#but I hope the general message comes across

[oceanjoker]

ZED STORIES

Chapter 1 "Emergency Broadcast"

Summary: The exact date of the initial outbreak is unknown. The military quickly set up an "exclusion zone" around Louisville before it managed to spread further, the military established a blockade surrounding the infected areas of Muldraugh, Riverside, West Point, and Rosewood, dubbed the Knox Exclusion Zone. 9 days has passed ever since all of this started, these were the end of times, there was no hope for survival...

   The garage smelled like gasoline and rust, and there was a faint hum from the generator in the corner cutting through the silence. Marcel adjusted the knob on the improvised radio transmitter. It was a mess of wires and duct tape holding it together like everything else in his life over the past days. A flickering lantern on the workbench cast long shadows across the walls, bouncing off stacks of canned food and water jugs. The garage door, reinforced with planks and scraps of metal, creaked softly in the wind, its strength untested but unyielding for now. He took a deep breath and pressed the transmission button.

“Good afternoon survivors! I am your host BasicallyIdoWrk, and it’s been 9 days since whole hell broke loose! crazy how time flies, no matter how shitty they are, and if you’re hearing this. Congrats! you are alive and you made it this far, give yourself a pat on the back”

He stopped for a moment to clap near the microphone, but as soon as he was going to continue, Scotty entered the garage, his lab coat was very dirty and worn out but it still stood out in the dark environment. He didn’t say anything, just crouched near the generator doing his daily check up to make sure it is working properly. Marcel turned back to the microphone:

“Anyways, I’m in one of the five houses from the gated community of Rosewood. It's not perfect but we got some fences to keep us safe, we got food, clean water and even electricity thanks to my lovely friend Scotty”

“You’re welcome!” Scotty called across the garage.

“But that doesn’t change the fact that he is a bad cook, so if you’re nearby, come by for a taste of burned canned soup. Or, you know, just say hi. Zombies not invited tho” 

Scotty rolled his eyes but chuckled. "At least I’m cooking, Mr. ‘I’ll just eat chips again.’"

Outside, the streets of Rosewood were quiet, the only sounds being the occasional groans of the undead and the soft rustling of the wind. the two had already gotten used to this sound. But they knew that danger was always there…

"Think anyone’s actually listening to your little comedy show bud?"

Marcel slightly moved the microphone away and placed one of his hands in front of it. "I don’t know. Maybe. But even if nobody hears it, it keeps me sane. It keeps us sane." he whispered.

“Fair enough” Scotty said as he turned back to check on the generator.

Marcel brought the microphone back, but static sounds began to echo through the garage. Scotty looked at the small, rudimentary radio on the table.

The static continued for a few seconds that seemed like hours, but then it stopped, and a voice came through the radio.

"This is addressed to those unaffected by the second wave of the Infection. The disease will not spread to you as it has to others, but through fluid contact, by which I mean bites, It surely will. The time has come to bear arms against this threat. They may be your family, They may be your friends. DO NOT hesitate to pull the trigger. These are dark days, but as a nation we can and will prevail. You have not been forgotten.”

“Oh this again, It’s been a whole week and guess what? we are still in here, trapped in this shithole YOU provoked” 

Scotty said, completely frustrated. He was obviously tired of his new routine and soon continued with the generator maintenance procedure. “And guess what? Earlier a helicopter flew by. You flew right past us while we waved like idiots!, So what’s the fucking point of this message?”

“Hey at least the zombies that were following its sound headed to the north with it,I wouldn’t want to deal with that many zombies,” Marcel said as he stretched out in the chair. “And now they are far away”

“We will come for you. General John McGrew, Out."

The static returned, permeating Marcel’s ears. Pushing the radio equipment away, Marcel slowly laid his head on the table and hid his face with his hoodie, soon beginning to think.

He was safe. His shelter was completely barricaded. He was hydrated and fed. But what now? He hadn’t found anyone other than Scotty, who seemed to be slowly losing hope. He had been trying to contact other survivors for a week, and for all he knew, all his friends could be dead. It was only a matter of time before all his resources ran out. There was no sign of help. There was no way the world he once knew would return to what it was before…

These were the end times. There was no hope of survival…

Scotty tried to reach for his shoulder to comfort him but was interrupted by loud grunts from outside. Marcel then grabbed his sword, tightening his grip. He motioned for Scotty to keep quiet.

Then they heard it- A human scream

He stood, his heart pounding. “Someone’s out there.” Marcel said

“Who 's screaming? don’t they know the zombies are heavily attracted by sounds?!” Scotty whispered

“I don’t know but can’t you see? We are NOT THE ONLY ONES!” Marcel said with a bit of hope

“Could be a trap.” Scotty muttered while grabbing a golf club

Marcel stepped to the garage door, carefully peering through a narrow gap in the barricade. What he saw made his stomach twist. Two figures were limping down the street, illuminated by the fading sunlight. One of them, a man, was carrying another man who was missing his right leg below the knee. The stump was wrapped in a bandage soaked with blood, the red staining the asphalt beneath him as they stumbled forward. Behind them, a horde of at least fifteen zombies shambled in pursuit, their guttural moans growing louder.

“We need to help them” Marcel said looking back at Scotty

Scotty hesitated. “If we let them in, the horde will come down on us. The barricade won’t hold against that many.”

“We can’t just leave them. If we don’t help, they’ll die.” Marcel looked at Scotty with a look of determination.

“Fine. But we do this smartly, or we’re all dead.” Scotty sighed

Marcel nodded and they opened the garage door enough to get out. He slipped out into the streets, crouching low as he darted toward the edge of the street. Scotty followed close behind

“Hey!” Marcel hissed as loudly as he dared, waving his arms to get the survivors’ attention. The man’s head snapped toward him and he could finally see his face a metallic texture, a shining red eye and then he realised.

“Brian?!” The word left his mouth before he even realized he had spoken it.

The figure froze. recognition flashed across his worn features. Then, in a voice hoarse from exhaustion but unmistakably his, he responded:

“Marcel?! How the hell are you alive?!”

“Over here! Come on! we can chat about this later” Marcel yelled as he pointed to the garage

Brian adjusted his grip on the injured man, dragging him towards the open garage door. Marcel rushed forward to help them, throwing the man’s arm over his shoulder to help. and as he looked, he recognized that the man was none other than Nogla

Marcel carried Nogla through the house's gate and into the garage. Brian followed, Scotty pushed two zombies away before slamming the garage door shut behind him.

“Help me put some weight here!” he yelled.

Marcel lowered Nogla onto a pile of blankets in the corner and rushed to Scotty’s side. Together, they shoved a heavy shelf against the gate as the first zombies slammed against it from the other side. The metal rattled violently, but the barricade held for now.

Breathing heavily, Marcel turned back to his friends. Brian was kneeling beside the injured Nogla, his hands pressed against his bleeding stump.

“Scotty!” Marcel called, his voice sharp.

“I’m on it!” Scotty grabbed the first-aid kit from the workbench and knelt beside Nogla, his movements swift and precise. He unwrapped the soaked bandage, grimacing at the raw, mangled flesh beneath. he looked away for a few seconds but knew he had to do the job

“This isn’t great,” he muttered. “He’s lost a lot of blood, and we don’t have the supplies for this. I can try to stop the bleeding, but...”

Marcel crouched beside him. “What do you need?”

“Something to cauterize the wound,” Scotty said. “A fire, a hot blade, something. If we don’t stop the bleeding now, he’s not going to make it.”

Marcel stood and scanned the garage, his eyes landing on a propane torch that Scotty had been using to sterilize tools. He grabbed it and handed it to him.

“This will work,” Scotty said, already flicking the igniter. The torch roared to life, the blue flame casting harsh shadows across the garage.

As Scotty prepared to cauterize the wound, the sound of the horde pounding against the barricade grew louder. Marcel glanced toward the door, his grip tightening on the sword.

“I need ten minutes, maybe less if you can keep those biters off us!”

“Is there another exit here? I can hold them down and buy us time” Brian said as he grabbed a metal pipe

“There are way too many zombies you won’t make it ali-” Marcel's protest is soon interrupted as soon as he notices Brian pointing at the robotic part of his face

“Oh…Ooooooooooooh…that makes sense.” Marcel muttered “Well, there’s a door that leads to the backyard but…I’m going with you, there’s no way i’ll leave you alone on this” 

both of them made their way to the backyard, there was a brief moment of silent:

“I’ll be honest,” Marcel said, breaking the tense silence. “I thought you were dead.”

Brian’s red eye glowed faintly as he turned to Marcel. “Likewise. But here we are. Fancy reunion, don’t you think?”

As they approached the horde, Marcel yelled getting the zombies attention away from the garage door and he surged forward, his sword slicing clean through the neck of the nearest zombie. “First kill is mine!” he called out, adrenaline pumping.

Brian followed, swinging his pipe. The first hit sent a zombie flying into a concrete wall with a sickening crunch. “Two!” he counted.

“I missed this,” Marcel admitted, kicking a crawler back before driving his sword through its skull.

“Missed what? Killing zombies or me carrying you?” Brian quipped, impaling a rotting torso against a metal pole.

“A bit of both” Marcel laughed, narrowly dodging a grab from behind. “Plus you never carried me”

The horde kept coming, and the two friends didn’t falter. Marcel vaulted over a car hood, decapitating a zombie mid-leap, while Terroriser ripped the jaw clean off another before stomping it into the ground.

“That’s eight!” Marcel yelled, sweat dripping down his face.

“Eleven, twelve” Brian corrected, swinging his pipe like a baseball bat to take out two more.

“I wasn’t counting yours!” Marcel shot back, grinning.

“Oh wow thanks…It's good to know that you consider me so much” Brian responds in a sarcastic tone

meanwhile in the garage, Scotty worked quickly

“This is gonna hurt, but it’ll save your life,” Scotty muttered, turning to Nogla.

Nogla looked at him, his expression stricken. “Just do it man. Do it fast for God’s sake!”

Scotty took the torch and moved to Nogla’s leg, his hands steady as he positioned the flame near the wound. Nogla’s body twitched slightly in response to the heat, his entire body going rigid as the flame touched his flesh. The smell of searing skin filled the air, and the blood flow slowed as the flesh sealed. Nogla screamed through clenched teeth but the sound was drowned out by the chaos of the fight outside.

“We’re almost done!” Scotty shouted, his voice strained. “Just hold them off!”

Marcel and Brian exchanged a glance, a mix of exhaustion and determination in their eyes. They faintly heard Scotty’s words and they turned back to the remaining zombies, their movements growing more savage as the last few zombies staggered toward them.

Marcel’s sword cleaved through three at once, and Terroriser smashed the final two into the pavement. The street fell silent, save for the sound of their heavy breathing.

“That’s fifteen,” Marcel said, leaning on his sword tired. “Wow i’m that good at slaying zombies"

Scotty finished tying off Nogla’s wound and said ���Are you guys done playing? I don’t hear anymore zombies”

“For now,” Marcel said, sheathing his sword. He turned to Brian and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good to see you again, man. Really.”

They entered the house again, making sure it was locked as the night falls, they quickly make their way to the garage where they see Scotty and Nogla who was very weak

“He needs to rest, could any of you carefully put him in one of the bedrooms upstairs?”

Marcel raised a hand weakly. “Hard pass. I just killed, like, a hundred zombies.”

“Fifteen” Brian corrected as he leaned against the wall, the metal pipe resting on his shoulder.

“Whatever. Feels like a hundred,” Marcel shot back, waving him off.

Brian sighed, his glowing eye narrowing as he stepped forward. “Fine. I’ve got him. I will take the damsel in distress to her bed”

With almost no effort, Terroriser lifted Nogla like he weighed nothing. Nogla groaned dramatically. “Oi! Go easy on me, ya muppet! I’ve already lost a leg!”

“Quit whining, or I’ll drop you,” Brian replied, his tone deadpan as he went up the creaky stairs. Nogla muttered something unintelligible, but for Nogla that was pretty normal and a good sign that he was ok, but the sound of his voice faded as Brian carried him to the bedroom.

Downstairs, Marcel sat on the ground leaning his back against the wall, staring at the ceiling as Scotty sat at his side, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Man I can’t believe out of all the people we found them” Marcel said, breaking the silence. “We finally found some people of our crew”

Scotty shook his head, chuckling bitterly. “I didn’t even know they were alive. I’m surprised to see them”

Scotty smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “ I mean, Now that makes us four. We’ve got a shot. But…” he looked down “Do you think the others are still out there?”

Marcel kept looking at the ceiling

“I don’t know, It’s hard to say…But this is why I still do the transmissions, If we keep trying to look for them, we can find them, or maybe they can find us”

“Just hope not as zombies” Scotty jokes

Brian’s heavy footsteps then echoed down the stairs, and he appeared in the doorway, his glowing eye scanning the room. 

“He finally fell asleep,” he said, leaning against the wall. “After complaining about everything instead of thanking me that he is alive”

“Good.” Scotty said, standing up. “Because tomorrow, we start figuring out what’s next. If there’s even a chance that some of the crew’s alive, we'll find them.”

“So since when are you a doctor Scotty? What did I miss ever since the Knox event started?” Brian asked

“Oh, I’m not a doctor. a real doctor could’ve done better, I just use this for style ya know” Scotty responds while brushing some dust off his lab coat.

"Could’ve fooled me!" Brian gestured at the old bandages and the pile of bloody rags on the ground "You just saved Nogla’s life like it was no big deal. What’s next? Brain surgery?!"

Marcel Chuckled. "He’s just been reading medicine books nonstop since the TV broke."

Brian blinked. "Wait, what?"

Marcel grinned

"Yeah. Back when the power went out and we lost the TV, Scotty needed something to do. So, while I was building this little radio station he started raiding libraries and bookstores for medical books. I’m talking anatomy, first aid, surgery, you name it."

"Figured someone had to know how to handle this stuff. Can’t exactly call 911 anymore." Scotty chuckled

Brian threw his hands up. "Unbelievable. I’ve been out there dodging zombies and scavenging, and you’ve been sitting here reading?"

"But hey, thanks to Scotty and his newfound doctor skills, Nogla’s not a zombie food. I say that’s a win."

"It’s not like I’m good at this. I’m just doing…what I can."

Marcel stood up "Alright, we saved Nogla. He’s not turning into zombie food anytime soon. But now what?"

Brian furrowed his eyebrow. "What do you mean ‘now what’? We bunker down, keep quiet, and let him heal. right?"

Scotty shook his head "We can’t just sit here. We’re low on medical stuff, and Nogla’s gonna need more than just rest. If we leave his leg as it is, he’s screwed. Infection, immobility... he’ll be a sitting duck."

"Great," Brian muttered, rubbing his face. "So what are you suggesting?"

Marcel leaned forward, his tone unusually serious. "We need to hit a clinic. We find antibiotics, painkillers, and something we can use as a prosthetic for Nogla’s leg. Hell, even crutches would be a step up from him crawling around."

Brian blinked at him. "You want to go to a clinic? Every survivor in the area probably hit it already, and if they didn’t, you can bet the dead did! It’s in the center of Rosewood! there’s a lot of zombies out there"

Scotty shrugged. "Got a better idea?"

Brian opened his mouth to retort, then shut it. He sighed, leaning back against the wall. "No, I don’t. Damn it."

Marcel stood, cracking his knuckles. "Alright, then it’s settled. Tomorrow morning, we gear up and head out. Scotty you stay here and keep an eye on Nogla we’ll be back as soon as possible”

Scotty exhaled, shaking his head. “You’ll have to be careful. Too many open streets, too many blind spots. If the horde’s anywhere near that place, we’ll be in trouble.”

"Don’t worry, Scotty. Brian and I have this under control. Quick in, quick out, just like every bad heist movie."

Brian rolled his eyes. "Except instead of security guards, we’re dealing with zombies. Great plan."

"Same principle, fewer rules," Marcel quipped.

“Alright, just... be careful, okay? The Rosewood Medical Isn't far, it's in that strip mall nearby, but it’s still dangerous. If you see a horde, don’t play hero. Get what you need and get out."

Marcel gave him a mock salute. "Yes, sir, Captain Cautious."

Brian pointed a finger at him. "He’s not wrong, Marcel. Don’t do anything stupid."

"Stupid? Me?" Marcel grinned "I’m the king of smart decisions."

Scotty and Brian exchanged a look, neither of them convinced.

The three of them shared a quiet laugh, their tension easing for a moment. Outside, the occasional groan of a wandering zombie reminded them of the world waiting beyond their barricades.

As the others headed upstairs to sleep, Scotty went back to the garage and sat at the workbench, pouring over the military notes by lantern light. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something important hidden in the documents and books he’d found while scavenging a nearby military outpost. Inside were fragments of data, mentions of a vaccine, well not a cure, but something that could lead to one if he searches more

"If there’s even a chance this could help," he whispered to himself, "it’s worth the sleepless nights."

The quiet of the night was broken only by the faint rustle of papers and the distant groan of a lone zombie wandering the street and for some snoring upstairs.

[lornasaurusrex]

I miss you Lorna… this is such a mess

This is an old message and I had several other similar messages, but I miss you guys and hope you’re all doing well!! I’m sorry to see nothing has improved.

I saw I was kindly mentioned by @awesomefringey and some other commenters the other day, so just wanted to log in and say hello and log back out for a few more months. 💕

Sending so so much love to all of you. Take care of yourselves and each other, please.

The video is still on YT.

[oculusxcaro]

📸 :3c

SEND 📸 FOR MY MUSE TO TEXT YOUR MUSE AN IMAGE FROM THIS RANDOM GENERATOR. (Not accepting anymore!)

[KM]: Found a new friend for you. :)

[phoenixcatch7]

Nearly at the end of bayonetta and honestly whoever green lit that missile/Jeanne final fight chapter -

[totalswag]

I have a request... maybe reader is popular on tiktok and she does that thing on tiktok "raw next question" jokingly but he sees the video and responds

raw next question? ⎯ RAFE CAMERON

authors note can i just say thank you for sending in this request??

taglist ✎ ̼ if you would like to be notified every time i post you will type in your username then be all set to go.

masterlist

summary you jokingly leave a comment underneath rafe cameron's tiktok thinking nothing of it because of the trend going around. the following day he responds back with interest.

warning(s) little bit of cursing, mentions of drinking.

Several people have used the term "raw next question" on tiktok to describe their celebrity crushes, influencers, or people they find attractive in general. You even got them.

On an ordinary Friday, you were sitting on the couch, scrolling through your for you page while the television played. You just came across Rafe Cameron's tiktok video where he posted slides of himself. 

Rafe Cameron is a popular guy on the app who every girl fantasizes about. He became popular after posting a tiktok of himself. A few months ago, he followed you on tiktok and instagram⎯you followed back on both.

You won't lie, he's an attractive guy⎯he knows he is. Neither of you have commented under each other's post before⎯you thought why not comment and see what happens.

"Should I do it?" You casually ask yourself as if you were in deep thought, "fuck it."

yourusername: raw next question?

⇾ fan2: umm ariana what are you doing here???

⇾ fan5: this is so unexpected but HELL YEAH

⇾ fan3: not her being BOLD 😭

After leaving your comment on Rafe's tiktok, you placed your phone down and resumed watching your movie. You felt your phone vibrate as supporters responded and making edits of Rafe and you. 

You honestly hoped on the trend but knew what would come from it after submitting the comment. Supporters know you will shoot your shot without thinking⎯you only live once.

The next day, you had two best friends over, Evelyn and Zoie. Three of you are having a girls' night that includes making dinner, drinking, playing games, baking, and watching movies. 

Evelny and you were gathering the ingredients for the cookies when Zoie let out a loud gasp while holding her phone, causing you two to look up, anxious. 

"What happened?" Evelyn and you speak in unison, setting everything down and walking over⎯looking over on both Zoie's shoulders.

"Rafe Cameron responded to your comment, Y/N," and all mouths dropped to the floor.

You freeze, your stomach doing a little somersault. “What?!”

You sigh and take Zoie's phone, saying, "Let me see."

There he is, sitting casually in a chair, the lighting soft and golden, his blonde hair slightly tousled. He’s rocking back and forth, staring off into the distance like he’s deep in thought. Then, slowly, he glances down at his phone.

The frown on his face shifts—subtly at first, then into a sly smirk. He leans forward, looking directly at the camera. “Uh-huh,” he says, his voice low and teasing.

"Y/N, you better say something because he's definitely interested," she replies. "I gotta agree with Zoie on this one," Evelyn adds, folding her arms and nodding to Zoie in agreement. 

"Let me check my phone first to see if he's messaged me," you say with a hint of eagerness and excitement, "plus I mainly commented to join the trend..." you trail off.

"Yeah sure" Zoie sarcastically remarks, leaning forward, shaking her head side to side.

instagram: rafecameron sent you a message

rafe cameron: hey! bold move, I think we should talk. 

⎯⎯ my taglist! 𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

✰ if you would like to be added to my taglist and be notified whenever i post please let me know in the comments or in my ask box. if there's a line across your name that means i couldn't find your account

@chenslucy @rosezza @mymultiveres @rafeyslamb @runningfrom2am @whorelaud @drewsephrry @drewizz @diqldrunks @starkeyvhs @percysley @francislovergirl @kiiyomei @sukuna-wafiu @skyslowalking @kneelarmhstrung @inthelibrarybtw @liliumz @lovingsturniolo @xoxosblogsblog @darkacademictrash @claudiamoscatoo @starkeysturniolo @ratgirlcunt @drewstxrky @eddxemxnson @raewontgoaway @definitelynotdomanique @isabellaxlilah @inlovewrafe @kravitzwhore @rafespreciosa @yanna2coolz @minyoon23 @stevesxwhore @bxmaaa @skywalker0809 @pwertiies @6r4cie @ifwfratboychris @sjmalfoy19 @dolletebun @drewrry @babypoguelife @fdl305 @outerbanksloverp4l @thesunflowersociety

[professorcalculusstanaccount]

"But don't let its beauty fool you. This plant can be processed into a powerful neurotoxin which can cause near permanent madness unless treated!"

Professor Calculus, upon developing a state-of-the-art automated hydroponics and pesticides delivery system, has been invited to judge a prestigious international flower show at the largest botanical garden in Belgium.

Botany experts and amateurs from around the world attend - Professor Zalamea is there to showcase his bizarre genetically modified bioluminescent blue oranges, Nash is displaying some of his explorations into living sculpture, and Castafiore is geared up to perform in the evening. Most controversially of all, Professor Fang Hsi Ying, a world leading expert on mental health, is showcasing his research on the Rajaijah plant, a plant historically used to produce madness poison.

It's this exhibit that causes a stir at the event. Security is on high alert. After the poison was used a few years ago in several high profile drug smuggling cases that were embroiled in politics, the plant is anticipated to be a subject of fear and Orientalism. Protestors calling for its destruction flock the event, and there are rumours of a plot to steal the rare plant. The organisers hope that the controversy will generate ticket sales and revenue.

Tintin and Chang are there to report on the goings on, having just confessed their feelings for each other. They're not sure what they are just yet - but even without a madness poison, Tintin's head is in a spin!

I had the idea to bring back Rajaijah juice for some time and was intially going to set it at a garden party, but I received this message from anon some time ago:

And I just loved the Drama of a botanical garden a whole lot more!

Because of the time it takes for me to make stuff and the planning that goes into my posts I do take a very long time to respond to messages, and sometimes multiple people send similar messages anticipating stuff I already have planned, so if I come across as standoffish I apologise, I just have a lot on my plate (by my own design tbh)!

I love every message I receive, I started this blog intending to respond to every message but that's becoming unrealistic ;_; I keep your messages to read back whenever I need motivation, so from the bottom of my heart, thank you if you've sent me an ask!

[leashybebes]

Hi! Love your work so much! I have a very vague prompt and it’s just Tommy being emotionally vulnerable with Buck. Idc what about I just need this man in tears please and thanks.

well this got longer than intended! i've skimmed over it but basically banged it out in fifteen minutes bc turns out i also need this man in tears

When the bubble pops six weeks after Tommy walked out of the loft, it's not at all what Buck was expecting. He'd hoped for an 'I'm sorry', an 'I was wrong', an 'I want you back'. In bitter moments, he'd even hoped for Tommy to say something really dickish so Buck could just hate him and get on with his life. Hell, even a random string of letters that Buck could interpret as an accident or an attempt to open the lines of communication depending on his mood.

What he gets is:

I've been going to therapy

Finally, right?

I hate it

And then radio silence for the better part of an hour. Buck is about to tear his hair out. He drafts and doesn't send half a dozen responses. The loft smells of chocolate cake by the time the next message comes through.

Sorry, call.

Tell me to get lost, it's fine. But I was wondering if we could talk. I owe you an explanation.

Buck reads it twice, takes the cake out of the oven to cool. Scrolls back up to read the messages from the start. Later, once the cake is filled with sharp redcurrant jelly and covered in a perhaps overly generous layer of toffee buttercream, he picks up his phone again.

I owe you an explanation is glaring at him.

Yeah you do, he sends back. Come over when your shift is done.

The reply is almost instant:

Thank you. 2 hrs.

Two hours suddenly feels like both not enough time to prepare, and far too much time to tie himself up in knots. He deep cleans the kitchen, makes a shopping list, checks in with Maddie. He doesn't mention that he's going to see Tommy.

Somehow, two hours pass in the blink of an eye and Buck realizes - he has no idea what he's going to say. He's spent the last month and a half trying with everything in him not to call Tommy, and he's just now realizing he has no idea what he would have said if he'd given into the urge. Maybe he just wanted to hear the guy's voice, and now he's about to, and he has no idea what to do with himself.

The knock at the door makes him jolt, and that's it, there's no more time to think. His first thought when he opens the door is that it's not fair that Tommy looks so good. He has no business looking so good. His hair is freshly trimmed, those greys at his temple that admittedly send Buck a little feral sparkling in the low light of the hall, his favorite blue Henley soft and stretched across the bulk of his chest, his eyes - Buck's whole train of thought derails because he looks again and Tommy looks - scared. Sad. Like he's holding back from flinching by the skin of his teeth.

"Hey, Tommy."

"Hi, Evan."

Evan, he notes. Steps back. Waves Tommy inside. Tries not to notice the way Tommy's face crumples a little as he steps over the threshold.

"Never thought I'd be here again," he says.

"Me either," Buck admits. "Well, after the first couple weeks when I - " When I sat around and waited for you to come back and tell me you made a mistake. He bites his tongue. Much as he wants to be real bitchy about this, Tommy looks like he is on the edge, and nothing in Buck wants to make that worse.

"You want a coffee?"

"Uh. Sure," Tommy says, and it gives Buck the opportunity to turn his back, to breathe. He's achingly aware of Tommy behind him, of the gravity of his presence, the sound of his breathing (a little shaky), the slight creak as he takes a seat. Buck still has the stupid almond milk and the stupid syrup Tommy likes in his stupid candy flavored coffee, has been buying the former on reflex and can't bring himself to use the latter and taste Tommy's kisses without the man himself. He makes the coffee, even cuts Tommy a slice of cake, and dumps them both in front of him.

Tommy blinks down at the cake, up at Buck. "You made that?"

"Yeah," Buck says. "Been getting real into baking since - well, since."

"Oh." Tommy chews on his lip, looks away again.

"Every time I wanna call you, I bake," Buck admits, the words falling into the silence between them with more weight than they deserve given how ridiculous they are, really.

Tommy glances up at him. "Yeah?"

Buck swivels, pulls open the door to his fridge which is still groaning under the weight of saran wrapped loaves and cakes and tupperwares full of cookies.

"That's - that's a lot."

Buck shrugs. "Yeah, well."

