ensure the odds being with himself given how he was surrounded by hostile men and he needed to even the odds as much as he could without engaging directly. However I find it extremely interesting how in combat Odysseus holds the spear as a weapon of choice, engaging more in close-range battle (even if not as closed as swords would permit)

In one way this signifies his duality in such a poetic way.

Arguably the bow and arrows unless shot through someone's vitals, is not a lethal weapon, at least not directly (thus Odysseus performing killing shots to the neck -Antinous- or the liver -Eurymachus-) and its aim is to cause damage enough to get someone out of battle, potentially occupying yet another person that shall take them to safety. Normally an arrow through a shoulder, a foot or an arm would not cause lethal damage especially through armor.

The spear if used properly is much more lethal weapon in combat. Odysseus is infamously seen doing a fair amount of killing using spears or swords for example killing Socus by stabbing him through the heart from the back or killing the boar by stabbing it to the shoulder. The weapon can also go through someone's vitals much easier given how it is used as close range weapon so someone has a visual contact with their opponent. A spear also even if it pierces an arm it can still sink deeper if the wielder keeps pushing it to an opponent.

This duality is also fitting Odysseus. On one hand he is a cunning person who wishes to deal damage to his opponent as much as possible. In that area an arrow would do the job; forcing an opponent to be nullified (potentially killed in the near future by infections to the wound) while occupying yet another person that would carry them out of the battlefield. and yet Odysseus apart from his viscous hits is a deadly fighter; someone who goes for the kill. With his strength and technique the killing shot can be delivered with a spear

However another duality can be seen

A bow requires precision, calmness and cunning to be drawn and aimed. Stability in hand and eye and good eyesight. It is a weapon of someone who knows the best strategy is to be away from battle, away from the main action. Which is what Odysseus does many times over

A spear requires technique, strength and power to be thrust properly and used and cause the maximum damage to the opponent and good hand coordination while fighting an opponent straight into the field of action but having in mind some distance between yourself and your opponent which again Odysseus does very often

Odysseus of course prefers to stay out of the field of action, perform his strategies when it is the proper time for him to go out at the field and get involved there. He doesn't care what name he gets as long as he survives another day. On the other hand Odysseus wants and craves praise and glory like any other warrior even if he doesn't always pursue it with the cost of his own safety. That purpose serves a direct battle, into the action and in the field. The spear that represents this more ferocious and proud side of his is definitely not a coincidence in my opinion. Odysseus is definitely a man prone to violence especially in battlefield and he aims for lethal force which is served better with a spear than a bow and arrow especially in times of pressure within the battlefield.

Cunning vs Strength, Caution vs Bravery, Survival vs Glory

His sides are served by the fact that his iconic weapon is a bow but his weapon of choice is a spear.

But what do you guys think? Leave your thoughts below! ^_^

[discombobulatedderry]

Silent Burden To Bear

Hello, guys! This one-shot isn't really the common thing for me to write, but I just had to do it, the idea was irresistsible! This idea came from me after I asked my friend, "Does Sevika even know Jinx is dead?" She bawled. And that's where I got this wicked idea. With both of them residing in Piltover now. (I assume?) With Sevika being a councilor now and all. Here's a one-shot for that! It's really the only thing that came to mind.

The bar was a far cry from the rough, dimly lit dives of Zaun. Here, everything was polished wood and brass, the air tinged with expensive cigars and refined whiskey instead of sweat and rust. The lighting was warm but calculated, meant to flatter rather than conceal. The patrons were mostly well-dressed, murmuring in measured tones, their revelry muted compared to the rowdy chaos Sevika was used to.

She sat alone in the back, one arm slung over the booth’s edge, the other nursing a glass of liquor. The prosthetic at her shoulder hummed faintly, fingers tapping idly against the glass.

She had spent the last few months in relative silence, keeping her head down, avoiding the inevitable chaos that came from change. Silco was gone. Zaun had become something else—something softer, something she didn’t quite recognize anymore. And now, she had to play the waiting game, deciding if there was anything left worth fighting for.

That was when Vi walked in.

She wasn’t trying to be subtle. The redhead pushed past groups of well-dressed patrons, the contrast between her and them almost laughable. Boots scuffed against the polished floor, and more than a few glances were thrown her way—disapproving, wary. She ignored them, eyes set on her like she had come here for a reason. Sevika didn’t flinch when Vi finally reached her table, slamming a fist against it with enough force to rattle the empty glass beside her.

“She’s dead,” Vi said, straight to the point. No preamble, no hesitation.

Sevika’s grip on her glass stilled. A muscle in her jaw twitched, but she didn’t look up right away. The words settled, sinking into her chest like lead. She had known Jinx for years—even before Silco took her in, before she fully became what she was. Sevika had seen the girl’s slow descent, the way she clung to madness like it was armor.

And now, she was gone.

“How?” The question was flat, devoid of emotion.

Vi’s expression darkened, her eyes scanning Sevika’s face like she was searching for something—anything—that showed she cared. Sevika knew how this looked. She wasn’t the type to wear grief on her sleeve. That wasn’t who she was. But inside, something coiled tight, cold and unmoving.

“She fell,” Vi admitted, voice thick. “Trying to save me.”

Vi swallowed hard. “We were in it deep, and she—she didn’t hesitate. I tried to pull her back, but she…they both went down.”

Sevika clicked her tongue, finally looking at Vi. “So that’s how it ends. No big showdown, no fireworks. Just a stupid fall.” She scoffed, shaking her head. “Tch. Could’ve told you it’d end messy.”

Vi’s face twisted. “She didn’t have to.”

A bitter chuckle left Sevika’s throat. “That damned kid.” She shook her head, rolling her shoulders back stiffly, before gruffly saying, “Jinx was always gonna burn out fast. You just finally ran out of ways to pull her back.”

Vi’s fists clenched at her sides. “You don’t get to act like this doesn’t mean anything.”

Sevika tilted her head, expression unreadable. “You came here looking for what, exactly? Some kind of confession? A damn tear?” She scoffed, shaking her head. “Loss is loss, Vi. Doesn’t change a damn thing.” She tried to keep her voice steady, which miraculously worked out somehow.

