#and worn wooden tables and benches

[ellenchain]

Lucas is the very definition of edge. I love how you drew his eyes, so intense!

Thank you ❤️

Lucas is the type of guy I'd like to do a pub tour with edgy but somehow cool but also a bit cringe, the perfect package

[gghostwriter]

How Three Became One

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Part 1 || Part 3 Summary: In the aftermath of your failed make-up anniversary dinner, the third person in the relationship reaches out to you Trope: Angst w.c: 1.6k a/n: There is JJ slander in this (doing it for the plot and to hurt you all, like how I hurt myself in writing this.) I’m mostly writing follow ups now of my one shots and this is part of a part three series, i swear once i get all these follow ups done I’m going to hibernate for a bit to focus on my crime series. Not proofread. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

The somber air inside the coffee shop threatens to stifle your already critical heart. Its’ clear window clouded from the cold. Dull shades of gray creeping from every corner of the room, draining life as it went, no matter the strain of each lighted lamp on the tables.

Your fingers pulled the sleeves lower, wanting to cover any sliver of skin, trying to fight off the chill, as if it doesn’t come from within. Why did you agree to this, you wondered for the nth time, what good would confronting your nemesis, the root of the problem—Spencer’s Achilles heel, bring?

Comfort? 

Not at all.

The truth? 

Maybe.

Closure?

Closure from what exactly?

The failed relationship still stuck in limbo, dreadfully waiting for its free fall or flight from the precipice it’s balancing on?

Spencer had given you space, an act you weren’t sure to be grateful for. Yes, it spoke about his gentleman sensibilities and respect to not hound you to talk but on the other hand, his presence in reminding you how much he cared was sorely missed. Couldn’t he have at least left you one voicemail, voice pleading and coated with sadness, to repeat over and over again? Or a singular flower tucked to your doorstep, wilting slowly each day for your eyes to lay on?

You wanted nothing but you wanted something.

It was a conundrum.

Late into the night, when the phone rang and when your steps hastened against the wooden floor, you almost wished it was him. Eyes unfocused, the name unregistered, you surely wished it was him, instead of Her. 

Her voice, blended with a slight static, was hesitant and soft as if she had encountered a wounded animal in need of her saving, tore through the paper-thin shield you’ve built around your bleeding, bruised heart. 

You wanted to lash out, to be quiet, and to agree to anything she asked for—anything to end the call immediately, but when she suggested to meet in this quaint hidden coffee shop, describing it’s freshly brewed coffee and tasteful pastries, a sob rose and lodged itself in your throat.

It was your spot.

A secret place in your neighborhood you discovered and happily shared with Spencer.

This once vibrant store, the backdrop of so many rose-tinted memories, turned ordinary—tainted with the truth that it was no longer just yours and his. It was also Hers. 

“Hi,” JJ softly greeted, occupying the seat in front of you. “Thank you for seeing me.”

Clearing your throat, the shred of what little courage you mustered leaving your body. “Yeah, uh, hi.”

Her blue eyes documented the lemon ginger tea in front of you, cooled and untouched. “I haven’t seen you in a while, how are you?”

“Fine, been doing good,” the darkness under your dull eyes painted a different picture, something that registered as her feminine shoulders drooped.

Lips pressed tightly together, she shifted in her leather worn bench, allowing the silence to further the divide between you both—the two female protagonists featured in Spencer Reid’s story.

“You don’t have to lie—”

“Right. A profiler, as if I could ever forget.”

“—Spence also isn’t doing well—”

You flinched, the sound of his name uttered out loud feeling like a thousand pounds dropping on your chest.

“—and just know that I’m here for the both of you, to clear up any misunderstandings. Let me help, ask me anything.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s why we’re here after all.”

Your eyes examined how her golden hair fell perfectly around her, creating a halo of perfection you have never felt once before. You were always the kid who worked hard to seem put together—a stack of paper stick achievements built to hide how ordinary you turned out to be. A woman made of dismantled almosts. 

“Can you tell me—” clearing your throat “—about you and him. Anything, as team members, friends, your first date—just anything I need to know. He’d always quickly summarize the context of you as his best friend, defender, confidant. Never letting anything beyond that.”

She nodded with a slight smile on her lips. “He’s always been a little brother. I, like everyone else in the team, wanted to protect and guide him. Joining the BAU at such a young age and enduring hardships that come with it—the kidnapping, the Dilaudid, his parent’s involvement in a cold case, losing Maeve, and prison—is too much for anybody to bear all on their own. We’ve always been close, being exposed to the darkness that comes with our job will do that for you but I’ve never seen him like that with you. He was so light and happy, almost as if the younger version of Spence came back to life—” she laughed before the brightness wiped away from her face. “—and now, like this with you, he looks afraid, like he might lose it all, lose you. I’ve seen him sad when we weren’t able to save Maeve but this time, this sadness that comes from the thought of you leaving, seems too deep to come out from. I’m afraid that he won’t make it and for that, I feel responsible.” 

The deep red nail polish on your fingers were leaving chipped specks all over the white table, like blood on a pure white snow. The cage around your devotion and love threatens to topple down, releasing you from indecision. It seemed unfair to persecute a man of Spencer’s caliber for his past and for your fear of never being enough. 

A shadow of a smile peeked from behind your curtain of self-preservation. Maybe all could be salvaged with a deep talk between one another and a schedule to a therapist—solo and couple. You loved him strongly enough to tackle those doubts and reverently wish to see the relationship through, forever if time allowed it to.

But the small voice in the back of your head echoed above the chimes of change and courage, it’s deep tone trying to pull you back to stagnancy and reality. What did she mean by that? Why would she feel that way?

“Responsible?” you whispered, heart beating loudly against your chest. Its’ sound parroting on your ear. “Why would you feel responsible?” 

“During the last case, being held at gun point—” the bewilderment in your eyes causing her to gasp. “—he never told you, did he?” 

The anticipation, anger, and dread enveloped you, as if you were about to combust at the drop off a hat. If you looked down to any piece of you, you’d think you were doused with gasoline and a small flicker of fire started at the tips of your shoes. “Tell me what? JJ, tell me what?”

She took a deep breath, trying to delay the inevitable truth. “During that time, the unsub wanted us to admit, confess a secret no one knew and wanted nobody to know and I—”

You raised your hands, trembling from realization, to unsuccessfully block the truth from spilling into the world. You didn’t want to hear it—needed to never hear it. “Stop. Please, stop.” 

Droplets of sadness mixed with the specs of chipped nail polish on the table, your tears creating tracks on your ashen cheeks. This was enough to break you—the shaky mirage of your strong self was nowhere to be found as sobs freely escaped from the depths of your ribs. 

You came here, filled with indecision which turned into hope before rapidly decaying to death.

The final nail in the coffin.

“You’re married, JJ. You have kids, how could—” you pressed your fingers tightly to your lips, nails digging into the soft flesh. “—I guess I always knew, huh. I may not be a profiler but my woman intuition has never steered me wrong. Not even once.”

She hung her head, the locks of halo you once considered pure and perfect shrouded around her like a thick veil of shame.

“So what now? What about Will and I? Does he even know?”

Her watery blue eyes, pleading with yours. “No, nothing changes. I love Will and my kids and it’s just a secret I want to take to my grave.”

A vicious hollow laugh bled out of you. “Are you even inlove with him? Your husband?” 

The lack of response was very telling. Her love for her chosen partner was shallow compared to the other. You briefly wondered if there was no kids in the picture, would she have even stayed? 

The thought was dashed repeatedly in your head. It wasn’t your problem to speculate. Mind made up, you refuse to be part of this convoluted love story any longer.

“That’s cruel of you. I wouldn’t even wish that on my worst enemy,” you slowly gathered your things and any strength that could take you home. The only place you’d allow yourself to unravel. “I think, I should go.”

“But—”

You mustered a small smile. “Thank you for being honest, JJ. I wish you the best with all of this. Tell Spencer, I’m sorry and please take care of him for me, will you?”

Quickly turning away from the mess that shredded your love life into bits no longer salvageable, the dull shades of gray once crawling from every corner of the store followed your trail. 

Another dismantled almost to add to your ever growing collection.

The colorful world you and Spencer built with the thought of forever turned to ash. 

Burnt from the truth.

The remains charred to multitudes of gray that signified the end. 

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

[tea-writes19]

whiskey lullaby | b.b.

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: your husband never comes home from the war

w/c: 864

warnings: major character death, suicide, established relationship, angst angst angst, no happy ending, this is dark y'all, sad girl hours, 40s bucky, reader dies

a/n: blame whiskey lullaby by brad paisley for this. i apologize for any tears this causes. idk this is just pure angst no happiness. Anyways sorry for being a sad bitch and enjoy the fic.

the house was quiet except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the entryway and your sobs.

You sat at the small dining table in the kitchen of yours and Bucky's shoebox apartment. A letter laid in front of you, hand delivered by a Western Union worker earlier that day. Any hope of seeing your husband again crushed.

By a stupid goddamn letter.

You should have begged harder for him to come home after Azzano. Instead of the half-hearted argument knowing you wouldn't change his mind from following Steve. Maybe then a gold star wouldn't be hanging from your window...

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*

"Come on doll," Bucky guided you towards the rollercoaster, grin on his face. "it'll be fun."

You gave him a deadpan expression. Nothing about the coaster looked fun. Steve was already in line waiting for Buck and you to join him.

"No thanks, I'm good," You gave him a peck on the cheek. "I'd rather not have stevie puke all over me."

He chuckled. "Your loss doll," he waved as he joined Steve in line and you sat back down on the bench you were occupying as the boys went on the rides you were too scared to.

You'd been fine with the carousel and stall games, but anything with heights was a no go for you.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*

You snorted as the memory came to you. Ironic how much you hated heights when Bucky had fallen off a train. Shaking your head, your eyes fell on the picture hanging on the wall. The only hanging picture in the apartment. It was of you and Buck on your wedding day. Standing in front of the courthouse, arms wrapped around each other.

Your gaze fell to the gold band wrapped around your ring finger. The gold slightly rusted from being worn. It was simple, neither of you having much money for anything fancier, but it didn't matter to you. What mattered was you saying I do and spending the rest of your life next to Bucky.

A wish that would no longer come true. He was supposed to make it home. Not end up somewhere in the Alps with no way off his body being recovered. It wasn't fair.

It wasn't fucking fair.

Kicking the chair back from the table you stood up. A bottle of whiskey sat in the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard. Saved for special occasions as it had cost Bucky a fortune, weeks spent working the docks.

Grabbing a glass off the shelf below you grabbed the bottle, walking over to the worn couch and plopping down. You poured a generous amount and took a sip, the liquor burning on the way down your throat.

Tears clung to your cheeks, wetting them as you finished the glass and foregone the propriety of the glass and grabbed the bottle and took a swig. It tasted much better this way. Besides it wasn't like you had anyone to share it with anymore.

A buzz took over as you sat there staring at the wall, bottle held loosely in your hand. There was a crack running from the ceiling that Bucky had never gotten around to fixing. You supposed it wouldn't be getting fixed now. No one was here to do it.

The sky darkened as you finished off the bottle. You swayed as you got to your feet vision blurring and the bottle slipped from your grip, glass breaking as it hit the wooden boards. A hysterical laugh bubbled up your throat as you stared at the broken shards.

Broken. Like you. How poetic.

For you would never be whole again. Your laugh gave over to choking sobs and you fell to your knees. The shards tearing up your knees a welcomed pain. What was the point anymore?

How were you supposed to go on with your life knowing you would never see Bucky's smile or hear his laugh ever again? Your eyes landed on a particularly sharp piece of glass as your thoughts spiraled.

Perhaps you didn't have to go on. Maybe you could join him in the afterlife. Be with each other for eternity. No more pain. Simply peace.

Your hand picked up the shard, ignoring how it cut into your palm. Bringing your hand to your neck, glass cutting into the delicate skin, you didn't give yourself time to second guess. Alcohol flowing through your veins giving you the bravery to dig the shard in harder and sliced it across your neck.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*

2023

Bucky stood in front of the grave, hands shoved deep into his pockets as a cold breeze brushed over him. The headstone was simple with nothing more than your name and the dates.

Kneeling, he took his hand---his flesh one---out of his jacket and placed it on the stone. He bowed his head and whispered.

"Hello doll."

© tea-writes19 do not repost, translate, or copy

taglist: @lottiewills

[aventurineswife]

Can I please make a wuwa request involving Geshu Lin where the reader is his child and the scenario is similar to the one between Vander and Vi during the first episode of Arcane, I mainly want to see how he would react if the reader came home with injuries.

Not Every Battle Must Be Won

Summary: After returning home injured from a fight, you find yourself face-to-face with your father, Geshu Lin. The former general of the Midnight Rangers is not pleased, but rather than anger, his response is something heavier—concern, disappointment, and a lesson in what true strength means.

Tags: Geshu Lin x Reader, Platonic, Father-Child Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Parent, Tough Love, Battle Philosophy, Emotional Conversations.

Warnings: Mentions of injuries (bruises, cuts, minor bleeding), References to past battles and violence, Parental discipline (stern but caring), Themes of self-worth and strength.

The door to your quarters slammed shut behind you, the sound echoing in the dimly lit room. You winced—not just from the pain lancing through your bruised ribs, but from the heavy presence waiting inside.

A shadow shifted in the far corner, where embers flickered faintly along the jagged edge of a massive greatsword. The dim light caught on fractured armor, battle-worn and scorched. He was already here.

Geshu Lin.

Your father.

His broad frame was rigid as he sat at the old wooden table, his hands resting against his knees. The air between you crackled with something heavier than silence—disappointment, concern, something unspoken yet undeniable.

His gaze landed on you, piercing and sharp. He didn’t need to ask. The blood on your lip, the bruises darkening your arms, the way you held your side—he had seen it all before, on the battlefield, on his soldiers. But you weren’t a soldier. Not yet.

You swallowed hard, shifting awkwardly under his stare. “It wasn’t my fault.”

Geshu Lin exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, but the heat in his Tacet Mark flared briefly. The glow along his neck pulsed like a heartbeat, like a warning.

“Sit.”

It wasn’t a request.

You hesitated, but obeyed, lowering yourself onto the bench across from him. The wood felt cold against your skin. He said nothing at first, reaching for a strip of cloth on the table. With the same hands that had wielded a blade capable of cleaving through monsters, he took yours—gently, but firm enough that you couldn’t pull away.

The silence stretched as he wrapped the cloth around your scraped knuckles, his movements precise, practiced. He had done this a thousand times for his soldiers, for himself. But this wasn’t a battlefield. You weren’t supposed to be a casualty.

“Who.” His voice was gravel, low and steady.

You bit the inside of your cheek. If you told him, if you let him handle it, there would be no second chances for whoever had done this.

“I handled it.”

His fingers stilled. You braced yourself, expecting anger, maybe even disappointment. But when he finally spoke, it wasn’t either.

“You think you’re ready,” he murmured. “You think strength is just taking hits and standing back up.”

Your jaw tightened. “Isn’t it?”

His hand moved to your chin, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. The Tacet glow along his neck flickered again, barely contained.

“No,” he said, voice quiet but heavy with something that made your chest tighten. “Strength is knowing when to stand down. When to walk away.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but his grip shifted, pressing lightly against your bruised ribs. The sharp pain made you suck in a breath.

“Strength is knowing when to fight and when to live another day,” he continued. “When you carry my name, you don’t get the luxury of reckless decisions.”

His words hit harder than any strike you’d taken earlier. You clenched your fists, the fresh bandages tightening against your skin.

“I just… I don’t want to be weak,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Something in his expression softened, just for a fraction of a second. He leaned back, arms crossing over his broad chest. “Then don’t waste your strength on proving something to fools who don’t matter.”

You exhaled shakily, your fingers curling against your bandaged palm.

He stood, towering over you, casting a long shadow. “Next time, if you must fight, make sure the battle is worth it.”

Then, softer, quieter—words meant for you alone:

“And come home in one piece.”

You nodded, swallowing past the lump in your throat.

Geshu Lin turned away, the glow of his Tacet Mark fading as he reached for his greatsword. But even as he moved toward the door, you knew—he wouldn’t be far.

Not tonight. Not until he knew you were safe.

[chimera-dreams]

This Tiny Thing Called Entropy

As rain patters at the walls of the enclosed space you find safety and solace within, a knock echoes on your door. Upon opening it, you find the face of a familiar man, who's come to ask for your help.

Task Force 141 Ensemble x reader

tags: tags and warnings to be added by chapter | violence, reader has a nickname/callsign, slow burn, weird mix between modern and future, dystopian, androids, eventual smut, see full list on (Ao3) (registered users)

wc: 6.3k

Chap 1 | chap 2 | chap 3 | chap 4 | chap 5

You had mixed feelings about your workshop.

On one hand, it was a space wholly your own. The walls were decorated with entire ranges of tools, each drawer and cabinet always had at least two pencils inside them (because you seemed to be constantly losing them when you needed one most, and got sick of looking for one). The tables and benches were covered with various objects, the floor littered with scraps from projects you devoted yourself to.

Everything you had, you sourced yourself. Whether easily or painstakingly, every single item filling any available expanse belonged to you. Bits and bobs you worked your ass off to get your hands on, supplies that made your life immensely easier, whatever it was, it was yours.

Nobody was allowed into what amounted to your sanctuary of sorts. You kept your secrets tucked away here, hidden in plain sight, a purposefully messy space to keep your own paranoia in check. Not that you’d ever let anybody see it all to begin with, but on the off chance someone did happen to chance a peek, all they would see was a hobbyist’s devoted disaster zone and nothing more.

The area was alive, the same way you were, and different all the same. Ticking toys sat on shelves, both worn and new, awake and asleep. Clockwork contraptions that could fit in the palm of your hand, carved wooden figurines, trinkets – your workshop was a time capsule of sorts, a hodgepodge of a person’s fascinatingly old interests. 

You had favorites, the ones you hated with all your soul and wouldn’t trade for the world, the ones you held begrudging respect for.

Most important to you was the little music box you had.

It was hidden more than everything else already was. This place could get burned to the ground and it would mean nothing to you as long as the music box was safe, unharmed. It was a gift from someone long gone, now. Someone you missed dearly.

There was a tiny safe you personally installed under the floorboards, air and watertight, a preservationist’s dream for the object they were most greedy for. Most desperate to protect. That is where you kept the music box.

This was your home; you treated it as such, and loved it as much.

On the other hand, this was where you saw the most pain. This was where you spent countless days and nights banging together new parts, carving wood, stressing over bills and the prices of materials, waiting to be hired for your next gig. Not many were hiring mercenaries at this time of year. It didn’t help that your prices were fairly high, compared to the next person, but that’s only because you worked hard to build a reliable reputation. You got shit done, and you got it done cleanly.

You prided yourself on your work. Not just the toys you fidgeted with, microscopic details taken apart and put back together with painstaking caution and heedfulness, but the things you did for whoever happened to be employing you. It was what you had to do to survive, and you weren’t about to half-ass your own life. Not after all you’d gone through, been through, and would have to endure.

Compared to the ordered disarray of your home, you were clean and quick with jobs. You got in, nabbed what you needed, snipped loose ties, and got out. The wage you charged was well deserved, earned through years of assiduous effort and exhaustive toil. You had a solid reputation for good reason, obtained through blood, sweat, and tears – rarely your own, of course. You’d gotten better at spilling less of your own, never leaving a trace that you were ever present.