The silence is painful. Awkward in a way they've never really been with each other. Buck throws himself down onto the stool opposite Tommy, tries not to think about how this is exactly where they were sitting when - when. From the look on his face, the way Tommy can't meet his eyes, he's thinking the exact same thing. This is - it's the worst, Buck thinks miserably.

"So, therapy, huh?" he blurts out.

Tommy nods, takes a deep breath. "After I left that night, I - I drove to the movie theater."

Buck blinks. That is…not what he was expecting. "Uh…"

"Bought a ticket and everything. Realized on my way in that that's - that's not normal. Nothing I did that night was normal. You - you made me so happy, and I blew that up the second it sounded like maybe you wanted something long-term. That - that's not normal. The way I think about - about relationships, about love, about myself. It's not normal."

Buck feels like he's holding his breath.

"So I went home. Drank a couple of beers. Psyched myself up. Booked an appointment for the next day."

"That's…" Buck doesn't know what to say. "That's quick."

"Yeah. I don't - " Tommy looks away. Buck can't see it, but he can tell that he's bouncing his leg anxiously. "I wanna stop being a fucking - a wrecking ball. I wanna stop hurting people, stop hurting myself, but it feels like it's all I do."

Buck can't bite his tongue quick enough. "You make choices, Tommy."

Tommy nods and shrinks in on himself. "I know that. I do. It doesn't feel like it, but I do. I get scared and I make the worse choice every time because it's easier than being brave, and I tell myself it's the only choice but - it's not. I know that. I do know that. I'm - I'm so fucked up, Evan."

His eyes are swimming with tears and Buck knows he's no better. Everything in him is screaming at him to reach out, but he clenches his hands together under the table to stop himself. This is - this is maybe the most real Tommy's ever been with him, maybe the most real he's seen Tommy be with himself, and Buck doesn't want to interrupt it, even as every part of him wants to gather Tommy up to him and soothe him and promise him everything's okay. Everything's so far from okay. He watches Tommy take a few deep breaths, recognises the pattern and the count from his own therapy sessions.

"My - my dad - you know, he's an asshole. But he wasn't always. He and my mom - they were so in love. I mean, stars in their eyes, to the exclusion of everything and everyone else, they adored each other. Even before she died, I didn't - there wasn't space for me in there. And after - I guess I remind him of what he lost. They loved each other, and it hurt me. Abby loved me, and I hurt her. I loved N - Nick, and he h - hurt me. I - "

Tommy clears his throat wetly and looks away while Buck thinks who the fuck is Nick and how do I break his kneecaps?

"You what, Tommy?" he asks instead, and it comes out gently.

"I love you," Tommy says, and Buck pretends he isn't paying attention to the tense, pretends his heart isn't rabbiting inside his chest. "I love you, and I hurt us both and I'm - I'm poison, Evan, I'm nothing but sharp edges but I swear I'm trying not to be and I know it's too late but I'm so - I'm so sorry, I'm so - "

He's fully crying now, trying to hide his face in his hands and Buck can't hold back anymore, closes the space between them and gets his arms around the bulk of Tommy's shoulders where they're shaking.

"Don't," Tommy begs, his whole body tightening, so tense Buck's worried something is going to snap. "Don't - d - don't - I don't deserve - "

"Shh," Buck says, pressing his face into Tommy's hair and stopping himself from making it a kiss at the last second. "I don't care what you think you deserve, just let me hold you, okay? Just let me."

Tommy cries harder, soaking Buck's shirt, and Buck doesn't know how long it goes on for but suddenly Tommy's holding him too, clinging in a way he never has before, in a way that feels desperate and fierce and heartbroken.

"It's okay," Buck promises in spite of himself. He strokes his fingers over the short cropped hairs on the nape of Tommy's neck. "I've got you, it's okay. Just try to breathe, baby, you're gonna make yourself sick."

Baby slips out without any intention on his part, but Tommy doesn't seem to notice, just heaves in a hitching, gulping breath, then another, and another. He shifts in Buck's arms, pulling away and Buck lets him. He doesn't retreat to his own seat though, doesn't feel right to put any distance between them while Tommy presses the heels of his hands into his eyes like he can force the tears back inside.

"I'm sorry," he says, when he's a little calmer. "I've got no right - "

"Stop, okay. Just - stop being so horrible to yourself."

Tommy nods. "Yeah. Working on that. I know - I know it's too late, and I swear I didn't come here with the intention of - of crying all over you and making you feel bad for me. I just - I wanted you to know that I'm sorry, and I know that I fucked up real bad. I know - like I said, I know it's too little, too late, but I want you to know I'm working on - on being better."

Buck chews on the inside of his lip clearly for a second too long because Tommy gives a sharp little nod.

"That's all I wanted to say," he says, pushing back from the table and starting to stand. "I'll get out of your - "

"Sit your ass down," Buck says, a little rougher than he intended. Tommy does as he's told, blinking rapidly and Buck pushes away from the table, paces across the kitchen and back again.

"Evan…"

"Shut up. If you keep making decisions for me, I'm gonna - I'm gonna start throwing loaves at your head."

Tommy makes a noise that's half laugh, half sob, and Buck fights back the tiny grin that's tugging at his mouth.

"You - you really think you're this irredeemable asshole that doesn't deserve to be happy, don't you?"

Tommy shrugs, looks away. "If the shoe fits…"

Buck whirls around, yanks open the fridge, grabs the first loaf he sees. "This is coffee and walnut. It's dense. Last warning, jackass."

Tommy's laugh is more distinct this time. "Evan. Okay. Yes, I think that. But I'm - I'm working on not."

"Okay. Okay. So - so work on it." He puts the loaf down. "Work on it, and take me on a date."

Tommy looks like he's being rebooted without warning. "You can't be serious."

"Why not?"

"I - "

"Tell me why I can't be serious."

"Because! Because I'm - I'm a mess. I hurt you. I left."

"You came back," Buck counters. "Even if it was only to apologize."

"You deserve better."

"I want you."

"I don't - I don't know when I'll be - better than I am."

"You're better today than the day you left. You're here."

"Evan…"

"Yes or no, Tommy. Take me on a date."

"I - "

"Yes or no."

"Yes. Please, yes."

Buck exhales for what feels like the first time in weeks. "Okay. Okay. That's a start."

He puts the loaf back in the fridge, takes Tommy's coffee away to reheat it, and the whole time he can feel Tommy's eyes on him, watching him like he's something precious.

[gravedwe11er]

Got hit by a Mecha AU Swerve angst idea in the middle of the night, and I had to put it down on a page. Based on the @keferon Mecha AU and inspired by all the amazing Swerve/Blurr art I see around (seriously, yall are giving me so many ideas and I love it).

More often than not, nowadays, Swerve feels like an imposter in his own frame. His time spent as a human was so short, just an insignificant speck compared to the eons of his real life, his real lifespan, and yet...

Those few scant human years are the realest he can remember feeling.

The medics said it took fifteen cycles for anyone to knock on his door, to even notice his absence. And when someone eventually did, it was just- his boss. One of the engines was giving them trouble, and they needed all servos on deck. That's all.

None of the bots who he talked to every day, the ones he’d worked side by side with for years noticed he was gone. None of the people who would laugh at his jokes and drink with him at the bar had a single thought to spare for him. Nobody missed him, until they needed him for something.

Glum thoughts in the dead of night are one thing. It’s another thing entirely to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that it’s all true.

So of course Swerve figured out the holoform thing again. Sure, it’s still kind of risky, but now that he’s actually doing it on purpose, he’s been taking a few precautions – a good recharge, a full fuel tank, and an automated message to be sent off to the medics after a set period of time, in case he knocks himself out again. Actually, he nearly managed just that, the first time he tried it, overtaxing himself almost to the point of shutdown. The keyword being nearly, though! It did little to weaken his resolve, and after a few more tries, he now has a whole system figured out, one that won’t damage his processor.

Or, it probably won’t, anyway. He’s not about to go ask; someone higher up might order him to stop, which-

Yeah, he’s not doing that.

On this ship, Swerve’s got nothing. He might as well be nothing - he’s a trained metallurgist working as a common mechanic, amongst people who barely even know he exists. On Earth, he’s- well. It’s not like he was exactly a social butterfly, but people invited him for shitty cafeteria coffee, a few pilots liked to stop by for a chat sometimes, and if he fell asleep at his desk, someone would come shake him awake within an hour or two.

On Earth, he has Blurr. And that’s not something he’s willing to give up.

Swerve shutters his optics in his tiny room on the ship, and surrenders gladly to the pulling sensation overtaking his processor as his holomatter generator struggles to cross such a vast distance. Then, with a crackle and a fizz of static across his neural net, he’s gone.

When he opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of Blurr’s expansive private hospital suite, with the man nowhere to be seen. He’s been hoping for that, though- as a general rule, he tries to catch the pilot between press conferences and physical therapy sessions, so nobody starts asking questions about the dead man loitering around a celebrity’s rooms. Blurr has enough problems as it is.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait for long. Soon enough, Swerve hears several pairs of footsteps approaching the door, and he ducks into the bedroom, keeping out of sight. “Again, thank you so much for the well-wishes,” carries through the walls, barely loud enough to be audible – Blurr’s voice, he thinks. The ‘business’ voice. “But I really have to go now. The doctor will be visiting soon, you understand.”

There are polite sounds of assent, an exchange of a few more pleasantries before the steps retreat back down the hallway, followed by the quiet whoosh of the front door opening. Cautiously, Swerve peeks out of the bedroom.

Blurr stands in the doorway, back straight, with a bright, practiced smile on the visible half of his face. The other, the one with scars and still healing skin grafts, is covered by an elaborate mask, shaped to look like his mech’s helm. He gives the people outside one final wave, and clicks the door shut.

Then he turns around, notices Swerve and slumps.

Now wobbling slightly, the injured pilot leans his back against a wall, gingerly peeling the mask off of his face to revealed reddened, irritated skin. The smile he turns on Swerve is completely different from before, small and tired and slightly pained.

To anyone else, it would look like an insult. To Swerve, it’s a precious thing, a gift the star shares with very few people in his life - honesty.

“Swerve, hello!” Blurr greets him, sounding slightly out of breath. He’s getting the best care money can buy, but even that only goes so far- recovery will slow and painful, and not everything will go back to how it was. There are some scars the pilot will carry for the rest of his life, and just the thought makes Swerve’s holographic heart ache.

“Hi,” he answers enthusiastically, crossing the room to go help the injured man, only to get waved off.

“Thanks, but I’m good. I need to build up my stamina again.”

Swerve frowns a little, but steps away again. “Alright, if you’re sure. Just be careful! You can lean on me if you need to, yeah? I don’t want you to hurt yourself, so if-“

“Swerve!”, Blurr laughs, interrupting his awkward rambling, and he can feel his holoform’s cheeks going red. “It’s fine, really. I’ll ask you if I need help, alright?”

“Alright,” he mutters into the collar of his shirt and follows after the man, ready to support him if he stumbles. Blurr leads them to his bedroom, laying down on the mattress with a pained grimace, once again waving off any of Swerve’s offers to help. Instead, the man pats one side of the bed in clear invitation, and Swerve does his best to pretend his face isn’t looking like an overripe tomato as he sits, their hands almost touching. Judging by Blurr’s teasing little grin, he fails miserably, but- it made Blurr smile. He’d say that more than makes up for it.

They talk, for as long as Swerve’s holoform generator allows and perhaps a little bit beyond that. He asks after Blurr’s recovery, listens to the pilot bemoan the weakness of his atrophied muscles and endless physical therapy sessions. Learns more about the constant press releases, the pressure from command to return back to duty and perform his star pilot act once again.  They talk about anything and everything the man wants to share, from the important to the mundane.

In turn, Blurr asks him about his life, his day, his work on the ship. Which, here’s the thing- he didn’t really notice much it before his coma, but nobody else actually asks about him. Swerve talks a lot, and sometimes, other bots will even listen, but they never ask.

Except for Blurr. Blurr always asks now, and Swerve always talks and talks and talks, and the pilot never seems to mind. Sometimes, he wishes he knew how to express it, to show the man just how much it means to him, but- in a rare twist of events, the words never manage to leave his mouth.

Doesn’t make it any less true, though.

Every small, honest smile, every real, slightly ugly laugh he gets out of the man makes Swerve’s holographic heart beat overtime. He feels so happy, so at peace when by the man’s side, and he never wants to leave.

But he has to. Eventually, it’s always time to go, his systems warning him of impending shutdown and he hates it, he hates it so much, but he says his goodbyes. Blurr’s understanding about it, of course, and the pilot’s cheeky little wave is the last thing Swerve sees before he closes his eyes and disappears.

When he unshutters his optics, it’s to the sight of his empty, windowless habsuite.  Getting up from his berth, he feels a fleeting stab of vertigo – some echo of his human self’s instinct, warning him of a dangerous height, which, huh. That’s been happening more and more often. Something to ask the medics about, perhaps.

Then again, why bother. It’s not like he doesn’t know what the answer would be.

He misses Blurr already. Misses the warmth of Earth’s sun and the warmth of companionship, the warmth of a soft human touch. Misses his false life and false body, and the very real joy it brings him.

Sometimes, he wishes he never woke up, instead living out his fake human existence in blissful ignorance until his spark eventually guttered from the strain. Occasionally, he wishes he was human. Actually human, not just the holoform- muscle and bone and sinew, just like the rest of them, just like Blurr. It’s clear he doesn’t belong amongst his own kind, so… maybe it’d be better that way.

Most of the time though, he just wants to be on Earth; true frame, fake body, it doesn’t matter. He wants to hold Blurr in his servos, wants to feel like he matters to somebody, wants to-

He’s not really sure what he wants, exactly. He just knows it’s not this.

[ceesimz]

Reverie - Part 1

Autistic Reader x Barça Femení - Part 2

Hey, I have some things to say before you start reading. ASD is a very vast spectrum, no two people with it experience the same stuff on a day-to-day basis. This story is written with my knowledge from people I know, and also from my own experiences living with autism too. So don't take this as 'the' perspective, this is a drop in the ocean and this most definitely isn't a handbook on autism. If anyone has any questions or thoughts about this, or ASD in general, you are more than welcome to message me or drop something in my inbox! This is just part one, if you like this first half of the story (because I have no idea how this will go down), let me know if you wanna see the second part, it's ready to go whenever.

Big big thanks to @copper-16 for editing it and leaving such lovely comments on it, I wouldn't have the confidence to post this if it wasn't for your words. Thank you for taking a chance on this story and opening yourself up to learn more, the world needs more people like you and we're all much better off that you're here🫶🏼🫶🏼

This is my favourite thing I've ever written, and I kinda feel like I'm giving away a piece of my heart by posting this (dramatic much), let me know what you think, hope you like it :)

“Are you ready to go in?”

Are you?

Are you ready to walk into a new setting, head held high, and show your teammates you are worth it? 

Or are you going to back out? Reverse right out the parking space, speed off to the airport, and catch a flight to god knows where?

That's simply not a possibility. Even if the thought of walking through those reception doors that stare tauntingly at you from across the car park perturbs you more than anything else, there's no backing out now.

Barcelona, the pride of Catalunya, the dominants of Europe, doesn't accept quitters. And that fact glares at you, along with all of its history and values held in the iconic badge that countless legends had adorned, and with it came a legacy you weren’t sure you had the strength to bare on your back. The new number nine, born and raised in Norway but made into the player you are now in Germany.

Here you were, after five years playing for Frankfurt, where you had grown accustomed to a comfortable routine with familiar faces and the same surroundings for so long, now in a new country that held so many unknowns. For someone with so many disadvantages ever present in their life, living in three different countries is a pretty impressive achievement.

Please, let it all be worth it.

After a few frustrating years in the Frauen-Bundesliga, you had signed for the best team in Europe and, arguably, the rest of the world too. Frankfurt had been a beautiful experience, one that had changed your life, but as a result of many, many long discussions with family and friends and psychologists, you had come to the terrifying realisation that it was time for a new challenge.

Why was that absolutely petrifying? Because you and life changes did not get along. Even after 26 years of living, it just wasn’t meant to be. But, such is life, and chances had to be taken.

You'd always be thankful for Frankfurt. Moving to play there was the first time you took such a huge leap of faith, and it had worked out well, eventually. In your eyes, the first season there was a disaster, but your mother would say it was the proudest year of her life. It had been difficult for her to see at times just how much you struggled at points, sure, but you made it to the light at the end of the tunnel and, by the end of it, you were a completely different person in the most incredible way possible. From then on, you continued to grow.

Yet, that was the thing with the German side. When you joined, they were a club with a legacy most teams would envy, but they never amounted to anything more during your time there. You fell in love with the staff, your teammates, and just about everything else during your time there. The only problem, which was pretty damn big in the grand scheme of things, was that you fell out of love with the football you were playing.

You were able to grow and survive at Frankfurt. You wanted to flourish and thrive at Barcelona.

Except, in comparison to the average human, there were a lot more obstacles ahead that could prevent you from accomplishing that aspiration. Over your life, you had overcome many bumps in the road, some leaving a harsh imprint on your self-worth and others hardly affecting you. For example, talking to the girl you were roomed with at 16 at the Norway Football Team camp had turned out to be one of the best things you could have done. Yet, in the same breath, playing for the national team had left you in a broken state, and as a result, you haven't played for them in a few years. 

The back and forth travel was too much, and opting out of playing for Norway, as much as it broke your heart that you weren’t strong enough to represent your country on the international stage, it allowed you to rest and recuperate so that you were at the top of your game for your club. Did you dream of wearing your country’s crest one day? Yes, all footballers did. But you weren’t in a place to do that, and you’re not sure you ever will be again.

Signing for Barcelona could be life-changing, but it could also be world-shattering in the worst way imaginable. This was a pretty sizable leap of faith, and the only way that faith could form into something incredible is if you made that happen. You, no one else. That thought filled you with both determination and crushing anxiety. This just could not be another failed attempt. There was no way you could come back.

Ultimately, it would have been downright psychopathic to turn down such an amazing offer from Barcelona. Two years playing for a club that's won three of the last four Champion's League finals? A team that had just completed the quadruple for the first time in their history? Yeah, nonsensical.

However, like always, there were a number of doubts that spiralled from those incredible stats. Did they need you? If they had a mostly flawless season, did they really need a 26 year old woman whose mind hardly functioned like every other person? Did they really need someone who couldn't even play for the national team anymore because they were too overwhelmed with their life? Did they need someone who needed their hand held through every life event, big or small? Did they-

“Hey, you ready?” 

That voice had some kind of magic to it. It was like clock-work, this always happened when she was around; that voice in your head consuming you with unwanted thoughts was erased as soon as you tore your eyes away from the doors and looked at the woman beside you. 

Ingrid. The one person that had single-handedly convinced you to come here. To Barcelona, playing in a hot country, with people you don’t know, speaking a language you can’t understand- oh my God, what have you done?!

“I… god, I don’t know.” You breathed out in a whisper, hardly intelligible. 

The world around you honed in on this one moment here, the peak of your career so far. Apart from Ingrid and the doors to the building and what was in store behind them, there was nothing else that could grasp your attention. There could be a blazing fire behind your car, a lion running full speed towards your car door, or a thief in the back seat for all you knew. Nothing else mattered. The two sides of your mind, the devil and angel on your shoulders were battling it out again, as they always were, whilst your hands fidgeted anxiously in your lap.

“You have to go in at some point, snuppa. You can’t stay in the car forever.” Ingrid softly reminded you, moving to take hold of your hand to comfort your stimming. “It will be a really good day, I promise. My years here so far have been the best of my life, everyone is so nice and welcoming. I never thought I could enjoy training as much as I do now. You will be fine, I have no doubts.”

“I’m not sure about that one.” You laughed nervously, eyes back on the building before you, now slightly glazed over and blurred. 

“I am certain about everything I just said.” Ingrid stated definitively, squeezing your hand. “Plus, not everyone in there are complete strangers. You have me, Mapi, you know Caro and you’ve met Jonatan and some other staff members. You know Loren, the team psychologist who you can go see any time you want. We’ll get you past this part of today, and then you have the whole afternoon to do whatever you’d like.”

You nodded at her words, desperately trying to remind yourself of them over and over so that they stick, and you can get through those damn doors. 

“You know how much easier my life would be if I knew how everything was going to play out?” You blurted out a moment later, Ingrid smiling in amusement. “It would be a breeze, Ingrid.”

“It would also make your life very boring, min skatt.”

“For you, it would be. For me, I'd live freely.”

Ingrid just laughed and shook her head, squeezing your hand once more before looking at the time on her watch.

“Come on. We have to do this one way or another, and I'm not letting you go in on your own. You want to make me late to training?” She teased, targeting your weak spot. Evil.

“That's cruel, Ingrid. So cruel.” You rolled your eyes but nevertheless stepped out of the car once you'd turned it off.

You didn't make it far though. Once you had gotten your kit bag from the boot of the car, you closed it and froze. Eyes unmoving from the daunting building in front of you.

“Would you like some company after training? We can stay at home, or go out for food, or do anything you'd like.” Ingrid offered, snapping you out of your anxious trance.

Even after… god, ten years now, you were still sometimes left dumb-founded by how well Ingrid knew you. A lot of the time, you yourself are in the dark about what you need, but your fellow Norwegian just gets it, even when you don't. It's pretty safe to say that your life, your whole career, would look a hell of a lot different if you had never met Ingrid.

If you put her characteristics into a different section when it comes to your favourite things about her, the thing you love most about the defender beside you is how she treats you. Sure, the majority of people treated you with respect and kindness, but the defender's love and care was on a whole other level. Like in this scenario now, when she knows you're too overwhelmed by the situation that confronts you to be able to think clearly. But here she is, giving you clear and thought-out options that off-kilt the tunnel vision you have on this one miniscule event, and now gives you something to look forward to. 

It reminds you that the world won't end if this training session doesn't go how you want it to, that life goes on afterwards. It makes the road clearer, the journey easier, and allows solace to be found in a down-right terrifying moment.

The funny thing is, however, is that your new home is actually Ingrid's home. No, you weren't living with her, but you were indeed staying in her apartment. She basically lived at Mapi's apartment anyway, so the second she caught wind of your transfer, she immediately offered her disregarded apartment up to you. It was a huge item checked off the ‘things that need doing after uprooting your entire settled, content, perfectly routine life’ to-do list, but you couldn't quite relish in the relief yet.

That's because, though it went unsaid, another factor of Ingrid's offer of letting you stay was so that, if all went wrong and you couldn't make a life for yourself in Barcelona, there was no tenancy to rip up and ultimately it would be a lot less hassle than if you had rented an entirely new place. Ingrid's excuse of not changing your name on the tenancy for now was so that you could settle in with as little stress as possible, but you knew the underlying meaning. Basically, it was a giant get out of jail free card.

“I think I would like that a lot, actually. Thanks.” You said to the taller girl next to you, whose arm had come to wrap around your shoulders.

���Perfect! María has some things to do but I'm free all afternoon, so we can figure something out. For now though, we have to train.” 

Taking in a deep breath, you nodded once more.

“That's all it is. Just training.” You told yourself, physically shaking the anxiety off of your chest and marching forwards. You got as far as those damn doors before you froze on the spot again. “Fuck, this is so scary.”

“I know it is.” Ingrid sympathised, rubbing a hand up and down your back. “We've got this though. It's just training, right?” 

“It's just training. And a few introductions. And about a million new people.” You sighed. “Will you stick with me the whole time?”

“Like glue, søster.” Ingrid said firmly, placing a kiss on your forehead. “Let's go.”

And just like that, you did walk into the building with your head held high, disregarding the burdening nerves and replacing them with a deep-rooted determination to prove you are worth it. Maybe your teammates would think otherwise if they knew the secret you were keeping from them, but for now, you would put up a front and act just like them. Your best bet at succeeding here is to fit in, and that's what you'll do. 

Ingrid wasn't impressed with this tactic of yours, not in the slightest. Jonatan and other senior staff members knew about you, Loren the psychologist knew about you, and Mapi knew. Besides that, everyone else was in the dark. There was only so long Ingrid could last before she had to tell someone at least, like Alexia or Irene or Marta, because she wanted the best for you and the best couldn't be given if your needs weren't catered for.

Like now, as she watched your whole face change in a split second as the mask came down so fast that, had she blinked a second later, she would have missed it entirely. The tension to the way you held your shoulders was all the evidence she needed that your whole nervous system was wracked with dread, and though she should expect it by now, it didn't stop the jab of sympathy she felt for you.

Of course she knew how difficult this would be for you, she just had really high hopes. Sometimes, even after all these years, it slipped her mind how much you still struggled with things. You'd gotten a lot better at dealing with various different circumstances and that mere fact could bring tears to her eyes if she thought about how far you had come, but moments like these were a snap back to the reality you still lived.

You lived so beautifully, you were so strong now, that your struggles were hardly visible anymore. Yet, when one knows a person for so long, they come to learn the signs. Ingrid knew you like the back of her hand. It still amazed her how quick you put the mask back up, normally being so care-free and light around her. But here, outside of the room everyone was due to meet in for the morning, a feigned smile on your face and a falsity to your posture signified all that Ingrid needed to know.

Even despite your dawdling in the car park, you and Ingrid were some of the first to arrive at the meeting, only a handful of unfamiliar faces scattered around the room. Jonatan looked up at the door upon your arrival and his face lit up, immediately dropping what he was doing to come and greet you with a beaming smile. He offers a gentle handshake, also being sure to speak in clear English so that your mind wasn’t overloaded more than it already was. All of it was reassuring, especially as he kept you off to the side as the room slowly began to fill up, before guiding you to the last chair on the front row beside Ingrid so that the meeting could start. Thankfully, to your relief, he gave you a short introduction to the rest of the squad, you only briefly turning and giving the room a general wave before allowing Jonatan to move onto more pressing matters.

From then on, you were rushed off your feet with introductions and training, all of which weren’t half as bad as you’d expected. During the short walk from the meeting to the changing room, a few others came along to properly greet you, all whilst Ingrid stayed close to your side. Mapi had also come bounding along after you the second you left the first room, Ingrid wincing at the excitement her girlfriend met you with but instantly that worry was erased as soon as you turned to Mapi with a matching overjoyed smile. 

By the time you actually got onto the pitch, you had spoken to almost all of the team already. And like Ingrid said, they were just as amazing as you had hoped they would be. Every single one, in their own ways, welcomed you to the team and made small talk with you for a few moments before letting whoever next came by to have their own chance at greeting you. But, it wasn’t until you were about to join in with the warm-up that the person you’d been most nervous about meeting came along.

Your new captain, Alexia. The powerhouse of the Barcelona team, the one you had to leave the best impression on.

A few days prior, amidst a conversation in the corner of Ingrid’s favourite cafe, you had sheepishly demanded that she give you a run-down of each and every single member of the team. There had been Ona, who Ingrid described as a lightning fast defender whose jestful clapbacks were even quicker than her sprint bursts on the pitch. Then Cata, the new number one goalkeeper whose cheek was sometimes too much for even the younger members of the team. Jana, a surefire future talent who was often found beside her quieter, more reserved but equally talented counterpart, Bruna. Patri and Pina were much the same, as were Vicky and Salma. Ingrid gave you a short but detailed profile of all of them, leaving the most important for last. Alexia, who initially came across as slightly cold due to the stoic, focused expression she usually wore. But, to her teammates and those closest to her, she was a world class leader, an even better player, and most importantly, a defiantly caring person with a personality that had more sides than a kaleidoscope. 

Upon hearing the exit door slamming shut, you turned your attention to the direction of the sound, only to be met with her. Casually strolling over, squinting in the face of the sun, she came over to you with a… a smile on her face?

