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loveesiren · 2 days ago

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𝖤𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗒 𝖢𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗍 (𝖯𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝖳𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾)

Rafe Cameron x Reader

a/n: here is the third and perhaps final part? of Emergency Contact. I am open to the idea of writing more for this if you guys have some ideas you want to share with me! Otherwise, thank you so much for enjoying this mini series! I loved writing it and I can't wait to write more for Rafe <3 (Also, please lmk if tags aren't working!)

synopsis: Y/N has always been close to the Cameron family, practically a part of it after years of friendship. Beneath the surface, unspoken feelings simmer between her and Rafe, but neither of them can muster the courage to admit it. When Y/N finally decides to move on, setting her sights on a new man, he’s forced to confront the truth: losing her might cost him more than he ever realized.

warnings: language, angst, drug use (cocaine), alcohol, mention of rehab

wc: 4k+

The days that followed were a blur of beer, late-night adventures, and laughter with the Pogues. You told yourself you were over it, that you didn’t need Rafe’s attitude bringing you down. JJ had become a constant in your life, his arm draped over your shoulder more often than not. However, you still felt an empty hole in your chest.

You supposed you and JJ were a thing now, though you hadn’t put a label on it. He liked showing you off, and you didn’t mind the attention—especially when his lips trailed down your neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You let him explore your body, but you always stopped things before they went too far.

JJ didn’t say much about it, but you could tell he was frustrated. Still, he didn’t push you, which you appreciated.

A few nights later, you were sprawled across the couch with the Pogues, laughing as Sarah flailed her arms during a particularly dramatic game of charades. Her phone buzzed rapidly on the table beside you, but she didn’t notice.

“Sarah!” you called, grabbing her phone. “Your dad is blowing up your phone!”

The carefree energy in the room shifted as Sarah snatched her phone from your hands. Her brows furrowed as she read through the missed calls and texts. “Shit…” she muttered, worry creeping into her voice.

“What’s wrong?” Kiara asked, the concern spreading to everyone else.

“My dad can’t get in touch with Rafe,” Sarah said, her tone uneasy. “He’s out of town and freaking out.”

“Is Rafe okay?” you asked, your stomach twisting with sudden anxiety.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Sarah said quickly, but her eyes darted to the screen again. You could tell she wasn’t being entirely honest. “I just need to check on him. I’ll be back soon.” She grabbed her keys and hurried out the door.

You sat there, staring at the spot where Sarah had been. Pulling out your phone, you opened your text thread with Rafe. It had been five days since you’d last heard from him.

Are you okay? you typed, hesitating for only a second before hitting send.

The screen remained blank, no reply. With a heavy sigh, you tucked your phone back into your pocket and turned back to the group.

“I’m sure everything is fine,” JJ said softly, brushing your hair aside to kiss your cheek. He pulled you closer, offering comfort, but it didn’t reach the pit of unease growing in your chest.

“Yeah…” you mumbled, trying to believe him. But your mind was elsewhere.

All you could think about was Rafe.

“Rafe?” Sarah’s voice echoed through the house as she stepped inside. The space was dark and suffocatingly quiet, save for the faint thrum of music coming from down the hall. She reached for the light switch, illuminating the chaos around her—Rafe’s belongings strewn across the house like an abandoned battleground.

As she moved into the kitchen, her stomach twisted. Empty liquor bottles were tipped over on the island, surrounded by half-smoked joints and cigarette butts. She frowned, fighting the wave of dread rising in her chest.

“Rafe?” she called out again, louder this time, as she ventured deeper into the house. Her sandals crunched against the sticky floor. The music grew louder as she approached the master bedroom, the sound of heavy metal shaking the walls. It was a genre so foreign to Rafe that it made her pause.

Reaching for the handle, Sarah opened the door slowly, peeking inside. The sight before her made her heart drop.

Rafe sat slumped over his dresser, shirtless, his jeans undone and his hair disheveled. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels stood beside him, its sticky contents dripping down the side. He sniffed at the surface of the dresser, the residue of white powder glaring under the dim light.

“Rafe…” Sarah whispered, stepping in to lower the volume on the stereo. The silence that followed was heavy. “I thought you quit,” she said, her voice trembling as she fought back tears. Seeing him like this—broken, lost, a shadow of the brother she thought she’d gotten back—was almost unbearable.

Rafe didn’t look at her. Instead, he exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging. “Why’d you do it, Sarah?” he asked, his voice hoarse and low.

“D-Do what?” she stammered, blinking back tears.

He didn’t respond immediately, focusing instead on organizing another line of cocaine with unsteady hands.

“Dad’s worried,” she said, trying to keep her composure. “He told me to check on you. Rafe, what’s wrong? Why are you doing this? Y/N said you’d been acting weird, but I—”

“Y/N…” he interrupted bitterly, spitting out your name like it burned his tongue. “That’s the problem, Sarah.”

Sarah froze, her stomach tightening as Rafe finally turned to look at her. His bloodshot eyes were sunken, the pain etched deep into his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Why’d you hook Y/n up with JJ?” He asked, his voice breaking. “You knew—” He inhaled sharply, as if bracing himself. “You knew I fucking liked her, Sarah! You knew I…”

He trailed off, choking on his words.

Sarah’s lip quivered as she stared at him, tears spilling down her cheeks.

“You know I love her,” Rafe admitted, his voice barely audible as he crumbled to the floor. His back hit the edge of the bed, and he buried his face in his hands. The weight of those words hung heavy in the air. For so long, he’d buried the truth, but now it was out, raw and unfiltered.

Sarah knelt beside him, pulling him into her arms. “Rafe…” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. You never told me…”

Rafe shook his head, his body trembling as he sobbed. “It doesn’t matter. She’s with him now,” he said, his voice cracking. “I ruined everything. I treated her like shit, Sarah. She’s never going to forgive me. Never.”

Sarah held him tighter, her heart breaking for him. She didn’t know what to say, so she just let him cry. His sobs eventually softened, the exhaustion of the past few days finally catching up to him.

She helped him into bed, pulling the covers over him as he drifted into a deep, uneasy sleep. His breathing evened out, the rise and fall of his chest steadying. Sarah lingered for a moment, watching her brother in the dim light. He looked so fragile, so unlike the Rafe she grew up with.

Once she was certain he was asleep, she quietly left the room, leaving the door cracked open behind her. She pulled out her phone and dialed Ward, holding it to her ear as she began to clean up the kitchen.

“Yeah, he’s okay now,” she said, responding to Ward’s worried question. “I’m letting him sleep it off. I’ll get rid of the drugs and clean up the place, but… he’s not okay, Dad. He’s really not.” Her voice broke, but she steadied herself, wiping away a tear.

Ward’s response was short but decisive. “I’ll be on the next flight out.”

Hanging up, Sarah continued to clean, throwing away bottles and sweeping up the debris of her brother’s downward spiral. She was scrubbing the counter when her phone buzzed. The screen lit up with your photo, your name glowing brightly.

Sarah hesitated, her hand hovering over the phone. She sighed deeply before answering. “Hey…” she said softly, already knowing this wasn’t going to be an easy conversation.

You glanced at JJ, passed out on the couch across the room. His frustration earlier had been palpable—trying and failing to get you to sleep with him yet again. But how could you? Your mind was elsewhere, consumed with worry for Rafe. JJ had finally given up and flopped down, his snores starting almost instantly.

You scoffed, clutching your phone tighter in your hand. If JJ truly cared about you, he wouldn’t be pressuring you when you were clearly preoccupied. He wouldn’t be making this about himself. The analog clock on the wall read 2:13 a.m., and each unanswered ring on the phone made your anxiety climb higher.

Finally, Sarah’s soft voice came through. “Hey…”

“Sarah!” you exclaimed, standing up abruptly. “What’s going on? Is Rafe okay?”

There was a long pause, and her hesitation made your stomach drop. “Uhm…” Her voice cracked, and you knew.

“Sarah, what is it?” you asked, your voice trembling.

“Yes and no,” she finally said. “He… he relapsed.”

The weight of those words hit you like a freight train. You sank back down into the chair as tears blurred your vision. “Fuck…” you whispered, your voice breaking. You wiped at your face, but the tears kept coming. “I knew something was wrong. I tried, Sarah. I tried to get him to talk to me, but he just—”

“Y/N,” Sarah interrupted, her voice urgent but soft. “Can you just come over? I think he needs you right now.”

Her words stopped you in your tracks. “Me? Why would he need me?”

“Please,” she pleaded, ignoring your question.

You didn’t need to hear more. “I’m on my way,” you said, grabbing your keys and heading out the door.

When you arrived at Rafe’s house, the dim light spilling out from the kitchen was the only sign of life. You stumbled inside to find Sarah sweeping up broken glass, the remnants of Rafe’s spiral.

“Where is he?” you asked, your voice breathless.

“He’s sleeping,” Sarah replied, her tone weary. She leaned against the counter and set the broom aside. “My dad’s flying back in the morning.”

You hesitated, watching her carefully. “Do you know what happened? Why does he… why does he need me?”

Sarah sighed deeply, dropping onto one of the barstools at the island. “I think I might’ve messed up,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Your brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

She hesitated, her eyes darting to the floor. “Rafe… he…” She trailed off, struggling to find the words.

“He what, Sarah?” you snapped, your patience wearing thin. “Just say it!”

Sarah’s gaze shot up to meet yours, her voice breaking as she blurted out, “He loves you, okay?!”

Your heart stopped. The air left the room. “What?” you whispered, your voice shaky.

Sarah softened, guilt etched across her face. “He loves you, Y/N. And I didn’t know… I didn’t know how much. I thought it was just some crush. He never made a move, so I figured he didn’t care. I thought setting you up with JJ would be fun, but I-” She sighed, her words tumbling over each other.

“Sarah, stop,” you said, cutting her off. She was spiraling, and you could barely keep up with her frantic explanations. “It’s not your fault.”

The room fell silent, and her words hung heavy in the air. Rafe loved you. He always had. And you—stupid, oblivious you—had missed it.

Sarah studied you for a moment, her tear-filled eyes softening. “Do you love him?” she asked quietly.

You nodded, a tear slipping down your cheek.

Her lips curved into a brief, sad smile as she wiped at her own tears. “Go to him,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what’s going to happen when my dad gets back. He’ll probably send him off to rehab again, but… he needs you right now.”

You gave her a small, grateful smile, your heart hammering in your chest as you stood. Sarah returned to her cleaning, giving you the space you needed.

Rafe’s bedroom door creaked softly as you pushed it open, slipping inside. The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlights outside. Your gaze landed on him, sprawled across the bed. He looked so vulnerable, so unlike the confident and composed Rafe you’d always known. His chest rose and fell steadily, his lips slightly parted. Beads of sweat clung to his forehead, and his hair was a disheveled mess.

Your heart ached as you stepped closer. You could see the toll the past few days had taken on him—the flushed cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes, the faint tremor in his hand even as he slept.

Carefully, you slid into bed beside him, your weight barely shifting the mattress. You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. His grip tightened instinctively, and you smiled softly, a tear slipping down your cheek.

“I love you, Rafe,” you whispered, your voice trembling. You didn’t know if he could hear you, but it didn’t matter. For the first time, you let yourself say the words out loud.

And for the first time in days, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Your eyes fluttered open to the early morning sun peeking through the blinds. The air was heavy, a mix of stale whiskey and regret clinging to the room. You turned your head slightly, finding Rafe curled into you. For someone usually so imposing, he looked impossibly small, trembling as the aftershocks of withdrawal rippled through his body.

“Rafe?” you whispered, brushing the damp strands of hair from his forehead. His cheek was flushed under your palm, warm and slick with sweat.

“It’s freezing…” he mumbled, though his skin burned with fever.

You frowned, heart aching at the sight of him. “Come on, let’s get you in the shower,” you murmured gently.

Helping him out of bed proved to be a challenge. He groaned as you maneuvered him upright, his body heavy and uncoordinated, but you were determined. Once you were in the bathroom you carefully peeled his jeans off, leaving him in his boxers, before guiding him toward the shower.

The sound of the water rushing into the tub filled the space. You adjusted the temperature until it was lukewarm—cool enough to help his fever but not cold enough to make him shiver. As soon as Rafe stepped under the spray, he slumped to the floor of the tub with a heavy groan, his knees drawn up, arms resting limply on them.

You perched on the closed toilet lid, keeping an eye on him. He looked utterly spent, the water coursing over his fevered skin, plastering his messy hair to his forehead. You pulled out your phone to find a text from Sarah.

Dad’s flight is delayed. Won’t make it until tonight.

You exhaled in quiet relief. At least you had more time to be here with Rafe before Ward arrived and took over.

Can you bring me a liquid IV? I’ve got him in the shower, you texted back.

Minutes later, there was a soft knock on the bathroom door. You opened it just enough to see Sarah holding a glass. She handed it to you, her brows furrowed with worry. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s coming down,” you said, taking the glass from her. “He’s got a bit of a fever, but I think he’ll be okay.”

Sarah bit her lip but nodded. “Okay… I’ll make some breakfast,” she said quietly.

“Thanks, Sarah. We’ll be out soon,” you assured her, closing the door again.

You turned back to Rafe, who hadn’t moved from his spot on the shower floor. His shoulders were hunched, the water cascading down his back. Slowly, you crouched by the tub and opened the shower door.

“Rafey,” you coaxed gently, holding the glass out. “I need you to drink this. It’ll help, okay?”

He lifted his eyes to meet yours, glassy and tired, but he obediently took the glass with trembling hands. You guided it to his lips, helping him sip slowly. It took a few minutes, but he managed to finish it, and you set the empty glass aside with a soft smile.

“Good job,” you said softly, brushing your fingers against his damp hair.

Rafe’s voice broke through the quiet. “I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he rasped.

You shook your head, crouching closer. “You don’t need to be sorry.”

“I fucked up,” he sighed, his head dipping forward.

“No, Rafe, I did.” You bit your lip, your voice trembling as you confessed. “I should’ve told you a long time ago… that I love you.”

His head snapped up, his bloodshot blue eyes locking onto yours. “You what?” His voice cracked, almost disbelieving.

You nodded, tears threatening to spill. “I love you, Rafe. And I’m so sorry I didn’t realize sooner. I should’ve known something was wrong. I should’ve been there for you…”

Rafe stared at you, his body frozen as your words sank in. Every chaotic thought in his mind came to a halt, silenced by the sheer weight of your confession. Before either of you could second-guess the moment, he reached out, his strong hand pulling you into the shower with him.

“Rafe—!” you gasped as the water soaked through your clothes, but your protest died on your lips as his mouth found yours.

The kiss was soft yet desperate, his lips trembling against yours, the weight of unspoken years pouring into the moment. It took you a second to process what was happening, but then you melted into him, snaking an arm around his neck and tangling your fingers in his damp hair.

Every problem, every heartache, every unanswered question disappeared as his hands slid up your back, anchoring you to him. He kissed you like you were the air he needed to breathe, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself forget the world outside.

When the kiss finally broke, you were both breathless. His blue eyes bore into yours with an intensity that made your chest ache. Your mascara ran in streaks down your cheeks, and strands of wet hair clung to your face, but none of it mattered.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse but steady.

You smiled through your tears, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “I love you too, Rafe.”

In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not Ward, not Sarah, not the mistakes or the pain. Just you and Rafe, tangled together, the water washing away everything but the promise of a new beginning.

You and Sarah spent the day nursing Rafe back to health. Between making sure he ate and keeping him hydrated, most of your time was spent curled up with him on the couch. He gravitated toward your warmth, his head resting on your shoulder as Adventure Time played softly on the TV. His apologies spilled out at regular intervals, at least once every thirty minutes, as though they were on a timer.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured for what felt like the hundredth time, his voice barely above a whisper.

You ran your fingers gently through his hair, offering a soft smile. “Rafey, it’s okay. We’ve already forgiven you.”

Sarah chimed in from the kitchen, “She’s right. We just want you to focus on getting better.”

But no matter how much reassurance you both gave him, Rafe couldn’t seem to forgive himself. His relapse haunted him—forcing his dad to cut a business trip short, the anger he’d unleashed on you, the guilt over falling back into old habits. He swore up and down he’d never touch cocaine again, especially now that he had you, but addiction wasn’t that simple. You knew the moment Ward arrived, he would take charge of the situation.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the room as you snuggled deeper into Rafe’s arms. Between soft kisses and whispered promises of a future together, you tried to savor the quiet moments. In the kitchen, Sarah hummed softly as she worked on dinner, the smell of roasted potatoes and chicken wafting through the house.

Then, the front door slammed open. The calm shattered as Ward’s heavy footsteps echoed through the house.

“Where is he?” Ward’s voice boomed, sharp with frustration and worry.

Sarah stepped into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “On the couch with Y/N,” she said quietly, her eyes darting to you and Rafe.

Rafe tensed beside you. You placed a comforting hand on his chest, but he was already pushing the blanket off and rising to his feet.

“Hey, Dad,” he said softly, his voice thick with shame.

Ward’s expression was a mixture of relief and disappointment as his eyes scanned his son. Without a word, he crossed the room and pulled Rafe into a firm embrace. Rafe stiffened at first but then melted into it, his head dropping to Ward’s shoulder.

“Let’s go talk,” Ward said gruffly, his hand gripping Rafe’s shoulder as he guided him toward the master bedroom.

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving you and Sarah in heavy silence. You sat down at the kitchen island, pulling Rafe’s blanket around your shoulders, the lingering warmth proving to be a poor substitute for him.

“Ward’s going to send him away, isn’t he?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sarah sighed as she plated some food and slid it in front of you. “Probably,” she admitted, sitting across from you with her own plate. “I’m sorry about all of this.”

You frowned. “Why are you apologizing?” you asked, absentmindedly poking at a roasted potato.

Sarah hesitated before speaking. “I should’ve known you two were in love. How could I have been so blind? If I hadn’t pushed JJ on you, maybe none of this would’ve happened. This is all my fault.”

You shook your head and reached across the table to take her hands. “Sarah, this isn’t your fault. It’s not your job to play matchmaker. Maybe Rafe and I just ignored what was right in front of us for too long.”

She gave you a small, sheepish smile. “So… you don’t really like JJ?”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly. “JJ’s fine. Kind of a dick though. There’s no connection there. Not like what I feel for Rafe.”

Sarah grinned, her eyes brightening a little. “Maybe one day we’ll be sisters,” she teased.

You chuckled. “Let’s get through tonight first.”

The bedroom door creaked open, and both of you turned as Ward made his way into the kitchen. His expression was firm but calm. “I’m taking him to treatment first thing in the morning,” he announced.

Your heart clenched, but you nodded, understanding. This was what Rafe needed, even if it hurt to let him go.

Ward glanced between you and Sarah before his features softened slightly. “Sarah, why don’t you and I spend the night at Tanneyhill? Give Rafe and Y/N some time alone.”

Sarah smiled and hugged you tightly before gathering her things. “Thank you, Mr. C,” you said, your voice filled with gratitude.

He gave you a small nod. “Call if you need anything,” he said before ushering Sarah out the door.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what would likely be one of the hardest nights of your life. With the house quiet again, you made your way down the hall to Rafe’s bedroom.

You knocked softly before opening the door. Rafe was already in bed, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, but when he saw you, a small smile tugged at his lips. He patted the space beside him, inviting you to lay with him.

Climbing into bed, you turned to face him, resting your head on his chest. “How are you feeling?” you asked gently.

“Better. A lot better,” he said, wrapping an arm around you. His smile faltered, replaced by a frown. “But my dad’s not going to let me off easy.”

“It’s okay, Rafey,” you reassured him, lacing your fingers with his. “Take the time you need to get better. I’ll be here when you get back.”

He turned his head to look at you, his blue eyes searching yours for any trace of doubt. “You promise?”

You smiled softly and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “Cross my heart.”

A genuine smile broke across his face, something that was rare to find in Rafe Cameron. Holding him close, you let the rhythm of his breathing lull you into a sense of calm. Whatever came next, you’d face it together.

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novaursa · 3 days ago

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Legacy (dragonstone)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: The canon plot doesn't match the timeline of this story.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: contingency

- Next part: of bloodline

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal

The air on Dragonstone was thick with the salt of the Narrow Sea, carried by the ever-present winds that swept over the volcanic cliffs. The castle stood stoic against the horizon, its black stone spires jagged and ancient, looming as a reminder of a time when dragons ruled the skies and their riders held the world in awe.

In one of the smaller courtyards, where the breeze was calmer and the sun bathed the stone with a golden glow, you sat with Damon. The boy, now walking on his own, toddled across the soft grass with surprising determination. His tiny hands reached for the wooden dragon toy you had set before him, and he squealed with delight as he gripped it, waving it triumphantly.

A faint smile touched your lips as you watched him, your heart full at the sight of his uncontainable joy. “Careful, little one,” you murmured, rising slightly from your seat to steady him as he wobbled.

Behind you, Jaime Lannister leaned against the stone railing of the terrace overlooking the courtyard. His golden hand rested lightly against the edge, the faint wind tousling his hair as he watched Damon with a faint, unreadable expression.

“You’re good with him,” Jaime said after a moment, his voice breaking the peaceful silence.

You glanced over your shoulder at him, your lips curving faintly. “He makes it easy. He’s a bright, happy boy.”

Jaime nodded, his gaze lingering on Damon as the child turned to you with a wide, toothy grin. “He’s strong,” Jaime said softly. “Like his mother.”

“And his father,” you added with a wry smile.

Jaime huffed a quiet laugh. “Yes, well, the Lion of Casterly Rock would never admit to anything less.” He pushed off the railing and moved closer, standing beside you as he continued to watch Damon toddle across the grass.

For a moment, there was silence, save for Damon’s delighted giggles as he waved his toy dragon in the air. Then, Jaime spoke again, his tone softer, more contemplative. “Do you remember that festival?”

You frowned faintly, glancing up at him. “Which festival?”

“All those years ago,” Jaime said, his green eyes distant as though looking through the fog of memory. “When King Aerys—your father—still sat the throne. The festival in honor of his reign, in King’s Landing.”

Your brows furrowed as you thought back, the faint recollection stirring something in your chest. “I remember,” you said slowly. “It was a grand affair, full of spectacle and excess. My father loved such displays.”

Jaime nodded, his expression shadowed. “It was more than that. He… ranted. You must remember. He spoke of fire, of dragons returning to the world. He was restless, agitated, but then—he said something else.”

“What did he say?” you asked, your voice careful, your gaze fixed on Jaime.

Jaime’s jaw tightened slightly, his golden hand flexing at his side. “He said, ‘The fire will come again, and with it, the one who will command it.’ At the time, we all thought it was just more of his madness. Another delusion.”

Your heart clenched faintly, unease settling in your chest. “And now?”

Jaime turned to look at you fully, his eyes focused. “Now I wonder if he saw something more than madness. Something connected to you… and Viserion.”

The name of the she-dragon hung heavy in the air, her presence felt even when she was not near. Damon let out a happy squeal as he tumbled into the grass, his tiny fists clutching the wooden dragon, oblivious to the weight of the conversation around him.

“You think my father saw this?” you asked softly, your voice laced with disbelief. “Viserion, Damon, me—do you believe he foresaw it?”

Jaime shrugged, though there was a stiffness in his posture that belied his nonchalance. “I don’t know what to believe. But the way he spoke that day, it wasn’t like the other times. There was something… different. Something almost lucid, as though he were speaking a truth he couldn’t fully understand.”

You exhaled slowly, your gaze dropping to Damon as he sat in the grass, happily babbling to himself. “He was a man consumed by fire and shadows,” you said quietly. “His mind was broken long before that festival. Perhaps he glimpsed something, or perhaps he was just lost in his own madness.”

Jaime studied you for a moment, his tone softening. “And yet, here we are. A dragon at your command, a son who carries both fire and a lion’s strength, and a husband who rules with an iron will. Tell me, Y/N, does it feel like coincidence?”

You hesitated, the question hanging heavy between you. Your thoughts drifted to your father’s descent, to the visions you had seen at the High Heart, to Viserion’s unexplainable bond with you.

“No,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “It doesn’t.”

Jaime nodded slowly, his gaze returning to Damon. “Then perhaps the Mad King wasn’t entirely mad. Perhaps he saw the fire in you, even then.”

You didn’t respond immediately, your thoughts too tangled to form words. Damon let out another delighted laugh, pulling your attention back to him. You knelt to scoop him up, holding him close as his tiny hands grasped at your hair, his innocent joy a balm against the heaviness in your chest.

“Whatever my father saw,” you said finally, your voice steady, “it doesn’t matter now. What matters is the future we shape for him”—you glanced at Damon—“and for the realm.”

Jaime watched you, his expression unreadable, though there was a faint trace of something like respect in his gaze. “Then let’s hope the fire that burns doesn’t consume us first.”

You nodded faintly, holding Damon close as you turned back toward the keep, the weight of Jaime’s words lingering in the air like the distant roar of a dragon.

The air inside the Dragonmont was oppressive, thick with heat and the faint metallic tang of sulfur. The torches along the stone walls flickered weakly, their light consumed by the vast shadow of Viserion, who lay coiled near the center of the chamber. Her cream-and-gold scales shone faintly in the low light, and her golden eyes followed every movement of the men below her with unnerving intensity.

The Lannister soldiers moved cautiously, hauling a fresh kill—an ox, its hide still streaked with blood—toward the she-dragon. The beast let out a low, rumbling growl, a sound that vibrated through the stone and sent shivers down the men’s spines. Her wings twitched slightly, a subtle reminder of her power, and her sharp claws scraped against the floor as she shifted her massive frame.

Tywin Lannister stood at a distance, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched the scene unfold. His expression was unreadable, though his posture betrayed his ever-present command. The men were careful, their movements precise, but Tywin’s presence alone was enough to ensure their discipline.

You entered the cavern quietly, your steps light on the stone floor. The heat wrapped around you like a heavy cloak, but your gaze was drawn immediately to Viserion. The she-dragon had grown since the last time you’d seen her fed—her body larger, her movements more deliberate, more dangerous.

“She’s grown,” you murmured as you approached Tywin’s side, your voice soft but steady.

Tywin glanced at you briefly before returning his gaze to the dragon. “As she should,” he replied. “A dragon that does not grow strong is a dragon that dies. She must be at her full strength if she is to deter our enemies.”

You studied Viserion, the flicker of fire deep within her throat visible as she sniffed the air, her growl growing louder. “Enemies… and other things,” you said quietly, your words laced with a deeper meaning.

Tywin’s sharp gaze flicked to you, his eyes narrowing slightly, though he said nothing. His silence, as always, carried weight.

Viserion let out a powerful roar, her wings unfurling slightly as the ox was finally dragged closer. The sound echoed through the cavern, sending the soldiers scrambling back, their faces pale as they retreated to a safer distance. The dragon lunged forward, her jaws snapping shut around the carcass with a sickening crunch.

Tywin turned from the scene, his expression composed as always, though there was a flicker of something colder in his eyes. “Come,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “This place is no setting for conversation.”

You followed him out of the Dragonmont, the cool night air beyond the entrance a welcome relief after the suffocating heat of the cavern. The stars above were scattered like shards of glass, and the faint crash of waves against the cliffs below filled the silence as Tywin led you back toward the castle.

When you reached the privacy of your chambers, Tywin’s demeanor shifted slightly. The sharp edges of his command softened as he turned to you, his gaze lingering as though weighing his words. “You’ve spent too much time with your visions,” he said at last, his tone low but steady. “Do not let them consume you.”

You met his gaze, your expression calm but firm. “And if they’re more than visions? If they’re warnings?”

Tywin studied you for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then, with deliberate precision, he reached out, his hands resting on your arms as he drew you closer. “Then we will face them, as we have faced everything else,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a rare note of reassurance.

The tension in your shoulders eased slightly as you leaned into him, your head resting against his chest. His arms wrapped around you with a firmness that was both protective and grounding, his strength a quiet anchor against the storm of uncertainty within you.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you filled only by the faint crackle of the hearth and the distant roar of the sea. Tywin’s hand brushed gently along your back, a rare gesture of affection that spoke volumes in its quiet simplicity.

“You are stronger than you realize,” he said softly, his lips brushing against your hair. “Do not let shadows take that from you.”

You looked up at him, your gaze steady as you reached up to touch his face, your fingers brushing lightly against the hard lines of his jaw. “And you are far more than the lion the world sees,” you murmured.

His expression softened, just barely, as he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. The weight of his presence, the solidity of his resolve, was a comfort unlike any other.

“Rest,” he said finally, his voice low but firm. “The world will demand enough of us come morning.”

And with that, he guided you toward the bed, his touch lingering as though he were reluctant to let you go, his rare moments of affection a reminder of the bond you had forged in fire and strength. Together, you faced the unknown, the weight of the realm and its secrets ever pressing—but for now, the shadows remained at bay.

The warmth of the hearth added to the quiet hum of the room, where the faint clinking of silverware and soft rustling of servants filled the silence. The table was modestly set compared to the grandeur of feasts, with fresh bread, fruit, and steaming plates of roasted fish caught from the Narrow Sea.

Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the table, his posture as rigid and commanding as ever, even during the quiet of breakfast. A goblet of wine rested beside his plate, untouched as he meticulously cut into his food. His pale green eyes were focused, though his expression was calm.

You sat beside him, Damon in a high-backed chair beside you, babbling happily as he clumsily grasped at bits of soft bread and fruit laid out for him. His wide eyes sparkled with curiosity as he looked at you, giggling when you handed him a small piece of pear.

“You’re enjoying yourself this morning,” you said softly to Damon, your tone warm.

The boy responded with a delighted squeal, dropping the pear piece and reaching for it again with chubby fingers. Tywin glanced at the display briefly, his expression unreadable as always, though his gaze lingered on his son for a moment longer than necessary.

“He’s restless,” Tywin observed, his voice calm but deliberate. “Perhaps too much excitement yesterday.”

You smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from Damon’s face. “He’s a boy, Tywin. It’s his nature to be curious.”

Tywin inclined his head slightly, though his sharp gaze shifted back to you. “And what mischief are you planning to indulge him with today?”

The hint of humor in his tone wasn’t lost on you, and you arched a brow, setting down your goblet of water. “Not mischief,” you replied smoothly. “I’ve been thinking about taking him flying with me.”

Tywin’s knife paused mid-motion over his plate, his gaze snapping to yours with a sudden intensity. “Flying,” he repeated, his tone even but edged with a hint of skepticism. “With Viserion.”

“Yes,” you said, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “She is my dragon. She would never harm him. I’ve been considering it for some time now.”

Tywin set his utensils down carefully, folding his hands on the table as he regarded you. “Do you think it wise to place our son on the back of a dragon at his age? He is barely walking, let alone capable of understanding the dangers involved.”

You leaned forward slightly, your voice calm but firm. “It isn’t about understanding the dangers, Tywin. It’s about bonding with her. He carries the blood of the dragon, as I do. He should know her, and she should know him.”

Tywin’s brows furrowed faintly, his sharp gaze assessing you. “He is a child, not a rider. This is not a matter of blood; it is a matter of safety.”

“I know you think of everything in terms of risk and gain,” you countered softly, your tone measured, “but this is different. Viserion already watches him as if she understands. She’s part of his legacy, Tywin. Part of ours. If not now, then when?”

Tywin was silent for a long moment, his eyes unyielding as they searched yours. Damon, oblivious to the conversation between his parents, clapped his hands happily, the piece of pear forgotten as he babbled incoherently.

Finally, Tywin exhaled through his nose, his voice calm but laced with authority. “You are determined.”

“I am,” you replied firmly.

He glanced at Damon, who was now gnawing on a piece of bread, his tiny fingers sticky with fruit juice. Tywin’s expression softened ever so slightly, though his tone remained resolute. “If you insist on this, then you will take every precaution. The saddle must be secure, and the flight must remain low and brief. I will not risk his safety for sentiment.”

You inclined your head, a faint smile curving your lips. “I wouldn’t dream of being careless. Thank you, Tywin.”

Tywin picked up his goblet of wine, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer. “You would have done it regardless of my opinion.”

“Perhaps,” you said lightly, brushing Damon’s hair with your fingers. “But it’s easier when you agree.”

Tywin huffed faintly, though it wasn’t quite a laugh. He turned his attention back to his plate, though his gaze flicked occasionally to Damon, who continued to babble happily between bites.

As the morning light continued to fill the room, you felt a sense of anticipation building within you. Soon, Damon would take his first flight—not as a rider, not yet, but as part of something far greater.

And though Tywin’s stern presence remained a constant, you couldn’t ignore the faint glimmer of pride in his eyes as he watched his son, a lion born under the shadow of a dragon.

The warmth of the morning sun had given way to the cool shadows of the strategy chamber, where Tywin Lannister stood at a large table strewn with maps, missives, and sealed letters. A small brazier crackled in the corner, filling the room with the faint scent of smoke and iron. Varys, ever the picture of composed deference, stood a respectful distance away, his hands folded neatly in his flowing robes.

