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gtgbabie0 · 14 days ago

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Can I make a request for Ambessa with wife!reader and reader is a few months postpartum and she’s insecure about her figure. Ambessa decides to comfort her and show her how special she really is.

⋆⁺ ✮⋆⁺ Ambessa Medarda x Wife!Reader

Synopsis: {The birth of your child left you with many doubts and your wife proves them all wrong} CW: talks of childbirth, body image issues, themes of postpartum depression, bathing together. AN: I got so carried away with this. oml.

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The birthing bed was your battlefield as the wife to a fearsome warlord— a fate that had surprisingly brought you more happiness than you had originally anticipated, that was until your waters broke and the contractions started. Then you were cursing Ambessa’s name.

You were prepared for this, your handmaidens spent day and night explaining to you the pain and showing you hand-drawn pictures— your mother had even told you of her own experiences. It was all pointless because you quickly learned that no word or picture could ever even begin to describe the pain of childbirth.

It didn’t get much easier from there. The battle continued even after the birth of a healthy baby boy and girl—oh how grateful your wife was—twins, a strong boy and girl to carry on her name… a miracle. You only wished you could share her joy, but you couldn’t. There was an odd disconnect that had managed to wedge itself between you, your children, and Ambessa.

Your skin didn’t feel your own, hell, your whole life didn’t feel like yours— almost as if you had taken the place of some stranger, a different woman that was not you. That woman was more suited to be a mother, a wife. It was a sickening feeling, one that often left you immobilised in bed.

You didn’t want to face the mirrors, hold your babies, or have your wife look at you, much less touch you—hence why you slept with a pillow stuffed between you both, not wanting to risk it… despite how much you deeply yearned for it, and oh how you really did yearn for her comforting touch.

It was the reason your maid brings you your nightly tea with just enough crushed poppy flowers to knock you out— you preferred to sleep before your wife got back from her duties, although you told your maids differently.

“Leave it on the table.” The words leave you with a sigh, not looking over to her from your place on the sofa— a deep red velvet colour, soft to the touch, your wife only accepts perfection.

“Lady Medarda, surely a simple ginger tea would be better for you?— The pain shouldn’t be lasting this long.” bless her, she sounded so concerned. Of course, your excuse of birthing pains could only last so long, five whole months had passed since— the warmth of summer slowly dwindling away, replaced by a sharp chill that autumn brought.

You shake your head, bringing your fingertips to your temple with a pitiful glint in your eyes, ready to put on a show— then the bedroom door opens and your handmaiden is bowing to Ambessa, whose eyes are fixed onto you, stepping off to the side politely.

“You’re back early.” The words fly from your lips faster than you could even process them and far more harshly than intended, however, the quiver in your voice gives you away. Your false bravado was not lost on Ambessa, that mask you wore did not fool her.

“Leave us.” Her words are sharp, stern and has the maid scurrying off— dress clutched in her hands. You could already hear the gossip she was sure to spread with the other servants.

A sigh escapes you as your eyes flicker over to the flames in the fireplace, watching the embers dance wildly within the hearth— Ambessa’s heavy, golden spear hanging above, displayed proudly, every nick and indent tells a different story. You let your mind wander in hopes she'll drop it.

“Do I need to send for a doctor?” She doesn't. Your wife was a smart woman, she knew you like the back of her hand and could read all your inner thoughts, until recently— now getting a single word out of you was like trying to get blood out of a stone. Instead, she was left with this distance you had managed to put between yourself and her. Ambessa felt it, she just didn’t know how exactly to approach it and it was driving her crazy.

She was a practical woman, fixing her problems with strength, not emotions, this was not her strong suit. But she also did not know defeat.

“No, I am fine.” The lie didn’t sound convincing in the slightest, not even in your own ears— the words make you wince and from the sound of her scoff she didn’t believe you either.

You hated to be the cause of her concern, gods only know how busy the woman already was. Ambessa watches you, studying your movements with slightly narrowed eyes as you tug your shawl over your shoulders— grasping the soft fabric as if it were some sort of protective shield, a lifeline, that you wished desperately to disappear into.

“This is not fine, lie to your handmaidens all you want but do not lie to me.” Her tone is much softer than you deserve, you can’t help but cower away with a look of shame in your eyes— it only triples when she kneels down in front of you, her big, battle-worn hands resting over your knees.

The Ambessa Medarda, a feared warrior, kneeling before you like you were some sort of deity worth praying to… no it didn’t feel right.

The words die on your tongue, getting stuck in the back of your throat tightly— a whimper is the only thing you can let out, such a weak sound, strained with this insecurity that had been eating away at you for months.

“I do not know what it is— just an ache I cannot rid myself of, no matter what I do.” you breathe, dropping your head slightly as your gaze falls to her hands, the way her thumb rubs the inside of your knee. “I bring shame upon this family— upon you.”

Ambessa tuts at your words, pinching your chin between her index finger and thumb. “Shame?— look at me,” your eyes find her own hesitantly. “You are my greatest treasure… my proudest accomplishment.”

“I can’t be— I’m not fit for motherhood, to be your wife. I am weak.”

She bristles, “No flower, you are the furthest thing from weak. Motherhood is no easy feat, but we strengthen each other… you have me. Forever.” her eyes never once straying from your own.

You have only ever heard such loving sincerity from her a handful of times, on the day she asked you to marry her and the first time she had taken your maidenhead— your wedding night, and now. It’s a stern tone that is draped in earnest, so heavy with love, leaving no space for arguments.

Ambessa wouldn’t hear another word of it, of you speaking poorly of yourself— she had taken someone’s tongue after they foolishly insulted you, that wasn’t for nothing, that was out of devotion.

So all you can do is apologise— “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” but even that she doesn’t want to hear, her lips pressing a soothing kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“No more apologies, no more distance. You have me.” She promises, words whispered against your cheek before she pulls back to admire you with a soft yet firm stare. “Understood?”

“Yes, I understand.” You whisper, leaning into her hand as soon as her rough palm meets your cheek— your chest tightens and your eyes prickle with tears, it had been far too long since you felt her tender touch. With a hum of acknowledgement, she leans forward, still kneeling before you, her hand curving across your jaw to cup the back of your head— her lips meeting your own in a slow kiss, the rough pad of her thumb brushing your tears away.

“Shh my heart, I’m right here.” She soothes, lips brushing along your jaw when you melt further into her— trembling hands resting upon her broad shoulders which she cages within her own big ones as she pulls back to admire you. “I’ll have a bath prepared for us.”

Her words make you tense, something uncomfortable churning within your stomach at the thought. “No, my body has changed— it’s—”

“—It is just as perfect as the night I first had you.”

“No, it’s different.”

“Sweetling, you have brought life into this world. It’s a beautiful change.” She murmurs against your knuckles with an almost reverent gleam in her eyes, one that almost breaks down the defences that you have built up around your fragile heart, almost.

Ambessa can sense your unease, the hesitation— the way you can’t seem to meet her eyes and it destroys her, how had she failed to protect you from this? She brings your palm to rest over her heart, her eyes searching your own. “Trust me with this, let me worship you.” there's a soft question hidden beneath her tone, behind the firmness of what sounds like a demand.

“Just— Just a bath,” you whisper, glossy eyes and strained voice and she nods in response— cupping your face ever so gently as she repeats “Just a bath.” in agreement.

You trust her enough to guide you to your shared bathroom, enough to let her peel your nightgown off with careful hands, fingertips grazing across your body ever so slightly. The comforting scent of rose and honey wisps around you, carrying memories of nights you’ve shared like this and the prospect of being close to her seems a little less daunting as the familiarity warms your heart and the hot water envelops your body.

Ambessa's form engulfs your own as she sits behind you, strong thighs caging either side of you. It was protective, how her hands rub across your shoulders soothingly and the soft whispers of sweet nothings that leave her lips, muffled into the nape of your neck. She wishes to rid you of any self-doubt that had wormed itself into your mind.

Bubbles splay across your chest, your arms wrapped tightly around your knees that you’ve tucked beneath your chin in an attempt to make yourself smaller. “Flower?— relax into me,” her voice breaks you out of your thoughts as she slowly guides you back against her chest, wrapping an arm around your abdomen whilst the other moves to cup your cheek.

The candlelight flickers against your face as you tip your head backwards to look up at her, her thumb wiping away a stray tear that had escaped you. “Forgive me for not noticing your pain sooner,” She whispers, dropping a kiss to your forehead and then another to the tip of your nose.

The warm water laps at your bodies slightly as you move to curl up further into her, wanting to disappear in her embrace. “Just don’t let go,” and with that her arms tighten around your body, leaning to rest her forehead against your own.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about. Your place in my heart is yours, no one can take that from you.” You sigh at your words, letting out a teary giggle as she peppers kisses over your face. For the first time in a while, you felt whole, full, in a way you thought you would never feel again, for the time being at least… you savoured every second of it.

Her fingertips trace over the stretch marks left by your pregnancy, letting her lips trail over the dewy skin of your shoulders whispering soft “I love yous,” against you as she washes your hair— smirking at the way you let your guard down for her, how your eyes flutter close and the way sigh and hum in delight as she massages your scalp.

The water felt cleansing in a way, as it trickles down your head and along your back, washing away the months of aches that weighed on top of you. “How does that feel?” She asks, lips brushing along your jaw.

“Good, much better.” The relief in your tone brought immeasurable amounts of satisfaction to her that she couldn’t help but chuckle, happiness blooming through her chest as she replies with a soft. “That’s what I like to hear, my sweet.”

Ambessa vows to herself in that very moment to spend the night and every other night paying homage to the curves and dips of your body, to each stretch mark that maps over your skin until you feel nothing but love— she would put your pieces back together again no matter how jagged the edges were.

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sleepymarmot · 2 years ago

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Dunmer love poetry probably compares skin to ash, and eyes to embers

#tes #blah blah blah #it is a cold morning yet i am warmed by the hearth in my room #the fire that burned so hot last night is resting now #and yet there's a playful flicker of light in the embers #i touch the soft warm ash; shall i reignite the flame?#etc etc

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another-lost-mc · 2 months ago

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When it feels like he's constantly competing with everyone else for your attention, Solomon's not going to let a rare opportunity go to waste.

A Stroke of Luck || Solomon x gn!Reader

Content Warnings: NSFW. Soft smut. Corny holiday jokes, pet names, sixty-nine position, fingering and penetrative sex (top!Solomon). Word count: 3.1k.

A/N: This has been in my drafts for a long time but I'm happy to finally share it for the holiday season. Happy birthday to the magic man.

The sitting room of Purgatory Hall is bathed in the soft glow of the fireplace. Flames flicker and embers burn, filling the air with comforting heat and the crisp scent of firewood.

In the peaceful silence that's fallen over you like a blanket, Solomon nudges closer to you on the sofa. He mirrors your position and sits with a leg tucked underneath him. Your knees nearly touch while you chase away the night’s cool draft with each other’s company. Despite the chilly wind outside the comfort of Purgatory Hall that rattles the windows, you feel pleasantly warmed-through. There are two half-empty mugs of hot cocoa forgotten on the kitchen counter, and Solomon's sweetened breath fans gently over your face every time he leans in close to speak.

The dorm is surprisingly empty except for the two of you and there’s something profoundly intimate about conversing quietly long into the twilight hours without interruption. It’s a rare moment of privacy and you appreciate that none of your other friends are hovering nearby or demanding your attention for once.

Judging from Solomon’s rapt attention, his eyes darkening slightly when his gaze drops and lingers on your mouth more than once in the past few minutes, it’s obvious that he’s taking advantage of this rare opportunity too.

“It’s getting late," Solomon says softly, even though you’re both perfectly aware of the late hour. "I suppose I should walk you back soon.” His voice isn’t much louder than a whisper, as if he's scared that speaking too loudly will shatter this perfect moment. He’s certainly not rushing to get you out the door, not when he scoots closer to you instead.

Still, he knows he has to offer and despite the false half-smile he offers, there's a tremor of remorse laced through his words that tugs at your heartstrings. He would never ask you outright to stay no matter how much he might want to, but his body betrays the request he can’t bring himself to admit outright.

Don’t go. Please, stay with me. Don’t leave, not yet.

If he's too worried about being greedy with your company, it’s time to reassure him that he’s not the only one hoping tonight won’t ever end.

“But…what if I want to stay here with you instead?”

The heart wants what the heart wants, after all. It’s easier to be honest about your own desires when it feels like you're both hiding together in this little sanctuary, watching as your shadows dance together along the walls while light from the fireplace casts you both in a soft glow.

In all the three realms and the cosmos beyond, the only place you want to be right now is here with him, and more than anything, you want him to know it.

Solomon's eyes brighten with delight even as he taps his chin and hums deep in his chest while he pretends to ponder your question, and he laughs when you swat lightly at his chest and whine his name at his teasing.

You’re so cute when you’re flustered, he thinks to himself with so much fondness as his heart swells to bursting.

“Oh, I suppose you can stay the night,” he concedes, but after a few moments, his cheshire grin softens into something more genuine. “I’ve missed you too much to want to let you go just yet.”

His eyes shimmer in the dim light like dark water underneath a full moon. You shiver softly when he reaches for your hand, the one resting in your lap. His fingers trace the seven small stars etched into your skin, back and forth so gently that it tickles, so he doesn't scratch you with his nails by accident.

“You know, the angels were called back to the Celestial Realm for their own celebrations this week.” His fingers circle your wrist and rub smoothly over your pulse point before he flattens his palm over your thigh and squeezes your leg. You can feel his fingertips through your pant leg like a searing-hot brand, as if there was no material there at all separating your bare skin from his. “We have the place to ourselves tonight,” he murmurs as he leans close, his voice grows thick and needy with the desire he’s kept under control until now.

A chocolatey kiss lingers at the corner of your mouth and he nuzzles his nose lightly against his cheek when he pulls back again to stare deep into your eyes. He smiles when he finds whatever it is he’s looking for in your expression. “We can do whatever we want.”

Your lips gloss over the edge of his smile when you return his kiss and delight at the faint pink blush dusting across his cheeks. “What exactly do you have in mind, hm?”

“Oh, I can think of a few things." He grasps the back of your neck and a soft whimper escapes him when he finally pulls you close for a proper kiss, and with a slight tilt of his head his mouth slots perfectly against yours. He moves his lips slowly at first but deeper and with more urgency with each breathy sound that escapes you, the soft sighs and whimpers that haunt his dreams on nights when he tosses and turns in his empty bed.

He wraps his arms around you and his open-mouthed kisses turn greedy, all-consuming, and his tongue dips inside your mouth and he nearly moans at the familiar taste of you that he adores so much. His head spins and his heart pounds deep in his chest, overwhelmed with love and lust in equal measure, and deep in his gut, something claws at his self-control like he’s starved and you’re the only thing that can sustain him.

He craves you.

Solomon pulls back long enough to mumble an incantation under his breath before he presses his mouth against yours again, hungrier and more desperate than before. It takes a few moments for you to notice the subtle ripple in the air, the familiar sensation of magic that tickles your skin and you make a questioning noise that he swallows down.

As greedy as Solomon is for you, your fingers weave through his hair and cling to his shirt because you want him just as badly. It’s been too long and you can feel the eagerness in his soft, slightly chapped lips, and in the way he says your name with a hushed sigh or whiny moan. When you pull back to catch your breath, he sucks lightly on your bottom lip and nips it gently between his teeth before letting go.

You can hear his sharp inhale when you palm the bulge in his pants. He sneaks a thigh between your legs before he’s on you again, kissing you senseless while his hands grip the backs of your thighs and encourages you to grind against him. You rut against him mindlessly, squeezing his cock through his clothes, marveling at how thick and heavy it feels and salivating at the thought of guiding it inside you instead.

Without warning, Solomon breaks the kiss and your eyes blink open slowly when he detangles himself from your embrace and drops down to the floor. Underneath him is a large pile of soft blankets and fluffy pillows spread across the floor, summoned from his bedroom with the bit of magic he cast earlier so you can be comfortable.

(He might be desperate to spread you out beneath him, pounding into you with everything he has, but he's not so out of control that he won't ensure your comfort first before he takes you.)

Solomon’s heated kisses, the cozy nest he’s made for you on the floor, the thought of making love in front of the fireplace - it’s so perfectly him, the way he uses magic to create these whimsical, romantic moments when he can finally have you to himself.

And who are you to deny him?

His half-lidded gaze falls to your naked chest when you pull off your shirt and toss it aside. He freezes for a moment like he’s stunned by the expanse of exposed skin suddenly on display for him, and his eyes flitter quickly over your chest and down the gentle slope of your belly.

You realize that he always looks at you like this, as if he’s utterly entranced by the sight of your naked body as though it were the first time.

You also realize that your dear sorcerer is still wearing far too many clothes.

He rushes to take his clothes off when you flick open the button at your waist, and once you’re both stripped down to your underwear, he pulls you down onto the makeshift bed he’s made and holds you in his lap. You’re warm and needy and he can’t resist the temptation to touch all the parts of you he adores without all those pesky clothes in the way. His fingers dance along your spine and trail down your sides. His fingers curl over your hips and he nuzzles against your chest, smearing your skin with wet, lazy kisses while he enjoys the sensation of your hands carding gently through his hair.

There’s so many ways he wants to touch you, so many places he wants to explore with his fingers or his mouth, and he considers all the possibilities until he finally makes up his mind.

He leans back against the plush blankets and blinks at you innocently when he smooths his hands over the swell of your ass and gives your cheeks a little squeeze. You nearly lose your balance when he pulls you on top of him.

He traces along the seam of your underwear and dips underneath the flimsy cotton. Arousal pools between your thighs and it sticks to his fingers as he strokes you.

You try to coax his hand closer to where you’re desperate for him to touch you with more purpose but he clicks his tongue at your impatience. You pout your lips, but when you glance down between your bodies, a strange splash of colour catches your attention.

“Sol, what are you wearing?”

Solomon stammers nervously when you pull away and sit back on your heels between his legs. He’s wearing the type of soft black boxer-briefs he likes, but this pair has a large sprig of mistletoe embroidered on the crotch. The shape is distorted by his erection that tents the fabric slightly.

You tilt your head as if to ask, “Really?”

“It’s only a little festive fun, my darling.” He looks a little bashful and he wonders if this was a misstep. It was meant to be a lighthearted joke, a more creative spin on the human world tradition he’d like to seduce you with. The last thing he wants is to make you feel pressured to do anything you don’t want to.

His breath hitches when you trace over the shape of mistletoe as if you’re considering what to do with him. His cock twitches underneath your fingers as you tease him through the fabric.

The room is startlingly quiet except for his panted breaths and a log cracking in the fireplace. There’s an apology on the tip of his tongue because he doesn’t want this night to be ruined by his own silliness, but Solomon’s mouth falls open with a surprised moan when you suddenly bend low and nuzzle your cheek against his cock through his boxers. You tug impatiently at the waistband of his boxers and he lifts his hips obediently so you can pull them down his legs. They join the pile of crumpled clothing nearby when you toss them over your shoulder.