“Hola! You must be the novota, nice to meet you.” She beamed, inviting you into a quick, polite hug before standing back. “Happy to be here?”

As always with new people, especially someone like the woman before you, you floundered internally for a moment, so many replies flitting around your mind with so little time to react.

“Y-yeah! Really happy to be here, thank you, Alexia.” You landed on, and judging by her reaction, it was the right thing to say. 

“Good, I am glad to hear that. Sorry I was not here for the meeting, you’ve met everybody already, sí?”

“Yes, Jonatan introduced me in the briefing.” 

“Good. Bueno, let’s get started. I am excited to be working with you.” The Spaniard smiled brightly once more, before gesturing loosely for the pair of you to join the rest of the group.

The rest of the day, as they say, is history.

It honestly went by in a blur, and if Ingrid was at all surprised by the way you literally fell into your bed when you arrived home, not surfacing from the newfound safe haven until about an hour later, she didn’t show it. This was Ingrid after all, and every quirk of yours, new or old, still brought a smile to her face. Ten years later and she couldn’t help but love you more each time she saw you.

—

The first week goes a lot smoother than you could have dreamed of to be honest - it’s only the start of preseason after all. But, there is still plenty of time for cracks to show. It only takes two days for all your progress to tear at the seams.

On the first day of your second week, you’re walking into training on your own for the first time since you joined. Shouldn’t be a big deal, right? Wrong! Big fucking deal actually, because now it’s like walking blind, heading straight for what feels like danger. Unguided, no one by your side, only joined by the weight of an elephant seated right on your heart.

With the help of Ingrid of course, who else, you had established somewhat of a routine that made the transition so much easier. But it wasn’t quite clear until now, just how much easier it had made showing up to training everyday. Because, without your Norwegian counterpart who would be absent from training, you were left to show up all alone, and suddenly everything became ten times harder. 

Ingrid was more than just your friend, she was the one constant in this new life you lived that was always present. Anything you needed, one glance from you in her direction and she’d be with you in an instant. She, as stupid as it may seem, was the foundation of your routine, and now that she wasn’t here, all the hard work you’d made to settle in seemed to crumble under your feet. 

Three weeks of living in Barcelona, one week of training successfully completed, just for you to end up back at square one. And that meant you were trapped in your own body, limbs acting entirely on autopilot as your legs carried you over to those stupid doors that once again stood intimidatingly in front of you. Just like last week, except this time there was no one to coax you out of your shell, no one to mindlessly guide you over to one of the tables in the canteen, no one to walk you out onto the training pitch. You were all alone.

An unfortunate tactic hadn’t left your habits after all these years: avoidance. What better way to deal with something, then to not deal with it all, right? Right? 

Obviously, you couldn’t miss the whole day, you still had commitments and expectations you needed to live up to. If there was one thing that you couldn’t handle (apart from almost everything in this neurotypical world) it was letting people down, disappointing them.

So, if you opted out of breakfast for the day and beelined straight for the changing rooms instead, what business was it to anyone else? You were here, that’s all they could ask for. The plan was to get dressed into your training kit as fast as physically possible, before heading out onto the pitch for some time alone before everyone else came along. 

…Except, just as you were lacing up your boots, hand trembling at an embarrassing intensity as you did so, the door opened prematurely. And, really, out of everyone, did it have to be her?

“Oh. I did not expect anyone to be in here. Bon dia.” Alexia smiled at you, heading to her cubby just a few seats away from yours.

“Bon dia.” You muttered sheepishly, keeping your head down and tying your laces at a wildly uncontrolled speed. If Alexia noticed, she didn’t mention it. Thank god.

“I was just going to get some extra practice in, if you wanted to join me.” She offered, swapping her trainers for her boots since she was already in her training gear.

Great minds think alike..?

“Yeah, I was going to do the same thing. Thanks.”

“Ay, it's nothing. It's great that you're so hard working, you’re already fitting right in.” Sorry, could you say that again, or write it down even? “Ready?”

“What? Oh- sorry, yes, I’m ready.” You gave her a tight-lipped smile before slipping past where she stood in the doorway and heading towards the pitch.

“How are you feeling about your time here so far?” The captain asked kindly, the beating sound of boots clicking against the floor echoing far too long in your ears.

“Um, good. It’s an honour playing for this team, so.” You shrugged, offering an almost robotic, rehearsed answer.

“And what about how you actually feel? Not what you’re supposed to feel?” Alexia inquired lightly, an earnest and sympathetic look across her face. Slightly suspicious.

“Well… still good. It’s just different, isn’t it. Yeah.” You mumbled, cheeks flushing bright red as you crossed your arms tightly over your chest.

“Of course it is different. You were in Germany for five years, right?” You nodded affirmatively. “So it is a big, big change. I haven’t been anywhere else but here for twelve years, I cannot imagine adjusting to anywhere else.”

Oh, Ingrid. Seriously?

“I’m here though, I have to leave Germany behind.” You stated in a flat voice, honestly quite done with this topic but it’d be rude to voice so.

“If that is how you want to think, then do it like that. You have transitioned very well, we are all impressed.” Alexia shrugged with a soft smile, punching in the code for the storage cupboard and opening it soon after. “Grab the footballs, I will get some tiny goals. The others can get the rest when they’re done filling their faces.”

Thank god for that.

Alexia ended that conversation there, directing her focus on training from that moment on, much to your relief. All that you learnt from this day was that you needed to have a conversation with Ingrid. Your sixth sense was strong, even if to others it seemed like Alexia was just being an averagely kind person, you just knew. 

The good thing was, you couldn’t quite call that day a disaster. In the end, you got through it, even squeezing in a few jokes and laughs here and there throughout the day.

It’s the next day that the first incident occurred. It happened like this; Ingrid isn’t in again, you learn she’s got some kind of stomach virus, so you turn up once more on your own. This time, it wasn’t quite so scary, but like yesterday you skipped breakfast again. And just like yesterday, Alexia met you in the changing rooms to do some early practice again. Except, there was one fatal flaw to your routine this day. It came back and bit you in the ass pretty harshly.

“Ale, what are you doing after this?” Mapi wondered from your right as she stood up after Jona had ended training for the day.

“Eh, nothing.” She shrugged, going to ask you the same thing as she reached her hands out to help you up.

For all you knew, the Spanish pair you were sandwiched between could be speaking absolute gibberish, nothing was registering. As soon as you stood up, everything went hazy. And then… your vision had gone, your body felt unbelievably heavy, and had it not been for Alexia’s tight grip, you’d have fallen back there and then.

“Hey!” Alexia called out in concern, feeling you go limp in her hold. “Mapi, she’s fainting!”

“What!?” Mapi cried, immediately falling to her knees as Alexia safely guided you to the floor.

“I don’t know, she just collapsed!” 

Her voice dripped with worry as Mapi frantically looked around, only to find most people had headed inside already. Meanwhile, you were still awake, not totally out cold, but your eyes ached unbearably and you’d lost all control of your movements. Alexia’s hands flitted over your body, looking for any obvious problems but she couldn’t find any. She repeated your name over and over, only receiving somewhat of a whimper in reply.

“Mapi, go find someone, now!” Alexia demanded, the defender instantly rising to her feet and heading for the door. The captain turned back to you, her hands gently coming up to cradle your face where you lay on your side. “Hey, I need you to listen! Can you hear me?”

“Mhm.” You whined, providing the woman before you with an ounce of relief.

“What’s wrong? You need to tell me so we can help you, cariño, you just fainted on us.” She said frantically, her wide eyes boring into yours when you opened them.

Identifying the problem, even in your state, was quite simple. It was a common problem, something you were well versed with, though you rarely ever let it get this bad.

“Forgot to eat.” You mustered up your remaining strength, which really was very little, to answer her and quell her worries.

Thinking back to this moment in probably an hour’s time, you’d laugh at Alexia’s face when you said those three words, because she looked utterly perplexed.

“You forgot to eat?” Alexia repeated with a frown, but she couldn’t dwell on it much longer because Mapi came running over with the medical team hot on her tails.

“Is she awake?” The brunette woman asked desperately, opting out of kneeling back beside you so as to not overcrowd you.

“Yes, and she said she forgot to eat today?” Alexia looked up at her friend, refusing to shift out of the way and instead choosing to stick by your side. 

“Oh, that would explain it.” Mapi sighed in relief, only puzzling Alexia more. Was this… normal for you?

The medics fussed over you, asking you questions and ultimately overwhelming you way too much, something Mapi notices quickly.

“Oye, basta, slow down. Her blood sugar is low, she needs something quickly. Get her an energy gel.” Mapi commanded them, now joining you by your head and smiling her bright smile down at you, combing back some of your hair. “Hola preciosa, we'll get you back feeling better soon.” Just as she said that, a member of the medical staff pulled out one of the energy gels the team used for games. “Can you have this for me? It will make you feel better, I promise.”

With a nod, the people around you helped you to sit up as Mapi tore  open the gel packet, with Alexia still almost frozen in confusion. The defender noticed, grinning in amusement and quickly flicking her ear to bring her back down to earth.

“Ah! What's that for?” Alexia winced, watching on as Mapi shook her head and handed you the gel pack.

Your hand trembled as you raised it to your mouth, hardly possessing the strength to squeeze it enough to get anything out of it, but just as Mapi went to help you, Alexia got there first.

“It’s okay, here.” She does it for you, one hand on the packet and the other on your elbow that shakes under her hold. She seemed to be grounded now, knowing that it isn't the right moment to be wrapped up in her own thoughts when you're here in front of her, needing security and comfort whilst it takes a couple minutes to come back to yourself. “Easy with it. You'll feel better soon.”

And you did, literally no less than two minutes after having the energy gel, your nausea and dizziness and whatnot near enough disappeared. Though, your physical symptoms gave way for a barrage of anxiety, because this situation would consequently lead to an unwanted and challenging (but most likely necessary) conversation with Jonatan and the rest of the staff. They had also seen you, on the floor, near enough passed out, as a result of your own actions. You could only imagine the things they were thinking right now, and that unknown was scarier than the actual situation that had occurred beforehand.

“Feeling good now. Thanks everyone.” You said shyly, rising to your feet and avoiding everyone's gaze.

“You sure?” Alexia checked, giving you a look that tells you that you shouldn't even try to bullshit her.

“Well, a little bit… woozy, I guess. But much better than before, I swear.” You nodded, hating the feeling of everyone’s eyes on you. 

“Let’s go inside, I’ll ask the catering staff to make up some food for you, if you want?” Mapi offered as her hand hovers against your back, not touching but guiding you back inside the main building.

“Okay.” You shrugged.

Meanwhile Alexia trailed behind, trying to figure out how, as captain, she could help this situation. It’s in her best interest to care for her team, and given what she had learnt, it was now clear that there was a lot more she could do than sit back and watch. She didn’t want to come across as overbearing, something Ingrid had warned her about, but she realised it was time to step in.

“Why don’t we go to one of the office rooms rather than the canteen?” She suggested just as Mapi went to open the door heading into said room. The defender should have thought of that sooner, but she’s glad her friend mentioned it, realising it’s most definitely the better option right now for you. 

You were taken to an empty office, followed into the room by Alexia and Mapi and some of the physios, and if they weren’t overcrowding you outside, they definitely were now. In all honesty, as much as you were grateful for their care, you wanted to burrow under your duvet in bed at home and not surface for probably about a week. You wanted to grab a tray of cookies, eat them whilst seated on the edge of your bed so you didn’t get crumbs everywhere, and crawl under the sheets safe in the darkness of the four walls you had struggled to leave the past two days.

But no, you were here, stuck in a reality that in no way felt real at all. What were you doing here? Sat at a round table, surrounded by medical staff chatting between themselves, not really bothered about your blip anymore, whilst two of Spain’s greatest players stand off to the side, both pairs of eyes trained solely on you.

You, a no-name off the back of an unsuccessful run in Germany that had just collapsed after training. Them, Champion’s League winners and well-established in the sport for years already, and decades to come.

“Preciosa?” Mapi appeared beside you suddenly, speaking softly as her hand fell on your shoulder. “Is it okay if I leave now? Ingrid is still sick at home, I promised I would get back to her as fast as I could. If you need me to stay, I can. They won’t keep you here for much longer, they’re just making sure you eat before you get back home.”

She should be with Ingrid, her girlfriend who is much worse off at home. Not with you, who simply made a foolish mistake and was now wasting everyone’s time.

“Go home.” You told her as your own hands squeezed anxiously at your upper arms where they sat crossed on the table.

“Okay.” Mapi smiled pitifully down at you, giving you a light forehead kiss before backing off. She pulled Alexia to the side, giving her a warning glare. “Look after her, for me and for Ingrid. Protect her, too. Don’t let them overwhelm her, she just wants to get home.”

“Sí. Of course.” Alexia replied firmly, a solid look in her eyes that Mapi knew to trust immediately. 

The defender slipped out of the room with no further fuss, leaving you alone with Alexia and the medical staff. Not for long, though.

“Guys, could you give us a moment? And can someone go collect her food from the canteen, please.” 

They nodded and stepped out of the room, Alexia closing the door softly behind them. She turned back to you, watching as you kept your head down and focused on the shapes you traced on the wood of the table. Your shoulders were visibly tense, so uptight they’re basically touching your ears, and she noticed just how intensely your leg was bouncing up and down.

“Do you need anyth-”

“Did Ingrid tell you?” You asked bluntly, gulping back the lump in your throat that really had no place making itself known at this moment - now was not the time for a meltdown. Save it for later, in the safety of your flat.

Alexia blew out a breath, coming over to perch on the edge of the desk a few seats away from you.

“If you’re talking about what I think you are, then… yes. She did tell me.” She answered cautiously, trying to gauge your reaction but you didn’t give her much, just a single nod. “She did it with the best intentions though. It wasn’t to… purposely go behind your back. She just wants the best for you, and the more people that know, the more support you can have here.”

“I guess.” You murmured under your breath, clearing your throat after and moving to rest your chin atop your arms.

“Why… why didn’t you want anybody to know?” The midfielder wondered in a soft tone, trying hard not to scare you off or go over the top. If she wants to help you and understand you, which she desperately does, this is the pathway she has to, albeit reluctantly, go down.

“Wanted people to get to know me, not a label.” You frowned, hastily wiping the tear that slips out with the frustration slowly bubbling inside of you. “Didn’t want to be a problem for anyone. Wanted to fit in.”

Just like that, it all clicked for Alexia.

The feigned smiles, sometimes forced laughter, the troubled look on your face whenever you thought you were alone, all of it adds up. You had repressed parts of you so that things went as smooth sailing as possible, so that people didn’t think any differently of you or immediately feel drawn away like they often did. The biggest part of you, what makes you you, is the one thing you didn’t want people to see, out of nothing but complete and all-consuming fear. And Alexia would be damned if she let you go on like this.

“Can I take a seat next to you?” She said quietly, a hint of a smile on her face when you nodded again. She did exactly that; without making too much noise in the still room, she pulled up the chair next to you and sat down, her eyes raking up and down your face.

“If I told you that I don’t think any differently of you at all, would you believe me?” She began with. 

You just shrugged dismissively, not having moved a single muscle in the past few minutes apart from breathing and blinking. If you don’t move, if you don’t draw attention to yourself, perhaps this whole thing will disappear. A girl can dream.

“Because I don’t, cariño. I really don’t. You are not a problem for any of us at all. You face different struggles than us, but nobody thinks of you as anything less than a great player and an even better person. We are all glad you are here. I and others on the team will face different struggles than you, and I can bet you would never think any differently of us. Am I right?” 

Her words break through the defensive wall you’d put up to protect yourself from anything else around you. A common feature of the start of your meltdowns, except it’s quite possible that your captain had just stopped it from going any further.

Hesitantly, you sat up from your slouched position and wiped tiredly at your face.

“No, I would never.” You told her, slumping back against your chair and fiddling with the drawstring on your shorts.

“Exactly. You don’t need to worry about any of that at all, I promise. You are one of us now. A culer. We will take care of you.” She smiled brightly, you can hear it in her voice. So for the first time since you’d entered the room, you turned to look at her, only to find her eyes were filled with earnesty and kindness. And… perhaps for the first time since you’d arrived in Barcelona, you truly did feel like you belong here. Like you could make a life for yourself here, against all odds.

“Thanks.” You sniffled, feeling the remnants of your outburst fade away, only to leave overwhelming exhaustion in its wake.

“It’s okay. You can come to me anytime for anything. There will always be someone here for you to talk to, and I’ll be the first to fight for you if that’s ever necessary.” Now, you were actually smiling. A genuine one, too.

“I think Ingrid might beat you to it, actually.” You teased her, watching as she grins.

“You’re probably right.” She chuckled, before pausing. You already knew what she was about to say before she opened her mouth. Neurotypicals are just way too predictable. “How did you know Ingrid told me?”

“You can just tell when someone knows. They treat you differently.” Alexia frowned anxiously at that.

“I didn’t… did I treat you differently?” She questioned, along with a poor attempt at disguising the undertones of fear in her voice.

“You haven’t, not really, but… I don’t know, I can just tell instantly. It’s hard to explain. You haven’t treated me differently, but I could tell you knew compared to when you didn’t know. The look on your face too. But thank you for… just everything so far. You have helped a lot, so.” You shrugged. She smiled, a little in relief, but nodded nevertheless.

“You don’t need to thank me. Now, can I ask some more about what happened today? You said you forgot to eat?” 

“Yeah. It’s just because my routine was messed up, that’s all. Yesterday morning I ate before training because Ingrid had baked me some pastries, but today I had none left and then genuinely forgot. It happens sometimes, it’s just part of it.”

“Part of what?”

“Autism.” Duh.

“Oh. I did not know that.” Alexia stated simply. 

“Yeah, well, most people don’t.” You told her. Alexia nodded understandingly, a plan of action already formed in her mind.

“I’m sure you already know this, as an athlete, but it’s important for your safety that this doesn’t happen again. So I have a solution in mind that could help.” You hummed to tell her to continue. “I can ask either the catering staff here, or find a private chef, to start meal prepping for you. We can organise it on the club’s behalf so that you don’t have to pay anything. I will go with you, or for you if you’d like, to Jonatan and help sort it out for you. You can meet with a nutritionist to figure out what food you need and tell them what you do and don’t like, we can sort it all out for you. It wouldn’t be a problem.” 

Oh. You’d never thought about that before. 

“I guess that could work.” You decided after a few moments of consideration. 

That would actually be a really helpful solution. Certainly one less thing to worry about, and it could add a secure layer to your routine. An important one too.

“Would you be okay with that?” Alexia wondered, smiling when you nodded. “Good. Leave it to me, I will get it sorted for you.” 

She paused again, clearly hesitant about something. You raised an eyebrow at her, trying to coax it out of her with a look, but you couldn’t help the amused smile on your face at the sudden, faint blush that landed on her cheeks.

“What is it?” 

“Uh… there is no way to ask this without coming across as… very forward, to say the least.” She started, shaking her head at her own ridiculousness. “May I get your number? For captain’s reasons, of course.”

“Right.” You smirked, watching as she shakes her head, this time at your teasing, and grabs a pen from the stationary pot in the centre of the table. “And what shall I write it on?”

“Well… just use my hand, I guess.” She suggested, offering the back of her hand out for you. You grinned and gently took hold of it, jotting down your number for her. 

“There you go, Capi.” You smiled, clicking the pen and putting it back.

Not long after that, one of the staff members came in with the food Alexia and Mapi had organised for you. So, leaving your captain with a promise that you'll eat it the second you walked through your apartment door, you went home. It was a great meal, and if it'd be the catering staff at Barcelona that would do your meal prep, well, it'd be a great deal.

That night went just like the others; you relaxed for some time to decompress after training, until you eventually started feeling somewhat human again, and arose from bed to do one of any of your hobbies that you felt like doing that night. Reading, watching movies, drawing and painting, listening to music, or any others that pique your interest that night. 

On some occasions, you'll be so mentally exhausted from your day that none of them seem at all appealing, and it takes a lengthy period of time to feel yourself again. An hour, the rest of the evening, or sometimes even the whole week. After especially hard times, it could take weeks. Fortunately you hadn't been through such events in years, but the fear of falling into that hole ever again was always present in the back of your mind.

The thing about having this disorder is that some things never change. Most things never change. You learn to cope, you can heal from past experiences, but in the grand scheme of it all, things never change. Certain events, people, even words can still be triggers. No amount of therapy or coping mechanisms or whatever, can help. You were born this way, and you would die this way. 

You would live a life and still struggle with even the most mundane things. Washing dishes was a no-go, the sensory issues were way too intense for that one. A day without showering first thing in the morning was automatically a write off. Bad performances in matches could still lead to a meltdown on certain days. One wrong look from someone can send you spiralling.

Autism was a blessing and a curse. It made you who you are; you have no idea who you would be without it. Yet, at the same time, it could debilitate you to such extreme degrees that… at night, when you were alone under the disguise of darkness,  you can't help but wonder what you could have done with your life had you not been born with this burden.

And with the day you'd had already, well, the only way you'd learnt to get over these things were to move on from them. That's what you had to do. If you become too concentrated on them, analysed every detail that went wrong, thought about every opinion those who witnessed it could hold, you'd suffer for it more than you needed to.

You couldn't move on if others couldn't move on though.

Unknown: Did you get home safe?

There was most likely only one person it could be, but where's the fun in that?

You: Depends who I'm talking to…

Alexia: It's Alexia??

Too easy.

You: I knew it was you, dumbass. Yes I got home safe, thank you. Food was great too :)

Although, when a few minutes went by after that last text, the doubts came flooding in. Did you take it too far with her? It was a bit ballsy to say that, she's just checking in on you. Captain duties.

Then again, who was it calling you?

“Hello?” You frowned, and this was another instance where you're cursing yourself, because why was your heart racing and cheeks burning at one random phone call?

“Dumbass, huh?” Came a smug voice, and then your heart was racing for another, more light-hearted reason.

“Yeah, sorry about that… apparently I'm a bit of a keyboard warrior.” You blushed sheepishly, relieved beyond belief when the woman down the line laughed.

“Don't worry about it. You're feeling okay now, sí?” 

“Yes, fine. You know, I didn't plan for today to happen. It just did.” You mumbled, still embarrassed by it all.

“I know, no one blames you for it. I just wanted to check in with you.” 

“I'm good, thanks. I've only ever had that happen like once before, I guess training on an empty stomach isn't the greatest idea in the world.” You joked lightly, Alexia humming in agreement.

“How does it happen? You said your routine was messed up, how did that lead to you forgetting?”

“It's a long story.” You sighed, but Alexia doesn't care.

“I have a free evening.” She said simply. This woman.

“Well… every training session so far, Ingrid has met me in the morning at my apartment beforehand so we can travel in together. She normally checks in with me, asks how I'm feeling and if I've eaten and whatnot. But she was ill, which I obviously don't blame her for, by the way. So not having her with me these past two days has terrified me quite a bit. She's basically the thing that holds my whole morning routine together. I guess, because she wasn't there, everything just flew out the window.” You explained, but things still weren't quite adding up in Alexia’s mind.

“So how does that relate to you forgetting to eat? Do you not get hungry?”

“Not like normal people do. One of the things with autism is that… we're not really in tune with our bodies? Like, I don't often get hungry or thirsty, I have to force myself to remember to eat and drink. And when I don't, I only realise I haven't done either of the two when I start feeling ill, like today. But food and drink feel like a chore, which is another reason I forget too. It's different when it comes to football though, being an athlete has taught me to be in tune with my body in terms of injuries, but not for anything else. It's weird.” 

“Wow, I never knew that before. That's interesting.” She commented. She's got a lot to learn.

“I prefer… inconvenient.” You said with a shy smile, glad to hear Alexia chuckle at that.

Unexpectedly, for quite some time after that, the pair of you just… talked. A lot. Like, for an hour. About everything - from what pastries Ingrid baked you, to a few more facts about yourself and your ASD, and everything in between. 

It's unnervingly natural. Fun too, but also a little odd. Is she doing it out of pity, or..?

“I almost forgot the other reason I called you.” She said out of nowhere, the smile on her face audible once again. “We have our pre-season dinner this Friday, the whole team is going. You should come.”

A dinner? At a restaurant? Oh god.

“Oh, I… it sounds good, but I don’t know, I-”

“Hey, why not?” She questioned gently.

“Just, they’re not really my scene.”

In a split second, Alexia attempted to think back on all she knew about anxiety to combine it with the very little information she knew about autism, hoping the two overlapped somewhat. Luckily for her, they do.

“The club rents out the restaurant so it’ll just be the team and a few senior staff members. It shouldn’t be too loud. It’s more like a celebratory dinner before the season starts, so there's no partying or anything like that at all. I really hope you come, but I understand if not. There’s no pressure.”

Damn you, Alexia.

“Okay. Okay, I'll go.”

—

Normal order resumed for the rest of the week; Ingrid recovered from her short 48-hour bug and returned to training like she hadn't even had a day off. Her being back also meant your mind was a hell of a lot more at ease, even if Alexia had offered to see you every morning. 

There was one other thing you were blessed with: obliviousness. Because, during the car ride to training the day after your phone call with the captain, the smirk that Mapi greeted you with in the rearview mirror after you tell her what happened once she headed home, is definitely not confusing at all. Definitely not.

That smirk made a comeback far sooner than you'd like. 

“Say that again?” Mapi asked with a squint to her eyes, forcing down the laughter she so desperately wants to let out.

“Alexia is driving me to the team dinner.” You repeated the sentence you'd just said for her, looking to Ingrid for help. “Ingrid, tell her to behave please.”

“María, come on. Alexia is just doing her a favour, you know she's not a fan of driving.” Ingrid said whilst nudging her girlfriend, though secretly she's hiding some intense excitement levels under her very good poker-face.

“Exactly! Screw you, Mapi.” You sighed dramatically, turning back to the mirror as you put your earrings in.

“So you're sure you don't need us to drive you there?” Mapi asked suspiciously, and there was that stupid smirk again. 

“Ugh, yes! I am making friends, you should be happy!” You groaned, fixing the shorter defender with a dagger-like glare in the reflection.

“More than fr-”

“Okay! Are you ready, snuppa? When is Alexia coming?” Ingrid interjected, discreetly stomping on her girlfriend's foot.

“She's on her way, she'll be here any minute now.” You answered after checking your phone. “You know, I can't rely on you guys forever like you're my parents or something. I love you, but I don't love you that much. And I'm sure you feel the same.”

“No!” Ingrid cried out in a way that's entirely too theatrical. She came over to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “I do love you that much, it's María you need to worry about.”

“I do worry about her sometimes. You should too, Ingrid.” You murmured, Ingrid humming in agreement as you watched her Spanish counterpart… busy herself in your fridge?

“María, out of there! We are literally going for dinner right now!”

“Ingrid, princesa, you need to work on your English- we're not at dinner ‘right now’, that is why I am in the fridge.” 

“Guys! Alexia is here, let's go. I'll see you at the restaurant.” You kissed Ingrid’s cheek and flicked Mapi’s forehead as you ushered them out the door, locking it behind you and making your way down to the ground floor.

Alexia was there, waiting for you whilst leaning against her car, and a smile tugged at her lips the second she saw you. You heard some commotion behind you, most likely Mapi being scolded by Ingrid, but you shut it out as you headed over to the midfielder, fighting back a ridiculously cheesy grin.

She greeted you the same way she did on the first day she met you - enveloping you in a warm hug that really shouldn’t be as comforting as it was. Not a big deal. Regardless, you both clambered into the car and made your way to the restaurant.

Thankfully, the evening went surprisingly well. It was a very low-key evening, just like Alexia said. In fact, you might even go as far as to say you enjoyed it, that’s a welcome revelation. And it seems you weren’t the only one that had discovered something new.