You lingered near the door, Damon balanced on your hip. His tiny hands were clutching the edge of your gown, his head resting against your shoulder as he dozed lightly after his morning meal. The room was quieter than usual, save for the occasional flick of paper or the soft scrape of Tywin’s quill against parchment.

Varys’s voice broke the silence, smooth and measured. “The Greyjoys have been notably restless in the past moons, my lord. Euron Greyjoy, in particular, has made waves. Rumors of his ventures to the east—exotic ships, dangerous alliances. I would advise keeping an eye on them.”

Tywin, who had been scanning a missive, did not look up. “The Greyjoys are a rabble, more pirate than ruler. They’ll amount to little unless someone more competent than Balon leads them.”

“Indeed,” Varys replied, his tone calm but pointed. “And yet, a rabble left unchecked can turn into a storm. Euron is ambitious, and ambition, as you know, can be as dangerous as fire.”

Tywin set the missive down and glanced at Varys. “I will not waste resources chasing rumors across the sea. If they dare bring trouble to Westeros, they will be dealt with.”

“As you say, my lord,” Varys said with a faint smile, inclining his head. “But it is often the smallest ripples that precede the greatest waves.”

Tywin’s expression remained impassive as he returned his attention to the documents before him. “Is that all?”

“For now,” Varys said, his pale eyes flickering briefly toward you and Damon. “Though I must commend Lady Y/N’s skill in diplomacy. The whispers from King’s Landing suggest her presence has quelled some of the more… vocal concerns.”

Your lips curved faintly, though you remained quiet, gently rocking Damon as he stirred against your shoulder. Tywin offered no response to Varys’s observation, his focus firmly on the papers before him.

With a final bow, Varys excused himself, gliding out of the room like a shadow.

The silence that followed was broken only by the faint crackle of the brazier and Damon’s soft breathing. You moved to a nearby chair, settling Damon down gently on your lap as he continued to doze. His tiny hand curled against your sleeve, and you smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face.

Tywin’s voice, calm but unexpectedly casual, cut through the quiet. “Do you want another child?”

You blinked, startled by the abruptness of the question. “What?”

Tywin didn’t look up, his eyes scanning a document in his hand. “Another child,” he repeated, his tone as matter-of-fact as if he were discussing troop movements. “Do you want one?”

You tilted your head, studying him carefully. “That’s a sudden question.”

Tywin finally set the document down, turning his gaze to you. His expression remained calm, though there was a flicker of something thoughtful in his eyes. “It’s a practical consideration. Damon is strong, but the realm’s future depends on legacy. Strength comes from numbers, especially in uncertain times.”

You glanced down at Damon, your fingers brushing over his tiny hand. “He is still so young, Tywin. I’m not sure I’m ready to think about another child so soon.”

Tywin’s gaze softened slightly, though his tone remained firm. “The decision is yours, but you should consider it. Our enemies grow bolder with each passing moon. A strong line ensures stability.”

You met his gaze, your voice calm but steady. “And what of love, Tywin? Do you want another child, or do you only want to strengthen the family name?”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, though there was a pause before he spoke. “I want what is best for the realm. And for you.”

You tilted your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Sometimes, I wonder if you truly believe those two things can coexist.”

“They can,” he replied without hesitation. “When guided correctly.”

You sighed softly, turning your attention back to Damon, who stirred slightly in your lap. “I will think about it.”

Tywin inclined his head, as if satisfied with your answer, before returning his attention to the documents before him. But as he worked, his gaze flickered toward you and Damon more than once, the faintest trace of something unspoken lingering in his expression.

For now, the conversation was left hanging in the air, but the weight of it remained—a reminder of the delicate balance you both walked between duty and desire, between family and legacy.

The sky over Dragonstone was a perfect shade of blue, unmarred by clouds, with the salty wind sweeping in from the Narrow Sea. The sun hung high, casting light across the black stone of the ancient Targaryen keep. In the sprawling courtyard near the cliffs, a gathering of lords and ladies, along with Tywin Lannister and his retainers, stood in anticipation.

Viserion, the great she-dragon, loomed nearby. She stretched her wings wide, the movement sending a rush of air through the gathered crowd. The beast stood at the edge of the cliff, her massive frame poised as though she were preparing to leap into the sky. Her eyes followed every movement, every sound, her watchful gaze sharp as a blade.

You stood beside her, dressed in a riding gown reinforced with leather, your hair flowing freely in the breeze. At nearly two years old, Damon stood beside you, his chubby hands clutching at the edge of your cloak. His bright eyes were wide with curiosity, darting between you and Viserion as though he already understood the gravity of what was about to happen.

“Are you ready, my love?” you murmured to him, brushing a strand of his hair back. Damon responded with an excited squeal, his tiny hands reaching toward Viserion as though he could already claim the skies.

From a distance, Tywin watched, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes followed every movement with an intensity that left no room for doubt—he was scrutinizing everything, from your placement on the saddle to the way Viserion shifted her weight in response to your touch.

“Is it wise, my lord?” one of the visiting lords asked, his tone carrying a note of skepticism. “The boy is so young…”

Tywin’s gaze did not waver from you and Damon as he replied, his voice cold and resolute. “My son is a Targaryen as much as a Lannister. It is his birthright to know dragons.” He paused, his tone sharpening. “And his mother would not risk him lightly.”

The lord hesitated, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to press further under Tywin’s glare.

Nearby, Jaime Lannister leaned casually against a stone railing, watching the scene with mild curiosity. “You almost sound proud, Father,” he said, his voice low enough to be for Tywin alone. “A lion embracing the fire of Valyria.”

Tywin shot Jaime a stern look but said nothing, his focus returning to you as you adjusted the straps of the saddle on Viserion’s back.

You turned, carefully lifting Damon into the special riding harness you had commissioned for him. It secured him snugly against your chest, leaving your arms free to guide Viserion’s reins. The little boy laughed, wriggling with excitement as you climbed into the saddle, your movements practiced and sure.

“Easy now,” you murmured to Viserion, patting her side. The she-dragon rumbled in response, her body shifting slightly as she adjusted to your weight. Her massive head turned, one golden eye watching you as though awaiting your command.

From the cliff’s edge, Tywin’s voice carried over the wind. “Keep her low,” he called, his tone sharp. “No unnecessary risks.”

You glanced back at him, offering a faint smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Viserion let out a low growl, her wings extending fully as she began to crouch. Damon giggled again, his tiny hands reaching out as though he could grasp the sky itself. The crowd murmured nervously, several of the ladies clutching their cloaks as the dragon’s powerful muscles coiled in preparation.

With a single, mighty leap, Viserion launched herself into the air.

The force of her takeoff sent a rush of wind through the courtyard, scattering dust and causing the gathered lords and ladies to shield their faces. Tywin remained unmoving, his gaze following the dragon as she ascended into the sky.

Viserion’s wings beat powerfully, the sound like distant thunder as she soared upward. You guided her carefully, keeping the flight low and steady, circling the cliffs of Dragonstone. Damon’s laughter rang out like music, his joy uncontainable as he looked out over the vast expanse of sea and sky.

“Do you see, Damon?” you said softly, your voice carrying over the rush of wind. “This is what it means to be part of something greater. To touch the skies, to feel the fire in your blood.”

Viserion rumbled beneath you, her body moving with an ease that spoke of the bond you shared. The dragon’s eyes flicked back toward Damon, her gaze almost protective as she continued her steady flight.

From the courtyard, Tywin watched with a sharp eye, his expression unreadable. One of the retainers ventured to speak. “It’s… remarkable, my lord. To see them like this. The boy will grow into a legend.”

“He’ll grow into a man first,” Tywin replied coldly, though there was a faint flicker of pride in his tone. “Legends are only worth what they can achieve.”

Jaime smirked faintly. “And what about her?” he asked, nodding toward you and Viserion. “Your wife is already a legend.”

Tywin didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the dragon as she glided effortlessly through the sky. Finally, he said, “She’s my wife. That’s all that matters.”

As Viserion began her descent, the crowd murmured with awe, the unease in the air palpable as the dragon circled once more before landing gracefully on the cliff’s edge. The force of her wings stirred the air, sending cloaks billowing as you dismounted with practiced ease.

Damon was still laughing as you lifted him from the harness, his tiny hands reaching for Viserion as though he couldn’t bear to leave her side. You kissed his head, your heart full as you turned to face Tywin.

He stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over you both with quiet intensity. “You’ve made your point,” he said, his tone clipped but not unkind. “He will know his legacy.”

“And he will be stronger for it,” you replied softly, meeting his gaze.

Tywin nodded once, his expression softening for the briefest of moments before he turned back to the waiting lords and ladies. Behind him, Viserion let out a low rumble, her eyes watching over you and Damon with a presence that felt almost… maternal.

The crowd began to disperse, the awe of the moment lingering in their whispers, but you stayed rooted where you were, your son cradled in your arms and the dragon at your back.

The cold wind whistled through the Wall, carrying with it the icy bite of the north. Castle Black stood as resolute as ever, its black stone walls a stark contrast against the endless white expanse beyond. The fires in the courtyard burned low, sending thin streams of smoke into the sky, their warmth doing little to stave off the relentless chill.

Jon Snow, now the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, stood in the common hall with Samwell Tarly, a mug of warmed ale clasped in his gloved hands. The room was sparse, lit by a few flickering torches, their flames casting long shadows over the rough-hewn wooden tables.

Sam sat across from him, bundled in layers to ward off the cold, his face pink from the wind. He was speaking animatedly, as he often did when his curiosity got the better of him, though Jon’s expression remained as stoic as ever.

“You must’ve heard by now,” Sam said, his tone hushed but excited, as though speaking of something forbidden. “About her. About… the dragon.”

Jon raised a brow, sipping his ale. “All of Westeros has heard, Sam.”

Sam leaned forward, his eyes wide with wonder. “Your mum. She has a dragon. Can you imagine? I mean, she raised you, taught you the ways of Winterfell, and now she rides a dragon. It’s… incredible.”

Jon’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. “She’s not my mother, not by blood.”

“Not by blood, no,” Sam agreed, waving his hand dismissively. “But in every other way that matters, she is. She raised you, didn’t she? Taught you to be honorable, like your father—like Ned Stark.”

Jon nodded, his expression softening. “She did. She was always there, even when I wasn’t easy to deal with. She never made me feel like a burden.”

Sam tilted his head, a curious smile playing on his lips. “And now she rides a dragon. A dragon, Jon. Can you imagine? What’s it like, knowing your mum commands something so… so legendary?”

Jon’s gaze drifted to the mug in his hands, his voice quiet but steady. “I don’t know. It’s strange. I remember her teaching me to care for the direwolves when we first found them. She told me to respect their wildness, their strength. Maybe it’s not so different with dragons.”

Sam let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Not so different, he says. A wolf’s one thing, but a dragon? Jon, that’s a creature of fire and fury. It could burn armies to ash.”

“She wouldn’t let it,” Jon said firmly, meeting Sam’s gaze. “She’s not like that. She’s… measured. Careful.”

Sam nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Still, it must be something. To know she’s out there, riding a dragon like the Targaryens of old. Like… like she’s from a story.”

Jon let out a faint huff of laughter, though there was no humor in it. “She always said dragons were more than fire. That they were a symbol of strength, of something ancient.” His voice softened, and he added, “I never thought I’d see the day she’d have one of her own.”

Sam’s brow furrowed as he studied Jon. “Do you think she’s happy? I mean, with all of it—being tied to a dragon, to… to the Lannisters.”

Jon hesitated, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know. She’s always done what she thought was best—for her, for her family. If she made that choice, it’s because she believed it was the right one.”

Sam nodded, though his expression remained contemplative. “And you? How does it feel, knowing she’s out there, riding a dragon, shaping the world in ways we can’t even imagine?”

Jon leaned back slightly, his gaze distant as though looking beyond the walls of Castle Black. “It feels… strange. Like the world’s moving faster than I can keep up with. But if anyone can tame a dragon and still hold onto who they are, it’s her.”

The two men sat in silence for a moment, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the room. Finally, Sam spoke, his tone quieter now. “She’d be proud of you, you know. Of what you’ve done here.”

Jon glanced at him, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Maybe. But I think she’d still tell me to stay out of trouble.”

Sam chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “That sounds like her.”

Jon’s smile faded as his thoughts drifted again, his mind filled with images of dragons, fire, and the woman who had been a mother to him in all the ways that mattered. Somewhere out there, beyond the Wall and the reach of the Night’s Watch, she was riding a beast of legend, carrying the weight of her choices and her legacy.

Sam leaned forward, his elbows resting on the worn wooden table, his curiosity etched into his round face. “Jon,” he began hesitantly, his voice softer now, “didn’t you say… when you were beyond the Wall, nearly a year ago—you thought you saw her?”

Jon stiffened slightly, his gaze dropping to the mug of ale in his hands. The memory stirred something uneasy within him, something he hadn’t fully allowed himself to confront. “I thought I did,” he said finally, his voice low, distant. “But it wasn’t… clear.”

Sam’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean? What did you see?”

Jon exhaled slowly, setting the mug down on the table as his hands rested flat against the wood. His eyes were shadowed, the weight of his recollection pressing heavily on his shoulders. “It was like a specter,” he said, his voice steady but laced with uncertainty. “Like she was there—but then she wasn’t. Like something from a dream.”

Sam straightened slightly, his curiosity piqued. “But it was her? You’re certain?”

Jon hesitated, his jaw tightening as he thought back to that moment. The icy winds of the far north, the endless expanse of white, the shadows that moved at the edges of his vision. And then… her. Or what he thought was her.

“She was hurt,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “There was blood. And her face… it looked like her, but different. As if the cold had reached inside her and—” He stopped, shaking his head. “It didn’t feel real. It felt like… like she was a memory trying to take shape.”

Sam leaned back, his expression contemplative. “A specter,” he repeated, his voice thoughtful. “The north is full of strange things, Jon. Ghosts, shadows, things that shouldn’t be. But if it was her—if even a part of her was there—maybe there’s something more to it.”

Jon glanced at Sam, his dark brows drawing together. “What are you saying, Sam?”

Sam shrugged slightly, though his tone remained serious. “Maybe there’s a reason you saw her. A connection. You said she raised you, taught you everything you know. Maybe that bond runs deeper than we understand.”

Jon frowned, his gaze drifting to the fire as he considered Sam’s words. “I don’t know, Sam. It felt… wrong. Like she wasn’t supposed to be there.”

“But what if she was?” Sam pressed gently. “What if she was trying to protect you? To warn you?”

Jon’s jaw tightened, his thoughts turning over the possibilities. The memory of her face, pale and distant, haunted him still. He had dismissed it at the time, chalking it up to exhaustion, to the tricks the north could play on a man’s mind. But now, with Sam’s words stirring doubts, he wasn’t so sure.

“If it was her,” Jon said slowly, his voice heavy, “then she was in pain. She didn’t speak. She just… looked at me. Like she was trying to tell me something, but she couldn’t.”

Sam’s expression softened, his gaze steady on Jon. “Do you regret not going after her?”

Jon shook his head, his voice firm. “There was nothing to go after. She was there, and then she wasn’t. Like a shadow disappearing in the light.”

The room fell into silence, the weight of the conversation settling between them. Sam fidgeted with the edge of his cloak, his thoughts clearly racing, while Jon stared into the fire, his expression unreadable.

Finally, Sam broke the quiet. “If it was her, Jon… maybe it’s not too late to find out why. Maybe she’s still connected to you, somehow.”

Jon didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the flames. The thought of her—of the woman who had been his mother in every way but blood—lingering out there, tied to him in ways he couldn’t comprehend, sent a shiver down his spine.

“I don’t know what it means, Sam,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “But if she’s out there, I hope she’s safe. That’s all I can hope for.”

Sam nodded, his expression thoughtful but filled with quiet determination. “Then maybe the north isn’t done with her yet. Or with you.”

Jon didn’t answer, the firelight flickering in his eyes as his mind drifted back to that frozen moment beyond the Wall, to the specter of the woman who had given him strength when he had none. And though he didn’t say it aloud, a part of him wondered if he would ever see her again—not as a shadow, but as the woman she truly was.

#game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #got #got/asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #house of the dragon #hotd #fire and blood #house targaryen #house lannister #legacy #got tywin #tywin x reader #tywin lannister #tywin x you #tywin x y/n

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redvexillum · 14 hours ago

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A/N: Hoe, Hoe, Hoe! Happy Holidays, folks! Can you believe it? We've made it to Day 25, and there's just one more story left before Smutmas officially comes to a close! This story is particularly special to me because it's a direct sequel to one of my very first ventures outside my comfort zone—Off Script—where I took on the challenge of writing Alastor as a sub. I really hope you all enjoy it! I did my best to keep him in character, so fingers crossed it hits the mark. And finally—Kit, let’s both finish Smutmas tomorrow with a… bang!

SUMMARY: Alastor thought he was being clever when he snuck extra spices into your gingerbread mix, but his bratty antics had consequences he clearly wasn’t prepared for. As sweet as you usually are, you’re also a master of dominance, and tonight, Alastor learns exactly what that means.

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, pleasure dom! reader, bratty sub! alastor, alastor has a tail, oral sex, overstimulation, pegging, anal plug, aftercare, p in v, fluffy-wuffy, no ANGST (because people be thinking I'm writing angstmas??? >:U)

The first time you broached the topic of introducing your particular interests in the bedroom to Alastor, it did not go as planned. In fact, it spiralled into an entirely unforeseen direction. He veered off script, revealing an unexpected side of himself. It didn’t take long for you to realize something that honestly shouldn’t have been too surprising: Alastor was, perhaps, the most delightfully bratty submissive you had ever encountered.

At first, you had been hesitant, cautious even, testing the waters with a delicate touch. You started slow, pinning his wrists above his head while straddling him, your slick folds gliding teasingly along the hard length of his cock. His body was tense beneath you, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts as he fought to remain still. And yet, you could see it—the flicker of amusement, the glint of curiosity, and the unspoken challenge in his ruby eyes.

“Darling,” he rasped, his voice a mix of feigned irritation and genuine arousal, “you do realize I am the one in control here.”

You leaned closer, your lips brushing his ear. “Oh, of course, love. It’s all for you,” you whispered, your voice dripping with honeyed submission, knowing full well how the words would stoke his ego.

That balance—teasing the line between control and surrender—was crucial with Alastor. He was willing to explore these new dynamics with you as long as he felt the game was his to win. Over time, these intimate games deepened your connection, building trust in a way neither of you had anticipated.

It was in these moments of play that you discovered just how much he enjoyed being edged. He saw it as a competition, a challenge, and every false word of bravado he muttered only made you more determined.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he taunted one evening, his hands tied above his head as you licked a slow stripe along the underside of his cock. His body betrayed him, trembling with the effort of restraint even as he smirked.

“Oh, you’ll see what I’ve got,” you replied sweetly, revelling in the sharp gasp that escaped him as you abruptly stopped, leaving him throbbing and desperate.

In time, Alastor even began to participate in choosing the tools for your escapades. When you brought out a selection of dildos, he would inspect them with a meticulousness that was almost comical, tilting his head and tapping his chin as though he were selecting fine wine.

“That one,” he’d say with a grin, pointing to the one you knew he loved. And when you took your time with him, thrusting the toy deep into his ass while your lips wrapped around his cock, he would surrender so completely it left you breathless. His body would go slack, his head tilting back as he moaned your name, every line of tension melting away. In those moments, he was utterly yours, and the vulnerability he showed was nothing short of beautiful.

But, as you learned, this came with its own set of challenges.

Take the time you had decided to edge him for hours as “punishment” for one of his pranks—spiking your tea with a hellpeppers just to see your reaction. He had whimpered, begged, and finally come undone in a way that left him breathless. But instead of deterring him, it only seemed to spur him on. From that day forward, his pranks became more frequent, each one more mischievous than the last, as though he were daring you to make good on your “punishments.”

Like today.

You had been looking forward to baking gingerbread cookies, humming softly to yourself as you worked. But when you took a bite of the first batch, you nearly gagged. The sweetness was overwhelmed by a fiery burn that made your eyes water. Whirling around, you saw him standing there, hands clasped behind his back, his signature grin stretching impossibly wide.

“Alastor!” you snapped, pointing accusingly at the tray of ruined cookies. “Did you do this?”

His laugh was a low, melodic hum, a sound that made your skin tingle. “Why, my dear, I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” he replied, though his twitching nose and barely contained snicker betrayed him.

You narrowed your eyes, stalking toward him as he took a step back, his grin faltering just slightly. “Oh, you know exactly what I mean,” you said, your voice syrupy sweet and laced with intent.

The sharp click of your teeth echoed in the quiet kitchen as you fought to rein in the rising tide of frustration. Your eye twitched, your hands curling into fists at your sides as you surveyed the latest in a string of sabotages. The day had started with a simple enough task: helping Charlie decorate the hotel with festive holiday cheer. It should have been done in two hours. Two. Instead, six gruelling hours later, you were still at it, thanks to Alastor’s relentless interference.

Like a mischievous shadow, he’d been everywhere, undoing your progress with a gleeful flourish, all while flashing that infuriating grin.

Now, staring at the ruined cookie dough—a batch you’d painstakingly mixed, rolled, and shaped—your patience finally hit its breaking point. The thought of starting over from scratch, gathering ingredients, kneading dough, and baking again made your stomach churn.

But just as you were about to storm off searching for a quiet space to collect yourself, something stopped you.

The faintest movement caught your eye—the way the back of Alastor’s coat fluttered as he turned, the eager, almost expectant glint in his eyes as he glanced your way.

And then it hit you.

The realization came as a sharp pang of guilt. Between the influx of new sinners at the hotel, Charlie’s relentless schedule of events, and your constant involvement in helping out, you’d been neglecting Alastor. It hadn’t been intentional, but you couldn’t deny it either. Months had passed where you’d barely seen him outside of fleeting interactions, let alone shared any meaningful moments together. Even the intimacy of the bedroom had been replaced by nights spent alone in your own room.

You sighed softly, the frustration in your chest shifting into something else—understanding, perhaps even regret. Of course, Alastor, with his peculiar ways, wouldn’t simply say he missed you. That wasn’t his style. No, this was his way of communicating, as exasperating as it was endearing.

Walking toward him, your demeanour softened. Your fingers grazed lightly down the front of his chest, the movement enough to draw his attention. His grin faltered for just a moment as you spoke, your voice low and soft.

“I’m going to my room,” you murmured, offering no further explanation as you turned and walked away. You didn’t need to look back to know he would follow.

By the time you stepped into your room, the shadows shifted, and Alastor materialized before you with his usual dramatic flair.

“Already, darling?” he chimed, his tone as jovial as ever. “Oh, I pity poor Charlie for hiring someone who can’t manage such a simple task,” he teased, his grin widening as he prodded at your lingering frustration.

But this time, instead of rising to his bait, you smirked. Slowly, deliberately, you closed the distance between you, your eyes never leaving his. His playful expression faltered, just slightly, as you leaned in, resting your head against his chest.

“I’m so disappointed, Alastor,” you whispered, your voice carrying a softness that belied the weight of your words. His body stiffened beneath your touch, and a shiver ran through him as your fingers deftly began to unbutton his shirt.

“You’ve been so bad these last few weeks,” you continued, each syllable dripping with quiet reprimand.

Alastor’s breath hitched as the fabric slipped from his shoulders, exposing his skin to the dim light of your room. “Oh, that’s what I do best,” he quipped, though his voice trembled slightly, betraying the bravado in his words.

With a gentle push, he stumbled back onto the bed, his legs spreading instinctively as he leaned back on his arms. His cock twitched, already hardening, as he watched you climb onto him with methodical slowness.

“And what will you do about it, darling?” he goaded, his tone laced with challenge.

“Well,” you mused, straddling him without letting a single inch of your body touch his, “I suppose it’s only fair that I receive my recompense.”

Your fingers traced the sharp lines of his face, moving with tenderness that made him shudder beneath you. His grin faltered, his composure slipping as you let your touch wander downward. Your nails ghosted over his chest, tracing patterns against his skin, stopping just shy of his now achingly hard cock.

“Darling,” he rasped, his voice thick with need, his body trembling with the effort of restraint.

“Patience,” you whispered, a smirk playing at your lips as you leaned in closer. “After all, you’ve been so bad—surely you understand the importance of a little... delay.”

Alastor’s eyes burned with equal parts anticipation and defiance, but he made no move to stop you. For once, he was entirely at your mercy, and you intended to savour every moment.

“Since you love to play around so much,” you murmured, your gaze locking onto his piercing crimson eyes, “let’s playtogether, Al.”

Your words were honeyed, teasing, as your fingers finally wrapped firmly around the thick shaft of his cock. His breath hitched audibly, and for a fleeting moment, his ever-present grin wavered. That alone was victory enough, but you weren’t finished. Leaning in, you let your lips ghost over his, so close that your breath mingled with his.

“Hours, Alastor,” you whispered, your voice dripping with promise. “I’ll play with you for hours.”

The effect was immediate. His eyes fluttered closed, and a soft, involuntary moan slipped from his lips. The usual bravado he wore like a mask began to crack under the slow, deliberate stroke of your hand. You could feel the way he melted into your touch, his body responding with a shiver as the tension in him ebbed away.

He no longer held back, no longer stifled the sounds he made or the soft confessions of what felt good beneath your touch. It had taken time, patience, and trust to reach this point, where he no longer masked his vulnerability in shame but surrendered to it with you.

You pressed your other hand to his chest, urging him back, and he complied without resistance, lying against the bed as you worked him with skilled hands. His cock throbbed hot and heavy in your grasp, silken beneath your palm as you pumped it with slow, deliberate strokes.

“D-Darling,” he breathed out, his voice trembling, his head falling back as his hips began to roll against your hand. His moans started low, rising in pitch as his body grew more desperate, his movements frantic in his chase for release.

You matched his urgency, your hand moving faster, guiding him closer to the edge. His foreskin slid over the glossy tip of his cock, only to be drawn back down, exposing the glistening head with each thrust. The slick sounds of your motions filled the room, mingling with his erratic breaths and soft cries.

“Darling, darling!” he cried out, his hips canting forward one last time before his release overtook him. Hot, sticky ropes of cum painted his chest, streaking his skin with creamy lines. His breath came in heavy, uneven pants as his body trembled in the aftershocks of pleasure. A haze of satisfaction clouded his crimson eyes, but beneath it, you saw the flicker of anticipation. He knew this wasn’t over.

Your fingers lazily dipped into the sticky warmth of his release, swirling through it before lifting to your lips. Your tongue darted out, tasting him with a soft hum of appreciation. “Mmm, it’s been a while, hasn’t it, Al?” you teased, pressing a lingering kiss to the oversensitive tip of his cock. He jolted, his hips bucking instinctively at the sudden contact.

“You haven’t been finding release without me, have you?” you asked, your voice sweet but laced with mischief.

“Hah!” His laugh was strained, tinged with his usual bravado as he tried to recover some semblance of control. “Please, darling, I can hold myself back just fine,” he quipped, though his eyes darted away, betraying him.

“Is that so?” you murmured, your tone light and teasing. Without warning, you leaned down, engulfing his still-soft cock with your mouth.

Alastor hissed sharply, his claws sinking into the bedsheets as you drew back his foreskin with your lips, swirling your tongue over his sensitive head. His body jerked beneath you, trembling as overstimulation began to set in.

“Ah, d-darling,” he panted, his voice shaky, the usual radio-filtered crackle distorted by the raw edge of his cries. “A-ah, ah!” His cock twitched weakly in your mouth, his body entirely at your mercy.

You didn’t relent, your tongue working over him with precision, coaxing out every last tremor of pleasure you could draw from him. His head fell back, exposing the vulnerable column of his throat, as his hands fisted the sheets in a futile attempt to ground himself. His breath came in ragged gasps, his voice breaking as he moaned your name again and again.

But you remained attuned to him, careful to read the signals of his body. Alastor, ever stubborn, would never admit when pleasure teetered on the edge of too much, and you wouldn’t let him push past his limits. For you, his pleasure was your greatest reward, the sight of him unravelling before you igniting a heat in your core that left you clenching and aching with need.

Still, you slowed your ministrations, pulling back just enough to let him breathe, to bask in the blissful haze that softened his sharp edges. His trembling body told you everything his words wouldn’t—that he trusted you completely, in this and in everything else.

The moment his thighs began to tremble, instinctively closing around your head, you knew it was time to stop. With a calculated precision, your lips tightened into a seal around his cock, sucking deeply one last time before pulling back. His length slipped free with a loud, wet pop, leaving him quivering and gasping beneath you.

Alastor's abdomen fluttered with each shallow breath, his chest rising and falling erratically as he tried to gather himself. A thin sheen of sweat coated his pale skin, catching the soft light and accentuating the slight tremor that rippled through him. His crimson eyes, glazed and unfocused, stared blankly at the ceiling, his usual composure nowhere to be found.

Your gaze softened as you admired the rare vulnerability etched into his features, but a spark of mischief flickered in your chest. Leaning forward, you dragged your tongue languidly along your middle and index fingers, wetting them thoroughly before trailing them downward. When you pressed the slick pads of your fingers against the tight ring of muscle between his cheeks, his entire body jolted as if struck by lightning.

His sharp intake of breath was followed by a low, trembling moan as his crimson eyes flicked downward, meeting yours. That familiar grin of his began to reappear, albeit strained, but you matched it with one of your own. Slowly, deliberately, you worked your fingers inside, the tight, hot walls clenching around you as you sank deeper.

“Ohhh,” he moaned, his voice pitching higher as his hips began an instinctive, grinding motion against your hand. Each stroke and press of your fingers sent shockwaves through his body, and you couldn’t help but relish the way he cried out your name, breathless and desperate.

“Is this what you missed, Alastor?” you murmured, your voice dripping with sultry amusement. The heat pooling between your thighs was almost unbearable now, your soaked underwear clinging to your skin. You punctuated your question with feather-light kisses along the sensitive curve of his balls, earning another full-body shudder from him.

“D-don’t be ridiculous,” he managed to huff out, though the quiver in his voice betrayed his bravado. His hips bucked against your hand, seeking more, needing you to go harder, deeper, faster. “You—hah—you’re the one who seems to need it more than I do!”

His words faltered into a broken cry as you curled your fingers inside him, pressing directly against his prostate. The reaction was instant—his cock, already half-hard, twitched violently before stiffening completely, precum dripping steadily from the swollen tip. Thin, sticky strands pooled on his stomach, glistening in the dim light.

“I-I c-can smell you,” he groaned, his voice cracking with static as the radio distortion flickered uncontrollably. “I can s-smell your arousal, d-darling.”

His eyes fluttered as he struggled to focus on you, the effort clear in the way his brows furrowed, and his lips parted with ragged breaths. You smiled wickedly, never ceasing the relentless rhythm of your fingers as you leaned in close.

“Is that your way of saying you want me to ride you, Alastor?” you teased, your tone saccharine sweet, as you slowly withdrew your fingers.

The way his ears flattened against his head and his lips pressed together to smother the pitiful whine that escaped him was nothing short of endearing. You straightened up, locking to his gaze as your hands moved to peel away your clothing.

One by one, the layers fell away, revealing more of your heated skin to him. Alastor’s crimson eyes darkened with unrestrained hunger, his slender fingers flying to his cock, stroking himself slowly as he devoured the sight of you. The moment your panties slid down your legs, his attention zeroed in on the dark, damp patch that clung to the fabric.

The sight of how soaked they were made his breath hitch. His grip on his cock tightened, his strokes quickening ever so slightly as he watched you stand before him, completely bare, the evidence of your arousal dripping down your thighs.

Picking up your damp underwear, you held it delicately between your fingers, bringing it close to Alastor’s face. His eyes, smouldering with unrestrained hunger, followed the movement intently. A sly grin curled your lips as you whispered, “Go on. I know you’ve been dying to taste me.”

In the past, he would have resisted—an adamant refusal to entertain such a base desire. But now? Now, his restraint was a distant memory. He eagerly took the fabric from your hand, his sharp grin widening as he pressed it to his lips. His tongue darted out, licking and suckling on the soaked material, his moans vibrating softly into the delicate fabric. He savoured every drop, his eyes fluttering shut as if lost in your essence.

While he indulged, you turned your attention to the drawer by the bed, fingers searching for a specific item. A soft laugh escaped you as you pulled out the toy you’d been looking for—one of his favourites. The memory of the day he wore it, the secret only the two of you shared as he moved through the hotel with it snug inside him, made heat rush to your cheeks.

The anal plug, adorned with curvy ridges and capped with a glittering pink heart at its base, glinted in the low light. Alastor froze mid-lick, his gaze snapping to the toy. His tail, which had been lazily swaying, thumped excitedly against the bed.

You teased him further, holding his gaze as you slowly lowered the plug to your wet core. You pressed the tip to your entrance, coating the ridges in your slick. Alastor’s breath hitched, and a groan slipped past his lips as he watched you pump the toy in and out of yourself, each movement deliberate, each moan of yours feeding his anticipation.