Her voice was steady, but there was something behind it—something that trembled just beneath the surface. It wasn’t anger, but something quieter, more somber, the kind of grief that couldn’t be shouted, only carried in the silence. Sevika was no stranger to pain, but showing it, feeling it out loud, had never been her way. Yet, in that moment, the cracks in her armor were undeniable.

But feeling and showing were two different things.

Vi’s glare wavered, shoulders dropping slightly. She had come here expecting a fight, maybe some half-hearted condolences. But Sevika was as she had always been—a wall of steel, unyielding, refusing to let anyone see past the cracks.

“Did you care about her?” Vi finally asked, and this time, it wasn’t an accusation. Just a question.

Sevika exhaled, rubbing a hand down her face. Her face crumpled a bit before the action, which suggested that she did feel. Her eyes suddenly shone transparently before she coughed gruffly.  “More than she ever knew.”

She finished her drink in one slow, measured gulp. “Tell me where she is.”

Vi hesitated. “Why?”

Sevika met her eyes, her tone as blunt as ever. “Because if she’s gone, someone should at least say goodbye.”

And for once, Vi didn’t argue.

They sat there for a while, saying nothing. Just drinking. The silence stretched between them, not comfortable, but not unbearable either. The kind of silence only shared by those who knew the weight of loss.

Vi swirled the amber liquid in her glass, snorting. “Piltover bars are garbage. Too clean, too quiet. Feels like I should be signing some contract instead of getting drunk.”

Sevika let out a rough chuckle, shaking her head, wincing at the word. “Don’t talk to me about contracts now.” She took another sip, rolling the taste over her tongue before setting the glass down. “Obnoxious people, through and through. Bastards.”

Vi smirked, lifting her drink in mock salute, playful sarcasm rolling off in waves. “Woah, okay, Councilor.”

Sevika huffed, clinking her glass against Vi’s. “Like you can mock me when you have a Kiramman on your side.”

Vi only smirked knowingly, before chuckling and drinking up– as they talked.

Awkwardly at first, and yet…

For the first time that night, the tension lifted—just a little.

A/N:

Okay, this probably must've sucked, I just had to let it out. Sorry I couldn't prolong their conversation, was too drained to even try. Hope you enjoyed this one though. I don't have a consistent schedule, but I'll try every Fridays.

As always, stay cool.

[jetii]

Good Graces

Chapter Four

Tags/Warnings: we talk a bit about child soldiers here. and blood. and murder but casually. and there’s a brief Echo and Hardcase death mention

Chapter WC: 7,053

A/N: Idk how I ever thought this was going to be only a few chapters. Like me?? Making things short??? Be so for real. This is still night one. Good news is I think I have the whole thing outlined now.

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Esmé emerges from the Senator's rooms about twenty minutes later, her hands stained with blood and her hair mussed. She doesn't say anything as she strides down the stairs, heading for the kitchen.

The troopers had made quick work of cleaning up the mess, the bodies removed and the furniture left intact righted. The blood stains are still visible, but they can't do much about that. They can't fix the holes in the wall or the scorch marks or the cracked tile, but they'd tried.

There's still a lot to do, a lot of reports to write, and a lot of calls to be made, but the immediate threat has passed, and they have time to breathe.

The others are gathered in the living room, their armor piled neatly against the wall, and their helmets placed side by side on the table. They're sitting on the sofa, their posture relaxed, their shoulders slumped, though none of them dare to put their feet up on the table.

Jesse is the first to look up, and when he spots Esmé, he nudges Rex and tilts his head towards her. Rex follows his gaze, and a polite smile appears on his face.

"Ma'am," Rex greets.

"Captain," she replies. She gives him a nod, and then looks at the others, her eyes landing on each of them in turn. She smiles, but it's weak, the corners of her mouth strained. "Is everyone alright?"

"A little banged up," Jesse replies, "but we'll live."

Esmé nods.

"Good."

She stands there for a moment, her hand gripping the door frame, her gaze lingering on the spot where the bounty hunter had been lying. There's no trace of the fight, no hint that anything had ever happened. If it weren't for the broken glass and the missing furniture, they could have passed it off as a regular evening.

But it hadn't been a regular evening.

A bounty hunter had almost gotten past them. Had almost gotten the Senator. And the only reason they hadn't gotten away with it was because of Esmé.

"I'm going to start on dinner," Esmé announces, and she's already moving, her legs carrying her down the hall and towards the kitchen. "If you need me, I'll be in here."

And then she's gone, disappearing through the doorway. The men glance at each other, and Fives sighs.

"I'll talk to her," he says, climbing to his feet.

They don't protest. None of them say a word. They just nod, their eyes fixed on him, and give him encouraging smiles. He can't bring himself to return it.

He follows Esmé, his steps light. The kitchen is spacious, with an island in the middle and the countertops a polished gray stone. Esmé stands by the sink with her back angled toward him, her hands scrubbing at the stains, her face set in a grimace. She doesn't seem to notice his presence. She just keeps washing the blood from beneath her fingernails, her fingers pink and raw, her lips pursed.

He waits a moment before speaking, giving her a chance to react, but she seems oblivious to him. He clears his throat.

"Need a hand?"

"I'm fine," she replies without looking. Her voice is flat, professional, and she still hasn't turned around. "Thank you."

Fives leans against the door frame and crosses his arms. He watches her for a moment, his gaze sweeping over her body, his eyes tracing her shoulders, her spine, and the curve of her hips.

He's not really sure what to say. There's so much he wants to ask, and so much he wants to talk about, but none of it feels right. None of it feels like enough.

He settles on moving closer, taking a seat on a stool parked at the island, and he props his elbow on the counter, his chin resting in his palm. He watches her scrub her hands and then run them under the water, and he lets the silence hang between them.

"You know," Fives says, his tone light, "if you want to talk, I'm a good listener."

She pauses, and for a second, it seems like she might take him up on his offer. But then her expression hardens, her jaw tightening, and she shakes her head.