“Can I ask you something?” Alexia said on the drive back to your apartment.

“Sounds like there’s no stopping you.” You replied, smiling when she teasingly rolled her eyes.

“At dinner, when Patri asked why you don’t drink, you said ‘long story short, I don’t like it’ so I was just wondering what you meant by that?” Alexia asked, before almost immediately regretting it. “I mean, you don’t have to answer, it’s your business, but… if there’s anything we should be mindful about, then let me know.”

Who needed alcohol when you had a tendency to lose your inhibitions whenever you got too exhausted?

“No, not really any problems. I don’t have any issues with people drinking around me, I just have a bit of a history with it but it’s nothing big. It’s fine.” You shrugged, trying to keep your eyes open as the streets of Barcelona passed by your window. 

“What… what happened?” Alexia pressed gently.

“Well, when I was about seventeen, I started going through a really hard time. I had just dropped out of school, I’d had some trouble with friends, I was basically struggling quite badly. I started partying and drinking a lot, way more than I should have. Then I began to rely on it too much, just to get me through really basic stuff. It made me feel normal, it got rid of the voice in my head and it made me feel like a functioning person of society because it was what everybody else did. One day I decided it was best that I don’t drink at all, and it’s easier to tell people I don’t like it but actually I’m just scared of drinking because of all it reminds me of. So, I avoid it.” You explained, rather nonchalantly. 

The mental exhaustion was hitting hard that night, it was evident in the way you spoke. There was one explanation; dissociation. Dinners were not your favourite things in the world, they were a challenge to get through even when you were in the best company. Small talk, food, the sound of people eating, the scrapes of cutlery against ceramic, and the attention on some occasions being entirely on you? Yeah, a big no go. Which is why you were so tired, so distant, because your mind was in protection mode to keep you running until you got home.

Talking about your past was difficult, you’d come a long way and it felt counter-intuitive to talk about the bad times when you’d worked so hard to come to a good place. Yet, here you were, baring your soul about a topic you normally kept to yourself. You don’t even feel at least a little bit anxious at the fact you’d just spilled that secret. Alexia takes all the concern you normally feel and keeps it for herself.

“I’m sorry you went through that, cariño. Thank you for telling me.” She smiled sadly over at you, an ache growing in her heart at your defeated demeanour where you sit in her passenger seat. “Are you feeling okay? You don’t seem like yourself.”

“Tired. So tired.” You sighed. Even just talking felt like a chore in that moment. “Wanna get home, s’all.”

“Okay, we’re almost there now.” She said, “I’m proud of you for coming today. I know you weren’t a fan of the idea initially but you came, and everybody was so glad that you did. I am really proud of you, and so are Ingrid and Mapi too.”

The woman to your left surprised you everyday with each act of kindness she was showing. She hardly knew you, she hardly knew of your struggles, but she was adamant to learn and show just how deeply she cared. You were beyond grateful for her and all she’d said and done, even if you couldn’t verbalise that just yet.

All you could do was offer a simple nod, almost entirely mute as a result of how utterly overstimulating the day had been. You had loved it, sure, but sometimes when days like today left you in such a dejected state that you could hardly talk, there were still times if you wondered if fighting for a somewhat normal life was worth it. 

From then on, the rest of the drive home was silent. Alexia dropped you off, made sure you knew to contact her or Ingrid or whoever you felt comfortable speaking to should you need them, and that was that. You got inside, were barely able to get yourself changed, before passing out as soon as you got into bed.

—

A few weeks went by and it was more of the same. After that dinner, the team really clamped down and focused on getting everybody ready for the start of the new season. Training at Barcelona was different to anything you’d ever experienced before; it was intense, but light-hearted. There was competition, but it was healthy, everybody egged each other on even if they wanted to win. Ingrid was right, you had never found training this enjoyable before. You had to put that down to the people though, if it wasn’t for them then you’d never feel as comfortable as you do now. 

There were blips, there were still obstacles, but apart from that time you fell ill after training , there hadn’t really been any meltdown-inducing moments. Just a lot of burn-out and exhaustion, but you were near enough a pro at dealing with that now. 

The environment was… perfect for you. And one factor of that outcome is definitely down to the help of the famous three you had near enough attached yourself to since your arrival.

But the main factor to how well you had settled in was down to you. At some point along the way, not that the exact date mattered or anything (at exactly 12:02 on Monday the 26th of August), you hit a milestone that you had never managed to reach before. 

It was unplanned, but once the initial shock had worn off and the anxiety left, you teared up in the arms of Ingrid at the pride you felt towards yourself. Then Mapi joined in with the hug, and so did Alexia, then… so did the whole team too. 

For the first time, you were honest with your team. For the first time, you told them that you had autism. And for the first time, you weren’t suffocated by that prospect. When they all came together to hug you, it wasn’t just a physical embrace, it was them fully accepting you even with this burden you held and championed every day of your life. Though, with the support of others, it was hard to think of it as a burden. The gravity of a secret this big had weighed you down for years, but… now, your chest had never felt so light.

They supported you when you arrived, but the extremes this Spanish team took didn’t quite register until the week before the first game of the Liga F season. Fortunately for you, the first game of the season was at your new home of football, the Estadi Johan Cruyff. So, to help settle the rising nerves you were feeling as game day got closer, the club had organised a training session for you at the stadium a few days before. The more familiar you were with your surroundings, the less you had to worry about on the day. And, as everybody knew, the only thing you needed to worry about for your debut would be how well you did on the pitch.

What you didn’t know though, was that every member of your team was waiting in the stands for you to walk out. And the second the sound of boots hitting the floor echoed from the tunnel through the empty stadium, Mapi was up on her feet to cheer and encouraged her teammates to do the same. The only person that hesitated was Ingrid, but when she saw the look on your face as your te- your friends outwardly rallied behind you so openly and so freely, she became the loudest one of them all. That was the perfect way to prepare for game day, you really couldn’t have asked for a better group of people to work with everyday.

Were you jittery and wracked with nerves as you waited on the sidelines to be substituted in at the 70 minute mark? Yes, but the second you took your first step on the grass with the crowd’s applause as your welcome, you fixated on the game and everything else was just background noise. 

From a young age, before you had even heard of the word autism, football had very obviously been your special interest, otherwise known as the one random topic out of everything in the world to take over your life. 

You would spend hours in your backyard, kicking a ball against the side of your house, driving your family crazy. The walls of your bedroom were covered, corner to corner, in posters ranging from your favourite players, to clubs from all over the world. Christmases and birthdays as a kid were, to you, all about what from your presents you could add to your collection. Kits, boots, scarves, match-day programmes, magazines, even trading cards. Back at your childhood home in Norway, all these things were stored away in the attic, still items you cherished. 

As you got older and life got a bit more difficult, football became your escape. School was exhausting, people were exhausting, but football was something you could do on your own. No one bothering you, no one expecting anything from you, it was a time you could forget the world and all its misdemeanours, and just relax. And honestly, that’s all you planned for it to be. It was hard to imagine it being anything else than just a hobby.

All it took was one game to change the whole trajectory of your life. A game of girls against boys at your school at the age of only eleven, and the next day your sports teacher had gotten you a trial at the local academy. You passed it with flying colours, and flourished in the sport from there.

…Until one random day when you were fourteen, your mother sat you down for a conversation you never could have expected. But once you'd had time to dwell on her words, everything made sense. 

You had autism spectrum disorder. 

It wasn’t made official until the assessment process was over and you received your diagnosis, but that was the day it felt like your life had been irreversibly changed. Your view of the world changed with one conversation, and it was as if everything you thought you knew was wiped completely. Like you had been thrown into the ocean with no one and nothing around to help. 

All the tantrums, the bad behaviour at home compared to being a model student at school, the fussy eating habits, and the endless list of out-of-the-norm habits you had - it added up to this one, new label. The tantrums became meltdowns, the reasoning behind your behavioural differences were from spending the whole day surrounded by people and masking to fit in which led to you being so overwhelmed and overstimulated, your mind went into overdrive and didn’t know what to do. The fussy eating turned out to be sensory issues, with the textures and tastes of certain foods making you physically ill.

There was so much to learn that some days it felt like too big a challenge to tackle. Then there would be the days where you were up all night, the light of your family laptop kept hidden under the blanket you draped over yourself, as you researched this life-changing disorder until the sun rose.

It’s funny, really, how quickly your life can change with just three words.

For years, you had been defeated by it, succumbing to the assumptions that you could never amount to anything more than the label forced upon you, but look at you now. Providing a world class through ball to the most recent Ballon D’Or recipient to tie off a 3-0 win in the first game of the season.

You had learnt at some point in the last twelve years that the only choice you had was to live with it. Make the most of it. This was your one life, you had to make it work. You were adamant to thrive for the others that couldn’t, for the 1 in 13 women that didn’t believe they were strong enough to fight back, and to prove to the world that this disorder didn't hold you back.

They wouldn’t know that your mind could be your own worst enemy, or the self-deprecating thoughts you could have whilst your face gave away no hints, or that sometimes you didn’t believe in yourself and the anxiety was so intense that you could be stuck in bed for days, even weeks, at a time. All they saw right now was your team, FC Barcelona, rushing over to celebrate you rather than the goal scorer because they knew what it meant to you. The world would only ever see your victories, because they had no business to strike you when you were already down. You were strong, you were worth it, and most importantly, you had done it. You’d made it to the exact point you dreamed of. That’s all that mattered.

Unfortunately, it only takes one bad thing to set you down an unwanted path.

Part 2

[disteal]

Since I haven’t seen anything about it on Tumblr yet;

For around 12 hours now, IDF forces have been raiding and sieging Al Shifa hospital in South Gaza. If you know anyone stuck in Gaza who’s been injured, had family who was injured or is medical staff, odds are they were taking refuge in/around Al Shifa. Accurate reports on casualties/wounded are hard to come across at the moment, but there’s video of IOF forces firing at patients and hospital staff and “trying to kill anyone who moves” [al jazeera].

If you weren’t aware; Al Shifa is the largest hospital in Gaza, and it was their departing ambulance convoy who were struck by IOF air strike on November 3rd. The hospital is well over its 700 bed capacity and has been asking desperately for supplies and fuel for weeks, after IOF destroyed their solar panels on Nov 6 and put the entire facility on backup generators.

There are a staggering amount of injured Palestinians and newborn babies in that hospital who cannot be moved from their wards, and are in critical danger without care. Nurses have been forced to either flee or stay behind and risk enemy fire.

It’s worth noting that despite Israeli claims Al Shifa is sitting on top of a Hamas-run bunker and the hospital is a front, the only tunnels they’ve found appear to be the tunnels built BY the IOF in 1983. The ‘terrified Palestinian nurse in Al Shifa’ video from 4 days ago, where a young covered woman appears to cry about Hamas forces in the hospital, is almost definitely Israeli influencer Hannah Abutbul in a bad disguise. Despite this being a ‘targeted operation’ Israeli spokespeople have not been clear on where exactly they think Hamas is operating out of in the enormous complex, and IOF radio reveals there’s been no evidence found of Israeli hostages.

This is a HOSPITAL, full of injured people, mourning families and children being cared for by hospital staff and volunteers.

The real ‘reason’ for the assault becomes obvious when you see footage of IOF soldiers marching the Israeli flag to the top of the hospital. Al Shifa was a conquest for Israel, a humiliation for surviving Palestinians and a message to the region. They did not like a facility that existed outside of their control, that put hope in the hearts of the people they’re trying to slaughter, and so they attacked it.

If you are able to join the Cairo Convoy and march on Rafah, PLEASE GO. If not, PLEASE SPREAD AWARENESS.

[viperbunnies]

"Nothing good ever comes out when I start hoping... but maybe just a little bit."

[Thank you to @.unfinished-projects-galore , @.ai-kan1 and @.stestylius-arts for the assets! Thank you as well to @jovieinramshackle for giving me the inspo to finally start on this, and to @crystallizsch , @angelwishess and @twstgo whose oc intros I took inspo for the layout 🫶]

An outlier from the school, due to his situation he was home-schooled for the majority of his first year. They have decided to accompany the Ramshackle prefect in their daily endeavors, serving as a guide and as a companion in the worn-down dorm.

BASIC INFO.

NAME: Oswald "Oz" Damarys BIRTHNAME: ???? ??????? ALIAS: Oz, Ozzie, Flashlight Fish (Floyd), Monsieur Porcelaine (Rook) Shortie-senpai (Yuudai) AGE: 17 BIRTHDATE: August 26 HEIGHT: 154 cm SPECIES: Half-human half beastmen GENDER: Demi-boy (Uses they/he and masc titles) ORIENTATION: Demisexual ALIGNMENT: Lawful Neutral MBTI: ISFP Voice claim: Here! (Stc)

LIKES: Stargazy pie, Seafood in general, Acrobatics, Crochet, Art in general, Reading, Fairytales, Music boxes, Classical Music, Card games, Mystery books, Sightseeing, DISLIKES:Wishmaking, Shooting stars, Crowded places, Performing, Being observed, People touching his birthmark, His "Luck", Basketballs

Unique Magic Your Next Line is! [ Flash Forward ] — "An indisputable future is what I see... Your Next Line is!" Oswald is able to take a peek into someone's future as long as they keep contact with his pearly white eye. It can be anything from 5 seconds from now or a day later - This visions manifests like rolls of film - Lately It appears his unique magic is going haywire, showing him visions without the need of eye contact. (They aren't pleasant visions)

TRAITS +  Easy-going; Flexible; Warm; Appreciative =  Tolerant; Perceptive; Witty; Impartial -  Overworker; Indecisive; Reliant; Worrisome

BRIEF OVERVIEW (STC)

Oz is a man of many tricks; he was raised to entertain the audience, which is why he is great at lightening up the mood of the room. The many tricks he can do reminds others of a puppy trained on how to play dead, or shake hands. Despite that, Oz actually struggles in actually expressing the his true feelings— used to being the brunt of many jokes growing up, he believes that he is simply a puppet used for the entertainment of others. He sees himself as a hollow doll with no real personality, only meant for display. He is confused about who his truly is, used to what others want to see and not what he wants to show. Slowly, he is realizing that he is merely human, and that he should live for his own sake. (Old info from my notes)

TIDBITS

Random Facts - Part-beastmen, specifically a rabbit beastmen but he lacks actual features aside for his tail that was cauterized off when he was younger - He doesn't look the part but he also likes getting into shenanigans, sometimes instigating Yuu and Adeuce with the pranks they do (No one really believes the trio when they say it was Oz's idea) - He's double jointed which is helpful with his Acrobatic hobby. - Love language is gift giving, and has a tendency to make crochets for other people. They're typically things that remind them of the other. - Has a lot of birthmarks on his face, but he started to cover them with foundation after Floyd made fun of it. - Has a terrible sense of direction so he gets lost easily, but he'd like to travel around the world someday. - He has terrible luck, and while he doesn't believe in superstitions he began to be wary about them. Doesn't want to get knocked out unconscious by a basketball whenever he passes by the gym. - Doesn't really mind being called Oswald, but he associated that to whenever he'd get scolded... so Oz is his more go to nickname.

TYPING QUIRK: - His friend got him into using Kaomojis, he likes the ones with bunny ears. - Likes sending voice messages to get his point across. - Usually types in sentence cases, (although when he isn't feeling well he types in lower cases) SPEAKING QUIRK: - Uses a lot of onomatopoeia to describe unknown things. - Speaks firmly when he feels strong emotions. - Sometimes bites his tongue when he rambles, or not focused. BEHAVIOURAL QUIRKS: - Nose has a tendency to twitch when he’s interested, or irritated. - He also unconsciously thumps his foot when he’s annoyed.

RELATIONSHIPS (WIP)

(Might put a brief overview on their more notable relationships in the future!) Note: - Main Oc x Canon is with Jamil (ignore that pink on silver and jade) - Divus is his foster parent

PNGS BELOW:

p∀ƎH ⅄W NI פNIH┴ƎWOS SI ƎɹƎH┴

[colonelarr0w]

Can you write one where Astarion realizes that Tav is acting strangely because it's actually Orin and the actual Tav is kidnapped by her?? Thank you so much and I love your work!!

A/N - Oh my god I absolutely adore the trope of kidnapped lover being rescued (the parasites in me crave the angst). I hope you like this, I had a lot of fun writing it! So thank you @fanficlov-3-r <3

I Know You

Preview - "And he knew that the others knew that little fact as well, considering that Shadowheart had already whispered to the others something along the lines of, '(Y/N) isn't amongst us.'"

Warning(s) - mature themes, foul language, canon BG3 violence

Word Count - 3.9k

Astarion prided himself on his ability to have memorized everything about you, from how your nose scrunched when you saw something you disliked to how your eyes sparkled when you noticed him staring at you from across the fire. It was those little things that simply made you … well … you. 

Which was why he found it very offputting when he noticed your excessive alcohol intake while attending a Tiefling party. Yes, you liked to indulge in a glass of wine or two while you chatted happily with Astarion or any of your other companions – but never had he seen you cradle an entire bottle of wine to yourself and drink it in its entirety. 

But that behavior was only one of multiple that he had noticed throughout the night; you were dancing with any Tiefling who offered their hand, you seemed to stray away from him and the others throughout the night, and the smile you wore did not reach your eyes in the slightest. It seemed fake, similar to the smiles that Astarion had once flashed at you to get your clothes off. 

“Is it just me or does (Y/N) seem a little … off?” Shadowheart comments, her eyebrow raising as she watches you indulge another Tiefling in a drunken dance. You stumble over both your feet and his own, a detail that both she and Astarion narrow their eyes at. 

For an oh-so-grateful leader, you were being careless tonight. 

Astarion’s eyes follow those of Shadowheart’s, landing on you just as you are finishing a dance with your fifth Tiefling of the night. He bows to you shakily, and in return, you curtsy – another move that Astarion had never thought he would see you perform. 

“I must say that I agree with Shadowheart. Excuse me for a moment,” Astarion abandons his half-empty wine glass, sliding it across the bar. The bartender raises a brow at Astarion, but says nothing. 

You chuckle heartily as a Tiefling female approaches you, in her hands a sparkling glass of champagne. You take it from her the moment it’s offered, just about to bring it to your lips before a pale hand clasps over your shoulder. 

“Ah-ah darling, I think that’s enough with the drinking for one night,” Astarion says with a fanged smile, angling himself so that he’s able to pluck the champagne glass from your hands quickly. You turn to him, eyebrows pinched together in an expression that mixes frustration and shock – as if you had been caught doing something that you shouldn’t. 

“Come off Astarion, I can indulge if I so choose,” you retort quickly, fingers extending towards your glass. Astarion lifts his arm, the glass just barely out of your reach. “You are indulging tonight, are you not?”

He chuckles, his chest rumbling against your shoulder as his scarlet eyes rake over your figure. Something was wrong, it wasn’t just your general composure – it was everything down to the very way that you stood on your own two feet. 

“While that is true, I am watching what I indulge in,” Astarion says, already glancing at Shadowheart, who nods knowingly. She mumbles something inaudibly then to Gale, and soon a secret message is relayed over all of your companions. 

The Tiefling female had long since left your side, only adding to your annoyance that Astarion had come to your side. You turn sharply to face him, eyes narrowing at him. 

“And just explain to me why you thought it necessary to disrupt my fun?” you snap, glaring daggers into the vampire who stands in front of you. Astarion merely sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb. His eyes flicker over you again, and it is in that moment that he realizes something … you were most certainly not you. 

And he knew that the others knew that little fact as well, considering that Shadowheart had already whispered to the others something along the lines of, “(Y/N) isn’t amongst us.” 

“Because I know you (Y/N), and right now,” Astarion pauses only to yank you closer, lowering his lips to your ear. “You are not who you say that you are.”

You freeze in his arms, eyes flickering to look at him. The crease in your eyebrows vanishes, your expression of frustration replaced now by one of shock. “What are you on about?”

“Oh come on now, don’t play dumb with me,” Astarion growls, his grip over your wrist tightening, “I know (Y/N), and she would never indulge in such things of her own accord.”

You swallow the growing lump in your throat, not protesting as a very angered Astarion drags you out of the Tiefling party. He is quickly flanked by Shadowheart and the others, none of whom offer you looks of sympathy – if anything, they look just as angered as the vampire in front of you. 

The moment that your feet touch camp, your wrists and ankles are promptly tied by Karlach, who offers you no answers even as you demand to know what in the hells is going on. Astarion stands quietly at her side, his arms folded over his chest whilst his mind promptly races.

Where were you? Who was sitting in your place? Where the hells were you?

With a singular wave of his hand over your body, Gale reveals Orin to the others, then steps back and glares down his nose at her. In response, her lips only turn upward in a grin, one that sends a shiver down the spines of those that surround her. 

“Where is–”

“Oh please, save me the dramatics,” Orin says with a roll of her eyes, adjusting herself so that she sits comfortably. Her attention moves to Astarion, her smile widening at the sight of the expression that he wears. 

“You have five minutes to answer our questions before–”

Orin’s head tilts in Lae’zel’s direction, her eyes crinkling as her smile widens impossibly further. Her lips part, a delighted chuckle falling from her lips. “Before what? You kill me? If I die, (Y/N)’s location dies with me.”

In a flash of white and silver, the blade of a dagger is pressed against the skin of Orin’s neck, pressed down just hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. Astarion kneels in front of Orin, narrowed eyes glaring daggers into her as his lips pull back in an angered growl. 

“You will reveal (Y/N)’s location lest you want to end up a paled mess on the ground.” He was shocked by how much your disappearance had affected him – especially considering that he was supposed to be keeping his affection for you a secret from the others. 

There was a reason behind his secrecy, however, a reason that you had agreed with when he had first proposed the idea to you. It was for your safety, for your protection. But it seemed like even with that … he still couldn’t keep the one thing that kept him sane safe. 

Orin chuckles, leaning forward so that her nose just barely grazes his own. He can feel her breath as it fans over his face – it disgusts him. 

“Is that so?” Her head tilts, another delighted chuckle bubbling up her throat and spilling over her lips. Astarion pushes the blade further against her, ignoring the yells of warning delivered by the other members of the party. 

His eyes narrow, his eyebrows pinch together, and his expression hardens. Orin only chuckles again, sighing dreamily in a way that reminds Astarion of a hopelessly lovesick girl. Gods, what he would give to plunge the blade of his dagger into her neck. 

“Fine, but I hope you know I’m not yielding because of your … intimidation,” Orin murmurs, pouting childishly as Astarion pulls her to her feet, still glaring at her. He says nothing as he drags her past the others, not checking over his shoulder to see that the others have followed him.

< … >

Another chilled shiver runs up the length of your spine, using your vertebrae as a ladder. You turn uncomfortably onto your side, trying once again to tug your ankles from their shackles. All you’re met with is the sound of rattling metal. 

It had been a few hours … or perhaps even a few days since you last saw the others. You didn’t know – perhaps time worked differently when you were captured. 

The last you remembered, you were walking silently along a forest pathway with Astarion a few feet behind you. You were engrossed in the beauty of the willow trees that hung silently over you, their branches serving you the beautiful luxury of shade that covered you from the sun’s blaring rays. 

Just as you turned a corner in the forest, a cold hand that wasn’t Astarion’s clasped over your own, tugging you away into a forest patch. One good knock to the side of the head … and that was the last that you were able to clearly remember. 

When you awoke, your ankles were shackled to a wall and your wrists were bound with rope, rubbing uncomfortably against your skin and leaving behind angry red marks. 

Your body had been littered with marks; cuts, bruises, and gashes. At first, they hadn’t hurt you at all – but you blamed that entirely on your adrenaline. Now every cut burned, every bruise ached, and every gash felt as though it would never stop bleeding. 

Surely every vampiric creature within a 50-mile radius could smell your blood … especially considering how much of it lay in a disgusting puddle surrounding your body. 

A shaky breath escapes you, one that you surely hoped would be your last. Your teary eyes flicker around the cell that you’d been thrown into; the cell that lacked even so much as a window. You were completely disconnected from the outside world, and for a singular moment, you thought that maybe you had died. 

And maybe you were okay with that now … with dying. 

Even though for so long you had tried your hardest to protect everyone – practically throwing your life down on the line for the lives of your companions – being captured was making you realize something. 

Maybe they didn’t care about you nearly as much as you cared about them.

If they cared, they would be searching for you. If they cared, you wouldn’t be bleeding out in some dank old cell with no way to know what time of day it was. If they cared … they would prove it, wouldn’t they?

A choked sob claws its way up your throat, legs curling inward. You wrap your arms around them, hugging them against your chest as your body curls inward into a fetal position. 

They didn’t care. Not Gale, not Karlach, not Lae’zel, not Shadowheart. 

Not even Astarion.

Astarion …

After everything that you had done for him. You had spared him that morning while walking with Shadowheart. You had let him stay in your camp even though he spat venomous insults each time you interacted politely with him. Hells, you had even let the damn man feed on you. 

In exchange for your blood, he was letting you rot alone in a cell. 

So much for helping others, you think quietly to yourself, tears slipping down your cheeks as your lashes flutter shut. A gentle numbness spreads over you as if someone had draped a blanket over you. It felt nice. It felt safe. 

Your shoulders relax, your lips part. 

One gentle breath falls from your lips before all goes silent.

< … >

“Come on now, I’ve led you right to where she is! The least you can do is entertain a conversation,” Orin complains loudly, huffing childishly as Astarion continues shoving her forward. 

There was no lie to her words, she had led Astarion and the others to where she had thrown you – a dimly lit dungeon hallway that was only filled with the sounds of low groans and dripping water, but even those had become scarce the longer that they walked. 

“The only thing I’ll entertain is your demise,” Astarion bites out, though he desperately wishes that he had kept his mouth shut. Orin doesn’t fail to catch the tremble in his voice – the vulnerability that seeps from his words. 

Her lips curl, another delighted chuckle rumbling somewhere deep inside of her chest. Her eyes flicker to catch a glimpse of Astarion’s profile, her chuckle deepening as she notices the emotional turmoil sketched into his features. 

“I wonder what you will do to me when you realize that she’s–”

“Hush,” Astarion hisses, reaching down and yanking the bonds around Orin’s wrist. The rub of the rope against her skin is enough to silence her. “Not another word out of you, wench.”

Orin stifles the small whimper of pain that had threatened to fall from her lips, instead turning to the cell that they were nearing; your cell. 

At the sight of the metal bars and uneven stones, she giggles. Astarion passes her off to Shadowheart, ignoring the cleric’s protests as he approaches the cell. 

“Oh shit.”

The world seems to go completely silent at the sight that lies before Astarion’s eyes, a sight that he immediately wishes that he could forget. 

You lay on your side with your back facing the cell’s door, blood – your blood – surrounding you in a crimson puddle. The bits of skin that Astarion can see are littered with cuts and bruises, your legs covered in gashes that continue to drip with fresh blood. 

In any other situation, Astarion would have marveled at both the sight and smell of your blood … perhaps even allowed himself to indulge in it. 

But now?

Gods, he had never been more disgusted by any one sight or smell. 

“Astarion? What’s – oh my Gods,” Karlach raises a hand to her mouth, palm covering her lips as she gazes upon the same sight as Astarion. The others join her, and each of them falls silent. “You take … her … and get out of here.”

Shadowheart nods, shooting Orin a sharpened glare before tugging the shapeshifter back down the way that they had come, ignoring her yells of protests and the way that she struggles against the ropes that bind her wrists together. 

With one tug at the already worn-down metal, Karlach disconnects the bars of the cell. She steps inside, carefully approaching you before copying her previous actions and removing the shackles from around your ankles. 