By the time you pulled the toy free, glistening and dripping with your arousal, Alastor had already lifted his legs, spreading them wide to present himself. His sharp grin turned expectant, almost demanding, his crimson eyes glinting with challenge and desire.

You chuckled at his eagerness, running your free hand along the curve of his thigh. “Patience, darling,” you murmured. He squirmed beneath you, his cock twitching against his stomach as you pressed the slick plug against his entrance. Slowly, you began to work it in, the ridges catching slightly against his tight walls before sliding deeper, inch by inch.

Alastor’s breath came out in stuttering gasps, his hands gripping the sheets tightly as the plug seated itself fully to the base. His cock throbbed, a bead of precum trailing down to pool on his stomach. He looked utterly wrecked, his body trembling and his chest heaving as he adjusted to the sensation of fullness.

But you weren’t done. Without giving him a moment to recover, you straddled his hips, gripping his throbbing length and guiding him to your entrance. In one fluid motion, you sank down onto him, taking him to the hilt. His reaction was instant—a sharp gasp, his hands flying to your hips as his back arched off the bed before collapsing again.

The tight heat of you gripping him drove him wild. His cock twitched inside you, sending jolts of pleasure radiating through both your bodies. But your focus wasn’t on his body—it was on his expression. His usually sharp grin softened, his crimson eyes half-lidded and hazy with pleasure. His body trembled beneath yours, the rare vulnerability in him stirring a possessive warmth in your chest.

He hummed low in his throat, a sound of pure, unfiltered delight, as you leaned forward. Pinning his wrists beside his head, you met his gaze, your movements slow at first. Each roll of your hips elicited a delicious tremor from him, his breath climbing with every downward thrust.

“Y-you’re i-insatiable, d-darling,” he managed, his voice trembling as your pace quickened.

You smiled wickedly, increasing the rhythm, the sound of skin meeting skin mingling with his stuttering breaths and deep moans. His sharp cries soon gave way to something softer, more desperate, as his body began to tense beneath you. His head fell back, exposing the long line of his neck as his eyes squeezed shut.

“Look at me, Alastor,” you commanded softly, and his gaze snapped back to yours. The raw, unguarded desire and faint embarrassment in his expression sent a thrill through you. His cries grew louder, his hands flexing against your grip as he reached his peak.

With one final, broken moan, his body shuddered violently beneath yours, his cock twitching as he spilled into you. The hot flood of his release filled you, his seed coating your walls as he gasped for air. His body remained taut for a moment before he melted into the bed, utterly spent, his eyes glazed with lingering satisfaction.

Catching your breath, your body hummed with unresolved need, but it didn’t matter. Watching Alastor surrender beneath you, unravelling with every calculated touch, was pleasure enough.

His lips were parted, a thin line of saliva glistening at the corners as his chest rose and fell in uneven gasps. The edges of his crimson eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and his expression—dazed, undone—was utterly intoxicating. His usual composed veneer had crumbled, leaving him bare in every sense.

A quiet chuckle escaped you as you finally lifted yourself from his trembling form, feeling the warm trickle of his release sliding down your thighs. “We’re not done yet, Al,” you teased, your voice carrying a sing-song lilt. “We still have one more of your favourites, remember?” Reaching for the strap-on, you held it up—a big, crimson silicone cock gleaming in the dim light, its impressive weight resting heavy in your hands.

You caught the way his body tensed, his tail twitching in anticipation, but there were no sharp remarks, no coy retorts. He was beyond that now, surrendering completely. With a sluggish roll, he shifted onto his stomach, his cheek pressing into the bed as his hips lifted, presenting himself to you. His red-and-white tail puffed out and flicked upward, revealing the sparkling jewel of the heart-shaped plug still nestled snugly within him.

“Good boy,” you purred, and his tail wagged weakly in response. His fingers reached back, spreading himself open, stretching his cheeks taut in a silent plea.

You smiled, strapping the harness to your hips, the familiar weight grounding you in this moment. Slowly, deliberately, you began easing the plug from his entrance. Each inch coaxed a muffled whimper from him as he buried his face in the mattress, his body trembling beneath your hands. The resistance gave way, and with a final tug, the jewelled plug slid free, leaving his entrance clenching and exposed.

The sight of him, so open, so needy, sent a surge of heat pooling low in your core. You rested a hand on his hips, guiding the slicked synthetic cock to his waiting entrance. Without hesitation, you thrust forward in one fluid motion, burying yourself to the hilt.

Alastor choked on a cry, his body jolting forward before he melted into the bed, a low, guttural moan spilling from his lips. His claws raked over the blankets, shredding the fabric in a desperate bid for control.

But there was none to be had—not here, not now.

You set a relentless rhythm, your hips snapping forward with precision, filling him over and over. The wet slap of skin meeting skin filled the room, mingling with his muffled cries and the breathless moans you couldn’t suppress. The way his body clenched around you, his walls tightening with every thrust, only spurred you on.

“Ah—ah—darling,” he panted, his voice breaking into a mix of static and white noise as pleasure overwhelmed him. His body arched beneath you, his hips rolling back to meet your thrusts with desperation.

“You like this, don’t you?” you murmured, your breath hot against his ear. ��Being filled so completely… You’re so beautiful like this, Al.”

His only response was a shattered moan, his body spasming violently as he came again, thick ropes of his release painting the ruined bed beneath him. But even as his trembling form sagged into the mattress, you didn’t stop.

“Isn’t this fun, Alastor?” you panted, your grin wicked as you leaned over him, your pace unrelenting. “I could do this all night.”

His claws curled into the shredded fabric, his body shaking with overstimulation as he gasped and whimpered beneath you. He was utterly wrecked, undone, every piece of him yours in this moment—and it was everything you had missed.

Your hands slid to either side of his trembling frame, hovering over him as you moved with deliberate intensity. His voice had dissolved into a symphony of broken moans and guttural grunts, his ears pinned flat against his head in a rare display of vulnerability. Leaning closer, your breath ghosted over his ear as you purred, “Let me see your face, Al. Don’t rob me of my pleasure.” Your fingertips traced the back of his head, the touch tender yet insistent.

He shivered at your words, slowly turning his head to meet your gaze. His lips hung open, strands of saliva pooling beneath his cheek. His crimson eyes, distant and unfocused, shimmered with tears that spilled in streaks down his flushed cheeks. And yet, despite his unravelling, the faint trace of a grin lingered—a testament to his unyielding spirit.

“More?” you asked, voice laced with teasing affection. Alastor’s only reply was a low, ragged moan as his hips pressed back against you, silently pleading. A soft chuckle escaped you as your fingers danced down the curve of his spine, drawing a visible shudder from him. “You really are a masochist, aren’t you, Al?” you murmured, your words barely above a whisper.

When his moans faltered into silence, his teeth clenching as he fought to muffle the smallest of whimpers, you knew he’d reached his limit. Carefully, you slowed your movements, easing out of him with a touch as gentle as a whisper. Both of you were coated in a thin sheen of sweat, your breath coming in soft pants as you sat back.

Alastor lay trembling, his body spent and quivering in the aftermath. Every so often, his legs would twitch, jolting with the lingering aftershocks of overstimulation. His hand reached out, trembling and seeking, and you didn’t hesitate to meet it, intertwining your fingers with his. The silent gesture spoke volumes—his need for your warmth, your gentleness, your grounding presence.

With care, you removed the strap-on, setting it aside before sliding into the bed beside him. Your body folded seamlessly into his, your hand cradling his as you pressed a tender kiss to his knuckles. His half-lidded eyes locked onto yours, filled with exhaustion and unspoken affection, unable to look away.

Smiling softly, you lifted his hand, your lips brushing over each finger with reverence. One by one, you kissed his thumb, his index finger, trailing your touch over his palm. The gesture was unhurried, filled with tenderness, as you snuggled closer to him, your lips finding the curve of his shoulder.

A warm chuckle rumbled low in his chest, his voice soft and worn. “Darling,” he rasped, his tone laden with affection as his tail gave a lazy thump against the bed. He sighed deeply, basking in the featherlight kisses that travelled up his neck and over his face. His cheeks, his forehead, his closed eyelids—all received your gentle attention before your lips finally found his.

The kiss lingered, a soft press of emotion and intimacy. When you pulled back, his voice, though hoarse, carried a familiar teasing lilt. “You’ve been far too busy this month,” he murmured, his crimson eyes slowly opening to meet yours.

Your heart swelled, warmed by the rare vulnerability in his gaze. You smoothed back a stray strand of hair from his face, your fingers brushing his skin with care. “I have, haven’t I?” you answered softly. Your lips curved in a tender smile as you leaned down to kiss him again, the touch light, barely there. “I missed you,” you whispered against his lips, your voice thick with sincerity.

He chuckled again, though it was tired and weak. “And yet, you chastise me about your cookies,” he teased, his grin slipping back into place.

“Ruining my cookies,” you corrected with a mock glare, your tone playful.

“You love it when I spice up your – ah – cookies,” he countered, his voice carrying a faint echo of words he’d said long ago—a callback to the early days of trust and intimacy you’d built together.

A soft giggle bubbled from your lips as you pressed your forehead against his, your eyes brimming with affection for the cunning, mischievous demon you adored. “You’re such a silly man,” you whispered, nuzzling your nose against his.

His arms came around you, pulling you tightly against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear was a comforting reminder of the unspoken bond you shared. In that quiet moment, you held each other close, the world beyond forgotten. Only the warmth of his body and the soft hum of his love remained.

“And you, my darling, are my special girl,” he murmured, his voice a tender caress against the quiet of the room. He pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his lips warm and soft. Slowly, his breathing steadied, each exhale becoming longer, deeper, until it melted into the gentle rhythm of sleep.

You stayed there, cradled in his embrace, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. A gentle smile tugged at your lips as your fingers traced small, absent-minded patterns along his side. The warmth of his words lingered in your heart, a balm to the chaos and distance of recent days.

As you listened to the quiet thrum of his heartbeat, you made a silent promise to yourself. Next time, you’d find ways to give him the attention he deserved, to show him how much he meant to you—perhaps even preempt whatever mischievous “spicing up” he might dream up to draw your focus.

For now, though, your heart felt full, brimming with love and contentment. Snuggling closer to him, you let yourself be enveloped in his warmth, your body fitting perfectly against his. The steady cadence of his heart matched your own, the two rhythms intertwining as if they were always meant to be.

You closed your eyes, a peaceful smile lingering on your lips. Wrapped in his arms, you let sleep claim you, your dreams filled with the love you shared and the quiet promise of all the moments yet to come.

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rocknrollsalad · 1 day ago

Text

rating: gen cw: drinking/getting drunk, high society expectations, cranky steve and robin, period typical homophobia tags: no upside down au, rich kid steve au, steddie and Buckingham double date, chirstmas parties, Eddie learns whats in eggnog word count: 2412

written for the steddiemas prompt "eggnog" but it's a good week late, another victim of the plague I caught lol

“You better go collect your man,” Robin whispered, having appeared out of nowhere.

Steve hissed, “Stop calling him that.”

His eyes darted around the room, both to make sure he wasn’t heard. Robin was right, he hadn’t seen his boyfriend (who was definitely not his date tonight) in a while. Probably not a good sign.

“Well he is,” she scoffed.

“You are supposed to be my date, that’s the cover story. For you and for me. Doesn’t really work if you go around talking about how I really brought Eddie.”

It shut Robin up for a second, just long enough for Steve to enjoy the victory, before she said, “Tell your parents to stop being so uptight.”

Except the counter to that was the same as it always was. “And yours are so cool about it.”

Probably not the round and round Robin wanted when she walked up here on some high horse. One she had no business climbing on. She knew Steve was always a little extra stressed at these stupid dinner parties and that tonight was going to be worse. Instead of being supportive, it was almost like she was trying to sabotage things.

They could talk about it later. Right now, Steve apparently had to go find Eddie because there was no way Robin was saying that for fun. He was doing something. Probably making a run for it…which was smart. Steve could, at least, show him the best escape routes and let him know he didn’t take it personally.

Especially because it was a lot harder for Steve to make that run for it anymore. Ever since they’d brought him in from the kiddie room (which was actually the garage), his moves were tracked. Sure he wasn’t sharing one sad, toppingless pizza with a bunch of kids he didn’t know anymore but at what cost? At least the garage had video games…and no one talking about investments or how he should have gone to college.

Steve went off to find out what was going on with Eddie. Robin, in her endless helpfulness, decided to stay put and give no direction. It left Steve to go from room to room, asking everyone he could. No one had seen him. Something that was maybe a good thing? This meant he wasn’t standing on expensive furniture telling some amazing and elaborate story that would be wasted on these stuffy assholes.

Things got so desperate, Steve asked his mom if she’d seen Eddie. She always knew everything that was happening at these parties. Yet she hadn’t seen him. It seemed unlikely and a quick segue into tired reminders to not cause a scene. This one came with the bonus lecture of not ignoring his date because “no respectable woman is sidelined for a friend, dear.”

And nothing proved more that Steve’s mom didn’t see everything. Not only would he and Robin stick by each other through anything, she wasn’t even his actual date. Though, Steve did have to admit the only people in the world who believed they weren’t dating were them. Probably Chrissy and Eddie but sometimes Steve wasn’t so sure.

Moving on from his mom before he got roped into some mind-numbingly boring discussion, Steve ran into Chrissy. She was Eddie’s date who was really Robin’s date and had been folded into the group shenanigans. Which meant Steve was so ready to drag her into this quest. If he couldn’t have Robin, he could at least have help.

“We’ve lost your date,” Steve sighed, trying not to freak out yet.

“What do you mean?” she asked, instantly jumping to freaking out.

Steve linked their arms together and continued walking on, trying to think of where else he’d hide out. “Robin came up to me and told me to go collect my man. I thought he was doing something embarrassing but, like, I can’t find him. Do you think he’d leave?”

“No,” she cooed. “He’s been so worried about this night, there’s no way he’d leave you. He wouldn’t.”

Something that would have been so much more flattering if Steve had any fucking clue where the guy was.

“The garage!” Steve said, realizing the one place he hadn’t looked.

Chrissy didn’t say anything, just picked up her pace and they sped off toward the kiddie party. Of course. it was in the detached garage. Heaven forbid the kids breathed in the others, dad’s cars would lower in value at the mere thought.

So they barged through the door and onto the familiar path, still arm and arm, laser-focused on the only place it made sense for Eddie to be.

Before the door closed behind them, the soft exclamation of “Steve” was sung out and Chrissy and Steve both leaped into the grass, barely holding back screams as the voice startled them.

Steve easily moved Chrissy behind him as they both looked for the source of the voice, rather than some creepy old guy or party crasher, it was the exact person they were looking for. Both of them let out a matching, but quiet, exclamation for finding Eddie.

He was sat on a stone bench, leaning against the house, and smoking. Not only was he well hidden by shrubbery but Steve had expected to find him indoors. He needed that last glimmer of hope that Eddie was still at the party. And he hadn’t exactly left so that was…something?

“Hey man,” Eddie drawled out.

Steve’s eyes narrowed but he turned to make sure Chrissy was stable and had recovered from the little fright neither of them was going to speak about.

“We’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Chrissy said.

Resigning to her point, Steve nodded and went for the “what she said” shrug.

“I’ve been ri-ight here, baby.”

“He’s drunk,” Chrissy and Steve whispered to each other.

“Oh no!” Eddie cried out, dropping his head back. “Who told you?”

“I think you did, champ,” Chrissy laughed.

This probably wasn’t great. Steve went into panic mode immediately, ideas on what to do next sped through his mind followed by the consequences of each. A drunk Eddie was less likely to keep up the ruse, one he and Robin had organized so carefully.

It wasn’t time to come out, yet. Steve knew that time was rapidly approaching. Each and every day he had to lie about who he was with or what he was doing was another stab in the chest but at The Harrington Christmas Soiree? That was not the time. If they could just get into the new year, Steve would come clean, and probably get disowned, but at least it wouldn’t go down for “trying to steal the spotlight”.

Chrissy rubbed her hand between Steve’s shoulder blades. He had to be thinking awfully loudly right now. Where was Robin when he really needed her?

“I didn’t mean to,” Eddie pouted.

Steve watched Eddie pat around the bench and his own clothes, looking for his lighter. It was such a distinct move but it brought in this creeping feeling of normalcy with it. They’d done this before. Both drunk and sober.

As he had many times before, Steve reached into his pocket and got his lighter. Once he was close enough, he shielded the flame so Eddie could re-light his cigarette. Which he did with ease. The smoke billowed from Eddie and cleared both of their heads.

“How’s that work, though?” Steve asked. He then turned to Chrissy and leaned in a bit. “Could you go find Robin, remind her not to gloat, and maybe get a glass of water? In that order of importance.”

“She’s not going to gloat,” Chrissy said but it’s already an apology. They both know the truth. It’s part of Robin’s charm but it’s always extra annoying in moments like these.

“That’s the spirit, let's hope for Christmas miracles.”

They share a giggle that they’ve earned by being as close to Robin as they are and Chrissy disappeared back inside. Steve sat down next to Eddie and moved his hand so Steve could take a quick drag off the cigarette. He’s going to need it…or some of whatever Eddie had.

“Alright, what’s the story then?”

“Have you ever had eggnog,” Eddie asked. A question that feels wildly off topic but, again, he’s a little drunk so a coherent sentence is a great start.

“Yeah, it’s disgusting.”

“No-ooooooooo. No. Look, listen, I mean. It’s not. You’re wrong. Wayne makes it all the time,” Eddie leaned in closer, a hand cupped over his mouth as he whispered. “Every year.”

“Yeah, my parents do too. It’s nasty. The one in the punch bowl is the one you want.”

“Au contraire, that one has alcohol in it and I’m supposed to behave,” Eddie has his finger raised, wagging in the air like a cartoon teaching valuable life lessons.

“And so’s the eggnog.”

“Mmmmmm, no. I think I’d know that.”

“I…actually, yeah. I’d have thought you knew that too. Wait, so how– you know you’re drunk now, right?”

“Yeah but, ya know, we’re not telling Steve. He’s going to make me sleep on the couch for a whole week.”

“Sure,” Steve pressed his lips together and nodded. This was ridiculous and he kind of wished Eddie was just giving some rambunctious nerd speech. “But how’d you get drunk then?”

“Sabotage, obviously. The Harrington’s don’t want the heir to their throne with a commoner like me.”

“So they spiked your drink?”

“Totally.”

“Somehow complimentary you think they’d waste liquor on that,” Steve shrugged and he snatched Eddie’s pack of cigarettes to light one for himself.

“So it was Robin!”

“More believable actually. No, it was the eggnog.”

“There’s not alcohol in eggnog, Wayne wouldn’t give me it if there was.”

“Because you have to put it in, which my parents do.”

In a different situation, this would be funny. Steve might even find a way to laugh about it later but the guilt simmering in his chest for not teaching Eddie about which drinks had liquor is too strong to enjoy the laughable way his boyfriend accidentally got drunk.

All the solutions Steve had run through didn’t fit the situation anymore. They were likely both going to have to leave. Or worse, Eddie and Chrissy were and that’d ruin so many people’s nights.

Before he could think of a way to save everyone’s good time, Chrissy returned. Robin right behind her. Steve quickly stamped out the cigarette like Robin wouldn’t see and stood to talk to them.

He filled them in on the whole eggnog situation. It earned the appropriate level of laughter but once it subsided, they started trying to actually solve the problem. Eddie sat content on the bench, watching them adoringly as they worked out his fate. Steve had to give it to him, he was a very happy drunk.

“Hey, psst, hey. Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey,” Eddie said as they were finalizing some plans to get him upstairs to Steve’s room and full of coffee.

“Oh my god,” Robin said, trying to shut him up.

Steve walked over, leaning into his space so he wasn’t towering over him. “Yeah, man. What’s up?”

“I just need you to know-”

“Oh boy.”

“I came in with a smoking hot blonde but she’s not really my date.”

With all the patience in his body, Steve let out a sigh that was every bitchy comeback he had rolled into one sound, and said “Yup.”

“You’re way better.”

“You didn’t even commit to that. At least hit on me. Ugh. Can you just be cool for like two more minutes?”

“Cool? Yeah? Yeah! I can be cool for so many minutes. Two, ten, six, eighty. I’m good at it.”

“You’re not, so we better do something quick.”

“We should fool around is what we should do. This place has to have so many rooms. I didn’t even peek in half of them.”

Steve turned around and looked at the girls, “I think we gotta leave.”

“You can’t leave your own family Christmas party,” Robin said.

“I’ve done it so many times. Chrissy and Eddie have to go because Eddie’s sick. You and me can work something else out.”

Eddie stood up and leaned on Steve. “You should have some of that eggnog. I guess they make it with alcohol here.”

“Will you stop acting like we don’t know each other!” Steve scrubbed his hand over his face.

Robin sucked her teeth, “Might be for the best, he won’t blow anyone’s cover that way.”

“But he’s being so obnoxious about it,” Steve groaned.

“Good thing he’s the only one being obnoxious,” Robin said, crossing her arms over her chest.

A pose Steve mirrored, “What do you suggest then?”

“Let him sleep it off. He’s right, there’s plenty of rooms here and all we have to do is tell the truth for once. He didn’t know there was alcohol in the eggnog.”

“I didn’t know. I gotta tell Wayne though, it’s way better this way.”

“Who doesn’t know,” Steve groaned. Not frustrated at Eddie for not knowing, not really, but stressed out by the situation and that had to go somewhere.

“What if,” Chrissy said with her shoulders pulled up to her ears. The meek injection spoke to her nervousness but she got everyone’s attention. “We joined Eddie?”

Eddie, who was draped on Steve’s back with an arm over his shoulder and idly rubbing Steve’s chest, hummed in approval. The comfort of Eddie’s weight had Steve forgetting everything they were supposed to be hiding as he melted into the comfort and contact.

Still, he and Robin voiced matching sounds of confusion.

“It’s not embarrassing if the ‘kids’ got drunk. It’s our first time here, they almost expect us to overdo it so…let’s overdo it. Eddie won’t be the one who didn’t know this or that, we’ll all just be young adults doing what’s expected of us.”

Steve pondered the plan. “We couldn’t go wild.”

“It’s not a frat house,” Robin said for Chrissy.

Eddie gave a soft “Yeah” that Steve knew was meant to mock Robin but came out like agreement.

“It could work.”

“It could be fun!” Chrissy cooed, jumping up and down a few times. Maybe they all needed to take the edge off here.

The hand that was on Steve’s chest now held his cheek as Eddie kissed the other one.

“Alright, alright. Let’s go have some fun,” Steve groaned, doing his best to act like he hated this.

“Finally!”

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #(weird aus for a half baked idea but it wouldn't leave my head)

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pamwritessometimes · 3 days ago

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Tuesday's Gone — Chapter 10

Russell Shaw x Reader

Summary: When the police does little to no help to find your missing daughter, you are forced to contact Colter Shaw. What you don’t expect is how his investigation will reveal secrets about both your past and your daughter’s, in ways you never imagined.

Warnings: fluff, otherwise none I believe

A/N: Alright, so there’s a tiny chance I may have written my dog into this. But hey, who’s to say? Here we are at the endgame, and I’ve baked this epilogue to be the fluffiest fluff that ever fluffed… by the way, I’ve gotten so attached to these characters that we’ll likely see more of them down the road. In the meantime, a huge thank you for tagging along on this journey with me. Ily🤍🤍🤍

Title’s based on Tuesday’s Gone by Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Catch up on Chapter 9 here

Tuesday's Gone masterlist

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“I can’t believe you talked me into this” you muttered under your breath, feigning annoyance.

Truth be told, you were thrilled to be here. But no way in hell were you letting either of them know that.

Russell leaned down, his voice low in your ear. “Come on, it was her idea. And don’t even try to act like you’re not fuckin’ enjoying this.”

You shot him a look. He wasn’t wrong, though. The sight of Emma skipping ahead, practically buzzing with excitement as she followed the shelter worker to the kennels, was worth every bit of this “reluctant” family outing.

This wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment decision either. You’d been thinking about it for a while now, especially after everything that happened nearly six months ago. Emma had been so strong through it all, and if anyone deserved this, it was her.

She’d just turned five, and when you asked what she wanted for her birthday – same as last Christmas – her answer hadn’t wavered: a dog.

And, well, you weren’t exactly against the idea anymore. Neither was Russell.

Team Dog was winning at last.

So here you were, standing in the local animal shelter, after weeks of background checks, interviews, and what felt like an application process to adopt a child. All of it leading to this moment: finding the newest, furriest member of your little family.

By the time you reached the kennels, it was clear Russell had an agenda.

“What about this guy?” he said, pointing to a massive German Shepherd mix that looked like it moonlit as a bouncer. The dog let out a low, rumbling bark that made Emma flinch.

“No!” she protested, darting behind you for cover. “He’s too big.”

“Too big?” Russell sounded personally offended. “He’s not big. He’s just… sturdy.”

“He’s terrifying” Emma whispered dramatically.

“He’s majestic” Russell shot back.

Meanwhile, you wandered to the next kennel, eyeing a floppy-eared mutt who wagged its tail so hard it was practically levitating.

“This guy, uh… girl looks sweet” you said upon taking a closer look.

Emma peeked out from behind you. “Maybe. But I want to see more!”

“We have a lot of options. Why don’t we take a look over here?” the shelter worker smiled.

The next row of kennels was filled with smaller dogs, and Emma’s excitement skyrocketed. She stopped in front of a little black-and-tan pug with a squished face and a perpetually surprised expression.

“This one” she declared with wide eyes. “I want this one!”

Russell, however, recoiled like someone had shown him a tax bill.

“That? That’s not a dog. That’s… I don’t even know what that is. A loaf of bread with legs? It ain’t even aerodynamic.”

Emma ignored him, crouching down to coo at the pug. The dog tilted its head, then waddled closer, sniffing her fingers through the bars.

“His name is Misha” the worker lady behind you announced.

“Oh, great. He already comes with a ridiculous name. Misha? Misha?” Russell scrunched his face.

Em turned to the shelter worker. “Can I meet him?”

The worker nodded at her with a smile, opening the kennel. Misha ambled out like he owned the place, his curled little tail wagging as your daughter crouched down to pet him.

“Look at him! He’s perfect” she insisted.

Russell groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. Perfect wasn’t exactly the word he’d use to describe it.

“Em, come on. What about one of these guys?” He gestured to a sleek, athletic-looking dog further down. “This one looks like it could run a marathon. That thing” he pointed at the pug, “looks like it’ll need a nap after climbing onto the couch. And an airbag after waking up from a nap.”

The shelter worker cleared her throat, smiling gently. “Actually, Misha’s in great health. Hadn’t had any major issues in his four years of life. He came to us recently. His previous owner passed away. He’s house-trained, doesn’t chew furniture, and loves kids. He’s very low-maintenance, too.”

You perked up at that.

“Wait, he’s not pooping inside? He’s already house-trained?”

You crouched to look Misha in his bug-eyed little face.

God, why does he have wrinkles at four?

“Well, buddy” you patted his head, “that’s a telltale sign you’re coming home with me.”

Russell groaned, clearly fazed by you giving in so easily.

“Unbelievable. We’re bringing home a pug named Misha.”

Emma squealed in victory, while Russell groaned like he’d just lost a bet. “Fine” he relented, glancing at Misha. From this angle he found him almost… cute. Like, cute in a grotesque way.

“But if that thing starts snoring louder than me, we're gonna have a serious talk” he called after you and Emma as you headed off to sign the paperwork, officially making your little loaf of bread the newest member of your family.

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“Misha, no! Misha!” Russell shouted as the dog launched himself out of the Chevy, heading straight for the building like a furry missile.

“Well, I’ll be damned. They weren’t kidding, he is in good shape” you remarked, helping Emma out of the car.

In the three weeks Misha had been living with you, you’d learned that his idea of a good day was a 22-hour nap followed by some seriously relentless running.

And the clinginess? That was definitely a thing, too, especially with Russell despite his best efforts to act annoyed. But he couldn’t fool you. Not with all the photo evidence stashed away on your phone showing him passed out on the couch, Emma tucked under one arm and Misha curled up in the crook of his other. All of them snoring in harmony. Or that one time you caught him absentmindedly scratching the dog’s belly while staring at his phone, completely unaware of how soft he’d gotten so quickly.

Misha also grew fond of you and Emma, too, and soon you figured he wasn’t about to wander off too far even without a leash. Probably still a little rattled from his previous owner’s sudden passing. He loved spending every minute of his time in a now somewhat stable family.

The building the dog was charging toward was a big, brick beauty, with towering windows and a brand-new sign hanging proudly above the door. It was the final product of an ongoing battle of bad brewery name ideas between you and Russell.

You’d pitched some real gems like Hop Notch Brewery, Sweet Foam Idaho, and Shawbusiness. You were obviously just having fun, knowing it was Russell’s dream project.

“I’m just trying to help!” you exclaimed playfully.

But still – Shawstopper was practically genius, right?

He, of course, was more into traditional names like Shaw & Co Brewery or Shawcraft.

But then… you pitched the one name that made him crack. One that he absolutely hated. Hated it so much that, for some bizarre reason, he thought it was twistedly brilliant. So, here you were, standing beneath the freshly hung sign above the front door of…

“Shawshank Brewdemption” Emma read out loud, brows furrowed. You were surprised she could read it relatively effortlessly with all the consonants in there. “I don’t understand!”

“You will when you’re older” you said, crossing your arms with a smirk and gazing up at the sign like it was a masterpiece of wit.

It was the first day this place would be soft launching into the market, with hosting a small gathering to your family. It wasn’t only Emma’s birthday this month. Funny enough, her dad was also a Leo.

So here you were, standing in the small, but cosy main room of the brewery with a nice, industrial-style bar with wooden panels, decorated by the first two batches of Russell’s now-semi-home brew, waiting for your and Russ’s guests to arrive. Tthe white stucco walls were your handiwork – well, mostly. Emma contributed by slapping on a few chaotic brushstrokes before abandoning the task entirely to play around in the unfinished rooms. There were wooden tables – made of walnut tree to match the bar and the legs of the barstools, with black leather couches and chairs.

It wasn’t exactly your vision, but it was definitely your sweat and tears. Russell had thrown himself into perfecting the beer, leaving the interior design entirely to you. His initial ideas? Hilariously unhelpful and vague.

“I dunno. I just want it to look hip. Or whatever kids call it nowadays.”

That hip, he later explained, was what you could best describe as an industrial minimalist style.

“You know... Some brick walls, some white ones, maybe those long black lamps hanging from the ceiling. Oh, and wood. Lots of wood.”

Somehow, you’d managed to turn his disjointed aesthetic wishlist into something real, and now here you were, standing in the finished product. One wall was left bare, the brick foundation shown – hence his request. Though, you’ve given it your touch: the area was filled with green. Snake plant, chinese evergreen, swiss cheese plant, you name it. They really gave the otherwise minimalist interior design a touch of life.

As you stood there, soaking it all in, Russell walked up beside you, sliding a beer onto the bar. “What do you think? Good enough for a little gatherin’?” he asked, his voice warm but his tone just a bit hesitant.

Emma cut him off with a delighted squeal from across the room. “Look, Daddy! Misha’s helping me decorate!” She was tying a stray piece of ribbon loosely around the pug’s neck, who was, unsurprisingly, just letting it happen.

Russell glanced over, then back at you with a sigh.

“I swear, that dog’s plotting to take over my life.”

“He already has. I caught you sneaking him bits of bacon this morning despite my continuous requests not to. Who’s the softie now?” you smirked.

He rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, he glanced at the room around you.

“You really pulled this place together” he said, his voice soft. “I don’t know how you took my half-baked ideas and turned them into… this.”

You arched an eyebrow, smirking. “So, what I’m hearing is I’m the brains and the talent here?”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the grin tugging at his lips. Instead of arguing, he slipped an arm around you, pulling you in for a side hug and pressing a kiss to your temple.

The truth was, you’d poured everything into this. Both of you had. This wasn’t just a brewery. It was something bigger, something that felt like a foundation. Russell had dreamed it up, sure, but somewhere along the way, it became more than his dream. It became your dream too. Not the brewing part, for sure. You weren’t about to start debating hops or malts anytime soon. It was the building part, the fact that this place stood as proof of what the two of you could do together. It wasn’t just about beer or business; it was about creating something solid, something lasting.

It was about saying, without words, that this thing between you and him was real. Serious. Built to last, like the walls around you. And standing here, side by side, you couldn’t help but feel it in your bones: this wasn’t just his place or yours. It was yours.

The rumble of an engine outside broke the quiet anticipation inside the brewery. Misha, the self-proclaimed guard dog, leapt off his cozy bed by the bar and started yapping like the apocalypse was imminent.

“Relax, Napoleon” Russell muttered, scooping the tiny pug up and cradling him like a football. “You couldn’t scare off a squirrel.”