“T’is the season and all,” you murmur as you settle between his legs, pushing his pale thighs apart to give you more space. “And I suppose if you want a kiss from me that badly…” Your voice trails away as you lower your head again.

The sight of you on your knees like this is nearly enough to undo him. Your fingers wrap gently around the base of his cock and your lips are plump and shiny from kissing. He can feel your soft exhale across his pelvis when you lower your head so you can suck him into your mouth.

“Wait,” Solomon breathes out suddenly. You glance at him in confusion and he fumbles clumsily at your arms and tries to pull you up. When you hesitate, he licks his lips and his dark eyes bore into yours. “Turn around darling, I want to taste you too.”

His request surprises you. It’s not the first time he’s wanted to do this, but there’s a certain amount of nervousness that pools in your gut when you think about putting your body on display like that for him. What settles your insecurity is the undeniable truth that you trust him, with your heart and your body and your love and your vulnerability and everything in between. He’s selfless with his pleasure because he wants to please you too. After a few moments you slowly nod your head and the smile that curls his lips is downright naughty.

It’s awkward to maneuver your body the way Solomon wants but he helps keep you steady while you settle into place. Your limbs tremble slightly, but you don’t know whether it's from excitement or nervousness or both. He distracts you with whispered sweet nothings under his breath, a stream of babbled, soft-spoken praise about how gorgeous you are and how badly he wants you. His hands run up and down your thighs soothingly when you’re finally in position above him.

His soft, snowy-white hair tickles your leg when he turns his head to kiss your thigh, then he grabs your hips and gently urges you down, down, down, closer to his mouth. He’s always so impatient, so eager to please you. He’s determined to make this worth your while.

His fingers spread you open wider for him, and when you finally kiss the tip of his cock and swipe your tongue lightly across the slit, his stuttered groan is lost between the apex of your thighs. The vibration shoots through you as his tongue laps greedily at your most sensitive spots, hot and wet and yearning for his touch.

The muffled sounds of your pleasure and his, growing in volume and frequency and desperation, are drowned out by the slick noises of lips against skin, a depraved symphony that he’s determined to coax from you over and over again.

His tongue flicks greedily at your entrance, teasing the tight rim with the slightest bit of stretch. His cock slips from your mouth when your lips fall open with a loud moan but he doesn’t mind - he wants to hear more of those sounds, and he pulls you down even more so you’re nearly smothering him with your body.

Solomon senses that you’re close when your hips start to move with the slow, grinding rhythm of his lips and tongue. There’s an endless stream of curses and pleas and whimpers tumbling from your mouth, punctuated by gasps and moans that rattle in your chest he pulls from you without mercy. It’s not long before a sharp gasp and a broken cry of his name when your body clenches around his tongue and your release spills across his fingers. He laves over the sticky mess between your legs and savors every delicious drop while he keeps you in place with an arm tucked over your thigh, and he doesn’t stop. Your body shakes above him when he pushes you towards that narrow ledge where pleasure and pain mingle together. Not enough slowly becomes too much and he lets you go when you squirm in his hold to break free from his grasp.

You settle on your back next to him with a soft sight that’s sweet and content, but without hesitation he follows you like being pressed side-to-side isn’t close enough for his liking. He rolls on top of you and he licks his lips with a wickedly satisfied hum before kissing you with all the pent-up desire that still thrums deep within him. His slick tongue pushes gently into your mouth where your scent and taste still cling to him most.

“I want you,” he murmurs against your lips, and though the words are muffled there’s no mistaking what he hopes for next. His erection is firm where it rests between your legs, smearing the faintest amount of stickiness on your skin as it bounces lightly with each twitch and subtle jerk of his hips.

“I want you, I want…can I? Please?” He breathes hotly against your ear as his raspy voice hitches, exhaling a shaky moan while he holds himself above you, waiting.

If you denied him this, you know he’d pull himself off you in an instant without complaint. His desire would ebb and fade away while he holds you quietly for the rest of the night, content with your company itself and any disappointment he feels is gone by morning.

His eyes are hungry and loving in equal measure and with him so close but not close enough, you realize how empty you are without him warming you with the weight of his body and filling you with everything he has. Words fail you but he doesn’t need to hear them, not when you kiss him back just as desperately while your hand reaches down between you and guides his cock inside. Trembling fingers dig into his sweat-slicked back as he moves, slipping over familiar pact marks as you hold him tight enough to bruise. His pace starts slowly at first but grows faster, each thrust filling you so perfectly, burying your cries against his shoulder and spurring him into a pace that loses its rhythm as the pleasure builds inside like a dam about to burst.

When he comes inside you for the first time that night (and certainly not the last), he whispers your name brokenly but with so much love that you can’t help but come too.

Later, much later, when you’re both limp with exhaustion and finally satisfied, Solomon curls protectively around you in a soft nest of bedding on the floor. His slow, rhythmic breathing and the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your ear lull you into a comfortable sleep. His body heat chases away the late night's cold even as the glowing embers of the fire nearby finally fade into darkness.

Read More: Obey Me Masterlist

#obey me #obey me solomon #obey me solomon x reader #obey me x reader #obey me smut #solomon x reader #solomon smut #x reader #gn!reader

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daosies · 27 days ago

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when you get sick

sylus, zayne, xavier ♡ gn!reader

warnings: not proofread, kissing (xavier), reader is the protagonist but gender neutral, implications of myth lore (all three), sylus calls u "sweetie", reader is hospitalized (zayne), sharing the same bed (xavier)

notes: i wrote this with nothing but sylus on my mind and a dream 😍

also this is my first time writing zayne o(*￣▽￣*)ブ plz forgive me if he's ooc or his lore is inaccurate

Sylus told himself that he’d wait.

Maybe they just forgot, he thinks, swirling his glass of wine, I wouldn’t put it above them. You have a knack for being careless; it’s one of the things that makes you so cruel, second only to the painful ignorance you have towards his—...

Sylus clears his throat, not wanting to continue the thought; still, the sentiment lingers, drifting to and fro, scattering across his mind and permeating into the forceful silence. You (he takes a deep breath)—you are (he sets down his glass of wine), you (he rubs his temples, and the thought ends there). You.

And once more, his mind returns to you, unrestrained, uncontrolled—because nothing in this world belongs to him; everything is yours. From the thoughts of his mind to the beat of his heart, he is yours; why else was he given the ability to perceive, if not for you?

Sylus was crafted, forsakenly, for the sole purpose of worshiping you; he was given eyes so he could see you, hands so he could feel you, and a heart so he could feel the ache and the spasm when you left.

Because you’re cruel. Because he’s cruel. Because he deserves to suffer, because he must suffer, when he is able to perceive you, unfathomably, and the grand, obscene void that follows thereafter.

Because you exist! Around him, beside him (he glances at the warm, flickering candlelight, its ember illuminating his wine a valiant shade of carmine), but most poignantly, (his gaze does not leave the flame—his fist, however, comes up to the left side of his chest, fisting the fabric of his shirt) you exist within him.

Like a flame. Smoldering. Like a bomb. Ticking. Like, like—he takes a deep breath, and he continues to wait.

He looks at his dim phone screen. Nothing. But Sylus told himself that he’d wait. Maybe you forgot to call him, or, maybe you didn’t want to call him at all. (He takes a sip of wine, wincing at the bitter flavor—was it always that way?) Maybe, you decided that he wasn’t worth your time, that maybe, of all the people in the world who want you (his brows furrow, and one of his hands come to fiddle with the holster of his pistol), he was the least suitable option.

Sylus scoffs. Truly, if he was the least suitable option, he should have let that bullet you put in his heart stay there. At least then, he could attribute the throbbing to the gnawing metal and not the mere thought of you.

(That’s all it takes. A thought. A fraction. A wisp! The mere thought of you is enough for his heart to mourn, for it to ache despite there being far worse things done to it; a knife, a dagger, a gun! A bullet! And you—you, oh, in all your wondrous cruelty, manage to triumph over it all!)

If they’re going to leave me, Sylus thinks, at least leave no trace. If you’re going to leave him, then at least spare him of your memory—he thinks of flowers, of treasures and gold—or take away his sight! His mind! His lungs!

Make it so that he cannot live! Make it so he cannot comprehend the thought of your absence, so he has never felt the satiation of your existence! Starve him! An insatiable creature will never realize its hunger if it has never felt full!

But your cruelty (Sylus chuckles to himself, bemused) is reassuring; at the very least, he can expect that you won’t go down without a fight. Or two. Or three—spanning across lifetimes and eras.

In this life, however, his fight is against the age of modern technology and his own stubbornness; should he surrender and call you first? But he doesn’t want to be easy, he has always prided himself in his self-restraint; after all, that was how he was able to let you go. Restraint.

(His hand, briefly, grazes over the left side of his chest. He feels a spasm, a choke and a throb, his ribs beginning to constrict, his lungs stagnating.)

Should he call you first? Should he give in, and make himself easy? Should he forget self-restraint, and pursue what he has believed to be his? His treasure, his deity, his—his!

Sylus doesn’t need to mull over the idea for long. He picks up his phone, your number on the top of his contact list, starred. Forget his pride. Forget his restraint. When did he ever have any of that? He has always hoarded his treasures, keeping them close to his heart—because holding something in his hand means that it’s his, forever.

Your caller picture comes up. You; smiling; glowing; glimmering. Instinctively, Sylus is drawn to radiant things. It’s a primal urge, an innate trait—he looks down at your image, unable to contain his adoration, his gaze trailing over his treasure—which cannot be restrained. He’s insatiable. He’s insatiable because he, once, perceived you. Eons ago.

(In a field of flowers, in an oasis of gold, Sylus perceived you. He perceived you, and oh, from that moment on, he has worshiped you. Forget the gold! Forget the jewelry! Forget him! He is yours; an offering; a submission; a pawn. He is yours! For that is the law of this world.)

The phone rings. Once, twice—Sylus smirks, thinking, Why play hard to get when I’m already theirs?—before finally, you pick up. He sets his glass of wine down. A flame. A bomb!

“Finally decided to answer, hm?” he says.

From the other end, Sylus hears this: a rustle; a deep breath; a cough and a sigh. His smirk falters a little, his heart, wildly, going: tick-tick-tick…

“Sylus,” you call, your voice sounding raspy. “I can’t talk right now,”—your words are minced by a slaughter of coughs—“sorry. I’m sick. I took medicine already, though.”

He didn’t wait for your explanation. The moment you spoke his name, the syllables sounding ethereal from your tongue, Sylus stood up and reached for the keys of his motorbike, the engine rumbling before you even finished your sentence.

(All you have to do is call his name! All you have to do is perceive him, really! To allow him to exist within a fragment of your thoughts, and that is enough!)

“I’m on my way.”

Rustling. Sylus can picture your face, disheveled, startled, as you quickly retort, “There’s no need! It’s late!”

Sylus laughs a little. How adorable, he thinks, sneaking another glance at your caller photo. “Late? Have you forgotten who I am, sweetie?”

Coughs. “Ugh.” You sniffle.

“Open the door,” Sylus says, his tone not matching his words. When it comes to you, Sylus becomes unlike himself, his hardened exterior crumbling away, his voice reincarnates, contorting from a callous demand to a subtle plea. He metamorphosizes! From a sinner to a lover! Both equally egregious in magnitude, both equally intense and violent and…

“Huh?! Already?” From the other end, Sylus can hear you rummaging through your layers of bedsheets and blankets, your movements shabby and unrefined as you make a beeline towards the door. The cacophony dips into a muffled buzz, your voice becoming distant as you leave your phone behind.

A lull. The door creaks open; where you stand, the light fails to meet him; the shadow of your figure etched onto his skin.

A lover. He looks at you; not even bothering the end the call, or hide his obvious stare; Sylus smirks. His gaze trails over your features, affirming to himself that the camera does not do you justice, that the ability to perceive and feel the actual magnitude of your existence is otherworldly.

This—this cannot be mimicked: the radiance, the glimmer, the recollection of all things that are beautiful. When Sylus looks at you, he thinks of flowers, of gold and of an ever-expanding sky. Back when the world was lovely, and now, when it became lovely again.

You take a step back, eyes widening once your foot fails to meet the ground, the world beginning to spin while you brace yourself for impact. But the landing never comes. The small of your back meets a firm, warm palm, the scent of pine overwhelming your senses.

(Instinctively, you lean forward. Sylus notices this. When you flinch back, embarrassed, however, Sylus’s other hand comes to press against the back of your head, bringing you closer to him.)

(“Trying to escape?” he whispers, lips near the shell of your ear. “You’re going to have to try harder than that.”)

Before you can retort, Sylus lifts you up, heading in the direction of your bedroom, unusually familiar with the layout of your apartment. Sylus’s touch has always been featherlight—even when he tucks you into bed, and pulls the sheet over your chin, and presses his knuckle against your forehead, his calloused fingers are tender, just barely grazing your skin.

(He had learned, long ago, that the most prized of possessions are often the most delicate.)

“Which do you prefer, sweetie?” he asks, placing a damp towel on your forehead. (Since when did Sylus know how to take care of people? you wonder.) “Porridge or hot tea?”

(He had learned, long ago, that to be a lover is to change. To morph, to change and to grow into someone kinder. Someone gentler. Most of all, however, to be a lover is to learn.)

“Hot tea,” you reply, throat feeling terribly sore. “But—”

Sylus’s glare silences you, the words falling down your esophagus, their wings clipped. Your throat is soar. You didn’t tell him, but still, you think he knows. (How does he know? you wonder.)

(To be a lover is to understand.)

“Hot tea it is.”

He finds your kitchen with ease. It’s as if Sylus lives with you, the way he navigates through your various cabinets and cooking utensils, familiar with everything—from your favorite cup to your favorite tea, Sylus knows you.

(But how? you wonder.)

(To be a lover is to know. It’s like an instinct, an innate trait, a primal desire and an insatiable urge. When he was crafted, forsakenly, Sylus was given eyes to perceive and hands to touch—but also, he was given purpose, like how life exists to survive, like how death exists to control life. Sylus exists to love. He lives to love. He dies, time and time again, for love.)

From the doorframe of your room, Sylus stares at you, unabashed, unrestrained. A cup of hot tea steams in his hand.

(Sylus loves for you. He finds love around you. From the color of your favorite cup to the tune of your favorite song, Sylus finds love. He finds purpose. He finds meaning.)

“Careful,” he says, helping you sit up in your bed. Sylus wipes the beads of sweat from your face with the soft taps of a towel, his dexterous fingers, used to pressing triggers, now reinvented to serve you.

(That was their original purpose.)

“The tea is hot,” he states, blowing, the steam bending to his breath. “Take small sips.”

“To think the leader of Onychinus is cooling down my tea,” you say, managing to crack the slightest of smiles despite the exhaustion.

Sylus chuckles. “It’s your privilege.”

(What is the purpose of his title, if not for you?)

“Wow,” you reply, “what an honor.”

(What is the purpose of him, if not to love you?)

“Truly.” Sylus stares at you, your image devoured in flames. “What an honor.”

After finishing the tea, and settling completely into bed, you find yourself fighting the drowsiness. Sylus finds his seat by your side, turning off the lights with the snap of his Evol, not wanting to part from you, even if it’s for but a moment.

“Sleep, sweetie. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Really?” you remark, finding it in yourself to banter despite teetering across the border of consciousness.

“Always,” Sylus affirms, his large hand coming to cover your eyes, forcing you to fall, engulfed by the darkness. But Sylus would never let you brave the underworld alone, so he rests his head against the imprint of your figure in the mattress, breathing in your existence.

He closes his eyes. Vulnerable. His only weapon is his gun, holstered onto his belt. His hands are occupied, however, with yours. You could kill him now if you wanted to. If you wanted to end Onychinus. To restore justice in the N109 Zone. To receive merit within the Hunter’s Association.

Your breathing evens out. Sylus feels his heart throb. A bullet was there, once; he wished it could stay there; it was your offering to him, after all.

Tick-tick-tick…

You’ve fallen asleep. Sylus scoffs. There goes your chance for a quick and easy promotion.

(To be a lover is to wait. For the explosion, for the certainty, for the promise of eternity despite the inevitable end.)

(To be a lover is to have purpose.)

Sylus slips his fingers into the gaps of yours, and he rests. Like this, he is bound to you (but Sylus has always been bound to you—from his hands, to his eyes, to his lips, to his soul, Sylus is chained. He is destined to find you, to perceive you, and most fervently, to love you again.)

(Sylus loves you.)

Boom!

(It has always been that way.)

“Dr. Zayne, you have an urgent message,” an automated voice says, echoing throughout his office. Zayne glances up from his various documents, sage-green eyes fixating on the projection before him. It’s a missed call from a sister hospital.

“Continue,” he replies, twirling a pen in between his deft fingers, his pale skin illuminating under the dim overhead lights. Zayne looks at the time; it’s almost midnight—he should call you soon.

Zayne has a habit of calling you, even if it’s only for a minute or two; he does it for the sake of doing it. To check up on you. To see if you’re doing fine, or if your heart is giving you any troubles. As any good doctor would do for their patients.

(Zayne has a habit of lying to himself, for not following the standards of which he sets for others. He always tells you not to lie, to not make a fool of yourself when he can see through your facade so easily, but he himself lies, every day, at midnight, when he dials your number and waits for the ring; for the pause and for the breath, he lies, saying that it’s his duty as your physician.)

(It is a facade he refuses to recognize, a fault which he feigns ignorance to.)

(He calls you because he wants to hear your voice. To be reassured of your existence, to savor the moments of your vitality, which has slipped from his grasp, over and over again.)

“Dr. Zayne,” someone says. Zayne looks at the holograph which manifests onto the projected screen, recognizing it to be his coworker. Briefly, his thoughts of you are interrupted, his attention belonging wholly to the projection.

“We need your assistance immediately. One of your patients has been admitted into our hospital. At the moment, their vitals are stable, but they are experiencing abrupt seizures and…”

Zayne’s collected demeanor falters. His tormented mind conjures up the worst of thoughts, because although Zayne has a plethora of patients, only a handful of them suffer from infrequent, violent seizures. And only a handful of them—he recognizes his coworker, who, similarly to Zayne, chose to specialize in cardiology—suffer from such severe symptoms.

He thinks of you. Zayne’s tormented mind always finds itself at the concept of you, curled inwards, tucked away into a gentle, petaled flower: fragile; fleeting; inevitable. And at the thought of you, everything freezes. Frost begins to tickle the tip of his nose, his breaths leaving in frantic, condensed puffs.

(When will this cycle end? The desperation, the cling to survival, the repetition of the beginning and the end, never to last despite him doing everything in his power to prolong your presence—Zayne wants you to live!)

“I’ll be there,” Zayne declares, watching the holograph disappear. “Send me the location.” He grabs a black trenchcoat, ignoring the frost that infects his skin, the numbness of his limbs, the weeping of his heart.

(He wants you to survive! He wants and wants and, daringly, despite everything, he—he still finds it in his heart to want you.)