"I'm fine," she repeats, and this time, there's force behind it. She grabs a rag and dries off her hands, her fingers rubbing furiously at the stains. "I have nothing to say to you."

Well, that's unexpected.

He's not used to being dismissed so bluntly. He's used to being pushed away or ignored or laughed at, but this... he hadn't expected this. She's barely said more than a dozen words since she arrived, and none of them have been anything close to civil. He hadn't thought she could sound any colder, and yet, here she is. Proving him wrong. Again.

"Well, I have a lot to say to you," he snaps. He sits up straighter and rests both hands on the countertop. "So if you could put the attitude away for a few minutes, I'd appreciate it."

Esmé scoffs and tosses the towel aside. She braces herself on the edge of the sink, and he can see the muscles in her shoulders and arms flex, her knuckles turning white as she grips the countertop.

"Attitude? You have a lot of nerve," she snaps, and when she finally looks at him, there's fire in her eyes. "After everything that happened today, after what you did—"

"I was doing my job," Fives interrupts. He narrows his eyes and leans forward. "I was trying to protect you."

Esmé glares at him, and the look on her face makes him regret opening his mouth.

"I don't need you to protect me," she hisses, and the words are venom. "And even if I did, you're a terrible bodyguard."

His jaw drops open, and he feels like she's punched him in the gut.

"Excuse me?"

"You were supposed to protect Senator Amidala. You weren't supposed to abandon your post. You were supposed to have your helmet." Her eyes are dark and angry and filled with hatred. She shakes her head. "And instead, you let a bounty hunter into her home, and she was nearly killed. You did more harm than good."

"What, and you think you could have done better?"

"I did do better."

Her response is swift and brutal, her words cutting through him like a knife. It stings more than he expects it to. He knows that he made mistakes, that he screwed up, but it wasn't intentional. He'd just wanted to protect her. He'd wanted to keep her safe.

He hadn't expected her to be so hostile.

It hurts.

And it pisses him off.

He's been trying all day to connect with her, and this is what he gets. This is how she treats him. And yeah, maybe she's had a rough day, but so has he, and so have the others. He'd almost gotten killed, and so had Tup. They'd all been through hell and back.

"That was low," Fives mutters. His jaw clenches. "You know I didn't mean for that to happen."

"I know," she agrees. Her voice softens a little, but she's still tense, her body coiled tight like a spring, her gaze fixed on him. She takes a breath and straightens. "But you still failed. And so did I."

Fives watches as she walks across the room and opens the fridge. She starts pulling things out, placing them on the counter, and he can't tell if she's ignoring him or just focused on something else. She hasn't even looked at him once since the conversation started.

It's like she's deliberately trying not to look at him. Like she can't bear to look at him.

Fives' mouth twists into a grimace. He's not sure how he feels about that.

"Why are you here, Fives?" she asks after a moment, her head buried in the fridge. She sounds tired, like the anger has drained from her, and all that's left is exhaustion. "What do you want from me?"

What does he want from her?

He's not sure he knows the answer to that question.

Fives has never been particularly good at talking to women. He's a shameless flirt and a hopeless romantic, and he likes the chase, likes the thrill of the hunt. He likes the feeling of being wanted. He likes making people smile. But when it comes to actually talking, to having an actual conversation, he's never been very good at that.

He's always been better at making jokes than dealing with real problems. And it's not like he's had much practice. It's not like any of the brothers do.

Esmé is different.

She's not interested in him. At least, not the way he wants. And even if she were, he's not sure she'd let him in. She's guarded and wary and closed off, and the walls she's built around herself are so high and so thick they might as well be a fortress.

But the thing is, Fives isn't a quitter. He's never given up on anything in his life, and he's not about to start now.

He's not going to let some pretty girl get the best of him. He's not going to let one rejection change the way he sees the world. And he's not going to walk away from this without giving it his all.

It's just a challenge. That's all. He's faced worse. He's fought harder.

"I just want to talk," Fives says with a shrug. He tries for a smile. "No ulterior motives."

She snorts and pulls her head out of the fridge, giving him a disbelieving look.

"Right."

"Hey, I'm serious," he protests, raising a hand. He shakes his head and looks down at the counter, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "Look, I know you're mad at me, and I don't blame you. What I did... It was stupid. But how was I supposed to know you're some kind of... some kind of assassin? Or a soldier. Whatever."

"What, exactly, did you think I was?" she asks, letting the door fall shut and dumping ingredients onto the counter.

Fives' brows shoot up, and he can't help but laugh.

"Oh, I don't know," he says, rolling his eyes. "How about a handmaiden?"

Esmé turns away from him and begins digging through the cabinets, her hands grabbing pots and pans and utensils, but he swears he sees a hint of a smirk on her lips. "So, what? You thought I was a secretary? A servant? You thought I was just sitting around, knitting sweaters and serving tea all day?"

"No, of course not," he protests quickly. "I just..."

He trails off. He hadn't really thought about it, honestly. He'd been more concerned with the fact that she'd been avoiding him and pretending he didn't exist. He'd been so focused on getting her to like him, he'd never really considered what she did with her time. Or what her job was. Or who she was.

Maybe he should have.

He sighs and scratches the back of his neck.

"I mean, yes. Kind of. I guess. I don't know. I didn't think about it. I just assumed..." Fives shrugs helplessly and gestures vaguely. "Well, that's what handmaidens do, isn't it? They serve."

Esmé makes a soft sound in the back of her throat, and he can't tell if it's amusement or irritation. It's hard to tell with her. She seems to switch between the two every other minute.

She lets out a deep breath, her head hanging, and she sets the pot on the stove and turns it on. She reaches for the cutting board and pulls a knife from the block with a loud shnick.

"That's a rather sexist thing to assume, isn't it?" she asks as she starts chopping the vegetables in front of her. Her movements are fluid and practiced, the blade flashing as it slices through the air. "Not very progressive."

"That's not what I—"

"I'm joking," she interrupts him, and he snaps his mouth shut. "Mostly."

Fives huffs and slumps forward, his chin propped in his hand. He watches her for a few seconds, his gaze flickering over her features.