You hadn’t seen Colter in weeks, but you could recognise his car anywhere. He’d been off doing his thing, of course. But from what you could gather from Russ, they kept in touch, even if just by texts. And in the last few months, he made sure to come by every once in a while.

“Uncle Colter’s here!” Emma squealed, bolting toward the opening door.

Emma launched herself at her uncle, and Colter caught her mid-air with practiced ease, his face softening just a little.

“Hey, hey. I swear you can’t stop growing” he said, setting her back down with a pat on her head.

His eyes drifted toward the furball in Russell’s arms. “What is that?”

“This” Russell said, biting back a laugh, “is Misha. Emma’s choice, of course. And now your new favorite family member.”

Emma chimed in, bounding forward and wrapping her arms around Colter’s waist. “Isn’t he perfect?”

Colter looked at the wiggling ball of fur. “Perfect’s a strong word.”

“Careful” Russell said, his tone amused. “He bites.”

You laughed, stepping forward to give Colter a quick hug. “Good to see you, too. Glad you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it” he said with a faint smile. Then, he brought in a clumsily wrapped gift box. “Where should I put it?”

Slowly, everyone arrived, which meant the present pile began to look like the Annapurna. Your mom and dad brought food enough to feed an army, despite you saying you had everything ready, they just had to show up. Your mother, of course, adored the place. Your dad, more direct, gave Russell a curt nod, saying “nice sign, birthday boy”.

Soon, Russell’s sister, Dory also arrived. You’d only met her a few months ago, but the two of you had clicked instantly. Similar in age, similar in humor, meaning similar in your mutual ability to poke fun at Russell without remorse.

Finally, Anna arrived too, juggling a tray of brownies, asking a breathless “Am I late? Because I feel late.”

You couldn’t help but take a step back to soak it all in.

Emma was proudly parading Misha around the room like he was the true guest of honor, his curled tail wagging as if he knew it. Your mom was stationed near the bar, taking charge of the food table like it was a military operation. For her, it kind of was. Meanwhile, your dad stood nearby, his chuckles an unmistakable sign that he entertained Colter with his infamously dry one-liners. Anna was chatting with Dory about some undoubtedly exaggerated childhood story that had both of them laughing hard enough to wipe away tears. Russell hovered nearby, refilling drinks and making sure everyone was comfortable. Though his eyes kept drifting back to you.

The mismatched puzzle pieces of your life, both old and new, were all here, fitting together in a way that felt just like it was meant to be.

And now, nothing could ruin this. James Rourke was behind bars, and as Corter kept reassuring, he wasn’t getting out of that prison uniform anytime soon. Horizon owed Russ big time, and they made sure nobody would disturb the three of you again.

Russell strolled over to you, sliding his arm around your waist as the two of you watched your family fill the space you’d built together.

After a moment, he said, “If you told me this would be my life a year ago, I’d think you gotta be shittin’ me.”

You leaned into him, resting your head lightly against his shoulder.

“Yeah, well, life’s funny like that” you replied, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “You go from being a flight risk to hosting family gatherings in a brewery called Shawshank Brewdemption. Quite the character arc, Russ.”

He laughed softly, his thumb brushing idly along your waist. “Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

“Oh, I’m impressed” you teased. “Mostly by how you’re managing to look calm while Misha’s trying to con your sister into feeding him cake.”

Russell glanced over just in time to see Dory holding a fork suspiciously close to Misha’s eager face. He let out a low groan. “I swear that dog’s smarter than he looks. And that’s saying somethin’.”

You chuckled, watching Emma swoop in like the world’s tiniest referee, wagging her finger at both Dory and Misha in mock outrage.

“She’s got your bossy streak” you said, nudging him gently.

“And your stubborn streak” he shot back, grinning.

You smiled back at him, enjoying the easy banter between you two. You took a sip of his brew, then asked, “So, how old are you getting again?”

“39 and still full of charm” he replied with a wink.

You quirked a brow in mischief. “How long have you been 39, huh?”

“Not that long” he quipped with an equally playful expression.

You chuckled, reaching over to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. “Come on” giving his shirt a playful tug. “Time to go bask in the glory of those presents.”

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Aaaand, that’s all, folks! I hope you enjoyed this final chapter. Wishing you all a very merry Christmas, filled with love, cookies, home-cooked meals, and plenty of bejgli (especially to my fellow Hungarian moots, though I probably have none), because that’s exactly what I’ll be indulging in.

Thank you again for keeping up with this story again. If you’re reading this, I thank you personally. Yeah, you. 🤍

xx Pam

🤍Taglist🤍

@bitchykittenconnoisseur @smoothdogsgirl @spnfamily-j2 @winchesterwild78 @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @zepskies @kr804573 @sebastianstangirl01 @kmc1989 @drakelover78 @amberlthomas @lomlbuckybarnes @n-o-p-e-never @roseblue373

#russell shaw x you #russell shaw x reader #russell shaw fanfic #russell shaw fanfiction #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles #russell shaw #tracker cbs #tracker fanfiction #jensen ackles fanfiction #jensen x reader

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cece693 · 10 hours ago

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Let Me Draw You (Ken x Male Reader)

Just saw the Barbie movie and tell me why I felt so bad for Ken. Like all he wanted was to feel appreciated and seen by Barbie :( So, I plan to change the movie slightly to include Ken finding happiness for himself.

Summary: While Barbie was off exploring the real world, Ken was left to his own devices. Roaming the streets, he stumbles upon a coffee shop where you decide he is your next muse.

tags: Barbie movie, reader is a man from the real world, Ken is a confused puppy, he finds someone who thinks he's enough

Ken wandered through the streets of the real world, his wide eyes brimming with curiosity. Everything around him seemed larger, louder, and busier than anything in Barbie Land. People hustled past him, some throwing strange glances his way, probably because he was still dressed head to toe in his *new* favorite cowboy outfit. But Ken didn’t mind.

As he continued walking, his blue eyes caught sight of something—or rather, someone—staring directly at him from inside a small café. A man sat by the window, his gaze locked onto Ken with an intensity that made Ken freeze in his tracks. For a second, Ken thought he might’ve done something wrong. Did he accidentally break some unspoken real-world rule? Did he have something on his face?

Before Ken could decide whether to bolt or keep walking, the café door flew open, and the man came rushing toward him. His expression was filled with excitement, and he seemed so eager that he nearly tripped over himself. “Hey! You!” the man called out, breathless, as he came to a halt in front of Ken.

Ken blinked, pointing to himself in confusion. “Me?”

"Yeah, you!" The man was practically bouncing on his feet, his eyes scanning Ken up and down as though he couldn’t believe his luck. “I’m sorry to stop you, but I just have to draw you.”

Ken tilted his head, his confusion deepening. “Draw me?” he repeated slowly, trying to make sense of what the man was asking. “Why?”

The man smiled, clearly amused by Ken’s innocent bewilderment. “Because you’re perfect, just stunning. Your features, they’re unreal. You look like a sculpture or like a doll.” His eyes twinkled as he took in Ken’s sharp cheekbones and the way his hair perfectly framed his face.

Ken’s mind was spinning. He’d been called many things in his life—cool, fashionable, maybe even handsome once or twice—but no one had ever stopped him on the street just to draw him. He stood there, helpless and unsure, like a puppy who didn’t quite know what it was supposed to do. His big blue eyes darted from the man to the café, then back to the man again. No Barbie in sight to guide him.

“I…I guess?” Ken finally stammered, still sounding more confused than anything. Before he could say anything else, the man gently grabbed his arm, his touch soft but insistent, and began guiding him toward the café.

Ken allowed himself to be pulled along, stumbling slightly as he tried to keep up with the man’s eager pace. His mind was still trying to catch up to the situation, his heart fluttering in his chest with a strange mix of nerves and excitement. The man’s enthusiasm was contagious, and though Ken didn’t fully understand why he was being dragged into this café, he found himself smiling a little.

Once inside, the man ushered Ken to a small table by the window. “Here, sit down,” he said, his voice warm and inviting. Ken sat down awkwardly, fidgeting with the hem of his vest as he looked around.

“So, um…what do I do?” Ken asked, his voice soft and unsure, as he shifted in his seat. His feet fidgeted under the table, and his hands hovered in the air like he didn’t know what to do with them.

The man smiled, already pulling out a sketchpad and pencil from his bag. “Just be yourself,” he said simply, glancing up at Ken with a soft chuckle. “You don’t have to do anything. Just sit.”

“O-okay,” Ken mumbled, still unsure but trying his best to relax. He watched the man as he began sketching, his pencil moving quickly over the paper. Ken was used to being looked at, but this felt different. The way the man’s eyes flickered back and forth between him and the page made Ken feel…special, like he was worth paying attention to, not just because he was with Barbie, but because he was him.

As the man sketched, Ken found himself staring at him with quiet admiration. There was something calming about the way he worked, how his whole focus seemed to be on capturing Ken on the page. It made Ken’s heart flutter in a way that was new, unfamiliar, and a little overwhelming. Time seemed to slow down, and for once, Ken didn’t feel lost or unsure of himself. He didn’t feel like he needed to be anything other than who he was, and that was kind of nice.

When the man finally finished, he turned the sketchpad around, revealing the drawing to Ken with a proud smile. Ken’s eyes went wide as he stared at it. The drawing wasn’t just accurate—it captured something more. There was a softness in his expression, a vulnerability that Ken hadn’t even realized was there.

“Wow…” Ken whispered, his voice barely audible. He didn’t know what else to say. The sketch was beautiful, and it was him, but somehow, it made him feel more real than he ever had before.

The man smiled at Ken’s reaction, seeming pleased with his work. Then, almost as an afterthought, he tore the page from his sketchpad and handed it to Ken. “Here. You should keep this.”

Ken blinked, staring down at the sketch in his hands as if it were the most precious thing in the world. “Really? I can keep it?”

“Of course,” the man said with a soft chuckle. “I made it for you.”

Ken’s heart swelled with a warm, unfamiliar feeling, something that made his chest feel light and tingly. “Thank you…” he mumbled, still staring at the drawing in awe.

The man stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’ve got to run, but…maybe I’ll see you around?” He gave Ken one last smile before turning and walking out of the café.

Ken watched the man go, his gaze lingering on his retreating figure with a quiet sense of longing. There was something about him that made Ken feel safe, like he didn’t have to be anything other than himself. He stared after him, feeling that same flutter in his chest, something warm and hopeful.

As Ken sat there, clutching the sketch, he noticed something scribbled on the back of the paper. He flipped it over, and his eyes widened. There, written in small, messy handwriting, was a phone number. Ken’s heart skipped a beat, his cheeks flushing as he stared at the numbers. He glanced up again, watching the man disappear into the busy street. A soft, shy smile crept onto his face as the realization slowly sank in.

Maybe the real world wasn’t so bad after all.

#barbie #x male reader #male reader #barbie movie #barbie 2023 #barbie ken #barbie the movie

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levis-poison-is-my-medicine · 17 hours ago

Text

Today Only

(The Tea Lovers Pt. 9)

A Levi x reader fanfic

Crossposted from AO3

You've got the perfect plan for Levi's birthday – now Levi just has to play along. What could go wrong?

tags: fluff and humor, silly and sweet, tea-obsessed fem!reader with their head in the clouds (word count: 3.2k)

(Part one) / (Levi x reader Masterlist)

You sneaked across the foyer of the scout's headquarters, stifling a yawn. Maybe you could still get in some shut eye before morning assembly. You hadn't slept a wink all night, having waited at the docks for the first ferry of the day, and now you were chilled down to the bone. It was still criminally early, and you couldn't wait to slide under your warm covers. At least you were already in your pajamas.

You tiptoed around a corner, colliding with something solid.

"No!" you gasped, protectively wrapping your arms around the box you were carrying as you fell flat on your butt.

You squinted up at the unexpected obstacle, which, or rather who, was glaring down at you.

"Levi?" you asked, blinking in confusion. A smile formed on your lips, but then it froze – he wasn't supposed to see his present. You scrambled to your legs, attempting to hide the box as you hurried past him.

"Where do you think you're going?" He grabbed your wrist. "Care to explain why you are late?"

You winced, trying to tuck the box under your arm without drawing any attention to it.

"I missed the last ferry, that's all. Sorry if I made you worry."

Levi's eyes narrowed at your response. "Ferry? Were you in Mitras? Don't tell me you were there for t–"

"It wasn't like that," you said quickly. "This is private, okay? I'm not obligated to talk about it. And I don't want to." You had to look down to try to hide the smile tugging at your lips. Lying had never been your strong suit.

"Still, you should have told someone where you were going," he said sternly, not loosening his grip on your wrist. "You can't just disappear like that, with no way to reach out to you."

You glanced back up at him. There was an intensity in his gaze you had never seen before.

"I guess you're right," you murmured. "I didn't plan this. I was only supposed to be gone for the day."

"But you weren't. Something could've happened," he muttered. He looked away briefly, letting out a sharp breath. "Just don't do something stupid like that again, okay?"

"Okay," you said. "I promise."

Levi nodded and let go of your wrist.

"Actually, should we do a pinky promise?" You held out your pinky.

"No."

"They are stronger, didn't you know? If you break them, your pinky falls off."

He snorted. "You don't actually believe that nonsense, do you?"

"You're no fun," you pouted, but there was a gleam of mischief in your eyes. Before he could respond, you quickly grabbed his hand, intertwining your pinky with his.

Levi went still for a moment, his gaze flickering down to where your hands were connected.

"Fine," he muttered. "But don't go breaking it."

"Of course not. I want to keep my pinky, remember?"

He rolled his eyes. You gave him your biggest smile, relieved to see that he didn't seem mad anymore, and released his hand to suppress a yawn.

"By the way, how come you're still awake at this hour?" You leaned in slightly, noticing the dark circles under his eyes, which were even more pronounced than usual. Levi didn't say anything, his eyes briefly meeting yours before flicking away again.

"You should really get some sleep," you said. "I'm heading to bed, too. I'm so tired." Giving him a quick smile, you added, "Good night!" before scampering away, hugging the box with his present to your chest.

"Night? It's already morning," Levi grumbled, but you were already out of earshot.

– –

In the end, you barely managed to squeeze in one hour of sleep. That wasn't enough to dull your excitement, though. Only a few more days until Levi's birthday, and there was still so much to plan.

Determined to not lose any precious time, you went up to Erwin's office, wielding a letter of apology. You couldn't afford to to be delayed by disciplinary actions – it was best to be proactive.

You knocked once, then stepped inside without missing a beat.

"I'm so sorry for being late. Please accept this letter of apology as a token of my sincere, most heartfelt regret." You placed it on his desk. It was five pages long, packed with every minuscule detail you could've possibly thought of.

Erwin acknowledged it with a weary nod. "Ah, the prodigal child has returned."

You grinned. "Yes! And we have many important things to discuss."

He raised an eyebrow. "Do we?"

"Uh huh. I've devised a plan."

"A plan...?"

"Yes! For Levi's birthday, to be exact. And you happen to play an important role in it!"

"Of course I do," he muttered, heaving a resigned sigh.

"Don't worry," you said, practically bouncing with excitement. "It's not that hard! You just have to keep him occupied while I decorate his office and set everything up. Maybe you can call a meeting and just talk about whatever."

Erwin didn't seem to keen on the idea.

"Just for an hour, or so. If you're unsure how to fill the time, I made flashcards with suggestions."

With a proud flourish, you set down a small tower of paper cards in front of him.

The first card read: 'Striving Beyond the Horizon - A motivational speech for the upcoming expedition'.

He glanced at the flashcards, his brow furrowed slightly. "... I don't think these will be necessary, thank you."

"Suit yourself!" You picked them back up, accidentally dropping one in the process.

Erwin took it from the ground, reading it slowly, his lips twitching slightly as he took in the dramatic wording.

'Why do we keep going? What compels us every day to put on this uniform, to march towards the unknown, towards the Titans?' [Make a dramatic pause here, maybe sweep your arm out in a grand gesture to buy more time.] 'I believe there to be meaning in the journey itself, in the act of moving forward, the striving… in each of the discoveries we make along the way. Not just about the Titans, not just about the world outside, but about ourselves.' [Make prolonged eye contact here.] 'It is not just our knowledge that grows in our ever-present push against the horizon. No. We too, grow as people. As we challenge the walls, we challenge what it's like to be human.'

"Did you write an entire speech?" Erwin looked at you incredulously.

"I may have gotten a little carried away," you admitted. "It should be about an hour long, if you follow the additional directions I put in."

Erwin ran a hand over his face. "While I commend your effort, I don't think Levi would sit through an hour-long speech just for him."

"Yeah, you might be right about that." You gave him a sheepish smile. "But since this is you we're talking about, I'm sure you will figure out other ways to keep him away from his office. I have complete faith in you!"

Erwin rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking thoroughly exhausted. "You're going to great lengths for Levi."

"Of course! He's saved my butt more times than I can count. I have to give back somehow."

He scrutinized you for a moment, then shook his head. "Does Levi know you're back? If not, you should probably tell him."

"Yep, he caught me this morning when I came back, gave me a solid talking-to."

"Good. He was up all night worrying about you."

You shot Erwin a look of disbelief, then chuckled. "Haha, good one. You almost had me here. But this is Levi we're talking about."

"I'm not joking," the commander said matter-of-factly.

"Well, he probably just couldn't fall asleep. You know how he is," you replied with a shrug.

Erwin exhaled sharply. "Sure." He motioned to the papers on his desk. "I should get back to work."

"Yeah, I shouldn't keep you any longer. Thanks for agreeing to be a part of the plan though, you're a huge help!"

You beamed at him, then turned to leave. Erwin looked after you blankly. Had he really agreed? Well, with you, he figured there was rarely any other option.

– –

The alarm sounded before dawn, rousing your roommates with groans of confused annoyance. You sat up straight, feeling the excitement rush through your veins. It was the 25th of December – time to set your plan into motion.

You made your way to the mess hall kitchen, ready to kick off the first phase of your operation. After that, you went back and forth between your room and Hange's office many times – she'd kindly allowed you to store everything there, so you'd be faster setting everything up later.

As you hustled and bustled about all day, you avoided Levi like a ninja, even skipping breakfast to ensure you wouldn't run into him until it was time – teatime.

About an hour before the big moment, you crept towards Levi's office. Hiding in the shadows just around the corner, you waited patiently, listening intently to the sound of Levis footsteps as he disappeared into Erwin's office. When you were certain he was out of sight, you emerged from the shadows with a mischievous grin.

"Time to get out the good stuff."

You darted across the hallway to his door, eager to go inside and start the next phase of your plan. There was just one little problem – it was locked.

"No! Don't do this to me!" you implored the lock, but the door refused to budge, unsympathetic to your pleas. With a small, frustrated whine, you gave up. There wasn't any time to try this yourself – you'd need someone who was good with their hands.

Without hesitation, you started running, sprinting all the way to Hange's lab. You burst through the door with a dramatic little jump, but then couldn't get a word out, too busy catching your breath.

"Woah now, what's got you galloping in here like a wild stallion?" Hange asked you with a grin.

"Code… Purple," you gasped between breaths, alluding to the colors of the signal flares used during expeditions.

"An emergency, huh? Should we drop everything and panic, or can I help?"

"That depends," you panted. "Do you know how to pick a lock?"

Hange rolled up their sleeves. "Oh, you bet I do."

Next thing you knew, you were kneeling next to Hange on the floor in front of Levi's office, watching them rummage through the toolkit they brought along.

"Nice! This one should do the trick!" They inserted the small, makeshift pick into the lock, wriggling it around carefully. You could hear something shift inside, giving in to the deft movements of Hange's hands as they twisted and turned the pick just the right way.Click, then click again.

"Done!" Hange said with a triumphant grin, and pushed down the handle. The door swung open easily, making short shrift of the fortress that was Levi's office.

"You're a gem!" You flung your arms around their neck.

"More like a crook who steals gems, now that you've made me your partner in crime," they said conspiratorially, waggling their brows.

You giggled. "Don't pretend I'm a bad influence! There's no way this was your first time after what I've just witnessed."

"Maybe I'm just a natural," Hange said, feigning innocence.

"Nice try, but I'm not buying it."

"Okay, okay," Hange said, hands raised in mock surrender. "You got me. I'm a total scoundrel."

You giggled again. "And I'm so glad for that – this totally saved my butt. But now I really need to hurry!"

"Good luck!" Hange gathered up the evidence of your crime and winked at you. "This will be our little secret." Then they set off in the direction of their lab, whistling a jolly tune.

You cracked your knuckles. The game was on again.

– –

An exquisite fragrance filled the room as you gently lifted the infuser from the new teapot, having allowed it just the right amount of time for the flavors to fully unfold.

You took a brief moment to admire your work – the desk was adorned with a lavender tablecloth, in the center of which perched the new tea set in all its elegant glory. It was surrounded by dainty little plates of tea biscuits you had baked this morning, all of them shaped like tiny Levi's with a unique pose or outfit. Soft, flickering candles were scattered between them, casting a warm, inviting glow. Behind the table you had hung a handmade paper garland, spelling out 'Happy Birthday, Levi!' in bold, purple letters.

"Perfect!" You clapped your hands and put on one of the silly birthday hats you'd crafted, emblazoned with 'Squad Levi' in bold, and 'today only' in smaller letters beneath. You'd told everyone to put it on around teatime, though you doubted most would actually go along with it. There were special versions for Petra and the rest of the squad, replacing 'today only' with 'for reals'.

You headed for the door with an excited grin. It was time to fetch the birthday boy – wouldn't want the tea to get cold.

You ripped open the door to Erwin's office, shouting "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LEVI!" at the top of your lungs.

A lot of heads turned your way – it wasn't just Levi in that room with Erwin. There was the entirety of his squad, and squad Mike, too. You gave them an awkward wave. A beat of silence passed. Then everyone started cheering and donning their birthday hats. You breathed a sigh of relief.

"Let's adjourn this until tomorrow," Erwin said, also putting on his birthday hat.

You couldn't believe your eyes. Levi seemed to feel the same way. "Not you, too," he mumbled, but there was an almost imperceptible quirk to the corners of his mouth. Petra and Lynne practically swooned at the sight. Oluo bit his tongue, trying to imitate him. Nanaba just rolled her eyes.

Amid the chaos, you grabbed Levi's wrist. "I need to show you something," you said, pulling him along with you.

"It's in here." You pulled open the door to his office.

"Thought I locked that," Levi muttered.

You didn't reply, a huge grin spreading across your face instead. Stepping aside, you made a grand, sweeping motion towards the table, eager for him to see the fruits of your labor.

"Ta-da! Do you like it?" Not giving him any time to respond, you immediately added, "It's a tea set. For you. Made from the finest porcelain of the most supreme quality. I'd know, since I was there when it was made. For a part of it, anyway. It was so much fun!"

With a bright smile, you handed him one of the cups. He held it by the rim in that strange way he always did, and turned it in his hands, quietly studying the design. You watched him intently. There was a subtle raise to his eyebrows, and his lips were slightly parted.

"This must've been expensive," he said finally, his gray eyes meeting yours.

"Maaybe...“ you said. "But do you like it?"

"Of course I do," he said matter-of-factly, his gaze still fixed on you. "Don't be stupid."

"Yay!" You jumped with delight. "I'm so glad you do! Totally worth every penny, then. Only the best for my fellow tea lover."

Levi snorted. You snatched the cup from his hands.

"Time for tea," you said, solemnly pouring the hot liquid into the cup.

"I made biscuits, too." You passed him one of the small plates. He glanced at them, his brow furrowed.

"They're you by the way," you said happily.

"...I can see that."

"Aren't they absolutely adorable?" You popped one into your mouth. "Mmm."

"Tch. I can't believe you just ate me," Levi said wryly.

"Sure did! And I'll have you know you were absolutely delicious."

He stared at you for a moment, then shook his head, letting out a dry chuckle. "Now that's just cruel."

You grinned. "Just try one, you'll see."

You selected a Levi in his cleaning get-up, wielding a tiny mob. "This one should clean your palate nicely." You chortled."Get it?"

Levi rolled his eyes. "After that shitty joke, I'll need something to clean my ears instead." But he ate the biscuit, anyway.

"That's so mean," you pouted. "It wasn't that bad."

"If you say so." Levi took a sip of his tea. His eyes widened. "That's... the tea from South Maria."

"Yep, you guessed it, just like I knew you would. A true connoisseur, through and through." You gave him a warm smile.

"But you only have so little of it," he murmured.

"True. That's why I saved it for a special occasion."

He huffed. "This hardly–"

You didn't even let him finish. "It's your birthday! If that's not a special occasion, then I don't know what is. Besides, there's no way I could've drunken it without you."

Levi set the cup down with a faint clink, then met your gaze, his eyes lingering on you just a little longer than usual. "Why?"

"Everything's more fun when you're around." You shrugged.

Something flashed in his eyes then, an involuntary flicker of something intense searing through his usual cool demeanor, but it was gone before you could fully catch it.

You suddenly felt a strange warmth spreading through you, not unlike the sensation of drinking hot tea, only it was in your chest. The unfamiliar feeling made you shift in your seat, unsure of its cause. You glanced up at Levi.

His mouth twitched, as though he might say something, but instead he just reached for his tea again. You took a sip of yours, too.

"Wow, it's even better than I thought! Out of this world delicious!" you exclaimed. The rich flavor encompassed your senses, and you closed your eyes to savor every last drop.

When you opened them again, Levi wore an expression you rarely saw on him. It was barely more than a subtle curve of his lips, but he was definitely smiling.

The warmth in your chest returned with a sudden lurch.

You absentmindedly brought a hand to your heart, bunching the fabric of your shirt in your fist.

"Right," you said, reaching behind you. "I made you a hat, too. You should put it o–"

"No."

"Didn't think so." You set the hat down on the table anyway. "I'll just put this here in case you change your mind."

Levi shot you a look that said everything: no chance in hell.

It made you giggle.

"Sooo... How do you like your birthday so far?" You clasped your hands under your chin. "I wasn't sure what you usually like to do on them, so I just kind of went with a tea party theme."

"Can't say I ever really celebrated my birthday before. So this is a first. But…" He paused, his gaze briefly softening. "It's… nice."

You couldn't help but smile, a wide grin forming on your face. "I'm so happy!"

"But don't think you won't have to clean this up later," Levi muttered.

"I know, I know." You both knew he'd end up helping, anyway.

A/n: Happy birthday, Levi! Thank you for giving me the motivation to start writing fanfic! (and to keep my place a little bit cleaner, lol.) Btw, I've also written a one-shot for LeviWeek, which will be out in a few days! Let me know if you wanna be tagged for it!

Tag list: @thechaoticarchivist, @mmm-alhaitham, @nironasaran, @leviiheichou, @huffleruffplant, @shutupp1, @iifrui, @shakysif, @ickearmn, @omlyurslvi

#levi ackerman #levi #aot #levi x reader #levi aot #captain levi #attack on titan #levi attack on titan #levi ackerman x reader #levi x you #levi x y/n #snk levi #shingeki no kyojin #snk #levi fluff #fluff #fanfic #fanfiction

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wrathofrats · 13 hours ago

Text

Caged and always provoked (By prey left unattended)

4k, explicit, Dewdrop/Rain/Aether

Merry Christmas freak @divine-misfortune ily and I hope that all the insanity I’ve been talking about for weeks now makes sense

Read under the cut or on ao3

Warnings and tags: medical examination, medfet, trans rain and tits cunt clit and all the other stuff used for his anatomy, gill fingering, virgin rain for religious reasons, a lot of religious fuckery, groping, breast exams, dew and aether are awful medical practitioners ok, pretty dubious consent but rains cool with everything and says that, it’s fuckery ok it’s 4k of fuckery and I’ve warned you

“We have to, we can’t just let you-“ Dew rambled. He set his clipboard down with a frustrated sigh before Rain interrupted him.

“I don’t have sex.”

Aether peeked his head up from his own sheet about reviewing Dew to look down over his glasses at Rain. Sure, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility, and certainly not abnormal, but considering Rain was a ghoul Aether wasn’t sure if he fully believed him.

“You’re saying that you’re a virgin?” Aether asked, before looking back over at Dew.

Or rains summoned as a virgin for his papa and his doctors want to see how far they can push him

“He seems easy enough. Could’ve sicked that new multi on you, looked like a handful” Aether slid the chart over to Dew who was pulling at his scrub top. The name Rain was scrawled at the top along with his summoning date and element. The rest of the spots were blank, meant to be filled in at his first appointment.

“Didn’t think I could handle it?” Dew clicked the pen a couple of times, scribbling in the corner of the paper to test the ink.

“Actually now that you mention it, I probably should’ve let you take him since you were such a menace for us when you were summoned. It took 3-“

“2” Dew interrupted with a scoff

“2 nurses to hold you down. You’re lucky I picked the quiet one for you.” Aether flipped open his own packet of paper meant for his notes on how Dew was doing. He wanted to train to be a nurse, a better and more meaningful job for him as he learned to use his new fire element. This would occupy him for the time being, and keep him useful considering they were down some staff as the siblings were taken for other clergy needs.

Dew rolled his eyes, plopping the clipboard onto the small table haphazardly. He didn’t know what time this ghoul was supposed to show up, barely even caught a glimpse of him during the summoning. Usually the new ghouls were thrown into the arms of those who were more trustworthy, such as Aether and omega, before being whisked away to check in on their new bodies and elements top side. The rest of the pack usually didn’t get to meet them until there was an all clear from the medical staff.

Which, now included Dew. He loved messing with new summons when he got the chance. Mountain was easy to lure right into his bed, teasing the poor guy until he just couldn’t stand it. And now being placed at the front lines? Even with Aether keeping a close eye on him, he had to admit the idea of thoroughly checking up and down this new summons body was tantalizing.

“You know what to do right?” Aether snapped Dew out of his thoughts with the throw of a tongue depressor that hit him in the shoulder.

“Got the check list, besides you’ll be here to remind me. Even if you gave me a very detailed lesson the other ni-“ Dew snickered before another tongue depressor whizzed past his head.

“You’ll treat him with respect Dew” Aether closed the glass jar and pushed it away from him. He crossed his leg in front of him, staring at his watch to check the time.

“Whatever, I’m a professional, remember?”

“Yeah a professional idiot maybe”

Dew barely got through his eye roll as the door knob turned. A sibling opened the door, gesturing for the ghoul in front of her to walk in the room. He was shy, keeping his head down as he sat down in one of the chairs by the exam bed.

“This is Rain, already got him checked in” the sibling handed Aether a couple papers before closing the door with a soft click. Aether was right, the new thing was quiet. Easy, if he really wanted to go that far already. The water ghoul barely lifted his head up to look at them as Aether started to quickly glance over the papers he was given. Simple things like height and weight, just to rule out any more obscure problems.

He was pretty, Dew had to admit. Blue skin and silky gills along his neck, the lingering thought of Rain even knew how they felt to be touched yet, and if he could send him home with the desire to do so. Delicate fins along his ears with a mop of dark hair. The poor thing was already blushing, looking properly scared even though they hadn’t done anything to him yet. Maybe it was Aethers size, or the perpetual resting bitch face Dew seemed to carry. The cherry on top was what was in his fist, a long string of black knots and beads, ending in a wooden inverted cross.

Aether raised his eyebrow at Dew who was properly staring Rain down, motioning down to his paper that was already all sectioned out for him.

“Oh- uh, I’m going to ask you some questions Rain, just routine in case there’s anything we need to know, is that alright?”

“Yeah, that’s ok” Rain shoved the rosary into his pocket, folding his hands in his lap and watching Dew nervously. He fiddled with his fingers, eyes darting between the two.

“How was your sleep the past couple nights?”

“Slept well, it’s new but my room is comfortable. Maybe 7 hours?” Aether gave him a smile while Dew scribbled down his answer.

“What has your diet been?”

“Small fish, been craving shrimp I think,”

“Ok, sounds good uh-“ Dew squinted at his paper, reading down to make sure he had recorded what he said properly and if there was anything else to take note of before he moved on. “Is there any chance you could be pregnant?”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s apart of the protocol, is there any chance at all?” Rains face flushed deeper as Dew looked between him and Aether expectantly. He hesitated, biting his lip while he tried to think of what to tell them.

“No. None”

“Good, that’s fine, uh.. any chance of an STD?” The only sound in the room for a moment was the scribbling of Dews pen on the paper. Rain once again hesitated with his answer.

“No.” It came out more tense this time. Something a little more impatient about the answer.

“Perfect, what kind of protection are you using?”

“I’m not.”

Dew looked up at him with his brow furrowed. What did he mean he wasn’t? Maybe it was one of those things, where the siblings would come in and be adamant about not practicing safe sex even after Aether begged them and wonder why their tests all came back positive. If there was another rampant case of chlamydia papa would have their asses. Maybe he was just naive, nothing an awkward pamphlet couldn’t help.

“Well- if you’re not using protection then we do need to test you”

“It’s fine, trust me”

“We have to, we can’t just let you-“ Dew rambled. He set his clipboard down with a frustrated sigh before Rain interrupted him.

