#it seems like a dangerous road to travel...

[pushing500]

Have you heard the good news of Combat Extended?

My little brother has given me some mixed reviews. He says it's great, but once you've used it, you can never go back...

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[a-simple-imagine]

Don't They Know a Rabbit Can't Cry

Synopsis: while travelling the witches' road you're forced to confront the two witches who left you centuries ago without an explanation.

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x fem!reader x Rio Vidal

Words: 2.3k+

WARNINGS - swearing, choking, knives, nightmares, brief mentions of burning and being buried alive and playful use of 'mommy'

A LIFE ONCE LIVED //

It's a quiet evening as you pluck wildflowers in the wake of the setting sun. You would have to head home soon; to avoid the danger of navigating your way back in the dark. The older witch did not like you being out alone at night but you weren't quite done yet. The bouquet had to be perfect. Not that she would ever say otherwise. not to you anyway. Too soft. Too sweet. She had a soft spot for you. They both did. You twist the delicate stem between your fingers. Lavender. Beautiful. Intoxicating. And... hot. Sizzling against the pad of your pointer finger and thumb. And searing into the skin. You drop it quickly. Flames swallowing the single flower. Bizarre. You take another. plucking it from its spot. Flames shoot up from the ground surrounding you entirely. Red hot and roaring as the flowers make way for beautiful flames that dance in the breeze. Creeping closer and closer. Quicker and quicker. Until you feel it burn against your skin.

You jolt up. Sweaty and warm in the night's cold embrace. You're safe. Right now at least. No fire. No nothing. You rub your temple. Just a nightmare. They'd been more frequent as of late. Little flashes of the past engulfed in fiery fury. Fitting. The makeshift campsite was still. The ashes of the small fire dance in the breeze. Witches litter the ground in a moment of respite. You didn't know them but you imagine they're quite desperate. Most weren't brave enough to even dare travel the witches' road anymore. Pushing up you decide to go for a walk. Not far just enough to feel the cool air and calm your heart. Away from prying eyes. There wasn't much around here anyway.

"can't sleep?" it's a startling thing. To hear such a familiar sound so abruptly. It brings with it a quickened heart. A look of surprise. that voice. An unpleasant reminder of the past. That's all this trip seemed to be. A constant trip down memory lane. In many ways, you wish you had never agreed but maybe your darkened heart may still hold a few soft spots.

"just needed a minute alone,"

"That's a dangerous game around here," there is a playfulness to her tone. one that makes your jaw tense.

"can you just go away?" you ask. "I can't- I can't deal with this right now."

"playing hard to get?" just as playful but different. Still familiar. Annoyingly so. "what happened to that sweet girl who brought me flowers every day."

"don't," a threat. You wished not to relive the past right now. Not with them. They didn't deserve to remember you so fondly.

"made us little flower crowns." her voice travelled the woods. Surrounding you from all directions. Trapping you in your spot.

"stop."

"used to bring us fresh bread."

"fuck off," you bite back with an equally sharp turn. Subdued anger began to rise at the mere sight of them. Agatha Harkness. The harbinger of your nightmares. The years had been kind to her appearance but if rumours are to be believed she had a dark reputation. Evil. Soulless. Murderer. Maybe in another lifetime, you would have disagreed. A green witch stood to her side. Far enough away for you to know they weren't on good terms either. She sported a signature smirk you wanted to slap away. Rio Vidal. Infuriating in every conceivable way. They both brought different feelings. Similar but still different. "why can't you just leave me alone?

"we're only checking on you, dear,"

"After such a scary nightmare." Rio teased. "do you need to get in mommy's bed tonight?"

You take a deep breath. Don't raise to her level. Don't give her the satisfaction. It's not quite admitting defeat but you're tired. Falling against a nearby tree. "please leave." you let your head fall back against the bark.

"I'm sure Agatha won't mind,"

"leave the poor girl alone," as always Agatha comes in to mediate. It's always just a little misleading. The woman crouches down before you. Glassy eyes bore into yours and for a moment you're that girl again. The one they remember. Who picked flowers and planned picnics? Ran in the meadow and liked to sit at the edge of the lake. Who held on tight to Agatha's hand as she walked you home. You didn't have much back then. Lived in a small cottage in the woods with your family. The older witch came into your life so abruptly. Looking back on it now she probably just saw a naive girl she could play with. "are you okay?" her question brings you back to reality. The here and now. Stuck on the road with a bunch of washed-up witches and the two people you hate most in the world. Stuck in a never-ending cycle of reliving the past. The end seemed so far away. Who knows if you'll even make it that far with this useless bunch. "do you wanna tell us about it?"