When Zayne arrives at the hospital, his hands—which have performed surgeries, which have stitched the tiniest of arteries, which have connected the smallest of tissue—tremble. He feels sweat trickle down the side of his head, unable to fully contain himself as he shows his badge haphazardly, searching through the various units before arriving at the dreadful, forsaken ICU.

Zayne is no stranger to the intensity of hospitals, the sharp scent of disinfectant, the repetitive beeps of various monitors. He is no stranger to the haunting sights of injected needles, of bedridden patients, of flatlines—but you, oh, you, seem to reinvent the world that was once normal to him. When it comes to you, Zayne views hospitals not as a symbol of health and life, but as an omen of doom.

When it comes to you, Zayne remembers the past, the repeated history, the inevitable, incessant realization that both you and him are terribly finite. That, no matter what he does, or how many lives he saves, you will never be one of them.

(That is a known fact of this world, Zayne thinks.)

But the inevitable end is followed by Zayne’s own helpless pride, his insatiable and desperate instinct. He’s a lover. He’s selfish. He wants to love you—he, he wants to live with you! Despite anything! Despite everything! If he must defy his creator, then so be it! Zayne will find a way to rewrite fate; he will find a way to love you; he already loves you.

It has always been that way, from this life to the next, and the many thereafter. No matter how many incarnations he must live, nor how many times he is forced to watch you perish, Zayne will love you.

(That is a known fact of this world, Zayne thinks.)

“Dr. Zayne, you’re here! Please, come this way!”

Feverishly, Zayne follows after his coworker, offering apologies to the various people he runs into while racing towards your room. (When did he decide that it was you, the patient who is suffering from seizures?) Despite the tremble of his hands, Zayne’s breaths are steady, his shoulders accustomed to the enormity of pressure, your life dangling above his head. (Because history repeats. Because Zayne is guided by an inexplicable desire, and this desire is fed by fear and yearning and…)

You appear before him—like a premonition, like a figment of his wildest imagination, like a fantastical and mystical creature!—in a manner which, despite your unfathomable beauty, Zayne wishes he would never see again. Just once is enough: you; the hospital sheets; the haunting wires; the erratic green line which quantifies your vitality.

Somehow, Zayne believes you to still be wondrous, your existence astonishing, illuminating every reach of the world! No matter how many times his eyes have had the privilege of beholding you, Zayne is still a stranger to the colossal magnitude of your presence, the remarkable radiance, the light, which one never truly perceives, but instinctively understands its importance.

The sun. Who would ever dare to look at the sun? Its light, although significant, is blinding—it could permanently damage one’s retinas, effectively blinding them for life.

(And at the same time, the sun grants life. What a cruel and twisted fate—to be needed and never truly accepted, to be needed and still be pushed away.)

Zayne looks at the sun. His finger barely grazes across your face, feeling the searing warmth, your incomparable light melting away the frost that once consumed his skin. When he looks away, Zayne is unable to see. He is unable to recognize anything that isn’t you: the sun; the light; the life.

His eyes have been reworked, trained and forced to perceive only you, your image burned into his retinas, his hands feeling oh-so warm.

“Dr. Zayne, this patient’s symptoms are unlike anything we have ever seen before.”

He blinks, recognizing the existence of a face but not truly acknowledging who it belongs to (since, undoubtedly, it is not yours).

“Yes,” he replies, glancing back at you, sage-green eyes trailing over the bridge of your nose, the curl of your chapped lips, the furrow of your brows, your solace disturbed. “They are experiencing a unique congenital heart disease.”

“This is congenital?”

Zayne swallows thickly, never tearing his gaze away from you.

“I’m not sure.”

To think he entered this profession for you. To think he spent years of his life learning about the intricacies of the heart, studying the finest of tissues and the most minute of cells, only for his knowledge to be insignificant. Only for his knowledge to be worthless, for his meaning to be starved, for his existence to be futile.

(When will this cycle end? When will his futility end? When will he finally become worth something? When will he finally be able to save you?)

“Is there any medication that is being administered to nullify the severity of their symptoms?”

“Yes,” Zayne replies, glancing back down at your frail figure, your sickly countenance. “But it must be rotated often, as they build tolerance rather quickly.”

(Just how many more lives will it take? How many more times must he watch you perish? How many more times must he fight against the inevitable, the grand, twisted wheel of fate?)

“These seizures are severe, Dr. Zayne. We must find a cure.”

Zayne feels thorns prick at his skin. He opens his mouth to respond, but the words die before they can reach his tongue. He is but a shell of himself. As every incarnation passes, Zayne re-experiences loss, and although he thought he would grow accustomed to the enormity of its void, he feels the emptiness each time. Wholly.

Every time Zayne experiences loss, he thinks of you. Every time he lives, and every time he dies, he thinks of you. Every time a flower blooms, he thinks of you.

(Somehow, this shell finds it in itself to love. Time and time again. Somehow, this shell never learns. This shell chooses to love you, from one life to the next, even if the outcome is already predetermined, even if it, once, announced the outcomes itself.)

The magnitude of loss is equal to the magnitude of your existence. Of the grandness of your presence. Of the unparalleled actuality of you. You cannot be over-dreamed.

No matter how many times Zayne finds you, he is left breathless, feverish, satiated. No matter how many times Zayne loses you, he is left desperate, grieving, yearning.

Your voice is imprinted in his mind, yes, and your image worshiped by his retinas, yes, but no matter how many times Zayne perceives you, he believes you to be fantastical—like, like a star! Like the sun! Bright, exhilarating, radiant!

“Zayne?” a voice calls, transcending across lifetimes. Its timbre has been transcribed, remembered, desired; across eons, across universes. It’s you.

And Zayne heeds your voice like an emissary does their master, like it’s enchanted, like it’s a tonic, promising happiness and vitality despite Zayne knowing better, despite how he knows that, of all the laws in this world, your inevitable end is the sole constant.

He stiffens, his hand immediately coming to turn off the lights, not wanting you to bear witness to the weakness of his expression and the overwhelming brightness of the lamp.

“[Name],” he replies, drawing circles into the back of your hand. I’m here, Zayne thinks, I’m sorry I’m late.

Zayne has a terrible habit of not voicing out the magnitude of his feelings, the swell of his heart. He has a terrible habit of not fully expressing the extent of which you mean to him, the extent and the desire which draws him from one life to the next, equally as forlorn and despairing as before.

(You will never realize how he has chased you, how he has sought to save you, how he has fought against fate, wishing to defy the inevitable. You will never realize how Zayne forfeited everything, how he burned in the sun, how he reached for your light, despite feeling the wax melt, despite the plummet and the shocking death, his figure submerged.)

“You’re here,” you say, voice marred by sleep and your face stained with tears and snot. Still, Zayne thinks of you to be ethereal—divine, otherworldly. Truly, no matter how many times his eyes have beheld you in their irises, Zayne is left dazed. Silenced. Incapable of uttering anything anymore, so all that’s left within him—the enormous desire, the overwhelming grief—is left uncommunicable, irrevocable. Forever.

(You will never realize how he would do it again. How he continues to do it again. How he would—if you did so much as asked him to—build those wax wings again, and don them again, and jump and soar and fall again. He would throw himself into the sea, even without those wings. He would—he would!)

Zayne doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how to. His hand tightens around yours, grief swelling in his throat.

“I thought,” you begin, but are interrupted by a fit of coughs. Zayne brings a cup of water up to your lips, tilting it ever-so slightly. You swallow, then continue again, “I thought you were busy.”

“Not at all,” Zayne replies, thumbing his hand over your cheekbone, barely applying any pressure. He wants to say more—like how he’ll always be there for you, like how he’ll always make time for you—but then, Zayne realizes the inevitable, the laws of this world, the fate which he has tried for so, so long to defy.

His words never manage to escape his throat. They come to a stuttering stop, then silence, then acceptance.

(He will not always be there for you. He cannot always make time for you.)

“I wish,” you say, voice muffled by your sobs. Zayne feels his chest pulsate, his heart hammering against its confines, threatening to escape his body and crawl into yours. “I wish it didn’t hurt so much, Zayne.”

“I know,” he whispers, trying to contain his expression, trying to console you with the patterns he draws into your hand, the handkerchief he uses to wipe your face. “I know. I’m sorry, [Name].”

(When will this cycle end? When will he finally be able to love you, without fear, without fail? When will you finally be able to realize, in full, the magnitude of his colossal desire, the ghostly heart he hosts, the flowers which bloom all across his chest, wilting before they can be bestowed upon you?)

Sometimes, Zayne wishes he could cease to exist. So you wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. So he wouldn’t have to witness it anymore.

(But if he never existed, he would have never been able to perceive you, to realize the extent of all that is beautiful, to recognize the fragility of life, its fleeting loveliness. If he never existed, Zayne would have never heard the wildness of your voice, its divine tune, its incomparable sound. If he never existed, Zayne would have never beheld you within his eyes, the enchanted sight, the ethereal image.)

(And that, to him, is a fate worse than death itself. Worse than the endless cycles. Worse than the inevitable end.)

You’re alive, Zayne realizes, watching your breathing steady itself, watching your heart stroke up and down, in the form of a green line, beating, on and on, ceaselessly.

You’re alive. Zayne chokes up at the thought. You’re alive!

His gaze tears from the heart monitor to your face. Incomparable.

(This life will be different.)

Inevitably, Zayne’s hand finds yours, the warmth from your skin sinking into his. He stares at your figure, outlining your features despite the darkness, his mind not once needing light to conjure up your image.

Although he has decided this long ago, Zayne’s resolve is strengthened by your bedridden form, your once-valiant eyes, now reduced to a lidded, teary defeat—he will find a cure, he will defy fate, he will love you.

(This life is different.)

No matter what.

Xavier finds himself in front of your room.

He finds himself here often, really. Ever since he found out that the two of you were floor-neighbors, Xavier has been taking full advantage of your proximity, often coming up with various excuses and reasons to see you.

Sometimes, he knocks on your door, talking about your packages that were delivered to his door by accident (which he hopes will continue to happen), or various new cafes that have opened up nearby, which he thought you’d like (and he would like too, if you went with him).

Other times, Xavier just decides to, in a very nonchalant fashion, loiter around before work in the morning, coincidentally running into you while making his way down to the ground floor.

This time, however, Xavier is here with more than just himself. A bag filled with medicine dangles from his hand, the other coming up to knock once, twice, then thrice on your door. Earlier, you had called in sick, and although you hadn’t personally asked for any help from him, Xavier decided to make a quick stop at the convenience store before coming home.

Xavier doesn’t often get sick from the common cold or the flu, so he wasn’t really sure what to buy—frankly, he just wiped everything off the shelf labeled “fever” and went on with his day. He doesn’t even know if you have a fever; still, when you open the door, he steps inside. Confidently.

“Are you okay, [Name]?” he asks, observing your wobbly gait and your shallow breaths. Before you can reply and continue walking, however, Xavier’s hand snakes around your waist, supporting you against his own figure.

“Yeah!” you manage to heave out, exhausted. Your voice sounds congested, sweat racing down the side of your face while you try to reassure Xavier of your health.

He is, unsurprisingly, not convinced.

“You should rest, [Name]. Don’t worry, I’ve got this handled,” he says, setting down his bag of medicine on your countertop. “I can make you some warm soup.”

You shiver. Xavier takes it as a sign of your sickness worsening, not realizing your fear stems from his cooking skills (or lack thereof) and not the illness that, although temporary, feels like it’s eating you away one trait at a time.

“Thank you, Xavier,” you manage to muster out, defeated. Xavier, on the other hand, is completely oblivious.

“It’s no problem at all,”—he ushers you in the direction of your room, guiding you into your bed and pressing a kiss against your forehead—“rest up. I’ll be back.”

“Xavier!” you scold, batting him away. “Don’t kiss me! I’m sick.”

He blinks at you innocently. “So?”

“You’ll get sick, too!”

Xavier shrugs. “So, we’d be sick together.” His smile reveals his satisfaction with the idea. You groan, sinking into the sheets, not wanting to argue any further. Victorious, Xavier leaves your room, practically beaming, whilst cooking up a toxic recipe which only the likes of him are able to make.

The domesticity of it all makes Xavier’s heart shiver. Him; your kitchen; your apartment; your room. To coexist with you, to occupy the same time and space as you, to—to be with you! Oh, how Xavier has yearned for this moment, how he has longed to stand by your side once more, even if it’s only for a fraction of time, even if a wisp is all he deserves!

Briefly, Xavier glances over his shoulder, looking back at your door, your bedroom, your form. He looks out the window. The world. This world: unfamiliar; unforgiving; unlike what he left. Philos. Xavier had thought of ways to return, to fulfill his duty, to stake his claim as the crown prince—but, but then…

You erupt into a cacophony of coughs, and Xavier drops his wizardly concoction to comfort you, his hand patting gently against your back.

(But then he found you.)

“Sorry, Xavier,” you barely manage to say.

(Forget his duty. Forget his position. Forget his mission—he, he found you!)

“Don’t worry about it,” he reassures, his touch featherlight. If only this moment could last forever. If only!

If only Xavier could preserve this: the tinge, the blush, the limitless expansion of the enormity within him! If only he could preserve the way you look at him, the way you make him feel—like a wondrous, fantastical being—his words unutterable, his gaze forever wedded to your own.

You—you make him feel, like, like he’s capable of anything. Of everything. You, back in Philos and here, have always brought Xavier to his knees, his mind to a halt, his vision to a standstill. You have always changed the world! With this love of his, wielding it wildly, and—and he lets you, because Xavier is your sword. Because Xavier lives to serve you.

(He found his duty. He found his mission. He found his position: yours. It has always been that way. Back in Philos and here, now, on Earth. With you. For you.)

“The soup must be ready,” Xavier suddenly says, still, his hand remains on the small of your back, not wanting to part. “Would you like to eat it now or later?”

You shiver. Xavier, once more, takes it as a sign of your developing sickness.

“Actually, I believe you should rest,” he says, tucking you into your bed, “the soup will always be there for you. And me.”

You laugh a little, and Xavier mimics your expression, radiant joy beginning to bloom across his face, his azure eyes trained onto your face. Xavier is but a mere mirror of you, a reflection of all of your emotions, your habits.

When you fully sink into your bed, Xavier is unsatisfied with his position at your side. So, he crawls in beside you, his weight sinking in towards you as he envelopes you in his arms, not caring for your coughs or sneezes.

“Xavier!” you exclaim, trying to wretch yourself out of his grasp. Xavier doesn’t let you. He feigns ignorance to your thrashing and holds you even tighter.

“Xavier, you’ll get sick, too!”

He pretends to snore. His limbs are limp on top of yours, his expression unbothered as he pretends to be asleep, despite the way he peers through his half-lidded eyes, so obviously staring at you.

“Xavier!”

“Hm?”

“You—”

“I’m sleeping.”

“What?”

“I’m asleep.”

“You’re responding to me.”

He doesn’t say a word. Still, you feel him smile into your shoulder.

“Let’s get sick together,” he mumbles. “And then, let’s sleep.”

#sylus x reader #love and deepspace sylus #sylus love and deepspace #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #xavier x reader #zayne love and deepspace #zayne x reader #l&ds zayne #love and deepspace zayne #lads sylus #xavier love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader

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moonselune · 2 months ago

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Hi! Could I request something? I just saw you accept new request again! I was thinking of yearning. Them yearning for oblivious tav.

I just love a good old yearning prompt

yesssssss the yearning the pining the dramaaa

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Karlach:

Karlach was trying her best to keep it together. As she sat by the campfire, her eyes kept drifting toward you, her massive frame leaning slightly forward as if she could somehow close the gap between you just by willing it. You were tending to a few weapons you’d scavenged earlier in the day, completely oblivious to the way her molten eyes lingered on you, the way her hands fidgeted with a piece of stray leather to distract herself from the ache in her chest.

Wyll, sitting nearby with a mischievous grin, had noticed. Of course, he had noticed. The Blade of Frontiers had a knack for picking up on unspoken emotions, and Karlach was as subtle as a roaring forge.

“You know,” Wyll began, his voice low and teasing as he leaned toward Karlach, “if you keep staring at them like that, you’re liable to set the poor one on fire.”

Karlach froze, her cheeks flushing as embers flickered to life along her horns.

“What?” she whispered sharply, her voice cracking. “I wasn’t staring! I was just—”

“Yearning?” Wyll supplied with a grin, leaning back casually.

“I don’t yearn,” Karlach snapped, though her voice lacked conviction.

“Oh, come now,” Wyll said, his tone smug. “The sighing, the pining, the tragic glances when he’s not looking—it’s downright poetic.” He tapped his chin theatrically. “It’s almost enough to compose a ballad.”

Karlach shot him a glare, her flames flaring slightly around her shoulders. “Wyll, I swear, if you don’t shut it—”

But it was too late. Her embarrassment sent her infernal engine into overdrive, and the flames on her body surged. The sudden flare caught your attention, and you glanced up from your work.

“Karlach?” you called out, your voice filled with concern as you stood and crossed the campfire toward her. “Are you okay?”

The sheer earnestness in your tone made her heart lurch painfully in her chest. She quickly tried to wave you off, her hands fanning at her shoulders as if she could dampen the flames.

“It’s nothing! Just—hot, you know?” she stammered.

“Well, yeah, you’re always hot,” you said, grabbing a nearby waterskin. “But this seems worse than usual.”

Karlach froze, her eyes going wide at your words. Did you—did you just call her hot? Surely, you didn’t mean it like that, right?

“Here, let me help,” you said, uncapping the waterskin.

“No, no, really, I’m fine—”

Too late. You doused her with a splash of water, and instead of calming her flames, it only made things worse. The steam hissed around her, mingling with her rising panic, and her flames flared even brighter.

“Gods, I’m sorry!” you exclaimed, looking horrified. “Did that make it worse?”

Karlach buried her face in her hands, groaning loudly. “No, no, it’s fine, just—don’t worry about it.”

Wyll, watching the scene unfold, laughed openly now. “You’re really outdoing yourself, Karlach. I think the entire camp will see those flames soon.”

You shot Wyll a confused look. “What’s he talking about?”

Karlach peeked through her fingers, her flames dimming slightly as her mortification reached its peak.

“Nothing! He’s just… being a prat,” she said quickly, glaring at Wyll, who only grinned wider.

“I’d call it encouragement,” Wyll said lightly. “After all, someone here needs to take a hint.”

You blinked at him, clearly puzzled, but before you could ask what he meant, Karlach stood abruptly, the ground under her feet crunching as her weight shifted.

“I’m gonna, uh, go check on—anything else,” she muttered, stomping off toward the edge of camp.

You watched her go, bewildered, before turning back to Wyll. “Did I do something wrong?”

Wyll chuckled, shaking his head. “Not wrong, no. Just oblivious. Don’t worry—you’ll figure it out eventually. Maybe.”

You frowned, glancing back toward where Karlach had disappeared into the shadows, her flames still faintly flickering in the distance. You didn’t know what you’d missed, but something about the way she’d looked at you before she left lingered in your mind, warm and unexplained.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Minthara:

The campfire crackled gently, casting a warm glow across the assembled group. You sat on a log, sharpening your blade, blissfully unaware of the undercurrents running through the evening.