“(Y/N)?” she murmurs down to you, lightly shaking your shoulder while simultaneously trying to be sure that she does not burn you – the last she wants is to add to your injuries. 

She’s pushed aside by Astarion, who kneels beside you and feels his breath hitch at the sight of your paled face. Your cheeks have lost their usual rosy color, replaced instead by a white that looked as though it could rival the color of his hair. 

“Shit,” is the only thing that he’s able to say properly before he scoops you into his arms. He shakes on his feet for a moment, the sudden weight in his arms debilitating his balance. He says nothing as he strides past the others, making a beeline for the exit.

< … >

The first thing that you feel is a dull ache, then followed by a wave of pain that has you shooting upright and promptly vomiting onto whatever surface happens to be beside you. The moment you’ve finished emptying your stomach, a piece of cloth is offered to you by a pale hand – a familiar one this time. 

Hesitantly, you take it, dabbing the cloth against your mouth before looking up to who had handed it to you. 

“Astarion?”

“That would be my name, yes darling,” Astarion responds, though his tone doesn’t hold his usual flirtatious lilt that you had grown so used to. No, he sounds exhausted … it made you wonder just how long he had sat at your bedside. 

Your eyes roam over him, taking note of the tiny, barely-there bags that rest beneath his eyes. For a man who cared so deeply about appearance, he surely looked as though he had let himself go … likely because of you.

As much as you wish to take him into your arms and comfort you, a fleeting thought passes through your mind — he had taken his sweet time in finding you. 

If the roles had been reversed, and it had been Astarion who was taken from you, you already knew that you would have searched Heaven and Earth trying to find him. No stone would have been left unturned, no witness left unspoken to … you would have stopped at nothing. 

But it felt as though Astarion hadn’t cared enough, if he had, you wouldn’t have been as badly wounded as you were. You wouldn’t have laid in that cell for as long as you have, not that you knew the length of time in which you had been missing anyway. 

Astarion’s head lifts at the sound of you rustling, body scooting back from him until your spine rests against the headboard of your bed. You lift your knees to your chest, hugging around them. 

“Darling?”

You remain silent, but you allow your eyes to raise to meet his awaiting gaze. He waits patiently, though you can’t help but feel as though he’s analyzing you.

“How long have I been gone?” you ask. Astarion pauses, scarlet eyes flickering away from you. He swallows, you can see the emotional turmoil that swims in his eyes. Answer me, you usher in your mind. 

“Orin wouldn’t tell us,” Astarion answers honestly, voice wavering as he recounts his angered questioning of the shapeshifter. She had only giggled in his presence and “answered” his question with another question of her own. 

You remain silent, nodding to yourself as you glance down at the bandages that adorn your arms and legs. It makes you wonder if Astarion had patched you himself … or perhaps he had made one of your other companions do it. 

You lift your head, noticing now that Astarion’s attention was focused elsewhere. His expression looks identical to your own — caught in his own mind. Guilt. 

Did he feel guilty?

“Does anything—“ he pauses to clear his throat, “—anything hurt you?”

”Just my arms and legs,” you answer. Astarion nods, inhaling deeply and shifting in his chair. For some twisted reason, you want him to stand up and leave. Maybe it was to further prove your point, or maybe you just wanted to be alone. 

You’d never really know the true answer. 

He hums, nodding to himself before he shifts again. For a fleeting moment, he debates on whether or not he should stand and exit — it was clear that you wanted your space anyway. 

Astarion knew you … and he knew that right now, you certainly didn’t want him around. Never were you short with him, but your tone insinuated that you wanted nothing to do with him. 

Not that he could honestly blame you. 

And so, he stands from his chair. You don’t lift your head to look at him again … telling. 

“Why did you take so long to come for me?”

He freezes, feeling as though someone had doused him in freezing water. His back stands rigid; you could see the way that his spine visibly tenses the moment that his mind processes what it was that you had asked him. 

You snap your jaw shut the moment that the words fall from your lips, regret filling your senses. Sheepishly, you look down, staring at your lap and screwing your eyes shut. 

You freeze at the feeling of arms wrapping over your shoulders, tugging you against a chest that you had spent many nights resting against. His skin felt cold against yours, a welcome contrast to the heat that was currently making you very uncomfortable. 

Astarion’s cheek rests against the side of your head, his hands squeezing at your waist while also being mindful of the injuries that you had sustained. He sighs shakily into your hair, feeling himself relax as he feels you reciprocate his embrace. 

“The moment that I realized that I was not interacting with you, I went out to find you,” Astarion confesses, holding you tighter as he recounts the fear in the moment when he realized that you were not you. 

You remain silent, simply soaking up the comfort that Astarion’s arms provides you with. Your head rests comfortably in the junction that connects his neck and his shoulder, nose buried into his neck. 

“You have … absolutely no idea how frightened I was,” he whispers, his voice so low that it even the rustle of the blankets overpowered his words. His arms shake where they rest around your waist, his fingernails just barely digging into the exposed skin of your waist. “The prospect of losing you–”

“Astarion.”

He pauses, feeling you shift in his arms. Without any word of protest, he releases you, settling onto his knees on the bed in front of you. You adjust yourself, then reach out to take his hands into your own. 

Astarion flinches. You pause, waiting for him to say something to you. He doesn’t, and so you take it as an okay to continue. Your fingers squeeze his own, the action directing his eyes to your own. 

You stay silent for a second or two, simply taking in the way that Astarion’s eyes soften at you. His usually sharp scarlet eyes are glazed over now with a new emotion – guilt. Guilt over not being there for you, guilt over not saving you sooner …

… guilt that you had gotten hurt. 

“Darling, if I had the chance to save you sooner, know that I would have taken it without a second of hesitation,” Astarion admits, shifting an inch closer to you. You feel the tears building along your waterline, your teeth catching your bottom lip as you attempt to suppress the sobs that begin to bubble up somewhere in your chest. 

One of his hands releases yours, hesitantly laying against your face. He thumbs away the tears in your eyes, sighing as you crumple and reach for him again. Astarion doesn’t waste a single second, wrapping you in his arms and resting his chin against the top of your head. 

“I thought that,” you hiccup, “you and the others had forgotten about me.”

His arms tighten around you at that declaration, chest promptly collapsing it on itself as he realizes just how scared you had been. He doesn’t want to imagine what you must have been thinking in that cell, likely thinking about if you would ever be saved.

If he would ever come for you.

“Never,” he whispers into your hair, fingers stroking comforting circles into the small of your back. “I would never forget you, ever.”

“You are the first thing in my entire life that makes me feel … feel something. Something other than burning hatred. You make this wretched world worth living in.”

You squeeze at him, hands bunching up his shirt from behind. He doesn’t bring attention to it, letting you cling to him with as much force as you need. 

“And I’m not going to let you go. Not now, not ever,” he promises you. You close your eyes, sighing shakily through your nose. He can feel your nod against his chest, his cheek leaning further into your hair. 

And that night, when the glistening moon hung over your tent and signaled to your companions that it was time to rest, Astarion remained at your side – fulfilling his promise.

He wasn’t going to let you feel that scared again. Not now, not ever.

[sapphire-writes]

Pretty Little Thing

summary: After finding yourself at a holiday party you hadn't wanted to attend in the first place, Aemond Targaryen makes it worth while.

pairing: modern!Aemond x Reader

warnings: 18+/NSFW/MDNI - smut, oral fem receiving, fingering, spanking, praise, slight dirty talk, overstim, kissing, love bites, hand over mouth, titty play, allusions to Aegon being a creeper, alcohol, smoking, langauge

word count: 7.2k

note: im back! grad school didn't kill me! hope you enjoy!

link to other stories from me!

To be notified when I post something new, be sure to follow @sapphire-writes-updates & turn notifications on 💙

—

Be there soon.

Alysanne had texted you nearly an hour ago, and with each passing minute you became more doubtful she’d be making an appearance at all.

You hadn’t even wanted to come. It’d been her idea and now she was blowing you off.

“We’re just exchanging the last of our things,” she’d promised on the phone several hours earlier, “You go on without me and I’ll meet you there.”

Yeah. Because it takes three hours to give your ex-boyfriend his stuff back. Totally.

Alysanne and Cregan Stark had been on and off again since you’d known her; this time was no exception. You knew from her first running later than I thought text that the night wasn’t going to go as you’d hoped. 

You decide to like her most recent message instead of replying, unable to stop the wave of annoyance cresting inside of you. 

You hadn’t even wanted to come.

An end-of-semester holiday party. Thrown by the elder Lannister siblings; twins Jason and Tyland. The kings of Casterly Rock are well known for their extravagant get-togethers and the unimaginable generational wealth that funds all their exploits. 

They’d long graduated from King’s Landing University, but you and Alysanne scored an invite courtesy of Cerelle Lannister, their younger sister, whom you’d been trying to avoid since you arrived. If Cerelle didn’t see you, perhaps you could escape the party unscathed.

That hope proves too good to be true as your name is called from across the room. You slide your phone back into your pocket as Cerelle approaches you. Her blonde hair hangs in effortless curls down her back, the emerald green top she wears accentuating its golden hues, along with her bright green eyes. 

You’re not exactly close with Cerelle, though she appears to enjoy your friendship, at least on a surface level. She’s part of the weekly book club you attend. Her grin widens as she reaches you, eyes drinking you in. 

“Darling!” she muses, pressing a kiss against your cheek.

“You wore it!” she says, fingers ghosting across the cashmere cardigan you’d chosen to wear that evening. Cerelle had bought it for you a few weeks ago, though you’d begged her not to; the price was more than you made in a paycheck.

Alysanne once referred to you as Cerelle’s Polly Pocket.

“She pulls you out of her pocket and plays dress up. It’s fucking weird,” she’d said. 

Cerelle’s lips curve upwards in a Cheshire cat grin as she slings an arm around your shoulder, bringing her glossed lips next to your ear.

“Stop moping in the corner like some dreary wallflower,” she purrs, brushing some hair behind your ear, “Have some fun! It’s winter break!”

Goosebumps break out on your skin at her affections. You laugh breathlessly shrugging away from her touch causing her to frown. 

“You haven’t had enough to drink,” she insists, reaching for another glass, “You’re much too antsy.”

“Alysanne was supposed to be here,” you tell her and she nods understanding, looping her arm through yours and giving your forearm a comforting pat. 

“Fashionably late as always, I suppose,” Cerelle drolls, pointing across the room, “There are lots of fascinating characters here who’ll distract you. Shall I spin a bottle to decide?”

“Hilarious,” you tell her, shaking your head.

“I never joke about a good shag,” Cerelle argues, gaze flickering about the room, “From the looks of it you could use it.” She turns back to you, matching your pout. “Don’t frown, you look too lovely.” She places her hands on your cheeks, thumbs tugging the corner of your lips upwards.

“Much better,” she praises as you hold the smile she’s decorated your face with, “Come on let's find you someone…don’t look at me like that! Someone to flirt with, that’s all. A bit of harmless fun.” 

You roll your eyes earning a pitch on the arm and you swat Cerelle’s hand away.

“There’s no one here I want to flirt with,” you insist, following her gaze around the room, “Let alone shag.”

“You’re too picky,” she muses, tapping a manicured nail against her chin as she scans the room, “What about Greyjoy?”

A shiver rolls through you, “No thank you.”

“Heard he’s good in the sack.”

You’d heard a lot of things about Dalton Greyjoy. None of which made you want to spend an extended period of alone time with him. You glance at Cerelle giving her a firm look. She sighs, returning to her mission.

“You need someone,” Cerelle insists after you shoot down several more options, “You haven’t been with anyone since—what was it again?”

His face flashes through your mind before you can help it. 

“Unimportant,” you quip, “Cerelle, I just want to—” Your words die as two new guests bound up the stairs into the main hallway. 

Suddenly, it’s as if all the air has been sucked from the room, your heartbeat echoing in your ears the only sound you can hear. You tug Cerelle closer, eyes wide.

“You invited them?” you hiss, as Cerelle frowns, following your gaze.

“Not me. Jason must have,” she answers, “It’s not a party without Aegon. Jay swears he has the best coke on this side of the Keep.”

Aegon Targaryen is relatively harmless as long as you keep your drink close. You’re more concerned with the tall figure who lurks closely behind him. Though the younger, Aemond Targaryen towers over his brother; his presence makes the room feel smaller, colder than it was moments ago. He’s dressed in all black, as he usually is, the silver chain around his neck the only other color. His long snow-white hair is braided down his back, an eyepatch securely covering his left eye.

He never takes it off.

Aegon pushes by his brother making a beeline for the kitchen where most of the chaos is localized. You can tell a new drinking game has begun by the sound of cheers and the echo of glasses clinking together. Aegon’s eyes lit up as he disappeared down the hall, eager to join the miscellaneous fun.

Aegon loves a good party.

Aemond watches his brother but lingers behind in the living room leaning against a wall. He extends a long arm to the bookshelf retrieving one with his long fingers. He flicks open a few pages, lips pursing. He glances up, violet eye meeting yours for the briefest moment. 

Your lips part and you look away, warmth flooding your cheeks. You had shared a couple of classes with Aemond, nothing more nothing less. He was quite mysterious. 

“Anyway,” Cerelle says, her attention wavering with each passing second, “Back to you drinking. I’ll get you another glass. Loosen up, pet.” 

—

You try to, you really do. No matter what her intentions are, Cerelle has been nothing but nice to you, so you allow her antics. An hour has ticked by and Alysanne has yet to respond to your latest text message. Squeezed between Cerelle and Sabitha Frey during another round of quarters you decide to plan your escape. 

“I’m going to get some air,” you tell her, rising from the couch. Cerelle rolls her eyes, “I’m not leaving, I swear!”

“You better not!” she says, perfectly sculpted eyebrows knitting together, “I’ll come to fetch you if you’re gone too long—you know I will.”

She’s telling the truth. 

“Five minutes,” you insist, forcing a smile.

Cerelle’s nose twitches but she lets it go and nods, returning her attention to the game.

Weaving through the sea of people you make your way outside letting the door shut behind you as you walk down a few steps of the front stoop. It’s colder than you expected, you can see your breath in front of you. 

You stand shivering, trying to decide what to do next. Reaching into your pocket, you check your phone for the time. You could leave, make your escape down the steps, and catch the last bus back to Maegor’s Holdfast. 

If you stay any longer, you’ll be forced to spend the night or dip into your savings to splurge on an Uber. It’s always crazy expensive on this side of town as if the drivers know the neighborhood is full of rich kids. 

The door opens and noise from the party fills the cool night until it slams shut once more. You roll your eyes expecting Cerelle as you turn your head. 

Only it isn’t her.

Aemond Targaryen lingers on the top step, reaching into his jacket pocket and placing a cigarette between his teeth. He finds a lighter a moment later, a nice expensive one, flicking it open with a sharp click. Fire blooms in the palm of his hand and you can just make out the three-headed dragon branded on the side of the silver lighter before it disappears into his pocket again.

He releases a cloud of smoke into the air, mimicking the one your breath makes. You turn away as he walks down a few steps, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. 

“You were in my class,” he says suddenly, his head tilting to the side, “History of The First Men, right?” 

You force your lips together. “Mhmm,” you answer, surprised he recognized you.

Aemond Targaryen didn’t seem the type to remember a random girl in his class. Smart as hells, he focused solely on his grades, paying little attention to the rest of the student body. He seemed to be the antithesis of his elder brother. Though incredibly different, supposedly they had similar lustful appetites. 

One for pleasures of the flesh, the other for academic validation.

Aegon Targaryen was a known party boy and ran in multiple social circles. He didn’t care about class or popularity; if there was sex, liquor, and drugs around, Aegon Targaryen would be there. 

However, there were stories about Aemond too that made their way around campus. 

“You alright?” he pressed, the silence laying heavy between you. 

“I shouldn’t even be talking to you right now,” you breathe, chuckling slightly as you rub your arms as the frigid air bites into your exposed flesh. 

Aemond quirks a brow at that, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Why’s that?”

“You’re sort of a banned topic at book club,” you admit, causing his lips to curl into a small smirk. 

“Am I?”

“Mhmm.”

Another moment of silence goes by before his curiosity gets the better of him. “Because?”

“Maris runs it,” you tell him, and he clicks his tongue, nodding to himself before taking another drag of his cigarette.

Maris Baratheon, the elder of a pair of Irish twins. Floris Baratheon, once the object of Aemond’s affection for about a half second, was royally screwed over when he left her for none other than Alys Rivers. Adjunct Professor. It was quite the scandal at the time.

You’re not exactly friends with Floris; closer to Maris if you had to choose. But it's the principle of things—girl code. 

“Floris and I were never exclusive,” Aemond comments.

“Yikes.”

So maybe Aemond Targaryen is just like every other guy. Though, you’re mostly sure he’s telling the truth. The story you’d heard was that he ghosted her. 

“She shouldn’t have assumed,” he continues, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.

You roll your eyes, blood boiling at his statement as annoyance begins to quicken in your belly. Aemond Targaryen seems more like his elder with every word that leaves his curved lips. 

“Right, of course not, how dare she,” is your sarcastic reply. 

Aemond tilts his head toward the sky, speaking around the cigarette. 

“You seem rather upset,” he accuses, “Funny, Floris never mentioned you.”

You turn to face him fully and he glances at you out of the corner of his eye. Folding your arms across your chest you jut your hip out. “We’re not friends. It’s the principle of it all. I don’t like assholes.”

His perfect lips curl slightly. “I’m an asshole?”

“Mhmm. At least Aegon owns up to his behavior, he doesn’t pretend he’s some suave guy doing nothing wrong.”

You swear a smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he plucks the cigarette from between them.

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“Sure seems like it.”

Aemond takes a step closer then. You have to tilt your head to look him in the eye. Something about being this close to him is almost unnerving, your stomach drops slightly as you focus on his prominent cheekbones. 

“It’s not my problem if a girl gets her hopes up after getting fucked properly,” he counters.

Your breath hitches in your throat and you back up, slightly slipping against the icy railing. Aemond reaches out, his hand curling around your bicep to steady you. It’s warm, almost hot; the heat seeps through your thin sweater in the shape of his fingers. 

There’s a tension between you as he holds your arm for a second too long, before the door opens and several partygoers stumble down the steps, forcing you to break apart. Aemond takes another drag of his cigarette from across the stairs as they laugh tumbling into the street. You’re grateful for the distraction, taking a moment to slow the frantic beating of your heart, and the slight flutter in your stomach. 

“So,” you begin, trying to break the awkward silence the partygoers left behind with their departure, “How do you know Cerelle?”

Aemond looks at you quizzically.

“How do I know Cerelle?”

You jerk your chin up in a hasty nod. Aemond chuckles, shaking his head and taking another drag.

“Family friend,” he answers, “Old money likes to stick together.”

You nod again, unsure of how to answer as he observes you. 

“Surely you’ve heard of the Westerosi Seven?” he asks.

You haven’t.

“The what?” 

“The seven families,” Aemond says, his tone indicating that this is somewhat common knowledge, “Generational wealth that can be traced back to medieval times. The higher lords and ladies. Near royalty.” He takes another drag.

“And you’re one of them?” you ask, crossing your arms. 

“My family, yes,” he answers, “And Cerelle’s. The Baratheon girls. Stark. They’re all quite close.”

“Interesting,” you tell him, glancing down the street again, “You sound like the mafia.”

Aemond holds your gaze, not denying your allegation. You release a breathless laugh, but unease settles in your gut. 

The door opens as if on cue, and Cerelle pops her head out. 

“Darling! Come back inside you’ll catch your death,” she calls, waving you forward. She spots Aemond out of the corner of her eye, and you don’t miss the look of interest that gathers in her green eyes as they flicker between the pair of you, “Targaryen.”

“CeCe,” he politely greets, choosing to use the nickname Cerelle often kept reserved for her family only. She doesn’t comment on Aemond’s choice. 

“Hope you’re being nice to my girl,” she says, the words clipped.

“Of course,” Aemond comments and you can’t help but feel like you aren’t there. 

Cerelle glances back at you, a smile decorating her face once more. 

“Come on, pet! In the kitchen.”

Her blonde hair disappears in the door. Aemond walks down the remainder of the steps tossing his cigarette to the ground and stomping it beneath his heel. 

“Best run along,” he muses, not turning to face you, “She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Annoyance prickles under your skin.

“She’s my friend—”

“You have got a very generous friend,” Aemond comments, turning to face you. He motions at your sweater. “Myrish, isn’t it?”

You cross your hands over your chest. 

“Mhmm,” Aemond hums glancing up at you from the bottom step, “I’d just be careful if I were you. Accepting gifts from rich strangers is a lot like Persephone eating the pomegranate seeds.” 

You scoff at the implication before turning away and heading back into the townhouse. Aemond does not follow; you don’t hear the door open as you hurry back up the stairs. 

The party has since moved completely to the kitchen, sans a couple making out on the living room couch. You enter the crowded space and crane your neck to see what everyone is cheering at.

It’s something happening on the marble island, but you don’t see what—that is until Cerelle sits up, her blonde curls cascading around her face, a lime between her pearly white teeth like a cat with a mouse. 

She smiles curling her finger, beckoning Aegon Targaryen forward. He leans against her, bringing his mouth to hers and stealing the lime. The juice flows down his chin before he lets it fall, pressing a sloppy kiss to Cerelle’s lips, earning several cheers. 

As she breaks away she notices you, eyes lighting up as she slips off the counter. 

“Good, you didn’t leave!” she says giggling, “It’s your turn.”

“My turn?” you ask, heart dropping into your stomach. 

“Mhmm,” she says, dragging you forward, “Up now!” 

“Cerelle, I don’t—”

“Hush! Qyle Martell is doing it,” she says biting her lip suggestively, “Let the sexy Dornishman take a shot off you, alright?”

Your cheeks darken as he appears before you, arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you onto the counter like a lamb for slaughter. The crowd cheers and your eyes widen as you meet Qyle’s warm brown eyes. 

“Your sweater,” he says, motioning to it with his hand that clutches a bottle of tequila. 

You glance at Cerelle and she nods encouragingly. Over her head and in the doorway you spot Aemond. He didn’t leave after all. Instead, he leans against the doorframe, observing the chaos with a curled lip, as if the entire thing is beneath him.

Qyle whistles, drawing your attention back to him. He motions to your sweater yet again.

“Oh,” you tell him, moving to unbutton it. 

Thank goodness you wore a tank top underneath. Your fingers slip with nerves as you struggle to unbutton it. You’re the center of attention, peers cheering and chanting around you as you struggle with the bottoms. 

Quite the sacrificial lamb you are. 

“Here, can I help?” Qyle asks, reaching toward you, his fingers bumping against your own. The bottle of tequila sloshes. 

“No—no I’ve got it—oh!”

You’d moved wrong, done something wrong—or perhaps someone pushed him you’re not sure. Your head is buzzing with the noise of the room and suddenly the front of your sweater is doused in tequila. Qyle’s eyes are wide as Cerelle pushes him to the side as the smell of alcohol fills your nose. 

The room quiets momentarily until Cerelle’s bell-like laugh pierces through the silence. 

“Qyle you idiot,” Cerelle sneers, nose wrinkling with playful distaste, “You’re supposed to wait till she’s laying down—”

“It was an accident!”

“—and her sweater!” Cerelle growls in annoyance, “Go upstairs, pet, my room. Pick anything you like.”

You slide off of the counter, hurrying from the room, leaving the sound of music and chanting behind as you move deeper into the labyrinth of the Lannister home. 

—

Cerelle’s room lacks color and warmth. 

You’d spent the night once here before, crawling into the white feather bed after too much mulled wine. Cerelle had stroked your hair until you’d fallen asleep, only to awake the next morning with a severe headache and a churning belly. 

Popping the rest of the buttons, you peel the soaked sweater from your body and throw it in the hamper. You then walk over to Cerelle’s closet—double doors—and open it. Expensive. Perfumed. You’ve already ruined one pretty thing. Though Cerelle could hardly care about the expense, you do. You sigh, gently pushing through the soft fabric.

“Playing dress up?” a voice calls, and you turn to Aemond at the door. 

You close the closet door. You’ll just have to survive in your thin top. Aemond holds a glass of whiskey between his long fingers.

“Well, I suppose that was a given,” you answer him, sitting down on the bed.

Aemond watches you from the doorway, his arm raised above his head, fingers tapping nonsensically against the frame. 

“D’you want to see how you’re supposed to do it?” he suddenly asks.

“Do what?” you question, tilting your head to the side. 

“What Qyle was going to do,” he answers, and you understand his meaning. 

Aemond walks over to you, the ice rattling against the glass he lazily grips between his fingers, coming to stand in front of your legs. You’re not sure why he’s asking, what interest he has in you. But something in your belly tightens the closer he gets.

“Alright,” you give him a quiet answer, the word barely slipping past your lips. 

Aemond purses his lips, glancing down at your legs. 

“Spread them,” he says softly, motioning with the cup. Warmth creeps up the back of your neck and blooms on the apples of your cheeks. You lock eyes with him, focusing on the ring of violet that surrounds his pupil. You do as you’re told, knees parting; his gaze hypnotizing. “Wider.” 

Your skirt tightens against your thighs as you do so, but you spread your legs wide enough for him to stand between them. He takes a step forward and you’re forced to look up at him.

“Lean back,” he instructs. You’re beginning to notice how easily he slips into the domineering role. Again you follow his instructions, cheeks burning as you lean back, propping yourself on your elbows. 

You’re much more exposed without your sweater, the tops of your breasts visible in the thin top you wear. Aemond steps closer, looming over you, heat radiating from his tall form.

He reaches out, fingers caressing your cheek. You hope he can’t feel how warm they’ve become, feel your pulse fluttering against his fingers as they trail underneath your jaw and down your neck until they reach your collarbone.

“You’re to put salt here,” he murmurs, pressing against the dip of your collarbone for emphasis, “That’s first.” He leans down then, fingers trailing over your shoulder and down your arm leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “Though we’re without.”

You swallow as his fingers continue to trace your collarbone. His violet eye watches you carefully before he pulls his hand away. He brings them lower, ghosting down your ribs until they reach your waist.

“May I?” he asks, fingers at the hem of your shirt. You give him a wordless nod, not able to trust your voice. Aemond pushes the fabric up slightly, revealing your navel. He holds the glass above your stomach; a drop of condensation falls causing you to flinch at the cool sensation.

Aemond flicks a brow at the constriction of your abdomen, “You’re quite sensitive.”

“It’s cold.”

“Mhmm,” he agrees, turning the glass so more condensation falls; little raindrops begin to adorn your skin, “The liquor goes here.” His fingers ruin the pattern he’s created, rough fingertips swirling the dew drops around your navel, “Tequila.”

“We haven’t got any,” you breathlessly tell him, his touch leaving a scorched trail across your belly. 

Aemond brings his glass closer, pressing the edge against the beginning of your belly button, letting some whiskey pool there. Your hands clenched into fists as the cold liquid fills you up; you watch as it shakes slightly, overflowing. Aemond leans forward, catching the spill with his mouth causing a gasp that sounds more like a moan to leave your mouth. His mouth covers your navel and you can feel his tongue swirl around, collecting the liquid he poured there with hot, calculated strokes. 

His violet eye peers up at you from behind silver lashes, half-lidded as he hollows his cheeks sucking harshly. He reaches toward the side table, mouth never leaving you, to place his glass on the edge freeing his hand. You can feel his tongue circling your navel, gently probing the sensitive skin. You can’t help the giggle that escapes you at the ticklish sensation. Aemond presses his hands against your obliques before releasing you with a pop, his chin and lips shining. 

“That’s how it's supposed to be,” he murmurs, not moving from the spot between your legs. Some of his silver hair has fallen across his brow, and on instinct you reach forward, brushing it from his eyes. 