He should have known, should have figured it out sooner. It had been obvious, really, once he'd gotten over the shock of watching her kill someone in front of him. The way she moves, the way she speaks, the way she holds herself. It's not the way most women carry themselves. Or any civilians, for that matter.

He wonders how he hadn't seen it before. How he hadn't noticed.

She's still holding a knife, her grip firm and her hand steady, her motions fluid and practiced. The blade moves with rhythmic precision as it slices through the vegetables in front of her, each cut precise and even. It's almost mesmerizing.

She's good. Good enough to make this all look effortless, like it's the easiest thing in the world. She's good enough to kill a man with a single, precise shot, and then move onto making dinner like it's nothing.

Like it's normal.

Eight.

Fives can't seem to wrap his head around it. Can't quite believe it.

She's so... normal. And yet, somehow, not.

She's not like anyone he's ever met before. Not like anyone he's ever known. Not a soldier, not a civilian. Something else entirely.

It's strange. And maybe a little exciting.

"So," he says slowly, his words deliberate, his voice low, "how long have you been doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Protecting the Senator. Taking out threats. You know," he says with a vague gesture. He pauses, and then adds, his tone casual, "Killing people."

"Since I was fourteen," she answers, her gaze still fixed on the cutting board. Her hand stills. She seems to consider it for a moment and then adds, "Give or take."

Fourteen.

He blinks.

"That's young," Fives mutters. "Isn't that young?"

"Not really," she says with a shrug. She continues chopping. "I started training when I was five. It was inevitable."

"That's—" He stops and shakes his head, something foreign twisting in his gut. "You were a child."

"Weren't you a child, too?" Esmé asks, her brows raising. She pushes the diced onions to the side, and her gaze meeting his. Her eyes are soft, understanding, and he can't bring himself to look away. "You and your brothers."

He has no response to that. She's right. They were children. All of them.

Fives was barely five years old developmentally when the trainers had given him a blaster for the first time. It had felt heavy in his hands and awkward to hold, and he'd had no idea how to use it. But the trainers hadn't cared. They'd pushed him and prodded him and forced him to fire until he could hit the target without missing.

He'd missed a lot.

And even when he'd gotten it right, they'd make him do it again.

There was no such thing as a break or a pause or a time out. He'd had to keep going. No matter how tired he'd been or how much pain he was in. No matter what they'd asked him to do. And that was only the beginning.

"That's not the same," he protests anyway. "We're clones. We're bred for this. We didn't have a choice."

"Neither did I."

There's a moment of silence as her words hang in the air, the tension thick. Then the knife hits the cutting board again, and she's back to chopping vegetables, like nothing ever happened.

Fives scratches the back of his neck and sighs. He's not really sure what to say, where to go from here. He wants to ask more, wants to know more, but it feels like he's already pushed too hard. And the longer this goes on, the louder the part of him screaming to let it go gets.

But he can't.

He can't bring himself to turn his back on her.

And not just because he's stubborn. Not just because he likes her, and he can't stop thinking about her. But because it feels wrong.

Esmé been attacked more times than she wants to admit, and it's obvious to him now that she's been fighting a war on her own for a long time. Maybe not a war like the one he and the rest of the galaxy are fighting. But a war nonetheless. And she's done it alone. She's kept it hidden and private and hasn't said a word about it.

And there's no telling when the next attack will come. There's no telling how bad it will be.

She shouldn't have to do it alone. She shouldn't have to fight by herself.

No one should have to fight alone.

Fives takes a breath.

"It's not your fault," he says quietly. His hands are flat on the countertop, and he drums them against the surface. "What happened today, with the bounty hunter. That wasn't your fault."

The pot sizzles as Esmé drops a pad of butter into it before placing some cut of meat inside, covering it with a generous amount of spices. The heat intensifies, the flames burning brighter.

"I know that," she answers. Her tone is even, not a hint of emotion in her voice, but she isn't looking at him, either.

"Do you?" he asks. He leans forward. "Because you seem pretty upset about it."

"Of course I am," she snaps. She whirls around to face him, her hands on her hips. "Two men came into our home and tried to kill us. They tried to kill Padmé. How could I possibly not be upset?"

"Well," Fives begins, choosing his words carefully, "it's not your fault there were a bad guys. You can't blame yourself."

"I don't," she replies sharply, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips. "It's not my fault. But that doesn’t mean I’m not angry. That I don't want to make them pay."

"And do you?" he asks, his brows raising. "Make them pay?"

She shrugs.

"Sometimes," she admits. She looks away and sighs. "When I can. When I'm allowed."

Fives nods and leans back, and the stool creaks as he shifts his weight, his gaze drifting to the floor. He studies the tiles, the patterns on the floor, the small flecks of dust, and tries to make sense of the information swirling around in his brain.

They sit in silence for a few moments, neither of them saying a word. Esmé continues preparing dinner, her movements quick and efficient, her hands practiced. She's used to this. To working silently, to moving without drawing attention to herself. She's comfortable.

"Look," he says after a while, his voice quiet. He takes a deep breath. "I'm not gonna pretend like I get it. I don't. I'm not even going to try."

She turns towards him, and their eyes meet.

"But," Fives continues with a shrug, "I can't change your mind, either. So whatever. It's fine. Just... I want to help. If I can. So if you ever need someone to talk to, or just... someone to listen, or, well. You know. Whatever. I'm here."

Esmé opens her mouth, her lips moving as if she's going to protest, but she closes it just as quickly, her teeth catching her bottom lip. She looks at him for a long time, and he can feel the intensity of it, the way it burns through him.

He tries to keep his face neutral, his body relaxed, his posture casual. He's not sure how well it works, but it seems to satisfy her, and her shoulders fall, her hands dropping to her sides.

"I—" She breaks off, and she shakes her head. Her voice wavers as she speaks. "I should finish this. Dinner. It won't take long. Just..."

Fives nods and pushes himself to his feet. He hesitates and then steps closer, his hand reaching for her elbow. His palm presses against the curve of her arm, and he gives it a gentle squeeze. She tenses, but she doesn't pull away, and he lets himself enjoy the contact, his thumb rubbing a small circle on her skin.