“I don’t have sex.”

“You’re saying that you’re a virgin?” Aether asked, before looking back over at Dew.

“Yes.”

“Any reason or“

“Dew” there was a scolding tone to Aethers voice. The question was inappropriate, even if it was burning in both of their minds.

The room went silent for a second once again. Dew looked at Rain expectantly, waiting for some kind of answer. It didn’t truly matter but the curiosity was eating at him. The pretty little thing had never been touched before? What was he saving himself for?

“The Church.” Rain continued to pick at his fingernails, “was told to, they said it would make me a better servant for the clergy. For papa.”

Summonings were a fickle thing. Some of the ghouls were plucked from down below at random when needed in an emergency like Mist or the anomaly that was Cowbell, but others were chosen for it. Brought up to serve the church, practically handpicked for the band.

“Would there be any other reason for us to give you an….” Aether looked over at Dew, grabbing his papers to take his own notes, “exam of that sort?”

“No”

“Fingers? Toys? Maybe even a pillo-“ Dews leg was promptly kicked from under the table. Aether threw him a shocked look, mentally noting needing to go over how to talk to patients at a later time.

“I’m not allowed to. It would only distract me to give into those ….. desires”

Dew finally shut his mouth. The idea of asking “what kind of desires” edging their way into his brain. He couldn’t, at least not here. Aether was still staring at him, the frustrated shock of his words melting into something more curious about the ghoul who was sitting in front of them. The idea of being completely untouched was more than tempting for Dew to explore.

“Ok, that’s perfectly normal. It’s still part of protocol to give you a full physical, but in this case we won’t do any tests, just a look to be sure” Aether grabbed a pair of gloves before sliding the box to Dew, “do you mind fully undressing and putting on the gown on the table while we step out?”

It was Dews turn to look shocked. Aether was blatantly lying through his teeth, not only was a vaginal exam not necessary anyways, it especially wouldn’t be in this case. He’s not complaining, no, but the idea of Aether having his own plans about this made his heart beat even faster.

Rain nodded while Aether opened the door and motioned for Dew to step out. He still looked shocked, brows furrowed and eyes wide as he stared at Aether.

“A virgin?” Dew exclaimed once Aether finally had the door shut. “I didn’t know they did that in the pits. Keeping himself pure to please papa?”

“It’s not unheard of. River stayed untouched until he retired. In Omegas chart he mentioned having to be extra careful with him during any full body check ups” Aether watched the clock on the wall tick away, giving Rain ample time to undress and hopefully calm down a bit from being so nervous. It was cute, the bashfulness in his explanation, if Aether had half a mind he would’ve let Dew continue questioning him.

“Must be a water ghoul thing. Do you think he knows about his gills yet Aeth?”

“You’re a professional, remember Dew?”

Aether raised his eyebrow at him before giving a quick knock to the door, opening it slowly once Rain gave a meek ok. He sat up on the exam table. Ankles crossed and gown bunched awkwardly behind him in an attempt to cover himself. His clothes were folded in a neat pile on his chair, rosary sitting right next to his shoes on top.

Dew hastily snapped a couple gloves on his hands before walking up to stand between Rains legs, a little too close to be entirely clinical.

“Do you mind if I perform a bodily exam on you? we are just looking for any abnormalities we should be concerned about after your summoning” His tone was a bit quieter, something less harsh than his usual bravado.

“Please, go right ahead”

Rain reached up to undo the tie behind his neck, keeping the gown right under his breasts in order to not expose more than he needed to. His chest was small, a cute tiny pair of breasts with dusky little nipples that Dew was trying hard not to completely gawk at. He was a pretty thing, lithe body with a couple curves.

Dew pulled down the gown completely, letting the front section sit in his lap with his arms tight to his body. His cheeks were flushed a deep purple, eyes darting around to anywhere besides Dew.

“Going to have to ask you to lift your arms over your head for me, I need to see the gills on your abdomen” Dew reached beneath the bed to pump a small amount of lubricant on his fingers, rubbing them together to spread it evenly. The gesture looked, felt, dirty. Even if Rain was still in the assumption that it was completely innocent he couldn’t help how his mind wandered as he watched the blue latex shine.

There was a second of hesitation before Rain reached his arms over his head. Dews warm hand pressed down against his stomach, moving inch by inch to his side. Gloved fingers glided delicately over the soft fragile skin of Rains gills. Practically petting over them before dipping just the finger tip in as Rain gave a quiet gasp. He twitched Into the touch before quickly pulling away again.

“Are you alright Rain?” Aether looked from Dew to Rain, noting how he almost looked flustered. Lip between his teeth and the flush creeping down his chest. Dew turned and gave him a knowing look, pushing just a millimeter further in to watch him struggle.

“I’m fine, his hands are just … a bit cold” Rains lips turned into a tight line. He hoped neither of them would push back against such a bad lie, hell Dews hands were probably just on the uncomfortable side of too warm if Rain was being honest. Something sparked in his abdomen as Dew slid his fingers from side to side beneath the thin skin, eyes focusing intently as if he were looking for something.

“No pain? They seem fine otherwise. Nice color, not too loose, some amount of lubrication.” Dew mumbled in Aethers direction for him to write down, “I’ve heard of other water ghouls gills getting dried out from summoning, yours are slick though which is good”

Aether scribbled a couple notes down on his paper while Dew shot him a cocky look and pulled his fingers out of Rains gills, wiping his fingers off on a paper towel. Rain could see whatever came off of his hands shine in the white light of the room, embarrassment creeping up his cheeks. Sure there was the thought of what would happen if he pushed his fingers into his gills himself but the thoughts always came with a night of prayer and maybe a cold shower afterwards.

He didn’t need to be thinking like that. He was healthy and he should be happy, not letting Dews words make him feel light headed. What would papa think?

Rain brought his arms back down to rest his hands in his lap. The air was cold even if Rains body felt impossibly hot. Goosebumps prickled at his skin while Dew put on a fresh pair of gloves. His instinct was to cover himself again, no one had ever seen him this vulnerable, especially not two people at once.

“Still with us? You’re quieter than most of the other ghouls we have in here” Aether spoke up after a second of watching Rain stare intently at Dews hands while he put on his gloves. Rain jumped a little, looking back at Aether with wide eyes.

“Just don’t talk much, I’ve always been told I’m quiet”

“But you’ll speak up if you’re uncomfortable right?”

Rain gave him a solid nod. Aether pushed his glasses back up his face and crossed his legs in front of him to rest his clipboard on. Even beyond Rains racing thoughts he looked devastatingly clinical, Dew as well who was dressed in blue scrubs. Something to keep him grounded, remind him why he was there.

Dew stepped in front of him once again. His hands grabbed along his arms, pushing at his shoulders. They practically rubbed down his sternum in a way that made Rain shiver. Warm hands pressed into his ribs looking for any signs of pain or discomfort.

He took a deep breath as Dew finally made it up to his breast, palms kneading into the supple flesh with a careful eye. Rains fingers dug into the paper on the table with a sickening crunch. Aether immediately noticed how he practically stopped breathing, going entirely still with his lip between his teeth.

Dew tried to pretend he was being entirely professional, every pull and knead being necessary even if the pressure lingered until Rain finally squirmed under his touch, making Dew move on to the next area he was supposed to be examining.

“Seem sensitive” Dew practically hissed through his teeth. The professional demeanor was slowly coming unraveled the more he was able to see what his touch was doing to Rain. A blushing virgin practically losing his composure beneath him just from groping his tits. It was taking all of his self control not to just push him back onto the table and hike the gown over his hips.

Dew was getting ahead of himself. A particularly rough grab as he got lost in thought had Rain writhing off the table.

“Jus- just a bit- ah!” Rains thighs clamped together, chest debating on pulling away or pushing into the rough sensation. Dew was properly pulling at his nipples now, rough calloused fingers pinching the pretty buds just to keep drawing small forced noises from the back of Rains throat.

The gown had fully slipped down and threatened to slide off of his lap if he wasn’t careful. Small neat trail of hair along his navel with a couple dark curls peeking from behind the plastic. Rain knew he was about to be exposed if he made one wrong move, but couldn’t bring himself to grab the gown to cover himself again, not when Dew was touching him like this.

Rain shot a look towards Aether in a small plea for him to do something. Aether looked shocked, pen sitting idly in his hand as he stared blatantly at Rains chest while Dew worked. He should probably step in, pull Dew off and let Rain catch his breath but god he looks like he’s thoroughly enjoying himself and he puts on such a nice show that Aether doesn’t think he can intervene.

“Soft, probably feels so good, doesn’t it Rain?” Dew was almost impossibly close to him by now, both hands groping him and breath hot on his neck, “really never done this for yourself, never let yourself feel good?”

The words made Rains bRain turn off for a solid couple seconds. Whatever air of keeping things chaste and clinical now unraveling as Dew tugged on Rains nipples. He couldn’t deny the small sparks of electricity that ran through him with the pain of Dews pinching and pulling, couldn’t deny that it made his head feel fuzzy and stomach feel hot even if he wanted to.

“Not supposed to” Rains voice was meek. Sure he wanted to, but it was wrong. Sinful. Body dedicated to his papa but oh being touched like this was absolutely delicious. Even if it was just his breasts, something he had done in the shower more than a couple times with the excuse of making sure he was healthy even if his hands lingered, much like what Dew was doing now.

“You’ve never thought about it? Never considered giving into the desire?”

“I have” the admission struggled to come out. Like saying the words out loud were enough to damn him completely. “It’s wrong- not supposed to need or want anything more than papa”

Dew felt a little bad at the laugh that got forced out of him. A bit cruel especially as he pushed Rains tits together just to thumb at the cleavage, more just for the sake of doing it and to see Rain squirm than any other reason. The whole persona of medical professionalism had been thrown out the window the second he was even allowed to touch him there, and hell, Aether didn’t seem like he was going to stop him.

“Afraid you’ll just become addicted? Won’t be able to keep those hands away from this pretty little body of yours?” Dew gave another squeeze to Rains tits before skating them lower and lower, hovering over the only thing still covering any amount of modesty Rain had left.

Rain let out a shocked gasp as Dew pushed him down onto his back, legs maneuvered to be fully spread in front of him. The flimsy gown fell haphazardly onto the floor along with Aethers pen that had been dropped as he watched the scene in front of him. Rains legs pulled apart and cunt practically on display, slick coating him in a way that could only be described as obscene. Even for a water ghoul, it was more than a bit surprising to see how wet he had gotten from Dews hands on his gills and chest.

“See? Cunts just aching for it isn’t it?” A gloved finger slid between Rains folds, practically gathering the arousal and letting it drip down the latex, “Can feel you twitching. Give in, ask for it.”

Rains body was trembling. Legs shaking as Dew dipped the tip of his fingers inside of him for him to clench around. That’s all he had ever done himself. A couple of slow pets and maybe just the tip of his finger before he could come back to his right mind and stop himself. A night trying to deny what he really wanted, how he craved for something to be inside of him in a way that prayer just couldn’t take the edge off of.

“Papa wouldn’t allow it, my bodies for him”

“But it feels good doesn’t it Rain?” Dews fingers fully pushed inside of him. He was hot, beyond tight as he clamped down and let out a strangled sound. His thumb pressed against Rains clit earning a gasp that was forced from the back of Rains throat.

“So good-!”

Dews fingers pumped in and out of him slowly, scissoring apart to see if he could get him any looser. Dew could pass out if he thought about it too hard, his fingers being the first to open up the water ghouls virgin cunt? The thought had him about to shove down his scrub pants and be the one to fuck him first as well. He tried to maintain his composure, looking back at Aether who had a hand on top of his bulge, palming himself through his pants.

“Let yourself feel good, come on baby, give into those sick desires I know you have” there was an awful wet squelching sound coming from Rains cunt, slick dripping down onto the exam table as Dew rubbed fast circles into his clit.

“Please- need more” Rains hips canted off of the table, practically trying to hump Dews hand as he pumped his fingers in and out of him “don’t tell papa please-“

“Oh but Dew, it’s not supposed to feel good, it’s just an exam” Aether had gotten up to stand by his side, white coat discarded on the chair and clearly still hard.

What was he even getting at? He pulled apart Rains cunt to get a look at how Dews fingers slid in and out of him with ease, cold air of the room only making Rain feel more exposed while Aether practically gawked at him.

“It’s not?” Dew stalled his movements, Rain giving a small noise of protest beneath him.

“No, its entirely medical remember? since we are supposed to be keeping him pure, papas orders” Aether said like it should’ve been obvious. Maybe it should have been honestly, Aether pushed a finger of his in next to Dews making Rain arch off the table with the stretch. With the way he clamped down he was surely close already, never been touched and now being stretched wide on three fingers, “maybe the poor things just too far gone if he’s feeling this good. If he was truly devoted he would be still, wouldn’t ask for more. It’s a shame that we will have to inform papa”

Dew pressed a bit harder on his clit, fingers crooking up against that sweet spot he wasn’t sure if Rain even knew he had. Before he could stop it, Rain was spasming around Aether and Dews fingers, a small cry leaving his lips as he completely soaked the paper on the table

“Oh well that’s certainly not normal” Aether removed his hand, disposing of the glove in the trash can without another beat while Dew debated licking his clean, “a true disciple wouldn’t do that, would they?”

#yeah I have no fucking excuses for this #as always #I was possessed and it’s not my fault #cw medical #medfet #cw dubious consent #dubious consent #aether ghoul #dewdrop ghoul #rain ghoul #the band ghost #ghost #nameless ghouls #ghost bc #fanfic #wrath writes

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lilmisshellfireswritingblog · 12 hours ago

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The Prophecy Chapter 2: Even Statues Crumble

Summary: Aurelia prepares for her wedding to Lucius Verus and marries him to save her own life.

A/N: Thank you for reading this little idea of mine. It literally came to me as I was listening to The Prophecy in the car on the way to work. If you have any requests as to like blurbs or one shots that happen within this universe, please let me know. I also don't do tag lists but, I appreciate the support! Warnings: 18+, arranged marriage, forced marriage, talks of death, second guessing, weddings, Geta being an a-hole, use of flashbacks, talking about wanting to die, emotions., and as always, let me know if I missed any.

Flashbacks are labeled as such.

Separator banner credit to: sweetmelodygraphics.

Aurelia’s gaze flitted to the reflection of the gown on the bed, her heart sinking. The fabric seemed to mock her. Every thread, every seam, a reminder of the future she never wanted. She felt suffocated by her obligations—by the weight of what was expected of her. Her father, her mother, the Senate, the people—they had all decided for her. They had all played their parts in crafting her destiny, and now she was nothing more than a pawn in a game of politics.

The door opened behind her with a soft creak, but she didn’t turn. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this—not tonight. Not before the wedding.

Her servant, Flavia, stepped in cautiously, her voice gentle as she spoke. "Your Highness, everything is prepared. The gown... the feast… everything is ready for tomorrow.."

Aurelia stood still for a long moment, her hands gripping the windowsill. The breeze from the open window fluttered her hair around her face, but she didn’t feel the coolness of it. She barely felt anything at all. She was numb.

“Aurelia?” Flavia’s voice was concerned now, soft but insistent.

Aurelia slowly turned toward her, her face unreadable, her eyes tired but defiant. “You were right to be excited for me,” she said bitterly, her words sharper than she intended. "But I’m not." She felt the sting of tears rising in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She would not cry in front of anyone—not now.

Flavia hesitated, her brow furrowing with worry. “You don’t have to go through with this. You know that, right? You can—”

“No,” Aurelia interrupted sharply, stepping away from the window, her voice suddenly hoarse. “I have no choice. I am to be the Emperor’s wife, whether I want to be or not. It’s this or die.”

Her words cut through the air, thick with the weight of resignation. She hated them. She hated the fact that her life was no longer hers to control. She had no say in who she married, no say in what her future would be. Her marriage to Geta had been forced upon her, too, but at least she had known him, had grown accustomed to his cruelty. This marriage—this union with Lucius Verus—felt like a strange cruelty of its own.

Flavia opened her mouth to protest again, but Aurelia cut her off with a soft, bitter laugh.

“You don’t understand, Flavia,” she whispered, her hands trembling at her sides. “Geta and Caracalla are dead. The empire is in the hands of men who would never think twice about tearing me apart. I am a puppet. A trophy wife. Tomorrow, I’ll stand before the Senate, and they’ll pretend to care, while they all gawk at the new Empress. And Lucius…” She paused, her voice thick with disdain, “He doesn’t want me. He’s just another part of the game. Another ruler who’ll sit beside me in the throne room and we’ll both pretend to love each other.”

Flavia moved closer, placing a gentle hand on Aurelia’s arm. “He’s not like the others, Aurelia. Lucius—he’s different. He was a gladiator. He knows what it means to fight, to survive. He’s not like the men who’ve ruled before.”

Aurelia’s lips trembled at the words. She wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe that Lucius, this gladiator-turned-emperor, was different. That maybe, through some strange twist of fate, he might understand her pain. But the truth was more complicated than that.

She stepped away from Flavia’s touch, pacing slowly toward the edge of the room. Her fingers lightly brushed against the fabric of the wedding gown once more, the weight of it pulling her down. "I don’t want to marry him,” she said quietly, more to herself than anyone else. “I don’t want this life. I don’t want any of it."

The words hung in the air, thick with the despair she had not allowed herself to feel until now. There was a part of her, a small, fragile part, that wanted to scream at the heavens. Why me? Why is it always me who has to bear the weight of the empire’s cruelty?

Flavia, sensing the depth of her distress, approached her once more, her voice softer this time, filled with empathy. "You don’t have to marry him if you don’t want to. You are strong, Aurelia. You can walk away from this. There are other ways."

Aurelia looked at her, her eyes clouded with pain. “What other ways, Flavia? Do you think the Senate would let me walk away? Do you think I could just... disappear?” Her voice cracked, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, her composure shattered. "I am nothing but a political pawn in their game. If I don't marry Lucius, I’ll be executed. They’ll kill me and then they’ll put someone else on the throne."

Flavia’s heart broke at the words, but she stood still, not knowing how to comfort her. There was no escape, not really. Not for Aurelia. Not for the woman who had already lost everything.

“I have nothing,” Aurelia whispered, her voice hollow. “Nothing left. Nothing to give. Nothing to hope for. This marriage... this wedding... it’s all a lie.”

Tears filled Aurelia’s eyes, but she quickly wiped them away, turning away from Flavia. “I wish I could die before tomorrow. Just to be free of all of this.”

Flavia’s breath hitched, panic rising in her chest. She grabbed Aurelia by the shoulders, turning her to face her. “Don’t say that, Aurelia. Don’t even think it! You’re strong. You have so much to live for.”

Aurelia pulled away gently, her voice strained and broken. “What do I have to live for? This empire? This crown?” She gestured helplessly to the room, to the gown she would wear tomorrow, to the life that awaited her. “I never asked for any of this. I didn’t want this.”

She sank into a chair, her head buried in her hands as she trembled. Flavia stood helplessly nearby, watching the woman she had served for so long unravel before her eyes.

And for a moment, the silence between them was unbearable, filled only with the weight of unspoken sorrow.

Aurelia’s thoughts were a whirl of darkness and pain but in the quiet, with the wedding gown looming in the distance, she knew—deep down—that she had to keep moving forward, whether she wanted to or not.

It was marriage or death.

For tomorrow, whether she accepted it or not, she would marry Lucius Verus and she would be Empress once more.

Flashback ~ Before Her Marriage to Geta

The night before her wedding to Emperor Geta, Aurelia lay in her bed, the cool sheets tangled around her legs, but it was the storm in her mind that kept her awake. She stared up at the high, vaulted ceiling, the shadows of the room stretching long and dark, as if the very walls were closing in on her.

She had barely eaten at dinner. She had hardly spoken. The weight of the marriage, of the future that awaited her, hung like a shroud. Tomorrow, she would walk down the aisle in a gown of white and gold, and before the Senate and the people of Rome, she would become Empress Aurelia, the wife of a man she barely knew, a man she had been told to marry to secure her family's place in the empire.

But Aurelia did not want this. Not this life. Not with him. She never wanted the titles or the riches.

A thousand thoughts raced through her mind, but one was clear: she could not go through with it. She would not. If there was any way to escape, to avoid this fate, she would find it. She had to.

She slipped out of bed, her bare feet cold against the marble floor. She had worn the finest silken gown, but now she felt it like a weight—a symbol of the chains that bound her to this life she had not chosen. Moving quickly, she crept to the door, her heart hammering in her chest. The guards would be outside, she knew. They always were. But what if she could slip past them? What if she could leave the palace unnoticed?

Aurelia moved silently through the darkened corridors, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she pressed herself into the shadows, listening carefully for any signs of movement. The stone walls of the palace seemed oppressive in their silence, like the very architecture was conspiring against her.

She reached the door that led to the garden, the place where she used to play as a child, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like a distant memory. The scent of roses filled the air, the sound of the night insects buzzing faintly in the distance. She stepped outside, the cool night air hitting her skin, and felt a fleeting sense of freedom.

But just as she began to move toward the edge of the gardens, a voice sliced through the silence.

“Aurelia.”

Her heart leapt into her throat. She froze. Slowly, she turned to find Marcus Cassius, her father, standing in the shadows, his face unreadable but stern. He had been watching her. Of course he had. The guards would never have let her slip by without reporting it.

“You should be in bed,” he said, his voice soft but firm, like the press of a blade against her throat.

“I—” Aurelia began, but her words faltered. She had no excuse. No lie would work.

She was tired of lying.

“I can’t do this, Father,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I can’t marry him. I can’t marry Geta.”

Marcus took a slow step forward, his face illuminated by the moonlight, and Aurelia saw the flicker of something in his eyes—concern, perhaps, or disappointment. It was hard to tell. His features were always so controlled.

“I know this isn’t what you want,” he said, his tone gentle, but there was an undercurrent of something darker, something unyielding. “But it is what you must do.”

Aurelia’s chest tightened, her breath coming faster as the weight of his words crushed her. “I don’t care about what I must do!” she snapped, her voice rising. “I care about what I want, what I need. And I need to be free. Free from this. I don’t belong with Geta. I don’t love him. How can you ask me to marry a man I barely know, someone I’ve heard only whispers of? How can you force me into this life?”

Her father’s eyes softened, but the hardness in his face never wavered. “It’s not about love, Aurelia,” he said, his voice almost too calm. “This is about Rome. This is about securing the future of our family. Your marriage to Geta will ensure that we remain in power, that our name remains in the annals of history. You were born to be a part of this.”

Aurelia stepped back, shaking her head in disbelief. “I never asked for this. You’ve always made choices for me, Father, but I’m not a child anymore. I’m not some pawn for you to place in a marriage bed just to secure alliances. I want my own life. I want to choose my own path.”

Marcus’s gaze hardened, his jaw tightening. “You’ve never had a choice, Aurelia. You’ve always known that. The empire does not offer choice to women like you. You are a Cassia, and that means you have a duty. Do you think your mother didn’t know this when she married me? Do you think she didn’t understand that duty? That she didn’t make sacrifices for it?”

Aurelia recoiled, her breath catching in her throat. She had never heard her father speak of her mother with such coldness. It was as if the warmth of her mother’s memory—of her kindness and devotion—was gone, swept away by the weight of duty and power.

“I don’t want to be like her,” Aurelia said, her voice barely above a whisper, her hands trembling at her sides. “I don’t want to give up everything for the empire. I don’t want to be controlled.”

Her father’s expression faltered, just for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. “You have no choice. Neither does Geta. The Senate has already approved this marriage. The people will expect it. If you do not comply, there will be consequences for us both.”

Aurelia’s world felt like it was collapsing around her. The walls of the palace, the stone and marble, seemed to close in on her, suffocating her. “I don’t care about their consequences!” she cried, her voice breaking, but even as she said it, she knew she was lying. She cared about the consequences—she cared deeply. A refusal would mean disgrace, dishonor, and ruin for her family. And for herself.

“You must go through with it,” Marcus said quietly, his voice final. “You will meet Geta tomorrow. You will marry him. And you will do it for Rome. For us. For your future.”

Aurelia’s knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the stone bench in the garden, her hands pressing against her face. The tears she had been holding back for so long finally spilled over, and for the first time in years, she felt utterly, completely powerless.

Her father’s gaze lingered on her, but there was no sympathy in it. Only the cold, unyielding expectation of a Roman nobleman.

“You will learn to accept it,” he said quietly, before turning and walking back toward the palace.

Aurelia was left alone, the sound of his footsteps fading as the weight of her reality set in. She could run. She could scream. But she knew, deep down, that there was no escape. Not for her. Not from the life her father had chosen for her.

Aurelia stood in front of the full-length mirror, her reflection hazy in the soft light of the candle-lit chamber. Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the silk robe that clung to her skin. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional clink of jewelry being prepared by her attendants. The noise from outside—laughter, music, the murmur of the Senate gathering for the ceremony—seemed distant, almost foreign to her in this moment of solitude.

Her wedding day. It should have been a day of joy, of hope for a future that could be built in the light of love and partnership. But for her, it felt like the closing of a door she had never intended to open.

The door to the chamber opened slowly, and one of her handmaidens entered, holding the delicate wedding gown in her arms. Aurelia’s eyes flickered toward it for a moment before returning to her own reflection. The gown was a brilliant red, trimmed with gold thread, the fabric soft and weightless like a dream. The delicate embroidery along the hem and neckline sparkled faintly in the light—symbols of Rome's glory, of the empire's future that was now her responsibility, and her burden.

"Aurelia?" The handmaid's voice was gentle, tentative, as if unsure whether to interrupt her mistress's thoughts.

Aurelia turned, giving her a tight, thin-lipped smile. "Yes, Flavia?"

"The gown is ready to don, Empress. Shall I help you?" The woman’s gaze was respectful, but there was something else there too—a flicker of sympathy that Aurelia couldn’t bear to acknowledge.

Aurelia swallowed the lump in her throat. She didn’t want sympathy. She didn’t want pity. She wanted to scream, to break something, to tear off this crown of thorns that Rome had placed on her head. But she did none of that. She simply nodded.

"Yes," she said softly, turning her back to the mirror so Antonia could help her slip out of the robe and into the wedding gown.

The cold air of the room pricked at her skin as she stood there, exposed, while her handmaiden adjusted the dress. The fabric felt like it was suffocating her, the layers of fine silk pressing against her ribs, wrapping around her like a prison. Every movement she made seemed to tighten the knot in her chest, that feeling of being trapped.

“Do you want to wear your crown?” Antonia asked quietly as she fastened the gown with a delicate clasp at the back.

Aurelia’s eyes closed for a moment, the thought of the crown heavy in her mind. It was an ancient piece, crafted with intricate gold filigree and precious stones, a symbol of imperial power. It had once been worn by the great empresses of Rome, and now it would sit atop her head—whether she liked it or not.

But no. Not today.

“Not yet,” Aurelia replied with a sigh, her voice flat. She didn’t need the crown to feel the weight of this marriage. The crown would only serve as a reminder of the chains that now bound her to Lucius.

The handmaiden gave a small nod and moved to prepare the rest of the ensemble. Aurelia looked back at her reflection, her eyes scanning her face, her chestnut brown hair, now expertly arranged in a complicated updo, twisted with strands of gold. The gold accents in her gown glinted, catching the light like cruel promises.

Her heart thudded in her chest. It was not fear that made her body tense, nor anxiety over the marriage itself. It was the overwhelming weight of her own complicity. She was walking into this union with her eyes wide open. She knew what this would mean for her. For her future. For her identity.

"I should be happy," she murmured to herself. "I should be proud."

But she wasn’t.

She wasn’t anything but resigned.

She had spent her life surrounded by men who used their power for their own gain—first Geta, then Father, and now Lucius. Each had taken something from her. Her love. Her trust. Her belief in what a marriage could be. Now, this marriage would be no different. Lucius was no Geta, certainly, but the coldness that resided between them was something that neither of them could escape. He may have been the son of Lucilla, the true heir to the throne, but she knew him only as a gladiator—someone who had fought his way to power, someone who had been shaped by violence and bloodshed.

The door creaked again, and another handmaiden entered, this one carrying the veil that would cover her face. Aurelia stood still as it was gently placed over her head. She let the fabric fall into place, the lace soft against her skin. It was beautiful, but suffocating.

“You look stunning, Empress,” Antonia whispered, as if her words would somehow erase the tension in the room.

Aurelia didn’t respond immediately. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, to pretend for even a moment that this day was anything other than the beginning of something that she had not chosen.

The heavy silence settled between them, the air thick with the weight of her decision. The marriage would proceed. The ceremony would go on. She would stand by Lucius’s side. She would wear the crown, and she would endure.

In a fleeting moment, as the last of the attendants left the room to give her space, Aurelia allowed herself one last thought: Perhaps, somewhere in the depths of her heart, she still longed for a different life. A life where she was not bound by duty, not made to be the symbol of an empire, not forced into a marriage for the sake of political alliances.

But as the clock ticked, the reality of her situation gripped her again, cold and unyielding.

This was not her choice. Not really.

She was an empress and empresses did not have the luxury of choice.

Aurelia stepped toward the door, the faint sound of the wedding procession echoing in the halls of the palace. She walked down the corridors, her heels clicking softly against the marble floors, her breath steady. Her hands, now trembling once more, gripped the edges of her gown. She could feel her heart race. But she kept her face neutral, resolute.

The doors to the grand hall opened, and before her, in the vastness of the room, stood Lucius—waiting for her. The air buzzed with anticipation.

And she, Aurelia, stood at the threshold, ready to step into her new life.

The price of power. The price of survival.

And, most of all, the price of being an empress.

The grand hall of the imperial palace was bathed in golden light, its columns adorned with rich purple tapestries and intricate carvings that had witnessed countless ceremonies of wealth and power. But today, this sacred space seemed to pulse with an air of something darker—something forged by the sword, blood, and vengeance.

Aurelia Carina Cassia stood near the altar, her breath shallow and her body stiff with anger, her eyes dark and haunted as she gazed out over the sea of guests. Senators, generals, and various figures of power from across the Empire filled the space, their murmurs low and expectant. It was meant to be a celebration of Rome’s new era, but for her, it felt like a bitter mockery.

Her heart still ached for Geta, her late husband. Cruel though he had been, she had found a way to love him—a love that had never been returned but existed all the same. Now, the man who had taken his place as Emperor, Lucius Verus, stood in front of her.

Lucius Verus. He was unlike anything she had imagined. A gladiator. A slave. And yet, he bore the blood of the true Imperial line. He was her captor and her future husband, thrust into this role by the whims of power. He had murdered Macrinus, the usurper who had orchestrated the deaths of her first husband and his brother Caracalla, but in his victory, there was no joy—only a quiet fury that matched her own.

He stood tall and commanding, his piercing blue eyes scanning her face with an intensity that unsettled her. He was dressed in the traditional garb of an emperor, but his bearing—the broad shoulders, the ruggedness, the battle-worn look—betrayed his humble origins. He had spent most of his time in Rome now in the blood-soaked sands, fighting for survival, earning his freedom through the same violence that had stolen his childhood.

He was, in a sense, a mirror to her own loss. She, too, had been forced to survive in a world she could never control.

And now they were to be joined in marriage, a union that was born not of love, but of survival.

The officiant, a high-ranking priestess, gestured for them to stand at the center of the room, her voice smooth and practiced as she spoke the traditional words of union. Her gaze flickered between the two, noting the tension in their posture, the unwillingness that clung to them like a dark cloud.

Aurelia’s hands trembled as she reached out to take the hand of her new husband. His palm was rough and calloused, the grip firm but not comforting. She could feel the history of his life in his touch—years of hardship, bloodshed, and struggle. His thumb brushed against the back of her hand in a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture, but it was enough to remind her that despite all that had happened, they were bound by something now. A shared future of power, of control, and of the very Empire that had destroyed their lives.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she nodded, the ceremony continuing in its formalities, yet her mind was far from the words being spoken. She thought of the fateful choice she had been given: marry Lucius Verus or face execution. It was a choice she had made out of necessity, but every fiber of her being screamed in defiance. She had loved Geta, and in that love, she had found a strange semblance of purpose, even if it had been a hollow one. Now, that love had been torn from her, and she was left with a man she neither knew nor cared to know.

Lucius, for his part, said nothing. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of something that mirrored her own anger. Perhaps it was the knowledge that neither of them had been given the luxury of choice, that their fates had been decided by forces greater than themselves.

The priestess continued with the vows, each word falling like the sound of a hammer on stone. As Lucius Verus spoke his vows, his voice was steady, though there was a quiet intensity beneath it, as if he were speaking not just to Aurelia but to the Empire itself, declaring his authority, his claim to this throne. He had killed Macrinus for the very right to stand where he was now. And she was his symbol of legitimacy, the last link to the imperial bloodline of the old regime.

Her turn came, and for a moment, she hesitated. The weight of what this marriage meant pressed down on her, the reality of her new life settling in. There was no love to offer him. No affection. Just the remnants of a broken loyalty to a man who had never truly loved her.