“There’s one more part,” you tell him, fingers grazing the beginning of the scar that mares his left brow before disappearing behind the patch.

“What’s that?” he asks, his gaze revealing he knows the answer. 

He just wants to hear you say it, you realize. 

Your lips part, fingers still somewhat tangled in his hair; the strands soft as silk between your fingers. 

“There was a lime,” you tell him, “The person….holds it in their mouth.”

Aemond pushes up then, his hands sliding up your sides until they’re pressed into the bed on either side of you, his face inches from your own. 

“Have you got a lime on you?” he asks, his breath warm on your face, the scent of whiskey strong between you.

“No,” you murmur, not knowing where to look. He’s so close you can see the flecks of blue and gold in the lilac iris of his eye, count his silver lashes, and notice the small indentation on the tip of his prominent nose.

He hums again, his eye dropping to your lips.

“Pity,” he says, lips down turning into a pout.

Your heart is nearly beating out of your chest with the way it's pounding incessantly against your ribcage. He’s so close your chests are practically touching; your nipples straining against the fabric of your top. His chain peeks out from under the collar of his shirt and your resolve crumbles. Your eyes flicker to his lips, tongue darting out to wet your own and he leans forward, capturing your lips in a heated kiss.

Your hands wrap around his neck as he kisses you; his lips so soft and firm against your own, skilled tongue parting them with ease to deepen the kiss. A moan doesn’t make it out of your throat as his hand cradles your jaw, the sound of soft kisses is the only thing you can hear besides the muffled hum of the music playing downstairs. 

Aemond pulls away then, the look is his eye ravenous as he lowers himself between your legs once more. For a minute you think he may grab his glass and do the party trick all over again, the kiss just a spur-of-the-moment thing. Instead, he pushes your skirt up, fingers digging into the flesh of your inner thighs. You realize a moment too late what he’s doing.

Riiiip!

“Aemond!” you squeak, as he rips the seam of your tights, “These were a new pair!”

“I can buy you another,” he says, pressing a kiss against the smooth newly exposed flesh, “Or perhaps CeCe can. You’re her favorite plaything, aren’t you?” 

Your cheeks burn at the statement, your mouth pressing together in a tight line. Aemond grins, nimble fingers undoing the zipper of your skirt and wiggling it down your legs along with your ruined tights.

“Oh she doesn’t like that,” he says, clicking his tongue, “But it’s true, isn’t it?” His hands are roaming higher now, grazing against your clothed center. You’re certain he feels the evidence of your arousal but he stays quiet about it. “That’s what you are, aren’t you? A pretty little plaything.”

“Fuck you,” you hiss, humiliation seeping into your veins, though it does little to quell the desire pooling in your belly. 

“No shame in that,” he says, shaking his head, “I understand Cerelle, entirely.” His fingers tug your panties down your bare legs, exposing your wet center. Aemond’s eye locks on it, lips quirking upward. “I like pretty things as well.”

“So I’ve heard,” you quip as Aemond’s second-hand joins the first. He swirls a finger low against your entrance and you clench as he drags it upwards.

“Have you?” he muses, circling your clit with minimal pressure, “And what have you heard?”

“That you’re as insatiable as your brother,” you manage to choke out as his thumb continues to tease your clit, “You just hide it better.” 

Aemond cocks his head to the side in silent agreement before pressing his face against you. A sharp cry leaves your lips as his tongue explores from your entrance up to your clit, the tip circling the sensitive button. 

Eyes rolling back in your head, Aemond nuzzles his face against you, tongue slipping down and pressing into your clenching hole. He hums in approval as you make another desperate noise as his tongue curves upwards inside of you. 

Seven hells, how is anyone’s tongue long enough to do what Aemond’s is doing? Your toes curl as his tongue hooks upwards against the front of your pelvic bone, thrusting against the sensitive patch of nerves that resides there.

“Oh gods—fuck—fuck!” you cry as he continues the repetitive movement of his tongue, waves of pleasure lapping up your spine, sending shivers through your whole body. “Hells Aemond…”

His nose presses against your slippery clit, rubbing against it in a way that stokes the pleasurable fire burning in your belly. His hands hold your thighs open and you throw your head back against the bed as the pressure inside you builds and builds and builds. Your back arches and your thighs tremble in his bruising grasp.

You lean up on your forearms to watch him, his violet eye intently watching your face, studying your reaction. You can tell he’s smug at the effect he’s having on you. He would often get that same look in his eye in class after he proved someone wrong or made a more intelligent point. How you must look to him now; all spread out before him, flushed and slack-jawed, dewy-eyed and pretty. 

You’re a pretty toy to play with. Just want he wanted. 

His tongue leaves your fluttering pussy and you whine at the loss of contact. He mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like needy before two fingers sink inside your warmth to replace what he took away. 

Aemond’s tongue returns to its place around your clit as his fingers curve upwards replaying the motion from before. The stimulation now is much harsher, the pads of his fingers dragging effortlessly against your spongy walls, curling with brutal intention; relentlessly pressing against the swelling spot inside of you. 

His warm, wet tongue against your clit only hastens the tightly winding ball of pleasure in your gut and you feel your walls swelling around his fingers as your release knocks the wind out of you. 

You come with a strangled cry, hands gripping the bed sheets as your abdominal muscles contract to the point of pain, all your muscles going taut as warm waves of euphoria rush through you. 

Aemond releases a choked chuckle of appreciation as he feels you tighten around his fingers. He fucks you through it, stretching out the wave of your orgasm until your legs are trembling and the overstimulation causes you to hiss at him.

“Stop, stop, please.”

“Alright…shhh,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your mound and gently pulling his fingers from your fluttering walls, “There you go, that’s a good girl. You did so well for me.”

You can’t help but warm at his praise, the ringing in your ears fading as your chest swells. Aemond is on you once more, lips pressed to yours the mingled taste of whiskey and you hot on his tongue. 

“Are you going to let me fuck you?” he murmurs between sticky kisses, “Hmm?”

“Aemond…” you breathe into his mouth, hoping that is enough for him.

You can feel him smirk against your lips and know instantly it's not. He tuts disapprovingly, pushing you back against the mattress, his face dipping into the crook of your neck.

“What would Floris say?” he teases, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck. Your hands wind around his neck, fingers digging into his scalp. His braid is all but ruined. “I thought you said something earlier,” he continues, nipping and sucking at different spots on your neck, humming with pleasure when he locates a spot that has your back arching. 

“I don’t—”

“Loyalty, I recall,” he purrs, his hand snaking down your side, gripping the meat of your thigh and hoisting it around his waist, “Something like that.”

“Aemond,” you whimper helplessly as he grinds against you, the feeling of his hard cock concealed by his trousers driving you close to madness, “Aemond please.”

“You’re going to have to say it,” he insists, kissing your cheek, “Come on, say it.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you tell him, “Please Aemond—gods.” 

“They can’t hear you,” he taunts, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss, “You’re all mine.”

You frantically nod, nose bumping against his as his lips curl into a greedy smile. He removes his shirt with one hand before he rolls off of you and onto his back, motioning to you with his hands. 

“Go on then,” he says, “Take what you want.”

With shaky hands, you undo his belt above the sizable tent in his pants before dragging the zipper down and releasing his cock. He’s bigger than you expected, both in length and girth, the reddened tip already weeping in anticipation. You stroke his velvety shaft once before he grabs your wrist, pulling you toward him. 

His hands pull your shirt from your body as you straddle him, his cock nudging at your folds. Aemond’s hands slide up your back, undoing your bra and freeing your breasts. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs, hands cupping the sizable mounds, “Gods, you’re so lovely.”

Your face burns at his praise as you raise your hips before gripping him in your hand and guiding him inside of you; gently letting yourself slide down his length, inner walls fluttering around him at the new sensation. Shuddering on top of him you whine at the stretch. “Gods—”

“You can take it,” he murmurs, squeezing you softly in encouragement, “Come on baby, that’s it, just like that.”

Slowly you let him bottom out in your warmth, happily seated on his cock feeling incredibly full. You brace your hands on his chest as he pinches both of your nipples, your jaw slacking in response. Aemond lifts his hips slightly, gauging your reaction as your eyes screw shut.

“That feel good?” he asks, his voice a rough whisper.

“Yes,” you breathe, slowly starting to ride him, hips lifting and returning to his with a soft smack. 

“There she goes,” he murmurs, hands dropping to your hips, squeezing, “Take what you need, gevie.”

A breathless moan escapes you as you ride him, his hands guiding you through the movements. The hum from the music downstairs matches the ringing in your ears. 

Aemond drops his hand from your waist bringing it to the apex of your thighs. His lips part as he watches you rise and fall on his cock, his length coated with your arousal. 

“That’s it,” he coos, his tone bordering on one of condensation, “Just like that—there’s a good girl.” His thumb brushes against your clit as he says it, a broken moan leaving your lips as pleasure ignites your veins. 

His movements are soft, tantalizing, and brutally calculated as he circles the sensitive button; his other hand clings to your waist, hard enough to bruise. Surely they’ll be memories of his touch when you wake; dark purple petals blossoming on your soft flesh at first light. He guides your movements as they become sloppier the closer you get to your release. 

It sends tingles up your spine, your chest and neck growing warmth as you edge closer to the precipice of pleasure.

No other man has made you finish before.

“Are you close?” Aemond murmurs, never stopping his attention to your clit, the subtle movement of his hips thrusting up into you, “I know you are—can feel you clenching around me.”

Your head falls back, mind foggy as you desperately grind against him, trying to ignore the burn in your hamstrings. Aemond’s hand leaves your hip crashing down against your ass with a loud smack. You yelp in surprise, head jerking forward, nails clawing into the hardened muscles of his chest. Aemond’s hand remains where he’d spanked you, fingers curling into the meat of your ass as he releases a breathless laugh; his eye flickers to where your nails dig against his pale flesh, leaving a trail of red behind as they scrape down his chest.

“Answer me,” he demands, and you quickly nod earning another stinging slap, “With your words gevie. Use those pretty lips.”

“Yes,” you practically gasp, “Yes, Aemond I’m close—”

“And you want to cum, don’t you?” he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk, “Do you want me to make you cum?”

“Yes, Aemond please—” the sentence dies with a moan as he plants both feet on the mattress, bucking his hips up against yours at an inhumane pace. Your eyes screw shut, mouth hanging open in ecstasy as all the muscles in your body tense followed by a sudden burst of euphoria pulsing through you. 

Aemond hums in satisfaction as you ride your high, blood rushing in your ears as you shake on top of him, clenching around his thick length. He’s careful to pull his thumb away from your sensitive clit as your eyes flutter open, eyebrows scrunched together at the overstimulation. But his compassion is short-lived as he hooks his arm around your waist, flipping you onto your back and slotting his body on top of yours. 

His cock is removed for merely a moment at the switch of positions before it’s stretching into your once more earning a sharp gasp. Aemond’s hand covers your mouth in an instant, his face buried in the crook of your neck once more. 

“Shhh,” he coos, placing a kiss under your ear, “Hear that?” he asks, thrusting gently into your warmth causing your eyes to roll back in your head. “Listen.”

His hips continue their gentle roll against yours, slowly stoking the pleasurable fire that is reigniting in your belly. Limbs still tingling from your previous orgasm, you blink rapidly trying to focus on what he’s asking. 

The music downstairs has died.

“Everyone’s going home,” he murmurs, through another kiss, “We’d best be quick. Would hate for lovely Cerelle to find her pet in such a position.”

Embarrassment burns your cheeks and he chuckles, keeping his hand over your mouth as he slings your leg over his shoulder, deepening the angle of his thrusts. The head of his cock bullies against your sweet spot almost lovingly as he drags his cock in and out.

“Keep quiet,” he murmurs, the sound of silence deafening with the lack of music, “Can you do that?” He’s rather cruel with his question, delivering a particularly harsh thrust as he asks, then clicking his tongue in disapproval at your muffled moan. “Thought not.”

So his hand remains as he plows into you, the sounds of your pleasure muffled but still desperate as you claw at his shoulders. 

“That’s it,” he encourages, “Cum for me again, just like that.” His pelvis grazes against your clit, the friction only aiding in his efforts of making you reach your release once more. His violet eye scans your face before he dips to your collarbone, nipping the sensitive flesh with his teeth and you cum with a desperate cry against his hand. 

“There you go,” he coos, the words breathy and broken his hips faltering as your walls clamp down around him, “Squeezing me so fucking tight—fuck.” He regains his pace with renewed enthusiasm as your walls continue to flutter around him. Aemond removes his hand from your mouth pressing it into the mattress beside your head. 

Nerves raw from the continued stimulation a tear rolls down your cheek as he chases his own release. Aemond leans forward, hot tongue darting out to catch the salty stream as he hums in satisfaction. 

“We’ll have more time next time,” he whispers the promise against your cheek, “I want to explore what other pretty noises you make.” His lips capture yours then, swallowing the whimper you release. 

“I’m very curious,” he murmurs against your lips, slinging your other leg over his shoulder, pushing your knees back beside your ears. “And I’m very thorough.” A silent scream leaves you as he slams back into you, toes curling as you cum again, vision going white with the force of it. 

Aemond’s hips meet yours a few more times and then you feel his cock pulsate inside of you before the warmth of his release fills you to the brim. You’ll need to make a trip to the pharmacy, but you’ll think about that later. He stays like that for a moment, buried to the hilt inside of you as you both try to regulate your breathing. 

Aemond lowers your legs gently from around his shoulders and brushes some sweat-soaked hair from your forehead. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, and you nod as he kisses you sweetly.

“Just fucked out,” you assure him, a pleasurable ache radiating down your thighs. Aemond hums, carefully pulling his softening cock from your warmth.

The emptiness takes your breath away as he stands. “Wait here,” he orders, walking towards Cerelle’s bathroom. He returns a moment later, washcloth in hand. You push yourself onto shaky forearms as he carefully cleans the mess between your thighs.

“Thank you,” you tell him, face burning from his attention.

“No need for thanks,” he insists, “It’s the bare minimum.”

“For you maybe.”

Aemond flicks a brow toward his hairline, his violet eye meeting yours. His expression is curious, but you sense he’s not going to push you to elaborate. You hold his gaze. 

Not tonight.

“Are you staying here?” he asks, standing when he’s done, handing you pieces of your clothes.

“I think I have to,” you answer, putting your skirt back on and glancing at the clock, “The last bus is long gone.”

Aemond frowns, reaching for his phone.

“I’ll have my driver take you,” he says, unlocking his screen.

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s no trouble,” he insists, placing the phone against his ear, “Cole. Ten minutes. Thank you.” He hangs up quickly leaving no time to argue.

“Thanks,” you mutter awkwardly while finishing dressing. You walk to Cerelle’s large mirror and attempt to fix your sex hair. Your eyes widen in horror as you tilt your head to the side, leaning closer to get a better look. 

“Aemond,” you hiss, fingers pressing against the three red marks sure to bruise, “I look like I’ve been mauled by a bear.”

Aemond walks up behind you dragging his fingers down the curve of your neck and over your collarbone. Goosebumps appear in their wake. Three more red marks lead a path down to the top of your right breast. Several sizable mouth-shaped love bites. 

Aemond rests his chin on your shoulder, meeting your eyes in the mirror.

“Think of them as a gift,” he tells you, the curve of his lips pressed against the skin of your neck.

His hand curves around your waist, the other slinking up to turn your face towards him. He hums appreciatively, kissing your lips, then your cheek. Down your neck to your shoulder. You glance in the mirror once more, catching his eye. 

There’s something new there. Almost possessive. 

His grip on your waist tightens and he presses his teeth into the soft flesh of your shoulder.

Outside, snow begins to fall.

[crossfandomskylines]

His Escape

Pairing: Glen Powell x Female Reader

Summary: When Glen's confidence is shaken after a night of professional disappointment, he finds solace in the unwavering support of the person he loves most.

Word Count: 10,178 (I swear I tried to make it shorter)

A/N: This idea came to me after seeing Glen lose in his category at the Golden Globe Awards. I just wanted to hug and comfort him to make him feel better. And this fic kind of spiraled from there. I hope you guys enjoy! I'd love to hear what you guys think with Hearts, Comments, Reblogs, and Asks!

The soft glow of your living room lamps bathed the space in a warm, golden hue. You were curled up on your couch, legs tucked beneath you, wrapped in the comfort of a thick, knitted throw blanket. The faint scent of vanilla lingered in the air, thanks to the candle flickering on the coffee table, its flame swaying every so often.

The TV screen dominated the room, showing the glitz and glamour of the Golden Globes. Celebrities in their designer gowns and sharp tuxedos glided across the red carpet, dazzling under the flash of cameras. A bowl of popcorn sat mostly untouched at your side, as your attention was split between the broadcast and the phone clutched in your hand.

Your heart swelled as you scrolled through the latest message in your group chat with Glen’s parents. His mom had sent another photo, this one of Glen standing between her and his dad, both of them beaming with pride. 

Glen looked dashing in his perfectly tailored Armani tuxedo, the classic black tuxedo pants paired with a velvet jacket and dark silk shirt. His hair was styled just how you liked it, a little messy but still polished enough for the occasion.

His mom had texted with a string of heart emojis, followed by: He’s so nervous, but he won’t admit it.

You smiled, your thumb hovering over the keyboard as you tried to think of a response: He looks amazing as always. I hope you guys are having fun!

As you hit send, a pang of guilt settled in your chest. You should’ve been there with him tonight, standing at his side as he posed for photos, whispering encouragements in his ear as the nerves crept in. 

But you both knew it wasn’t the right time. Not yet. Glen’s career was reaching a critical turning point—offers were coming in from every direction, interviews piling up, and every move he made seemed to generate more buzz. 

A relationship, especially one that wasn’t yet public, could shift the narrative in ways neither of you were ready for. It wasn’t about shame or secrecy; it was about protecting what you had from the relentless scrutiny of the spotlight. 

Together, you’d decided that attending an awards ceremony like this, arm in arm, might raise more questions than either of you wanted to answer. For now, it felt safer, simpler, to let the world see him as the rising star he was while keeping the quieter, more intimate parts of his life—of your life together—untouched by flashing cameras and prying eyes.

The camera panned to Glen on screen, standing in front of a wall of golden lights as a reporter asked him about his nomination. His trademark smile lit up his face, but you could tell he was deflecting, steering the conversation toward the incredible team behind the project rather than himself. Classic Glen.

Your phone buzzed again with another message from his mom: He’s putting on a brave face, but I can tell he’s feeling the pressure set in.

You bit your lip, the guilt growing heavier. It wasn’t just that you wanted to be there for him—you wanted him to know, without a doubt, how proud you were of him, win or lose. But tonight, all you could do was cheer him on from a distance, wrapped in the quiet solitude of your apartment while he navigated the glitz and glamour of Hollywood without you.

The red carpet coverage cut to commercial, and you leaned back against the couch cushions, staring at the string of fairy lights framing the window. You could hear the faint hum of cars passing on the street below, a reminder that life outside the Golden Globes went on, unaffected by the whirlwind of fame and accolades. 

Your phone buzzed again, and this time it was a photo of Glen sitting at the table during the dinner portion of the show, laughing at something his dad had said. It made you smile despite yourself. 

His mom wrote: We’re so proud of him. 

And you couldn’t agree more.

The TV screen switched from commercials back to the show, and you adjusted your position, clutching your phone tighter as the awards were about to begin. The show unfolded on the screen like a surreal dream. You’d always watched the show in previous years, but this time felt different—personal. Every category, every speech, every camera pan to the glittering faces in the audience felt magnified. Your heart thumped faster with every passing moment, knowing Glen’s category was drawing closer.

The presenters for Best Actor in a Motion Picture - Musical or Comedy strolled onto the stage, their polished banter filling the room. You sat up straighter on the couch, clutching a throw pillow to your chest as the tension in your body mounted.

“And now, here are the nominees for Best Actor in a Motion Picture - Musical or Comedy,” one of the presenters announced with a dazzling smile.

The screen flashed to a montage of clips, each showcasing the nominees in their most memorable scenes. When Glen’s face appeared on the screen, your heart fluttered.

“Glen Powell. Hit Man,” the presenter’s voice rang out, and the camera cut to Glen at his table. He smiled and nodded graciously, his parents beaming proudly in the background. 

You couldn’t help but smile, too. He looked so composed, so effortlessly charming, but you knew him well enough to catch the subtle tension in his jaw, the slight shift in his posture. He was nervous.

The montage continued, the other nominees’ clips playing in turn, but your focus never truly wavered from Glen. When the camera returned to the presenters, your grip on the pillow tightened.

“And the Golden Globe goes to…” One presenter paused for dramatic effect, carefully opening the envelope. The room on screen held its collective breath, and so did you.

“Sebastian Stan!”

Your heart sank.

The room erupted in applause as the camera cut to Sebastian, who stood with a grin and made his way to the stage. 

Glen was on screen for a fleeting moment, clapping politely, the practiced smile on his face flawless. But you could see it—the flicker of disappointment in his eyes before the camera moved on.

You exhaled a shaky breath, a wave of sadness washing over you. You knew how much this meant to him, how hard he had worked for this role, and how much he hoped to win. He really thought tonight was going to be his night.

As Sebastian began his acceptance speech, you couldn’t keep your eyes on the screen. Instead, you stared at your phone, chewing on your bottom lip as you debated what to do. You wanted to comfort him, to tell him how proud you were, but words over text didn’t feel like enough.

Just as you were overthinking your next move, your phone buzzed in your hand. A text from Cyndy lit up the screen.

Hey, sweetheart. I don’t know if you’re watching, but Glen didn’t win. I can tell he’s trying to act like it’s fine, but I know he’s disappointed. I think seeing you would help him.

Your heart skipped a beat. The thought of being there for him, even after such a hard night, sent a surge of determination through you. 

You quickly typed back. I was just thinking the same thing. Where are you guys heading after the show?

Her response came almost immediately. We’re going to an afterparty. I’ll send you the address. I’ll help you get in. Let me know when you’re on your way.

You smiled, feeling a rush of gratitude for Glen’s mom and her unshakeable support. Thank you, Cyndy. I’ll head out soon.

Setting your phone down on the coffee table, you stood and glanced toward your bedroom. The thought of seeing Glen filled you with equal parts excitement and nerves. While you wanted to comfort him, you also wanted to make an impression, to make him proud to have you stand by his side - just in case anyone important saw you with him at the afterparty.

You walked into your closet, flipping on the light and staring at the dresses hanging neatly on the rack. For a moment, you hesitated, fingers trailing across the fabrics as you considered your options. 

Glen had spent the evening surrounded by Hollywood’s finest, women dressed in designer gowns that were probably worth more than your monthly rent. While you couldn’t compete with that, you wanted to feel confident.

One by one, you pulled dresses from their hangers, holding them up in front of the mirror. A black cocktail dress with a sweetheart neckline? Too plain. A sequined number you’d worn to a wedding last year? Too much sparkle. 

You sighed and kept flipping through your wardrobe until your fingers landed on the one: a sleek, champagne colored midi dress with a subtle sheen that hugged your curves and had an exposed back just enough to feel elegant but not overdone.

You held it up and smiled. This would work.

The dress hung on the back of the door as you moved to your vanity, sitting down in front of the mirror. You quickly pulled your hair out of the messy bun it had been in all evening, brushing it out until the strands fell in soft waves over your shoulders. A quick spritz of heat protectant later, you reached for your curling iron, adding a few polished curls to frame your face.

Once your hair was done, you leaned closer to the mirror to do your makeup. You didn’t want to overdo it, opting instead for a soft, natural look. A little concealer to brighten your under eyes, a sweep of blush for color, and your favorite mascara to make your lashes stand out. Finally, you dabbed on a neutral lipstick that complemented the green of your dress perfectly.

Sliding into the dress, you smoothed the fabric over your hips and stepped into a pair of classic black heels. You took a moment to look at yourself in the mirror, adjusting the neckline of the dress and tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Not bad,” you murmured to yourself with a small smile.

Grabbing a clutch that matched your heels, you slipped your phone, keys, and a tube of lipstick inside before heading back into the living room. 

You double-checked the address Cyndy had sent and tapped out a quick message. I’m on my way now. Thank you for helping me with this.

Her reply came quickly. Of course, sweetheart. Drive safe. Can’t wait to see you!

You smiled at her warmth, then grabbed your coat and headed for the door. The warm California air greeted you as you stepped outside, a sense of purpose settling over you as you climbed into your car. As you pulled onto the quiet streets of your neighborhood, you couldn’t help but feel a mix of anticipation and determination. Glen needed you tonight, and you were ready to remind him that, no matter what, he was never alone.

The valet opened your door with a polished smile, offering a courteous "Welcome, miss," as you stepped out onto the pavement. The warm glow of string lights twinkled above the entrance of the upscale Los Angeles venue, the faint hum of chatter and laughter drifting from the rooftop above. The building exuded an understated luxury, with sleek, modern architecture softened by lush greenery climbing its walls.

Clutching your purse tightly, you took a deep breath and stepped inside. The interior was as elegant as you imagined—soft lighting, marble accents, and tall glass windows that offered a breathtaking view of the Los Angeles skyline. The faint clinking of glasses and the melodic hum of a piano playing somewhere in the background added to the ambiance.

As you made your way to the elevator, you smoothed your hands over the fabric of your dress, trying to calm the nerves that fluttered in your stomach. You weren’t used to settings like this—where the air practically shimmered with glamour and the scent of expensive cologne and champagne filled every corner. But tonight wasn’t about you fitting in. Tonight was about Glen.

The elevator dinged softly, and the doors slid open to reveal the rooftop space. A wave of cool evening air greeted you as you stepped out, the view from up here absolutely stunning. The city lights stretched endlessly, a glittering sea of gold against the dark backdrop of the night sky.

But your attention quickly shifted to the crowd.

Clusters of people were scattered around the rooftop, their elegant attire shimmering under the soft glow of fairy lights and the flickering flames of heat lamps. Actors, actresses, directors, and producers mingled effortlessly, champagne flutes in hand and smiles that seemed almost rehearsed.

Your heart raced as you scanned the crowd, searching for Glen. The nerves you’d managed to suppress in the car started to creep back in, your stomach twisting as you imagined how he might react to seeing you. Would he be happy? Surprised? Would he think you’d overstepped by showing up unannounced?

Your heels clicked softly against the tiled floor as you weaved through the crowd, offering polite nods and tight smiles to the strangers you passed. Every time you thought you spotted him, it turned out to be someone else—a man with a similar build, or a suit that reminded you of Glen’s.

And then, you saw him.

He was standing near the edge of the rooftop, his back to you as he leaned casually against the railing. Even from a distance, you could tell something was off. His shoulders weren’t as relaxed as usual, his posture slightly stiff. He was talking to someone—an older man who looked like a producer—but his responses seemed polite and detached, his smile barely reaching his eyes.

Your heart clenched. This wasn’t the Glen you knew, the one who could charm a room with his laugh and light up any space he walked into. Tonight, he looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Swallowing your nerves, you adjusted the strap of your purse and started toward him. Each step felt like it took an eternity, the noise of the party fading into the background as your focus narrowed in on him.

You stopped a few feet away, hesitating for a brief moment as you tried to find the right words to say. But before you could speak, he turned, his gaze landing on you—and for a moment, the world seemed to pause.

Glen’s expression shifted from surprise to pure, unguarded joy in the blink of an eye. Without a second thought, he turned to the producer he’d been speaking to, murmuring a quick, “Excuse me,” before striding toward you, closing the distance between you in just a few long steps.