Unfortunately, it was looking like you’d have to lower your service fees. You were in a bit of a pinch, having to choose between necessities to make ends meet. 

Electricity, gas…can live without food for a bit…maybe water, too. Need electricity, though. Can live without heating…

Rain pitter-pattered against the window in the other room as you tinkered with a small toy in your hands, something to entertain yourself with. A bit of company. 

The worst of the storm had already passed, leaving behind soothing relief that washed the world of its sin. As much as you would have loved a window in your workshop to ponder the weather and get some natural light into the room, it’d unfortunately bring too much attention to your…pastimes. The things you did weren’t favorable to all, whether innocent or not. In their eyes, it was all the same, all done for the same purpose.

In a world like this one, you had to be vigilant and careful of who you trusted.

The less people who knew about you, the better.

So, you kept yourself and all you knew secret.

A couple more twists of your screwdriver was all it took for the little clockwork bird in your palm to come to life. Its wings twitched, stuttering at first, struggling to grind open and closed, too sleepy to wake. Its beak clicked, its tiny legs shuddered, and then, it took a breath.

Beady eyes found yours, and you grinned down at the creature, watching it flutter its wings before settling comfortably in the cup of your hand.

The wee thing must have belonged to a child, a once well-loved toy that was left to rust on the street. You spotted it tucked into the crook between a storefront and the cracked cement sidewalk, and took it in a split-second decision. It took a fair amount of disassembling and scrubbing to get all its components cleaned up and functioning again, but it was worth it in the end. Now, you had a companion to sit by you when you worked late nights.

Rising from your seat, you swept your hand around you, giving it a provisional tour of your workspace. It wasn’t much, really, but it’s the one thing you could distinctly call home.

“You’re lucky I found you,” you said, showing off the number of boxes containing various clockwork pieces. Gears, nuts, hinges, chains, whatever you could possibly need to fix something old, make something new. “I had everything I needed to get you all better. Couldn’t let you go to waste.”

It hopped, looking over all your tools and equipment judgmentally, like its tiny head could comprehend anything, then looked up at you, appraising.

Your lips curled upwards. “Not a thought behind those eyes, huh?”

You were both startled by the sound of a fist knocking against your front door. Firm, assertive, confident. The bird – a chickadee, you believed; you chose to name her Chicken on a whim – flew up from your hand and zipped out of your workshop, wings beating as fast as they could to carry her up to the space between the cupboards in the kitchen and the ceiling. 

Heart pounding in your chest and sinking low, you slowly slinked out of the room, walking on the tips of your toes. You slid your inner wrist across a hidden panel on the wall inside of it as you went, triggering a mechanism that whirred quietly. A pocket door closed shut behind you, sealing until it was flush with the wall and completely invisible, hiding your secrets. To anyone who didn’t know, they’d simply believe that no room existed behind that particular wall to begin with.

You weren’t expecting any guests. Nobody had messaged you regarding work, you lived in a low-contact, low-population area, and never gave your address out. Most likely, it was someone you knew, but you always had to be cautious. Anybody could come stalking up to your home, weasel their way through the gaps of your teeth, choke you from the inside out until you turned blue. You had to be careful, because any mistake could get you in deep shit.

Any mistake could spell your doom. 

Permanently.

You stalked across the floor, wanting to give the illusion that nobody was home unless you proved you could allow entry to whoever was seeking refuge within your walls. Options for if they weren’t friendly flashed in your mind; the blade on the small table beside the door, the pistol in its drawer, the fire escape. Worst case scenario, you could either fight, or climb out the window in your bathroom.

Leaning against the door ever so gently, you stood higher on your toes to peek out the peephole, adjusting until you could see who was on the other side, and almost melted in relief. Safe.

Letting a cheeky smirk tilt your lips, you undid the range of locks on your door and pried it open, taking in the familiar face on the other side. You hadn’t realized how much you missed the man until you were face-to-face again. What was that saying – distance makes the heart grow fonder?

“Well, I’ll be,” you crooned, saccharine sweet. “If it isn’t one Mr. John Price.”

“Good to see you, too, doll,” he responded lazily, tipping his head in greeting, his voice as rough and drawling as you remembered. He still wore that silly boonie hat of his, still had that odd excuse of a beard, and still looked at you with those knowing, icy orbs. He grunted out a small ‘thanks’ when you stepped aside to let him in, taking no offense at your habit of opening the door only enough for him to fit through before it was closed behind him once more. Locked tight. Just in case.

Raindrops clung to his shoulders and the brim of his hat, dotting them like silver crystals, gems held together by surface tension, not yet ready to burst and seep into the fibers of his woolen jacket.

You motioned towards the tiny, two-seater table you had situated beside the end of the kitchen counter and moved to fill your kettle with water and plant it on the stove. Behind you, a chair scraped out from under the table, and John groaned lowly as he esconced into it, joints cracking.

“Sure you aren’t ready to retire yet, old man?” You teased, dropping sugar cubes into one of the two mugs you pulled from the cupboard above you. A tea bag went into each one – black tea, and butterfly pea tea. A rare taste of color in such a bleak, copper world. You knew he wasn’t particular to it, though.

“Maybe, I should,” he said. He sounded tired, worn down, taking your jest a bit too seriously for your liking.

Troubled, you looked over your shoulder, and found him staring at the wood grain beneath his clutched hands, unseeing. Distracted and distant – nothing like the man you knew. Granted, it’d been a while since you last met up, but you were confident enough to say that this behavior was very unlike him.

Sensing he needed some time to gather his thoughts, you kept busy with pouring the boiled water into the mugs, adding a spot of cream into both, and bringing them over to the table. Black tea for him, sweetened butterfly pea tea for you. Same as it had always been between you.

Your new friend must have decided John was safe, if you were treating him as a companion. She hopped down from the cabinets and flew over to him, landing on his shoulder.

That broke him out of his shaky trance. 

He turned his head to eye her curiously, and she tilted hers in return, beady pupils taking in his features; scraggly, rugged, and something distinctly him.

“New project?” He voiced, drawing his mug towards himself.

“Found her on the street a few blocks from here. Figured it’d be alright to patch her up.”

“She looks brilliant. Haven’t lost your touch, have you?”

Warmth spread through your chest, and not just from the tea you sipped down.

Silence with him was comfortable, but he was restless, needing to fill the quiet; you could sense it from your seat. Unusual. 

“How are you holding up?” He queried.

You smiled placatingly. “All’s in working order. Don’t worry ‘bout me, Cap. How about you? How’re your boys?”

He sighed, weary and crushed by the unimaginable weight of responsibility on his shoulders. 

“Could be better,” the man admitted. His vulnerability unsettled you.

The edge of your ceramic cup clinked dully on the table. “Your job starting to catch up with you?”

“Something like that.”

The quiet dragged on a beat too long for your liking. You’d seen him in all sorts of states before, but dejected was not one of them. It made you uneasy, restive. Nervous, which was never good.

John Price was many things. Strong, certainly, anybody could see that. A capable leader, older and wiser than his visible age would leave you to believe. Smart, thoughtful, he planned everything in advance and never did things on a whim. His visit to you was deliberate, organized. Why?

“Heard a silo blew up a couple miles outside the city. That you?” You propped your chin up on the heel of your hand, fingers curled against your cheek, filling the empty air between you with something.

A muscle in his jaw fluttered. “Failed mission. Got bad intel. They had the whole place rigged. By the time we cleared the building, it was too late.”

Rage flickered to life beneath your ribs, your nose wrinkling along the bridge. The joints of your knuckles clicked, nails digging into your palm.

Gangsters, packs, cliques, whatever you wanted to call them, they were a pestilence. Rotten, parasitic cretins that leeched off the backs of the poor, taking the little money and land they owned. If you could, you’d burn them yourself, strip them of their flesh, their dignity, their pride, reveal the poison that spoiled the gums lining their necrotizing teeth and corroded their innards into melted puddles of decaying goop; once organs, now unrecognizable viscera.

It was people like them that would execute men who weren’t able to cough up protection money from their starved gullets and take their wives and daughters. 

It was people like them that triggered the downfall of technology, all because they felt inferior to a different form of being, too slow to keep up with the quickening times.

They missed their train, and decided to blow out the entire railroad in the name of unjust revenge.

“Damn savages,” you grit out. “They’re trying to scare us out of the city.”

It was a war that never ended. There was always at least one power-hungry group that attempted to gain stance by eradicating communities, usually those of the lower class. They believed owning more property gave them more control, but all it did was harm the innocent and aid the powerful, who hated those they viewed as lesser. All it did was show off their insecurities, the knowledge that they were utterly, completely, entirely useless. Wastes of breath, of space. 

Oh, how you hated them. They were the reason you were here, playing the part of faceless aide to those who offered the right price and hired for the right reason. Whether directly or indirectly, it made no difference to you.

“That’s what we’re tryin’ to stop,” John said.

Chicken chirped idly, hopping across the broad expanse of his shoulder.

You observed her, subconsciously fidgeting with the handle of your cup. Your finger rubbed at the chip imprinted on the material after you’d dropped it some ageless time ago, a habit, wired twiddling.

Small talk wasn’t your strong suit, neither was patience. It was time to address the dead elephant in the room.

“Why did you come here, John?”

“...Callin’ in a favor,” he confessed, hands holding his tea like a lifeline, absorbing its warmth until his knuckles paled to the bone. “I’ll pay you triple for your services, as well. Up front.”

Fuck. 

Triple was a lot. You needed the money desperately, and that would be more than enough and then some to last you at least half a year if you were prodigal, a year if you were frugal. 

More importantly, though, John Price was an old friend to you. You both owed a lot to each other, and a man such as him wasn’t exceptionally keen on calling for aid; so, if he was consulting you, you knew it was deeply serious, and felt compelled to support him.

Exhaling, you mulled over his offer. “Must be dire, if you want a favor.”

“We need as many hands as we can get.”

“Is Kate aware you’re hiring…let’s say, assistance?”

He huffed sardonically, the corner of his lip twitching upwards. “She was the one that sent me here.”

You snorted. “Of course. Men are never good at knowing when to ask for help.”

“Well aware, unfortunately.”

The captain paid no mind to the toy chickadee that had taken to pecking at his beard. Pointless, really, but you couldn’t blame her. She didn’t know any better. She didn’t know she was nothing but a toy in the opinion of most.

Something you could relate to.

“What’s the job?”

He subtly looked around your small flat, ever-vigilant of his surroundings, even in your hideout. You didn't judge him. While you had made sure there were no forms of surveillance, checking your space frequently, the walls always had ears for those nosy enough.

“Not safe to talk here,” he decided. “Got a place not far from here. Will you come with me?”

You considered what you had to do. Cleaning up your workshop (that’s been on the checklist since forever. You were confident you’d get to it, someday), settling on which bills you were going to pay, wallowing in the anxiety of your spiraling thoughts, rewatching your favorite show for the nth time until you passed out on the couch again…

“Sure, why not.”

John waited patiently while you poured out the tea you hardly drank down the drain and filled the cups with water, stuffed a backpack with a few necessities. Kindly, he looked away when you hesitated in front of your workshop entrance, allowing you the privacy of grabbing a few belongings from there. All that time, short minutes that they were, Chicken perched atop the table, watching you scurry around.

You threw on a jacket afterwards, grabbed her, stuffed her into your pocket, and spent a couple minutes meticulously twisting every lock on your door and pushing against it to ensure it held. Paranoia and old habits were hard things to shake – not that you had any interest in doing so. Letting your guard down was the fastest way to getting yourself ripped to shreds.

The rain had slowed into a drizzle, the kind that fogged glasses and stuck to hair, but didn’t soak the clothes. Chicken remained tucked away regardless, your little stowaway, curled in your hand. 

The neighborhood you’d taken to was eerily silent, the lack of noise only interrupted by the flecks of water that landed on worn, moth-eaten awnings and overfilled trash bins. It wasn’t an ideal choice, it kind of sucked, actually, which is why you chose it. It was an ugly thing, though not outright dangerous, and scared away potential straying eyes. Everyone minded their business, for the most part. 

More importantly, it meant that you were safe, in a backwards sort of way.

Less people meant less risk of being found out. Your neighborhood held no interest for the greedy.

You let him guide the way down twisting streets and through narrow alleyways, keeping pace by sheer force of will alone (fuck him and his long-ass strides), until the spaces between businesses and housing grew further and further apart.

Cracks in cement sidewalks made way for flora – grass, flowers, spurge euphorbia. Fragile, pintsized life, seen as so wholly meaningless to most. Unnoticeable, unnoteworthy.

You saw them, anyway. You paid attention to the yellow-green leaves with dried tips that housed a poisonous, milky lifeblood. You took note of the few bees that found their way to this sad part of town, feeding on weak, pitiful blooms of miniscule white and gold. Sometimes, you stopped to observe, to track a dewdrop of water as it raced its way down a stem, or decorate the delicate petals of roses that survived in the rough, somehow.

You’d thought to smell them from time to time, to give in to the idiom, but the smell of roses only made you feel sick in the base of your throat. Flowers weren’t your favorite. Pretty to look at, nothing more. The thought of cutting them from their source of vitality for the sole purpose of letting them wilt in your homestead and flood the space with their decaying scent made you morose. It was a low form of flattery. You preferred them alive and thriving, blessing the world as much as they could.

That way, you could admire from a distance, draw inspiration from their brilliant colors and intricate weaving, and not be suffocated by their overpowering presence.

You were a witness to this world as much as you were a conscious actuality within it.

You preferred to keep it that way, when possible.

No words passed between you, save for the scuffle of soles on solid ground. You doubted he walked the whole way to your flat, he wasn’t soaked to the muscle from the rain, but walking back made sense. It was easier to cover where you were going by twisting and turning every which way.

John seemed satisfied by the time he trotted down a set of stairs that led to a cellar door beneath a store in a mixed use building. A front, presumably, a farce to keep attention away. Respecting that, you kept your sights on the back of his head as he punched in a keycode into the door. A lock hummed audibly, then clicked, allowing him to push open the door.

He jerked his head towards it and you slipped in past him, waiting patiently for him to step inside, too, and close the entrance, sealing you inside the makeshift safehouse.

It was lit up brightly, initially causing you to squint in discomfort before you adjusted. A table, some chairs, a kitchenette, what looked to be a simple bathroom off to the side. Blank, cement walls, a painfully sterile yet somehow mangy feel. All the basic necessities that a safehouse should have.

Which, yes, included two other guys and a few guns set on the table, alongside scattered pieces of paper and various other objects you didn’t bother paying too much attention to.

You stared at the two men, who had stopped whatever it was they were doing (one looked to have been cleaning a gun while the other was…sketching?), and they stared right back, not necessarily hostile, but certainly alert.

John stepped up beside you and planted a firm hand on your shoulder, reassuring. He always was far more perceptive than he let on.

“Boys, this is the mercenary that’ll be joining us for the foreseeable future. Kate and I can vouch for her,” he introduced you, then went from left to right, pointing out each man as he went. “Kyle Garrick and John MacTavish, my sergeants.”

The former nodded his head in greeting. placing the gun down to give you his full attention. Kyle Garrick was the picture of masculine beauty. Plush, slightly rosy, full lips were complimented by neatly trimmed and maintained facial hair along the line of his jaw and upper lip. His dark skin looked smooth and clean, well-nourished; you imagined it might have felt like firm pottery clay. Beneath long, thick lashes were a pair of glossy orbs, a surprising shade of hazel that suited him perfectly. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, polite as can be.

MacTavish, on the other hand, wolf-whistled, shameless in the way he looked you up and down. “Aren’t ye a bonnie thing?”

The first thing you clocked was his accent, distinctly Scottish, maybe from somewhere in the Highlands. The next was that he had a rough sort of handsomeness to him, with high cheekbones, a sharply angled jaw, straight brows, and a strong chin. Cerulean orbs took you in, glinting with mischief and interest alike, such a striking splash of ocean capri that it caught you off guard. Finally, you noticed his mohawk, and you had to hold back a snort.

It was boyish, yet you couldn’t imagine any other style on him, despite having known him for all of ten seconds.

“Johnny,” a voice came from across the room, heavy on the warning tone, and you squeaked, startled out of your skin.

You looked up at the man you hadn’t noticed before, balking at his sheer bulk and, more importantly, how he managed to hide said bulk so well, like a ghost. He easily breached over 6 feet tall and donned a balaclava painted in the image of a skull, dark and brooding from where he was leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his, frankly, greatly oversized chest. It almost made you feel self conscious.

You resisted the urge to squeeze your own tits to compare.

It was his eyes that creeped you out the most, though. 

Chestnut irises bored into you, appearing nearly pitch black from the way his brows shaded his sockets, except for the sliver of amber at the very bottom, ringed by inked lines, a stunning tattoo. It was like he was peering straight through you, carving into your being, flaying your chest open to bare your raw lungs and heart to him.

Price chuckled at your reaction, and you shot him a glare. “And, that would be Ghost, my lieutenant.”

Oh. You hit the nail right on the head with that one.

“Och, c’mon, LT,” Johnny whined. Honest to god, whined. “Jus’ sayin’ hallo tae the lass. Ye dinnae mind, do ye, hen?”

You pulled your lips back and shrugged. You weren’t opposed to compliments. “Not a bit.”

A stellar, blindingly white grin split across his face, cheeks pushing his aquamarine orbs into pretty little crescents. Somehow, it made your stomach flutter. “Knew you wouldnae.”

Kyle sighed, albeit fondly. “Ignore him, Tav’s an incorrigible flirt.”

“Am no’!”

“You’ll bat your lashes at any girl you see.”

Pouting, Johnny folded his arms over his chest. “Tha’s only ‘cos ye dinnae even have tae try. Ye’re such a pretty boy tha’ all ye have tae do is smile an’ the skirts come flyin’ off. Isnae fair.”

Taking the route of ignoring the brooding man, Kyle smiled disarmingly at you (oh, Johnny was right, that smile could win him millions). “So, you’re a mercenary?”

“Yep,” you confirmed, popping the ‘p’. MacTavish’s indignant outrage at being brushed off amused you greatly.

Only for Ghost to scare the fuck out of you a second time by speaking up again, reminding you of his existence. His voice was heavy, gruff, laced with a thick Manchester accent. It fit the image he cultivated, if it was worth making your heart shoot out of your ass. “What’s your experience?”

He’s vetting you.

Best thing you could do was entertain him. Building trust was all about answering questions when asked.

“Mostly infiltration, data gathering, tracking folks down via digital footprint, that kind of stuff,” you said.

His eyes narrowed microscopically. You picked up on the detail, and knew he was trying to pick apart your answer. He wanted more information, proof you were an ally, someone that could be relied on.

Someone who was capable of getting her hands dirty.

“She’s worked with Laswell before,” John tacked on. 

He wasn’t wrong, you and Kate Laswell were familiar with each other, and had partnered up on a couple occasions. Mutually beneficial, of course. You gave her eyes on the ground, got your hands on slippery intel, and she sent you rare and difficult to find parts, items that money couldn’t buy, not easily. With her, it wasn’t about the cash – she did still pay her fair share, mind you – but a deeper sense of sympathy, of understanding.

She knew what it was like for you, to live in this world, this hellscape that did everything it could to tear you down. She knew, so she took care of you in little ways when she could. You never said no. You couldn’t afford to, regardless of how much you wanted to bristle and proclaim total indepence.

Sadly, it just didn’t work like that.