Minthara, sitting a few paces away, had her sharp red eyes trained on you, a faint furrow in her brow. Her usual composed demeanor was slightly off tonight—her movements a touch too deliberate, her glances toward you lingering just a second too long.

Shadowheart, one of the resident camp gossips, noticed. She always did.

“Why don’t you just say something, Minthara?” Shadowheart drawled lazily, her lips curling into a smirk as she toyed with a loose strand of her hair. “It’s not as though subtlety is your strong suit. Or theirs, for that matter.”

Minthara’s sharp gaze snapped toward her, irritation flashing across her face.

“I do not need your advice, cleric,” she said coolly.

“Oh, I think you do,” Shadowheart said, undeterred. “Because whatever it is you’ve been doing clearly isn’t working. They haven’t even noticed.” She tilted her head toward you, who were now carefully oiling your weapon, oblivious to the tension building around you.

Minthara’s grip on her dagger tightened, her knuckles turning white. “They have other matters to attend to. The fault lies not with my approach but their… distraction.”

Shadowheart chuckled. “Distraction? They’re so dense they probably think the moonrise is flirting with them. You’ll have to carve it into the side of their tent before they catch on.”

That was the last straw. Minthara stood abruptly, her dark cloak billowing behind her as she marched across the campsite toward you.

“Minthara?” you said, startled as her shadow fell over you.

Before you could say another word, she grabbed you by the front of your tunic and pulled you to your feet with a surprising amount of force. Her crimson eyes burned with frustration and something else you couldn’t quite place.

“You,” she snapped, her voice ringing out across the camp, “are impossibly blind.”

“W-what?” you stammered, your mind racing to figure out what you’d done wrong this time.

“I have fought by your side,” she began, her voice rising. “I have trusted you, protected you, respected you. I have given you every sign imaginable, and yet you remain oblivious to the fact that I—” She stopped abruptly, taking a deep breath, as if even saying the words aloud were a battle she needed to win. “That I desire you, you fool!”

The camp went silent. Even the fire seemed to crackle a little softer as everyone turned to stare.

You blinked, utterly dumbfounded. “You… you desire me?”

Minthara groaned, her head tipping back in exasperation before she fixed you with an incredulous look. “Yes! Must I spell it out further? Or perhaps I should inscribe it on your blade since that seems to be where your attention is always focused!”

Shadowheart, who had been watching the entire exchange with barely suppressed laughter, finally burst out into an uncontrollable giggle.

“Oh, gods, this is better than I could’ve hoped,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye.

Minthara turned her glare on her, her lips curling in irritation. “If you say one more word, Shadowheart, I will—”

“Okay, okay,” you interrupted, holding up your hands. “Everyone calm down.” You turned back to Minthara, your voice softening. “I’m sorry if I missed the signs, Minthara. I honestly didn’t realize.”

Her anger seemed to waver, replaced by a flicker of vulnerability.

“How could you not?” she asked, almost to herself. You hesitated, then placed a tentative hand on hers, still gripping your tunic.

“Because I’m an idiot,” you admitted, a small smile tugging at your lips. “But I’m an idiot who’s honored and… maybe a little thrilled by what you just said.”

For the first time that evening, Minthara seemed at a loss for words. Her lips parted slightly, her sharp demeanor softening as she searched your face.

“Thrilled, you say?” she murmured, the barest hint of a smirk returning.

“Thrilled,” you confirmed, your cheeks warming under her intense gaze.

The tension in the air shifted, no longer charged with frustration but with something warmer, something promising. Minthara released your tunic, smoothing it out almost absently. “Then perhaps next time, you won’t require such… dramatic measures to understand me.”

Shadowheart made a kissy noise behind you, and you shot her a glare over your shoulder. Minthara, however, ignored her entirely, her focus solely on you.

“Now,” she said, her voice back to its usual measured tone. “Shall we continue this conversation somewhere with fewer interruptions?”

You nodded, feeling a grin spread across your face. “Lead the way.”

As you walked off together, Shadowheart’s laughter echoed behind you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. For once, the fog of obliviousness had lifted, and you were exactly where you wanted to be—at Minthara’s side.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Lae'zel:

Lae’zel had always been a force of nature—her sharp tongue, battle-hardened demeanor, and unyielding confidence left no room for doubt. And that’s exactly how she preferred it. To anyone observing her, she was the epitome of githyanki discipline and control. But deep down, behind the steel exterior and fiery eyes, she was at war with herself.

She had a massive, undeniable crush on you.

It was maddening. Every time you smiled at her or even so much as glanced her way, her heart would race—a sensation she would have sworn was impossible for her kind. She had tried everything to make her interest known: sparring sessions where she pushed you to your limits (and a bit beyond), blunt declarations of your 'adequacy' in her eyes, and even offers to 'crush your enemies together in glorious combat'. But somehow, none of it seemed to land.

Instead, you remained oblivious, flashing her that infuriatingly kind smile and treating her like a valued ally rather than someone she desperately wanted to claim as her partner.

One day, during a training session, Lae’zel’s frustration reached its peak. She had you pinned beneath her, her blade at your throat, and instead of fear or admiration, you chuckled.

“Nice move,” you said, your grin wide. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

She grit her teeth and growled, pressing the blade a little closer—not enough to hurt, but enough to make her point.

“You do not take me seriously!” she snapped.

You raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about? You’re one of the most serious people I know.”

“Not in battle, fool!” she snarled, pulling back and stalking away, her blade sheathed with a sharp clang, as you walked bewilderdly back to your tent.

From a short distance, Halsin, who had been watching the training with an amused glint in his eye, stepped forward to intercept Lae’zel. She stopped abruptly, glaring at the druid as if daring him to speak.

“Lae’zel,” Halsin said in his calm, measured tone, “may I offer you some advice?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You may offer. I will decide whether it is worth hearing.”

He chuckled, unfazed. “I’ve noticed your… interest in our leader.”

Her nostrils flared, and she crossed her arms. “And what of it?”

“You are a warrior, and I admire your strength,” Halsin began, “but perhaps your methods of courtship are… misplaced.”

“What nonsense is this?” she scoffed. “I have made my intentions clear. I have praised their competence. I have challenged them in combat. What more is required?”

Halsin smiled gently. “Perhaps a softer touch. Words that reveal your feelings without the shield of aggression. A gesture that shows your care rather than your strength.”

Lae’zel looked utterly baffled, as if he had just suggested she surrender to a mind flayer.

“Softness is weakness,” she spat.

“Not always,” Halsin countered. “Sometimes, it takes more strength to be vulnerable than to wield a sword.”

She opened her mouth to retort but found herself at a loss. Instead, she grumbled something unintelligible and stalked off, leaving Halsin shaking his head with a knowing smile.

The next morning, Lae’zel approached you at camp. There was an uncharacteristic stiffness to her posture, as if she were preparing for battle, yet her hands were empty.

“Leader,” she began, her voice clipped but quieter than usual.

You looked up from your map, offering her that same smile that never failed to undo her. “What’s up, Lae’zel?”

She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. For a moment, she considered abandoning this foolishness and returning to her usual methods. But Halsin’s advice echoed in her mind, and she forced herself to continue.

“I… value your presence,” she said, the words sounding foreign and awkward.

Your brows furrowed in confusion. “Uh, thanks? I value yours too.”

“No, you do not understand,” she snapped, then took a deep breath to steady herself. “I… value you. Your strength. Your wit. Your… idiotic charm.”

Your confusion deepened. “Lae’zel, are you feeling okay?”

She growled in frustration, her hand twitching toward her sword out of habit before she forced it to her side. “Do I need to spell it out for you, fool?”

“Apparently,” you said, still clueless but clearly trying to follow.

She stepped closer, her amber eyes burning into yours. “I desire you, leader. As my equal. My partner. My… lover.”

The words hung in the air, and for the first time, you saw Lae’zel in a new light—not just as a fierce warrior, but as someone deeply passionate and utterly vulnerable in this moment.

“Oh,” you said, the realization dawning on you. “Oh.”

Her jaw tightened, and she crossed her arms defensively. “If you find this amusing, I will—”

“I don’t,” you interrupted, a small smile playing at your lips. “I just didn’t think—well, I didn’t know.”

“Because you are blind,” she muttered, though there was no real venom in her tone.

You stepped closer, reaching out tentatively. “Lae’zel, I’m flattered. Truly. And… I’d like to see where this goes.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, she looked as though she didn’t quite believe you. Then, with a sharp nod, she straightened her back and let a rare, genuine smile grace her lips.

“Good,” she said simply. “Now, let us prepare for the day. We have enemies to slay, and I will not let them distract you from what is ours.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, warmth blooming in your chest. Lae’zel might not have mastered the art of softness, but in her own way, she was perfect.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Shadowheart:

Shadowheart had always been composed, her expression a careful mask of neutrality, but recently, every time she caught sight of you, her calm façade wavered. Her chest tightened, her thoughts scattered, and her usually sharp words became softer, laced with an uncharacteristic warmth. She knew the truth of it: she had fallen for you. Hard.

And yet, despite her every effort to show you her feelings, you remained utterly oblivious.

At breakfast that morning, Shadowheart decided to take another approach. She brushed past you as you prepared the fire, the faint scent of lavender trailing in her wake.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice soft but laced with what she thought was a hint of allure.

You looked up, smiling warmly. “Morning, Shadowheart. Did you sleep well?”

She nodded, sitting beside you with deliberate closeness. “As well as I could, knowing what awaits us each day. And you?”

“Fine, thanks. Just trying to get this fire going,” you replied, your focus returning to the task at hand.

She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a murmur. “You’re very skilled with your hands. It’s… admirable.”

You blinked at her, utterly missing the meaning behind her words. “Thanks! I guess all those years of camping have paid off.”

Her shoulders slumped ever so slightly, but she refused to give up. Throughout the morning, she found small ways to stay near you, brushing her fingers against yours when you handed her something, complimenting you with what she thought was a sultry tone, and even laughing at your jokes—some of which, she had to admit, were terrible.

Still, you seemed completely unaware.

By midday, Shadowheart was frustrated beyond measure. She found Karlach near the edge of camp, inspecting her weapons, and stormed over.

“Karlach,” she said, her tone clipped but tinged with exasperation.

Karlach looked up, her fiery heart pulsing warmly. “What’s up, Shads?”

"Please don't call me that," Shadowheart crossed her arms, her frustration bubbling over. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve been dropping hints—no, practically throwing myself at them, and they just… don’t notice!”

Karlach blinked, then grinned, clearly enjoying the situation more than she should. “Wait, you’re talking about—?”

“Yes,” Shadowheart snapped, her cheeks tinged with pink.

Karlach let out a hearty laugh, her flames flickering slightly brighter. “Oh, this is rich. You? Pining? I never thought I’d see the day.”

Shadowheart glared at her. “This is not amusing. I need advice, not mockery.”

Karlach wiped a tear from her eye, still chuckling. “Alright, alright. Let me think. So, you’ve been… what, flirting?”

“I’ve tried everything,” Shadowheart admitted, throwing her hands in the air. “Compliments, proximity, even subtle touches. And nothing! They treat me the same as everyone else.”

Karlach hummed, tapping a clawed finger against her chin. “Maybe they’re just really dense. Or, y’know, not used to someone as… uh, mysterious as you.”

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow. “And what do you suggest I do? Write it out in blood on their tent?”

Karlach snorted. “Hey, that might actually work. But no, maybe you need to be more direct. Like, ‘Hey, I think you’re cute, let’s share a bedroll tonight.’”

Shadowheart stared at her, aghast. “I am not saying that.”

“Your loss,” Karlach said with a shrug. “But seriously, just talk to them. Be honest. I bet they’d love it.”

Shadowheart sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Honesty. Of course. The one thing I’ve been avoiding.”

“Hey, they like you for you,” Karlach said, clapping her on the shoulder. “Well, they would if they had half a brain and knew what was good for them. Go get ’em, tiger.”

Later that evening, as you sat by the campfire, Shadowheart approached you with purposeful strides. She was determined to take Karlach’s advice, even if it made her heart pound and her palms sweat.

“Can I join you?” she asked, her voice steady despite the storm inside her.

“Of course,” you said, shifting to make room for her.

She hesitated for a moment, then sat beside you, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

You turned to her, your expression curious but kind. “What is it?”

Shadowheart opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she let out a shaky breath and looked into the fire.

“I… I care about you,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, completely misunderstanding. “I care about you too, Shadowheart. You’re a great friend.”

She groaned inwardly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “No, I mean I care about you in a… different way.”

Realization dawned on your face, your eyes widening. “Oh.”

“Oh?” she echoed, feeling both vulnerable and absurdly exposed.

“I didn’t—Shadowheart, I had no idea,” you said, your voice filled with genuine surprise and warmth.

“I noticed,” she muttered, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

You reached out, gently placing a hand on hers. “I’m sorry if I’ve been clueless. I guess I just… never thought someone like you would feel that way about someone like me.”

She looked at you, her expression softening. “And why wouldn’t I? You’re… remarkable.”

The sincerity in her voice made your heart skip a beat, and you couldn’t help but smile. “Well, I guess that makes two of us, then.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “You… feel the same?”

“Yeah,” you said, your cheeks flushing. “I guess I was just waiting for a sign.”

Shadowheart laughed softly, the sound lighter than you’d ever heard from her. “Apparently, I need to be less subtle.”

As the fire crackled between you, the tension that had been simmering for so long finally gave way to something warmer, something real. And for the first time in weeks, Shadowheart felt at peace.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Jaheira:

Jaheira was not a woman who pined. Or so she told herself. A High Harper, disciplined and pragmatic, she had weathered countless battles and heartbreaks. Yet, here she was, sneaking glances at you across camp, her chest tightening whenever you smiled or laughed. It was maddening. How had you managed to worm your way so deeply into her thoughts?

Despite her years of wisdom, Jaheira found herself at a loss. She didn’t know how to bridge the gap between the two of you, not without risking her pride or the delicate balance of your group.

The worst part was your complete and utter obliviousness. She’d tried subtlety—lingering conversations, offering you extra help with tactics, even sharing stories of her youth that she told no one else. You simply smiled warmly, thanked her, and went about your day as though her heart hadn’t been laid bare in every word.

One evening, after another frustrating day of yearning and getting nowhere, Astarion finally had enough.

“Jaheira, darling, may I have a word?” Astarion said, sidling up to her as she sharpened her blade near the fire.

“What do you want, Astarion?” she asked, her tone brusque.

He smirked, clearly unbothered by her irritation. “Oh, nothing much. Just to offer my… expert services in matters of the heart.”

Jaheira blinked, her sharpening stone pausing mid-stroke. “What are you talking about?”

Astarion gestured dramatically toward you, where you sat chatting animatedly with Karlach. “I’m talking about your obvious pining for our dear leader. It’s positively tragic to watch.”

Jaheira’s cheeks flushed, and she quickly turned back to her blade. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, please,” Astarion said, rolling his eyes. “You practically glow whenever they’re around. It’s adorable, really. But I must say, your approach could use some… finesse.”

Jaheira scowled at him. “I am not some lovesick fool, and I certainly don’t need advice from a vampire with more charm than sense.”

“Perhaps not,” Astarion said, unfazed. “But consider this: have your current tactics worked? Have they so much as noticed your affection?”

Jaheira’s silence was answer enough.

“I thought so,” Astarion said smugly. “Now, listen closely. You need to be bold. Direct. Use your natural charisma and authority to your advantage. And if all else fails, a little flirtation never hurt anyone.”

Jaheira narrowed her eyes. “I am not a charlatan like you, Astarion. I won’t lower myself to cheap tricks.”

“Who said anything about cheap tricks?” Astarion replied, feigning offense. “Think of it as… a strategic maneuver. After all, you wouldn’t hesitate to outwit an enemy in battle, would you?”

Jaheira sighed, considering his words. As much as she hated to admit it, he wasn’t entirely wrong. “Fine. I’ll listen. But if this backfires, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

“Splendid,” Astarion said, clapping his hands together. “Now, let’s start with a little more confidence in your approach…”

The next morning, you noticed something strange about Jaheira. She was… different.

She approached you with a faint smile that seemed just a touch too practiced, her movements deliberate and graceful in a way that reminded you of someone else.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice smooth and measured. “Did you sleep well?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, yeah. I did. And you?”

“Perfectly,” she replied, her eyes lingering on you in a way that felt… odd. “Though I couldn’t help but think of our conversation from yesterday. You truly have a fascinating mind.”

You tilted your head, trying to piece together what was happening. Something about her tone, her body language—it was familiar. And then it hit you.

“Wait a minute,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “Why are you acting like Astarion?”

Jaheira froze, her carefully crafted façade slipping for just a moment. “I… what?”

“You’re doing the thing he does,” you said, mimicking a dramatic hand gesture. “The suave, overly charming thing. It’s not like you.”

Jaheira’s cheeks flushed, and she quickly turned away, muttering something under her breath.

From across camp, Astarion burst into laughter, doubling over as he clutched his stomach. “Oh, this is too good!”

Jaheira shot him a withering glare before turning back to you, her expression softening. “Perhaps I’ve been… trying too hard. Forgive me if I seemed unlike myself.”

You smiled, your warmth cutting through her frustration. “You don’t need to try so hard, Jaheira. I like you just as you are.”

Her breath caught, and for a moment, she didn’t know what to say. Then, with a small, genuine smile, she nodded. “Thank you. That means… more than you know.”

As she walked away, Astarion approached, still grinning. “Well, that could have gone better, but at least they noticed you.”

Jaheira shook her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “Never again, Astarion. Never again.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Gale:

The late afternoon sun hung low, painting the riverside in warm golds and soft shadows. Gale, waist-deep in the cool water, had his arms crossed in front of him as if the sheer act of holding himself together could quell the maelstrom of feelings raging inside. His crush on you was a storm that refused to abate, leaving him with sleepless nights and days filled with longing glances.

From the riverbank, Minthara watched him with a look of abject irritation. Minthara had ordered him to take a dip in the cold water after he had decided to unleash his love-filled ranting unto her ears as they collected water. She assured him she would be fine to take the water back by herself, and when he thought she had left he keenly stripped and waded into the water. But Minthara had not left, no, Gale's lovesick demeanor had created a vendetta against her and she decided to take action.

"Pathetic," she muttered under her breath. She didn’t think it was possible for wizards to get worse, but Gale was proving her wrong. With a smirk, she moved silently to where Gale had left his clothes folded neatly on a nearby rock. With the swift efficiency of a seasoned tactician, she gathered them up and strode back toward camp.

You were enjoying a moment of quiet when Minthara approached, holding a bundle of robes in her arms.

"The wizard is by the river," she said bluntly. "It seems he’s in need of assistance."

You frowned, glancing at the clothing. "Assistance? With what?"

Minthara’s lips quirked into a thin smile. "He appears… indisposed. Perhaps you should go and see for yourself."