Your nerves barely had a chance to settle before Glen was there, standing right in front of you. His hands found your waist, and he pulled you into a tight embrace, one hand slipping up to cradle the back of your head while the other slipped around your waist. You could feel the tension in his body melt away as he buried his face in your hair, his shoulders relaxing for what seemed like the first time all evening.

“You’re here,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion and disbelief.

Before you could respond, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his green eyes scanning your face as if he needed to confirm that you were real. 

And then, as if he couldn’t stop himself, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was tender but unrestrained, a mix of relief, gratitude, and love that made your knees feel weak. The rest of the rooftop faded away—the noise, the people, the shimmering lights of Los Angeles below. For a brief moment, it was just the two of you.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he said softly, his hand still gently cradling the back of your head.

You smiled, your fingers brushing against the lapels of his suit jacket. “I had to be here for you.”

It wasn’t until you heard the faint sound of someone clearing their throat that you realized the two of you were still standing in the middle of a crowd. Glen blinked, his eyes flicking around as if he’d only just remembered where you both were.

A faint blush crept up his neck, but he didn’t seem embarrassed—if anything, he looked proud. He tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you closer to his side as he turned to the curious onlookers with a sheepish smile.

“Guess the secret’s out,” he said lightly, his tone warm but unapologetic.

As Glen pulled you closer to his side, the buzz of the rooftop returned, whispers and murmurs rippling through the crowd. You could feel curious eyes on you, but your focus stayed on Glen. His arm remained secure around your waist, a steady reassurance amid the growing attention.

Before anyone else could approach, you saw a familiar face in the crowd: Cyndy. Glen’s mom was beaming as she made her way over, her husband, Glen Sr., right behind her.

“There she is!” Cyndy exclaimed, her voice warm and welcoming as she pulled you into a quick hug. “I told you this would be just what he needed,” she added with a playful wink at Glen, who rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his smile.

“You knew about this?” he asked, a hint of mock betrayal in his tone.

“Of course,” Cyndy said with a grin. “She needed a little help getting here.”

Glen shook his head, his smile softening as he glanced down at you. “I should’ve known. You two are always teaming up on me.”

“It’s for your own good,” you teased, earning a chuckle from Glen Sr.

“Well, I think it’s wonderful she’s here,” Glen Sr. said, clapping his son on the shoulder before turning to you. “You look stunning, by the way. Good luck keeping this one under wraps now.”

Glen laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “Yeah, I think that ship’s sailed.”

As his parents drifted back into the crowd, giving the two of you a moment, Glen leaned in, his voice low. “You ready to meet some of these people?”

You nodded, your nerves fluttering again. “Lead the way.”

Glen kept you close as he guided you through the rooftop, introducing you to directors, producers, and fellow actors. 

“This is my girlfriend,” he said each time before introducing you by name, the word girlfriend rolling off his tongue with ease and pride.

You exchanged polite smiles and handshakes, offering kind words to those you’d only seen on magazine covers or in movie credits. It was surreal, but Glen’s steady presence kept you grounded.

At one point, you found yourself standing in a small circle with a director Glen had worked with in the past. The conversation flowed easily, but you could feel Glen’s hand lightly rubbing your back, a subtle gesture that let you know he was still thinking about you.

“Glen’s mentioned you before,” the director said with a knowing smile. “He wasn’t kidding when he said you were incredible.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you glanced up at Glen, who looked entirely unbothered by the compliment. 

“She is,” he said simply, his gaze meeting yours with a warmth that made your heart skip.

The sounds of the party started to fade into the background as Glen guided you to a quieter corner of the rooftop, away from the buzz of laughter and clinking glasses. The cool evening air swept past, carrying with it the faint scent of jasmine from the planters lining the terrace.

You leaned against the glass railing, the glittering Los Angeles skyline sprawling behind you like a postcard. Glen stood close, his arm brushing yours, and for a moment, neither of you spoke, simply soaking in the stillness that contrasted with the lively atmosphere just feet away.

He turned to you, his expression softer now, the guarded mask he’d worn all evening completely gone. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice carrying an undercurrent of emotion.

You tilted your head, your brows knitting together. “For what?”

“For being here,” he said, his gaze locking onto yours. “For coming tonight, even though I know how much you hate this kind of scene. I didn’t realize how badly I needed you here.”

Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in his voice. Reaching up, you rested a hand against his cheek, your thumb brushing the faint stubble along his jawline. “You don’t have to thank me, Glen. I wanted to be here. I hated thinking about you going through all of this alone.”

He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a brief second. 

“It was a rough night,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, I knew not winning was always a possibility, but...” He trailed off, exhaling deeply.

“But it still hurts,” you finished for him.

He nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Yeah. And trying to act like it doesn’t... it’s exhausting.”

You stepped closer, your hand sliding from his cheek to rest against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. 

“You don’t have to act with me,” you said softly. “You’re allowed to feel however you need to feel. I’m here, okay? Whatever you need.”

His arms came around you then, pulling you into his chest. You melted into his embrace, your face pressed against the soft fabric of his jacket. He held you tightly, like you were his anchor in a storm.

“I feel better already,” he murmured against your hair, his voice laced with a hint of humor but mostly gratitude.

You smiled, tilting your head back to meet his eyes. “Good. You’ve accomplished so much, Glen. You’ve made me, your parents, everyone who knows you so proud.”

A small smile curved his lips, and he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You always know what to say,” he said, his voice filled with affection.

You shrugged, teasing him lightly. “I like to think of it as one of my many talents.”

His chuckle was soft, but genuine, and he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Well, it’s one I’m grateful for.”

The quiet moment lingered, the world around you dimming as you rested in Glen’s arms. His hands brushed lightly up and down your back, grounding you in his warmth. The skyline twinkled behind him, but all you could focus on was the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

After a while, Glen broke the silence, his voice low and soft. “Do you want to get out of here?”

You tilted your head up to look at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Are you sure? I mean, this is your night.”

He shook his head, a playful glint flickering in his tired eyes. “This party stopped feeling like mine a long time ago. I’d rather be somewhere alone with you.” He paused, his expression turning gentler. “Come stay at the hotel with me?”

Your heart fluttered at the quiet sincerity in his voice, and you nodded without hesitation. “Of course,” you said, your smile widening.

Relief washed over his face, and he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. It wasn’t rushed or heated, just a soft and unhurried moment, as though he wanted to savor every second of it. When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What for this time?” you asked, your smile turning playful.

“Just for being here for me,” he said simply, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

Your fingers intertwined with his, and you gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Always.”

Glen smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and he straightened up, pulling you a little closer as he turned toward the door. Without another word, he led you across the rooftop, weaving through clusters of partygoers with effortless ease.

The crowd parted as you passed, some people glancing your way with fleeting curiosity. You caught sight of Glen’s parents near the bar, and Cyndy offered you a subtle wink before turning her attention back to the person she was speaking with. You couldn’t help but smile.

Glen held your hand tightly as he guided you to the elevator, his thumb brushing small circles against your skin. Once inside, the doors closed with a quiet chime, and the noise of the party finally melted away.

He let out a quiet sigh, leaning back against the wall of the elevator, and pulled you into his side. “This is better,” he said, his tone light but filled with contentment.

You chuckled, resting your head against his shoulder. “I’ll take a quiet elevator ride with you over a crowded party any day.”

He laughed softly, his hand drifting up to play with a strand of your hair. “Good. Because tonight, it’s just you and me.”

The cool night air greeted you as you stepped outside, a welcome contrast to the warmth of the rooftop party. Glen stayed close by your side, his hand brushing against yours as you waited for the valet. You felt a flutter of anticipation in your chest, the promise of a quiet, uninterrupted night with him tugging at the edges of your thoughts.

When the valet pulled your car around, Glen stepped forward, handing over a tip and reaching for the keys. 

“I’ll drive,” he said with a grin, giving you a playful nudge.

You raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you insist on driving my car?”

“Just humor me tonight,” he said, flashing that perfect smile that made your heart skip.

You rolled your eyes with a soft laugh but handed over your keys without argument. Glen opened the passenger door for you, holding it until you were comfortably seated.

Your cheeks warmed at the gesture, and you offered him a soft smile as he closed the door and rounded the car to slide into the driver’s seat.

Once he was settled, Glen adjusted the mirrors and pulled away from the valet stand, expertly navigating the quiet streets of Los Angeles. His posture was relaxed, but his hand gripped the wheel with quiet confidence. The faint hum of the engine filled the silence, mingling with the soft music playing from the car speakers.

After a moment, Glen reached over, his fingers brushing against your knee before resting gently on your thigh. His touch was warm, grounding, and the weight of it sent a small shiver up your spine.

You glanced over at him, the soft glow of the streetlights illuminating his profile. His focus was on the road, but there was an unmistakable ease in his expression, as though the weight of the night was beginning to lift.

“You look beautiful tonight, by the way,” Glen said, his voice breaking the comfortable silence in the car. 

The compliment caught you slightly off guard, and you felt the warmth rush to your cheeks. 

“Thank you,” you said softly, placing your hand over his, trying to steady the sudden flutter in your chest.

His fingers tightened gently on your thigh, his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles against the fabric of your dress. The simple motion sent a shiver up your spine. 

“I mean it,” he added, his voice lower now, carrying a sincerity that made your heart skip a beat. “Took my breath away when I first saw you tonight.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out at first. His gaze shifted briefly from the road to meet yours, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he caught the faint blush spreading across your cheeks.

“Glen,” you murmured, glancing down as your own smile crept in, embarrassed but undeniably warmed by his words.

“What?” he teased, his smirk growing. “Just being honest.”

For a while, neither of you spoke, content to simply be in each other’s presence. The city lights blurred outside the windows, and you found yourself memorizing the quiet details of the moment—the way his hand felt against your skin, the gentle hum of the car, the serene look on his face as he drove.

As he turned onto a quieter stretch of road, Glen glanced at you briefly, his smile soft and genuine. “I know I’ve said it already, but...thank you for being here tonight. You didn’t have to, but you did.”

You squeezed his hand. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

The car rolled to a stop in front of the upscale hotel, its glass façade glowing softly in the dim light of the early morning. Glen handed the keys to the valet with a quick thank-you before coming around to your side. He opened your door and offered his hand, helping you out with a small, knowing smile.

The lobby was quiet at this hour, save for the occasional murmur of staff or the faint sound of soft music drifting through the space. Glen’s hand found the small of your back as he guided you toward the elevator bank. You leaned into his touch, your earlier nerves melting away under the warmth of his steady presence.

Inside the elevator, the air felt electric, charged with unspoken anticipation. Glen pressed the button for his floor, then turned to you with a crooked grin. 

“Almost there,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate.

The soft ding of the elevator signaled your arrival, and the two of you stepped into the quiet hallway. Glen led you toward his room, pulling the keycard from his pocket. The lock beeped softly as he swiped it, and he pushed the door open, stepping aside to let you in first.

The suite was spacious and elegantly designed, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city lights. But you barely had time to take it in before Glen shut the door behind him, letting out a long breath as he slid his blazer off his shoulders and tossed it onto the back of a chair.

His eyes found yours, and without hesitation, he crossed the room to pull you into his arms. His embrace was firm yet tender, his hands settling on your waist as he held you close.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” he whispered, his forehead resting against yours.

You smiled, your arms looping around his neck. “What’s stopping you now?”

Glen chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, before closing the small distance between you. His lips met yours in a kiss that started out as gentle and unhurried, his touch familiar and comforting.

But then, something shifted. What began as a tender gesture grew more fervent, his hands sliding up your back with a quiet desperation. His fingers splayed against your skin as though he needed to feel you, to anchor himself.

You noticed the change immediately—the way his lips slowed, pressing against yours with an intensity that wasn’t just passion but something deeper. He lingered at the corner of your mouth, trailing soft kisses along your jaw and down the curve of your neck. His breath, once steady, hitched against your skin, and the muscles in his back tensed beneath your touch.

Your hands instinctively moved to soothe him, running up and down his back in gentle strokes, but you could feel the tension coiling tighter in his body with each passing second. Glen’s arms wrapped around you as though he were holding on for dear life, his forehead pressing into the crook of your neck.

“Babe?” you whispered, your voice barely audible above the faint hum of the city outside. “Glen?”

There was no response, only the unsteady rise and fall of his chest against yours. You frowned, shifting slightly to pull back, your hands moving to cradle his face as you searched for his eyes.

“Hey… are you okay?” you asked softly, concern threading through your voice.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. His eyes stayed shut, and his jaw clenched as if he were trying to hold something back. Then his breath hitched again, and he exhaled shakily.

“I thought…” His voice broke, barely above a whisper. “I thought tonight was going to be different.”

The weight of his words settled over you, heavy and unspoken. Your heart twisted at the quiet vulnerability in his tone.

“I thought I was going to be enough,” he murmured, finally lifting his head to meet your gaze.

Your hands stayed on his face, your thumbs brushing against the faint stubble on his jaw. “Glen,” you said softly, your heart aching for him. “You are enough. You’re more than enough.”

His brow furrowed, his eyes clouded with doubt. “Then why doesn’t it feel that way? I wanted it so badly, but it’s like… it’s like I’m stuck. Like I’ll never reach the level everyone expects of me.”

His voice cracked, and you felt his shoulders tremble beneath your hands. You held him tighter, your fingers slipping into his hair as you tried to soothe him.

“Listen to me,” you said firmly, tilting his face so he couldn’t look away. “You don’t need an award to prove anything to anyone. You’re already incredible, Glen. Directors, writers, everyone you’ve worked with—they see it. They know how talented you are. And so do I.”

His eyes searched yours, uncertain and raw. “You’re proud of me?”

You smiled softly, brushing a kiss to his forehead. “More than you’ll ever know. You’re at the top in my eyes, Glen. Award or no award.”

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

His grip tightened around you, and you felt the last of his tension slowly melt away as he let your words wash over him. The quiet of the room wrapped around the two of you, and for a moment, there was nothing else—just the softness of his breath against your skin and the steady thrum of your hearts beating in sync.

Glen’s arms loosened around your waist, and he exhaled a long, shaky breath. His forehead brushed against yours one last time before he pulled back slightly, his hands lingering on your hips for just a moment. The vulnerability in his eyes was still raw, his walls lowered in a way that made your chest ache for him.

Without a word, Glen stepped away, his movements slow and deliberate. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers lingering there as though trying to ground himself. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated his face, casting shadows that only seemed to deepen the exhaustion etched into his features.

He made his way to the bed, his steps heavy, as if the weight of the night clung to him with every stride. Lowering himself onto the edge of the mattress, Glen sat with his back to you, his shoulders slumped, his head dropping forward. For a moment, he just sat there, silent and still, like he was carrying the weight of something too big to name.

You stood where he left you, watching him in quiet concern. Your heart ached at the sight of him—at the way he seemed to have shed every ounce of energy and emotion he’d held together so tightly throughout the night.

Without a word, you crawled up onto the bed behind him, your knees sinking gently into the soft covers. You moved behind him, your hands instinctively finding his shoulders, your fingers beginning to work away the tension that had settled there. 

At first, Glen didn’t move, his posture still stiff, his head slightly bowed, but he let you in, letting your hands ease the strain from his muscles.

After a few minutes of working the knots in his back, you softly spoke, “Glen... take your shirt off. Let me help you fully relax.”

He let out a quiet breath, his shoulders rolling in a slight motion of surrender. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, each one opening with a slow and deliberate motion, his body still tense under your touch. When the last button came free, he shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, the fabric slipping off his arms. You continued your gentle massage, your fingers now tracing the lines of his back, finding the tension in his muscles and working it away, piece by piece.

Glen let out a long, deep sigh as the stress of the evening began to melt away under your touch. He leaned into you, his body responding to your calming presence, and with a final, quiet release, he relaxed completely. His head tilted back, falling softly against your chest, the weight of his head resting there as you continued to soothe him with your touch.

You smiled down at him, feeling his breath steady and slow as you ran your hands up and down his back. The sound of his quiet breaths was a comforting rhythm in the room, the weight of his exhaustion now balancing with the calm you provided.

With his head resting against you, he looked up at you, his eyes soft, almost vulnerable. You smiled at him, your heart swelling as you leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“You okay?” you whispered, your fingers still gently running through his hair, the touch tender and caring.

Glen closed his eyes, a small smile pulling at his lips. “I am now.” He let out a soft chuckle, and for a moment, the stress of the night seemed to dissipate entirely, replaced with the warmth and safety that surrounded the two of you.

You rested your chin on top of his head, continuing to hold him, your presence grounding him in a way nothing else could. The room felt peaceful now, as if time had slowed just for the two of you, and for a fleeting moment, everything was right.

You continued to gently rub his back, letting the soothing silence linger between you two for a while longer. Glen’s body was finally at ease, but you could sense he needed more—something to fully relax him after the rollercoaster of emotions he’d been through that night.

“You should go shower,” you suggested softly, your fingers still tracing light, comforting circles along his back. “It’ll help you feel better, relax a little more.”

Glen’s eyes fluttered open, and he hesitated for a moment, his gaze softening as he looked up at you. There was an unspoken question in his eyes—whether or not he was ready to let go of the emotions, the strain, the weight of the evening. 

“Will you join me?”

The question hung in the air, but it wasn’t a forceful demand—more of an invitation. He was searching for comfort, for something to take his mind off the self-doubt that still lingered beneath the surface. The tension was still there, just beneath the calm exterior.

You nodded without hesitation, your heart swelling with affection for him. “Of course.”

Glen stood slowly, pulling you with him as you both made your way to the bathroom. The lights were dimmed, casting a warm, inviting glow over the room. The sound of the shower running softly filled the air, and as he adjusted the water temperature, Glen turned back to you, his eyes still carrying that mix of weariness and something deeper—a need for connection.

His hands, warm and gentle, reached for the zipper of your dress. His fingers brushed your skin as he slowly unzipped it, the motion deliberate, almost reverent. He didn’t rush—each movement was careful, as though he was taking his time to savor this small, private moment. The dress slipped off your shoulders with his guidance, the fabric pooling at your feet.

A soft breath left his lips as he looked at you, his fingers trailing over your skin. You felt his presence like a warm embrace, his touch so tender that it sent a shiver down your spine.

"You’re so beautiful," Glen whispered, his voice low and full of admiration as his lips brushed the back of your neck. The kiss lingered there, a simple act that spoke volumes. He pulled back just slightly, his hands moving to unclasp your bra. As it slid down your arms, his lips found their way to your shoulder, placing gentle kisses along the curve of your skin.

"I love you," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin, sending a sense of calm and affection flooding through you. He was careful, slow, making sure you felt every touch, every kiss, his words filling the space between you as much as his touch did. "I love you so much," he repeated softly, as if needing you to feel the depth of his feelings.

With a gentle tug, he guided your underwear down, his fingers grazing your legs as the fabric pooled at your feet. He never once broke eye contact, his gaze full of reverence, his actions unhurried, as if savoring this quiet intimacy between you.

His hands slid up your back, holding you close for a moment, before he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. You turned toward him, your hands gently brushing his chest as you reached for his belt. The leather felt smooth under your fingertips, but as you tugged it through the loops, it caught slightly, the metal latch catching on the fabric of his pants. 

Glen raised an eyebrow and, with a smirk, he reached down to effortlessly pull it free, tossing it aside with a soft chuckle. You couldn't help but smile at the playful glint in his eyes, his confidence radiating through every small action. The serious, vulnerable side of him from earlier was still there, but seeing this side of him, the Glen who was comfortable, even mischievous, made your heart lighten. This was your Glen again—the one you had fallen in love with.

His smirk deepened as he caught your eye, and you felt that same familiar pull in your chest. Without hesitation, you popped open the button on his dress pants, the soft sound of the fabric giving way to the cool air in the room. With a quick motion, you shoved the pants down his legs, your eyes never leaving his.

As you moved to slide his underwear down as well, he stepped out of the fabric, leaving the two of you bare before one another. The feeling of the air on your skin, the way his body seemed to react to the same sensations, only deepened the connection between you.

Glen’s hand reached for yours, his fingers curling around yours as he gently pulled you toward him. With a final glance, he led you into the shower, the warm water cascading down as the door closed behind you.

The warm water from the showerhead cascaded over your bodies, the steam rising around you as Glen pulled you closer. He guided you back against his chest, your back now pressed against his solid form. The heat from his skin radiated into you, his arms wrapping securely around your waist, holding you close as the water continued to fall.

You leaned your head back against him, allowing the sensation of his embrace to ground you, and closed your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. It was moments like this, quiet and simple, that made everything else fade into the background. The chaos of the world, the stress of the night—it all seemed distant when you were wrapped up in the warmth of him.

His breath, steady and warm against your ear, sent a shiver down your spine. His lips brushed your cheek, soft and slow, before trailing along your jawline. The gentle caress of his kisses made you feel cherished, like the world had slowed just for the two of you.

As his lips moved to your neck, you couldn’t suppress the soft sigh that escaped your lips. His kisses were light at first, like he was savoring every inch of your skin. Then, his hands slid to your sides, pulling you closer as he pressed a soft kiss to the pulse point on your neck.

You turned slightly, your face now angled toward his, and you could see the tenderness in his eyes—the way he looked at you as though you were everything he needed. His hands moved up to gently cradle your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek, before leaning down to kiss you softly on the lips.

As the steam continued to swirl around the two of you, Glen reached for the bottle of shampoo, his movements slow and deliberate as he squeezed some into his palm. He worked it into his hands before gently lifting them to your hair, his fingers massaging the lather through your strands.

The soft pressure of his hands on your scalp felt soothing, almost like a tender promise. The moment was so serene, so simple, but it filled the space between you with an intimacy that went beyond the physical.

You leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed for a moment as the lather built up, your hair sliding through his hands like silk. A soft smile played on your lips as you couldn't help but tease lightly, “You know, I was supposed to be helping you relax, not the other way around.”

Glen paused for a moment, his hands stilling in your hair. When he spoke, his voice was low and steady, a quiet affection in his words. 

“Taking care of you helps me relax,” he murmured, his fingers resuming their gentle motion through your hair. “When I’m with you, everything else fades.  All the noise, the pressure… it just disappears.”

You turned your head slightly to look up at him, catching his gaze. The tenderness in his eyes made your heart swell, and you couldn’t help but smile, feeling that quiet joy that only came from knowing you were so deeply cared for.

You and Glen took turns lathering soap and washing each other off. His hands slid over your skin with a gentle care and you mirrored the gestore for him, tenderly tracing over his toned and muscly form.

When the last traces of soap had been rinsed away, Glen’s hands moved from your shoulders, gliding slowly down your sides before they settled at your waist. 

Then, without a word, he leaned in. His lips brushed yours lightly at first, the softness of the kiss almost a question, a gentle exploration. But as his lips coaxed yours open, something shifted, deepened. The kiss became more urgent, more consuming, and you couldn’t help but respond in kind, meeting his intensity with your own.

His hands roamed lower, tracing the curve of your body as his tongue slid into your mouth, eager and searching. A soft gasp escaped you as you felt the warmth of his touch slide over your skin, igniting a familiar fire within. Your hands found their way to his neck, fingers tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened further.

The sensation of being pressed against the cool wall of the shower was sudden but welcome, sending a shiver down your spine as the contrast of cold tile and Glen’s warmth consumed your senses. His hands found your hips, steady and deliberate, before sliding down to hook beneath your thighs. In one smooth, effortless motion, he lifted you, his strength leaving you breathless as your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist.

His arm cradled your face, the other anchoring you securely against him. You felt completely surrounded by him—his body, his heat, the faint smell of his cologne lingering despite the water. His lips were back on yours in an instant, claiming you with a passion that left no room for hesitation.

As the water streamed over both of you, his lips broke from yours, trailing a line of kisses along your jaw. You tilted your head instinctively, giving him access to your neck, where his kisses grew deeper, more purposeful. Each press of his lips sent waves of warmth through you, his stubble brushing lightly against your skin. When he reached the spot just below your ear, you couldn’t help the soft gasp that escaped you, and Glen’s lips curved into a smirk against your skin.

“God, I love you,” he murmured between kisses, his voice low and rough, making your stomach tighten with need. 

His lips traveled lower, brushing over your collarbone before returning to your mouth as if he couldn’t bear to be away from you for too long. Your hands found their way into his hair, threading through the damp strands and tugging just enough to elicit a low groan from him. The sound sent a thrill through you, and you felt him press you more firmly against the wall, as though he needed you closer, as though he couldn’t get enough of you.

His kisses moved lower, trailing along your shoulder as he adjusted his grip, one hand sliding up your back, the other tracing the curve of your thigh. The heat of the water cascaded over both of you, blending with the heat building between your bodies. 

The way Glen looked at you—his gaze dark and intense, yet filled with so much affection—left you completely undone. He paused, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, yet the weight of his words hit you like a tidal wave.

Your only answer was to pull him closer, your lips finding his once more as your hands roamed over his shoulders and down his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. Glen responded immediately, his hold on you tightening, his kisses growing deeper and more fervent, as if he were pouring every unspoken word into them.

Glen shifted slightly, his hips pressing firmly against yours, pinning you against the cold tile wall, and a soft whimper escaped your lips.

Glen froze for half a second, his eyes locking onto yours, and then his lips curved into a grin that was equal parts mischievous and adoring.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing as his lips found yours again, this time slower, more deliberate. He wasn’t in a rush; he wanted to savor every second, every little sound you made, and the way your body responded to his touch.

His kisses trailed down the curve of your neck, lingering in spots he knew would make your breath hitch. You felt his fingers tighten slightly on your thigh, his touch grounding you while simultaneously setting you aflame.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he whispered against your skin, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. The way his words, his tone, his body all combined left you dizzy in the best way.

Your hands slid over his shoulders, down his chest, your fingertips tracing the firm lines of muscle as if committing them to memory. You could feel the tension melting out of him under your touch, replaced by something far more intoxicating.

“You have no idea how much I needed this—how much I needed you,” he admitted, his tone softening just slightly, adding a layer of vulnerability to his intensity. He leaned his forehead against yours, his lips brushing yours in a feather-light kiss.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, your voice steady as your fingers slid into his hair, pulling him closer. Glen closed his eyes for a moment, as if grounding himself in your words, in you.

When his lips met yours again, it was slower, deeper, his movements more purposeful. Every touch, every press of his body against yours, felt like a reminder of the connection you shared, of how deeply he trusted and cared for you.

The moment he began to press into you, your breath hitched, and your nails gently dug into his shoulders. The slow, deliberate stretch was almost overwhelming, a sensation so powerful that it sent shivers through your entire body. Glen let out a deep, unrestrained groan that rumbled from his chest, vibrating against yours.

“God,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, his head dipping to rest in the curve of your neck. “You feel... incredible.”

Your body adjusted to him, every inch of him fitting perfectly, as though you were made for this—made for each other. The moment you were fully joined, the air between you shifted, charged with something deeper, something more profound than physical attraction.

You let out a shaky exhale, your hands threading into his damp hair, holding him close. “Glen…” His name was barely a whisper, but it carried so much—desire, love, reassurance.

He lifted his head slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. His eyes, deep and intense, were filled with something raw and vulnerable, a mix of need and devotion. “S-shit sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly.

You cupped his face, your thumbs brushing against the sharp lines of his jaw. He began to move then, slow and deliberate, as though he wanted to memorize every sensation, every reaction. Each roll of his hips sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, but it was more than that—it was connection, intimacy, the kind of closeness that words could never fully capture.

The two of you moved together in perfect sync, the rhythm as natural as breathing. His lips found yours again, desperate and hungry, as if he couldn’t get enough of you. Your bodies were slick from the water, your skin sliding against his in a way that only heightened the intensity of the moment.