You’ve had time to come to terms with it. The fact that you couldn’t exist solely on your own terms, that you needed people, as few as you could get away with.

Which ended up being two: John Price and Kate Laswell.

You had every intention of keeping it that way, no matter how much time you were going to spend working with this motley crew, how close you’d have to stand beside them. 

It’s fine. You had plenty of familiarity with keeping people at arm’s length. 

“What kind o’ data?” Johnny questioned, having turned a chair around to sit in it backwards, beefy forearms (wow) propped up on the backrest. 

“Money wires, shady activity, locations at given dates and times. Honestly, most of it is pretty boring and mundane. I don’t go out on the field super often.”

“An’, when ye do?”

You hesitated, shifting your weight from one leg to the other. You hated the attention, hated how it made you break out into a nervous sweat, antsy and jittery. It made you look suspicious, especially with a crowd like this. The limelight was never meant for you, and you respected that wholeheartedly. 

“I do what I have to do to finish a job,” you eventually muttered, less than satisfactory, but at least it was something.

It appeased three of the four men present. John by fact that he already knew what your job entailed, had worked with you before, and Johnny and Kyle for reasons beyond you.

Ghost?

Earning his trust would be difficult, if possible at all. Something that had to be forged in battle, in the heat, drenched in blood next to one another.

You’ll never earn their full trust, a voice whispered in your head. You’ll always be a lying bastard, and nobody likes a lying bastard.

If you won’t let them in, what makes you think they’ll let you in?

Because, your life depended on it.

That was always your justification, and it worked well for you every time you had to use it. Every day of your life was lived on the edge, constantly on your toes. You were cogent in keeping everyone three paces ahead of you, maintaining distance. 

For your sake, and theirs.

It’s just temporary, anyway, you mused. I’ll get this job done, and we’ll all go our separate ways.

That was the plan you had set up for yourself. You were good at honoring plans. It was practically coded into you, an instinctive habit to heed a set path from point A to point B. Get the job done, get out, get paid. Well, that last one was going to happen first, if John was to be believed about paying you up front, but the concept remained the same.

The only trust you needed was confidence that they’d cover your back in the field, and you’d cover theirs.

You knew John had yours and, if the praise you’d heard from him about his boys was to be believed, they would have yours by proxy, too.

They’re good men, those mutts. Maybe not good people, but none of us really are at the end of the day, huh? Not in this line of work. Least of all an old rag like me. We get our hands dirty so the world can stay clean.

So, in return, you’d have theirs. It was simultaneously the least and most you could do.

For the sake of keeping the world clean.

Each man tensed when a squawk sounded from your jacket pocket, and you watched as Chicken climbed her way out, determined to escape her warm, fluffy prison. Without a lick of hesitation, she jumped up and immediately flew over to Kyle, circling his head a few times before she dropped onto his shoulder and promptly began nuzzling into his neck.

“Uhh…” He was frozen in place, taken aback.

You smirked, bemused that your partner-in-crime’s loyalty lied in who she considered prettiest. “Looks like she likes you.”

Johnny cooed, radiating golden retriever energy, invisible tail wagging as he checked out the clockwork contraption. “Who’s this wee thing?”

“That’s Chicken. Found her and fixed her up. Seems she’s whipped for Garrick over here.”

“Ye named ‘er ‘Chicken’?”

“It’s because she’s a chickadee. Couldn’t think of anything more fitting.”

Kyle laughed softly, raising a finger to lightly brush against her belly. “Hello, Chicky. You’re a sweet thing, aren’t you?”

“She’s a little dumb,” you shrugged. “Curious creature. I think that’s how she got lost the first time, having flown off from her owner. Ended up in a ditch for me to find.”

John rubbed a hand over his chin. “She was pecking at my beard earlier.”

“I do believe she was trying to preen you.”

“Preen me?”

“That,” you cocked your head to the side, “or find bugs to eat.”

Kyle and Johnny burst into laughter at their captain’s perturbed expression, to which Chicken joined in with little chirps of her own.

Velvet and warm, that’s how it felt, seeing how the boys interacted with one another. Playful jabs and ribbing, continued cackles, Johnny’s harmless attempts to snatch the bird away from Kyle. It was painfully obvious how much they cared for each other. To be able to act like boys, the brothers-in-arms that they were, was a rare and precious thing. If nothing else, you hoped you could come away from this experience with the memory of happiness, however small it may be.

“What about her original owner?” Kyle asked as they calmed down, admiring the small chickadee’s bronze sheen.

The smile you wore fell away, replaced by a deep, harsh seriousness.

“If people are going to treat her like she’s nothing more than a toy, then they won’t miss her when she’s gone,” you grit out slowly.

“Seems like it’s an important topic to you,” he murmured. Gently repositioning Chicken in his hold, he stretched out his hand to you, offering her back – much to Chicken’s displeasure. The angry series of squawks let you know exactly how she felt about leaving her Prince Charming “Here.”

You shook your head. “Keep her. She likes you more than me, anyway. Just make sure to take good care of her, or I’ll hunt you down and turn you into a clock.”

He snorted, but accepted the gift, lifting his other hand to scritch at Chicken’s tiny little forehead. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The puffed chickadee appeared more than delighted to learn Kyle would be keeping her, leaning into his touch and chirping up a mechanical storm. You laughed under your breath, relieved to know he’d treat her well. You could see it in the way he cradled her, in how he pet her with only one digit. They were smitten at first sight, who were you to take that away from them?

“If she ever starts getting faulty or breaks, let me know, and I’ll repair her again.”

“I will,” he promised.

It brought you joy, knowing how much they loved each other already. A small fragment of light born from a new love in a dull, muted, dark world. If you could only do one thing, it would be this; adding as many spots of color to each and every day as you could. There was cheer to be found in even the weest of lifeforms, if one knew where to look. Sometimes, all they needed was a guiding hand.

If that was all you could be in this world, you’d happily take up the mantle.

You felt John fill the empty space to your left, unhurriedly, purposeful. Effortlessly, he pulled you into a different place, a different existence, present yet far away from the others. 

“Do they know?” You spoke in a muted tone, a conversation meant only for you and the captain.

John hummed his dissent. “I didn't tell them.”

You weren’t able to turn away from the sight of Kyle and Johnny playing with the former’s new companion and partner in (legal) (ish) crime. Greedy, that’s what you were. Greedy for any scrap of mirth you could find, whether yours or someone else’s “Won't that come back to bite you in the ass? What with trust and all.”

He gazed at you for a long, drawn out moment of time. Then, his hand eclipsed your upper back, comforting and reassuring in its weight, in the warmth that seeped through your clothing.

“I'd rather deal with a few angry soldiers to protect you. I know my boys, they're loyal, they don’t hate your kind, nor would they turn you in. I just don't want them to treat you differently. You're one of us, now.”

How true were his words? He knew his team better than anybody else, you knew that, but even the most open of people kept secrets. Was there really no judgement to be had in this circle, or was it a matter of distance? 

From afar, caring was difficult, but once brought together, prejudices came to light.

So, how long could precarious balance last?

Your attention shifted from the pair of sergeants to the geist that lingered in the shadows, and a chill ran down the length of your back when you saw him, looming as he always had. It wasn’t his size, nor the way the light seemed to avoid him, no.

It was the fact that he was already staring at you.

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[aurossaga]

We Were Nothing the Wind Couldn't Catch - pt. 3

>>Part 1<< >>Part 2<<

Venti x gn!reader

Genre: Fluff, Rivals with repressed feelings

Word count: ~2.7k

Warnings: Alcohol and drinking

Summary: After a successful performance at the tavern, you find yourself in the unlikely position of being able to flip the script on your challenging tutor... Well, at least for a time.

The Angel’s Share is loud tonight, atmosphere thick with sounds of laughter and the thump of boots against uneven floorboards. It's that kind of evening where the faint smell of woodsmoke from the hearth clings to every surface, and ale flows with ease. The scent of roasted meats, damp wool, and the sharp bite of cheap wine linger in the air, all sensations roaring and competing for attention amidst the rowdy audience. Someone's already spilled their wine across the far table… Yet nobody seems to care. There’s an exciting heat in the air, and the addicting rhythm chokes out any hesitation or second-guesses. It’s the kind of night where the worn benches rattle with song, and the candlelights flicker like they’re dancing along too.

You barely even remember taking the stage, in fact. One moment, you were tuning the lyre at your hip. Next, you were singing, and the whole room was singing with you. Your voice rises above the rest, strong and sure, piercing through the clatter of tankards and drunken cheer. Every time your fingers strike the strings just right, someone hollers in approval. Someone else stomps their foot to your rhythm.

You're not used to this kind of attention… the roaring kind. The kind that feeds on itself and gives back twice as much. But you don’t shrink from it, not tonight. You play the next verse with a grin threatening the corners of your mouth, the words coming easy, smooth as pouring ale. One of Venti’s clever chord tricks sneaks into your composition, and you allow it.

Yeah, it’s a small blow to your pride every time you utilize those tricks he taught you. But, you allow yourself to indulge tonight.

You strum out the final notes, the echo caught somewhere between the wood beams and your chest. The whole tavern answers in a swell of applause, cheers, the scrape of mugs raised high and clattered back to the tables. Someone calls your name, half-shouted, half-sung, and someone else tosses a coin that lands at your feet with a bright, triumphant clang.

You don’t try to hide the grin this time. It’s too big. You earned this.

There’s a giddy weightlessness in your bones, the kind that comes from being heard, really heard, and met with joy instead of judgment. You feel ten feet tall, lit from the inside, still humming the rhythm of your own tunes as the cheers and laughter persists around you. Maybe this was what Venti meant. Not that stuff about passion, or poetry… but about this… this connection. You finally begin to understand why he plays like the world might end if he stops.

As the applause begins to fade, you step off the small wooden platform and stoop to collect your lyre, fingers lingering against the frame. The strings feel almost warm to the touch now.

That’s when you feel the eyes on you. Different from the rest. Still. Intent.

You straighten your back only to come face to face with a stranger. You don’t think you've ever met this man before, though he’s not unfamiliar in the way he carries himself. Clean linen tunic. Pale gold fastenings. Hair tied back with a kind of effortless precision. There’s something deliberate in the way he looks at you, like he already understands the tune that just poured out of you and wants to ask how it was born.

“That last piece,” the man says, voice low but sure, “The one with the descending pattern in the refrain… that was new, wasn’t it?”

You blink. Most people ask about the lyrics. Or say something inane about how your fingers move. But this one… he listened. Really listened.

You nod with a grin. “It was.”

A smile tugs at his mouth. “You’ve got a gift for performing. And for holding back, just enough, before you let the line resolve. It really leaves people wanting more.”

There’s a pause, and you feel it settle between you like the moment after a held note.

“My name is Leo. I’d love to hear more about your artistic process.”

And somewhere behind the press of bodies and flickering candlelight, you think you hear the striking, familiar sound of a wine cup being set down with a bit too much force.

“Ah,” speaks a voice from behind Leo, smooth as polished brass. “So this is where the praise has gathered tonight.”

Leo turns slightly, but you don’t even need to look. You already know that voice. You’re painfully familiar with it all, from the slow confidence in each step to the faint scent of wine and wind and something else that’s harder to place. Venti doesn’t raise his voice, he never needs to. The room doesn’t fall silent, far from it. But it leans, somehow, to listen when he speaks.

He steps into your view with that familiar grin, mischief curled in the corner of his lips, eyes bright with something you’d almost call a challenge. Or maybe a warning. His gaze flicks from you to Leo, then down to your lyre with sudden interest, as though it’s the first time he’s seeing it in such a great musician’s hands.

“I’d say that piece sounded almost familiar,” he comments, “But then again, I’m told good songs tend to wander.”

Leo straightens, not defensively, but with a kind of elegant poise. “Well, if it isn’t Venti the bard! I’m surprised you’ve taken to sharing the Angel's Share’s stage.”

Venti tips his head, just enough to be polite. “Of course, on occasion. I’ve been known to admire my fellow bard’s melodies as well. Though I prefer when they stay… loyal.”

You shoot him an incredulous look, half in warning, half in disbelief. He catches it, smiling wider. Leo glances between you both, amused, but cautious now, sensing something intense yet unspoken.

“I’m Leo,” he offers again, to Venti this time.

“I gathered,” Venti replies, then adds with a mock-thoughtful tone, “Lovely name. Very... declarative. Personally, I prefer the ones that bloom slowly. Like a chorus that waits two verses to reveal itself.”

You sigh loudly. “Venti.”

He turns to you, all false innocence in his big, bright eyes. “Yes?”

“You’re being unbearable.”

“Only because I care.”

And now he’s looking at you like he often does these days. Like the joke is just a veil over something else, something steadier… Something dangerously close to sincerity.

You say nothing at first. Just let the moment hang, a quiet beat between remarks. Venti stands there with that usual smirk, but you can tell it doesn’t reach his eyes like it usually does. His stance is too still, too measured. His hand lingers near the rim of his cup, fingers strained as his grip tightens a tad more than strictly necessary. His shoulders, always loose and careless, carry an edge tonight. Not stiff exactly, but… alert.

And his eyes, they’ve flicked back to you three times now, though he pretends they haven’t.

You recognize the pattern. He’s not here for the song. Or the wine. Or for mingling with strangers.

He wanted to be first.

The realization comes all at once, warm and slow, like ale hitting the back of your throat. That’s what this is. He’s not upset about your new hit melody or the spotlight. He’s… actually upset because someone else got there before he did. Before he had the chance to compliment you, in whatever twisted, backhanded way he would have chosen.

It’s oddly endearing. Which is exactly why you decide not to let him off the hook. You’ve put up with his strange games and constant remarks for months by now… you’ve earned a little fun at his expense.

You smile again, wider this time, and turn to Leo. “I’d love to talk about the process, actually. There’s a quieter corner near the back. Fewer spilled drinks.”

Leo chuckles and nods. “Lead the way.”

You catch Venti’s expression just before you turn. A split-second flicker of something bewildered and almost irritated beneath his usual persona. A spark of indignation, dulled only by disbelief at your audacity.

You don’t look back. Not right away.

But as you settle into the dim corner, your lyre propped carefully beside you and Leo asking thoughtful questions about lyric pacing and key shifts, you feel it. Venti’s presence. Not near. Not approaching. But never far.

Every time you let your laugh ring just a little louder, every time you touch the lyre with slow, practiced precision, you feel his eyes again. Watching. Calculating.

Waiting.

You don’t know when the tables turned. But for once, you’re the one leaving him in suspense.

Venti slumps in his seat, his gaze fixated on the deep purple wine in his cup. It should have been simple.

You’re improving, and that should be enough. That is enough. He’s the one who helped, after all. Offered his guidance, his critiques, his carefully crafted barbs. He watched you bristle, stumble, push back harder, and then… start to shine.

He should be proud. And he is proud, that much even he can admit. He’s proud of how your fingers glide over the strings now, how your voice doesn’t waver when the room leans in to listen. How you meet your audience’s gaze like you finally know you belong up on the stage. Like you’re finally starting to see what he’s been seeing all this time.

But something still itches under his skin as he watches you from across the tavern. His wine is warm now, though it’s exceptionally rare for the bard to ignore his drink for that long. His thumb runs lazy circles around the rim of the cup as you laugh at something Leo says.

He doesn't even dislike Leo. The man’s articulate. Courteous. Clearly a man who appreciates your art. One who speaks your language, apparently, and listens with the kind of attention Venti has never allowed himself to display around you.

But heaven knows he’s listened.

He leans back in his chair, trying to look bored. Trying to convince himself this isn’t the part that matters.

…

But it is.

Leo didn’t know you back when you sang in shaky half-measures in alleyways, when your lyrics tripped over themselves trying not to say anything too true or heartfelt. He didn’t hear the first drafts or the snide remarks you made to cover for your nerves. He didn’t see you angry and tired and trying not to care.

He doesn’t know you.

An exhale escapes his lips before he can stop it. Too quiet to catch over the music, but enough to loosen something in his chest. This wasn’t supposed to be complicated. He wanted you to grow. Wanted you to get better, to stand your ground, to give him something worth clashing with. He didn’t plan for this. Didn’t plan to care who else heard your songs. Didn’t expect it to sting when someone else said the things he still hasn’t figured out how to say to you.

He’s not angry. Not even annoyed, really. Just... displaced. Like the tempo changed and no one gave him the count-in. He watches you toss a playful look over your shoulder as Leo leans in again, and all he can think is-

“Why didn’t I say it first?”

He takes a sip of his wine, finally. The taste is off tonight. Or maybe that’s just him.

It’s the flicker of movement that draws your eye. Not much, just Venti shifting in his seat, swirling his cup, looking everywhere except directly at you.

Except he is watching. You know he is. You can practically feel it, tense and taught like the drawn string of a bow. There’s something… different tonight. The way he hasn’t interrupted. The way he hasn’t wandered over with one of his smug little rhymes and demanded the spotlight back.

You shouldn’t feel triumphant. But archons, it’s tempting, isn’t it?

You lean a little closer to Leo, just enough to make him look your way again. “Actually,” you say, eyes still on Venti across the room, “I owe part of that last piece’s glory to someone else.”

Leo perks up. “Oh?”

You let the silence hang for a beat. Then you raise your voice slightly, not enough to shout, just enough for the words to carry.

“I had help from a very opinionated street bard who thinks naming his lyre makes him sound wise instead of ridiculous…!”

Across the room, Venti straightens up just a little. Not enough for most to notice, but you see it. He picks up his cup and stands like it’s no big deal at all.

You gesture to the empty spot beside you without looking up. “You might as well join us. Since you’re already eavesdropping.”

Venti doesn’t miss the challenge in your voice, now almost hoarse from how much heart you put into your earlier performances. Nor does he hesitate, because of course he doesn’t. He settles into the seat next to you like he belongs there, like this wasn’t your invitation but his inevitable entrance.

Leo, ever the gracious one, offers a polite nod. “I was just asking about the last piece. The phrasing really stood out.”

“It should,” Venti says smoothly, eyeing you while swirling what remains in his cup. “You’ve learned to let the melody breathe. Took some time, but it turns out even stubborn musicians can be taught.”

You smile without showing teeth. “Well, some instructors have a talent for drawing out chaos instead of clarity.”

Leo chuckles, unsure if it’s a joke. Venti lifts a brow quizzically, but his eyes flick back to your shared company, almost amused. “Chaos is just another word for honesty, depending on who’s listening.”

“I’m not sure that’s how most people would define it,” Leo offers almost meekly, glancing between you.

You tilt your head, considering. “Most people don’t make music out of spite and red wine.” Venti dramatically places a hand over his chest. As if your barbs could ever actually hurt him. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”

Leo gives a short laugh. “You two must have worked closely, then.”

“Closer than I intended,” you say, coming to rest your head in your hand as you lean forward slightly.

Leo shifts slightly in his seat, curiosity evident in the way he leans in. “Do you two perform together often?”

Venti doesn’t miss a beat. “Often enough to finish each other’s phrases. Though I usually let my partner here take the final note. It suits you, no?”

You’re almost stunned for a moment. Yeah, you had the feeling your open teasing and intentional provocation was going to spur him to say some strange things, but… You weren’t prepared for that. Or the way he slings an arm over your shoulder, pulling you into his side. You open your mouth to respond, but Venti’s already turning his body slightly toward Leo, as if this were a conversation you’ve rehearsed a dozen times.

“We’ve got a duet in the works, actually,” he adds breezily, lifting his cup again with a smile. “Should be ready in a few weeks, once this one stops overthinking every verse.”