Before you could ask more, she tossed the robes into the fire and strode away, leaving you thoroughly puzzled but intrigued. You could have sworn those were Gale's. With haste, you made your way towards the river and when you arrived at the riverbank, you called out, "Gale? Everything alright?"

Gale startled, his head whipping around to face you, his hair slicked back and glistening in the sunlight. Clearly he had been searching for his robes. "Ah, no! I mean, yes—yes, everything’s fine!"

You raised a brow, stepping closer to the water’s edge. "Are you sure? Minthara said you needed help."

At the mention of her name, Gale groaned. "Of course, she did. And I suppose she also absconded with my robes?" He shot a wary glance toward the shore, clearly trying to maintain some distance.

"Unfortunately so. What’s going on?" you asked, scanning the area. Then you noticed the way his face burned red, his expression a mix of embarrassment and frustration. "Why are you still in the water? It’s getting late. and the river's current is about to pick up, you need to get out, now."

He hesitated, his fingers flexing nervously beneath the water’s surface. "It’s… complicated."

"Complicated how?" You looked around, spotting no immediate danger apart from the increasing current. "Do you need a hand getting out? I can lend you my cloak."

"You don’t understand!" Gale blurted, his voice cracking slightly. "This isn’t about the cold—or the current. It’s…" He trailed off, visibly warring with himself.

You tilted your head, curious and slightly amused. "Then what is it about? You’re not exactly making it easy to help you."

Gale sighed deeply, sinking a little lower into the water until only his nose and eyes peeked out. Then, in a low, hurried tone, he confessed, "I’m afraid my feelings for you have… manifested in a rather inconvenient manner."

Your brow furrowed. "Feelings for me?"

"Yes!" Gale said, his voice growing more desperate. "Feelings. Strong feelings—romantic, longing, entirely improper feelings for someone as… exceptional as you."

You blinked, the weight of his words settling over you like the warmth of the setting sun. "You—wait. You like me?"

"Yes," he muttered, his face practically steaming despite the cool water. "Which is precisely why I can’t leave this river at the moment."

The realization dawned slowly, but when it clicked, a grin spread across your face. "Oh," you said, fighting back laughter. "Oh."

"Yes," Gale grumbled, his mortification complete. "You see now why this is problematic."

You couldn’t stop the chuckle that escaped. "So, let me get this straight. You’re saying your feelings are… visible at the moment?"

Gale pinched the bridge of his nose. "If you insist on phrasing it that way, then yes."

You laughed harder, the sound bright and unrestrained. "Gale, that’s not the end of the world."

"Easy for you to say," he muttered. "You’re not the one at risk of a compromising exit."

Still laughing, you crouched by the water’s edge, your cloak in hand. "Come on. I promise I’ll look the other way. Just wrap this around your waist - tightly, and let’s get you back to camp."

Gale hesitated, clearly torn between his pride and the practicality of your offer. The river was rising, and the current becoming less forgiving. He didn't know what would be worse, coming out in this state or having to have you rescue him whilst he was in this condition. Finally, he sighed. "You’re infuriatingly kind, you know that?"

"Only to people I like," you teased, winking at him.

That earned you a small, genuine smile, despite his predicament. Slowly, cautiously, he edged closer to the shore, his blush never fading. You diligently kept your eyes closed, but there was that little devil inside you willing you to take a peak. He wrapped the cloak around his waist, only for you to hear a small, defeated sigh.

"You cannot laugh at me, but please may I request that I carry your shoes back to camp?" He asked, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"Wow you must really like me-"

"-The shoes please!"

Still giggling to yourself, you took off your shoes and passed them to him, allowing him to use them as a shield to his nether region.

You were finally able to look at him, his cheeks flushed beet red as he murmured, "I am going to kill Minthara, or at least try to."

"You know, Gale, I think Minthara might have done us both a favor."

Gale groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Never speak of this again. And especially do not encourage her behaviour."

"No promises," you said with a grin, walking beside him as you both headed back to camp. "Perhaps, I might want to get caught short with you."

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Astarion:

Astarion was not accustomed to being ignored, least of all by someone who had managed to captivate him so thoroughly. Yet here you were, brushing off his every flirtation, every lingering glance, every word dripping with a charm that could make others fall at his feet.

You were different, infuriatingly so. Every smirk, every sly compliment, every touch of his hand to your arm was met with a polite laugh, a nod, or—worse—a casual thanks before you moved on as though he hadn’t just thrown his best seductive lines at you.

For someone like Astarion, whose every move had been meticulously calculated for centuries, this was unbearable. He was practically seething with frustration as he watched you across the camp, laughing at something Karlach had said. He sighed dramatically, slumping onto a nearby log, the perfect picture of a man whose heart was in shambles.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand why you might be cautious around him. He wasn’t blind to his own past or the scars it had left on his soul. But this? This obliviousness wasn’t caution—it was sheer ignorance of his very obvious yearning.

And so, out of options and desperately needing help, he did something he never thought he would: he sought out Gale.

Gale was sitting by the fire, absently flipping through his spellbook, when Astarion approached him. The vampire’s usual smirk was replaced with something that looked suspiciously like a grimace.

“Gale,” Astarion began, his voice unusually subdued.

Gale looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Astarion? To what do I owe this… peculiar honor?”

Astarion waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, spare me the preamble. I need your help.”

“My help?” Gale blinked. “What kind of apocalyptic disaster requires my assistance? Surely not something involving a certain someone we both know?”

Astarion’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes. Them.”

Gale set his book down, his interest piqued. “Ah, I see. You’re pining.”

“I am not pining,” Astarion snapped, though the blush creeping up his pale cheeks betrayed him. “I am… strategically pursuing. Subtly, I might add.”

Gale snorted. “If by subtle, you mean utterly transparent, then yes. You’ve been as subtle as a fireball in a wheat field.”

Astarion scowled. “They don’t see it that way. They think I’m just… charming. Which, of course, I am, but there’s more to it than that.”

“And you want my advice?” Gale leaned back, crossing his arms. “Me, the man you’ve spent weeks mocking for my ‘tragic romanticism’?”

“Yes, yes, revel in the irony if you must,” Astarion said impatiently. “But you’re annoyingly good- most of the time, at all this grand gesture nonsense, and clearly, I need a new approach.”

Gale chuckled, a little too pleased with himself. “All right. Let’s see. The key here is sincerity. You can’t just charm your way through this one. You have to show them how you feel.”

Astarion frowned. “And how exactly do I do that?”

“Think of something meaningful to them,” Gale suggested. “An act that demonstrates you understand them, that you care about them deeply. And,” he added with a smirk, “maybe tone down the smirking and innuendo for five minutes.”

The next day, Astarion put Gale’s advice into action—or at least, his version of it. You were sitting by the riverbank, enjoying a rare moment of peace, when Astarion approached you, holding something behind his back.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, his tone softer than usual.

You smiled up at him. “What’s up, Astarion?”

“I, uh… I noticed something the other day.” He cleared his throat, looking uncharacteristically awkward. “You mentioned how much you missed those silly little biscuits from Baldur’s Gate, the ones with the sugar glaze.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I did?”

“Yes, you did,” he said quickly. “And, well… here.” He produced a carefully wrapped package and handed it to you. Inside were a handful of the biscuits, slightly crumbled but still intact.

Your eyes widened. “How did you…?”

“Don’t ask questions,” he said, his smirk creeping back despite his best efforts. “Just enjoy them.”

You looked up at him, touched by the gesture but still utterly oblivious to the deeper meaning. “Thanks, Astarion. That’s really sweet of you.”

He stared at you for a moment, waiting for something—anything—to click. When it didn’t, he sighed dramatically and flopped onto the grass beside you.

“Are you truly this dense, my beautiful fool?” he muttered under his breath.

“Hm?”

“Nothing,” he said, flashing you a too-bright smile. “Enjoy your biscuits, darling.”

From a distance, Gale watched the exchange with a shake of his head, muttering, “Some people are beyond help.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Wyll:

Wyll was not used to being ignored, especially when it came to matters of the heart. He prided himself on his charm, his courtly manners, and his ability to woo with a single smile. Yet, when it came to you, all his gentlemanly gestures seemed to bounce right off you like a deflected blade.

He would offer you his hand to help you over rough terrain, only to receive a simple "Thanks, Wyll!" and a cheerful pat on his shoulder. He’d bring you breakfast, perfectly arranged, and you’d compliment him on his “team spirit.” He’d even tried a few subtler lines, but you always brushed them off as his natural charisma, as if his feelings weren’t entirely focused on you.

So, after one particularly frustrating evening where you didn’t even notice how his gaze lingered on you by the firelight, Wyll decided he needed help.

And who better to consult than the camp’s most direct and fearless member, Lae’zel?

Lae’zel was sharpening her sword when Wyll approached, his usual confident demeanor slightly crumpled under the weight of his unspoken affection. She glanced up, her sharp eyes narrowing.

“Wyll,” she said bluntly, “you look as though you’ve swallowed a blade sideways. Spit it out.”

He cleared his throat, glancing around to make sure no one else was in earshot. “It’s about… them,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lae’zel’s expression didn’t change. “Ah, the object of your obsession.”

Wyll winced. “It’s not an obsession.”

“Call it what you will,” she said, shrugging. “You pine for them like a fledgling seeking a mate. What of it?”

“I don’t know how to… tell them,” Wyll confessed, his usual eloquence failing him. “They seem entirely immune to my advances.”

Lae’zel snorted. “Perhaps because your ‘advances’ are weak. Soft. You dote on them like a mother hen, not a warrior. If you want their attention, you must assert dominance.”

“Assert dominance?” Wyll repeated, looking increasingly alarmed.

“Yes,” Lae’zel said firmly. “Challenge them. Best them in combat. Show them your strength. Then, when they are weak and trembling, you proclaim your intent to claim them as yours.”

Wyll’s face turned scarlet. “That’s—That’s not how courtship works!”

“Of course it is,” Lae’zel said, waving a dismissive hand. “You prove your physical and sexual prowess through battle. What better way to ensure compatibility?”

Wyll sputtered, his composure unraveling. “I—I don’t think they’d appreciate being ‘claimed’ like a prize after a fight.”

“They would respect it,” Lae’zel insisted. “And likely find it arousing.”

“Lae’zel!” Wyll’s voice cracked, and he buried his face in his hands, his flames of embarrassment rivaling Karlach’s.

From across the camp, you noticed the commotion and Wyll’s obvious distress. Concerned, you got up and made your way over. “Wyll? Are you okay?”

Lae’zel’s smirk widened as Wyll’s blush deepened. He scrambled to his feet, fumbling for words. “Ah—Yes! Fine! Everything is fine!”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of them. “Are you sure? You look like you’ve just lost a sparring match.”

Before Lae’zel could open her mouth to make things infinitely worse, Wyll quickly grabbed your hand and pulled you aside.

“Just a minor… disagreement,” he said quickly, his voice cracking again. “Nothing to worry about.”

You gave him a curious look, but his obvious flustered state distracted you from pressing further. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

Lae’zel watched you go with Wyll, shaking her head and muttering, “Coward. They would have respected a proper duel.”

Meanwhile, Wyll was doing his best to calm his racing heart and come up with a less mortifying way to tell you how he felt—ideally without Lae’zel’s "help."

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Halsin:

Halsin prided himself on his control, his connection to nature, and his ability to remain grounded in even the most chaotic of circumstances. But when it came to you, all of that composure seemed to dissolve like frost under the morning sun.

You were utterly magnetic to him—your presence so compelling that his heart would stutter every time you entered the same space. He found himself enchanted by the curve of your smile, the warmth in your voice, the kindness in your touch. And it was unbearable. Literally, because every time you touched his arm or leaned in to speak to him, his instincts would flare wildly out of control.

The first time it happened, you’d brushed some stray leaves off his shoulder after he returned from foraging. “Halsin, you’ve brought back half the forest,” you joked, smiling up at him.

Halsin opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a rush of heat overtook him, and— bam—he was suddenly a large, startled elk.

You jumped back with a yelp of surprise, staring wide-eyed at the animal in front of you. “Halsin?”

The elk gave a deep snort, its head hanging low as if mortified.

It happened again not long after, when you touched his hand while passing him a flask of water. This time, he transformed into a wolf, looking up at you with ears pinned back, practically radiating sheepishness.

“Halsin,” you laughed, kneeling down to scratch behind his ears, “you’ve got to warn me if you’re going to do that.”

By the time the third accidental wildshape happened—this time as a squirrel after you had simply smiled at him—Jaheira had had enough.

The older druid cornered Halsin after dinner, arms crossed and an unimpressed look on her face. “You’re a leader, Halsin. A figure of strength and wisdom. Yet here you are, hiding in fur and feathers because of a crush.”

“It’s not just a crush,” Halsin muttered, his deep voice unusually uncertain. “It’s… consuming. Every time I try to speak to them, I lose myself. They are radiant, Jaheira. I can hardly stand near them without—”

“—turning into livestock, yes,” Jaheira interrupted, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re a druid, not a child. Get a grip, Halsin. They won’t notice your feelings unless you make them clear. And for the love of Silvanus, do it without shifting.”

Halsin sighed heavily but nodded. “You’re right. I must face this head-on.”

Jaheira clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. Now go before you sprout wings or something ridiculous.”

Halsin found you sitting by the campfire, a jar of honey and a piece of bread in your hands. The firelight danced across your features, and Halsin felt his heart thrum painfully in his chest.

“Is everything okay, Halsin?” you asked, looking up at him with a concerned smile.

Halsin cleared his throat, forcing himself to remain steady. “Yes, I… there is something I need to tell you.”

You tilted your head, some honey glistening on your lips. “Of course. What is it?”

And that was it. The sight of your lips, the gentle curve of your expression—it was too much. Despite every ounce of willpower he had summoned, Halsin’s body betrayed him. With a flash of light and a muffled groan, he was suddenly a massive brown bear, sitting heavily on the ground.

You blinked, staring at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Halsin! You did it again!”

From across the camp, Jaheira let out a long, exasperated groan, throwing her hands up. “I give up!” she muttered, stalking off.

The bear lowered its massive head, letting out a low huff of frustration. You reached over and gently placed a hand on his fur.

“It’s okay, big guy,” you said, grinning. “You’ll figure it out eventually.”

If Halsin could have blushed, he would have. Instead, he let you pet him, resigning himself to the fact that his feelings were much harder to control than he’d ever anticipated.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

This was so so so so so much fun to write !! Especially Gale's icl hehehe. Hope you guys enjoyed it ! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

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muletia · 1 month ago

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𝐢𝐟 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

inspired by 'if not for you' by george harrison

[tfp] obsessed!optimus prime x human!reader

summary: after winning the war, optimus found his safe haven. with you.

cw: fluff, pinch of angst, obsessive thoughts, i may have romanticized his obsession a bit... self-indulgence, canon divergence - optimus gets his happy ending :))

word count: 1200

an: i'm returning to my roots of tormenting down bad optimus. this fic can be treated as the yang to my previous piece about his dream and as the good ending to the whole obsessed!optimus arc

Once, a fire burned within his body. It consumed every conduit, reached every metallic tissue. The blaze wrought devastation, destroying and leaving behind necrosis until it consumed him entirely, mercilessly incinerating the remnants of optimism, the hope that he might live to see a better tomorrow. He burned out; the flame hollowed him from within and left behind only a shell. Deep within his spark, however, an ember still flickered—a reminder that he could not surrender, that he must endure to the end and serve his own, for that was the role he had chosen those ages ago. He could not capitulate. He would not.

And then, you appeared. A tiny spark that reignited the fire. This one was fiercer and more painful, but within it lay the beauty of caring for someone, loving their flaws and imperfections, lending strength when it was most needed. You gave him enough of it to end the conflict once and for all. Optimus had long lost hope for a better tomorrow for himself. But for yours, he was willing to do absolutely anything. To ensure your well-being, reshape the future so you would no longer have to live in fear for your home. He did not factor himself into it; he knew the sacrifice required to bring an end to a war that had escalated to an interplanetary scale. He could only dream, nourishing his imagination with visions he would never behold.

At least, that was what he once believed.

The wind gently brushes against his armor, and the spring sun envelops him with warmth. Far from civilization, no sounds of haste or petty conflicts reach him. It is only him and your garden—the flora that continously surprises him with something new. Colors, shapes of flowers, bloom schedules. Simple organisms, mundane and primitive, yet he saw beauty in them. Their simplicity fascinated him, as it was the complete opposite of Cybertron and its inhabitants. But what captivated him most was their will to live—their resilience, the extent of suffering they could endure before yielding, before giving up. He drew inspiration from them, for he, too, wished to live. Now, yes. For you.

He knows you will return soon; your weekly schedule is deeply etched into his processor. But until then, he does not know what to do with himself. He always spends his time waiting for you, for the moment your vehicle rolls into the garage, for it is only then that he begins to truly live. In your company, surrounded by conversation, your kindness, and an affection impossible to replicate. Everything he does in your absence is merely to kill time, to hasten your return, to occupy his processor and stave off madness without you. Sometimes, he manages, especially when a former teammate visits. But there are days when all he can do is meditate beneath the tree closest to the driveway, waiting for you. Thinking about what you will do together when you return, what news from work you will share with him, and how he might bring you joy today. Without you, he is lost. The self-sufficiency built over so many years suddenly crumbles, revealing an uncertain, astray being entirely dependent on his conjunx.

Today is no exception to the routine. No one has visited. Optimus remains alone with his thoughts, which, for several years now, have been recalibrated to revolve solely around you. Once, they fed the fire he had to vigilantly tend, for he easily lost control over it, and it burned him alive. Now, it envelops him in a pleasant warmth, more soothing than the sun’s radiance. More comforting and tender. It brings him solace and peace, though it still fuels an unhealthy devotion. No longer destructive, but still imbued with a fiery passion, greater than Primus himself.

Sometimes, he misses Cybertron. Guilt over abandoning the search for a way home gnaws at him when he is not entirely focused on you. He knows the others still strive to find a solution. Occasionally, they invite him on missions—living fossils of his former life—but Optimus ceased aiding them for his own interest long ago. He does not wish to return. He could not bear to leave you, to forsake the life you have painstakingly woven together. He might as well perish if it meant never seeing you again.

A sound pulls him back to reality—the scratch of tires on a gravel road. You are still distant; he will see you in precisely four minutes and twenty-six seconds, but a subtle smile already creeps onto his faceplate. This is the exact moment he has awaited half the day, yet even now, his composure cracks, revealing his excitement. He wishes to greet you. Now. Immediately.

He mass-shifts, preparing for your return. He would prefer to drive you himself, but you insisted on not taking advantage of him—a decision he never fully understood. Had he not made it abundantly clear that he would do anything for you? That he was at your every beck and call, ready to please and serve? Yet, to his misfortune, it was a harmless decision, one you had every right to make, and he was never the confrontational type.

He watches as you park and step out of the car, holding shopping bags, which he immediately takes from you.

"Greetings, my dearest," he says.

"Hello, love!" you reply. You want to add something else, perhaps to start recounting your day, but he must interrupt you.