“I vow,” she said, her voice cold, “to stand by your side, as is my duty. I vow to give you the Empire that you now rule, for what it is worth. But know this, Lucius Verus—there will be no affection, no love between us. Only power. Only ambition.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence. The room held its breath.

Lucius’s blue eyes bored into hers, and for a long moment, she thought he might challenge her words, perhaps even reject her defiance. Instead, he simply nodded, as if he had already anticipated it.

“We will rule together,” he said, his voice steady and unwavering. “There is no room for weakness in Rome.”

And with that, the ceremony was complete.

As they turned to face the assembled guests, the crowd erupted into applause, their faces masks of politeness, their hands clapping with enthusiasm. The new emperor and his empress stood together, united in a marriage that neither had chosen but both were bound by. Aurelia could feel the coldness of her own heart as she stood there beside him, the weight of the imperial crown now heavy on her brow.

Her life, her future, was now irrevocably linked to this man, this gladiator-turned-emperor, whose blue eyes hid more secrets than she would ever be able to unravel. But as they walked down the aisle, side by side, she knew one thing for certain: in the world of power, there could be no true love. Only survival. Only Empire. Only Rome. Only duty.

Flashback ~ The Wedding To Geta

The sun was setting over Rome, casting a soft golden glow over the city that stretched out below the Palatine Hill. Aurelia stood before a tall mirror, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the folds of her wedding dress—a gown of delicate silk and rich embroidery that shimmered in the fading light. The dress, fit for an empress, was crafted from the finest materials, but it felt heavy against her skin. Every stitch, every detail, reminded her of the weight of the day, of the promise she was about to make, and the life she was about to step into.

Her reflection stared back at her, but she barely recognized the woman in the mirror. Gone was the spirited young woman she had been before her marriage was arranged. Gone was the girl who had dreamed of love and adventure. In her place stood a woman bound by duty—her fate sealed by the politics of empire, her future written in the cold, unfeeling hand of power.

Aurelia closed her eyes for a moment, taking in a steadying breath. She would have preferred to wait, to delay this moment, to take time to come to terms with the reality of her marriage. But there was no time. The people expected it. The Senate demanded it. And her father, always the pragmatist, had seen the union as an opportunity for political gain—an alliance that would strengthen the family name.

"Are you ready?" came a voice, breaking her reverie. It was her father, standing in the doorway of her chamber. His expression was unreadable, as it always was, but there was something behind his eyes—a flicker of concern, perhaps, or maybe guilt. He had done what was necessary. But Aurelia knew it had not been his choice either.

She forced a smile, the kind of smile she had perfected long ago when she was a child trying to please her father. "As ready as I’ll ever be."

Her father’s eyes softened for just a moment before he nodded. "You will be Empress. You know what that means, Aurelia. It’s a responsibility to Rome. To the future. Remember all that your mother and I have taught you."

Aurelia nodded, her throat tightening. Her future was already laid out for her, and it was not a future she had chosen. But she had always known that in the Roman world, duty outweighed personal desire. She was a woman of privilege, yes, but she was also a pawn in a game of power and politics.

The doors to the chamber opened, and Aurelia’s attendants entered, guiding her to the grand hall where the wedding would take place. The hall was massive, filled with marble columns and the scent of fresh flowers, the long tables draped in crimson cloths. Guests had already arrived, dressed in their finest to witness the union of the Emperor and the daughter of a noble family. But none of it felt real to Aurelia. It all felt distant, a pageant for the empire’s elite, a performance where she was expected to play her role.

Her heart beat in her chest, faster than it had been moments ago. Not from excitement, but from a deep, gnawing apprehension. This man— Emperor Geta—would be her husband. A man who had already shown her nothing but coldness and indifference. Their marriage, she knew, was not one built on affection or love but on the weight of imperial necessity.

As she entered the hall, she could feel the eyes of the guests on her, their gazes heavy, judging. The high-ranking senators, the nobles of Rome, all gathered to witness the consolidation of power that this marriage represented. But Aurelia’s mind was elsewhere, focused on the figure at the end of the long aisle.

Emperor Geta stood there, his back straight, his expression impassive. His dark hair was neatly combed, and his tunic was rich with gold embroidery, the imperial seal shining brightly on his chest. His eyes, dark and unreadable, met hers briefly as she walked toward him. For a moment, there was a flicker—an almost imperceptible shift in his gaze—but it was gone before Aurelia could understand it.

His presence was like a shadow, looming over her, a reminder of what was to come. He was not cruel—at least, not outwardly—but there was a coldness in him, an emotional distance that made her uneasy. The idea of this man being her husband was foreign, unsettling. And yet, as the ceremony began, she knew there was no turning back.

The high priest stepped forward, his voice solemn as he began the traditional rites. Aurelia’s gaze remained fixed on Geta, but he was unmoved. His lips were set in a firm line, his expression a mask of indifference. He did not seem to care for the ceremony, nor did he seem to care for her.

"Do you, Emperor Geta, take Aurelia Carina Cassia to be your wife, to rule beside you in both marriage and in empire, in joy and in hardship, in life and in death?" the priest asked.

Geta’s voice was low, almost detached. "I do."

Aurelia’s heart skipped a beat. He spoke the words with no passion, no conviction, as though the act was nothing more than a formality to be checked off the list. A formality for the empire.

Then it was her turn.

"Aurelia Carina Cassia," the priest said, turning his gaze to her. "Do you take Emperor Geta, to be your husband, to join with him in marriage, in rule, in life, and in death?"

Her lips parted, but for a long moment, no sound came out. Her mind swirled with conflicting thoughts—fear, doubt, and resignation. She had no choice. There was no turning back. The empire was watching her.

"I do," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her.

The ceremony continued, the exchange of vows, the binding of rings, the symbolic gestures of unity. But even as the final prayers were spoken and the crowd cheered, Aurelia felt nothing but an overwhelming sense of emptiness. She was a wife, yes, but not in the way she had imagined. She was a wife in name, a wife to a man who would never truly love her.

As the final blessing was given, Geta turned to her, offering her his arm as he led her from the altar. His eyes met hers for a moment, and in the fleeting seconds, Aurelia saw something there—something cold, something distant. But she couldn’t place it. She wasn’t sure if it was pity, disdain, or something else entirely. But it didn’t matter.

They were married now. The empire will have its heirs. The empire had its future.

They walked together, side by side, but it felt as though they were walking in separate worlds, worlds that had collided for the sake of duty, of power, of an empire that demanded much and offered little in return.

As Aurelia took her place at his side, she couldn’t help but wonder what the future would hold for her in this cold, loveless marriage. Would she ever find warmth in his eyes? Or would she forever remain a figure beside him, a silent witness to the empire’s unyielding march?

In the end, she knew one thing for certain: the wedding had been the beginning of a new life, but it had not been the beginning of love.

The grand dining hall of the imperial palace was a breathtaking sight, adorned with lavish tapestries depicting the heroic deeds of the emperor's past. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, honeyed wine, and exotic spices, while gilded chandeliers cast their warm glow over the guests, whose laughter and chatter echoed off the marble walls. The feast had begun in earnest, but for Aurelia, it felt like an insufferable pageantry, an endless display of opulence that was as hollow as her own heart.

The high table, where she and Lucius Verus now sat side by side, was elevated above the sea of guests, an uncomfortable reminder of the power that now bound them together. At one end of the table sat the new Emperor of Rome, his piercing blue eyes cold and distant, as if he were already surveying the entire Empire with an authority that didn’t need to be spoken. At the other end, Aurelia sat stiffly, her hands clenched in her lap beneath the rich folds of her gown, unable to fully appreciate the luxury that surrounded her. She had been made Empress again, yes, but it was a title that seemed to mock her more than anything else. She had no love for Lucius Verus—her husband only in name—yet here she was, forced to play the part, to smile and pretend that this was all as it should be.

Her gown shimmered beneath the flickering candlelight. It was the color of Rome’s old blood—the blood of emperors, of gladiators, and of countless men and women who had fought for survival. She hated the irony of it all.

Lucius, for his part, barely spoke. His jaw was set, his expression unreadable. He lifted his goblet of wine to his lips and took a long drink, his eyes briefly meeting hers, but only for a second. The tension between them was palpable, like an invisible thread pulling them further apart with every passing moment.

The servants moved around the table with practiced efficiency, placing golden platters of roasted boar, venison, and lamb, their skins crackling with crisp fat, alongside bowls of fresh fruits—pomegranates, figs, and clusters of grapes—and loaves of freshly baked bread. An assortment of cheeses and honeyed pastries were brought in, and the scent of wine—sweet, tart, and heady—filled the air. Flutists played softly in the background, and a troupe of dancers from the East began a slow, sensuous dance, their silks flowing as they moved in perfect harmony with the music.

But despite the abundance of food and drink, despite the spectacle unfolding before her, Aurelia could not enjoy a single moment. Her mind swam with bitter thoughts: memories of Geta, the brutal coldness of his reign, his violence—yet, within that cruelty, she had found something to hold on to, something that had made him hers, even if only in the darkest corners of her heart.

She was brought back to the present by a low voice beside her.

"Not hungry?" Lucius Verus’s voice was quieter than before, his words heavy with something unreadable. It was not a question of concern, but one of curiosity, or perhaps challenge.

Aurelia turned toward him, meeting his gaze. His blue eyes were sharp and intent, as though he were studying her, as though she were the next opponent to be defeated in his personal arena.

"I’m not hungry," she replied, her voice cool, and for a moment, their eyes locked, the silence between them thick and heavy.

Lucius’s lips tightened, though it wasn’t in anger. It was more a quiet acknowledgment of the tension between them. He turned his gaze back to the feast and picked up a roasted fig, placing it delicately in his mouth. There was something almost calculated about his movements, as if every action were part of a larger strategy.

Around them, the feast continued with laughter and revelry. A senator cracked a joke, a group of soldiers clinked their goblets together in a celebratory toast, and a young noblewoman tried to engage Lucius in conversation about the new laws he would enact. Yet, despite the outward merriment, there was an underlying current of unease. The guests were not so naïve as to ignore the strange and uneasy marriage that had just been sealed in the hall behind them.

Lucius shifted slightly in his seat, as though feeling the weight of the eyes that turned toward him.

"You don’t have to pretend," he said, breaking the silence again, his voice low and almost resigned. "I know why you’re here. You don’t have to like it."

Aurelia’s lips tightened at his words, but there was no anger in them. It was merely truth, blunt and direct, as always. She looked down at her hands, unwilling to meet his gaze again.

"I don’t pretend," she replied softly, though she knew the truth of her own hypocrisy. She was pretending, of course. Pretending that she didn’t care. Pretending that this was all something she could endure.

"Then why sit through this?" Lucius asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why endure this charade?"

Aurelia raised her eyes to his once more, meeting his gaze squarely. For a moment, she wanted to say because it’s all I have left, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she said only, “Because I have no choice, just as you have no choice.”

For a heartbeat, Lucius said nothing. He stared at her, as though seeing her for the first time—truly seeing her. His gaze was piercing, intense, yet something flickered in those deep blue eyes. Perhaps it was understanding, perhaps it was something more, but Aurelia could not bring herself to interpret it.

A loud cheer broke the silence, and Aurelia turned toward the noise. The guests were raising their cups in a toast, celebrating the new Emperor and Empress, raising their voices in the name of Roman glory. It was an exultant sound, but it grated on her nerves, like the clanging of swords against stone.

"To Lucius Verus, Emperor of Rome!" a voice cried from the crowd.

"And to Aurelia Carina Cassia, Empress of Rome!" another echoed.

The room erupted in applause, and for a moment, the noise drowned out everything else. Aurelia didn’t raise her glass. Instead, she simply sat there, her hands folded in her lap, her thoughts swirling in dark circles.

Lucius raised his goblet, the flickering light from the candles catching in the deep blue of his eyes, but he did not look at her when he spoke.

"To Rome," he said simply, his voice carrying authority that silenced even the loudest of voices.

The crowd echoed his words, and for the briefest of moments, Aurelia felt the weight of the empire—its triumphs, its cruelties, and its endless hunger for power. It was the weight she had inherited, and it was a weight that would forever bind her to Lucius Verus.

For better or for worse, she was now his. And he was hers.

The feast continued around them, but for both of them, it had already ended.

The grand banquet hall was alive with the sounds of music, laughter, and the clinking of goblets, but amid the festivity, there was a tension that seemed to weave itself into the very air. The feast had stretched on for hours, but now the guests were beginning to murmur in anticipation as the next part of the evening approached. The moment that every wedding in Rome demanded—the first dance.

Aurelia Carina Cassia stood frozen at the edge of the hall, her gown heavy around her, the rich crimson fabric swishing as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She could feel the weight of every eye in the room, the glances that flicked between her and Lucius Verus, the new Emperor of Rome, her husband by forced choice. He was already standing at the center of the room, his posture perfect, his jaw set in that all-too-familiar way of someone who had long since learned to suppress any sign of weakness.

They were supposed to dance. They were supposed to take the center of the room and spin in graceful circles, the crowd watching and applauding as if this were a storybook wedding. But Aurelia didn’t feel like a princess or a queen. She felt like a prisoner.

Her eyes flicked nervously to the musicians at the far end of the room, their instruments ready, their gazes expectant. They were waiting for her to take the first step, to move toward Lucius and begin the ritual. Her chest tightened with the weight of it. She couldn’t do this. Not with him. Not when every inch of her body wanted to scream in defiance.

Lucius turned toward her, his gaze cool but unreadable, like a glacier that had been worn smooth by the passage of time. He was not nervous. Of course, he wasn’t. A gladiator, a warrior forged in blood, who had danced with death more times than he could count. What was a simple waltz to a man who had survived arenas and emperors’ plots?

"You’re stalling," he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the growing hum of the room.

Aurelia didn’t respond immediately. She couldn’t. She simply stared at him, that same gnawing bitterness rising within her. She was trapped, caught in the unrelenting gears of this machine—this Empire, this marriage. And there was nothing she could do to escape it.

His eyes softened just the slightest bit, but it wasn’t with warmth. It was a recognition of the struggle she was facing, though he would never voice it aloud. Lucius knew what it was to be trapped in chains, though his were made of blood and iron, not silk and ceremony.

When he spoke again, his words were measured, as though he were giving her a final choice.

"You don’t have to like it. But we have to do this, for Rome." His words weren’t a command; they were simply a fact, one that neither of them could escape.

Aurelia took a sharp breath and glanced back at the crowd. She could feel their eyes on her, the heat of their stares burning into her skin. They were waiting for their Empress to play her part, to show the world that Rome was strong, unified under the rule of its new Emperor. She had no choice. She could feel the weight of it in the pit of her stomach.

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her back, trying to summon whatever dignity she had left, and began to walk toward Lucius. Each step felt like an eternity. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor, the sound strangely amplified in the stillness that had fallen over the room. Lucius didn’t move, didn’t step forward to meet her. He simply waited, his posture as commanding as ever.

When she reached him, there was a brief, uncomfortable pause. He regarded her with those piercing blue eyes, his expression unreadable. Aurelia wanted to say something—anything—to break the silence. To tell him that she would never be the obedient bride he expected her to be. But instead, she lifted her chin, her jaw set in defiance, and placed her hand on his shoulder, offering him the coldest, most formal smile she could muster.

Lucius’s hand slid around her waist, the touch firm but not intimate. It was a touch that spoke of duty, not desire. He began to guide her into the first slow steps of the dance, his movements practiced and smooth, as though he had done this a thousand times before. Aurelia resisted the instinct to pull away, to lash out, but it was harder than she anticipated.

The music swirled around them, the sounds of the flutes and strings filling the room with a kind of ethereal, haunting beauty. The guests began to murmur, some of them leaning in to catch a glimpse of their new rulers, while others smiled and whispered praises. Aurelia could feel their eyes, their judgments, and it made her skin crawl. This was their moment, a moment they had all been waiting for.

Lucius’s grip tightened just slightly around her waist as they moved in time with the music. The movement was mechanical, almost rehearsed. She could feel the tension between them—an invisible barrier neither of them had the will or the desire to cross. Neither of them spoke. The only sound between them was the soft rustle of her gown as they moved in an intricate, slow circle.

Aurelia’s breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t the dance itself that bothered her—it was the feeling of being so close to him, so exposed. His scent, sharp and masculine, filled her senses, and she had to fight not to recoil. The proximity, the enforced intimacy, made her stomach churn.

Lucius seemed to sense her discomfort, but he didn’t falter. Instead, he gave a small, barely perceptible nod, as though acknowledging the weight of the situation. Aurelia couldn’t tell if it was sympathy, amusement, or something else entirely.

The music shifted, becoming faster, more energetic, but still they danced—two figures moving through the motions, a king and queen of an empire built on blood, sweat, and lies. Their feet moved in perfect time, yet there was a palpable distance between them, a gulf that no amount of waltzing could bridge. It wasn’t the graceful, romantic affair the guests had expected. It was a dance of survival. A dance of power.

Aurelia’s mind raced with thoughts of the life she had lost, the man she had loved, and the empire that had torn it all apart. She fought the urge to pull away from Lucius, but there was no escaping this moment. They were bound by more than the silk of her gown or the glittering jewels in her hair. They were bound by the expectations of Rome, by the empire that had demanded this union, this performance.

And so they danced. Neither of them truly present, both lost in the performance. And the crowd watched, applauded, and whispered their approval, as the two of them continued the endless charade that had begun with a marriage forged in blood.

When the dance finally ended, and the last notes of the music drifted into silence, Aurelia was left breathless. Her chest rose and fell with the exertion of holding herself together, and she quickly stepped back, her hand falling from his shoulder. The applause was polite, distant, but it was nothing compared to the silence between them now.

Lucius’s eyes met hers for a brief moment, his expression unreadable. His lips parted as though he might say something, but then he simply nodded.

"Thank you," he said, his voice quiet, though the words seemed hollow to her ears.

Aurelia didn’t answer. She simply gave him a stiff nod in return, the weight of the crown upon her head heavier than ever before.

Then, she turned and walked away, the crowd parting for her like water parting for a stone, their whispers now louder, more insistent but she didn’t care. All that mattered now was the emptiness she felt inside and the weight of the empire that bound her to a man she would never love.

#fanfiction #gladiator ii #gladiator ii fanfiction #emperor geta x oc #emperor geta #x reader #lucius verus x reader #lucius verus x oc #hanno/lucius virus #lucius verus #gladiator 2 #gladiator movie

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bring-forth-his-sac · 1 day ago

Text

The Christmas Party - Finale!

summary: the Christmas Party is finally here! … and you and Negan are not on good terms

tags: Modern AU, Teacher AU, Gossip, Swearing, Pet Names, Slow Burn, Misunderstandings, Flirting, Kissing

word count: 7.1k

A/N: this is the final chapter! thank you to everyone who's read this and left comments!! For some reason, I always hesitated doing multi-chapter fics because I didn't think my writing was good enough to keep people captivated for more than one chapter but this has given me a serious confidence boost! and that's thank to all of you!

Merry Christmas and I hope you enjoy!!!

Negan doesn’t know if you can be pussy whipped when you’re not getting any pussy, but damn that’s exactly how he feels with you.

He’s always been a fan of temporary pleasures, quick fixes for the emptiness that gnawed at him. He wasn’t interested in long term or relationship—at least, not in the way most people understood it. Love was something people with hope clung to.

And Negan? He had lost hope a long time ago.

He’s had women, plenty of them, but none of them have ever meant more to him than a night of fleeting connection. Negan never made a fool of himself ice skating for some pussy, nor has he ever wined and dined them.

And he would say he still hasn’t, mainly because that would mean referring to you as just another piece of pussy. And no matter how hypocritical it may be, he doesn’t like that.

He doesn’t know how you do it, how you can penetrate the walls he’s spent years putting up. You’ve never been impressed by his bravado or his flirting.

No, instead you’re the sweet type. You like the little moments, the playfulness, the cheeky texts neither of you should be sending during work hours.

Negan’s known it for a while now. He doesn’t want you like the others. He doesn’t want a night away or a quick fix. He wants the ice skating, the banter throughout the work day, the hot chocolates and dinner dates.

Fuck, all you’ve given him is a kiss and Negan’s smitten.

Waking up the morning after your sweet kiss, you’re the first thing that pops into Negan’s head. More specifically, it’s you in his truck, his leather jacket over your shoulders and eyes crinkling at the corners as you laugh at some dumbass joke he made.

He woke up alone, having gone home the night before and spent an hour on the phone to Mark Smith.

Negan couldn’t believe he actually sat on his couch and willingly listened to his colleague talk about some upcoming market by where he’s staying in Jamaica. Negan even asked Mark how his wife and kids were doing– voluntarily!!

He didn’t recognize himself anymore. The pain, while still there, isn’t as strong. Negan can’t find the strength to harness that resentment he had at the world and himself.

Because how could he hate himself when he’s had your sweet lips on his not even 24 hours earlier?

But his Thursday goes downhill from the get go. Negan has a pep in his step as he leaves his house, quickly locking the door behind him before heading for his truck. A part of him hopes the smell of your perfume will still be lingering in there.

Aaaand that’s the start of a very bad day. Negan never gets to his truck, instead stopping a few feet away when he sees someone else parked behind him.

His lips twist downward in a slight sneer. It’s the kind of look that says, “I don’t like you, and I’m not hiding it” without needing to say it aloud.

Sherry has her car parked directly behind Negan, purposefully blocking him in. She stands outside, her arms crossed as she tries to keep warm.

“Hi…” she says plainly, trying to ease into this.

When he speaks, it’s deliberate. His voice is dry, almost bored, but the weight of his words hangs heavy. "This is private property, ya can’t park there" Negan’s tone is laced with the kind of casual authority he’s so used to.

It’s not a request. It’s not even a command. It’s a fact, something he’s not even sure needs to be said, but he does anyway because she’s standing there like this is some kind of game.

Starting for his truck again, he only stops when she says his name.

Sherry huffs, rolling her eyes. Of course he won’t make this easy. “Negan,” her tone is firmer now “I want to cash in that I-owe-you. Now”.

His hand rests on the truck door but he doesn’t make a move to open it yet. Instead, he turns his body slightly, pivoting so he’s facing her fully now. Negan’s posture tightens, shoulders squared.

“And you think that means you show up to my home at…” he makes a point of bringing his wrist up to read his watch “seven forty five in the damn morning?”.

“I said whenever and wherever,” she shrugs “and I remembered where you lived, so…”.

Now it’s Negan who rolls his eyes. Because, yes, out of everything, he needs a reminder that he brought her home once upon a time ago.

Seeing his little cooperation is shrinking, Sherry cuts to the chase “You have a motorbike, right?”.

“Used to” he corrects her vaguely. Medical bills are a hell of a hit to the balls… and bank account.

“Ok, good,” opening the passenger door to her car, Sherry begins to walk back over to the driver's side “well, get in”.

Negan doesn’t move. “This is kidnapping” he states.

Sherry tries not to lose her patience, nibbling on her bottom lip so she doesn’t let out a string of curses. “No, it’s the favor you owe me,” she corrects “and it’s for Christmas, so c’mon”.

Despite every fiber in his being telling him not to, Negan takes a step closer. “Unless you’re gonna drop me off at the school, we’re gonna be late” be points out.

With the wave of her hand, Sherry dismisses him and gets in. “It’ll be fast” is all she says to assure him.

Glancing back to his truck one last time, Negan sighs before reluctantly getting into Sherry’s car.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

By the time Negan gets to work, he’s pissed off, late and hungry. You’d think as the head cook of the cafeteria, Sherry would’ve had some snacks hidden away in her car but nope, Negan had to starve.

Negan tries to stay positive. He reminds himself that once he knocked out a few more classes, he would have time to do something he’d been looking forward to—setting up the Christmas tree with you.

But as the day drags on and the hours tick by, his phone remains suspiciously quiet. He sent you a few texts, nothing crazy, just simple check-ins asking when you’d be free to hang out later.

A casual message, nothing too pushy. But now, after getting through some classes, it has been hours and there still isn’t a reply.

At first, he figures you’d just busy, maybe caught up in teaching or managing your unruly students. He knows you have a lot on your plate and he didn’t want to be that guy who expecta instant responses.

It’s fine. He’s patient. You’d get back to him when you have the chance.

But as lunch rolls around and there’s still nothing, he can’t shake the nagging feeling that something isn’t right. It’s subtle at first, just a flicker of unease, but it grows with every passing minute.

He finds himself glancing at his phone more often, tapping his fingers against the desk, trying to focus on his work but getting distracted.

Something is off.

Negan gives the little pumpkin statue on his desk a quick rub, as if the small gesture might bring him some kind of luck.

He doesn’t know why he’s so worked up. It’s not like he’s a clingy guy. But the silence between you two today? It’s not like you and it’s starting to eat at him.

First stop is the teacher’s lounge. Empty. He checks your classroom next— locked. No sign of you. Then, he heads to the sports hall, hoping you might be there, finishing something up. No luck.

Hell, he even hangs around the women’s toilets for a minute. It’s stupid, he knows, but he figures if you’re dealing with that time of the month, you might need a minute.

He leans against the wall, trying not to look too out of place, but when Sasha passes by with a raised brow, he realizes how ridiculous he looks.

“Shit,” he mutters, pushing away from the wall.

He’s not the clingy type. He knows that. But by the time lunch comes to an end, he’s sent you a decent amount of texts.

Negan: you ready for the tree?

Negan: it’s in the hall

Negan: u ok?

Negan: is this hide and seek? Where are you?

Negan: hellllllllooooooooooo? My messages are going through so I know you don’t have me blocked

More classes pass and Negan’s patience wears thinner with every passing minute. He yells at a group of rowdy students, his voice echoing through the sports hall as he orders them to watch out for the cheerfully decorated tables as they do their jumping jacks.

He checks his watch, the second hand ticking a little too loudly for his liking. It’s almost the end of the school day and Negan can feel the weight of his frustration pressing down on him.

He hasn’t heard a damn thing from you, not a single text, not even a “Hey, I’m busy.” Nothing.

And the silence? It’s driving him nuts.

By the time he’s checking the teacher’s lounge again, he’s about ready to give up… but then it happens. Just as he’s walking by Ms. Peletier’s classroom, the door clicks open.

You step out.

It’s like a moment of clarity hits him and for a second, all his frustration melts away. There you are— looking like you’re trying to escape something.

You’re not your usual self. There’s something different about you today, something… timid. You’re not holding eye contact, your shoulders are a little hunched like you’re trying to make yourself smaller.

“Holy fucking shit,” Negan says, his voice full of relief “I was about to send out a search party, where the fuck have you been, doll?”

He expects a smile, some kind of warmth in your eyes. But instead, you tense. For a heartbeat, your body locks up, like you didn’t expect to see him.

He watches, confused, as you quickly gather yourself. For a second, he thinks you might be walking toward him, like you’re about to talk, to explain yourself.

But then, just before he can take a step forward, you say it.

“Fuck off”.

Negan’s a man that likes to curse. He likes to throw in a few fucks, pricks, shit balls, whatever he feels in the moment.

But this is different.

The curse slices through the air, harsh and bitter. The venom in each syllable sticks in his chest like a jagged piece of glass.

Negan’s stomach drops. He watches you walk past him, not even sparing him a glance and strut down the corridor without breaking stride.

For a moment, he’s frozen. The anger, the confusion— it all hits him at once. He isn’t the kind of man who gets easily thrown off, but right now? Damn right he feels uneasy.

“Woah, sweetheart, what’s that for?” Negan calls after you, confusion and hurt twisting his words.

He takes a step forward, instinctively wanting to follow you but before he can move another inch, a voice calls his name.

“Negan.”

He turns, annoyed, ready to snap at whoever’s interrupting him but when he sees Carol standing in the doorway of her classroom, he stops dead.

“Let her go,” she says, her tone calm, but firm.

His brow furrows. What the hell is this?

“What?” He takes a few strides toward her, his voice rising.

Carol raises a hand, palm out, silencing him before he can continue. “Let her go,” she repeats, her expression unreadable “She’s not interested”.

Negan’s chest tightens. Her words hit him like a punch to the gut but it’s the way she says them so matter-of-fact that makes him freeze in place. He opens his mouth, but the words don’t come.

He looks at her, searching her face for some hint, some sign that this is a misunderstanding. But Carol doesn’t flinch. Instead, she just watches him, her eyes steady.

“She’s not interested,” she repeats, softer this time, but still unyielding.

The truth stings. It settles over him like a weight, heavy and suffocating. The realization that everything he thought he knew about what was happening between you two—what he thought was real—might have only been a quick flash in the pan.

Negan stands there for a moment. The hallway around him feels too quiet, too empty. His chest tightens again and he can’t tell if it’s from anger or hurt or pure disbelief.

He looks back down the hall, where you disappeared, then back at Carol. With a sharp exhale, Negan turns away, heading in the opposite direction without saying another word.

What else is there to say?

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Friday feels like damnation, and not just because of the party. You purposely come in earlier than usual, not wanting to run into Negan as you set up the last remaining decorations for the gym. Even Joey isn’t in yet.

You can still feel the rush of anger, the way it surged through you when you saw them together, Negan and Sherry. You wouldn’t say you’re a jealous person but to see them arriving together, after everything?!

After Sherry warned you away from him, the dates that weren’t dates you went on with Negan… the kiss. You wonder if you didn’t move fast enough for him and if he went straight to Sherry’s after dropping you home that night.

You’re pissed—so fucking pissed—but more than that, you’re hurt. The way he acted around you was like you were something special. It was as if maybe, there was something more between you two, more than banter and attraction.

But now? Now it feels like a fucking joke. He’s out there, probably flirting with whoever is next on his hit list while you’re here, stewing in your own mess of feelings and sticking wreaths on to tables.

You want to punch something just to feel like you’re doing something to get rid of this ache in your chest.

Your mind races—did they sleep together? Was it just another one-night thing for him? Did it mean nothing?

The thought of it gnaws at you, each question digging deeper. The betrayal, the feeling of being tossed aside, his voice when he called after you yesterday, the knowing look on Carol’s face when you told her what you had seen… It's too much.

You wish you could cry but you’re too damn mad. So you keep working, head down, fighting the sting of tears that are just waiting to break through.

The good news is the sports hall is finally done, besides the Christmas tree that was never put up.

The high, vaulted ceilings are draped with thick strands of sparkling tinsel in gold and silver, catching the light from the overhead fluorescent bulbs and making the whole room shimmer.

Long rows of tables are now covered in bright red and green cloths, each one bordered with tinsel and a wreath hanging off the front. Paper snowflakes some of the students made dangle from the walls, swirling like an indoor blizzard.

Around the room, there are signs that read things like “Merry Christmas!” and “Season’s Greetings!” in big, bold letters and decorated with holly.

Even the basketball hoops are dressed up, with thick, red ribbons tied in bows around the rims, and a few oversized ornaments dangling from the netting.

Everywhere you look, there’s something to bring a smile to your face— and yet that’s the one thing you can’t do.

“Well, hello there,” you don’t tense when you hear the masculine voice.

It doesn’t have that deep drawl Negan’s does. Nor does it make you want to shiver and purr at the same time.

“Hi, Joey” You don’t even glance at him as you say it, your eyes fixed on the twinkling lights that are tangled up in tinsel, casting a soft glow across the sports hall.

“The place looks great!” he says, his voice a little too bright as he walks deeper into the room, clearly trying to make conversation.

“Uh-huh,” you reply, your voice flat and distracted “It’s basically done now. Just have to run home after school to grab the drinks, and it’ll be ready”.

You don’t want to engage much more than that. The last thing you need right now is small talk or having to deal with anyone else.

“And the food?” Joey presses, his tone a little too chipper.

You force a tight-lipped smile, your jaw set as you turn toward him briefly. “Can you let Negan know that’s his shit to sort?” you ask, trying to keep your voice neutral, though it comes out cold.

“Uh—sure! Yeah!” Joey nods quickly, probably sensing the shift in your mood but not wanting to push it.

Without waiting for another word, you head toward the door, not bothering to look back. The last thing you want is to stick around the hall in case Negan shows up unexpectedly.

You can feel the tension already creeping up your spine at the mere thought of seeing him, of dealing with whatever’s going on between you two.

So, you leave, eager to put some distance between yourself and the mess you’re caught up in.

The school day drags, yet somehow, it feels like it’s slipping away too fast. The hours blur together— teaching feels more like a flurry of words and half-attention from your students as they count down the minutes to the end of the day.

You try to keep them engaged but it’s obvious they’re all just as eager for the holidays as you are.

The morning feels slow, like every minute stretches just a little too long. You try to get through your classes but every time the clock ticks, your mind drifts back to the party— back to everything that’s been weighing on you.

By the time you hit the afternoon, you’re caught in this weird mix of excitement and dread. Each class passes, each bell that rings to signal the end of a period feels like a countdown to something you’d rather not face.

The students, for their part, are bouncing off the walls. They’re eager to get out, to be free from school and homework and whatever else hangs over them.