You blink. What.

Venti glances at you from the corner of his eye again, the picture of nonchalance. You try to speak, try to form anything resembling a protest. But Venti’s already leaning closer, pulling you with him. “We’ve been playing with the idea for ages by now,” he explains, taking a casual sip from his cup.

Leo looks delighted. “I’d love to hear that. A duet would be… well, frankly, electric.”

You’re still half-stuck on the feel of Venti’s knuckles brushing your wrist. You can’t tell if it was accidental or expertly timed. With him, it’s always a chance for both.

“And besides,” Venti adds, still so maddeningly casual, “Your voice does things mine can’t. Balance, contrast, heat and light. We’ve got... chemistry.”

You feel the flush bloom across your face before you can stop it. You scramble for something sharp, something to knock him off center, but he’s already there, comfortably reclined with that knowing smile.

Somewhere in the haze of candlelight and clinking glasses, he’s claimed the moment again.

And you?

You’re left holding the silence.

…

This bard will be the end of you.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Depths 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, stalking and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: fisherman!Geralt of Rivia x artist!reader

Summary: your sleepy existence is thrown into chaos by a mysterious man.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The water crashes onto the coast. The sound is dulled by the distance of your perch. The sky melds into the lake's surface as the sun hides behind a swathe of clouds.

You lean in to squint at the strokes on the canvas, sweeping your brush in repetition of the rippled horizon. You use the wnd of the brush to scratch your cheek.

Almost...

You peek above the easel and watch the small speck growing larger as it moves across the water. The fishing boat is there so often that you've added its silhouette to the acrylic tides. A stalwart to your early mornings and listless afternoons.

Day after day is layered before you in shades of cerulean, slate, and lavender. The grey sky with a tinge of golden sunlight, the waters stirring in sparkling shades of aquamarine and pearl, the coast rippled in fawn and umber. Another eye might see it and deem it finished but not you.

You step back to let the paint dry and rinse your brushes in the jar. Hmm. You're out of clean water.

You close up the easel and hook the canvas on the backside, carrying it like a briefcase as you pick up your canvas bag with your roll of brushes and pots of paint, your palette around your index finger.

You make a slow descent down the cliffside and curl around towards the shore. You veer away from the dock and head down into the silt. You put your stuff on a flat rock. You take the used brushes and palette to rinse in the shallows.

The water laps over your sandals as you linger in the soothing cool foam. The approach of evening skews the water with emerald and jade. You shake it all off and step back to dry it with a paint-blotted cloth.

You rearrange the bag so it all fits and hook it over your shoulder. You look down at the your linen apron. You can recall where every splotch and streak came from.

You take your easel and canvas and head back up along the dock. As you reach the post, the fishing boat knocks against the other end. You peer over at the man that lays a board across the spanse between.

You see him every night. You couldn't forget a man with snow white hair and golden eyes. His age is less than his locks might suggest and his eyes seem to look through you, not at you.

You smile, like you do every night. He doesn't react. Just like every other time.

The smell of fish wafts in the boat as he drags his net across the wooden ramp. You turn and press on. He's much to busy for you. It doesn't bother you. You came out here to get away from people.

Your feet leave divets in the dirt as the rock of the boat knocks in a rhythm against the dock. The man's toil adds to thunks and thuds and they fade behind you. The peace here is immaculate, you wouldn't want to ruin it for anyone else.

Past the seaside houses left vacant in the colder seasons and the smaller basins of the lake, between the rocky ridges and grassy knolls, you return to your little house.The cornflower paint chips from the wooden siding and the stairs are worn in the middle from the tramp of feet. A bench stands on the other side of the white railing between a plinthed flowerpot and folding table with a book forgotten on its slats. Home.

The spindly wreath on the front door rattles as you push through and the screen door snaps behind you. The evening breezs drifts in through the mesh as you set your easel down and rest the canvas on crate just beside the mat. You put your bag in front of the wooden stand and bask in the calm.

You hang your wicker hat and untie your apron. Your hands are covered in paint. You'll wash them before you eat. You leave your wet sandals at the door.

You pull out the pot of chowder you made two nights past from the fridge. You put it over a burner and wait for it to warm. The fare lasts you near a week when you take the time to put it together. Every ingredient must be used to its last, especially when it is so far to market. And expensive.

You scoop out a bowl and eat it on the front porch. Your eyes are too tired to read. When you finish, you recline on the bench and yawn. You lay in the dimming hue of the evening as the stars wink down at you.

A whistle carries on the wind. You sit up and look for the culprit. They are close enough to hear but that could still be far. It could even be a bird.

You take the empty bowl inside and rinse it. You retreat to the bedroom and change

You open the window to let the night in. Around here, you can do that. Not like the city and its grated windows.

You laze in the dusk shade and drift slowly into yourself. Sleep enshrines you atop the cushy bed, the water stirring from afar, the loons calling into the dark. Tomorrow you'll figure out the exact right colour for the undertow.

You're more than due to sell a new piece. You need to if you want to stay in paradise.

[divadepreshawn]

𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩

Patrick Jane x fem!reader

I know I said it would take a while, but that was a great reason (actually a great excuse) to procrastinate.

WC: 1 331

Based on this request

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The doorbell rang for the fifth time that morning, you were finishing the last details of the arrangement – ​​a simple bouquet of pink and white tulips. The woody scent with hints of lemon hit you, you didn't need to look to know who it was.

"I need your help."

You looked up slowly, finishing the satin bow around the bouquet. Jane was standing near the door, leaning against the frame with her arms behind her back. Light blue dress shirt with rolled up sleeves, impeccable gray vest, with that look of a child about to do mischief.

"Hello to you too, dear," you murmured, wiping your hands on a cloth.

Jane laughed, approaching you with a wry smile on her lips. He held your face gently, one hand on each side of your cheek, planting a series of kisses on your lips.

"Hello, dear. Better now?"

You just hummed in response, turning to clean the table.

“I need your help,” he repeated, coming around the table and standing in front of you. “I promise it will be quick. And fun. Nothing illegal… technically.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back the laugh that threatened to escape.

He tilted his head a little confused, watching your reaction. “What’s wrong? Are you really busy today?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Sorry, that sounded… incredibly suggestive.”

He blinked twice before giving you a mischievous smile. “Well,” he began, too casual to be innocent. He glanced at the greenhouse door behind the shop. “Since you mentioned it, that bench by the orchids looks comfortable.”

“Patrick,” you hummed, warning.

“Okay, no distractions,” he held up his hands in mock surrender. “But seriously, I need you for twenty minutes.”

You crossed your arms with a wry smile. "Where and how exactly are you trying to kill us today?"

"It's not dangerous at all," he begins, as if that were reliable coming from him. "I wouldn't ask if it was."

You sigh. "Okay, where do I fit into this story?"

"You're beautiful, dangerously sweet, smell like spring, and dress like you stepped out of a 1950s movie." He points to your black A-line dress, hidden behind a beige apron that perfectly matched the atmosphere of the flower shop.

You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes at the string of compliments. "And?"

"He's vain, obsessed with aesthetics and elegant women. He likes to talk and brag about his younger days. I just need you to talk to him and pretend to find the old stories he has to tell interesting."

You were silent for a while, before letting out a laugh. "Oh, great, a plan based on vanity and seduction, how noble."

Jane grimaced, almost theatrically. "You make it sound grim." He placed his hand on your shoulder, fiddling with the strap of your dress. "I just need you to distract him so I can walk around the store."

You let out a dramatic sigh, taking off your apron and placing it on the table.

"I'll help you, but if it results in arrest, you'll be sleeping on the couch for a month." You warned, walking around the table.

Jane pursed her lips into a straight line, trying to gauge how serious you were, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Even if it's just for one night?"

You handed the finished bouquet to a passing employee. "Patrick?"

"Yes, love?"

"One. Month."

He placed his hand over his heart, as if the words had physically hurt him.

"You're mean."

"Come on, before I give up."

–

You stopped in front of the antique shop, taking in the facade. Dark brown wood worn by time. Large glass windows. The interior was dimly lit, shadows gathering in the corners of the store.

You walked in, your heels clicking on the wooden floor, creaking in places. The place smelled exactly as you imagined, a mix of wood, cheap varnish and dust. Jane walked in beside you, her gaze calm, as if she wasn’t about to search the store of a murder suspect. He took your hand and intertwined his fingers with yours, placing a quick kiss on the back.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmured with a smile, before letting go of your hand and walking away.

This seems much more dangerous now.

Where is my common sense?

The man behind the counter looked up – he was wearing a three-piece suit, a red handkerchief neatly folded in his jacket pocket. His eyes roamed over you, studying you as if you were a valuable piece hidden in a thrift store – which wasn’t far from the truth. Not that you thought you were extremely valuable, but you were lost in a thrift store anyway.

“Well, they didn’t tell me spring would come early this year.” His tone was so saccharine it made your stomach turn.

You forced a polite smile, approaching the counter. “Do you have any porcelain dishes?”

Jane had already disappeared between the shelves, her eyes scanning the trinkets as if they were a puzzle. Her eyes focused on an old dresser, noticing the thin layer of dust missing from the base of the piece of furniture. He bent down, pretending to fix his shoe. Looking closer, the baseboard was crooked, and there was a slight misalignment in the wooden floor. He pushed the wooden board away millimeter by millimeter, only to see a metallic shine. He smiled, standing up and wiping his hands on a blanket that was next to the dresser.

“Lisbon, I found something interesting… You might need a court order.”

You were looking at the plates and sets of cups he had spread across the counter – most of them with designs of flowers and fruits. Inspecting each piece as if he knew what he was doing.

You looked up when you heard Jane’s voice. The man turned subtly, his smile wavering when he noticed that you weren’t alone in the store.

“A friend of yours?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

Before you could answer, Jane was already at your side, placing her hand on your waist with a smug smile. “Husband.”

You frowned in surprise. He squeezed your waist, an innocent gesture to say “Play along.” You quickly covered it with a smile.

The antique shop owner stared at the two of you for a minute, before hiding it with a low chuckle.

“What good taste, young man.”

Jane smiled, pretending to kiss your tempura to whisper, “A little possessiveness will get us on your radar.”

You lifted a plate, pretending to inspect it more closely. “Sure, but next time can I be invited to my wedding?” you whispered back, your tone dripping with sarcasm.

He smile. "Of course, maybe…"

The wood creaked under the footsteps of another person approaching.

“Mr. Randall? We have a court order to search your establishment.” Lisbon’s voice cut through the silence like a sharp blade. Her eyes turned to you and Jane, and she frowned. “Um, Rigsby, accompany Mr. Randall. Cho and Van Pelt start in the back.”

“You dragged her into this?” she approached you, whispering in disbelief.

“She actually did very well, as I had predicted.” He replied, with disturbing calm.

You watched the confused exchange. “Wait,” you slapped his hand that was still on your waist, stepping away. “Did you even tell her?”

He clicked his tongue, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “Details.”

“Lisbon,” Cho approached with a few bullets inside an evidence bag. “We found it in a false bottom in the floor. The bullet matches the caliber that was found in the victim. We found a gun next to it, fresh traces of gunpowder.”

Jane’s smile widened, irritatingly pleased. “There you have it. We solved a crime, I got married, and we’ve already had our first fight. This marriage is going to last forever.” He kissed the top of your head, testing the waters as you looked up at him with an arched eyebrow.

“If you survive the first day,” Lisbon muttered as she walked past you.

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sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language :)

[hd-junglebook]

"Hey Sugar"

-said with rizz

Luke Hughes x F!Reader, Trevor Zegras x Reader (platonic)

Masterlist Link

a:n This has still remained my favorite gif of him, he's so perfect.

Warnings: throuple jumpscare, flirting, maybe cursing, suggestive flirting, nausea/vomiting, arguing

Summary: You and your close-knit group of friends, including Luke, are vacationing at the Hughes Lake house. During a dinner out, the sight of a fish dish causes you to become violently ill, leading to questions about what's going on.

Word Count - 4877

Part 2

You pretended not to see Maggy openly mime gagging at the two of you before falling in step with Trevor and Jess. Luke kept easy pace beside you as your mismatched band made their way towards the ramshackle building.

Perhaps it was the alcohol still thrumming warmly in your veins or the effervescent energy of the group, but you couldn't quite bite back the impish grin tugging at your lips. As you walked, you affected an exaggerated sway to your hips - very aware of Luke's heated stare searing into you from your periphery.

You didn't dare look over at him, fearful of what delicious torture might be simmering behind those eyes as dark as the sky around you.

Still, you couldn't resist reaching out to trail your fingertips along the firm musculature of his forearm as you sauntered past - a blatant tease that had his breath catching audibly.

By the time the five of you were settled at one of the plastic picnic tables scattered outside the bustling takeout counter, the dynamic had shifted almost imperceptibly.

What started as a silly lark with your nearest and dearest had devolved into outright cat-and-mouse flirtation between you and Luke.

Your friends, bless their oblivious hearts, were too caught up in their usual shenanigans to notice the escalating tension. Maggy and Jessica took great delight in heckling the poor teenaged cashiers over their "amateur" slushy techniques while Trevor tried valiantly to rein in the madness.

Luke, for his part, was a vision of ease - leaning back on the warped wooden bench with one arm thrown over the back in an effortless display of casual dominance.

You couldn't help but sneak sidelong glances at the hard ridges of his profile, at the way his worn Henley stretched deliciously across the broad span of his chest.

At one point, while Trevor was preoccupied with the drink orders, Luke must have caught you staring. His head swiveled infinitesimally, causing your eyes to meet and hold in a white-hot burst of awareness. One devilish brow inched higher as that knee-weakening half-smirk bloomed across his face.

"See something you like?"

The rough timbre of his voice had you suppressing an involuntary shiver. Rather than give him the satisfaction of a flustered response, you simply hummed noncommittally and dragged your eyes away with great effort.

That only earned you a rich chuckle as Luke inched imperceptibly closer, near enough for you to now feel the delicious burn of his body heat.

This continued teasing back-and-forth persisted until the food and drinks arrived - a riotous din of playful bickering over shared fry baskets and who was going to sample whose garish slushy concoction.

Luke, ever the easygoing rogue, watched the madness unfold with ill-disguised amusement, happily sipping a beer and indulging your friends' antics.

Despite their disruptive presence, however, the chemistry between you and Luke remained an undeniable force - a smoldering current arcing through the balmy sea breezes.

Simple things like the brush of his knuckles on your arm when reaching for a napkin or the searing weight of his hooded stare sent delicious frissons of electricity sparking through your nerve endings.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity lost in that heady tension, the revelry began to wind down. Maggy was the first to push back from the remains of your communal feast with an exaggerated belly pat and groan.

"Well, kids, much as I hate to call it a night...this former party animal needs her beauty rest," she proclaimed to the group at large.

Trevor heaved an overly dramatic sigh of relief. "Thanks be to God! I didn't know how much longer I could have hung on with you heathens."

Luke chuckled at that, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. You felt the brief brush of his shoulder against yours as he shifted slightly.

"No arguments here," he cut in easily, draining the last of his beer. "You guys ready to walk it off?"

The two of you exchanged a meaningful look that didn't go unmissed by Jessica - the astute blonde tracking the heated undercurrents with arched interest.

"Oh hell yes, we are WALKING this off," she piped up airily, rising from the bench and linking arms with Maggy and Trevor. "You crazy kids feel free to take the scenic route. We'll see you back at the house!"

And with that parting wink of insinuation, the three of them turned and struck out in the direction of the parking lot. You opened your mouth, intending to protest or at least offer parting sentiments, but Luke beat you to the punch.

"Don't even think about it, Sugar," he rumbled at your side, utterly unconcerned by your friends' ribald implications. "We both know where this is headed."

You felt your breath catch at the blatant flirtation as you turned to face him fully. Up this close, you could make out the poem of freckles smattered across the bridge of his straight nose, the faint laugh lines crinkled at the corners of those searing brown eyes.

Luke's nostrils flared almost imperceptibly as his gaze roamed over your features with unhurried intensity. You couldn't help mirroring the path, drinking in the sharp masculine beauty of him like a woman dying of thirst.

"Is that so?" you finally managed in a tone considerably breathier than anticipated.

Rather than answer directly, Luke reached out with one large hand to toy with a flyaway strand of your hair - allowing the backs of his knuckles to graze your flushed cheek in a scorching caress. You shivered at the contact, instinctively leaning into the calloused warmth of his palm as it cradled your jaw.

"We've been dancing around this all night," he murmured in that midnight rasp, holding your heated stare unblinkingly. "The flirting, the innuendos...you can't tell me you haven't felt this gravitational pull between us."

You couldn't have looked away even if you wanted - utterly transfixed by the molten promise in Luke's expression, in the exquisite agonies playing out behind those blazing irises. God, he was glorious like this - all simmering intensity and effortless masculinity.

Luke's thumb traced your lower lip in a feather-light caress, voice dropping to a hushed rumble. "I've got to know what those pretty lips taste like. Just this once, just to get it out of my system."

A tremulous whimper slipped unbidden from your throat at the naked yearning in his tone. In that heated breath, there was an ultimatum being issued - one you were powerless to refuse even if you'd wanted.

Taking his ardent silence as assent, Luke slowly began to close the scant distance between your parted lips...

…

1 year later…

The familiar crunch of tires over gravel roused you from your pensive reverie. You blinked rapidly, peering out the Uber's window to find the lake house's rustic facade coming into view. Your breath hitched ever so slightly as that old ache blossomed anew in your chest.

So much had changed over this whirlwind year, yet your relationship with Luke seemed suspended in a permanent holding pattern - all heated flirtation and vague intimations of something more without ever taking that fateful step.

You worried your lower lip, chewing the soft flesh as the driver killed the engine outside the small parking area. Was this just the way Luke operated? A permanent tango of push and pull without any lasting commitment? The prospect caused a leaden knot of anxiety to form in the pit of your stomach.

Drawing a fortifying breath, you gathered your things and slid from the backseat - offering the driver a tight smile of thanks. You were so preoccupied with the tangled mess of emotions, in fact, that you very nearly jumped out of your skin at the sound of Luke's rich timbre.

"Hey there, pretty girl! Need a hand with your bag?"

You spun toward the unmistakable rumble to find Luke loping down the porch steps, arms outstretched and that knee-weakening grin splitting his whiskered jaw. The warm spring sunlight gilded the artful tumble of his chestnut curls and cast his chiseled features in an almost ethereal glow.

He looked...outrageously beautiful, as always. The realization caused a fresh pang just beneath your breastbone.

Pasting on what you hoped was a convincing smile, you shook your head at his oferrit. "I'm good, but thanks for the rescue."

Luke reached you then in a few easy strides, folding you into a fierce embrace without preamble. You melted into the solid warmth of his broad chest despite yourself, muscles going lax as he cradled you against the firm plane of his body.

This was the rub of your torturous relationship - the dizzying highs of Luke's nearness juxtaposed with the maddening ambiguity of whatever it was you actually meant to each other.

For a few blissful moments, you simply held him close and drank him in...the clean, crisp scent of his cotton shirt, the scorching brand of his hands at your lower back, the reassuring thud of his heart against your cheek. Then, all too soon, Luke was pulling away with one final lingering squeeze.

"Jesus, I missed you," he rasped in that midnight timbre, holding you at arm's length for a beat as his searing eyes roved hungrily over your face.