His servo cradles your face, fitting its contours perfectly, as if you truly were made for one another. He lowers his helm to your face and kisses you. First the edge of your lips, then your cheek and jaw, steadily trailing down to your neck.

Once, he feared touch, terrified of its power, of how quickly and completely it consumed him. How much he craved, and how little he possessed. Each time, he waited for your permission, for you to dictate what he could and could not do, lest he accidentally hurt you. Destroy the relationship that sustained his wretched life, shattering the trust you had placed in him. And though similar moments remain a near-daily occurrence in your relationship, they have migrated to other spaces, to intimate places. In other circumstances, he has relaxed the self-imposed rigor, dictating for himself when he could, when he should, and when he wanted.

“Not wasting any time today, are you?” you laugh.

Even he is unsure of what overcame him. He usually waits until you both calmly return home to prove how much he has missed you. Today, he cannot wait. The sight of you breaks him, making him acutely aware of his yearning, which he must somehow release before it consumes him entirely.

You are addictive.

"Opti, not here," you chide.

He stops immediately, though the taste of your skin lingers on his glossa, teasing him to continue his advances. It unsettles his processor as it invigorates his frame.

"I missed you," he says, syncing his stride with yours.

“I missed you too,” you reply, smiling in a way that infects him with the same expression.

He needed this. Simplicity, a place he could call home. You. For without you, there would be no new day, no spring, and the universe would become empty. Soulless and cold.

#transformers x reader #optimus x reader #obsessed!optimus #optimus prime x reader

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ruewrote · 3 months ago

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𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑤.

PAIRING: josh washington x fem!reader WARNINGS: suggestive, no use of y/n GENRE: best friends to lovers SONG INSPIRATION: DIE FOR ME by chase atlantic WORD COUNT: 1.4k REQUESTED: yes NOTE: got a little carried away . . .

navigation | ask | josh washington masterlist

the cabin was quiet. the flickering flames in the fireplace cast small shadows across the room as the last embers of the night begin to fade into darkness. you were stretched out on your bed, the warmth of the fire still lingering in the air, even as the chill from the mountain outside crept through the windows.

everyone else had long gone to their rooms. the day had been packed with hiking, teasing jokes, and way too much food, now the others were all passed out, getting some much needed rest for whatever was going to come tomorrow. you should have been tired too, but here you were laid in your bed wide awake, staring at the wall beside you.

the soft creak of your door opening broke the stillness. you didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“hey,” josh’s familiar voice whispered from behind you. he was always the last one up too, unable to sleep when it got too quiet.

“hey,” you answered, glancing over your shoulder to see him standing in the doorway, his hair disheveled, looking sleepy and tousled. he had that half grin on his face that made you feel warm inside.

“can’t sleep again?” you teased, already knowing the answer.

josh shrugged, padding barefoot across the hardwood floor, making his way to you. “nah, i tried. it’s freezing in my room, and, y’know, it’s weird without you there.”

this had been a thing between the two of you for as long as you could remember. whenever you were on trips with the group, josh would find his way to your room after everyone else had gone to bed.

it started as something simple as after late night movie marathons or study sessions that turned into sleepovers, but over the years. it just became your thing. sleeping alone felt strange now, especially for josh. he always needed you close.

“come on then,” you mumbled, lifting the corner of the blanket without a second thought. there was no need for words. he was already climbing under the covers with you, fitting his body against yours.

he slipped his arms around you, pulling you back against his chest, the warmth of his body immediately chasing away the chill from the mountain air. his breath was soft against your neck, and you felt him relax instantly, his head resting on the pillow just behind yours.

this was normal. it had always been normal. the two of you had shared beds, couches, even floors when crashing at friends’ places after parties. josh had always been touchy, needing to feel you, as if that contact helped him settle. you never questioned it. after all, you felt the same.

his presence was grounding, the one constant you needed in your life.

his hand found its way to your waist, his fingers casually slipping under the hem of your shirt, resting against your bare skin like it was the most natural thing. it sent a shiver up your spine, but not because you were cold.

you were used to this, he always did it. he always wanted that skin to skin contact, as if the barrier of clothing was too much separation between you. and you let him, because it didn’t feel strange. it just felt like josh.

“you’re warm,” he murmured sleepily, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your lower back. he said it every time, but the way his voice softened whenever he said it always made your heart flutter.

you hummed in response, pressing back into him just slightly, the lines of your bodies fitting perfectly together under the thick blanket. his fingers continued their slow, lazy path across your skin, drawing shapes you couldn’t quite decipher but made you relax into him even more.

the room was quiet except for the faint crackle of the dying fire and the soft sounds of josh’s breathing behind you. this was your rhythm. an intimacy that had never been questioned.

josh had always been more than just your best friend, but you’d never dared to label it as anything else. the touches, the closeness, it was just how the two of you operated. you were comfortable, safe with each other.

but tonight, something felt… different.

maybe it was the calm of the cabin, or the way the mountain’s isolation made everything feel sharper, more intense. or maybe it was just the fact that your heartbeat picked up whenever his fingers slipped a little higher, his hand resting now against your ribs, dangerously close to the swell of your chest.

you wondered if he noticed the way your breathing hitched when he moved, the way your body tensed ever so slightly.

“josh…” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet of the room.

“hmm?” his response was a soft hum, his lips brushing the back of your neck now, almost absentmindedly.

for a second, you considered pulling away, setting up those boundaries that were supposed to exist between best friends. but the truth was, you didn’t want to. you never had.

the truth of it settled deep in your chest, an acknowledgment of something you’d both danced around for years.

instead, you turned your head just enough to see him from the corner of your eye. his face was so close, eyes half lidded in the dim light, his lips parted slightly in that relaxed way that made him look vulnerable.

your heart did that little stutter it always did when he was this close, and suddenly, the unspoken feelings that had always been lurking just beneath the surface felt impossible to ignore.

“josh,” you said again, this time turning fully in his arms to face him.

he blinked, eyes clearer now as he studied your face. his hand didn’t move from where it was resting on your skin, but his expression shifted, like he could feel the shift in the air too. “yeah?”

the weight of the moment hung between you, the closeness suddenly more intense than it had ever been. you opened your mouth to say something. anything, but the words died on your lips as josh’s gaze flickered down to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

you weren’t imagining it. the way his hand moved a little more deliberately now, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, skimming just beneath your shirt. the way his body pressed a little closer to yours, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with your own.

this was no longer just about comfort. something had changed.

“i–” you started to speak, but before you could say anything more, josh’s hand slid a little higher, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast so lightly you almost thought you imagined it. but you didn’t. the look in his eyes, now more awake and intense, confirmed that.

his breath hitched, the same way yours had, and for a moment, the only sound in the room was the shared rhythm of your breathing, matching and uneven at the same time.

“we… we’ve always been like this,” he murmured, his voice rougher now, as if he was trying to remind himself of what this had always been. “right?”

you nodded, not trusting your voice to stay steady. “yeah. always.”

but it wasn’t always like this. not with the way his lips hovered just inches from yours now, the way his hand slipped further under your shirt like he was testing a boundary you weren’t sure existed anymore.

“maybe…” he whispered, his forehead now resting against yours, his voice so soft it was barely more than a breath, “maybe we’ve been fooling ourselves.”

his words hung between you, heavy and raw. and just like that, the unspoken tension between you, years of shared beds, lingering touches, and blurred boundaries, came crashing to the surface.

you didn’t pull away. you couldn’t. because deep down, you’d known it too. this was never just about needing to be close. it had always been more. you just hadn’t wanted to admit it.

“josh,” you breathed, your heart pounding in your chest as his hand slid up to your shoulder, his fingers gently tilting your chin so you were looking directly at him.

and then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, his lips brushed against yours. soft, tentative at first, a question hanging in the space between. when you didn’t pull away, he kissed you again, deeper this time, the heat between you building until the air felt thick with everything you’d kept hidden for so long.

you didn’t know where this was going to lead, but in that moment, with josh’s hands on your skin and his lips on yours, you knew one thing for sure.

there was no going back to the way things were.

comments and reblogs are appreciated ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

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springtyme · 3 months ago

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𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬, 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬

Arthur Morgan x afab!reader || Masterlist || Arthur playlist

summary: Since joining the Van der Linde gang, you have felt yourself gravitate toward Arthur Morgan. Like a moth to a flame, this rugged yet kind man has captured your attention. On an unusually cold night, your infatuation finally comes to a head.

word count: 5.3k

warning/tags: Smut! (18+, mdni!) Fluff. Grinding. Cunnilingus. Unprotected p in v. Arthur is a gentleman. This is my first time writing for Arthur and it's been a while since I played the game, so I hope I captured him okay.

𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞: 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟎) 𝐇𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐭𝐡

The moon hangs high in the star-speckled sky, casting a silvery glow on the encampment of the Van der Linde gang, with the biting chill of the night air settling in like a thick blanket. The crackling of the campfire fills the air, chasing off the chill that has settled in once the sun dipped below the horizon. Arthur sits across from the flames, his usual bravado softened by the flickering light. He gazes into the fire, lost in thought, the shadows dancing across his strong features.

You sit a short distance away, bundled in a blanket, and you shiver despite the flames dancing before you. Your eyes flickering between him and the fire. The chill in the night is more biting than you had expected, and it has settled right into your bones. You glance at Arthur, his shoulders broad and inviting; an idea sparked in your mind.

Since you joined the Van der Linde gang, you have felt pulled towards him. Like a magnet to a magnetic field, strong and irresistible. You couldn’t even fight it, not that you would want to. There is something about Arthur—a mix of strength and vulnerability—that drew you in like a moth to a flame. And, despite his immediate ruggedness, he has been so kind to you, a much gentler man than his reputation would let on.

It had all accumulated within you about a week ago, when you saw him by the river, you hadn’t meant to stumble upon him. You hadn’t seen much, you left almost immediately, not wanting to invade his space, but the view of his bare backside had been burned into your memory ever since.

There was a rawness to him in those moments of solitude, something unguarded, something real. It left you breathless and a little envious of the water that cascaded over his skin, the way it dripped and glistened under the sun. That day, you realized your feelings for him went deeper than mere admiration.

Now, amidst the crackling flames and the pull of the night, you find yourself sorting through those emotions like kindling. You wrap the blanket tighter around you, contemplating your next move. The fire pops, sending a small spray of embers into the air, momentarily illuminating the dark before they vanish into the vastness above.

“Arthur?” you call softly, hesitating for a moment.

“Yeah?” he replies, glances up from the tin cup he is nursing, his eyes sparkling with the firelight.

“Do you think… maybe I could sit closer? It’s getting pretty cold,” you say, the honesty spilling easily from your lips.

He raises an eyebrow but nods. “Sure…” You move closer, feeling a bit shy but determined to warm up. As you settle next to him, the warmth from the fire is immediately replaced by the heat radiating from his body.

“You’re freezing,” he comments, noticing how you hug your arms around yourself, still not quite warm enough.

“Yeah… I guess I underestimated how cold it would get,” you admit with a shy smile.

Silence envelopes you for a moment, but it isn’t uncomfortable. The crackling of wood and the distant calls of the night echo around you, creating a serene backdrop. Arthur shuffles a little closer, his eyes flicking toward yours, as if assessing the situation.

“Here,” he says, leaning in a bit more and draping his arm across your shoulders. “That should help.”

Your breath is caught in your throat as his warmth seeps into you, a protective barrier against the cold. You stiffen for a moment at the sudden intimacy, but his presence is steady and comforting. It feels right.

“Thanks,” you mumble, leaning into him, instinctively seeking the heat the flames couldn’t provide.

“You’re really cold,” he murmurs, his breath trailing over your ear, making you shiver for an entirely different reason. “You shoulda said somethin’ sooner.”

You nod, reveling in the closeness, a soft warmth spreading in contrast to the chill of the evening. “I didn’t want to bother you. You seemed… deep in thought,” you say, glancing up at him sideways.

Arthur chuckles quietly, the sound deep and rumbling. “Not that deep… Just thinkin’ ‘bout what’s next. You know how it is,” he replies, his gaze returning to the flames. There’s an unspoken weight in his voice, a hint of the burdens he carries. You don’t push him for more; you know better than to pry. Instead, you shift slightly, fitting into the curve of his side, embracing the warmth he offers.

“I get it,” you say softly, looking into the fire. The flames crackle and pop, sending sparks dancing into the night. You steal A glance at him, but just as you look up, he looks down at you, a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as if he caught you in the act of admiring him. It makes your heart skip just a little and heat creeping up your cheeks. You quickly return your gaze to the fire, feigning indifference.

The atmosphere shifts slightly, the warmth between you growing with each passing moment, and you can almost feel the magnetic pull of his gaze. Arthur doesn’t need to say anything; the silence is filled with everything unspoken, the tension hanging like the starry sky overhead.

“Cold as it is, it sure is peaceful tonight,” he remarks, glancing up at the stars for a brief moment before his gaze slips back to you. You nod, the serenity of the night cloaking you, but it’s the closeness with him that makes the stars shine brighter. There’s something intimate about sharing a moment like this amidst the chaos of the world, just the two of you, together under the vast expanse of stars.

“Yeah, it is,” you agree, your voice barely above a whisper. A warmth blooms in your chest, and you allow yourself to lean a little further into his side, breathing in the scent of him—leather, smoke, and something distinctly Arthur.

“Y’know, sometimes I wonder how we ended up here,” he says, his tone contemplative, stirring your curiosity. “This life… it ain’t pretty, but it’s moments like this that keep us going, I reckon.”

You turn to look at him, noting the way the firelight casts shadows across his face, highlighting the rugged lines that tell stories of hardship and resilience. “It is,” you respond, then add playfully, “I guess it beats freezing alone out here.”

He chuckles softly, and the sound vibrates through you. You can’t help but study him closer, the way his mouth curves when he smiles, the tenderness that lies beneath his hardened exterior. “You got a point. Just don’t go gettin’ too used to me keepin’ you warm,” he teases, his tone playful but his eyes betraying something deeper.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you reply, attempting to sound nonchalant, though your heartbeat quickens at the thought of sharing more than just warmth.

A moment passes, and the atmosphere shifts again, charged with an electric tension. You feel his breath against your skin, each inhale igniting a flicker of desire deep within you. Tentatively, you glance up again, catching his eyes locked onto yours, and your heart races.

You look up at him, wanting to reach out and bridge the unspoken gaps between you and In that moment, as the warmth of the fire flickers and the world outside of your little bubble fades away, something shifts. Arthur’s fingers brush against your arm, a gentle caress that sends shivers down your spine. The air feels thick with unspoken words, an invitation hanging between you both.

“Y’know… I actually wouldn’t mind if you got used to me keepin’ you warm,” Arthur murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, laced with an undeniable sincerity that makes your breath hitch in your throat. The shift in his demeanor—more serious, more vulnerable—sends a rush of heat through you.

Your heart pounds against your chest, and you can’t tell if it’s from the warmth of his body or the pull of desire igniting between the two of you. “Arthur…,” you start, but the words escape you as his gaze drops to your lips.

Without fully realizing how it happens, you shift closer, your breath mingling with his. In the space of a heartbeat, he closes the gap, his lips capturing yours in a heated kiss. It’s soft at first, a gentle exploration filled with a sweet urgency, but soon turns more fervent, fueled by a longing that has been building unnoticed until this very moment.

Your hands find their way to his hair, fingers tangling in the surprisingly soft strands as you deepen the kiss, leaning into him, feeling the heat radiating off of his body. Arthur responds in kind, wrapping his arm tighter around you, pulling you against him, as if he never wants to let you go.

The world around you fades away, leaving only the warmth of the fire and the heat of each other. You lose yourself in the sensation—his lips moving against yours, his fingers skimming over your back, igniting every nerve in your body.

As the world outside dims, it feels like nothing else exists but the two of you. You feel his body against yours, the roughness of his hands juxtaposed with the fire’s warmth. The chill of the night fades completely, leaving only the heat that surges between you.

“Arthur,” you breathe, pulling back slightly to catch your breath, your forehead resting against his. His eyes are dark and intense, a mixture of longing and something deeper.

“Yeah?” he replies, that low rumble of his voice sending tingles down your spine. His gaze stays locked on you, filled with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt about how he feels.

“Are you gonna keep me warm tonight?”

Arthur’s breath hitches slightly at your question, a playful spark lighting in his eyes. He searches your gaze as if looking for the truth behind your inquiry, the shadows of the fire dancing across both your faces, bathing you in its warm light.

“I reckon I can manage that,” he answers, his voice low and full of promise, steadying himself as he leans even closer. The intensity of the moment is electric, wrapping around you like the embrace of the night.

With a slow deliberation, he shifts his body, creating a more intimate cocoon around you. His hand runs gently down your arm, sending waves of warmth pulsing through your skin. You feel the weight of his gaze on you, heavy yet inviting, as he moves slightly, his lips brushing past your ear.

“Why don’t we head to my tent, then?” you suggest, a nervous thrill coursing through you at the thought of such proximity. The air hangs between you, thick with possibilities.

“Lead the way, darlin’,” his voice gravelly and coaxing, a hint of mischief threaded through his words. The intimacy of the proposition sends a shiver down your spine—not from the cold this time, but from excitement.

You stand, heart racing, and reach for Arthur’s hand, your fingers intertwining with his as you lead him away from the warmth of the fire and the potential curious eyes of the camp. The chill of the night air bites against your skin, but Arthur’s presence is a comforting blanket around you. The way he moves beside you, the strength of his hand enveloping yours, intensifies the fluttering in your stomach.

As you approach your tent, the world outside fades into silence, just the two of you amidst the stillness of the night. You pause just outside, your pulse quickening as you glance back at him. His gaze is dark, heated, full of expectation, and it sends a thrilling rush through you.

Without thinking, you lean in slightly, brushing your lips against his, a teasing caress filled with anticipation. He responds instantly, his hand moving to cradle your face, deepening the kiss as his other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you against him.

“Let’s not waste any more time,” he murmurs against your lips, his breath hot and mingling with yours as he nudges you into the tent. You stumble in, laughter spilling from your lips as he follows, his gaze intensely focused on you.

Inside, the dim light casts a cozy glow, illuminating the space where your bodies stand mere inches apart. The air is thick with tension, the scent of leather and smoke surrounding you as Arthur steps closer, a predatory glint in his eye. It sends another wave of excitement coursing through you.

“Closer,” he says, voice low and commanding, and you obey instinctively, stepping into his personal space. You can feel the heat radiating from him, and the electric spark between you intensifies.

His hands find your waist, gripping you firmly as he leans down, capturing your lips again with a fierce need. This kiss is different—hungry and demanding. You melt against him, losing yourself in the taste of him, the warmth of his body enveloping you. Your fingers tangle in his shirt, pulling him closer, urging him on.

Arthur’s hands roam your back, gently urging you towards the edge of the small cot amid the tent. You gasp against his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to explore further, trailing kisses down your neck as you tilt your head back in delight.

“Damn,” he murmurs, his voice ragged with desire. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” His breath is warm against your skin, sending shivers down your spine as you pull him back up to you, crashing your lips together again.