You watch them, their chatter almost deafening and you can’t help but feel a sense of urgency in the air. It’s almost like the whole school is vibrating with the countdown and the seconds feel like they’re slipping through your fingers.

The lessons go by in a haze—you’re teaching, but you’re not fully there. You’re running through the motions, reciting your notes and trying to keep your class on track but you know that the closer you get to the end of the day, the closer you get to the party, to seeing Negan again, to dealing with whatever awkwardness looms between you two.

Finally, the last bell rings, the sound cutting through your thoughts like a knife. You breathe out a little too heavily, a mix of relief and frustration swirling inside you.

It’s over.

The school day’s done.

The holiday break is here and the party is just around the corner. You grab your things quickly, eager to get out of the classroom but the thought of facing the party, of facing him, slows your steps.

You want a moment of quiet before everything kicks off but you can only have such a luxury when you get home to quickly dress into something a little nicer and bring all the alcohol back here to the sports hall.

The noise in the hallways is deafening, students filing out, chatting excitedly about the break. Your thoughts, though, are already on the evening ahead.

You rush home, the quiet of your place a welcome relief after the chaos of the day. You head straight to your room, pulling off your teaching clothes and slipping into something nicer for the party—nothing too fancy, but enough to feel put-together.

A soft sweater and dark jeans, something comfortable but still festive. You grab the bottles you’ve set aside for the party, having to make multiple trips to your car before they're all loaded.

A quick glance in the mirror tells you that you’re ready but the knot in your stomach tells you the opposite. You grab your keys and head out the door, locking it behind you before making your way back to the school.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

It’s almost half six when the first few people trickle in and you’re glad to see their faces.

For the past forty minutes, it’s just been you, Joey and Negan in the hall, stealing plates and cups from the home ec room and putting all the drink on display. And in that forty… long… minutes, you and Negan exchanged a total of seven words.

“Where’s the tequila?” he basically huffed at you.

“Still in my car” you retorted, giving him the same energy.

You got a grunt in response and he yelled at Joey to go out and grab it as Negan left to get more plates.

But now the sports hall is buzzing with that awkward in-between energy—everyone’s showing up but the party hasn’t fully kicked off yet. There’s a nice hum of conversation, teachers hesitantly reaching for liquor and some commenting on the decorations.

Every time you cross paths with Negan, you veer the other way. It’s like there’s an invisible wall between you two, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

You’re doing your best to keep yourself busy— lining up glasses, making sure the food table’s stocked thanks to the newest light in Negan’s life, Sherry (you swear you’re not jealous)—but it’s hard to ignore the tension, the way Negan moves around you, not quite looking at you but not completely avoiding you either.

In one corner of the hall, you see Aaron head towards the large speaker that sits silently waiting.

After a few seconds of fumbling with the speaker, the opening chords of ‘Last Christmas’ filled the room, too loud at first, making everyone glance at each other nervously, unsure if they were meant to sing along, dance, or just pretend it wasn’t happening.

Some teachers head over to the food. Thankfully, you haven’t run into Sherry yet, nor is that something you wish to do. But to give credit where credit is due, the food smells delicious and it’s not as plain as the food usually served at the cafeteria.

Fingers quickly grab skewers of chicken satay or tiny puff pastries as the music loops on, providing a kind of strange comfort.

"I swear," Morgan says as he fills his plate, laughing awkwardly as he nudges a colleague "I only came for the pigs in blankets".

Everyone chuckles the first real laugh of the evening and suddenly the awkwardness seems to melt away, if only a little. Yet it’s enough to kick off the night.

As the evening stretches on, the awkwardness begins to fade into something more familiar, a sort of communal ease that only happens when you’ve spent enough time around people you mostly like, but don’t quite know how to relax with.

You stand back and watch, nursing your drink.

A few teachers have found their rhythm, wandering between the buffet table and the cozy clusters of conversation, laughing a little too loudly and talking shop just enough to remind themselves they’re not too far from the classroom.

Jesus walks up to you and a few others, gesturing towards one of the empty corners. “Where’s the tree I gave you guys?” he asks curiously, no annoyance in his tone.

Taking a deep breath, you struggle for an answer “We uh, ran out of time to put it up”.

Jesus gives a quick laugh and a nod, taking your answer for what it is. “And you still have the extra baubles I donated too?” he clarifies, taking a sip of his drink.

You nod and hesitantly explain “Yeah, the tree and baubles are uh… they’re under the bleachers. We didn’t have the space in the storage room”.

Looking around at the other teachers listening, Jesus smiles “Well then, who’s game for putting up a tree?”.

Before you have time to process that, there’s a burst of energy.

Jesus and Morgan help bring out the tree. Tara takes the box of baubles, standing with her hands on her hips as she looks down at the box.

Aaron, ever the optimist, picked up a string of lights and began untangling them with the patience of a saint.

You stand there with a surprised look plastered on your face. Even the people who aren’t helping, stand by and watch. Michonne snaps a few pictures before typing on her phone, no doubt sending it to her husband or Carl.

Jesus, who has already taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, grabs the tree stand.

“The tree’s the easy part,” he tells the crowd “the real challenge is making it look intentional when you know it’s probably just going to be… well, a mess”.

Eugene, who has been quietly inspecting the box of ornaments with Tara, looks up at the group.

“I must admit, I find the idea of a decorated tree somewhat... quaint. But I’ll go along with the sentiment if it makes the rest of you happy,” Eugene says, picking up a candy cane ornament “Plus, I believe we can all agree—Christmas lights are critical”.

Aaron chuckles “Of course you’d have a whole theory about the importance of lights”.

With Eugene’s help, the tree is quickly set up and anchored in its stand, though it wobbles slightly, as if unsure of its purpose.

“No, no, no, it’s leaning to the left!” Gregory tries to direct them. As you all listen to Gregory and Sasha bicker whether the tilt gives the tree character, you notice a figure lurk closer to you.

Out the corner of your eye, you see Negan. His every movement seems charged, as if he’s on the edge of saying something but never does. And you? You’re not sure what to say either.

So instead, you both continue this dance, each of you pretending that the other isn’t right there, just a few feet away, caught in the kind of silence that screams everything without a single word being spoken.

“And where’s the tinsel?” Rosita rummages through the box of ornaments.

“I think there’s some old tinsel in the storage room,” you call out, wanting an excuse to get away from him “I’ll go get it!”.

Negan lowers his head, watching through his lashes as you hurry off to the storage room. He suppresses a sigh, wondering if it’s really that hard for you to be around him.

Do you seriously prefer the cramped, shitty old storage room compared to him?

This should have been fun. You two should be celebrating! Fuckin’ finally! You’ve made it and now the others are having the time of their life by willingly doing a team building exercise!

Right now, you should both be teaming up to haggle Michonne for a raise, not barely looking at one another.

And yet Negan can’t do it. He can’t find the words to say this to you. And so he stays in his spot and listens to the others make the task of decorating a Christmas tree seem impossible.

Ten minutes pass.

Still nothing. No you. No shitty tinsel. Just a whole lot of avoiding.

Negan can’t believe this. You’d rather hang out in the storage room? Or quietly slip out early? All that hurt and tip toeing around each other starts to bubble in Negan, slowly reaching it’s boiling point.

With a sharp turn, he makes his way through the crowd and towards the storage room. He figures he’ll check in there first and then check the parking lot to see if your car is still here.

His hand comes straight out as he opens the door with enough vigor to make it fly open. Not that he’s thinking about the door when he sees you, just standing there.

“Are you really gonna hide on me?” He starts, boots slamming against the messy floor as he leaves the doorway and walks deeper into the room, closer to you.

For a split second, you freeze. But as you see your opportunity for escape closing, you rush forward.

You don’t pay any attention to his question, trying to get past him as you blurt “Wait! Stop! Don’t let the door—”.

But before either of you can reach it, the door slams shut with a resounding thud, cementing back into its frame. Negan’s anger falters when he realizes what just happened.

He doesn’t know how many times he warned you about the old storage room door being hard to open from the inside, yet here you are— and now him, victim to the heavy door.

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me…” His voice drops to a low, venomous growl as he steps back to the door. He tries to yank it open once, twice, thrice! And yet it stays in place.

With the click of his tongue, Negan looks to you “You seriously got yourself locked in here?”.

You don’t appreciate the mocking tone and so you bite back “Yeah and now you have too!”.

With a sigh, Negan leans up against some of the boxes. His anger is gone and now he’s just unsure what to say to you

You step up and try the door again. You yank the handle again, twisting it violently but the door stays still.

“Dammit!” You mutter under your breath, before you get a new idea and begin banging on the door.

“Hey! Hello? We’re in here! Help!” you shout, your voice rising with each strike.

Unfortunately it’s still not enough compared to the loud thumping of bass and jingle bells from the Christmas music blaring in the adjoining room.

Negan watches you with a mixture of bemusement and annoyance. He chuckles lowly, folding his arms across his chest.

“Well, that’s one hell of a performance,” he comments with a grin, the sarcasm dripping off his words. Stopping for a moment, you throw him a glare before continuing again.

“You’re bangin’ on beat with that Christmas nonsense. Hell, they won’t hear you over the jingle bells and whatever crap is playing” he points out, taking no notice of your glare.

You stop, staring at him with an annoyed look “I don’t need your commentary right now, Negan”.

He shrugs, uncaring “Just callin’ it like I see it. Looks like you’re stuck with me. Again”.

Ignoring his comments, you listen to the party outside. Laughter. Chatter too loud that it drowns out your shouts for help. The occasional cheering as they continue to decorate the tree.

“Sounds like they’re having fun” you grumble.

Negan waits a moment before replying, his tone losing his sarcasm “So should we”.

There’s a tightness when he says that— but not the good kind. You’ve always been one to blurt things out, Negan should know that better than anyone.

Although hearing you quietly mutter “Yeah, I’m sure you and Sherry should be having the time of your lives”, throws Negan’s head in a tailspin.

“What? Sherry?” The edge is back in his voice as he asks, making you go quiet again.

You shrug in response.

He narrows his eyes as you stay silent. When you don’t say a word, Negan shakes his head “Fuck, I thought we were gettin’ somewhere, and now? Now this shit?”.

Negan takes a breath before deciding to start small. “Why’re you bringing up Sherry?” he lets the question hang in the air.

Eyes flickering to the ground, your voice feels tight as you reply “I… I saw you with Sherry, arriving to work with her, and—”. You stop yourself, biting back the words.

It doesn’t matter that you stopped anyways as Negan interjects with a slightly sarcastic laugh “You thought I’d what? Sleep with her?”.

He steps closer, trying to get you to look at him.

“Doll, she just wanted to cash in that I-owe-you,” he says before deciding you’ll need more of an explanation “she wanted to buy her boyfriend a motorbike for Christmas but she knows fuck all about bikes… I, however, have had my fair share so I went with her to get give her my expert opinion. Nothing more. I just spent the morning looking at shitty second hand bikes”.

You nod, eyes still down as you process his answer. But now it’s Negan’s turn to get some answers.

“You really think I’d kiss you, then go and sleep with someone else right after?” his voice is firm but tinged with hurt “Is that how little you think of me?”.

That makes you look up, eyes wide before they soften with regret “No! I don’t— It’s just, you didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to think. You didn’t tell me anything about her or what you were doing”.

You hesitate, realizing how much you’ve misinterpreted “I should’ve talked to you first. I’m sorry, I just… I didn’t want to make a fool of myself”.

A few hollers can be heard in the sports hall as Negan pauses, letting out a slow exhale.

“You don’t have to apologize for giving a damn. I get it, though, how that would’ve looked,” he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself “I mean, Sherry and I, that was a one time thing that neither of us want a round two of”.

You nibble on your bottom lip, unsure whether you’ll like the answer to your next question but needing to ask nonetheless. “So… what did happen? Back then, between you and Sherry?”.

His posture shifts slight as if he’s physically as well as mentally letting down his guard.

“Sherry and her man were on a break, she wanted a distraction…” he trails off, letting you fill in the details “and then when they got back together, she had to really prove to the guy that she wasn’t interested in me anymore so she went from thinking I was good enough to fuck, to straight out hating me”.

“Huh… I kinda presumed you just cut contact with a lot of them after the deed is done” you reply, not expecting to hear that Sherry hated Negan anyways, whether or not he ghosted her.

“Oh I do sometimes, other times it just fizzles or it’s decided beforehand that it’s just a one night kinda thing” he explains “We both get something out of it”.

“A two way system” You call it.

Negan tilts his head as he thinks, “‘I wouldn’t exactly call it that. It’s just… mutual benefits.

A faint smirk ghosts his face “A two way system is you arguing with me, me arguing with you, you taking me on a date, me taking you on a date, me flirting with you, you flirting with me”.

You can’t help the smile at that, rolling your eyes teasingly, any annoyance you had for Negan melting away.

He continues, poking his tongue out of his mouth “Me kissing you.. you shoving your tongue down my throat”.

“I did not do it like that!!” You exclaim with a laugh.

He chuckles, his own annoyance gone now too. “You’re right, you’re right,” he concedes before thinking up a better way of saying it “you… oh so subtly slipping that dainty tongue of yours into my mouth all sexy like”.

“I didn’t use tongue!” You declare, throwing your hands up before the playfulness fades into a somber silence.

“I am sorry,” you reiterate ”I guess I should’ve trusted you more. I should’ve asked, instead of assuming.”

He gives you a look you can only describe as tender.

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly the talking-about-feelings kinda guy and I kinda thought you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore,” he tells you, his voice a gentle hum “But if you’re asking— I want this. I want you. No more games, no more misunderstandings. Just… us. Alright?”.

A small, relieved smile tugs at the corners of your lips, tension easing. “I think that would be nice” you agree, trying to drown out the loud Christmas music during your intimate moment.

There’s a quiet between you both, no more words needing to be exchanged. Negan begins to move again but instead of heading towards the door, he briefly disappears to the back of the storage room.

“Negan?” You call out.

He strolls over to one of the old boxes and starts to look through it. The musty smell of forgotten storage fills the air as he pulls out a dusty, crinkled piece of tinsel, its once-silver strands now dulled and faded with time.

“If we’re all good now…” he says as he stops and reaches down into the box “y’know what we gotta seal it with, right?”.

His mouth twitches with a hint of amusement and as he steps back toward you, dangling that goddamn piece of old mistletoe in front of you.

His expression is half-mocking, half-playful, as if he’s trying to make light of getting stuck in here.

You look at the mistletoe and then back up at him. “Well, it is tradition…” you tilt your head up, expecting to see that cocky expression of his but instead it gives way to something more sincere.

Before you can say anything, he’s lifting the mistletoe above your heads, positioning it just right.

Not being one to waste time, Negan presses his lips to yours, the kiss soft at first, just a light brush but as if giving into the moment, you deepen it.

His lips are warm and steady against yours. The taste of him lingers as it becomes more heated. Negan drops the mistletoe, both of you each other instinctively pulling closer.

His lips press more urgently against yours, like he's unable to hold back anymore. His hand slides from your waist to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you into him with a force that makes you gasp into his mouth.

That gasp seems to push him further, the heat between you intensifying. His tongue sweeps against yours in a coaxing manner. Backing away, you pull him with you until your back is flush against another stack of boxes.

There's nothing tentative about this anymore; it's a powerful, consuming kiss, raw with hunger and desire.

Negan’s hands slide under your festive sweater, skin on skin. The contact sends a shiver down your spine, heightening every sensation. Your fingers clutch at his shirt, needing more of him, more of this.

His body presses against you, hips aligning with yours, and the pressure builds as you feel the weight of him against you. His breathing becomes heavier, his chest rising and falling in sync with the erratic make out session.

The words around you fall on deaf ears, neither you or Negan paying attention to the Christmas music or the mumbling of Gregory outside saying “It’s in here, you say? Oh Christ!”.

Suddenly the music is clearer and another light source shines across your face. “Mm?” You question, although it’s hard to get the words out with Negan’s lips still on yours.

Pulling away, you see a look of shock and disgust on Gregory’s face.

He clears his throat, trying and failing to regain some semblance of control. “This… this is—uh—what is happening here?” his words came out in a disjointed jumble, bringing the other’s attention to the storage room.

“They’re together?!” you hear Rosita’s voice.

“You didn’t know about them?” the voice of Michonne reaches your ears “Carl told me they were a couple ages ago!”.

Suddenly you realize you’re like a deer in headlights, just frozen and watching. That is until Negan takes you hand in his and yanks you out of the storage room while the door is still open.

You follow his lead, letting him bring you out to the middle of the sports hall until he turns to face you again. His hands find their home on your back and he begins to sway to the slow Christmas song.

“Are we… dancing right now?” You question, clasping your hands around the back of his neck.

The others stare for a few moments before carrying on with whatever it is they were doing beforehand. Some drink, some stuff their faces and chat, while others grab a partner and dance too.

Negan doesn’t answer with words, instead giving you a little spin before finding you back in his arms.

“So… you still spending Christmas alone?” Negan says it casually, though there’s a subtle trace of concern in his tone.

You inhale before replying, shifting slightly in his arms “Yeah”.

“You sure about that?” He leans in a little closer, his face now just inches from yours, as though trying to read between the lines.

There’s a small, almost imperceptible shake of your head, showing you’ve already made peace with the decision as you sigh “I think it’s for the best I don’t change plans now and go spend it with my family”.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I was kinda trying to crash your plans, not suggest you skedaddle out of town” Negan’s grin widens, and he gives you a playful nudge

“What?”.

His smile deepens as he watches your reaction, fully aware of how bold he’s being. “Well, you’re spending Christmas alone, I’m spending Christmas alone,” he explains “we get on like a house on fire, you’re hot, I’m hot”.

“Negan!” you exclaim, a mix of embarrassment and amusement flooding your chest.

“I’ll bring the mistletoe” the offer hangs in the air, and you can feel the moment shifting, building toward something neither of you is fully ready to name, but both are undeniably feeling.

“… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if you were there too” you slowly admit “but you have to bring me a present!”.

Negan chuckles, keeping his hands on the small of your back as he looks up and pretends to think. “Hm… I might be able to do that” he says.

He tries to act as though he’s debating the condition, as if he hasn’t already bought you things.

A cinnamon candle.

A pumpkin statue to match his own.

A winter coat that will actually keep you warm (that may have some leather accents so you’ll match his own jacket).

Some snacks he’s been picking up whenever he’s out.

And a list he’s made himself of the corniness Christmas movies he could find on the many streaming services that are around.

“Maybe I could do with that mistletoe now,” you tease, showing off your actual flirting skills.

Negan smirks down at you, one of his hands trailing up your back as you both sway to the music.

“Darlin’ I think we are way past mistletoe now,” he quips back before he leans down.

Despite being in the sports hall that made you and Negan go at each other’s throats. Despite being surrounded by your colleagues …

You kiss him.

#negan fanfiction #negan smith fanfiction #negan x reader #negan x you #negan #negan smith #negan twd #twd negan #jeffrey dean morgan x reader #jdm x reader #twd fic #negan smith x you #negan smith x female reader #negan the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead negan #the walking dead x reader

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rootedinrevisions · 2 days ago

Text

Home for the Holidays

SUMMARY: After years of feeling like an outsider, you finally decide to embrace the Christmas holiday - something you’ve never celebrated - with a little help from your friend, Bucky Barnes. As the two of you decorate a tree, share stories, and create new traditions, the bond between you deepens. Bucky starts to reveal parts of himself that you’ve kept hidden for years. As Christmas Eve draws near, your friendship blossoms into something more, and for the first time, you feel like you’re truly home - right where you belong, with him. James "Bucky" Barnes x Witch Reader.

A/N: I wanted to include a quick note to say that this is only my third or fourth attempt at writing something with Bucky Barnes, so I’ll be the first to admit it might be a little rough around the edges. I’m still finding my footing with his character, but I hope I’ve done him justice. Chronologically, this story takes place sometime after Avengers: Endgame but before the events of The Falcon and the Winter Soldier. It’s a little slice-of-life moment that focuses on the softer side of Bucky—a side I firmly believe exists beneath all his trauma and guilt. In my opinion, he’s a sweet, protective angel who deserves all the love and happiness in the world (and yes, I will die on this hill). This story was so much fun to write, and I hope it gave you some warm, fuzzy feelings too. I’d love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to leave a comment or send me a message. Thanks for reading, and happy holidays! ❤️

WARNINGS: Mentions of past trauma (Bucky's past as well as some mentions of the reader's past)

WORD COUNT: 9.9k

TAGS: @missmarveledsblog @lonelysoul50 @missbmc94 @multifandomgirl12

This is what I had listed as my tag list for Bucky Barnes. If you would like to be added to the Tag List please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added!

Snow drifted lazily past the frosted windows of the Avengers compound, blanketing the world outside in a soft, silvery glow. The quiet hum of holiday music filtered through the common area, a gentle reminder of the season. Twinkling lights adorned a massive Christmas tree near the far wall, its ornaments carefully curated by the team. The air smelled faintly of pine and cinnamon, a testament to Wanda's insistence that the compound should feel festive, even if not everyone shared her enthusiasm.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over your chest, watching the scene from a distance. Laughter echoed from somewhere down the hall—probably Steve and Sam bickering over how to properly hang a string of lights. You didn’t need to look to know they were failing miserably.

Four years. That’s how long you’d been part of the Avengers. And yet, this time of year always felt... complicated. Christmas wasn’t something you’d ever celebrated growing up. Your coven had been insular, focused on rituals and traditions far removed from anything as commercial or joyous as this. The holidays had always felt foreign, like peering into someone else’s life from the outside.

But this year was different.

You weren’t entirely sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the line, the cold, isolating walls you’d built around yourself had started to thaw. Maybe it was because of the team—their relentless attempts to include you in every mission, every celebration.

Or maybe it was because of him.

Your gaze shifted toward the armchair by the fireplace. Bucky Barnes sat there, his metal hand resting idly on the armrest as he stared into the flames. The warm glow of the fire danced across his features, softening the lines etched into his face. You wondered what he was thinking. Bucky rarely volunteered that kind of information, but over the years, he’d let pieces of himself slip through the cracks. You cherished every one of them.

The two of you had a quiet understanding, an unspoken bond forged in shared silences and late-night conversations. He didn’t ask questions you weren’t ready to answer, and you offered the same courtesy in return. But something about this year—this season—made you want to try.

You stepped into the room, the wooden floor cool beneath your feet. “You look like you’re a million miles away,” you said softly, breaking the stillness.

Bucky glanced up, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just thinking.”

“Good thoughts, I hope.”

He shrugged, gesturing toward the tree with his vibranium hand. “Trying to remember if I ever actually decorated one of these. It’s been... a long time.”

You took a seat on the couch across from him, tucking your legs beneath you. “Maybe it’s time to start again.”

His eyes flickered to yours, holding your gaze for a moment before he looked away, as if considering the idea. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Maybe it is.”

Bucky’s eyes lingered on the tree for a moment longer before he shifted his attention back to you. “What about you?” he asked, his voice low but steady. “Ever done all this before?”

You tilted your head, studying the tree’s glittering ornaments. They reflected the firelight, casting shimmering patterns across the walls. “Not really,” you admitted. “The coven didn’t exactly prioritize Christmas. Too commercial, too... human, I guess.” A wry smile tugged at your lips. “The closest thing we had was a winter solstice ceremony, but it wasn’t exactly festive. Mostly chanting and lighting candles.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his expression somewhere between curiosity and amusement. “No tree? No presents? Not even the tiniest bit of tinsel?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Nope. Honestly, I’ve spent the last few Christmases in my room, trying to stay out of the way while the rest of you celebrated.”

His brow furrowed at that, and you could see the wheels turning in his mind. “Why?”

The question caught you off guard, though you supposed it shouldn’t have. Bucky had a knack for asking the things no one else dared to. You hesitated, tracing a finger along the seam of the couch. “I don’t know. Maybe I just felt like I didn’t belong. Watching everyone else—it was like looking at something I could never be a part of.”

Silence settled between you for a moment, broken only by the crackle of the fire. When Bucky finally spoke, his voice was quiet but resolute. “That’s not true, you know. You do belong.”

You glanced up, meeting his gaze. There was something in his eyes—something earnest, almost vulnerable—that made your chest tighten.

“Well,” he continued, leaning forward slightly, “maybe this year’s the one to change that. Your first real Christmas.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He gestured toward the tree again. “We’ll do it right. You and me. Decorations, presents, the works. If you’ve never celebrated Christmas before, we’re gonna make sure this one’s special.”

The idea warmed you in a way you hadn’t expected, though you tried to hide the flutter of hope rising in your chest. “Bucky, you don’t have to do that—”

“I want to,” he interrupted, his tone firm but kind. “We both could use something good this time of year, don’t you think?”

You studied him for a moment, the firelight painting golden highlights in his dark hair. There was no hesitation in his expression, no trace of doubt. He was serious.

A small smile crept onto your lips. “Alright,” you said softly. “But only if you let me help.”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Deal.”

For the first time in years, the thought of Christmas didn’t fill you with a sense of loneliness. Instead, it felt like the beginning of something new—something warm and unexpected. And as the snow continued to fall outside, you couldn’t help but feel like this might be the Christmas you’d been waiting for all along.

You and Bucky stand up and make your way over to the tree. Sam glances up and smiles when he sees the two of you approaching.

“Ah, you two finally decided to join the fun, huh? Don’t worry, we saved the best job for you two - tinsel duty.”

You blinked. “Tinsel duty?”

“Yup.” He pointed to a box overflowing with shimmering strands of silver and gold. “Just toss it around. Try not to overthink it.”

You glanced at Bucky, who gave you an almost imperceptible shrug before grabbing a handful of tinsel. “Alright. But if this ends up looking like a glitter bomb exploded, it’s on you.”

Sam grinned. “That’s the spirit, Barnes!”

You couldn’t help but laugh as you and Bucky began draping the tinsel over the tree, your initial hesitation melting away as the room filled with laughter and banter. Wanda teased Clint about his meticulous star placement. At some point Bruce wandered in with a tray of cookies, offering them to everyone.

It was... nice. Warm, even. For the first time, you felt like you weren’t just watching from the sidelines—you were part of it.

As you looped another strand of tinsel over a branch, Bucky leaned in slightly. “Not so bad, huh?”

You smiled, glancing at him. “Not bad at all.”

After an hour or so, the tree was finished, a sparkling masterpiece of lights, ornaments, and, yes, tinsel. The team stood back to admire their handiwork, and for a moment, you caught yourself thinking that maybe, just maybe, this Christmas thing wasn’t so bad after all.

As the others started to disperse, heading to the kitchen or settling onto the couches, you turned to Bucky. “You know,” you began, your voice quiet but thoughtful, “this was fun. But I think... I’d like to have a tree of my own. Just something small, for my quarters.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Your first Christmas tree, huh?”

You nodded, feeling a little self-conscious. “Yeah. I mean, I know it’s silly—”

“It’s not silly,” he interrupted, his tone sincere. “It’s your Christmas. And if you want a tree, we’ll get you a tree.”

You looked at him, surprised. “We?”

He shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. I’ll help you pick one out. Tomorrow, if you want. We can make a day of it.”

Your smile widened, and for the first time in a long time, you felt something close to excitement bubbling up inside you. “I’d like that,” you said softly.

Bucky’s grin grew, and he gave you a small nod. “It’s a plan, then.”

As the evening wound down and the team slowly trickled out of the common room, you couldn’t help but feel like something had shifted—something subtle but significant. And as you and Bucky left the room together, the promise of tomorrow lingered in the air, warm and full of possibility.

****

The following day dawned crisp and cold, the snow falling in delicate flurries outside the windows of the compound. You tightened your scarf around your neck as you waited by the door, watching the snow coat the parking lot in a pristine white blanket. When Bucky finally appeared, he was bundled in his usual dark jacket.

“Ready?” he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“As I’ll ever be,” you replied, grinning.

The drive into town was quiet but comfortable, the radio playing soft holiday music as you watched the snowy landscape blur past. Occasionally, Bucky would glance over at you, his gloved hands steady on the steering wheel. There was something peaceful about the moment—a stillness that felt like the calm before something new.

When you arrived at the small Christmas shop nestled in the corner of town, you stepped inside and were immediately enveloped by the scent of pine and cinnamon. The shop was charming, its shelves crowded with twinkling lights, ornaments of every shape and size, and garlands that sparkled like freshly fallen snow.

Bucky stepped up beside you, his hands tucked into his pockets as he surveyed the room. “Alright,” he said, his tone light. “Where do we start?”

You hesitated, scanning the rows of ornaments and decorations. “I don’t even know,” you admitted with a small laugh. “There’s... a lot.”

“Pick whatever catches your eye,” Bucky said, giving you an encouraging nudge. “It’s your tree, after all.”

You smiled at him, warmth blooming in your chest at his easy acceptance. Slowly, you made your way through the shop, stopping every so often to admire something—a tiny reindeer with jingling bells, a delicate snowflake made of glass, a cheerful Santa with rosy cheeks.

Bucky followed close behind, offering the occasional comment or nod of approval. When you paused to inspect a set of miniature ornaments shaped like stars, his voice softened.

“That one’s nice,” he said, reaching for a small wooden sled nearby. “This reminds me of... something from when I was a kid. My ma used to have one like it on our tree.”

You looked at him, the nostalgia in his tone tugging at your heart. “You should get it,” you said gently.

He hesitated, turning the sled over in his hand as if weighing the decision. Finally, he nodded, slipping it into the basket you were holding. “Maybe I will.”

A few minutes later, as you reached for a small silver ornament shaped like a bird, Bucky’s hand brushed against yours. You both froze for a moment, your fingers tangled over the delicate decoration. Then, almost simultaneously, you broke into laughter.

“Guess I’m not the only one who likes shiny things,” you teased, handing the ornament to him.

Bucky smirked, taking it from you but placing it back on the shelf. “Nah, you can have it. It suits you better.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that lingered on your face.

By the time you left the shop, your basket was filled with an assortment of ornaments and decorations, each one a little piece of your first Christmas. Bucky carried the bags to the car, brushing the snow off the windshield before climbing into the driver’s seat.

As he started the car and the heater roared to life, you turned to him, your breath misting in the cold air. “Thanks for this,” you said softly. “For... helping me figure all this out.”

Bucky glanced at you, his blue eyes warm beneath the shadow of his beanie. “Anytime,” he said. “Everyone deserves a good Christmas.”

The car hummed softly as Bucky steered it back toward the compound, the snow outside swirling in lazy spirals under the gray December sky. You rested your hands on the shopping bags at your feet, the ornaments inside clinking gently with each bump in the road.

“Hey, Bucky?” you asked after a moment of quiet, your voice tentative.

“Yeah?” His eyes flicked to you briefly before returning to the road.

“What was Christmas like... you know, for you? Back then.”

Bucky’s grip on the steering wheel shifted slightly, his jaw tightening for a moment as if considering the question carefully. He exhaled through his nose, his breath fogging slightly in the cold air. “I don’t remember much,” he admitted, his voice low but steady. “A lot of it’s... blurry. Like looking through a frosted window, you know?”

You nodded, watching him closely. He seemed lost in thought, his gaze distant as if reaching for a memory that hovered just out of reach.

“But,” he continued after a pause, his tone softening, “I do remember one Christmas. I must’ve been... seven or eight. It had snowed like crazy the night before, and my ma was in the kitchen making these cookies—pfeffernüsse, she called them. Little spiced cookies covered in powdered sugar. The whole house smelled like cinnamon and cloves.”

He smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth tilting upward as the memory came into focus. “My sister and I were running around, trying to peek at the presents under the tree. My ma kept shooing us out of the living room, telling us to let the tree ‘rest’ before Christmas morning.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Like the tree needed a nap or something.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the image. “That sounds... really nice,” you said quietly.

“It was,” he agreed, his voice tinged with wistfulness. “That was the year my dad made us this little wooden sled. It wasn’t anything fancy, just some planks nailed together, but... man, we thought it was the greatest thing in the world. Spent the whole day outside, taking turns sliding down the hill behind our house.”

You watched him as he spoke, his expression unguarded in a way you didn’t see often. It was like the snow outside, rare and fleeting but beautiful in its clarity.

“Do you still have the sled?” you asked gently.

Bucky shook his head, his smile fading slightly. “No. Most of that stuff’s long gone. Especially since I was…away for so long. But... I don’t know. Sometimes I think about that Christmas and it feels... warm. Like a piece of home, even if it’s just a memory now.”

The car fell quiet again, the soft strains of a holiday song playing faintly on the radio. You looked down at your hands, fiddling with the edge of your scarf.

“I think it’s nice that you remember that,” you said after a moment. “Even if it’s just a piece of it. It’s... kind of comforting, you know?”

Bucky glanced at you again, his expression unreadable but his eyes soft. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”

As the compound came into view, you felt a warmth settle in your chest, like the glow of a fire on a cold night. Maybe this Christmas wouldn’t just be about creating new memories—it would also be about finding pieces of home, even in the unlikeliest of places.