You could only nod mutely, afraid your brittle composure might shatter completely if you attempted words. Luke seemed to sense the undercurrent of tension, however, if his slightly furrowed brow was any indication.

"Hey..." His calloused palm found your jaw, tilting your chin up to meet his molten stare unblinkingly. "You okay? Talk to me."

And just like that, the precariously constructed dam inside you fragmented - emotions bubbling up in a roiling torrent of longing, frustration, and bone-deep weariness.

"I...yeah, of course," you heard yourself rasp, hating how painfully unconvincing you sounded even to your own ears. "It's just been...a really long day, y'know?"

Some imperceptible shift occurred behind Luke's blazing irises at the vague admission. His achingly familiar features seemed to shutter ever so slightly as he regarded you with new intensity, as if truly seeing you for the first time in ages. When he spoke again, his deep timbre was laced with an undercurrent of flinty steel.

"I'm starting to get that feeling, yeah." His grip on your face tightened a fraction, forcing you to hold his potent stare as those beloved lips twisted into a rueful grimace. "Why do I get the feeling we've got some things to hash out this weekend?"

You opened your mouth, intending to deflect or make light of Luke's weighted remark. But his piercing gaze seemed to strip away any half-truths before they could take shape. A small sigh escaped your lips as candor won out.

“We won’t be Luke, I’m just a little tired from having to get up early,” you found yourself replying in a small, hoarse tone that brokered no argument. “Lets get inside.”

Luke simply stared at you, seeming to weigh the ramifications of your simple demand as he carded his fingers over your hair in an unconscious caress.

Finally, after what felt like an agonizing eternity, he exhaled a low rumble and gave a slight nod - the barest dip of his stubbled jaw. Pulling you flush against his solid frame once more, Luke pressed his lips to your crown in a lingering caress.

"You're right, Sugar," he murmured, the timbre of his voice vibrating through you. "They're waiting for you. Come on."

With that, Luke released you from the circle of his arms but kept one large palm anchored at the small of your back as he guided you towards the lake house's entrance. You felt the rigid tension slowly ebb from your shoulders at the familiar weight of his reassuring touch.

No sooner had you crossed the threshold than a raucous din of greetings assailed you from the open living area. Maggy, as always, was the first to barrel into you - her wildly curling hair a ruby cyclone as she enveloped you in a fierce embrace.

"Y/N! You made it!" she crowed into the crown of your head before releasing you with an exaggerated sniff. "And you didn't get mauled by any psychopathic Uber drivers this time. Progress!"

You rolled your eyes good-naturedly at her typical dramatic flair, unable to repress the grin tugging at your lips. "Living on the edge as always, Mags."

Before you could so much as draw another breath, Jessica was sweeping in for her turn - golden tresses shining like haloed silk as she squeezed you tightly.

"We missed you, girl!" The familiar sugary lilt of her voice washed over you like a balm as she rocked you gently. "This lakehouse is way too quiet without your laugh."

You savored the simple intimacy of their warm embraces for a few beats, feeling the last lingering tendrils of fatigue dissipate. God, you'd missed these beautiful disasters more than you could have fathomed.

It was only when you turned to find Trevor hovering awkwardly nearby that the breath caught in your throat. The sweet, teddy bear-ish man seemed to have only grown more handsome in your weeks apart - his warm hazel eyes crinkling endearingly behind those thick-framed glasses as he flashed you a lopsided grin.

"Well don't just stand there gawking, Trevbear!" you teased, the old nickname rolling effortlessly off your tongue as you closed the distance between you. "You know the rules."

Trevor's unassuming features stretched into a radiant smile at that. Without hesitation, he swept you up into one of his patented, all-encompassing bear hugs - the kind where he lifted you clean off your feet and spun you in a dizzying circle amid a chorus of bright laughter.

As your arms wound instinctively around his broad shoulders and the familiar, comforting scent of his woodsy cologne enveloped you, you found yourself momentarily awestruck.

In the span of a few whirlwind revolutions, the simplicity of Trevor's affection seemed to unlock something profound in your heart - an awakening of sorts.

This...this was what you'd been sorely lacking all these months. Not torrid flirtation or vague promises of something more, but the purest expression of unwavering friendship and acceptance.

The utter certainty that no matter how frazzled or lost you became in this haphazard journey called life, your people would always,  always be there to catch you.

By the time Trevor carefully set you back on your feet, his concerned hazel eyes were scanning your features intently.

"You good, kiddo?" he asked, endearingly casual timbre laced with the faintest hint of confusion.

You could only nod mutely, blinking back the telltale prickle of grateful tears as you disentangled yourself from his solid embrace. Allowing your eyes to roam over each of their familiar faces, you felt your heart swell almost painfully.

"I'm good, Trev," you said at last, aiming for a confident smile despite the quaver in your voice. "I'm home."

...

Later that evening, the decision was made to venture into town for dinner at one of the local restaurants. The drive there held its own sort of anticipatory energy - luke's rugged Mustang growling along the sleepy rural roads as your mismatched crew chattered and bantered amidst peals of laughter.

You found yourself wedged into the front seat beside Luke, the occasional brush of his denim-clad thigh against yours sending tiny frissons sparking beneath your skin.

Maggy, Jessica and Trevor bickered good-naturedly in the backseat like rambunctious children, leaving you and Luke to share sidelong glances and suppressed grins.

"So," Luke began at one point, deft fingers toying with the radio dial before settling on a grungy classic rock station. "How long you think it'll be before those three idiots finally make it official?"

You shot him a confused look as The Black Keys thrummed from the speakers. "Make what official?"

Rather than respond outright, Luke simply cocked one brow meaningfully and jerked his chin towards the reflection in the rearview.

You followed his gesture to find Maggy and Jessica sandwiching Trevor between them - a trio of tousled heads bent together in secretive whispers and muffled snickering.

Comprehension blossomed like a slow dawn, your eyes widening almost comically. "Oh? Oh! You mean like...an official throuple situation?"

The answering rumble of Luke's laughter was rich and gravelly, the sound seeming to reverberate straight through to your bones.

"That's exactly what I mean," he confirmed with a salacious wink. "I'm giving it til the end of the week before they just say 'screw it' and start swapping fluids."

You couldn't help but dissolve into unbridled giggles at that delightfully crass remark - shoulders shaking with mirth as you aimed a ineffectual swat at Luke's rock-solid bicep.

"Oh my god, you're disgusting!" you managed to gasp out between peals of laughter. "Also...probably not wrong though."

That merely earned you another of Luke's knee-weakening smirks, the dimple in his stubbled cheek winking roguishly. "That's why you keep me around. For my sparkling wit and insight."

With a derisive snort, you shook your head and turned your attention back towards the darkened scenery whipping past - though you couldn't quite bite back your answering grin. Luke was far from wrong in his assessment, after all.

You'd been witness to the slow-burn flirtation brewing between the three of them for years now. What had started as harmless overfamiliarity had slowly, inexorably blossomed into something richer and infinitely more layered.

The lingering caresses, the heated glances, the borderline inappropriate innuendos...it was only a matter of time before that tension combusted into actualized desire.

Hell, you mused as your gaze drifted to the rearview mirror once more, they were practically daring you to acknowledge the elephant in the room with their shameless canoodling. Perhaps a small part of you even envied their easy intimacy - the utter certainty with which they seemed to fit together, like corresponding pieces of a larger whole.

Your idle reflections were interrupted as Luke suddenly merged onto the main drag, the quaint storefronts of the town's center materialized amid a warm glow of streetlamps.

"There's that new Italian place," he said by way of explanation, gesturing with a tilt of his stubbled jaw.

A raucous cheer erupted from the backseat at that, with Maggy crowing her emphatic approval. "Oh hell yes! I could demolish some fettuccine alfredo right about now."

You shot Luke a bemused grin and shrug, to which he simply laughed and signaled towards the cramped parking lot adjacent to the restaurant.

By the time the Mustang's twin exhaust pipes had quieted to a purr, you were all piling out onto the sidewalk amid a fresh bluster of conversation - Luke's steadying palm finding the small of your back as per usual.

Once you gained entry, the welcoming aromas of garlic and tomato sauce seemed to envelop you like a well-worn blanket. Stepping inside revealed an intimate but boisterous space - a cacophony of lilting Italian pop competing with the clatter of dishes and lively chatter.

Before you could so much as blink, your mismatched crew had been whisked away to a cozy booth tucked in the back corner. You settled onto the worn burgundy leather with a contented sigh, ceding to Luke's gentle insistence as he ushered you towards the innermost seat.

The following two hours seemed to blaze by in a whirlwind of laughter, familiar ribbing, and outrageously embellished stories. Courses of piping hot breadsticks, caesar salad, and copious glasses of reasonably-priced Chianti made their merry way around your table amid riotous pow-wows.

Even Trevor seemed to be in exceptionally high spirits - regaling your crew with the increasingly risque exploits of his latest Dungeons and Dragons characters between enthusiastic pulls from a basket of garlic knots.

"So this tavern wench is laying it on thick, right?" he crowed through a mouthful of doughy bread. "Like she's practically undressing me with her eyes while I'm just trying to order a pint!"

Maggy cackled indelicately beside him, idly tracing patterns along the sloping musculature of his forearm as she savored the tale. "Of course she was, Trev! She could smell your virility from across the room."

"Damn straight!" Jessica chimed in from your other side with a shameless leer. "We've all witnessed the raw, animalistic power of your lovemaking firsthand."

A sudden spray of Chianti fountained from Trevor's lips as he dissolved into a spluttering cough - eyes bulging comically behind his smudged lenses. You couldn't help but join in the chorus of bright laughter at that, instinctively reaching over to pat his broad back through the fit.

"You three are utterly incorrigible tonight," he managed once he'd recovered, attempting in vain to dab at the red wine stains blooming across the front of his pale blue button-up.

"Hey, we're just being supportive girlfriends!" Maggy countered with an impish flutter of her lashes.

There it was again - that playful acknowledgment that seemed to take on deeper intimations the more the wine flowed freely. You found your eyes instinctively tracking towards Luke, curious to gauge his response to the escalating flirtation.

To your mild surprise, the roguish sparkle in his eyes and the uptick of that damnable half-grin spoke volumes. He clearly took no issue with their blatant suggestions, instead leaning back with his powerful forearms splayed casually to either side.

As if feeling the weight of your speculative stare, Luke cocked one brow meaningfully before lifting his wine glass in a subtle toast of acknowledgment.

The blatant understanding in that singular gesture caused a small thrill to ricochet through your nerve endings. Maybe he wasn't so far off in his earlier prediction after all...

...

Any further musings were interrupted as your waiter finally reappeared with your entrees balanced precariously on a burdened tray.

You watched with detached amusement as he carefully maneuvered the steaming dishes onto the table - a mouthwatering array of hearty pastas and artfully arranged proteins.

Luke's meal - the rigatoni alla vodka - landed first with a dull clatter directly in front of him. You had to actively resist the urge to lean over and inhale the rich, creamy aroma wafting from his plate as he murmured his thanks.

Trevor's gargantuan meatball parmesan followed close behind, causing the table to groan beneath its considerable heft. Then came Jessica's margherita pizza...

Finally, with tremendous care, the waiter settled Maggy's order immediately across from you. You watched with detached interest as he arranged the dish, unaware of the delicate porcelain plate's contents until the very last moment.

Then, like a swift upending of your stomach, realization struck in one sickeningly potent wave - immediately wiping the contented smile from your lips.

There, nestled in a delicate swirl of cauliflower puree and roasted fennel, was a glistening fillet of some indeterminate white fish - the pearlescent flesh gaping in a grotesque mimicry of a gasping maw.

You must have paled several shades because Luke immediately tensed beside you - his scorching palm finding your knee beneath the table in a steadying grip.

"Y/N? You good?" he murmured beneath the din of Maggy's enthusiastic compliments towards the waiter.

But you couldn't bring yourself to respond, every survival instinct flatlining beneath the sudden onslaught of visceral nausea roiling in your gut. Your jaw clenched spasmodically as you struggled to contain the rising tide of revulsion, to maintain some semblance of composure.

When that failed, you had no other recourse but to abruptly shove away from the table and make a beeline for the bathroom - Luke's urgent calls and the concerned eyes of your companions quickly receding in your peripheral vision.

…

The bolt slammed home seconds before you crumpled onto the mercifully cool tile, hands braced against the sides of the stall as your stomach clenched painfully. A strangled groan tore from your throat just before the first wave of nausea broke.

"Occupied!" you managed to grumble out between convulsive retches, fingers scrabbling for purchase against the slick porcelain.

Each spasm seemed to tear through your abdomen with white-hot lances of agony until, finally, you were left shuddering and empty - forehead beaded with a clammy sheen of sweat. You heaved in ragged gulps of air, throat feeling savagely raw and abused.

Only then, in the fragile lull, did the confusion begin to set in.

What the hell was that? You'd felt absolutely fine mere moments ago - happily indulging in the warm cocoon of friendship and frivolity. So where had this sudden, debilitating bout of nausea sprung from?

You racked your muddled brain, trying in vain to isolate any potential causes as another unpleasant roll of queasiness settled in your roiling gut. Had it been something you'd eaten recently? No, you realized with a jolt, you hadn't consumed anything substantial since well before your flight that morning.

Maybe it was the start of a stomach bug then? That seemed the most plausible explanation, despite the utter randomness of it all. Except...you reasoned shakily, wouldn't there have been some sort of discernible build-up to indicate you were getting sick?

Before you could ponder it further, another series of convulsions doubled you over - this time accompanied by the unmistakable sound of the bathroom door creaking open. You stiffened, straining to hear over the tortured gurgles issuing from your abused stomach.

"Y/N?" It was Jessica's sugary lilt, muffled but recognizable. "Babe, are you okay in there?"

You opened your mouth with every intention of reassuring her, or at the very least calling out that you were still alive. But the words shriveled into an anguished moan as another piercing cramp lanced through your tender abdomen. There was a pregnant pause on the other side of the stall door, followed by your friend's increasingly worried tones.

"Y/N? I'm coming in..."

The latch rattled precariously as Jessica shouldered her way inside, wisps of honeyed hair filtering through the crack first. You tried weakly to protest - to summon some semblance of dignity or determination to be left in peace.

But then her stunning features swam into view, and the flimsy pretense shattered beneath the naked concern etched into those delicate features.

"Oh sweetie..." Jessica breathed, all traces of her usual saucy bravado evaporating as she dropped into an urgent crouch beside you.

One slender hand immediately found the damp nape of your neck, fingers soothing over your flushed skin as her brow furrowed. You could only manage a pitiful whine in response, too consumed by the roiling anguish to formulate actual words.

"You're clammy as hell," she murmured, mostly to herself as her free hand roamed over your forehead and cheeks. "What's going on? Did you eat something that messed with your stomach?"

You shook your head weakly, too mortified to fully engage the line of questioning. What could you possibly say? That the mere sight of Maggy's half-eaten fish fillet had sent you into a full-body revolt? Just the memory of those dead, glassy eyes staring back at you had your gorge rising anew...

Unable to bite it back this time, you lurched forward with a guttural retch - every muscle straining as another vicious bout assailed you. Dimly, you registered Jessica's comforting murmurs and the soothing strokes along your trembling shoulders. But even her tender consolations couldn't prevent the piercing embarrassment from seeping into your churning gut.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the punishing waves subsided into a queasy lull. You sagged back against the damp tiles, boneless and utterly spent as you sucked in ragged gasps. Jessica immediately moved to cradle you against her side, slender fingers sifting through your damp tresses.

"Better?" she asked once your breathing had steadied somewhat, brow still furrowed.

You could only manage a feeble nod, still stunned by the ferocity of the episode. Jessica seemed to sense your mortification because she leaned in to press a consoling kiss to your clammy temple.

"Don't even trip, babe," she soothed in that sweet, maternal tone. "We've all been there. The last time I got hit with food poisoning was no damn joke."

The tender gesture, coupled with her easy reassurances, seemed to thaw some of the icy tendrils of shame entangling your gut. You found the residual strength to curl gratefully into her slender form, savoring the simple comfort of her embrace.

How long the two of you remained like that - tangled on the gritty bathroom floor in a silent cocoon of commiseration - was anyone's guess. But eventually, the faint murmurings from the other side of the door reminded you that the rest of the world still existed beyond your misery.

"You think you can stand?" Jessica's query was gentle, implied concern lacing her sugary soprano.

With extreme effort, you managed a slight incline of your head. Jessica didn't seem convinced, however, because she shifted to disengage herself before carefully maneuvering to her feet.

"Come on, sweetie," she urged, stout hands finding your elbows and tugging insistently. "Let's at least get you off this nasty ass floor and cleaned up a bit."

Too wrung out to protest further, you allowed Jessica to coax you upright - every muscle screaming in exertion. She looped a steadying arm around your waist as you swayed perilously. Then, with exaggerated care, she began leading you towards the sinks.

…

[saintslewis]

❝ 𝐂𝐎𝐙𝐘 ❞

𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 — 𝐋𝐇𝟒𝟒

˖ ࣪⭑ - pairing: lewis hamilton x fem!oc

˖ ࣪⭑ - summary: imagine you go for dinner at your neighbours house and you’re told you’re getting married? you better get cozy for this one!

˖ ࣪⭑ - warnings for this chapter: none

˖ ࣪⭑ - saint’s team radio: hey y’all…. i told you guys i don’t have a planned schedule for this series and i’m really starting to think i should 😭. i hope you guys enjoy this and lemme know if you wanna be tagged 🤭

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"Renaissance yachtin' in capri!" Nadia sang as she entered the driveway of the Hamiltons only a week after the first dinner. Knowing her mother's dramatics, Thembi had once again requested her presence at the home except she had to drive straight to the Hamiltons house. Finding the situation weird but not giving it a second thought, she parked next to the all black G63, one of her many dream cars and one she hadn't seen the last time she was here. Thinking it was just a simple visit (and Thembi hadn't given her a chance to dress up after the phone call), Nadia fixed the Nike tee and adjusted the biker shorts she had worn throughout her chill Saturday morning.

Knocking on the wooden door felt weird, given that she was welcomed into the house before but she felt like something quite suspicious was going on but she couldn't even figure it out. Rubbing her eye whilst waiting for someone to answer the door, she wrote a few reminders on her phone to not forget to complete the work she had to take home from the previous day.

"Well aren't you a ray of sunshine?" Nadia had recognised the voice to be Nicola, adding a little laugh after her sentence. "I woke up late so this is valid." Nadia replied, giving a smile as she entered the house with Nicola making room for her to walk in. After the first dinner, the two women had kept in touch because of the growing friendship and Willow, who would send a voice message every day to say hi. But this time, Nadia couldn't hear the kids laughing or playing around the house.

Oh, this was serious.

"Is that Nadia, darling?" Linda's voice chimed through the entrance hallway leading to the living room. "Hello Mrs Hamilton." The young woman greeted, giving Linda a side eye as she held a glass of water in her hand. "Please Nadia, rather call me Linda. Do come through, my dear!"

"We're out by the patio, need the bathroom before we start?" Nicola asked, making Nadia way more confused the more footsteps she took. "Start with what?" She trailed off, seeing Nicola just smile and head into the direction of the patio with her following. This was officially starting to get weird but Nadia chose to push her thoughts aside for this lunch.

"Oh she's here! How was the drive, Nads?" Her mom spoke up as soon as Nadia's foot hit the wooden floor of the large patio. Different types of charcuterie boards were placed with juices and waters to accommodate everyone but the atmosphere seemed so different from the dinner last week, it rather felt like a meeting.