"Agatha," said softly.

"yes, dear?"

"fuck. Off." quiet but firm. You can tell she wasn't expecting it. A little chuckle sounds from behind her. The witch raises.

"fine." Agatha answers. "forgotten how stubborn you can be." your eyes trail after her as she begins to walk away, Rio takes a moment before following. And the question that has been bubbling in your chest for centuries finally comes up.

"Why did you leave me?" they slow to a stop. Yet to turn back. Did you even really want to know the answer? Perhaps it was a question best left unanswered. Years of bitterness already seeped into your bones. Little to be said to make you less angry at them. Less murderous rage. "what did I do?"

"Nothing," Agatha urges. Short and simple. No explanation needed apparently. "don't stay up too late,"

"then why?" you asked again. a little louder. A little firmer. Why was she acting like this? Pretending she cared. It was infuriating.

"Just tell her," Rio presses, turning back to you.

"don't," Agatha places her hand on Rio's shoulder but that doesn't stop the green witch from sulking towards you. A malicious little smile.

"come on, look at her," a knife pointed in your direction as she makes her way over. "just as pitiable as she always has been." she crouches down in front of you much like Agatha had before. But you don't see that girl you once were. Her eyes fill you with anger. It's strange to think you used to admire her so. Used to put flowers in her hair, and she let you. The tip of her blade forces your head up ever so slightly. "A pathetic little girl. Scared of the world," a sharp pain. You swallow hard  "scared of anything real."

"Rio," Agatha walks up, towering over you two. "put it away,"

"Why should I?" she wonders. Pressing a little harder. "tell her."

"What happened to you?" Agatha questions. Your eyes flicker up to her. Did she really want to know or was it diversion. "where does this hate come from?"

"you left me," you reply. A loud bark of laughter from Rio as her blade lowers.

"no," the woman shakes her head slowly. "that's... not it."

"boring," Rio groans loudly. "I didn't lie, y'know? I know you don't want to believe me but it's true. Isn't it Agatha?" the woman rises to her feet. Patting the other witch on the shoulder. "we left because you were weak."

"it... it wasn't quite like that," Agatha offers out a hand. You brush it off, standing up. "we thought you'd be better off."

"alone?"

"without us." Agatha corrects. "you were so..." her eyes trail over you. "different back then. You didn't know you were a witch. You were just so..."

"innocent," Rio insists.

"no- well, yes but not in the way you might think. You just needed a push and we were being so careful,"

"soft," Rio interjects once more.

This little game of back-and-forth was cute. But you didn't care. Rio was using it as an excuse to get some sick sense of pleasure from throwing in insults while Agatha was doing anything to avoid saying what she thought. You knew Agatha. She could be just as mean as Rio. "can you get to the point?"

"you already know," you ignore Rio, looking straight at Agatha.

"We wanted to protect you," you can't help but roll your eyes. That was the best excuse she could come up with. Some fairytail bullshit. "felt easier to leave." you glance at Rio who looked just as over it as you did.

"Agatha thought you'd be better off without us. That we shouldn't be dragging you into a world you weren't ready for. Blah blah blah. Too weak to come with us. If we left you wouldn't get caught up in anything bad,"

"Rio was actually the one who didn't want to go,"

"Whatever," she huffs. Her gaze down at the knife in her hand; twisting the edge against the tip of her forefinger. "I thought it'd be worse if we just left you. that it'd fuck with you- we just needed to be harsher."

"but I was right,"

"you were wrong," Rio answers.

"How? I mean look at her," Agatha ushers towards you. "a full-fledged witch. Survived centuries. That's something. You didn't need us."

"do you wanna tell her or should I?" you wonder if Rio is genuine in her question or if this was just another attempt at teasing. This conversation had mainly been between the two of them.

"Tell me what?"

"I wasn't... okay, Agatha," you admit for perhaps the first time ever out loud. Only Rio knows what happened to you in the years between them leaving and the last time you saw her. You made sure of that. The two of them had grand legacies but you wanted to be forgotten in history. Like the legend of Bloody Mary. Not a sole dare speaks your name anymore because who knows what'll happen if you show up.

"oh bunny," a pet name you hadn't heard in a very long time. It almost seemed childish now. Pathetic. "just talk to me."

"you don't care,"

"god do I have to do everything around here," Rio complains. "she was tried as a witch, Agatha. Use your head for once."