The feeling of him—his rough hands, the weight of his body—intensifies the urge coursing through you, the desire to surrender to this moment. You tug at his shirt, muscles straining beneath your fingertips. With deft hands, he works it free, his shirt falling to the ground as your hands roam over his bare skin, feeling the heat radiate off of him.

“You’re incredible,” he breathes out as you touch him, exploring every inch of his toned torso as he leans over you, the power dynamic propelling your heart rate even higher. His lips find your collarbone, brushing over the sensitive skin, making you gasp.

“Arthur,” you murmur, your voice a combination of need and admiration. He pulls back slightly, his blue eyes dark and full of intent as he studies you. There’s a possessive heat in his gaze that makes your insides curl with anticipation.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers, his breath hovering over your lips. The way he speaks sends a ripple of excitement through you, the possibilities stretching out like the night sky above.

“I want you,” you admit, surprise mingling with clarity. The words tumble from your lips, bold and unguarded. “I want all of you.”

Arthur grins, a slow, wicked smile that sends a rush of heat through you. “Then you’ll have me,” he declares, and in an instant, he’s on you, capturing your mouth again, deepening the kiss as he pushes you back onto the cot.

The world around you fades away, engulfed in the warmth of the moment as his body presses against yours, igniting every nerve with a fervor you hadn’t anticipated. Your breath quickens as he trails kisses down your jaw, over your neck, and back to your lips, again and again, each exploration sending electrifying sparks shooting through you.

His hands roam freely, brushing against your skin while his lips do their own wandering, every touch stirring a primal need in you that’s impossible to ignore.

“Arthur,” you breathe, tugging him closer as you arch against him, the heat between you both rising like wildfire. “Please,” you beg. You need him, need him to touch you without anything between you, no clothes, no barriers.

He pauses for a fraction of a second to meet your gaze, seeking confirmation—desire laced with care—and in this moment it is as if can read your thoughts. You don’t need to voice your wish, only to confirm to him that it is okay.

“Please, Arthur,” you repeat. It is all he needs to hear. Calloused hands start to undress you, helping you shred your garments and expose your skin to the chill air of the night.

The cool air rushes over your bare skin, contrasting sharply with the heat radiating from Arthur as he leans over you, his breath warm and steady. A shiver runs through you, not from the cold, but from the heady anticipation swirling in the air. With every piece of clothing that falls away, a new layer of vulnerability is revealed, but instead of feeling exposed, you feel a sense of liberation, a boldness surging from within.

Arthur’s gaze is intense, roaming over your body as if committing every curve, every scar, and every inch to memory. His exploration is slow, deliberate, full of reverence, and it ignites a fire within you that dances just below the surface. You watch as the flickering light from the fire outside casts warm shadows across his rugged features, illuminating the desire etched in his expression.

In one swift motion, he discards your last garment, and a heat flushes through you, both from exposure and the rawness of the moment. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp that tugs at your heartstrings. There’s an honesty in his eyes that makes you feel cherished in a way you never expected.

“Arthur, I—” you begin, but he silences you with a kiss, capturing your words and folding them into the intensity of the moment. His lips move over yours with a tender ferocity, igniting a hunger that spreads like wildfire throughout your body. You respond eagerly, your hands pulling him closer, craving his touch against every inch of your skin.

He breaks the kiss, leaning down to press his lips against your collarbone, trailing soft kisses down to the swell of your breasts, his breath warm against your skin. Each movement sends jolts of pleasure coursing through you, every kiss igniting a spark that sets your nerves alight.

“Arthur…” you breathe, arching your back instinctively, wanting more of him, needing him to explore every inch of you. His hands roam freely, caressing your curves, memorizing the way your body responds to him.

“Easy, darlin’,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rich with warmth and desire. “I got you.” There’s a sweetness to the way he speaks, a reassurance that only deepens the connection between you. He lifts his head to meet your gaze, and in that moment, the world outside, the gang, the chaos of life fades entirely. All that matters is the quiet, intimate space you’ve created together.

With a gentle touch, his hands guide you back down towards the cot, his body following, pressing against you, enveloping you in his warmth. You feel the weight of him against you, the sensation almost overwhelming in its intensity as he leans down, kissing you deeply once more. The kiss deepens, both of you lost in the surge of desire that envelops you.

You pull him closer, your hands exploring the muscles of his back, tracing the lines of his form. He moves with a mix of urgency and reverence as he grinds against you, cultivating a rhythm that makes your pulse race. You feel every press of his body against yours, the heat soaring higher with each passing moment. you gasp as you feel the curve of his hardened cock through the rough denim of his jeans.

“Darlin’, I want to taste you,” he murmurs, the growl of his voice promising things that make your breath hitch. The implication sends a thrill up your spine, desire surging through you like fire. You can hardly respond, only nodding breathlessly, caught up in the intensity of his gaze and the heat radiating from his body.

“Please,” you manage to whisper, the plea escaping your lips with a mix of eagerness and urgency.

With skilled hands, he begins to move lower, trailing kisses along your body, down the gentle curve of your waist, following the soft dips of your hips. Each kiss sends ripples of anticipation coursing through you, and you arch towards him, craving more. Arthur moves with deliberate slowness, taking his time, savoring every moment, the intent in his eyes making you feel cherished and desired.

“Trust me,” he whispers, his breath ghosting over your skin, and you can hardly muster a reply as he reaches your thighs, the heat of him only intensifying your longing. You can feel the weight of his gaze as he looks at your body, and a breathless shiver runs through you; he's memorizing you, relishing each curve.

His hands part your thighs gently, and you feel an exhilarating rush of vulnerability and excitement. With a teasing touch, he trails his fingers along your inner thigh, barely brushing against your skin, igniting sparks of electric sensation. The anticipation builds within you, a tantalizing chord strumming tighter and tighter, waiting for him to play the melody that will make it snap.

“Arthur,” you breathe, the urgency of your need unmistakable now.

“Gotcha,” he replies, the smirk evident in his voice before he dips his head. As soon as his lips make contact, you let out a soft gasp, your body responding instinctively to his mouth. His warm, firm lips explore and tease – deliberate, unhurried – and the world outside the tent melts into nothing.

Every flick of his tongue sends waves of pleasure crashing over you, and you feel yourself lose track of everything—the camp, the stars, the night—nothing matters but this moment, this connection. He revels in the taste of you, eyes locked onto yours as if wanting to drink you in not just physically, but soulfully.

“Just relax, darlin’,” he murmurs against you, and the sound vibrates through you, only adding to the swirling sum of sensations. You feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin, knowing just how responsive you are to him, and that realization sends a ripple of heat coursing through you.

His movements become more fervent, focused on every inch of you, and as his tongue works its magic, you feel your body tighten, shaking at the intensity of the pleasure he’s drawing from you. “Arthur…,” you gasp again, surrendering completely to the waves of ecstasy that just keep rising and rising.

“Feel good?” he teases, glancing up briefly, and the rogue glimmer in his eyes tells you he knows just how much you're enjoying this.

“More than good,” you reply, your voice trembling with need. “Don’t stop.”

“Trust me, I won’t,” he promises, and his focus returns, deepening the intimacy of this moment. He immerses himself fully, your body moving instinctively in rhythm with his expert ministrations. The sensation becomes addictive, and with each flick, each pull of his lips, you feel yourself teetering on the edge, ready to leap.

You can feel the tension building, each wave of pleasure rolling higher within you, and you fight to hold on, pleading with him through moans and gasps. With a final, deliberate stroke against your most sensitive spot, you shatter, the world erupting in a shocking brilliance as you crest over the edge and fall into bliss.

“Arthur!” you cry out his name, your body trembling, stars exploding behind your eyes, and you lose yourself completely in the overwhelming pleasure. The waves of ecstasy roll through you, and it feels like everything fades away—nothing but you and him, anchored together in this intimate cocoon.

He continues to tease and coax you through your high, savoring every moment, every sound you make. The connection between you both deepens in this exquisite stillness—passionate and primal, a sweet collision of souls in an unforgiving world.

When the tremors finally subside, you pull him back up to your lips, hunger evident as you kiss him deeply, tasting yourself mixed with the warmth of his breath. Arthur responds, diving into the embrace, arms wrapping around you, pulling you close as you share this sacred moment.

“Goddamn,” he breathes into your mouth when you finally part, his voice rich with both awe and hunger, the need between you still pulsing like a living thing. “You’re incredible.”

You manage a breathless laugh. “I could say the same about you.”

He smirks, brushing a palm gently over your cheek, his thumb lingering against your cheekbone. “And trust me, darlin’, I’m just gettin’ started.”

Your heart races again at his words, the promise of more sending a thrilling shiver down your spine. As you pull him closer once more, ready to explore every depth of this connection, nothing seems daunting anymore—just the two of you, the embers of the fire outside, the stars above, and the wild world fading beyond the complexities of your shared intimacy.

“Then get out of those boots, and those jeans, and take me, Arthur.” Your statement hangs heavy in the air between you, a daring challenge laced with vulnerability. Something primal glints in his eyes as he gaze down at you, igniting a spark that sends butterflies swirling in your stomach

With a swift motion, he frees himself from the restraints of his jeans, the sound of the fabric falling to the earth blending into the chaos of your racing hearts. You glance down, taking in the sight of him, and a rush of lust surges through you. He’s strong, and rugged, the embodiment of passion entwined with a rugged charm that makes your pulse quicken.

Arthur positions himself between your legs, leaning forward to kiss you deeply again, his body pressing against yours, reminding you of the heat that you both share. His hands roam over your body, exploring every curve and contour, igniting sparks wherever he touches.

“Damn, you feel good,” he murmurs, his voice rough with need as he trails kisses down your body, savoring every taste, every gasp that escapes your lips. The way his lips move on your skin makes it nearly impossible to hold back, your body arching and twisting beneath him as you crave more of his touch.

“Arthur, please…” you whimper, the urgency in your voice unmistakable. You need him, need him to fill the void; you crave the connection that you both share. He meets your pleading gaze, and the sincerity in his eyes sends warmth flooding through you.

With a steady, commanding hand, he guides himself to your entrance, hesitating for only a moment as he seeks your permission. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly, a mix of concern and desire lacing his words.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you reply, breathless, your heart racing as you nod fervently. The moment stretches, the tension palpable as the air between you thickens with promise and anticipation. Arthur doesn’t need to be told twice.

In one fluid motion, he fills you, pushing deep within with a slow, deliberate intensity that leaves you gasping. Every nerve in your body ignites, overwhelmed by the sensation of him surrounding you, overwhelming you with pleasure. You feel fullness, desire, and unyielding connection as your bodies meld together as one.

“Shit,” he breathes, his voice strained as he begins to move within you, the rhythm developing as he finds a pace that balances urgency and sweetness. Each thrust sends shockwaves of pleasure erupting inside you, a blissful spiral that pulls you closer to the edge.

You dig your nails into his back, urging him on, pushing him deeper as waves of delight crash over you with every plunge, every grind of his hips against yours, the sounds of skin meeting skin echoing in the quiet tent. Your breaths mingle, chaotic and desperate, amplifying the heat that races between your bodies.

“God, you feel incredible,” Arthur gasps, his forehead pressed against yours as he moves, each thrust igniting your senses, the pressure building within you. You can feel the heat between you boiling over, a feral need surging through you, driving you closer to the precipice.

“Arthur, I’m so close…” you cry out, the urgency of your release bubbling over as you cling to him, urging him on. With each powerful thrust, he drives you higher, pushing you toward the brink of ecstasy.

“Let go for me, darlin’,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “Let it all happen.”

That encouragement is all it takes. With one final thrust, your body shatters in bliss, waves of passion crash over you as you cry out his name, the world around you dimming into nothing but pleasure and warmth.

“Yeah, just like that,” he groans. He pulls out at the last minute, spilling rope upon rope of warm, white cum over your skin, his own ecstasy evident in the way his body tensed against yours. The two of you crashing together in a flurry of shared ecstasy that sends both of you spiraling into pure delight.

As the waves of pleasure ebb away, you both lie tangled in each other’s arms, breathless and elated. The world outside fades into an echoing silence as the fire crackles softly, illuminating the tenderness of the moment shared between you.

Arthur holds you tightly, your bodies entwined beneath the warmth of the blankets and the remnants of the heat you’ve both created. In the aftermath, an intimate silence settles between you, the sound of your breathing mingling with the gentle crackle of the fire outside, a calming cadence that feels sacred in its intimacy.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with a mixture of concern and tenderness as he brushes his fingers along your skin. He grabs his shirt, his long, strong arm reaching it with ease, and gently wipes his cum from your thigh and stomach, the gesture both intimate and caring.

You nod, a soft smile playing on your lips, feeling cherished in this vulnerable moment. “Yeah, I’m more than alright,” you reply softly, your heart swelling with a warmth that eclipses even the fire’s glow. You glance up to meet his piercing blue eyes, shimmering with sincerity and a hint of vulnerability that makes your chest tighten. It’s a contrast to the fierce man you had known; in this moment, he’s not just rugged and wild, but tender, caring.

A shy smile breaks upon his lips, and you can’t help but mirror it. “Good,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a gentle kiss on your forehead. The sweetness of the gesture sends a wave of warmth flooding through you, solidifying the bond that had cemented itself in the fiery passion of just a few moments ago.

The quiet feels different now—less charged with tension and more filled with understanding—a blank canvas where something beautiful can unfold. The shadows in the tent off the flickering light dance around you both, echoing the intricate tapestry of emotions woven from the intimacy you just shared.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a gentle kiss that speaks of more than just passion; this was special, it meant something. You both share a lingering smile before settling into the quiet once more, a sense of peace enveloping you amidst the chaos of the outside world.

As time drifts lazily onward, you let your eyes wander deeper into the safe haven of his presence, the warmth of your intertwined bodies gradually creating a sanctuary against the chilling night air. The crackle of the fire outside serves as a soothing soundtrack to the warmth surrounding you, and you revel in this moment—a blissful interlude that feels entirely yours.

“Let’s rest,” Arthur murmurs, stealing another kiss before pulling you closer, cocooning you in his embrace. You nod against him, content to let the exhaustion of reality slip away for a while.

As sleep intertwines with the serenity of the night, you feel his heartbeat against your cheek—a steady reminder that, for now, you have everything you need. Together, you drift into dreams, the warmth of each other’s presence cocooning you as the chill of the world outside feels light years away.

Thank you for reading! Reblogs and comments are always greatly appreciated ♡

#springtyme writes #springtyme october challenge 24 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #rdr fanfiction #rdr 2 #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan oneshot #kinktober #flufftober #x reader

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aerynwrites · 5 months ago

Text

It's About The Chase

Halsin x Fem!Reader

A/N: FINALLY finished this halsin pic I've been working on for the past like month lmao. a huge shout out to @princessbatears @hdlynnslibraryand @maybegefor being the pushes I needed to finish it! I hope you all enjoy! <3

Word Count: 5.2k

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, SMUT! Hunter/Prey Kink, halsin is chasing reader through the forest lol, P in V sex, cream pie, cock warming, marking, biting, rough sex, soft sex, fluff, slight aftercare, cuddling.

Summary: You and Halsin have been together for sometime now, so when Halsin approaches you and asks you to partake in a Ritual custom of his people to further your relationship...who are you to deny him?

Orange embers add to the number of stars in the night sky before flickering out of existence against the blanket of night.

The fire roars fierce before you; orange, yellow, and red tangling together in a dangerous dance to the euphony of songs around you. Your heart races, blood thrumming through your veins like a raging river. The heat from the flames only adds to the heat bubbling beneath your skin, making the fingers dragging across its surface seem startlingly cool in contrast.

You look down at your friend, Avella, as she drags her fingers down the length of your arm in mesmerizing patterns, leaving a shimmering trail of golden paint in their wake. You watch in fascination as the liquid coats her finger tips, dripping in a glimmering trail down the back of her hand before she moves to retrieve more from the bowl at her feet.

You’ve only ever bared witness to this ritual once, Halsin wanting you to see it before committing to it with him, and while you remember it being just as intriguing, it feels…different, now.

Now that it’s happening to you.

Avella, one of your closest friends, had helped you prepare for the ritual just earlier. The golden paths she is painting now, are a continuation of the ones that snake beneath the simple white dress adorning your body.

You look across from you to see Halsin garnering the same treatment, except the paint adorning his skin is a crimson red, appropriately matching the tattoos inked into him. The only thing that separates you from one another are the flames, making him flicker in and out of view as the fire laps at each new log added to it.

But even from this distance you can see the way he looks at you. See the way his eyes darken with hunger. The way his shoulders tense and his fists clench from where they rest at his sides.

He’s ready to pounce. A predator with his prey in sight but just out of reach.

At least for now.

You can feel your breathing speed up, becoming shallow, chest rising and falling quicker as Avella finishes her artwork and the harmony of songs and drums alike come to a complete stop around you.

One of the elders, a druid you’ve only met on occasion, comes to stand in front of the fire, between you and Halsin. He speaks in an old language, one you don’t understand before slipping back into common. Yet, even then, the words do not reach you.

The elder speaks eloquently about tonight's ritual, describing everything Halsin had already prepared you for.

This ritual is a sacred one, that you know. Halsin, like many druids, believed that life, like nature, is a fluid thing. Not to be bound to one person or place or thing in one's life. Yet, this very practice seemed to contradict that very principle. You still had lingering questions, one that Halsin promised would be answered come the end of tonight.

Because, by the end of the night you would be Halsin’s, and he would be yours. Completely and wholly, under the watchful eye of Silvanus himself, you and Halsin would become one with the natural world he holds so dear, cementing one another as an inseparable part of each other's existence.

You only realize the elder had ended his prayers by the low blow of a horn, and the steady reverberation of the drums picking up once more. Your eyes dart from where you had been staring off, to your partner across the fire, his brows drawn in slight concern at your hesitance.

That’s right…you must run.

And so you do.

Turning on your heel, you take off into the forest behind you, the moss and fallen leaves surprisingly springy beneath your bare feet as you dash deeper into the trees embrace.

The singing grows louder behind you at the start of your retreat, but as you put distance between yourself and the others, the sounds grow softer, quieter – muffled by nature until the only thing you can hear is your own breathing, the blood rushing in your ears, and the rustle of foliage beneath your feet.

Only then do you pause, not knowing how far you’ve gone or where you’re even going. It’s then that Halsin’s words echo in your mind, your eyes slipping close as you try to reign in in your excitement, your panic.

“You mustn’t let your mind get the better of you. It will be dark, unfamiliar, but you know where to go. Find the tree.”

You wring your hands together nervously, worry evident in your features. “What if I can’t find it? What if – what if I fail?”

Halsin smiles softly, reaching out to take your hands in his own, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head.

“You will not fail. Even if you cannot find the tree…the oak father will guide you.”

With a deep breath, you open your eyes once more, taking in your surroundings as quickly, but as efficiently as possible. Halsin was right, this place is utterly unfamiliar to you. A forest he’s lived in for most of his life, yet you have never truly seen before. Yet another advantage in his favor.

Another breath.