The rhythm of Glen’s movements grew more intense, the slow, deliberate pace giving way to something deeper, more desperate, as the fire building inside you threatened to consume you completely. Your breaths came faster, mingling with his in the humid air of the shower, each gasp and groan echoing off the tiled walls.

Your hands clung to his shoulders, your nails pressing lightly into his skin as the pleasure coiled tighter in your core. You could feel the tension mounting, like a wave rising higher and higher, ready to crash over you. 

“Glen,” you gasped, your voice shaky, filled with need.

He groaned in response, his grip on you tightening as his forehead rested against yours. 

“I know,” he murmured, his voice rough and unsteady. His eyes locked onto yours, a mix of passion and adoration blazing within them. “I’m right there with you.”

Your head fell back against the tile, a soft cry escaping your lips as the tension snapped and the wave of ecstasy washed over you. Your body trembled against his as you surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure, your hands slipping into his hair, holding him close.

The sound of your release seemed to push Glen over the edge. With a low, guttural groan, he buried his face in your neck, his movements faltering as his own climax overtook him. His body tensed, his arms tightening around you as if anchoring himself in the moment.

For a few moments, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and the steady stream of water cascading over you both. Glen’s forehead rested against your shoulder, his chest heaving against yours as he tried to catch his breath.

You ran your fingers through his damp hair, your touch gentle and soothing as the tension in both of your bodies began to melt away. “Are you okay?” you whispered softly, your voice laced with tenderness.

He nodded against your shoulder, his arms still wrapped around you. “More than okay,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin in a lazy kiss. 

He lifted his head slightly, his eyes finding yours, and for a moment, there was nothing but quiet affection between you. He reached up, brushing a strand of wet hair away from your face, his touch lingering. “You make everything better,” he said softly, his voice filled with sincerity.

You leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “And you make everything better for me,” you whispered against his mouth.

As the water continued to flow over you, Glen shifted, his hold on you gentle as he helped steady you back onto your feet. He kept his arms around you, though, as if reluctant to let you go. 

“Stay like this a little longer?” he asked quietly, his voice barely audible over the sound of the water.

You nodded, leaning into him, your head resting against his chest. The two of you stood there, wrapped in each other, the water washing away everything except the quiet, unspoken connection between you.

Minutes later the warm water slowed to a trickle as you and Glen stood together under its embrace, reluctant to part from the cocoon of closeness you’d shared. But the chill of the air creeping into the shower reminded you both that it was time to leave.

You reached for a towel, wrapping it snugly around yourself before handing another to Glen. He took it with a small smile, his fingers brushing yours briefly. He quickly dried off, his movements unhurried, as if savoring the quiet moment.

As you toweled your hair, you couldn’t help but notice Glen watching you. His gaze was soft, his features relaxed in a way that made your heart swell.

“What?” you asked with a light laugh, arching a brow at him.

He just shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing. Just… you.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you didn’t press him further. Instead, you turned toward his open bag near the bed, slipping on one of his oversized T-shirts and a pair of his boxers since you didn’t have any clothes of your own to sleep in. The fabric smelled faintly of him, comforting and familiar.

Glen was already pulling on a pair of boxers, his toned frame catching the soft glow of the bedside lamp as he moved toward the bed. He crawled onto the mattress with an easy grace, sinking into the covers with a contented sigh.

You finished adjusting the hem of the shirt before turning to find Glen propped up on one elbow, his eyes locked on you. He patted the empty space beside him, then crooked a finger, his voice low and inviting. “Come here.”

You didn’t hesitate, crossing the room and crawling onto the bed beside him. Glen shifted, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you flush against him. The warmth of his body seeped into yours as he nuzzled into your neck, his lips brushing softly against your skin.

For a while, neither of you spoke, the quiet intimacy of the moment saying more than words could. But when Glen shifted again, his gaze meeting yours, the sincerity in his expression made your breath catch.

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever won,” he said, a playful smirk lifting the corner of his mouth.

You let out a soft laugh, swatting at his chest. “I didn’t realize I was a prize to be won.”

He chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “You are. The best one.” His voice softened as he continued, the teasing fading into quiet gratitude. “Thank you for being here tonight… for always being here. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Your chest ached with love for him, and you reached up, gently cradling his face in your hand. “You don’t have to do it alone, Glen. Whatever it is—disappointments, stress, doubts—I’m here. Always. You don’t have to carry it by yourself.”

His eyes softened, and he gave a small nod before resting his head against your chest. You began threading your fingers through his hair, the soft strands slipping between them as you combed through gently. Glen let out a deep sigh, his body completely relaxing against yours.

The quiet rhythm of his breathing matched the rise and fall of your chest, and as the tension melted from him, you couldn’t help but reflect on how much you loved being this for him—his safe space, the one person he could let his guard down with.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice soft but filled with every ounce of your heart.

His arms tightened around your waist, and he turned his head just enough to press a soft kiss to the side of your ribs. “I love you too,” he murmured against your skin, the words warm and heavy with truth.

And as the night stretched on, you stayed like that—entwined, at peace, and content in the knowledge that no matter what came next, you had each other.

[arc-misadventures]

Right on Schedule

Jaune looked over a progress report as he was once again was inspecting the walls of, Mantle's newest fortifications. The time graph they had made was displaying good progress the wall. Displaying that for a week, and a half of work, they were well on schedule, even ahead of it in some areas. But, there was a very noticeable dip in the chart from two days ago. A dip that, Jaune didn't like.

Jaune: Hey, Major Skender?

Major Felix Skender, was an officer in the, Atlas Engineer Corp. Jaune had talked to, Major Skender quite often when he came to inspect the wall. He had come to like the fellow. He was a little quirky, though from, Jaune's experience that tended to me a normal habit of anyone into pyrotechnics. Least, Major Skender seemed to be the saner side of things.

At least he hoped he was.

Maj. Skender: Yes, Sir?

Jaune: It's nice to see how things are coming along. I dare say you might be ahead of schedule.

Maj. Skender: Ahh, thank you, Sir! Yes, we are being encouraged by the higher ups to get this completed as soon as we can. That way we can get back to work on the, CC...?!

Jaune's hand shot up silencing, Major Skender instantly. Jaune, gave the, Major a cautionary gaze as he lowered his hand.

Jaune: We do not address it as that. We address it as, General Ironwood's Project, Ironwood's Secret Project, or anthing along those lines. But, we do not say what it is. It is a secret project after all, Major.

Maj. Skender: Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.

Jaune: Good, make sure that the other officers are made aware of this as well. There are many who would take great pleasure in derailing the, General's future plans.

Maj. Skender: Understood, Sir.

Jaune: Now then, about this timetable here... What was this dip here you experience two days ago? You were delayed by about half a day, but you've made up for it. Good job on that, Major.

Maj. Skendor: Oh, thank you, Sir!

Jaune: But, nonetheless; what happened here?

Maj. Skender: Two days ago...? Ahh yes, a bunch of, Happy Huntresses came by, and were disturbing the workers.

Jaune: The, Happy Huntresses? What did they do?

Maj. Skender: They were interrogating some of the workers; They were asking them about what weapons we were installing, how long we were taking. Why did it take so long for, General Ironwood to order the reconstruction, and fortification of the walls. Things such as that.

Jaune: Weren't the people of, Mantle already made aware of these things; Why were they asking what should be seen as common knowledge?

Maj. Skender: I'm sorry, Sir, but I do not know why.

Jaune: Hmmm... Very well then...

Jaune handed back the data slate before giving one last look at the construction upon the wall.

Jaune: I will be taking my leave then. Till later, Major.

Maj. Skender: Till later, Sir.

The Major offered, Jaune a salute who returned one in kind. Jaune then made his way down a flight of stairs. As he made away from the wall he pulled out his scroll, and typed out a simple message to, 'Finch.'

"We need to talk."

Jaune quickly put away his scroll as he walked down the many paths of, Mantle interacting with civilians as he went about. He kept walking until he felt a buzz from his pocket, and he checked his scroll, and read the message that he had been sent.

"Okay. Usual spot?"

"On my way."

Jaune quickly made his way towards the downtown area of, Mantle, heading into one of the many empty warehouses in the southern parts of, Mantle.

As, Jaune entered the warehouse, he was met with the familiar sight of, Robyn Hill resting against one of the many empty crates. She pushed herself off the crate as she walked towards, Jaune. An odd smile spread across her face that, Jaune could not quite place as she walked towards him.

Robyn: Hello, Jaune. What is it?

Jaune: Hello, Robyn. I need to ask you about something that happened a couple a days ago.

Robyn: I suppose you're asking about the incident at the wall that happened the other day?

Robyn crossed her arms, and shook her head. Jaune worried that he may have upset her, but her eyes said she was more so disappointed. Was she disappointed in him for not trusting her? No, no she wasn't disappointed in, Jaune. She was disappointed in herself. Herself, and her followers.

Jaune: What happened?

Robyn: Some of my followers... they saw how quickly the wall was repaired. So, they went to the wall, and wanted to know why, General Ironwood was taking so long to order it's reconstruction if it only took three days to do. Since the, Engineers couldn't explain it, the people got angry, and... well they got rowdy.

Jaune: And, the Engineer's had to keep them back so they didn't get too close to the construction site. Otherwise something could have happen to them. Or, worse, one of them could have gotten hurt.

Robyn: Exactlly.

Jaune: So that's why construction was delayed. Since I didn't hear anything about a mass arrest, I suppose it was dealt with peacefully?

Robyn: Yes, two of my cohorts; Fiona, and another member of the. Happy Huntresses, May Marigold came by, and dispersed them. I told them to make sure things like this didn't happen again.

Jaune: They better. The sections getting the new fortifications will have armed guards around them all the time. While I am certain of the, Atlasian Militaries trigger discipline, I wouldn't hold it past, Ironwood to get... itchy fingers.

Robyn: Do you think, General Ironwood would order his troops to open fire on civilians?!

Jaune waved his hand down, placing one on his lips as he looked at, Robyn. Her voiced echoing in the empty warehouse.

Jaune: Your voice carries, Robyn; In more ways than one.

Robyn: I'm sorry... I just... Do you seriously think, General Ironwood would do that?

Jaune looked at, Robyn before turning to look away shaking his head.

Jaune: I not saying he will, but... If he was pushed far enough...

Robyn: Oh... oh no... No wonder you want me on the council; The more I learn about, General Ironwood, the more I understand why you want someone to put a leash on him.

Jaune: Someone has to, and the only person who could is... preoccupied...

Robyn: Preoccupied with what?

Jaune: Uhhh...? A severe case of identity crisis...

Robyn: Really?

Jaune: More, or less...

Jaune didn't want to lie to, Robyn, he wanted to keep her trust in him. But, knowing about Ozpin, and Oscar was a whole bucket of worms that he didn't want to deal with. And, besides, even if she used her semblance on him, he wasn't lying. Technically.

Robyn: ...

Robyn: Very well. Is that it all you wanted to talk about, Jaune?

Jaune: That's it. Is there anything you want from me, Robyn?

Robyn: Uhh... yes there is.

Jaune: Oh, what is it?

Robyn: I was wondering if you wouldn't mind coming to one of my rallies I'm having today?

Jaune: Oh, why so?

Robyn: Several reasons. You've mostly heard about my political policies, and plans from my supporters.

Jaune: I have.

Robyn: Well, I was wondering if you'd like to hear it from the horses mouth. To know what I think of, and how I plan to help the people of, Mantle, and Atlas.

Jaune: And, to have a, Specialist there to... show their... No, to show, Atlas's support for you?

Robyn stopped, and stared at, Jaune. A coy smile appeared across her lips as she pointed a finger at him.

Robyn: You can say that.

Jaune returned her coy smile with one of his own.

Jaune: If anyone asks, just say I'm there to keep the peace. We'll use the incident at the wall the other day as an example.

Robyn: Alright then. Let's do this.

~~~

Jaune had never been at a political rally before. He thought it would involve a lot of wine sipping, and snobbish wealthy people speaking down to people. If this was a political rally run by someone like, Jacques Schnee it would no doubt be like that. But, no, this was more simple, more relatable. It was nice.

Although, Jaune certainly had something to say about her posters.

; Jaune? Jaune!

Jaune: Hmm? Oh, hello, Casey, fancy seeing you here today.

Casey Roll. One of the mothers he often saw when he was leading kids to school, and often was the one who gave him rather large servings of casseroles to him. While he did miss taking those kids to school, he was tired of all the casseroles...

Casey: Hi, Jaune! I haven't seen you lately, what are you doing here?

Jaune: Oh, I'm just here to make sure things go smoothly. We don't want another incident like we had at the wall the other day.

Casey: Oh, I heard about that. People were upset that, General Ironwood didn't order the repairs of the wall sooner if it was only going to take a matter of days to rebuild it. But, luckily he listened to, Robyn Hill so he decided to rebuild the wall, and fortify it!

Jaune smiled, Casey's enthusiasm was infectious, but even more so at the news that his little rumor was spreading so well. He told, Casey's friends about his little white lie, if she was repeating it, then no doubt others were as well.

Casey: So, even though you're here just watching things, are you enjoying yourself?

Jaune: To a point. I'm just inspecting the 'art' right now.

Casey: You mean the, Robyn's political posters.?

Jaune: Yes. The political posters...

Casey: ...

Casey: You hate it don't you?

Jaune: Oh absolutely. This an absolutely the worse design you can make for a political poster. I mean, give me a marker, and five minutes, and boom! Wanted poster!

Casey: ...

Casey: Oh shit... you could do that... How much?

Jaune: Hmmm...?

Jaune: At least ten thousand lien.

Casey: That's fair.

Jaune: I mean, why doesn't she have a slogan, or anything like that? 'Robyn Hill, The Hope of Mantle.' Something simple like that. At least she could be smiling in the photo. Or, is being dead on the inside a natural expression for people from, Atlas, and Mantle?

Casey: Yes.

Jaune stopped staring at, Robyn's picture to give, Casey a concerned look. But, based upon the expression on, Casey's face that she was giving him, she was in fact: dead serious.

Jaune: ...

Casey: ...

Jaune: Noted...

Casey shrugged her shoulders before she let loose a startled gasp as she darted to the side, Jaune looked over to see, Robyn, and a few of her, Happy Huntresses behind her.

Robyn: Hello, Specialist Arc, it's nice to see, General Ironwood's underlings showing some concern with the common people of, Mantle.

Jaune: Hello, Miss Hill. The concerns of, Mantle are also the concerns of, Atlas. So of course, General Ironwood is concerned about the common people of, Atlas. but, in this case, Miss. Hill I am here to keep the peace. We do not wish for another incident from your followers, like we did at the wall the other day.

Robyn: There wouldn't have been an 'incident' if, General Ironwood had rebuilt the wall once it was broken.

Jaune: So you say.

Casey had back away as, Jaune, and Robyn had begun to verbally spare with one another. As soon as she was out of earshot the conversation changed to something that carried a more casual air to it.

Jaune: Putting up a facade for your darling fans?

Robyn: We may be... allies of sorts, Jaune. But, since you are an, Atlasian Specialist, I do have to put up an air of defiance towards you, and by extension, General Ironwood. I'm glad you caught on so quickly, Jaune.

Jaune: It was simple enough to catch on to. I've seen how you act with my fellow, Specialists. So it was easy enough to play the... polite jerk with you.

Robyn: So you did... Well if you'll excuse me, I must address the people of, Mantle.

Jaune: Best of luck then... 'Councilwoman' Hill.

Jaune's comment may have been taken as a teasing jest from, Jaune. As if saying that she will never get a seat on the council. But, Robyn knew from the small smirk that, Jaune gave her was that she had his full support, and hope for her to get that seat on the council. For the good of, Mantle, and Atlas.

~~~

Robyn: Welcome everyone!

A cheer of zeal, and joy abundance echoed through the auditorium as, Robyn stood on the stage, and walked before her supporters. Jaune spared, Robyn a look as she took the stage before his eyes rested on the crowd, and watched them carefully.

Robyn: As many you have seen, Atlas have begun the reconstruction of the walls of, Mantle!

More cheers echoed as, Robyn celebrated the walls reconstruction with her supporters.

Robyn: I know many of you are happy that the people of, Atlas are supporting the people of, Mantle. That they are not only rebuilding the breach in the wall, but also fortifying it! Adding weapons to protect the people of, Mantle from the, Grimm!

Robyn: I know some of you are angry. That this should have been done years ago, that the walls should have been fortified as they will be the day they were built. Or, the fact that when they start firing those guns, it will be rather loud...

The audience laughed at, Robyn's simple remark. But, after hearing that, Jaune made a mental note in the back of his mind that they better inform people when they started test firing the weapon emplacements. He could think of several reasons why people wouldn't like that.

Robyn: But, the people of, Mantle, and Atlas are one people. We may call ourselves, Mantlites, or Atlasians, but at the end of the day, we are one people. One people who should not be fighting each other, but a common enemy: The Grimm.

Jaune could hear murmurs of agreements as, Robyn said those words. The Grimm were the people of, Mantle, and Atlas true enemy. Not each other. Jaune could agree with that, the Gri...?!

Jaune's mind abandoned his previous train of thoughts on, Robyn's word. Something was here, someone was here. Jaune had seen something. A lanky individual, a brown cloak over their head. Jaune recognized that shape. And, if it was who he thought it was, then things were about to get messy...

Jaune drowned out the world as he slowly weaved his way through the crowd. His mind was solely focused on the individual that was moving closer to the stage. Jaune quickly made his way to cut them off, but was careful to make his sure his presence was unnoticed. But, if it was who he feared it was, he knew their attention solely focused on, Robyn.

And, it was, considering they never saw him coming until his cerulean eyes locked in on his crazed yellow eyes.

Jaune: Hello, Tyrian~!

Tyrian: Wha?!

Jaune pulled out his sword, and sent it flying towards, Tyrian's face. People screamed as they ran out of the way, and started to flee the building. Unfortunately, Tyrian was a slippery bastard as he weaved out of the way of, Crocea Mors pristine white blade.

The crowd started screaming as they ran away. Jaune tapped his hip several times before deploying his shield, and taking a defensive stance at the mad scorpion faunas.

Tyrian: Whoa-hahaha! Well, hello again!

Jaune: I would say it's nice to see you again, but that'd be a lie.

Tyrian: Hahaha! Well it's nice to see you again!

Jaune: I doubt that...

Jaune was stalling for time; Jaune's greatest concern wasn't just, Tyrian, but also the civilians here. But, as he was stalling for time, most of the civilians in the auditorium had managed to escape, the only one that remained was, Robyn. She had sent, Fiona, and May off to help evacuate the civilians. With one extra huntresses, the odds were now on his side. But, nonetheless... the odds are never good when fighting a psychopath.

Tyrian: Well, since you spoiled the fun I bes... Whaa?!

Jaune stabbed forward with his sword hoping to catch, Tyrian off guard, but he managed to dodge out of the way, but, Jaune was more focused on keeping him here, and not letting the slippery bastard from getting away.

Jaune swung his sword in an upward arc, before leveling it it to stab at, Tyrian, before pulling back his blade back, deflecting the mad scorpions bladed gauntlets.

Tyrian jumped back before charging forward, and jumping on, Jaune's shield planning to throw him off balance, and take him down. But, just like many others before him, they all underestimated, Jaune's capabilities.

Jaune felt, Tyrian push on his shield, and cackle on as he readied his stinger to stab at, Jaune only for, Jaune to push his arm forward, and send him flying back. He spun in the air before landing on his feet, he let out a maniacal laugh before it was cut short as, Jaune bashed him in the face with his shield.

Jaune thought he was going to have an easier time dealing with this pyshco since his stinger was cut shot by, Ruby. But, evidently he had gotten a prosthetic tail to replace it. That just made him all the more dangerous.

Robyn: Jaune, duck!

Jaune 's body dropped into a squat before quickly standing back up as an crossbow bolt whizzed above him. Tyrian's bladed gauntlets flew through the air as he started knocking down the various blots, Robyn sent flying at him.

Tyrian leapt over, Jaune, and charged, Robyn. Robyn's crossbow changed into a bladed shield as she started crossing blades with, Tyrian. Jaune realized as he ran up towards the pair that, Tyrian wasn't just randomly here, he was here for a reason. He was here to carry out an assassination, and Robyn was the target.

Jaune: Robyn! He's a scorpion faunas! Watch out for his stinger!

Robyn: Got it!

This was the first time, Jaune got to see, Robyn in a fight, and to put it simply; She fought just like her name sake: Like a bird. Robyn's movement were as smooth, and as majestic as a robin in flight. Her skill with her weapon was as precise as a master violinist's. And she was deadly as a hawk on the hunt. It was mesmerizing to see. Almost.

Jaune's eyes weren't looking at the beauty of, Robyn's fighting style . His eyes were only taking in her passively, his attention was solely focused on, Tyrian. And, he saw something he didn't like.

A dark violet glow enveloped, Tyrian's hand as he reached for, Robyn's side. Jaune saw what a lilac field around, Robyn's side disperse, and make a hole on her side. Jaune suddenly realized something that was very, very dangerous.

That glow around, Tyrian's hand was an active sign of him using his semblance. And, Tyrian's semblance was capable of making holes in people auras! It was the perfect semblance for a, Hunter killer.

Jaune: Robyn! Back away from him!

Robyn, jumped back before, Tyrian could land a fatal blow. Tyrian charged her, but before he could he had to dash back as, Crocea Mors came flying past him. Jaune did see this as a dangerous move; Throwing his primary weapon, and leaving him relatively defenseless. But, Robyn's death was an even worse outcome for the future of, Mantle, and Atlas.

Tyrian laughed as, Jaune's sword flew past him, and he swiftly turned on him, and jumped atop of. Jaune. This action caught, Jaune off guard; Jaune had over extended himself allowing, Tyrian to land on top of him. Luckily, Jaune still had his shield on him, but, Tyrian had him pinned to the ground.

Jaune felt his aura being pulled away by, Tyrian's semblance. Jaune quickly activated his own semblance amping up his aura, trying to cover the breach in his wall, but it was too little, too late.

Jaune: AHHH?!

Jaune felt a searing burning pain as, Tyrian's stinger dug into his shoulder, injecting him with his vile poison.

Robyn: NOOO!

Robyn yelled as she fired bolt, after bolt at, Tyrian. But, Robyn had charged in too close to, Tyrian.

Tyrian effortlessly jumped off of, Jaune's prone body, and tackled, Robyn. Pinning her to the ground as his stinger rose into the air.

Tyrian: Ah-HAHAHA! It's my lucky day! Not only do I get to kill an annoying little, Huntsman! But, also the savior of, Mantle! Ah-HAHAHAHA!!!

Robyn's eyes widened in fear as, Tyrian's stinger hanged above his head, ready to dive down, and kill her. Robyn struggled against, Tyrian, trying to free herself from his grasp, but to no avail.

Tyrian laugh maniacally assured of his victory. But, as, Jaune watched, Tyrion prepare to kill, Robyn, he remembered something, something, Pyrrha had said to him years ago, back when she was training him on the roofs of, Beacon Academy, back when things were a simpler, happier time.

Pyrrha: "Remember, Jaune, landing the final blow is when your opponent is most vulnerable."

As Tyrian Laughed in mad glee at his assured victory, his laughter was suddenly cut short as, Jaune wrapped his hands around his head, and growled into the monsters ear.

Jaune: I'm not buried yet!

"SNAP, KER-CRAK!!!"

The sound of, Tyrian's neck snapping echoed throughout the auditorium like a gun shot. It was deafening in it's brutal energy, and the sound of the dull thud as, Jaune threw, Tyrian's wretched corpse off of, Robyn.

Jaune's breath came out heavily as he stared at, Tyrian's corpse, a maniacal smile still etched across his face. Robyn looked at, Jaune with wide eyes, stunned silent as she looked about her savior.

Jaune: But, you will be, you bastard son of a bitch!

Jaune yelled this out, panting heavily as before his body gave out, and he fell down, landing on the ground with a solid thud.

Robyn: Jaune...? Jaune?!

Robyn shouted his name as she ran over to him, cupping his face in her hands as she checked him over.

Robyn: Oh no, nonononono!

The doors to the auditorium burst open as several members of the, Specialist team came rushing in.

Clover: Jaune we got your message, what hap... Jaune?!

Clover, and Harriet ran over to, Jaune while, Marrow, Vine, and Elm kept the crowd out.

Clover: What the hell happened?!

Robyn: That psycho attacked us! He stabbed, Jaune with his tail!

Harriet: What psy...?! Wait, that's, Tyrian Callows?!

Clover: He stabbed, Jaune with his tail?!

Marrow: Fuck, that means he's been poisoned!

Clover: Call for a medevac!

Vine: On it!

Clover then pushed, Robyn out of the way as he looked down at, Jaune ever growing pale face.

Clover: Jaune! Jaune answer me!

He couldn't answer him, his voice had left him.

Clover: Jaune! Look at me! Look at me!

His couldn't look at him, his vision was getting blurry.

Clover: Jaune stay with me! Stay with me, Jaune!

He couldn't stay, he was leaving them.

Winter: JAUNE?!

His world faded into the darkness.

[lemonlover1110]

hii! I just want to say that the nanami dad series is my absolute favvv, I'd like to request toddler Chichi being the biggest mommy's girl ever LOL

Kento Nanami

Warnings: Pure Fluff

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

Kento has never had this issue before. He’s faced a lot of issues as a father, but not one like this… He can’t be mad at it and he can’t scold a toddler for it either– But there must be something wrong. As much as he loves you, there’s absolutely no way that you’re Chichi’s favorite parent.

“Mama!” Chichi stops paying attention to him the moment she sees you, even when he’s wearing a pink sparkly dress and a tiara. Chichi goes running to you, and you pick her up from the floor, proceeding to kiss her chubby cheeks.

Suki is focused on making her father beautiful, putting some eyeshadow and lipgloss on him, not caring too much that you’ve entered the room. Suki’s generally more drawn to her father, she always has been, so he doesn’t know how to deal with this issue.

He loves his daughters equally, but his daughters don’t love him equally. Maybe he’s forgotten some stage in Suki’s life that she was a total mama’s girl… Except he hasn’t. He won’t say it to your face, but he’s always known that Suki has a favorite parent and it’s him; therefore, he recognizes the signs. 

“What are my girls doing? Making daddy beautiful?” You sound like you’re on the verge of laughing. Seeing Kento like this always comes as a shock to you, even though it happens often in your household.

“Yeah, Chichi is helping Suki out today.” Kento answers, hoping it’ll get his youngest daughter’s attention. She doesn’t spare him a glance, instead she’s trying to reach for your hair. “Isn’t that right, Chichi?”

“Mama, movie.” Chichi completely ignores him, and he won’t lie, it stings. 

“You sure you don’t want to play with papa?” You ask her, seeing the pout that comes over Kento’s face. A man that’s capable of hiding any emotion is pouting… He’s either really upset or wants to get a message across.

“No.” She shakes her head, and you don’t laugh because it’s like making fun of your husband’s misery. It’s nice to be the favorite for once. 

“You coming, Suki?” You ask your eldest, not wanting to leave her behind. But before she can answer, Kento wraps her arms around her and brings her closer to him.

“She’s mine.” He wants to get a message across, and you can’t help but laugh. You’ve never seen your husband act like this, and he’d never act like this with anything else– There’s just something about his daughters.

“Woah, you can come too, big man. Was just making an offer.” You tell him before walking out of the place, your youngest in your arms.

“You wanna go with them too, Suki?” Kento sighs defeatedly, not believing that he’s acting like this because of a toddler’s actions. She shakes her head, wrapping her tiny arms around his neck.

“I have to make you beautiful, daddy.” Which brings a smile to his lips. At least he’s her favorite.

His daughters might not love him the same, but he sure loves his daughters will all of him.