“You sure you don't need any help?” he asks. He tries to keep the question light, teasing, but it comes out a little rougher than he intends, and he winces.

Her eyes drop to where he's touching her, a few strands of hair falling into her face, and she lets out a soft, shaky breath. She looks exhausted, and her eyes are still rimmed with red, but she still looks beautiful.

And the way she's looking at him right now, the way she's letting him touch her...

He'd do just about anything to keep her looking at him like that.

Esmé's mouth twitches into a faint smile, and she glances up at him through long, dark lashes. He's not sure what she's thinking, or what she's going to say, but he waits.

He can be patient.

For her, he'll wait.

”You can peel and cut the meilooruns,” she tells him after a moment. She jerks her head toward the fruits that she’d had him pick with her earlier, and her eyes sharpen. "Just don't eat any of them. We need them for the dessert."

He holds his hands up in surrender, his head tilting forward in a mock bow.

"Yes, ma'am."

She huffs and rolls her eyes. “Stop calling me that.”

Fives' smile widens, and his hands fall back to his sides, his fingers curling into his palms.

"Yes, Esmé," he corrects, his tone light. "Whatever you say, Esmé."

He swears he sees the corners of her mouth curl up, but it's gone so fast he can't be sure. She turns back to the stove to flip the meat, her back towards him.

"And don't touch anything else," she adds.

"Anything else," he repeats with a chuckle. "Got it."

Fives takes up his seat in the kitchen with a knife and the meilooruns, and starts peeling. The rhythmic thunk of the blade hitting the wood is soothing, and he lets his mind wander, his thoughts drifting from one subject to the next.

The conversation had been a bit... odd. Not what he'd expected. But it hadn't gone as badly as he'd feared.

He hadn't gotten the answers he'd wanted. Not really. But she'd spoken to him. And that was something. At least they'd gotten somewhere. And at least she'd listened.

The silence between them is starting to drag on too long, though, and he can't quite tamp down the urge to fill the quiet with sound. How often is he going to get the opportunity to talk with a pretty girl about nothing and everything?

How often is he going to get to have a conversation with Esmé?

He's not going to waste it.

"So," Fives starts, his tone careful, his eyes fixed on the fruit in front of him, "Eight, huh?"

She doesn't respond. He keeps peeling, the blade slicing through the skin, the flesh revealed beneath.

"Eight is a lot."

A large container of stock goes into the pot, and a cloud of steam erupts from the surface, rising toward the ceiling. He watches the smoke rise and twist and disappear into the air. He swallows.

"You're really good at it," he says, and when he glances at Esmé, there's a slight flush to her cheeks from the heat of the stove. He takes a breath. "You'd give any brother a run for their money. I'd say you've got the skills to be a commando."

She sighs and turns around.

"Are you going to help me," she begins, her tone flat, her gaze hard, "or are you going to keep asking stupid questions?"

“I’m a great multitasker," he replies with a smirk, undeterred. "I can do both."

Esmé rolls her eyes and makes a show of turning her back on him. But her shoulders relax, and she lets out a quiet huff of amusement.

Fives can't help the wide smile that appears on his face, or the warmth that spreads through his chest, or the fluttering in his stomach. He probably shouldn’t be feeling this way about a woman who could very well kill him in a hundred different ways without breaking a sweat. He should probably be scared. Or at the very least, a little worried.

But he's not.

Because he trusts her. And he's pretty sure she trusts him.

That has to count for something.

"Besides," he says as he slices into the last meiloorun, "I think I'm entitled to some answers."

Esmé lets out a quiet sound in the back of her throat, her voice barely audible. It's almost like a laugh. Or maybe a snort. He can't tell which, but it sounds amused, so he'll take it.

"Fine," she says with a sigh. "What do you want to know?"

"I dunno," Fives answers with a shrug. He's done peeling, and his fingers are sticky, so he wipes them on his armor. "Everything, I guess. Where did you learn how to shoot? Who trained you? How many other handmaidens can fight? Is there anyone else? I mean, are you the only one? Or are there more like you? Like—"

"Are you always this chatty?" Esmé interrupts.

"Only when I'm excited," Fives replies, his eyes glued to her back, his hands clasped together. "Or curious. Or—"

"Nervous," she finishes for him. She looks over her shoulder and gives him a pointed look, tilting her head. "Do I make you nervous, Fives?"

Fives feels a surge of heat rise up the back of his neck and into his cheeks, his mouth suddenly dry.

Kriff.

Yes.

He swallows thickly and looks away, scratching the back of his head and chuckling nervously. He forces his expression into something resembling a smirk and hopes she can't see how flushed he is.

"Nope," he lies. "Not at all."

"Uh-huh."

"Seriously," he insists. He can't quite meet her gaze, his eyes focusing on a spot on the cabinet beside her, and his fingers tap against his arm. "I'm totally calm. Never been calmer."

She looks skeptical, but she doesn't call him out on his bluff, and he's grateful. She just shakes her head, her hair swaying, and turns back to the pot.

Fives lets out a shaky breath and wipes his sweaty palms against his thighs, grimacing when they come away sticky. He'll need to clean his armor after this. The stuff is a nightmare to get off.

But first things first.

"So?"

Esmé stirs the soup and lifts the lid off the pot, releasing another burst of steam. She reaches for a spoon and scoops up a mouthful of the stew, blowing on it before she tastes it. She frowns, her brows pulling together, and adds more spice.

"So what?"

“Esmé. Come on," he whines. "Stop stalling."

"Fine," she mutters, her voice tight. She sets the spoon down and crosses her arms over her chest. "My father taught me to shoot. I joined the NSF when I was twelve, and then I was pulled out to become Padmé’s handmaiden when she became queen. I wasn’t the only one, I was just the one who lasted the longest. And no, we're not all like that. Not anymore, anyway. Most handmaidens are more... traditional."

She's looking at him over her shoulder again, her eyes narrowed, and he gets the sense that she's testing him, daring him to make a joke, waiting for him to say something stupid or inappropriate. But he won't.