He believes in you, he trusts you. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. So, with one last steadying breath you turn slowly in place – listening, looking, feeling…until you see it.

It would have been almost impossible to see just moments ago, dark clouds shrouding the moon’s light. But just as you turn, there is a break in the sky, the celestial light making the silvery underbellies of oak leaves that sprout from branches that tower above the rest, glint at you.

“The heart of the forest. That is your goal,” Halsin’s voice rings in your ears again.

You smile, heart leaping with triumph as you take off at a sprint once more, all while sending up a silent prayer to Silvanus for guiding your way.

– – – – – – – – – –

Despite seeming to know the way you need to go, you continuously doubt yourself. The forest all looks the same, the trees too similar, the sounds never changing, and it feels like you’ve not made any progress towards the heart of the forest.

The branches whip past you, brushing against your face and arms, surely leaving behind evidence of their assault, but you couldn’t care less. Despite the rush of anxiety and primal flight coursing through you, there’s also...a thrill. A thrill like you’ve never felt before. A thrill that makes you giddy as you continue your race. And it only seems to intensify as you hear the distance sounds of a pursuer in the distance.

The chase has begun.

Without thought, you move faster. Feet digging into the earth beneath you, arms pumping faster, breathing harder. You will succeed. You will not fail. Not tonight.

And once again, as if the Oak Father himself heard your earlier prayers, the forest around you changes for what feels like the first time. Endless trees give way to a small clearing; an iridescent, bubbling stream running through it, separating you from more forest on the other side.

You come to a pause at the stream's edge, mind racing with what to do. But each second matters. Each breath matters.

One.

Your mind races with information that Halsin has told you about his hunts.

Two.

A branch cracks in the distance as your eyes scan the water.

Three.

Goosebumps rise on your skin as you step into the stream, the water splashing around your ankles.

Four.

Tracks…you have to leave tracks.

Five.

The mud squishes between your toes as you emerge on the other side of the river. One step, another, and another -

Six.

You hear footsteps now, clear as day as the massive bulk of your partner crashes through the woods.

Seven.

Quickly, you dart back into the stream, rushing in the opposite direction of the heart of the forest before moving to crouch behind a large boulder in the water, your dress tugging at you with the movement of the current.

Eight.

This breath you don’t release, as Halsin burst from the tree line, pausing at the edge of the stream just as you had.

You watch silently, blood rushing in your ears as you peer around the edge of your hiding place. Halsin is breathing just as hard as you were, and even from here you can see the sheen of sweat adoring his skin, the moonlight reflecting off him. His eyes scan the water before they pause. Quickly, he makes his way through the water, kneeling on the other side where you exited the water. He follows them with his gaze carefully until they disappear back into the water in the opposite direction. From this distance, you can’t be sure, but you think you catch him smiling.

“Using the water to hide your tracks…” his voice is almost lost to the bubbling stream, but you manage to hear him. “Clever, girl.”

His words send a pang of arousal through you, and you have to cling to the boulder to fight the urge to reveal yourself, but you manage. You stay in place and watch as Halsin stands to his full height once more and takes off jogging upstream, until he’s out of sight within the trees.

You wait a few moments longer, and then just a moment more before leaving your hiding place and darting out of the water and back into the forest’s sanctuary. You see the towering top of the sacred tree, closer now than you ever hoped, and you know - you know, you’re going to make it.

And you do.

Somehow this last push to the end feels quicker than the rest. The forest doesn’t feel endless, time doesn’t feel like it’s dragging on. In fact, the closer you get, it feels as if a warmth flows through you, a calm you haven’t felt since the night started. And as if on cue, you burst from the trees once more into an awe-inspiring sanctuary.

You understand now, why this place is called the heart of the forest - a huge clearing cut naturally in the middle of this vast place. The air is cooler here, a light breeze rustling the fabric of your simple gown as you come to a stop at the edge of the trees, your breath coming in quick deep breaths as you are finally able to stop running. If just for a moment.

Your eyes trail over the space, catching instantly on the fireflies dancing through the air, blinking in and out of existence as they fly. With slow reverent steps, you make your way closer to your goal, standing tall and unmoving at the center of the clearing.

The Sacred Tree.

It stands silhouetted against the night sky, a looming presence that towers hundreds of feet above you, its base thick and imposing as roots sprawl out in a vast network from its center.

With as much care and reverence you are able, you pick your way over the roots, trying to memorize every detail of this magnificent place. After a moment you even notice another stream bubbling steadily into a small pool at the base of the tree, sparkling with moonlight and calling to you.

Soon, you kneel next to the pool, hands dipping into the water, dissipating your reflection on the surface. You lean down, bringing your cupped hands up to your lips as you take small sips. You nearly moan at the cool liquid cascading over your tongue, quenching the intense thirst you didn’t even know you had. It even tastes…sweet, like fresh honeysuckles in spring, or the faint sweetness of honeydew.

You stay at the edge of the pool for a long few moments, taking slow sips and deep breaths before finally standing back to your feet. As you do, your eyes trail over yourself, astonished to find that the paint adorning you has stayed intact, not even the dirt or branches rubbing it off.

Your dress is another matter however, the garment showing clear evidence of your traipse through the woods. Tugging at the hem of the piece of cloth, you send a small smile to the tree above you.

“I suppose it’s a reasonable sacrifice, a dress for…”

For what exactly?

While Halsin had told you the basics of the ritual, and the things that were to come, you can’t help but feel like you still don't understand the cultural importance of this sacred rite.

And you don’t have time to wonder, for just as you step closer to the tree, the world around you spins uncontrollably as familiar strong arms wrap around you and rough bark meets your back as you are pressed up against the imposing trunk.

You didn’t even hear him approach, his steps surprisingly silent for a man of his size. But he’s here now - he’s here and wasting no time as his lips capture yours in a bruising kiss, his hands gripping you wherever he can. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips as he presses you further into the tree behind you, fisting the delicate white fabric of your dress in his need to get impossibly closer to you.

“Halsin-” his name leaves your lips in a gasp, barely able to pull away from him before he’s dominating you once more.

Your mind cannot even keep pace with what’s happening, Halsin’s presence cutting off any and all logical thought you may have. The only reprieve you get is when his lips leave your own only to leave a trail of messy kiss down your jaw and lower, one of his hands sliding up to cradle your jaw and expose the line of your neck to him as he continues to explore you.

Blunt teeth nip at the delicate skin of your neck and you can’t stop the whimper that slips past your lips, your hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders as he continues his assault. You’re so absorbed in him, in the way he presses against you and mouths at your skin that you don’t even notice his hands as they move to take hold of the gauzy neckline of your dress.

You’re only able to utter a gasp of his name as he tears the thin fabric clean down the center. The threads rip easily under his grip, snapping and popping until it hands In tatter remains on your shoulders. You’re barely able to take in another breath, before calloused palms cradle your cheeks, and for the first time since he’s found you are you able to truly see him.

The sight nearly takes you to your knees.

He towers over you, pupils blown wide with lust as he drinks you in. His shoulders heave with labored breaths, sweat damp skin glistening in the light of the moon. He looks like a god, cut and carved from stone before you.

Halsin has always been an attentive lover, and at times you would even describe him as tame. Always doting on you, putting your pleasure first and handling you with the delicacy of a newly blossoming rose petal.

Not now.

The man that stands before you, clutching you in his hands, fingers pressing into the base of your skull, is nothing more than the beast he always tries to contain. yet, even now you can sense a moment of hesitation in him, restraint. A moment you know won’t last - nor do you want it too.

“I’ve found you, my heart,” he says, voice nothing but a low rumble in his chest. “I’ve found you, and I intend to make you mine. Wholly and completely with no one but Silvanus as witness and I…I cannot promise gentleness. Not tonight.”

He didn’t ask, not out right - but you know he’s asking. As much as he wants this - wants you - you know he would back down if you so much as hesitated. He would take his hands from you and walk away and never hold any ill-intent towards you.

But you want this. You want this more than you ever could have imagined. Halsin unrestrained and untempered…

You want him to devour you.

You nod resolutely, hands sliding up his arms to rest upon his wrists.

“You’ve found me,” you tell him, voice but a whisper as you squeeze his wrists, inviting him imperceptibly closer. “So, claim your prize.”

The only response Halsin offers is a growl as he dives back in, his lips crashing against yours in a mess of teeth and tongue and you don’t dare refuse him when he pushes past the seam of your lips to explore you further.

Halsin makes quick work of the remnants of your dress, tugging the tattered fabric from your shoulders to let it pool at your feet. Once free from it, you reach up and cling to his shoulders as he divests himself of his own clothing before his hands come to grip at your thighs lifting you up into his arms as if you weighed nothing.

From this position, you can feel the heat of him against your inner thigh, hard and just as eager as you are. A fact he is more than aware of as he brushes up against you, groaning into your mouth as he feels your wetness against him.

“I knew you would be ready for me,” Halsin says, his lips brushing against your jaw as he moves to press faint kisses to the skin there. “I could smell you even back at the stream.”

You pause at his words, surprise coloring your pleasure and Halsin laughs, breath warm against your sweat damp skin.

“Oh, yes,” he whispers, “I knew you were there. placing fake tracks, hiding…”

He presses you further back into the tree, the bark bringing a pleasant sting of pain to the pleasure building in your belly as he lines himself up.

“Why…” you trail off, words choked out into a whimper as he finally - finally - presses into you, inch by agonizing inch.

Halsin lets out sinful sounds of his own, grunts and sighs that make you quiver in his hold as he continues to fill you until his hips are flush against you own and you feel so full that you might burst.

“Because,” he breaths, nipping quickly at the juncture of your shoulder and neck, “It’s about the chase. The hunter and his prey-” he grinds his hips into you, eliciting a moan from you that would have made yo blush in any other circumstance. “It’s the catch that makes it worth it.”

Halsin emphasizes his words with one swift movement, pulling out of you before thrusting forward to the hilt once more, as stars burst behind your eyelids. No more words are said as he sets a devastating pace. Anything you do try to say slipping from your mind like warm honey as he drives into you.

With Halsin, there’s usually build up. He’s a man who loves to play with you, wring out your pleasure in the most torturously pleasurable way he knows how. Tonight, however, there is none of that. And you thank the gods above that you found the chase itself so exhilarating, because even with how ready you were, how eager you are for him - the size of him is bordering on overwhelming.

Yet you can’t find it in you to truly care.

All you can do is clutch helplessly at his shoulders and back, nails digging into taut skin as your legs wrap around his waist in an effort to pull him even deeper inside you.

It feels as if he just started touching you and you can already feel that familiar tug deep in your belly, arousal burning bright as he continues his furious pace. But you also notice a falter in his rhythm, his hips stuttering ever so slightly as you assume his own end approaches.

“Halsin-” his name falls from your lips in a whimper, hands moving to tangle in his hair as he comes back up to claim your lips once more.

You expect him to acknowledge your silent plea or agree and tell you he’s close too, but you should know to not expect anything tonight. instead, your surroundings blur around you. Your back leaves the rough bark of the tree in a blink and soon, up becomes down and cool moss meets your knees as warm hands meet your back and before you can even take another breath Halsin has you on your hands and knees before him as he presses into you once more.

You can’t stop the cry that falls from your lips, this position letting Halsin even deeper into you, allowing him to touch places that make it feel like magma runs through your veins.

“Oh, gods…” you moan, eyes squeezing shut as your fingers dig helplessly into the soft ground beneath you.

“No,” Halsin growls, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair as he moves to lean over you, surrounding you in him. “There are no gods here, not now.”

His words and the combination of his cock buried so deep inside you at this new angle catapults you over the edge. You come with a cry of Halsin’s name on your tongue.

Your lover helps you through your high, his thrusts growing more erratic until he too finishes with animalistic grunts as he spills himself inside of you.

You still struggle for air beneath him, chest heaving in the aftermath of your orgasm, that it takes you a moment too long to realize that warm hands are tugging at your hips. A small whine slips past your lips when Halsin pulls himself from you, and it’s then as he rolls you onto your back and leans down to capture your lips in a much more tender kiss than before, that you realize he’s still hard. His release doing nothing to satiate the need coursing through him.

“I love you, my heart,” Halsin says as he pulls away from you to nose at your temple. “You have given me a gift, this night - a gift I do not think I will ever have words enough to repay you.”

Then, for the first time tonight do you truly seem him. He’s pull away from you slightly, just enough so he is able to look upon your face, and you can seem him clearly. His eyes glisten with emotion, vulnerability and utter devotion swimming in pools of hazel. You take this instant to take your lover in, commit this reverent moment to memory as your eyes flit over his face and lower. From the scars cutting through his brow to his tousled hair. To the paint that adorns him - the paint that now lies muddled against his bronze skin, red mixing with your gold. A visual representation to anyone who sees that you two are bound to one another.

Your hands slide up his arms, fingers dancing across his shoulder before finally coming to cradle his face - your heart fluttering when he leans into your touch.

“Then show me,” you whisper, puling him into another searing kiss.

His lips are hot against your own, yet despite the sureness of his movements there’s just a hint of tenderness there. A familiar warmth that encompasses you as he touches you once more.

His hands are firm against your skin, squeezing and gripping and pulling you tighter to him, but gone is the pure urgency that was just moments ago. Halsin is all consuming - he always is - but now it’s as if he is taking up every part of your existence.

Solid arms wrap around you, holding you to him as he slots himself in the cradle of your hips. The familiar scent of him seems to envelop you whole as he presses himself further against you - sandalwood, sage and moist earth after a spring rain. He breaks away from your lips only to nose at your temple, and you take this moment to breath him in, your hands sliding up his back in an effort to pull him closer.

Halsin sighs against you, warm breath ghosting over your ear as he shifts his hips, pressing into you once more. He moves to kiss you once again as you take him, swallowing the moans that bubble from your chest until his hips meet yours.

He stops, then, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against your own, as he allows you both pauses to bask in one another completely. You, for one, are grateful for the small reprieve, the moment becoming completely overwhelming in a new way.

You and Halsin have lain together more times than you’re able to count, each time never ceasing to take you to new heights, but this…this feels as if you’re seeing him for the first time - being with him for the first time.

He holds you to him in a reverence you never thought possible from a man, cradling you with a delicacy that makes your chest tight with emotion. He presses featherlight kisses to your brow and then your lips once more before he finally moves.

And it’s as if the heavens open up above you.

Ecstasy burns through your veins with each push and pull of his hips, as if you can feel every vein and ridge of him inside you. He sets a steady pace, but nothing like the hurried fucking he gave you earlier. No…this was slower, more measured, as if he never wants this night to end.

“I love you.”

The words are a mere whisper against your cheek as Halsin moves, his hips pressing deep into you forcing you into the soft moss beneath you as he tries to mold himself further into you.

“I love you, my heart,” he says again, voice strained. “I have never felt…” he trails off voice going soft before he picks up again. “I am bound to you, body and soul. And by the Oak Fathers grace I will never be parted from you. Not if…If you’ll have me.”

His words make your heart flutter, tears burning at the back of your eyes as you turn your head to look at him, your hands coming up to tangle in his hair once more.

“I would have no one else,” you tell him solemnly, pressing a slow kiss to his lips. “I love you, too.”

At your acceptance, your reciprocation of his vow, Halsin shudders in pleasure above you. With one arm still wrapped snugly around you, his other hand trails down, over your hip coming to rest at the back of your knee only to tug it quickly over his hip, changing the angle and allowing him to slide deeper inside you.

The cry that falls from your lips in nothing short of erotic, his name falling from your lips in a jumbled prayer as his pace speeds up, bring you both closer to the climax you feel burning in your belly.

Gone are the sounds of nature that greeted you when you first entered this sacred place. Now the only sounds that meet your ears are your lovers groans of pleasure in your ear and the blood raring in your veins. His skin slides against your own, damp with sweat and swirled in gold and red as the paint so delicately applied to you both now mixes together.

Halsin’s thrusts become erratic, and a wave of golden light washes over him as he ruts against you. He pulls your hips closer to him, and you wrap your legs around him obediently as the hand that was supporting you comes up to cup your jaw, titling your head up and away, presenting the delicate expanse of your throat to him.

You catch the familiar flash of druidic magic in his eyes through your lashes, and you know he’s fighting the beast, holding it back as he lowers his head down, lips brushing the underside of your jaw as he thrusts into you again, harsher this time.

“You are mine,” he growls, voice octaves lower than his usual deep timbre.

“Yours,” You relent, voice a whispered plea into the night air.

The only warning you receive is another harsh thrust of his hips, this one making him reach so deep inside of you that you see stars as his teeth sink into the flesh of your neck, breaking skin and sending you to another plane of euphoria you’ve never experienced before. Moans and cry of pleasure spill from your lips as you come, nearly sobbing as Halsin follows you over the precipice once again, pressing himself into you fully as he fills you.

With ears ringing and heart racing, you almost don’t hear the soft call of your name, Halsin’s lips placing delicate kisses to your cheeks and lips, drawing you closer to coherency as gently as he can.

He has not separated from you - the forest floor still at your back as he presses his weight comfortingly against your front, brushing errant strands of hair from your face.

“I love you,” you finally say, voice raw.

When you speak, Halsin lifts himself from you slightly, bringing one hadn’t up to stroke at your hair affectionately, eyes brimming with emotions you can’t yet place.

“And I you,” he says, leaning down to capture your lips in a slow, tender kiss.

After a few quiet moments, Halsin takes you into his arms once more and rolls so he is on his back with you resting against his chest, never separating himself from you in the process.

His heart beats strong beneath your ear, his chest rising and falling in long even breaths, and if it weren’t for his fingers tracing patterns up and down your spine, you’d think he’d fallen asleep.

Neither of you speak for a long while, using the silence to bask in one another’s presence, your mind still reeling from your experience. the silence is only broken when you hear the faint call of song birds and you see the barely there streaks of grey tinting the horizon beyond the trees.

You sit up turning your head and wincing at the tinge of pain that accompanies the movement. a hand comes up to touch the spot at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, and your suddenly reminded of the mark Halsin left behind.

His hand comes up to cover your own, calloused fingertips tracing over the bite gently, and you look down to see concern tugging as his brow.

“I’m sorry, my heart, I lost myself-”

“Will it scar?” You cut him off, turning your hand to lace your fingers with his own.

Halsin pauses at your question, lips tugging downward. “I can make sure it will not-”

You shake your head, leaning down to capture his lips in a quick kiss, pulling back to stare into familiar hazel eyes.

“Don’t.” you say. “Leave it. I…like the idea of it. But I…” you trail off, your courage waning.

Halsin’s other hand comes up to card through your hair, urging you to face him again.

“Speak freely here,” he encourages.

You nod, sliding one hand up to run your fingers over the spot on his neck that mirrors your own.

“I’d like you to bear a similar mark.”

Halsin smiles, pulling you down to him so your lips are a mere hairsbreadth away.

“You are mine just as much as I am yours, my heart.”

You smile.

You could get used to that.

#halsin x reader #halsin silverbough x reader #bg3 x reader #Halsin #bg3 halsin #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #halsin silverbough

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