"Helloooo." Nadia dragged out the greeting as she eventually found an empty seat, once again, next to Lewis. The man was genuinely a sight to see as the sun shined on him as he sat comfortably on the patio bench chair. Wearing a black NY cap, a graphic tee once again with a pair of jeans this time and his jewellery on display, Lewis smiled up at her with a toothy grin.

After personally greeting everyone around the table and answering their fast questions, she plopped down onto the chair with a few of her bracelets clanging together. The familiar scents of each other from the last time they met fused together as they both studied each other once again.

Nadia's tattoos were finally on display, each dainty artwork fluttered around her skin with a few being inked in red. The most noticeable thing being her hair as she changed the colour to black and it reached past her back. The makeup was very simple and she only carried her phone and lipgloss in her hand as she placed the overly cracked device onto the table right next to Lewis'. When she smiled, he noticed a small gem on one of her front teeth and he definitely admired her style, not one he would regularly picture on a high school teacher.

"You know Nadia, we were just talking about how odd it would be to suddenly become famous within a matter of hours." Linda started, grabbing the large jug of grape juice to give the girl a glass. Helping the older woman, Nadia lifted herself off the chair and gave Lewis a look, non verbally asking if it was true and his eyebrows furrowed whilst pursing his lip upwards, making Nadia smile a little.

"Really? In what aspects?" She sat back down, lifting the glass to her gloss covered lips and only taking little sips. "Oh just how you'd maybe have to close off social media for a while and suddenly having people around you to help with everything." Linda said, taking her glass of water and eyeing Nadia's mom after her sentence. Tilting her head in confusion, she made sure to sit comfortably as this was definitely an interesting conversation.

"I never really thought about it like that actually. The way teams assemble within a matter of hours is something else but I always hear my students say that they're one hundred percent ready for fame." Nadia watched the two older women constantly look at each other with the older men being suspiciously quiet. "Oh and don't even get me started on the scandals you're put through." Nicola submerged from the house, holding a fresh pizza on a wooden board with an extra plate.

"Lewis, you'd know a thing or two about these things right?" Nicola smirked as she placed the plate on the opposite side of the table. Snapping her head towards Lewis, he sighed then nodded before straightening up his posture as it was before. Now Nadia was incredibly confused. Although she spent at least two hours in conversation with Lewis, she never really found out what exactly he does for a living even though he knew what she did as she went on a whole rant about her day with the teenagers. The way he had carried himself whilst speaking with everyone and just how he listened made it seem like he could be a businessman of some sort that clearly made his money and he made it well as he wore jewellery pieces that she could only dream of seeing.

A beat of silence passed and a knock on the door was heard. "Oh, that must be Gerald." Anthony got up in quite a hurry, with the table falling into conversation to detour the previous topic. After the man was welcomed onto the patio, he placed his small briefcase next to him on the chair with Nadia's suspicions growing more and more.

But what if he was really just there for lunch?

The word 'deactivate' kept being thrown around between Nicola, Thembi and Linda for several minutes, snapping Nadia and Lewis out of their conversation on her tattoos. "Nads, come here really quickly and bring your phone." Her mom ordered as the young girl walked to their side of the table. Standing over all three women, she held her phone in front of her mom's face. "How do you deactivate your Instagram? Nicola here made one for me but i don't want it anymore." Thembi asked, once again eyeing Linda.

Showing the directions on her own phone, Nadia then became distracted by her stepdad's question. "Nads, do you know when Rea's flight lands? Will you be okay to go?" He asked, slightly jumping at something. "Yes, I'll be fine. Her flight lands at like two in the morning so after here I'll just finish up some work then go to the airport early." Nadia responded, feeling her hand move a little as she spoke to James.

Thembi tapped her daughter's hand as Nadia focused back on her phone. Seeing her instagram page now logged out, she groaned at the thought of her completely forgetting her password to it. Plopping back into her seat defeated, Lewis eyed her then her phone that she placed on the table. "You good?" He asked, turning his body to look at her. "I think I  accidentally logged myself out of insta and i forgot where i wrote down the password." Nadia frowned a little as she clasped her hands together. Even though he didn't want to seem like he was smiling at her misery but the little pout she had on her face was adorable and obviously he wasn't going to admit that anytime soon.

"Okay, I cannot do this anymore." Anthony announced out as he sighed which caught everyone's attention. "Dad, what's going on?" Lewis asked worried, he had noticed his father was quiet most of the time but he brushed it off knowing that his father was usually like this.

"Son, listen. I know what I'm about to say will sound insane but I need you to listen very carefully. Along with you too, Nadia." Anthony stated. Linda then stood next to her husband in terror. "Wait, Anthony. Are you sure you want to do this right now?" She muttered.

And now the uneasy feeling came right back.

"Lewis, you know I care for you deeply however these past few weeks have been tough for you... and pr." His dad started off, earning a sigh from Lewis and a pinch on the bridge of his nose. Seeing Lewis stress like this was weird for Nadia and what exactly did his father mean by PR? Anyone could tell that he wanted to say something but chose to keep quiet.

Now sitting up properly, Nadia was intrigued with the entire situation and wondered how famous Lewis actually was.

"Linda and I, along with Nadia's parents and Nicola have decided that we wanted to help you to clean up your image a little more even though you are a private person. And for that, we've come up with the concept of a fake marriage between you and Nadia." Anthony concluded and took his seat.

It was as if the blood from Nadia completely left her face after that very last sentence however her face stayed extremely neutral. Her face rather snapped towards her parents who were avoiding eye contact with her.

The silence was so loud, the birds chirping ever so slightly as if they were part of the plan as well. Looking at everyone's face, anyone could tell that this had probably been discussed many times before. "What?" Nadia being the first one to say something, spoke in a monotone voice.

"Look we wanted to see how you two would get along when you first met and it had seemed to work very well. We're only really looking out for you, Lewis. These rumours have kinda taken a toll on you." Nicola voiced, seeing that their faces were stoic yet burning daggers into everyone's skulls.

Finally looking at each other, Lewis and Nadia's eyes met with no source of attraction to each other in that present moment. "This is crazy." Lewis muttered to himself as he shook his head whilst looking down at his shoes.

"Okay." Nadia said, crossing her arms and looked at her mom directly. "Okay?" Lewis grumbled with slightly narrowed eyes to the girl. "Yeah. Clearly this is important and stuff so I'll do it." Nadia responded with a calm facade but she was truly screaming on the inside, her leg shaking underneath the table. Shocked as he was at her nonchalant response to the situation, he slumped back and chose to not speak up in front of guests. Lewis wasn't frustrated in the slightest but he was just extremely confused.

"What about the details?" Lewis sighed, feeling through his beard and accepting his fate.

"Wait, you're actually doing this?" Thembi expressed. If anything, Thembi felt embarrassed to even coming up with this suggestion thinking that it was going to help the driver and his many social problems. "Ma, please tell us the details before we rethink doing this for you guys." Nadia deadpanned, grabbing a grape from one of the charcuterie boards displayed.

"Well. You would have to tell the world that you've been married for at least a year or two and I've already told your PR team, Lewis, to get everything ready before you announce. For now, you're only allowed to tell your closest friends and coworkers about this so that it doesn't seem suspicious that your friends didn't know of your marriage." Nicola started.

"Nadia, because you're now affiliated with Lewis, security and a team will have to assembled to be at your beck and call. Marie from Lewis' team will come over to help you choose potential candidates for your everyday team. Now the difficult part. You two have to be married legally because you know how people get, Lewis. They'll want evidence. And that's Gerald is here for." She concluded, gesturing to the guest to open his briefcase but god, did he feel awkward.

"Uh, hello. Here's the marriage certificate you two are meant to sign for the court to recognise it as an actual marriage." The poor man was red in the face as he shakily placed the certificate between Nadia and Lewis with a pen. With her freshly manicured hand, the girl picked the pen and signed underneath her name officially as a Mrs. She took a quick glance at Lewis' name and it seemed so familiar but the thing that intrigued her the most was the 'Sir' before anything.

Lewis had a good look at Nadia's side profile as he watched her sign the official papers. She didn't seem bothered with anything that was said, it was as if everything just defeated her and she just accepted it. If there's one thing he noticed was that it looked like she didn't have a clue about who he was at all and that was so fascinating to him.

She handed the pen to him, their hands touching a little with the warmest touch as they made eye contact. They both couldn't read each other's eyes, only dark brown pupils staring into each other's souls. Lewis then also signed with a bit of hesitation, the reality falling on him as he dragged the pen to the very last of his signature.

"Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Hamilton." Gerald broke the silence as he uttered his words. He quickly packed his briefcase and walked away from the table with a small wave to everyone to escape from the awkwardness of the lunch table.

"You only have to do this for a year or so then you can either divorce publicly or privately. And the living situation has to be changed. Nadia, you will have to be almost everywhere with Lewis now that you've signed that certificate so I am not sure how you will handle this at your workplace. Do you have an active passport?" Anthony ended with his question to which the quiet girl just nodded.

"Wait, where am I going to live?" Nadia asked, eventually snapping out of the quiet demeanour she had. "Well you'll have to speak to your husband about that." Linda smiled at the two, the smile slowly falling when seeing their deadpanned faces.

Sighing out for the final time, Lewis sighed and lightly tapped Nadia on the arm signaling for her attention. He held his car keys in his hand and she knew that she had to go because being there any longer would've suffocated her. The newly married couple simultaneously stood up and gathered their belongings, making everyone's faces grow into confusion.

"Where are you guys going?" Thembi asked, standing up as well with a worried expression. All Lewis did was shrug as he fixed his shirt and move out of the way so that Nadia could walk before him. "Bye everyone! Your charcuterie boards looked amazing by the way, Linda." It was as if someone completely different had greeted the group goodbye because her mood changed in a matter of seconds as if nothing happened.

"What the hell did we just do?" Nicola asked, rubbing her forehead as she watched the two walk away and out of the house.

-

"You've arrived at your destination." The automated voice rang through the large car as it approached a large black gate behind an elegant building.

The drive to the unknown destination was not as quiet as they thought it would be. When entering the car, all Nadia could do was to laugh as soon as Lewis entered the car so much so that a few tears of laughter came out. It was a sound that he appreciated to hear and he joined her in her laughter. They couldn't believe that they even went through that, mainly laughing at the fact they went into the house for lunch and left as a married couple.

It was quite the lengthy drive but it seemed much quicker as they spent the time speaking about what happened at lunch yet they never got to the topic of his job and also because they decided to play music to get rid of the negative mood they both had.

“I thought you were going to kidnap for a second. I still do.” Nadia joked as he playfully rolled his eyes at her. “Where are we even?” She looked out of the window to see the back of the large building, eventually spotting a small yet visible sign on the wall reading ‘Harrods VIP parking’.

Letting the smallest gasp escape her mouth, she gazed at Lewis once again who was typing on his phone and wondered what he did for a living for him to be able to decide to park his car here. The rumours from this department store were unbelievable so to see them bloom in real life felt surreal to Nadia.

Lewis definitely saw Nadia to be a good friend to him and could keep her around his circle and vice versa. It was a sign that a friendship was brewing between each other and they’re somewhat grateful for that although it happened so quickly.

“Seriously bruv, where are you taking me? I have to get home to watch catfish.” She asked, flicking her hair back and he laughed once more. “Bruv?” He said in between his giggles. “Okay my pookie wookie buddy bear, where are you taking me?” She said, fluttering her eyelashes at him which made him burst into so much more laughter.

“Since you want to know so badly, we’re going to Cartier to get our wedding rings.” He smiled a toothy grin, turning off the ignition of the car while looking at her stunned expression.

“…what?”

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[bonniebird]

Aegon x Fem!Reader

Requested by Anon

Masterpost

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Request: Anonymous asked: "I ran too fast and now I can’t breathe. It’s the first time I’ve exercised in four years." Ageon Targaryen and Fem!Reader please.

Shuffling your feet you sighed and wished for something interesting to happen. You were appreciative that you were one of the queen's favourites and that, for today, delivering a carriage full of supplies would be the hardest job you had that day, perhaps for the week. It didn’t make the waiting around any less boring though. You turned curiously as the door to the sept opened. 

It was the smaller door built into the giant doors at the front of the sept. It was disguised with ornate woodwork so that unless you inspected it closely you wouldn’t be able to tell that it was there.

“(Y/N).” Aemond said as he came into view. He was followed by the twins Erryk and Arryk. Aemond said your name as if he had hoped to find someone else.

“Aemond.” You smiled cheerfully and you could see the irritation at your cheerful disposition clear on his face. It did bring a spark of dreadful joy to rile him up. Though he never said anything, only giving you a distasteful look as if your bubbling character exhausted him beyond reason. You always got the sense that after spending any length of time with you the prince took a long lay down afterwards to recover.

“The royal carriage outside. That would be yours?” He asked in the same tone. He came across as rather bored and as if he would rather be anywhere else but he was also stern and impatient, his foot tapping as he waited for your reply.

“It is. Your queen mother has asked me to take this to the Septas to be given out to the needy.” You held up your large woven basket that hung from one arm and several more that were lined up on the worn wooden benches near the front of the sept. It was lined with green cloth and filled with food left over from a feast that had been thrown by King Viserys in Princess Rhaenyra’s honour two days prior.

“And you are alone?” He pressed. His foot tapping out an echoed song on the cold stone floor, his fingers matched the sound as they tapped silently on the hilt of the sword on his waist. 

“Yes. That is why I was sent with the royal carriage your mother prefers.” You said as if that answer was obvious. You turned your attention away from the three men and towards the two septas that hurried towards you. The youngest gave you an appropriate greeting for your rank while the elder lady bowed her head quickly, thanked you and assured you the queen's gift would be greatly appreciated. There was a loud rustling and scuffling which drew all your attention towards a stone table with candles set heavily into the floor towards the back corner of the room. The younger septa, newly joined from a sept outside the city and not as used to the chaos of the royal house as the elder, jumped as Aegon leapt up from the shadows under the table. He darted off with a determination, not unlike the rat cats from the Red Keep, when the cook would chase them from the kitchen when she received dairy goods. While the twins chased him Aemond followed calmly. He stopped to bow to the three of you before following. There was peace again as the door closed, promptly broken by Aemond’s barked cry of “BROTHER!”

Once you had completed your task for the queen, you took the time to light a candle and knelt to pray. You lit another candle for the queen as well. It seemed the right thing to do when she hadn’t been able to make the trip to the sept as she wished. Once you were done you dusted yourself off and headed to the carriage. 

The silver carriage you had been allowed to take today was the queen’s personal carriage, not the usual one that you and her ladies or the ladies that waited on Princess Helena would ride in. It was pleasantly upholstered and the wheels rolled smoothly even over the roads that had become uneven during the weather over the last few months. 

“Are you ready to return home, my lady?” One of the queen's guards who travelled with the carriage asked. You nodded as he opened the door and helped you up the wooden steps into the carriage.

“Yes. That is all the queen wished for us to do today.” You said and smiled at him. 

All of a sudden something large struck your side and you yelped as you plummeted painfully into the carriage and something large, heavy and smelling of stale alcohol landed on you. 

“Unhand me!” Aegon snapped at the guard who was quick to follow your fall into the carriage and jump to your aid realising that the attacker was in fact Aegon and finding himself unsure if he should let him loose or not. “I said unhand me!”

“Aegon!” You snapped once the poor guard, pail-faced and clearly panicked, had helped you to one of the seats, seeming to decide it was best to let the flailing dragon go rather than try to heave him out of the carriage. Ageon had already taken up one of the bench seats and did not look willing to move again, so you sat on the other. “You’ve ruined my dress!” You complained as you saw the mud and dirt he’d gotten all over your clothes. Ageon did not respond, instead, he gasped a few times and waved a hand at the guard, who was still lingering in the doorway of the carriage, indicating that he would like to be taken home. You glared at him, fixing him with as hard a look as you could manage.

 "I ran too fast and now I can’t breathe. It’s the first time I’ve exercised in four years." He gasped out after a long pause. You tried not to giggle but the sound broke out on its own and made him smile as you put a hand up to your mouth as if to try and catch the sound.

“Why are you running from Aemond?” You asked to distract from your amusement and he sighed.

“Because he’s a frightful bore and I wanted to have some fun.” Aegon sprawled out across the seat he was occupying and closed his eyes.

“You shouldn’t hide in the sept. It's rude. Not to mention you always hide there so you're easier to find.” You said quickly. He opened one eye and groaned a little.

“Are you going to scold me all the way back to the keep?” He asked lazily. You sighed and leaned into the comfortable seat a little more.

“I would much rather not have to talk to you at all.” You said quickly. He chuckled and shrugged.

“Very well.” He spoke with sharp amusement that made you frown.

“I mean that.” You said stubbornly. He smiled again and basked in the sun that burst through the carriage windows as the long stretch of road opened up and the carriage turned down the road that exited the main heart of the city and headed to the front courtyard of the keep. 

“And I agreed.” He was starting to smile, amusement playing at the corner of his mouth as you fidgeted in your seat, running your tongue over your front teeth and smacking your lips quietly with frustration. “But you do insist on it ever so much.” He said after a pause.

“Because you do not speak as if you believe me.” You answered matter of factly. He nodded and made a noise as if he agreed.

“It is true I do speak in such a manner. Mostly because I don’t believe you. You like me more than my brother at least.” He said softly and grinned as he looked over at you, his feet kicked up against the wall of the carriage at the end of the seat, crossed over each other at the ankle as his hands rested on his chest.

“Not true at all. I find Daeron much more enjoyable to spend time with than you.” Your answer made him laugh.

“Everyone likes him. But you like me more than Aemond.” He sat up and leaned towards you as the carriage came to a stop. The small space seemed to become smaller still under his gaze, watching you as if he wanted you to confess that he was right but the door was yanked open and Aemond appeared as he stepped into the light that burst through the opening, yanking Aegon out of his seat and through the carriage door out of sight. Sir Cole stepped into view shortly after and gently helped you from the carriage. 

“Thank you for finding him.” A stiff voice came from behind you. Turning you found Otto Hightower over seeing Aegon being swept out of sight into the depths of the keep.

“Well, really he found me.” You confessed and smiled. Your smile fell awkwardly when Otto’s face remained stern. 

“The queen will see you in her chambers for an update on your trip to the Sept.” Otto said and nodded to Cole. Though he was gentle as he guided you inside, Sir Cole’s grip on your arm was unyielding and you had the good sense to suspect that Aegon had gotten you into some kind of trouble.

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[velvet-paradox]

Stay (ch. 4)

Lessons from Kruger - Meeting a Ghost - Pleasure

Warnings: NSFW 18+ ONLY, explicit content, strong language, female masturbation.

You got to sit at the table that night for dinner. No longer assigned to the floor, you got your very own spot on the bench, beside König at the head of it. An arrangement of mushrooms and grain lay out on your plate beside some of the boar meat that was caught earlier that morning. Most of it had landed itself on his plate.

"How does it feel?" König asked through a mouthful of his dinner. He had at least put his shirt back on, this thinner one looked comfortable and light on his thick bands of muscles.

"To be off the floor? A lot better."

"Good to hear," he nodded and brought his horn of ale beneath his hood. "But that is not what I asked."

"Then what do you mean?"

"How does it feel… to be one of KorTac now?"