He wants answers. And not just the ones he thinks are obvious. He wants all of them. Even the boring ones. Even the ones that seem mundane and insignificant and stupid.

But he'll settle for the basics. For now.

"Traditional," Fives repeats. "As in..."

"Not trained to fight."

"Right," he says slowly. "What happened to the others? Who were like you?”

“They went back to their lives. Most of them have families. Husbands. Children. Jobs. They don’t want to fight anymore. They got out. I didn’t. So here I am."

"Do you miss it? Your old life?"

"Sometimes," she admits. She shrugs. "Mostly not."

"So why didn't you get out? Why stay?"

Esmé looks away.

"Padmé needs me," she says simply. She shakes her head. "She's my family. The closest thing I have to one. If I left..."

Fives nods.

He understands. He'd do anything for his brothers. They're his family. He's loyal to them, and they're loyal to him. He knows they have his back, and he knows that they trust him, that they'd lay their lives down for each other. And if one of them needed him, he'd be there. No question. No hesitation.

It's the same for them.

And it's the same for her.

Esmé would do anything for Padmé. Fives is pretty sure she'd die for her. She'd sacrifice her life to save hers, and he would too, if he was in her place. It's not a hard choice. Echo did the same for him once, so did Hardcase, and as much as their deaths still haunt him, he knows that if came down to it, he would make the same decision. In a heartbeat.

That's just what they do.

The rest of the meal preparation is quiet. They work in silence, the only sound the crackle of the stove and the hum of the ventilation system. Esmé seems lost in thought, her brow furrowed and her eyes distant, and he can tell that her mind is elsewhere, her focus turned inward.

It's nice, though. To just sit here with her, side by side. To share a space, and to let her take care of him, and to take care of her. He's never felt this comfortable around a civilian before, never been so at ease. It's peaceful, and he can feel the tension leaving his body, his shoulders relaxing, the knot in his chest easing. He's almost forgotten about the attack, the fight and the chaos and the bloodshed.

But then he sees the splatter of red on the side of her tunic, and his hand stops, the knife halting.

"Is..." he begins, his voice hesitant. His gaze darts to her face and then back to her tunic, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. "Is Senator Amidala okay?"

"She'll be fine," Esmé assures him, her tone firm. "She'll be in pain, but the wound wasn't serious. She'll live."

Fives releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and nods, his shoulders slumping.

"That's good," he murmurs. "Really good."

Esmé nods. She's leaning against the island, her palms flat against the countertop, her arms spread wide. Her head is bowed, her hair falling into her face, and she doesn't speak for a long time. He doesn't press her. He just keeps working, slicing the bread and placing it in a basket.

When she finally does speak, her voice is quiet, her tone cautious.

"Thank you," she says softly. She pushes herself upright and looks at him, her eyes searching his. "For today. For what you did. For what you were trying to do."

"No problem," Fives replies, and he he shrugs and slides the basket towards her. "That's what I'm here for."

Her expression is unreadable as she studies him. Her gaze is intense, her eyes dark, and he feels like he's being inspected, like she's trying to see right through him, her eyes boring into his.

He waits, his heart hammering in his chest.

Then, finally, she nods, her chin dropping.

"Alright."

Her voice is soft, her tone light. The corner of her mouth quirks upward, and he smiles, his lips curling into a grin.

"Alright," he replies.

The moment is interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hall, and General Skywalker appears a few seconds later, his robe draped over his arm. He stops in the doorway and looks around, his brows raising, his gaze lingering on the pot.

"Something smells good,” he says. He steps toward the stove, reaching for a spoon, but Esmé is there before him, slapping his hand away.

"Ani," she warns. She gives him a pointed look, her eyes narrowing. "Don't even think about it."

"Hey," Anakin protests, his eyes wide, his palms held up in surrender. "I wasn't going to. I was just—"

"You're never 'just,'" she interrupts. She shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest, her foot tapping against the floor. "And the food is ready. Go get Padmé."

Anakin huffs and rolls his eyes, his lips pressing into a thin line, but he does as he's told. He turns around and disappears back through the door, his robes flowing behind him, and Fives watches him go with a stunned expression.

Esmé turns back to the stove and stirs the stew, her movements brisk, her face blank.

"Did you just...?" he begins, his brows raised, his lips parted. He blinks and looks at the door. "Was that—Did the General just listen to you?"

She shrugs and continues stirring.

"He knows better than to mess with me," she says with a sniff. She glances over her shoulder and meets his gaze, her expression smug. "You should too."

"Oh, I know,” Fives replies quickly. He holds up both hands. "Believe me, I'm learning."

Esmé smiles. It's small and faint, barely visible, but it's there, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

The warmth that had begun to fade comes roaring back to life, fluttering in his chest and burning in his cheeks. He ducks his head and tries to hide the grin that threatens to split his face in half. He's not very successful.

They finish cooking in silence. Fives ropes Jesse into helping him set the table, and by the time they're lining up, bowls and plates piled high, the Senator and General are seated at the head of the table, the former looking much better than she had earlier. The wound on her shoulder is visible, a white bandage wrapped tightly around her arm, but she's sitting straight, her shoulders squared and her head held high.

General Skywalker looks less comfortable. He's sitting stiffly, his expression pinched, and he's watching her closely for any signs of distress. She doesn't appear bothered. She just looks amused, her gaze meeting his, and a small smile tugging at her lips.

Fives tries not to stare.

It's clear that there's something going on between the two of them. They're close, closer than they should be, and it's obvious that the General cares deeply for her. The way he keeps glancing at her, his eyes filled with concern, his body angled towards her, his hand resting lightly on the back of her chair. It's more than just affection. It's devotion.

But it’s none of his business. He’s much more concerned with his own romantic prospects.

Esmé places the last dish on the table, an array of the fruits he’d picked for her earlier and some sort of cake. The Senator's eyes light up when she sees the dessert, and the General looks impressed, his mouth curving into a smile.

"Well," Esmé starts, glowering, her hands clasped in front of her, "are we going to eat, or are we just going to sit here and stare at each other?"

The men snicker, and Senator Amidala sighs.