Your quarters were bathed in the soft amber glow of the small lamps you’d lit earlier, the snow outside casting a faint blue tint through the frosted windows. The scent of pine filled the room as Bucky helped you set up the tree you’d picked out earlier. It stood proudly in the corner, a little uneven at the top, but perfect in its imperfections.

“Alright, let’s see if we can make this thing shine,” Bucky said, crouching by the box of lights. He began untangling the strands with practiced patience, while you dug into the bag of ornaments you’d chosen earlier.

You laughed softly as you pulled out the first ornament, a sparkly snowflake. “How is it possible that these lights tangle themselves when no one’s even using them?”

“It’s one of life’s great mysteries,” Bucky replied, shaking his head with mock seriousness. “Right up there with why Steve always insisted on going to battle without a helmet.”

You laughed, handing him the snowflake. “Here, start with this. We’ll figure out the lights after.”

Together, you worked to string the lights around the tree, pausing every now and then to adjust a strand or laugh when one of the bulbs flickered out. By the time the lights were glowing softly against the green branches, you felt a quiet contentment settle over you.

“Not bad,” Bucky said, stepping back to admire your handiwork. He reached for one of the ornaments, the small wooden sled he’d picked out earlier. As he held it in his hand, his expression softened, a hint of nostalgia flickering across his face.

“Do you remember something?” you asked gently, watching him closely.

Bucky nodded, turning the ornament over in his hand. “Yeah... I was just thinking about when I was younger decorating the tree with my mom and my sister. My mom had this old box of ornaments she’d pull out every year. Some of them were cracked, some missing hooks, but she insisted on using every single one. My sister and I would try to sneak the broken ones back into the box, but she always caught us.”

He smiled faintly, his eyes distant. “She’d put on this old record of Bing Crosby, and we’d all sing along while we decorated. I wasn’t much of a singer, but my mom didn’t care. She said Christmas wasn’t about being perfect—it was about being together.”

You felt a lump form in your throat at the warmth in his voice, the way the memory seemed to wrap around him like a blanket. “That sounds... really nice,” you said softly, placing a hand on his arm.

Bucky glanced at you, his smile fading slightly. “What about you? Did you ever...?”

You shook your head, lowering your gaze to the ornament in your hand. “No. My life was... different. I never really felt like I belonged anywhere, not with my coven, not with anyone. Holidays were just another day to remind me of that.” You hesitated, then looked back up at him. “But... being here, with the Avengers, with you... I don’t know. For the first time, I feel like I’m part of something. Like I have a family. Like I finally have somewhere I belong.”

The words hung in the air between you, soft and vulnerable. Bucky’s gaze lingered on yours, something unspoken flickering in his blue eyes.

Before either of you could say more, you turned to grab another ornament, your foot catching on the edge of the tree skirt. You stumbled forward, a startled gasp escaping your lips—but before you could fall, Bucky’s arms shot out, catching you effortlessly.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice low as he steadied you.

Your hands gripped his shoulders, his strong, steady presence grounding you. For a moment, neither of you moved. The room seemed to shrink, the glow of the Christmas lights casting a soft halo around you both. His hands rested gently on your waist, his touch warm even through the fabric of your sweater.

“Thanks,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He didn’t let go right away, his gaze searching yours as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. The air between you felt charged, every breath a little too loud in the quiet room.

But then, just as quickly, he stepped back, his hands falling to his sides. “You okay?” he asked, his voice steady but softer than usual.

“Yeah,” you said quickly, brushing your hands down your sweater as if to smooth away the moment. “Guess I’m not very graceful when it comes to decorating.”

Bucky chuckled, but the sound was softer than usual, almost hesitant. “Good thing you’ve got me to keep you on your feet.”

You smiled, picking up the ornament you’d dropped and hanging it carefully on the tree. As you worked side by side, the moment lingered in your mind, the warmth of his hands on your waist and the way he’d looked at you etched into your thoughts.

****

The days slipped into weeks, the festive atmosphere of the compound becoming more pronounced as Christmas drew closer. You found yourself caught in the whirlwind of preparations alongside the team, but your thoughts often drifted back to that night with Bucky.

You’d replayed those moments over and over again—his quiet laugh as you picked out ornaments together, the way his hands had steadied you when you almost fell, the warmth in his eyes when he’d talked about his family. It was silly, really, how those memories clung to you, but you couldn’t help it. For the first time in a long time, someone had made you feel seen.

But then... nothing.

Bucky had been called away on a mission not long after that night. You’d overheard someone mention something about Siberia, and though you weren’t sure of the details, you knew it must have been important. The days without him had stretched on, each one marked by his absence. You told yourself it was no big deal. He was an Avenger, after all. Missions came first, and it wasn’t like you had any claim to him.

Still, you couldn’t shake the way your chest felt heavier when you passed by his empty quarters or the way you caught yourself glancing at the door to the common room, half-expecting to see him walk through it.

With a sigh, you dropped onto the couch in your room, tucking your feet beneath you as you stared at the softly glowing tree in the corner. The lights twinkled, casting a warm, comforting glow across the room, but tonight they only seemed to remind you of how quiet things had become.

Your fingers toyed with the edge of a blanket as you tried to push the thoughts away. He’d be back soon, you told yourself. And when he was, things would go back to the way they were—comfortable, easy. That’s all it was. Just... comfort.

****

The compound was quieter than usual, the emptiness pressing against you as you moved around the kitchen. Christmas Eve wasn’t supposed to feel this... lonely. You glanced at the clock above the stove. Another hour had ticked by, and there was still no word from the team. They were supposed to be back days ago.

You sighed, brushing your hands down the front of your apron as you tried to push the ache in your chest aside. The menu you’d planned—a simple, homey meal—sat scribbled on a piece of paper beside you. Roast pork loin, roasted vegetables, and sugar cookies. It wasn’t extravagant, but it felt like something you could offer as a small gift to the others.

Even if no one else was around to enjoy it, cooking gave you something to focus on. You’d spent the morning shopping for the ingredients, carefully selecting the best cut of meat and the freshest vegetables. Now, as you peeled carrots and diced potatoes, the steady rhythm of your knife against the cutting board was almost soothing.

Almost.

You paused, your hand lingering on the edge of the counter as your gaze drifted to the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree in the common room, visible through the doorway. It had been weeks since you’d decorated your own tree with Bucky, and you’d replayed that night so many times in your mind. You’d held onto the hope that he’d be back in time to celebrate with you, but as the hours slipped away, it was starting to feel like this Christmas might pass quietly, like all the others before it.

You were so lost in thought that you almost didn’t hear the faint creak of the kitchen door opening. The sound drew your attention, and you glanced up, your heart skipping a beat when you saw who was standing there.

Bucky.

He lingered in the doorway, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his dark hair slightly damp from the snow melting on it. His blue eyes softened when they met yours, and for a moment, the tension in your chest eased.

“You’re back,” you said, your voice softer than you’d intended.

“Yeah,” he replied, stepping further into the kitchen and setting his bag down. “Mission took longer than expected.”

You nodded, gripping the edge of the counter to steady yourself as a wave of relief washed over you. “I didn’t think anyone would be back in time for Christmas.”

Bucky’s lips quirked into a faint smile as he took in the sight of the half-prepped meal spread out on the counter. “Looks like you’ve been keeping busy.”

You glanced at the cutting board, suddenly self-conscious. “I just... thought it’d be nice to make something for everyone. If they came back.”

He tilted his head, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he moved closer. “Need a hand?”

“You’ve just got back,” you said, shaking your head. “You should rest—”

“I’d rather be here,” he interrupted gently. His voice was steady, but there was something in his tone, something unspoken, that made your chest tighten.

For a moment, you simply stared at him, caught in the quiet intensity of his gaze. Then you nodded, stepping aside to make room for him at the counter. “Alright. But don’t blame me if you end up peeling all the potatoes.”

Bucky chuckled, the sound low and warm as he shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “Deal.”

As you handed Bucky a few potatoes and pointed him toward the sink, the two of you slipped into a quiet rhythm. Cooking felt easier with someone there to share the work, and you couldn’t help but notice how naturally he fell into step beside you. He peeled the potatoes with steady, practiced movements, while you worked on seasoning the pork loin and tossing the vegetables with olive oil and spices.

It wasn’t exactly what you’d envisioned for your first Christmas dinner, but the ease between you and Bucky made it feel... right.

“You’re pretty good at this,” you said, glancing at him as he rinsed off the peeled potatoes.

He smirked faintly. “Peeling potatoes isn’t exactly rocket science.”

“No, I mean all of this,” you gestured toward the counter, where bowls and ingredients were strewn about in organized chaos. “You’re a lot more... domestic than I expected.”

Bucky chuckled, his gaze softening as he dried his hands on a towel. “Grew up helping my ma in the kitchen. She made sure I knew how to cook a decent meal.”

The image of a young Bucky helping his mother in a warm, bustling kitchen tugged at your heart. You smiled, trying to picture it. “Well, consider me impressed. I was expecting more of a... ‘break things and punch stuff’ skillset from you.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, a playful glint in his eyes. “I’m still pretty good at that, too.”

You laughed softly and handed him a cutting board. “Alright, tough guy. Chop those into chunks while I get the roast ready.”

He followed your instructions without hesitation, his knife slicing through the potatoes with precision. You couldn’t help but watch him for a moment, the way his hands moved deftly, his brow furrowed in quiet concentration. There was something grounding about his presence, something steady and reassuring that made the kitchen feel warmer.

As you worked together, the sound of soft Christmas music from the compound’s speaker system filled the room, mingling with the rhythmic chop of the knife and the clatter of pans. The smell of seasoned pork and fresh herbs began to fill the air, cozy and inviting.

The door to the kitchen creaked open, and Wanda poked her head in, her nose twitching as she sniffed the air. “That smells amazing,” she said, stepping fully inside.

“Dinner’s not ready yet,” you said with a laugh, glancing at her over your shoulder.

“I wasn’t rushing you,” Wanda replied with a grin. Her gaze flicked between you and Bucky, her eyebrows raising slightly, though she didn’t say anything else. “Let me know if you need any help. Otherwise, I’ll just sit here and enjoy the smell.”

She wandered off toward the common room, leaving you and Bucky to exchange a quick glance and a quiet laugh.

Not long after, Clint wandered in, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Whatever’s cooking in here, I want in on it.”

“Noted,” you said, rolling your eyes good-naturedly.

He grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter, gave you both an approving nod, and left just as quickly as he’d arrived.

“Is this what Christmas is supposed to feel like?” you asked aloud, half to yourself, as you slid the roast into the oven.

Bucky, who had just finished chopping the last potato, glanced at you. “What do you mean?”

You shrugged, wiping your hands on a towel. “The smells, the warmth, the people coming and going... it’s nice. Feels... cozy.”

Bucky smiled faintly, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he turned his attention back to the cutting board. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It does.”

As the minutes slipped by, the kitchen grew warmer, the scents of roasted meat and caramelizing vegetables filling the air. You and Bucky worked seamlessly together, trading jokes and small smiles as you moved around the small space. It was easy—easier than you’d ever imagined—and for a moment, you let yourself believe that this could be what home felt like.

The dining area was simple but welcoming, with the table set for six. You’d managed to find a festive red tablecloth in one of the compound’s storage rooms, and Wanda had added a few candles and some greenery she’d somehow conjured up at the last minute. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it felt warm and inviting.

Everyone filed in slowly, drawn by the smell of the meal you and Bucky had prepared. Sam was the first to sit down, followed by Clint, who made a show of sniffing the air and declaring, “This is going to be the best Christmas dinner I’ve ever had that didn’t involve takeout.”

Bruce arrived next, carrying a bottle of wine he’d found in the compound’s pantry. “Figured this could help wash down the meal,” he said with a small smile, setting it on the table.

“Classy touch, Doc,” Sam said, giving Bruce a thumbs-up.

Wanda floated in last, her eyes lighting up as she saw the spread on the table. “This looks amazing,” she said, taking her seat beside Clint.

You stood at the head of the table, looking around at the assembled group. Bucky lingered near your side, his presence steady and reassuring as always. He caught your eye and gave you a small nod, as if to say, You did good.

“Alright, dig in before it gets cold,” you said, gesturing to the food.

There was a brief scramble as everyone reached for plates and serving spoons. Conversation soon flowed effortlessly around the table, voices overlapping in that warm, chaotic way that only happened when people felt comfortable.

“This pork is incredible,” Sam said, pointing his fork at you. “You sure you’ve never done this before?”

You shook your head, laughing. “Beginner’s luck, I guess.”

“Well, you’ve set the bar pretty high,” Clint added, slicing into his roasted vegetables. “Next year, we’re expecting a full five-course meal.”

Bucky chuckled softly beside you, his own plate half-finished already. “Ease up, Barton. You’re lucky she didn’t make you a peanut butter sandwich.”

You nudged Bucky with your elbow, grinning. “I could’ve done that, you know. Would’ve saved a lot of time.”

The table erupted into laughter, and for a moment, you let yourself soak it all in. The warmth, the banter, the feeling of being part of something.

As the conversation drifted to other topics, your eyes found Bucky’s across the table. He was leaning back slightly, his fork idly pushing a roasted carrot around his plate as he listened to Bruce explain some scientific experiment. When he felt your gaze, he glanced over and offered you a small, almost shy smile.

You smiled back, your heart doing a little flip.

“So,” Wanda said suddenly, breaking you out of your thoughts, “what’s everyone’s favorite Christmas tradition?”

The question sparked a flurry of answers. Sam talked about how his mom used to make beignets every Christmas morning. Clint shared a story about a Christmas Eve prank war with Natasha that had involved a strategically placed mistletoe and a very grumpy Steve. Even Bruce opened up, reminiscing about reading “The Night Before Christmas” to his nieces and nephews when he could make it home.

When it was Bucky’s turn, he hesitated, his gaze flickering to you before he spoke. “We used to decorate the tree together,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “My mom, my sister, and me. She’d make hot chocolate, and we’d argue over who got to put the star on top.”

The table fell silent for a moment, the weight of his words settling in.

“That sounds nice,” Wanda said softly, breaking the quiet.

Bucky nodded, his lips curving into a faint smile. “It was.”

The conversation picked up again, but you found yourself watching Bucky out of the corner of your eye. There was a softness to him tonight, a vulnerability that he didn’t often show. It made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

As the meal wound down, Clint leaned back in his chair with a satisfied groan. “Alright, I’m calling it. Best Christmas dinner ever.”

“Agreed,” Sam said, raising his glass of wine. “To the chef—and her assistant.”

“Assistant?” Bucky scoffed, raising an eyebrow. “I did half the work.”

“Sure you did, buddy,” Sam teased, smirking.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Alright, alright. Thanks for the help, Bucky. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

His gaze met yours, and for a moment, the noise around the table faded. “Anytime,” he said softly.

As the others began to clear their plates and drift off, you couldn’t help but feel like this was exactly what you’d been missing. A family, a place where you belonged—and maybe, just maybe, something more.

The kitchen was quiet, save for the soft clinking of dishes and the steady rush of water from the sink. You stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, as you rinsed off the last of the dinner plates. Bucky was beside you, dish towel in hand, drying each plate you handed him with quiet efficiency.

“You really don’t have to help,” you said, glancing at him. “You’ve been on a mission for weeks. Go put your feet up, or something.”

Bucky smirked, taking the plate you passed him and wiping it dry. “Nice try, but I’m not leaving you to clean all this up alone.”

“I mean it, Bucky,” you said, though your tone lacked any real conviction. “You’ve done enough.”

“And yet, here I am,” he replied, his voice calm and steady.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Stubborn as ever.”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm. “Takes one to know one.”

For a while, the two of you worked in companionable silence. You washed, he dried, and every now and then, your hands brushed as he took something from you. Each touch was fleeting, but it sent little sparks through you nonetheless.

After a few minutes, Bucky broke the silence. “You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I haven’t really done this...celebrated Christmas, I mean, in decades.”

You looked over at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nodded, his eyes fixed on the plate he was drying. “After everything I lost—my family, my friends—it just felt...too painful. Like I didn’t deserve it anymore. Or like celebrating would make it harder to forget what I’d lost.”

Your chest ached at his words, and you reached out, placing a hand gently on his arm. “I’m sorry, Bucky.”

He shrugged, but his expression was pensive. “It is what it is. But tonight...” He trailed off, his gaze meeting yours. “Tonight didn’t feel so bad. You’ve got this way of making things feel...lighter.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the raw honesty in his voice. “I—thank you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “And thank you for helping me. This whole holiday thing is new to me, and...I don’t know. I feel like tonight was the happiest I’ve been in a long time.”

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, one that reached his eyes. “I’m glad,” he said simply.

The moment stretched between you, the air charged with something unspoken. You glanced down, focusing on the water in the sink to keep yourself grounded.

After a moment, you handed him the last dish. “Well,” you said, clearing your throat, “that’s the last of it. We make a pretty good team, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” he said, drying the plate and setting it on the counter. “We do.”

You turned off the water and wiped your hands on a towel, feeling strangely reluctant for the moment to end. “Thanks again, Bucky,” you said, meeting his gaze. “For everything.”

He nodded, his expression soft. “Anytime.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The kitchen was quiet, the warmth from the evening lingering in the air. It felt like there was something just out of reach, something waiting to be said or done. But neither of you took that step.

“Goodnight,” you said finally, your voice soft.

“Goodnight,” Bucky replied, his voice low and steady.

As you turned to leave the kitchen, you felt his gaze follow you, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he felt the same pull you did.

You paused just as you reached the doorway, your hand still resting on the frame. A thought struck you, sudden and vivid, and you turned back toward Bucky, your heart skipping a beat.

“Bucky,” you called softly, your voice carrying across the quiet kitchen.

He turned immediately, his blue eyes meeting yours with an almost questioning look. “Yeah?”

You hesitated for a moment, suddenly feeling nervous. “I, um... I got you something. For Christmas.”

His brows lifted slightly, surprise flashing across his face. “You got me a present?”

You nodded, your fingers fidgeting with the towel in your hands. “It’s nothing big, just...something I thought you might like. Do you—do you have a minute to come to my room?”

For a moment, Bucky just stared at you, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Then, a small smile broke across his face, warm and genuine. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Of course.”

Relief flooded through you, and you smiled back, gesturing for him to follow. Together, the two of you left the kitchen and walked through the quiet hallways of the compound. The soft hum of the lights overhead was the only sound, and the air between you felt charged with anticipation.

When you reached your quarters, you opened the door and stepped inside, glancing back to make sure Bucky was following. He lingered just inside the doorway, his gaze sweeping over your room. The Christmas tree you’d decorated together stood in the corner, its soft, colorful lights casting a warm glow across the space.

“You did good setting the rest of the stuff up. It looks good,” he said, his voice low and approving.

“Thanks,” you replied, your nerves returning as you moved toward the small dresser where you’d stashed the gift. You pulled out a small, neatly wrapped box and turned back to face him, holding it out with both hands.

Bucky’s eyes flicked from the box to your face, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his expression. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” he said, his voice soft.

“I wanted to,” you said simply, stepping closer. “Go on, open it.”

He hesitated for just a moment before taking the box from your hands. His fingers brushed yours briefly, and the small touch sent a shiver up your spine. Carefully, he unwrapped the paper, revealing a small, vintage-style pocketknife with a dark wooden handle. The owner of the shop said it was from the 1940s but you weren’t sure if that was true or not.

He turned it over in his hand, his thumb running over the smooth surface of the wood. “This is...” He paused, his voice thick with emotion. “This is really nice.”

You shifted on your feet, suddenly self-conscious. “I thought it might remind you of...well, of home. Of a time before all the chaos. I figured it might be something you’d actually use, too.”

Bucky’s gaze lifted to meet yours, and for a moment, the weight of his gratitude was almost overwhelming. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “This...this means a lot.”

Your cheeks warmed under his steady gaze. “I’m glad you like it.”

He looked down at the knife again, turning it over one more time before tucking it into his pocket. Then, he stepped closer, his blue eyes fixed on yours. “You know,” he said, his voice low and earnest, “this might be the first Christmas in a long time that’s actually felt...real. Like it means something.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “I’m glad,” you said softly. “You deserve that, Bucky.”

For a moment, it felt like time stood still. He was so close now, close enough that you could see the faintest trace of stubble on his jaw, the way his lashes cast soft shadows under his eyes. The air between you was heavy with something unspoken, something fragile and electric all at once.

But then, with a small, almost shy smile, Bucky stepped back, breaking the spell. “You’ve got good taste,” he said, patting the pocket where he’d tucked the knife. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

Bucky lingered, his eyes still locked on yours. Just as he seemed ready to turn and leave, he paused, reaching into the pocket of his jacket. “Wait,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You tilted your head in curiosity, watching as he pulled out a small, carefully wrapped package. Your breath caught when he held it out to you.

“I, uh... I got you something too,” he said, a hint of nervousness in his tone.

“You did?” you asked, your heart skipping a beat as you reached for the package.

Bucky nodded, his gaze flickering down to the gift in your hands. “I wasn’t sure if I should give it to you, but...it felt right. I saw it a while back, and it reminded me of something my mom used to wear.”

Carefully, you unwrapped the package, your fingers trembling slightly. Inside was a delicate vintage bracelet, its silver chain adorned with a single charm—a tiny engraved locket that opened to reveal enough space for two small pictures.

Your breath hitched as you turned it over in your hands. The craftsmanship was intricate, timeless, and utterly beautiful.

“Bucky,” you whispered, looking up at him with wide eyes. “This is...it’s stunning.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks. “It’s nothing fancy. Just thought it might be something you’d like. Something that...you could carry with you, you know? To remind you that you’re never alone.”

Your throat tightened, overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness. “I love it,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “Thank you, Bucky. This means so much to me.”

You looked up at him, your fingers still clutching the bracelet. The room felt charged with a warmth that wasn’t coming from the soft glow of the Christmas lights. It was him—his presence, his quiet strength, his unspoken care that seemed to radiate and fill every corner of the space.

“Bucky...” you began, hesitating as the words bubbled up inside you. “I—there’s something I need to say.”

His eyes softened, his full attention on you now. “What is it?”

You swallowed hard, summoning the courage you’d been holding back for so long. “I care about you,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. “More than I’ve ever cared about anyone. You’ve done so much for me, and being around you...it feels like I’ve finally found where I belong. I’ve never had that before, not until you.”

Bucky’s expression shifted, his lips parting as if he hadn’t expected your confession. But then, slowly, a smile touched his face—a real one, not the guarded half-smiles he often wore.

“I’ve cared about you for a long time,” he said quietly, his voice deep and steady. “But I wanted to give you time. To find your place here, to heal, to figure out what you wanted. I didn’t want to push you before you were ready.”

Tears welled in your eyes, your heart aching with a kind of happiness you’d never experienced before. “I am ready,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Bucky took a small step closer, his hand reaching out to gently brush your cheek. The touch was soft, tentative, as if he was afraid you might pull away. But you didn’t. Instead, you leaned into his touch, your eyes searching his.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice so quiet it was almost a breath.

You nodded, your answer coming without hesitation. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

That was all the confirmation he needed. Slowly, he closed the distance between you, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was gentle yet filled with unspoken longing.

You responded instantly, your hands finding their way to his chest as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer. The world outside faded away, leaving only the warmth of his embrace and the quiet hum of the Christmas lights.

When the kiss ended, Bucky rested his forehead against yours, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “I don’t want to rush you,” he murmured. “But I want you to know how much you mean to me. How much you’ve always meant to me.”

“You’re not rushing me,” you assured him, your voice steady despite the rapid beating of your heart. “This feels...right. It feels like home.”

Bucky’s lips curved into a soft smile, his eyes filled with a mix of affection and relief. Without another word, he leaned down and kissed you again, deeper this time, as if to seal the promise between you.

****

The room had grown quiet, save for the soft hum of the Christmas lights strung around your quarters and the faint whistle of the wind outside. You were curled up on the couch with Bucky, your head resting against his chest as his arm stayed wrapped protectively around your shoulders. The warmth of his body and the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing had lulled you into a hazy calm.

Bucky’s hand absently traced slow, soothing circles on your arm as his gaze drifted to the window, where snowflakes swirled in the darkness. He glanced down at you, noticing the way your breathing had slowed and how your hand, resting against his chest, had slackened.

“Hey,” he murmured softly, his voice low and tender. “You falling asleep on me?”

You stirred slightly but didn’t lift your head. “Mm...maybe,” you mumbled, your voice heavy with sleep.

Bucky chuckled quietly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed,” he said, shifting slightly to sit up.

But the moment he moved, your arms tightened around him instinctively, and you pressed closer, your cheek nuzzling against the fabric of his sweater. “Don’t go,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Bucky froze, his heart skipping a beat at your words. He leaned back against the couch, his hand brushing your hair gently. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised softly. “I just don’t want you to wake up with a stiff neck from sleeping on the couch.”

You finally tilted your head up to look at him, your eyes heavy-lidded but filled with a quiet plea. “Stay,” you whispered, your voice more certain now. “Just for tonight. I don’t want to be alone.”

Bucky’s throat tightened, the vulnerability in your voice cutting straight through him. He searched your face, his brow furrowing slightly as if trying to gauge if this was truly what you wanted. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice gentle.

You nodded, your fingers clutching the front of his sweater. “Please,” you said, your voice so soft it was almost a breath.

Bucky exhaled slowly, his resolve crumbling. “Alright,” he said finally, his tone filled with quiet understanding.

Carefully, he shifted you in his arms, standing and carrying you effortlessly toward your bed. You clung to him, your arms looped around his neck as he gently laid you down. The warmth of the blankets enveloped you, but you refused to let go, your fingers still clutching his sleeve.

Bucky hesitated, his weight balanced on the edge of the bed as he looked down at you. “You really want me to stay?” he asked again, his voice softer now.

“Yes,” you said without hesitation, your eyes meeting his. “I feel safe when you’re here.”

The honesty in your words made something inside him shift. Slowly, he slid onto the bed beside you, careful not to crowd your space as he leaned back against the pillows. You immediately nestled into his side, your head resting against his shoulder as your hand came to rest on his chest.

Bucky let out a quiet sigh, his arm wrapping around you once more. “Alright,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m here.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the faint crackle of the heater and the distant howl of the wind outside.

As your breathing evened out, Bucky tilted his head down to look at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his hand brushing lightly against your arm.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, his voice filled with a warmth that matched the glow of the lights around the room.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, both of you fell asleep with a sense of peace you hadn’t known you were missing.

****

The soft glow of morning light filtered through the curtains, blending with the warm twinkle of the Christmas tree lights still glowing from the night before. The compound was quiet, the usual hum of activity stilled by the early hour and the calm of Christmas morning.

You stirred first, the warmth of Bucky’s body next to you a grounding presence. His arm was still draped around your waist, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath your cheek. For a moment, you stayed still, savoring the peace of the moment—the steady beat of his heart, the faint scent of cedar and something uniquely him, the weight of his arm holding you close.

You shifted slightly, your movements stirring him. Bucky let out a soft, contented groan before his blue eyes fluttered open, still hazy with sleep. His gaze found yours, and a small, sleepy smile curved his lips.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly from sleep.

“Morning,” you replied softly, your own smile spreading as you propped yourself up slightly to look at him.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the quiet intimacy of the morning wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Eventually, you broke the stillness, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Coffee?” you offered, your voice gentle.

Bucky nodded, his smile growing. “Coffee sounds good.”

You slid out of bed, your bare feet padding softly across the floor as you went to the small kitchenette in your quarters. Bucky followed a moment later, tugging his sweater back into place as he moved to help. You waved him off with a playful smile, insisting, “You just woke up. Sit. Relax.”

He smirked but obeyed, settling himself on the couch as he watched you move. The rich aroma of brewing coffee soon filled the room, mingling with the scent of pine from the Christmas tree. You brought over two mugs, handing one to him before curling up next to him on the couch.

The tree’s lights cast a soft glow around the room, their colors reflecting faintly in the steaming surface of your drinks. You pulled your legs up beneath you, leaning against Bucky’s side as you cradled your mug in your hands.

“This is nice,” you said after a moment, your voice quiet and thoughtful. “I didn’t really know what to expect for my first Christmas, but... this? This is perfect.”

Bucky glanced down at you, his expression softening. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice filled with a kind of tentative hope.

You nodded, meeting his gaze. “Yeah. Last night... and now... this is the best first Christmas I could’ve imagined.”

His arm tightened around you, pulling you just a bit closer. “Good,” he said, his voice steady and warm. “Because I meant what I said last night. There’ll be more. As many Christmases as you want.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you turned slightly, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “Thank you,” you murmured.

Bucky’s free hand came up to brush softly against your hair. “For what?”

“For everything,” you said, your voice quiet but full of emotion. “For being here. For making this feel like home.”

Bucky didn’t reply right away, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you, the way his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your arm.

When he finally spoke, his voice was a low murmur. “You’ve given me more than you know,” he said. “I didn’t think... I didn’t think I’d ever feel this again. This kind of peace.”

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. For a long moment, the two of you just stared at each other, the words unspoken but understood.

The moment lingered, soft and quiet, as the snow continued to fall outside, blanketing the world in a serene stillness. It was a Christmas morning you’d never forget—the first of many, just as Bucky had promised.

The hum of activity and cheerful chatter echoed down the halls as you and Bucky eventually made your way to the common room, hand in hand. The soft buzz of excitement in the air was unmistakable—it was Christmas morning, and despite the team’s various histories and struggles, they had all come together to celebrate like a makeshift family.

As the two of you stepped into the common room, the smell of freshly brewed coffee, hot cocoa, and cinnamon pastries hit you instantly. Wanda and Clint were seated on the couch near the towering Christmas tree, their attention briefly shifting from the pile of wrapped gifts underneath it to you and Bucky. Sam stood near the fireplace, gesturing animatedly as Bruce tried to hang a strand of garland that kept slipping off.

It didn’t take long for them to notice.

“Well, well,” Sam said, turning to face you with a sly grin as his eyes zeroed in on your intertwined hands. “What’s this? I step away for one mission, and suddenly you two are attached at the hip? Called it!”

Wanda turned to look at you both, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “I did sense something was different when I walked in earlier,” she added playfully. “But I didn’t want to pry.”

Clint, perched on the arm of the couch, raised an eyebrow and smirked. “About time, Barnes. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, his free hand rising to rub at the back of his neck, but the faint pink that dusted his cheeks gave him away. “You’ve been back for all of five minutes, and you’re already running your mouth,” he quipped, shooting a halfhearted glare at Sam.

“Oh, come on, Bucky,” Sam teased, folding his arms and leaning casually against the fireplace. “I mean, look at you! The guy who used to sit in the corner and brood now looks downright cheerful.”

Despite the teasing, the warmth in the room was palpable. No one was being cruel or overbearing—it was clear they were genuinely happy for you both.

You squeezed Bucky’s hand, shooting him a small, reassuring smile before addressing the team. “Alright, alright,” you said, your voice light but firm. “Get it out of your systems now. We’ve got presents to open, and I’ll be damned if I let Sam’s running commentary delay the fun.”

Sam threw his hands up in mock surrender, grinning. “Fine, fine. But don’t think I won’t circle back to this later.”

The morning unfolded with laughter and lighthearted banter. The group gathered around the tree, taking turns opening gifts and sharing stories. Wanda surprised you with a beautiful scarf she had hand-knit, and Clint gifted you a set of books he had noticed you admiring during a rare team outing. Sam gave Bucky a “World’s Okayest Teammate” mug, which earned a hearty laugh from everyone except Bucky, who muttered something about breaking it “accidentally.”

As the festivities carried on, you found yourself glancing at Bucky every so often, catching his gaze as he looked back at you. Each time, a small, private smile passed between you, a silent acknowledgment of the new chapter you’d both begun.

At one point, Bruce approached you with a warm smile, his voice quiet amidst the lively chatter. “You seem happy,” he said simply.

You nodded, your eyes drifting toward Bucky, who was laughing at something Clint had said. “I am,” you replied, your voice soft but filled with certainty. “More than I’ve been in a long time.”

Bruce gave you a knowing nod before stepping back into the group, leaving you with a sense of peace you hadn’t felt in years.

As the morning turned into afternoon, the team began to scatter, some retreating to their rooms, others lingering in the common room to enjoy the warmth of the fire and the quiet buzz of the holiday. You and Bucky stayed together, finding a comfortable spot on the couch near the tree.

Bucky reached over to take your hand, his thumb brushing gently against your knuckles. “You alright?” he asked softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You turned to him, your heart swelling as you took in the warmth and tenderness in his gaze. “Yeah,” you said, your voice steady. “I’m more than alright. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

Bucky’s lips curved into a soft smile, his hand tightening slightly around yours. “Good,” he said simply, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken promises.

The two of you sat there for a while longer, surrounded by the quiet hum of the compound and the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights. It was a moment you’d cherish forever—a memory of warmth, love, and belonging that marked the start of something truly beautiful.

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