You didn't know how to answer him or even if you should. It only bothered you when you laid down that night, watching König busy himself getting ready for bed that you realized you liked it here. You liked the people, even the ones who barely acknowledged you. They minded their business. You kept your head down and didn't bother anyone. The children of the clan seemed to like you the best because you had new and unheard stories to tell.

You liked KorTac even though you didn't give consent to be here.

And that gave you pause.

….

"Higher."

Krueger shifts and tilts the worn shield in your hand and readies his stance against you. You've been at this for hours, wooden swords for practice, the clacking made nests of birds flew free. Kruger had been entrusted to train you, which he had gladly obliged last week or so. Your stomach flipped when The Collector had sent you off with a light push to follow the other masked man.

Time and days were running together as you no longer kept track.

The markings under your bed had looked low. König had left the door that once separated you, open. And even though you were stolen, a ransom, leverage, some nights you had the urge to crawl into his bed.

You were incredibly touch starved. You hadn't felt the warmth of a hug in so long. Only Keeva had shown you affection and now her light touches were made for her babies.

"Come now, you're not paying attention, pet. If you are to be the wife of The Collector you need to defend yourself," Kruger's wooden sword clacked against your one when you brought it up to block the blow. "You are better than this, no?"

"You're worse than König." You pant, out of breath at his level of training. You've never sweat this much in your life! Day after day, Sebastian had pushed you until your bones ached, until you collapsed to the ground. He'd rouse you back up, set you back on your feet and go for another ten minutes or so.

"Thank you."

Each day you came to train, a little cat of curiosity would creep into your head as to why now, Kruger was the one to train you and not The Collector himself.

Kruger grabbed your shield and knocked it against your head.

"Fucker! And how do you know I am to be his wife?"

Kruger grabbed your arm and held it up, almost yanking you off your feet with his brute strength. "This. König explained what it means to you, to your family. And we're happy to have you. Keeva and Price especially, thank the Gods you were with her in her time of need. You are one of us."

"She's the only one whose been nice towards me."

Kruger scoffed, you couldn't see his face but you knew behind his mask he was feigning some hurt. "As if I am not friendly to you! That is quite rude, pet. I could tell König you know, he'd punish you."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Care to try me?"

You huffed and rounded your shoulders, knowing all too well now that if you challenged Kruger, you were in for a fight.

….

You couldn't sleep that night. Muscles too tight, head too heavy. You tossed and turned in your bed, moving and folding your blankets a little more neatly. You just couldn't get comfortable, no matter how hard you tried, on your back, your side, upside down. Nothing seemed to help and König's talking in his sleep wasn't helping either.

He snored too.

Impulse took root and before you knew it, you had raised your fist and banged it heavily against the wall you shared. You heard silence for once that night, snuggling down into your furs and blankets, punching down a damn near flat pillow.

You felt your body jerk, suddenly yanked down to the edge of your bed with an irate and sleepy looking menace hovering just above you. Your attempt to shield your face from his venomous gaze proved pointless as König swiftly grabbed your wrists and pinned them down to the bed.

"If you have something to say, just say it." He growled, his voice low and tangled with sleep.

You twisted in his grip but that only made him grunt at you and squeeze your bones.

"Are you not the same man who told me not to speak unless spoken to?" you retorted. "And how shall I do that if you are dead asleep?"

König sighed. "You could have come in and kicked me, I would have preferred that than to hear you banging and rolling around in here."

"If you were asleep, how do you know I am restless?"

His mask billowed around his bare shoulders, scars, fresh and old covered his skin like armor in the crackling flames from the burning lanterns inside your side of the room. You wanted to touch them. You shook that feeling from your mind like cobwebs.

It really had been so long since anyone had touched you and you were feeling the delirious effects.

"You have been restless all day, so why should the cover of night be any different? Was Kruger rough on you today?"

"No."

"Hmm, then he is not doing his job. I shall have a talk with him in the morning, make sure you are being pushed to your true potential."

König pushed off of you and he made his way to the separating door, he lingered there before disappearing into his room.

"What's it like?" Anso, a little boy no taller that your kneecap begged the question. "How have you no siblings? I am one of eight!"

"My parents were only blessed with me." You answered. He trotted next to you, holding on the skirt of your dress as you walked down the lane, other little ones following after as you were sent to market for a few elixir items a blonde woman named Laswell was in need of.

"Truly you are blessed by the Gods," Brunihild joined the conversation, catching up to your adult steps in comparison to her stubby short ones. "I am one of nine! I get nothing to myself."

"That is because no one wants what you have!" Ango, the eldest of Keeva and Price laughed himself into hysterics until another girl, Astrid, about the same age punched him in the chest.

Gaz had finished your boots for the colder months ahead, calling out to you once you had procured the herbs and salve for Laswell. The kids had gotten distracted and had taken off at a full sprint towards the fjord you had yet to take in.

"Well, how do they feel?'

You bounced in place after lacing them up, you did not have any suitable size sock to pull on to see how you would fare soon enough.

Gaz was indeed a true master craftsmen. He knew what he was doing. You didn't even need to try on the pants he'd hemmed and tailored for you to know they would indeed keep you skin tight and warm.

There was clamoring in the great hall when you got back, hunts came back left and right and all times of day as of late so it was no real matter to you as you moved past some excited KorTac members.

Laswell's apothecary was on the side of the village to Keeva's, you knew the area well now. You knocked and were welcomed in, she had even paid you an unsuspected sum, a little leather bag to your palm much to her wifes' annoyance. You thanked them and made it back up the hill to the great hall.

On your way with your own score of the day you had bumped into a rather large form. You apologized thinking the mass and weight of shoulders before you was Kruger, only for the man to turn about face and stare you down.

Definitely not Kruger.

The unknown skull-masked man tilted his head and examined you from head to toe.

"And just who might you be then?"

"Apologies."

"That is a rather odd name." The foreign man rounded his thick shoulders, furs slouching a bit if not for the chain digging into his bulky neck, they would surely be on the ground. Brown eyes narrowed down at you.

"No. I mean I'm… I'm König's-"

"Ah! So you are König's newest little play thing, yeah? Give us a spin."

He clicked his teeth but stopped short when a large hand clamped down on your shoulder. You squeaked.

"She will do no such thing for the likes of you, Ghost." König tightened his grip momentarily, locking eyes with this new brute of a man.

"Apologies here said she's yours. I have been away a rather fruitful hunt, we will last another winter."

"Apologies?" He asked.

Ghost pointed at you.

"Her name is pet, not apologies, Simon."

"Of course, König. Whatever you say," Ghost shrugged, water off a ducks back. The tension between the two of them only seemed to anchor and grow once Ghost started speaking again. "She said she was yours, does that mean this one is not for sharing? Keeps perhaps, big man?"

A shiver licked up your spine and if it weren't for König being so close and radiating heat, you might have fell over with the way he looked at you. You were getting used to König's blue eyes, sharp and clear but Simon's brown ones seemed to burn a hole into your flesh.

How many other ransoms and taken hostages, men and women, had been subjected to being passed around? It made bile rise in the back of your throat and you wanted nothing more than to turn and run all the way home.

"No. She is not for consumption."

Ghost looked disappointed but again, as cool and unbothered he hummed and reached his arm out to The Collector, to which he took it and let Simon bring him in close.

"Since you are so preoccupied, maybe I'll pay a visit to Ada, your favorite paramour then. Sure could use a bath and a fuck." Simon sauntered down the hall, making sure to fluff out his furs for dramatic effect.

"Is he going to be a problem?" You finally asked once the burly man was out of sight and hearing.

König snorted and quickly released your shoulder, which he seemed to have completely forgotten about, he urged you two to make the trek back to your quarters. "If he does, you let me know, pet. I am glad to see you have acquired some things from Gaz, we'll fit you for a cloak soon as well."

….

Autumn had settled into the air and into your bones, even though you had a little fire pit in your room, nights were getting colder and colder. The leaves were changing, children were growing and turning out to be effective Vikings, their eagerness to raid with their fathers and older brothers was growing on them. Price and Keeva's oldest had been seen as of late out in the training grounds.

One night you thought of crawling into bed with König, just for warmth of course.

You desperately wanted to see your parents before winter came, blocking passage up your village. The Collector would soon be making his seasonal rounds anyway, and hopefully he would stay true to his word and let you visit.

You waited patiently in your bedroom, wiggling your toes in your boots, hands wringing over the leather of your new pants. He was away on a hunt with Kruger and Ghost. He trusted you to stay put, to which you did. Three days without seeing his humous form stalk about the KorTac village, hear his voice, see his hood swaying as he pounded the dirt down the lane. Watching him quietly move about this very room, a scene not everyone was privy to. Much like you, getting up and walking into his part of the shared space, sitting on his bed instead.

It was a private moment when you realized you were instinctly rubbing your thighs together.

Uh oh.

You'd been touch staved for months now. The scent of König filled your nose when you laid back into his furs, his pillows, his space. Reeking of the woods, sage and his distinct smell. Manly. Burly. Strong. Heady.

The more you thought about him the more you wiggled and gave in, grabbing his closest pillow and inhaling like a dog in heat. And perhaps you were.

You covered your face with the pillow then, gripping at the blankets below as you busied yourself, tearing at the strings of your pants, bucking into nothing, breathing in his scent as your nimble fingers found the source of the issue. Your clit throbbed, your pussy clenched around nothing but want and desire, the first time you'd even allowed yourself to feel something other than dismay. You bit into the fabric of the pillow. Drooling, rubbing your slit for some sort of relief. You startled yourself when you moaned out The Collectors name. What a mess!

Thankfully he wasn't anywhere nearby to see your antics, covering your mouth, the crackling sounds from the fire burning in your room, the warmth of it as you moved and nosily filled the canal of your cunt, easily with two fingers. You'd never heard yourself this loudly before, your mind racing as you pulled them out, circling your clit once more until you gave in and stuffed yourself knuckle deep.

"Whose Ada?" You asked Keeva the next morning, spotting her having some difficulty wrangling her children about, the newborns having sprouted a lot more hair than you remembered, on your way to market. You were surprised to see her up and about so soon, the babes now a good month old, looking wide eyed around the new world around them.

"Oh that one," Keeva snorted and shook her head, as you carried her woven basket. It reminded you of yours back home, collecting dust. "She's a silly one, that Ada. She likes to entertain."

"Ghost called her a paramour."

"Simon is right. Knees to the sky, that one. She's not a bad woman, mind you pet, she just… does things her way. She gets paid to spread her legs for anyone with enough money and willing. I heard," Keeva began to whisper, shooing her little ones away from prying ears. "She's even gotten a few of KorTac's finest to beg. Can you imagine?! Word gets out about submission and they'll make a new song of it, I'm sure."

"Anyone?" Your mind reeled with the image of any of KorTac's finest begging for sexual favors.

Keeva paused. "Are you interested? I don't know of her rate but a new play thing like you might fetch a few pretty coins."

"Not me. The Collector."

"Oh so you are interested in our leader? Not surprised."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing. You two spend a lot of time together, I only see what it is plain. Are you jealous, dear pet? You shouldn't be, he has not been to see her in many months now." Keeva explained, calling after her brood.

"How do you know?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Keeva laughed and you followed after her with a furrowed brow and even more questions than answers.

Obvious of what?

"Wee lass! I was wondering if you might've taken your leave in the wake of The Collectors absence. You must be enjoying yerself here wit' us." Soap found you rummaging for some carrots for Keeva, he clapped a heavy hand on your shoulder that gave you chills. You wondered if he had forgot you were not to be touched or the man couldn't care less. You weren't sure if that was reckless or just the sort of man Soap truly was.

"And risk being blood eagled? I think not."

"König wouldn't do that to you!"

"He did it to the last guy who betrayed him!"

"Oh that," Soap waved a blood lust death like there was some flying insect in front of his face, like it was nothing and maybe to these people it wasn't. Growing up you knew that was the most heinous of deaths and it was rightly served. You played and stayed on the straight and narrow to not be lumped in with venom like that! "That's a totally differen' situation. No' even close, lass."

"Are you König? How would you know that he wouldn't turn on me at once? I have seen his wrath, I know what The Collector is capable of and I would be an idiot to think otherwise. I need his trust."

"You mean… his approval?"

"If I am to be his wife, yes Soap, I need his approval and trust. I can't just be some… some.. nobody."

"WIFE?!" Soap practically shrieked, getting a few looks.

"Did he not tell you what this means?" You held up your arm, the emerald band glinting in the mid-day light.

"No. Why would he tell me something so intimate?" Soap asked.

"He told Kruger."

"Ah, Kruger and I are quite different in rank, pet. Congratulations are in order I suppose, then."

"Maybe don't mention this, out loud again until he comes home, yeah?"

"Home? I suppose you are feeling most welcome." Soap smirked and waved you off, adjusting his cloak as he walked away with a secret. He glanced over his shoulder once as you found the right amount of vegetables needed.

….

Your lips feel bruised, sloppy and wet, sliding over another. Large hands are on your body, prodding and groping. Kneading into the flesh of your thighs, grabbing them, hoisting them, pushing them up and apart. You're out of breath and desperate, oh so fucking desperate for friction, for filling.

You're on your knees, excited and eager to please, the pleasure of serving is hot on your mind, licking at the base of your skull, warming you through like a summer breeze.

It's nice you could cry. You are so unashamed and thorough to be this good. A hand on your head, another under your chin to make you look up and up and . König is smiling at you.

You instantly sit up in bed.

Oh Gods no!

You cannot be feeling this way about your captor.

This cannot be happening. You rub at your eyes, your face is hot and sweating. The apex of your sex is sticky and wet. You're thrumming with adrenaline, jittery at best. You knew it was a mistake to touch yourself, let alone touch yourself in his bed, surrounded by his things.

Now look at you, a miserable and horny mess once more.

You should get up, go outside, get some fresh air, cool yourself off. Stave off this desire. The moment you told Soap that you needed The Collectors approval, his trust, his praise, you were in too deep. Given to him as payment, forced to be his wife, apart of the KorTac clan, to be married to the most brutal and violent man in this realm was not something you ever thought about. And why would you? He's a killer. He's a murderer.

He's… yours.

[welcometothemaraudersspam]

a walk in october ~ n.k x reader part 1

“apocalypse ~ cigarettes after sex”

volume: ■■■■■□□□

warnings: cursing? just nanami being cute :3

word count: 2.3k

part 2 here!

｡･:*˚:✧｡｡･:*˚:✧｡｡･:*˚:✧｡｡･:*˚:✧｡｡･:*˚:✧｡

Your converse cladded feet kicked the tiny pebbles adorning the sidewalk, a soft sigh leaving your lips. Lifting your gaze up from the ground taking in the breathtaking scenery. The leaves had reached their full autumn bloom. Shades of orange and brown coating every inch of the park. There were plenty of people enjoying the cool weather, their chatter heard in passing as you made your way further into the park.

The only other sound you took notice of were the rustling of the leaves, your eyes gazing up at the sky.

You could swear up and down that fall skies looked different. There was a certain hue to them that you couldn’t find in summer skies.

Summer skies were bright.

Baby blue.

Fluffy white clouds coating the sky. Everything was the perfect shade of green. The scenery just looked clean.

But fall skies-

That’s where it truly is.

Fall skies… they were brown. They were comforting. Everything about fall made you feel so warm inside. Maybe it was the ever changing shades in the leaves. The earthy tones coating the ground.

It was breathtaking..

And you look forward to it every year.

Your train of thought came to an abrupt stop as you had arrived at your usual spot. Setting your bag onto the wooden park bench, a soft thud followed shortly after. Taking a seat on the worn wood tugging your lunch out of the brown bag, humming a soft tune. Another gust of wind rustled the leaves above you, a few stray ones dancing their way down to the ground.

This place you had considered your spot wasn’t entirely hidden. Anybody could take it. But, no one ever did.

It was a lone wooden table barely holding it together with benches. The wood was beyond worn. Outlines of where people had loved it before. It was further into the park, near the outskirts of it, under a giant tree.

The tree looked over hundreds of years old. It’s roots sticking every which way. But it was thick, it could be hit with a bulldozer and knock the machine right back. The way the branches were positioned made it look like you were sitting under a mushroom. It was perfect.

It gave you just the right amount of shade.

A gorgeous view.

You could stay there for hours.

For days.

The sound of someone calling your name broke you out of your trance, lifting your head up from your sandwich, a smile tugging at your lips. The sight of Gojo waving erratically with unamused familiar faces in tow.

The white haired man practically sprinted over to you, helping himself to a bite of your sandwich making himself comfortable on the seat beside you.

A scoff left your lips, “Soturu. Wow, how lovely to see you. Yes, of course you can have a bite. Thanks for asking!” Offering him a fake smile pinching his cheeks, a little harder than usual an odd sound leaving his mouth. He just grinned at your actions, resting his arm around your shoulder tugging you closer to him.

“Soturu, behave. You’ve barely been here 2 seconds and you already managed to piss her off.” Suguru mused, sitting across from Gojo, his bangs blowing across his face. Shoko snickered at his words, opting for sitting on the edge of the table. You beamed up at the girl attempting to shrug off Gojo’s arm, but he didn’t falter. He tightened his grip on you, popping a few of your grapes into his mouth, pretending to not hear you struggle beside him.

“Shoko! My love, please save me.” Begging the brunette, reaching for her with both of your hands, Suguru sighed audibly while Nanami rolled his eyes at Soturu’s antics. The tall boy just wrapped another arm around you, squeezing you tighter.

“Soturu, do you remember that time last december when we went on a mission and the curse’s power had the power to shrink-”

Almost as if he had been struck by lightning, the blue eyed man released his hold on you instantly, red dusting his pale skin. Snickers left Geto’s lips clearly knowing the backstory, a satisfied hum left Shoko sending a wink your way. You tugged the brunette toward you peppering her face in kisses, loud smacks leaving both of your lips as you giggled to one another.

Shoko had been your best friend since diapers.

You had been through every stage of your life with that girl.

When you had turned 12, you had moved due to your father passing. You had begged and pleaded to not leave, offering any of your possessions but nothing helped.

Your mothers mind was made up.

Having to tell Ieiri that you were leaving was the worst moment of your life. You still remember everything that was said. All of the tears wept between the two of you.

Knowing her temper, the girl had no one to yell at but you. She blamed you at first, out of anger, but deep down she knew she was just trying to protect herself from getting hurt.

You never thought you would see her again but almost as if you guys were meant to be with one another. The pair of you didn’t meet again until you ran into each other at Jujutsu High.

You had never been more thankful in your entire life that you could see all of these awful curses, as long as it meant you could be with your best friend again.

.・゜-: ✧ :-.・゜-: ✧ :-.・゜-: ✧ :-.・゜-: ✧ :-

“And over here is where your dorm will be. You have one neighboring roommate. She’s nice. I’ll introduce you to her… yeah, right through here. ” The tall blonde spoke gently, unlocking your new dorm room giving you a chance to walk in first.

The room was much bigger than you had expected. It was bare. But you didn’t mind. You had plenty of belongings to make it feel like home in no time. Sighing softly as you kicked your slippers off at the entrance, your sock clad feet padding across the wooden floor. Making your way over to the window in the corner of your room. Peeking out the window, a soft gasp leaving your lips.

“Nanami! You never told me I had such a gorgeous view.”

“I wasn’t sure you even had a window.”

“C’mere. Look! You can see all the trees from here,” You mused to the tall man, motioning him over. He gingerly made his way over, bending way down to see the cherry blossom trees coating your windows view. You could see a creek from your room as well, a soft hum left his lips.