"Esmé," she scolds. She gives her a pointed look. "Be nice."

Esmé gestures to the spread of food.

"I was nice. That's what this is,” she explains. She takes her seat next to the Senator and gives her a look that could almost be described as a pout. "I've been nice all day. I'd like to be done with it now."

The Senator rolls her eyes fondly and shakes her head.

"You're impossible," she says with a huff. She looks around the table and smiles. "Dig in, everyone. It's going to get cold."

The men need no further prompting.

Everyone digs in with enthusiasm, and the table is soon filled with the sounds of chewing and the scrape of silverware. Fives grabs his plate and takes his first bite, the meat and vegetables melting on his tongue, the spices coating his mouth. It's delicious, and he can't help the moan that escapes him, the sound low and appreciative. He closes his eyes and takes another bite, and then another, and another.

When he opens his eyes, Esmé is watching him from her seat across from Rex. She doesn't say a word, her eyes glued to his face, her lips twitching.

He grins and winks at her.

Her cheeks turn pink, and she looks away, but not before he catches a glimpse of a small smile. It fades as she reaches for her glass of wine and drinks deeply, her attention fixed on the Senator.

Fives watches in fascination as the hand she places flat on the table contorts into a series of rapid, fluttering movements. Senator Amidala’s eyebrows raise, and she tilts her head to the side, her face twisting into a thoughtful frown. Then she shakes her head and makes a motion with her fingers, and Esmé frowns and responds, her hand moving quicker, the movements sharper, more intense. It’s apparent that neither of them is paying attention to the food anymore.

He glances around the table, his eyes flicking from one man to the next, and he realizes that no one is watching them. No one seems to be paying them any mind at all. Except him.

Fives can’t help but notice how similar the two women are, despite the obvious personality differences. Similar facial structure, the same sharp chin and high cheekbones, and the same shape of the mouth, the same curve of the jaw. The Senator has a soft, rounder look to her, and Esmé’s skin and hair are darker, but the similarities are striking.

They sit the same way, too. They hold their utensils the same, their backs straight and their chins held high. They eat the same food in the same way, sip their wine with the same delicate movement. They even make the same expressions and gesture with their hands the same way. It's uncanny.

He hadn't noticed it before, hadn't paid attention, but now he can see the similarities unfolding in front of him, the way their expressions shift and change, the tilt of their heads, the arch of their brows, the set of their mouths.

It’s almost like looking at two of his brothers. One is more stoic than the other, one a bit softer and sweeter, but still the same. Still family. Still a clone.

Fives stares, his fork halfway to his mouth, his food forgotten.

They're not sisters. They're not even related. And yet...

What?

Senator Amidala's hand drops, and Esmé's eyes narrow, her fingers curling into a fist. She stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor.

"Excuse me," she mutters, her words rushed. "I have something I need to do."

"Where are you going?" Fives asks before he can stop himself. He cringes as her eyes land on him, but he stands his ground and meets her gaze, ignoring the look of disbelief and irritation she gives him. “You haven't eaten."

“I’m not hungry,” she replies flatly.

"Don't be ridiculous," he scoffs, and he gestures to her empty plate, his hand sweeping towards the table. "You made all this food, and you're not going to eat any of it?"

"Fives," she says, her voice strained, "I'm not—"

"Please," he interrupts. He can feel his face growing hot, and he forces himself to keep his eyes on hers, to not look away. "Eat something. At least try it."

Esmé hesitates. She doesn't sit, but she doesn't leave, either. She just stands there, her jaw clenched and her hand gripping the back of her chair, her knuckles white. Her expression is tense, her teeth grit, and he can see the muscles in her arm flexing. She looks angry. No, not angry. Something else. Upset.

He swallows and forces a smile, and after a few seconds, she releases a breath, her shoulders slumping, her head bowing.

"Fine," she snaps. She releases her iron grip on the chair in favor of swiping some of the bread from the center of the table. She holds the slice aloft, her brow raised. "Happy?"

"Yes," he says with a nod, his smile widening, and he picks up his fork. "Very."

Esmé lets out a huff and turns on her heel. She leaves without another word, disappearing through the doorway. Somewhere upstairs, a door slams, and a chunk of plaster falls from the ceiling. It lands on the table with a loud thunk in front of his plate.

Fives snorts and takes a sip of his drink, his gaze still fixed on the place where she'd disappeared from view. He's not sure if he's managed to charm her or if she's just too tired to argue. Either way, he'll take it.

He turns his attention back to the table, and he freezes at the sight of everyone staring at him, their expressions ranging from shocked to impressed. Even Senator Amidala is watching him, a curious look on her face, her mouth curved into a small smile.

"What?" he asks defensively. "She needs to eat."

The others exchange amused glances, and Fives shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flickering from one to the other, trying to fight the flush creeping up his neck.

“You’re a brave man, Fives,” General Skywalker says after a moment. He leans back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest, his eyebrows raised.

Fives snorts.

"What's the worst she can do? Shoot me?" he jokes, and then immediately regrets it. He grimaces and shakes his head. "Right. Don’t answer that."

That gets a laugh from the others, and he relaxes, the tension easing from his shoulders, his smile returning. The conversation turns back to the mission and the day's events, and Fives settles into his seat and picks up his fork again, doing his best to ignore the pointed and the not-so-subtle comments about how brave he is.

Despite the jokes and the teasing and the knowing looks, he feels a little proud. A little smug. A little pleased with himself.

Maybe he's getting somewhere after all.

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[revelisms]

"I know."

The phrase hangs between them like a crooked gem on a chandelier: omniscient, glittering, unignorable.

You have paint on your lip. Your shirt's buttoned wrong. I missed you.

I know. I know. I know.

Eventually, Ale learns it's something of a shorthand; the obvious easier to handle than the layers of grime beneath it.

He squirms at the prodding. He wears grins like armor pocked by bullets and spears. He bares his teeth at gentleness, and his claws at obstinance, and his heart, weeping and frail, at warmth.