With the little space between you, your senses were overwhelmed with what you assumed was his natural scent. Smelling of fresh laundry and… was that cinnamon?

“… all I got was the view of a brick wall.” A snort left your lips snapping you out of your trance, nudging the blonde playfully. An unfamiliar look flashed across his face quickly clearing his throat, maneuvering around you to go towards your dorm door. “I-.. did you have any further questions?”

“Yes actually,” Anyone from a while away could see the nervous wreck that was Nanami Kento, a small part of you only meaning to poke fun at the 2nd year who was standing before you. “Is your dorm also in this hall?”

“Em- since girls and guys have to be in separate halls… I am- I am not.”

“Hm.. what a shame.” Uttering under your breath, knowing full well he could hear it. A rush of pink flooded his face, parting his lips at your words. The blonde fringe covering his eyes partially made you realize how cute his eyes truly were, a soft giggle leaving your lips.

“Nanami… we still have the rest of the tour to go on.”

“Right!- if you follow me…”

.・゜-: ✧ :-.・゜-: ✧ :-.・゜-: ✧ :-.・゜-: ✧ :-

A loud heaving noise to your left made you release Shoko, giving the giggling boy a glare as he looked proud at himself. Both you and the brunette gave him an amused look, gesturing towards him and the dark haired boy beside him.

“I didn’t think you of all people would be against same sex couples considering you have a whole ass boyfriend-”

“That’s not true. Whatsoever. He’s my husband-”

A wave of groans left your group's lips as his long limbs reached across the table to take ahold of Geto’s clasped hands, a look of feigned disgust coated his face. Nanami just rolled his eyes but you took notice of how he had moved his hands under the table. Holding back a chuckle catching his eyes, a faint blush creeped up his neck.

“You haven’t been here long have you?”

“No, not too long. I was bored and the weather was lovely, so I figured why not have my lunch here rather than at the school.” You shrugged your shoulders, finally taking a bite of your sandwich, looking up at the young girl whose lips had already been captured by yet another cigarette. “Shoko… tell me that’s your first one today. It’s barely 11.”

The girl stiffened her hand with the lighter stopping right before her mouth, avoiding your stare. Setting down the sandwich, leaning forward so your face was right under her gaze. She just sighed.

“I don’t want to lie to you…”

“Sho! I thought you were trying to quit.”

“I know, I know! But being around this dumbass makes it incredibly difficult. ” Tilting her head back towards the tall white haired man who was currently trying to balance a glass container on the top of his head, a goofy grin spread across his face.

Hold on.. that’s my glass container.

At the mention of Shoko’s insult he snapped his head toward the two of you. A stream of words began leaving his lips catching sight of your container tumbling off his head. A soft gasp left your lips as you scrambled to reach the glass container, a pair of hands reaching it before it touched the ground.

Nanami looked unamused by Gojo’s actions, setting the container into your awaiting hands, fingers brushing slightly, offering you a smile. A smile graced your lips before quickly turning into a frown, facing the white haired boy.

“Gojo.”

A beat passed, the boy turning his head around to face the tree trunk.

“I’m going to beat your ass.”

“You wish you could touch me.”

“You know I’m one of the only ones who can. That’s why you're not facing me right now.”

Another beat.

He started whistling to himself, his head moving side to side as he pretended to not hear you. A sigh left Geto’s lips, rising from his position on the bench. Shoko hesitated to move but she knew it best if she did, tossing her cigarette under her boot smothering it.

“Soturu. Let’s go before she ends up having to explain to Yaga where you went.”

Soft grumbles left his lips, begrudgingly standing up giving you a quick peek at you over his sunglasses. You pretended to cup your hands together, making him huff and begin to fast walk ahead of your friends. A giggle left your lips, watching him stumble over a rock.

“I’ll see you at training, sweets.” Suguru leaned down to bring you into a warm embrace, rubbing his back as he started after Gojo who was sulking from afar. Suppressing the laugh that begged to be let out at the sight of an almost grown adult, pouting with his arms crossed over his chest. Shoko pressed a chaste kiss onto your cheek, waving goodbye at you.

A sigh left your lips pressing your head onto the wooden table.

“I visibly saw the weight leave your shoulders once he left.”

“I swear. He makes my head pound. How does he even manage that?”

Nanami just let out a soft chuckle, crossing his arms in front of him as he eyed your form. His eyes drifted over your tousled hair splayed on the table, catching sight of a fairly deep cut on the back of your hand. Almost on instinct, his hand reached out, stopping right before he could touch your skin.

“What happened to your hand?”

“Hm?,” Lifting your head up to look at your hands, just now taking notice of the gash on your hand. The blood around it had already dried, looking like it had already begun scabbing over. “That is… a good question. I’m not entirely sure. Sometimes I just get a bunch of random cuts and bruises and have absolutely no recollection of where they came from.”

“It’s truly a surprise you’ve made it this far as a sorcerer if that’s the case.” Nanami hummed a smile tugging at his lips, a laugh leaving your body as your eyes locked with his. A comforting silence washed over the two of you.

The only sound you could hear was the rustling of the leaves above and below you. The breeze was nice and cool on your skin, tugging your shirt hems over your hands.

“Nanami?”

A soft hum.

“Have you ever thought about getting a lip piercing?” The strangest sound left his mouth eyeing your face to see if you were being genuine. Tilting your head at him, quirking an eyebrow at the blonde.

“I- I don’t think it would suit me.”

“Are you kidding? I genuinely thought you were secretly tatted under that uniform. A lip piercing- scratch that, any piercings would 1000% look killer on you. I think it suits your face.”

“... do you truly?”

“I have no reason to lie to you, Kento. I swear.”

His heart soared at your words, a smile gracing his face. He untucked his ears, not a single word leaving his lips. You stared innocently up at him, eyes trailing to where his hair now uncovered. A small gasp left your lips, the sight of pure joy lighting your face up made him chuckle, feeling his face heat up at the look on your face.

“NANAMI KENTO. YOU- YOU HAVE PIERCED EARS.”

｡･:*˚:✧｡｡･:*˚:✧｡｡･:*˚:✧｡｡･:*˚:✧｡｡･:*˚:✧｡

a/n: hi lovelies! this is my first time writing for jjk, i just recently finished watching the series. and i completely fell in love. i have written well over 10k worth of words on this story. plz let me know how you guys feel about it. lots of love <3

[omniblades-and-stars]

Ask game: it was never going to work

This one's for me and the like 10 other people out there who put any time at all into imagining a Hawke/Alistair pairing.

Hawke is on the run after someone blew up the Kirkwall Chantry and that whole ordeal fighting a living statue. Alistair is hiding out because shit's getting weird in the Wardens. They join forces to try to figure out what the hell is going on and try not to get captured, and, well, you know how that goes when I'm involved.

I'm pretty sure I've shown you this bit before and I had more written but I seem to have lost it somewhere. Booooo. Anyways, bone apple teeth.

It was a beautiful day, audaciously pastoral, all things taken into consideration. Fluffy clouds hung lazily in a clear blue sky, and a wide assortment of birds filled the air with their songs. A breeze even fluttered gently by, rustling leaves in the trees growing along the side of the road. Alistair supposed the birds and the sun in the sky didn't much care that world of people had turned to chaos. The sun was far, far away, and there were seeds and bugs aplenty for the more avian concerns. Still, it felt wrong somehow that nature was at peace and he was not. Nor were many others, he figured. With the Circles casting their lots for rebellion and the Templar Order absolutely losing its mind over it, there was a lot to worry over. And he had more on his own plate to worry about besides. Alistair nodded to the young stablehand, dropping a few coins in her hand before making his way over to the inn. The Merciful Dragon was conveniently located at the midway point between nothing and nowhere. A worn, wooden sign hung over the entrance, bearing a sleeping dragon painted in red. Or, well, at least he assumed it was meant to be red - it had gone a little pink with sun, rain and time. "Must not have time to paint it again with all this business," Alistair mused to himself, taking note of the emptiness of both the road and the stables. As he approached the whitewashed building, he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, it was scrawled over in the center with his own rather sloppy handwriting. Merciful Dragon - Thea Fletcher He had checked his note what felt like a hundred times at least since he first wrote it down, but still he worried that he'd messed it up somehow. Like he was meant to go to some other middle of nowhere tavern called The Merciful Dragon in this lonely chunk of the Free Marches. Well, he'd find out if his ridiculous little anxiety bore out as truth or just his own mind being very rude indeed. Inside, the tavern was cozy, if a little haggard. A few small tables littered the space, crowded about with mismatched benches and chairs in a hodge-podge of styles and states of disrepair. He approached the counter at the back, tucked beneath the landing of the floor above, currently manned by a positively ancient dwarven woman. She had what seemed to be piles of unruly white curls spilling over her shoulders and down her back, a pipe was lodged in between dry, cracked lips and her nose was so deep in a book, she might have been trying to sniff the words instead of read them. "Help you?" She snapped before Alistair even made it to the counter, dispelling the assumption he'd been under that she had not seen or heard him entering. She didn't look up from her book, only peeling her face out of it for exactly as long as it took to turn the page.

[s3x-drugs-etc]

"hey umm Meliora! By any chance have you seen either one of my brothers?" She says curiously she hasn't seen them today which is weird since they're all camp counselors.

Ever since they got to camp my brothers have been acting weird she had zero clue why and she was genuinely curious she's been investigating it the whole time her curiosity getting the best of her she I really wanted to know what was going on with her brothers.

@ronette-the-good-goode

Meliora sat at one of the worn wooden bench tables tucked beneath the shade of an old tree, her shoulders finally dropping as she exhaled a quiet sigh. For once, no one was shouting her name, begging for her attention. It was peaceful—rare, fleeting, and she intended to savor every second of it.

She leaned back slightly, tilting her face toward the sky, letting the breeze skim over her skin before glancing toward Ronette, who had just taken a seat beside her. Meliora’s fingers idly combed through her hair, a nervous habit she hadn’t quite broken. She tilted her head to the side, her voice soft, just above a whisper.

"I think he was with that orange-haired girl… Ziggy, I think her name is?" she murmured, her tone thoughtful but distant. "She looked… kind of distraught. Like something happened, but no one had the guts to ask."

Her gaze drifted downward, settling on her lap where her hands had stilled. A faint crease formed between her brows as if her mind had already started piecing together silent observations she hadn’t meant to notice.

[hollowstuffs]

TOO YOUNG TO STAY, TOO YOUNG TO LEAVE – PART IV

Pairing: cillian murphy x popstar!oc

Summary: Juno wakes up in Cillian's house, exploring his world and discovering details of his life. Between buns, dogs and improvised melodies, the connection between them grows as they create a song together. A quiet day that begins to change everything.

⸻

The next day, Juno woke up on the living room sofa, her head slightly throbbing and her mouth dry. It took her a few seconds to recognize where she was. The curtains let in a soft light, and the silence felt comfortable, almost warm. Around her, everything smelled like wood, old coffee, and something familiar she couldn’t quite place.

She blinked a couple of times and slowly sat up. She could feel the wrinkled clothes from the day before, her eyeliner a bit smudged, but overall, she was okay. Dizzy, yes, but alive—and in Dublin.

She looked around for Cillian but he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Instead, she found her phone with a new message.

—I’ll be back in a few hours. There’s food on the table and headache pills. Rest up.

She smiled without realizing it. There was something in the way he cared for her that completely disarmed her. She stood up carefully, feeling a bit clumsy, and headed to her room to take a hot shower. The steam cleared her mind, and for the first time since arriving in Dublin, she dialed her parents’ number. The call was short, warm, filled with nervous laughter and some questions she preferred to answer vaguely.

—I’m fine, —she said— I just needed a few days away from everything.

When she hung up, she felt lighter.

She changed into something more comfortable—a loose t-shirt and cotton pants—and went back to the kitchen. On the table, covered with a bowl, was something that smelled delicious. She heated it up, took the pills Cillian had left beside it, and sat down to eat in silence. She was surprised to discover she was hungrier than she thought.

After breakfast, she started exploring the house at a relaxed pace. It was a cozy place, full of curious details; a mix of rustic and modern objects, books piled in corners, guitars hanging on the walls, and photos in black and white among others in color. Pictures of his kids were everywhere: one on a bike, another playing a toy drum, both smiling in front of a Christmas tree.

But not a single photo of his ex-wife.

She stopped in front of a shelf with small wooden sculptures and worn-out frames. Then, a bark from the back of the house made her turn around.

She carefully opened the back door; fresh air hit her immediately—revitalizing. In the middle of the garden, a dog was barking furiously at a squirrel running up a tree trunk. Juno froze. She wasn’t good with strange dogs.

—Um… hi, —she said softly, keeping a safe distance.

The dog stopped barking, looked at her, and sat down calmly as if nothing had happened.

—I guess you’re not a threat, —she murmured.

She decided to walk a bit, staying far but without fear. The garden was beautiful. Flowers everywhere, a well-kept doghouse, an outdoor dining set with wrought iron chairs, a wooden bench, what looked like a grill… and hanging from a huge tree, a swing.

Juno approached, pushed it lightly with her hand, and then, without thinking too much, sat down. The swinging was gentle, like a caress. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.

For the first time in a long time, she felt calm. Not completely happy, not completely at peace, but a little closer to both. The air smelled like grass and damp earth, and the silence was only broken by the crunch of branches and the distant sound of a car passing by on the street.

Juno pushed herself a little harder and laughed softly. It was a childish laugh, almost forgotten. In that moment, she understood that these days with Cillian—uncertain as they were—were also building something. Something she couldn’t name yet, but that felt good.

Cillian arrived home around noon, a paper bag in one hand, his hair slightly messy from the wind. He walked down the hallway silently, expecting to find Juno in the living room or kitchen, but he didn’t see or hear anything. It wasn’t until he peeked into the backyard that he found her.

She was on the swing, gently rocking with her eyes closed and a calm expression that completely disarmed him. The garden looked even more beautiful with her there, as if the sunlight shone differently through the branches because of her presence.

—I brought some buns, —he said, raising his voice a little.

Juno opened her eyes and smiled when she saw him. She got off the swing slowly and walked over to him.

—The best in Dublin? —she asked playfully.

—That’s what they say, —he replied, proudly showing the bag— They have raisins, but not too many. You wouldn’t believe how fast they run out if you don’t get here early.

—Where were you?

—I went to run some errands with Aran, —he answered as they walked back into the kitchen to grab glasses and some napkins— Nothing special.

Juno stayed quiet for a few seconds, thoughtful.

—Don’t your kids find it weird that they suddenly can’t come to your house?

Cillian stopped, drinks in hand.

—During the week they’re with their mother. They’re only with me on weekends. I just told them I’d be busy these days.

Juno nodded, though the unease didn’t disappear completely.

—What if they found out that you and I… talk?

He stayed still for a moment. The garden was still beautiful, but the air suddenly felt heavier. Cillian looked down, as if the words weighed more than usual.

—I don’t know, —was all he said.

Because, honestly, he didn’t want to allow himself to think about it. The idea of his kids, his ex-wife, someone in his family—even himself—having to face whatever was starting to grow between them scared him more than he was willing to admit. Juno didn’t press.

They sat in the backyard, the buns still warm between them, silence wrapping around like a soft blanket. They shared the food without needing to talk, as if that space—with its flowers, swing, and slow-moving clouds—was enough.

Suddenly, Juno started humming. A simple, hypnotic melody slipped from her lips without her noticing. It had been stuck in her head for days, ever since she boarded the plane.

Cillian glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

—Is that a song?

—I think so, —she replied— I can’t get it out of my head.

She stood up decisively and went to her room. A few minutes later, she returned with her notebook and phone. She sat on the wooden bench, opened a new voice recording, and began experimenting with sounds, repeating the same sequence of notes while jotting down and crossing out phrases.

—Aah, la-ah-la-ah… la-la-la… la-ah-la— Impossible to ignore… Impossible not to do…

Cillian watched her with a mix of admiration and something he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—name. It was that moment when Juno became more Juno than ever. Creative, impulsive, full of life. Something in his chest tightened and expanded at the same time.

She didn’t even notice, and maybe that’s why it was impossible to stop watching her.

When Juno stopped recording, phone still in hand and fingers stained with ink, Cillian looked at her with a slight smile. The silence between them wasn��t awkward anymore; it felt like a soft pause between musical notes.

—When I was young… I was in a band, —he said suddenly, with a casual tone.

Juno looked at him surprised and then burst out laughing.

—I almost forgot about that! What did you do in the band? Did you play something? Could you write songs?

—Yeah, a bit. I liked writing lyrics—you know, that’s why I write scripts… and also playing guitar, believe it or not. I didn’t just do it for fun; there was a time I really thought I’d dedicate myself to it.

—Really? —Juno asked, her eyes wide with curiosity— The great Cillian Murphy in a rock band and not acting in an Oscar-winning movie? I want to see that.

Cillian shrugged, smiling with some nostalgia.

—We were pretty bad, but at the time I took it seriously… for a while. I liked the idea of saying things through music. I still like it, though now I only do it in my head.

—What was the band’s name? Don’t tell me it was something super intense like… I don’t know, Shadow Flames or The Broken Hours, —she teased with a playful smile.

—The Sons of Mr. Green, —he answered, laughing— A terrible name, I know.

—Oh my God! That’s even worse than I imagined, —Juno laughed, putting a hand on her chest— Sounds so Irish, I love it!

—See why it didn’t work?

—No, I think it worked too well, but the world wasn’t ready, —she said, still laughing.

Cillian looked at her affectionately, with that mix of irony and tenderness that only she seemed to bring out so often. Juno, without losing the sparkle in her eyes, lowered her voice a bit.

—You should write something with me! —Juno exclaimed excitedly— I mean, so you won’t be too bored with me in your garden…

—Bored? With you, I’m never bored, —Cillian said, raising an eyebrow.

They both smiled, and without thinking much, they started playing with melodies. They tried sounds with their voices, silly lyrics, nonsense phrases. Everything was laughter and spontaneity. Juno said something random, and Cillian turned it into a dramatic or funny tune. She made weird noises with her mouth, and he imitated them as if they were part of a great experimental composition.

In the middle of their play, Cillian began humming a melody with a different tone—softer, more intimate. Then, without thinking much, he whispered:

—She walks like summer after rain… calm and warm, but drives me insane…

Juno fell silent.

She looked at him.

Her eyes searched his as if trying to read something behind those simple but clear lyrics. Cillian held her gaze for just a second, but it was enough for something in the air to change.

—It’s a good lyric, —Juno said, almost whispering.

He let out a small laugh, like he didn’t care much, but inside, the phrase had pierced something.

—I mean it, —she insisted.

—Come on, —Cillian said suddenly, standing up.

—Where are you taking me? Are you going to kidnap me?

—Yeah, but you’ll like it.

They laughed as they went downstairs to the basement. It was spacious, with dark rugs, bookshelves filled with books, some stacked boxes, and a floor lamp casting warm light over a black piano.

—This is my little hideout, but I think it can be our studio for today.

—Not bad for a hideout-studio, —Juno commented.

They sat side by side on the piano bench. Juno placed the notebook between them and wrote down the verse Cillian had said. He helped her mark some simple chords. Between laughter, poorly played notes, and improvised lines, the song began to take shape.

They spent the afternoon like that, with repeated verses, melodies that got lost, and moments when neither spoke but everything was said, because sometimes, all it takes is being with someone who knows how to listen to you hum.