But the talking—

The talking's the strange thing:

Jabbering for hours, meaningless hours, enough to earn laughter and praise; preaching for days, for nights, for magnetic eons on end, luring the desperate and devout to his feet; singing for an age, siren-songs and ballads and wrath cloaked in beauty, a power that could uproot the very stones where they stand—

But Ale will stroke down the tear-tracks ruining the skull on his face, his eyes reddened, his brow wrinkled to a knot—every inch of him a livewire, coiled and contained—and hush, "Your paint is streaked."

He'll swallow. Fight with the words on his teeth. Say, "I know," quiet as gravel—and say nothing else.

Some nights, it hurts. Makes them want to squeeze him by the shoulder, by the neck. Beg him to look at them. Hell's sake, to say something.

"You're back late, today."

"I know."

Some nights, it reminds them of the ring no longer on their finger; the rooms once spewed with vitriol and spite. They'd walked away from that life a lifetime ago. Still, it pecks at their memory like a crow that won't scare off.

"I'm here."

His thumb fidgeting against their palm. His lungs deflating like a balloon, welding tight again. "I know."

Some nights, they can only hold him—the way he'd always done. The soft-solid edges, the warmth of his skin, the drag of his nails against their back.

He'll sink into them like a stone: like a kit burrowing back into its den: a wounded thing hissing out the pain, trying to keep quiet now, keep quiet the way he never does.

But he'll hold them, too—more love pressed into the heat of his palms than his words could begin to muster.

"I don't want to talk about it," Terzo croaks into their neck, breath clammy and low. His fingertips splay against the folds of their shirt: grounding, cradling. "Not..." A swell of his chest against theirs, pinched buttons and blended cotton, the citrus-smoke of his cologne, folded around them like a cloak of leathered wings. "Not yet."

Ale strokes a lock of his hair behind his ear. Their hand falls still against his nape. "I know," they whisper.

He twists up like a spring. Furrows his brow hard. Against their skin: a tremor. And they understand, then, that there's a release in the knowingness, the nakedness—in the shell of a soul laid into the curve of their palm, piecemealed together into something still bleeding. Still here.

His nails cave; claw, and cling. And when he breaks, they hold the edges of him together—the way he'd always done.

I know. I know. I know.

alessio and terzo / knowing

[soupandsorcery]

“I don’t hate the word boyfriend,” Rune says, picking up the thread of a days old conversation like the response has just come to him. And okay…it’s possible that it has, but that’s just for him to know. “It just makes me feel like a teenager with a crush.” 

Addam smiles, metal fingers curling around Rune’s ankle where it’s slung into his lap. “Am I to understand then, Hero,” he says, amusement and that teasing fondness making his voice deeper than usual. “That you would not have had a crush on me when you were a teenager?” 

Before Rune can finish being flustered by Addam’s tone, Brand is snorting from his place in the armchair across the room. 

“Hey. Shut up,” Rune says, and points at him for emphasis. 

Brand, predictably, ignores him. “He absolutely would have had a fucking crush on you back then. You would have come over with your smile and your accent and your dimples, and this one would have swooned all over his fucking self. All I would have heard for weeks was ‘did you see the way he looked at me, Brand? Do you think he likes me, Brand?’ Worse, I would have had to feel him crushing on you through the bond because his control was shit as a teenager. Fucking embarrassing.” 

“That’s offensive,” Rune replies. 

“Truth hurts,” Brand shoots back, shrugging a shoulder. 

Addam’s still grinning, showing off the very dimples in question, and Rune doesn’t think he can be blamed for the way his whole torso goes a little gooey at the sight. Teenage Rune would’ve had good taste, at least, if Brand’s right. Which he isn’t. Mostly.

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned my dimples in such a complimentary way, Brandon,” Addam says. “I’m flattered. And even moreso that you think they would have been enough to send Rune swooning into your arms.” 

Brand rolls his eyes. “It’s not the compliment you think it is, Saint Nicholas. You flash those things all the time when you want to get your way. That’s where Quinn gets it from. And Rune’s just weak to that pretty boy shit.” 

“You can’t be mean to me,” Rune complains. “I’m still recovering. I had an ordeal.” 

“Oh now you’re recovering. This morning when I caught you trying to sneak down to the beach without having breakfast it was ‘fuck off, Brand, I’m fine’.” 

“That was then.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

The two of them have a familiar stare down: Rune makes a pitiful face that he knows will just make Brand laugh at him, and Brand tries to keep his expression as flat as he can make it. The waves of good humor echo through the bond from both ends though, and Rune’s heart is very full. 

“I like the two of you like this,” Addam says after a bit. “It is always intriguing to see you in a fight, working together and reading each other's minds, but I much prefer when your odd version of telepathy can be applied this way.” 

“What, Brand using our sacred, special bond to bully me? Are you condoning this?” Rune asks, pretending to be outraged. “You’re supposed to be defending my honor, Addam. That’s sort of your job as my fiance and literal knight in shining armor.” 

“And if I thought your honor was in danger, I would certainly leap to your defense,” Addam replies evenly.

Brand laughs at that, and Rune folds his arms, lips turning down into an exaggerated pout. 

“Do you want to know what I think?” Addam continues, glancing at the pair of them. “I think that perhaps Rune would not have been the only one who was weak to ‘that pretty boy shit’, as Brand so colorfully put it. I think that if I worked at it, I could have had you both.” 

It’s an Addam level mic drop as he slides out from under Rune’s legs and makes a show of stretching. His arms reach overhead, and he pushes up onto his toes so his muscles pull into one tight line. A few inches of that lovely tanned skin flash as Addam’s shirt rides up, then disappear when he sinks back to his feet with a content sigh. He drops a kiss to the top of Rune’s head, puts a hand on Brand’s shoulder, and then makes his exit from the room. 

Rune and Brand sit in silence for a full minute once he’s gone, gaping in the direction he went. They turn to look at each other at the same time. 

“What the fuck was that?” Brand demands. 

“This is your fault for bringing his dimples into this,” Rune replies, sliding down the couch so he can put his head on the arm rest. “Everybody knows naming something gives it power.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

Rune can only sigh and wonder at his attraction to men obsessed with having the last word.