"Rio," you huff.

She rolls her eyes. "burned at the stake."

"Rio," you snarl. "stop. I don't wanna talk about it."

"yes you do," she responds sharply. "you want nothing more than to make Agatha Harkness feel guilty for leaving you. Hurt her the way she hurt you." you dart for her in one swift motion. A hand around her neck. The teasing just becoming too much, and you were sick of hearing her talk.

"you hurt me too," you bark, shoving her against the nearest tree. What should be fear is instead a small smirk and dark eyes.

"fiesty," she quips. She knows you won't kill her. You can't.

"you're the only person to ever leave a mark." you resume. "an ugly scar that my body just refuses to heal."

"come on sweet one." you drive a little harder. "make it hurt."

"do you know what it's like to be tied up and buried in a coffin? To slowly suffocate to death over and over and over again," fingernails dig into the skin of her neck. You can see it's having an effect. The wobble in her smile. "the way your body screams for oxygen. Your insides burning with desire but there is nothing you can do?"

"drop her," Agatha's hand reaches your shoulder and your powers kick in. Your free hand waves her away. Energy blasts her backwards and she stumbles to the ground. A lesser witch wouldn't know of Agatha's ability to drain magic but you were smarter than that. careful in your use despite the speed. control what's around her rather than directly blasting her.

"don't touch me," you growl.

"our... little girl... is all grown... up," choked out of Rio's mouth. You watch her grow a little paler. A little more starved for breath. And then you drop her. She crumbles to the floor. "and filled..." she coughs. "with... murderous rage... apparently."

"calm down," Agatha tries from her place on the floor, as she tries to get up. You use your magic to help her up. Leaving her hovering just a few feet off the ground.

"y'know, when they dragged me from bed and burned me at the stake all I could think about was you two. Surely, they didn't just leave without a word. They'll... come back and help me." you can still picture that night. The confusion. the heat. The pain. "you left me," you walk towards Agatha. "and look at you now. The great Agatha Harkness is completely powerless."

"we're sorry, okay- aren't we rio?" rio shrugs a little. With a heavy sigh, you drop Agatha to the ground. "you've come a long way bunny."

"wasn't really a choice,"

"Can we just backtrack a little," the older witch requests. Brushing herself off as she stands back up.

"immortality looks good on you," Rio teases. You hold up a middle finger.

"you're immortal?"

"for the longest time, I thought one of you cursed me with it. Some fucked up way of protecting me. But then I went looking for you. Heard all about your extra circular activities. Witch killer, hiding behind dark magic," Agatha just looks back as you turn to Rio. She knew the story. "Rio was easier to find,"

"should have stayed dead," Rio insisted, the cold metal blade dancing across the scar on your neck. "how easier that would be," you shove her away and she just chuckles. "oh how I missed this," she wonders over to were Agatha is stood.

"I'm going back to sleep," you announce. "let's just leave it at that,"

"Why did you come," Agatha asks. You wonder if it's worth the conversation. The headache of continuing to engage with them. "if you hate me so much?"

"to die," you say eventually as you head back to camp.

// NEXT

[ultravi0lence14]

Thoroughfare

DEAN WINCHESTER X DOE!READER

WARNINGS: sexual content (MDNI), fingering, hair pulling, finger sucking. first smut, pls i know it’s bad🫣

SUMMARY: with a light whisper of ‘do you wanna see the west with me?’ dean had you right where he wanted; by his side and sitting pretty in the front seat of his car.

WC: 3.3k

the humid air of the western skies lingered on your skin, bringing a humid and sticky sheen to your arms and shoulders. dean had all the windows rolled down, a testament to the light breeze that broke through the stickiness of montana.

your cotton tank top stuck to your skin, slick sweat making you feel like it had melded with your body. the cutoff’s you wore weren’t any better, adhering to your thighs like glue. the stubborn weather of a mid july afternoon didn’t allow for any cold; no chill wracking you through the bone, only a sickly, immobilizing heat that crashed through your senses and made it’s way into your dna.

though some part of you didn’t seem to mind. the rolled down windows allowed you to stick your head out the open space, wind blowing in your hair as you took in the blurred and rolling sights of crooked leafless trees and dried up fields.

dean wasn’t any better. one of his hands rested on the steering wheel, long nimble fingers clutched tightly so he could steer you to wherever the road leads you two. his other hand — firm in it’s grip, rested on your thigh. his fingers travelled into the inside of your leg, fingers delicately dancing across the seem of your shorts as his eyes stared at you from his peripheral vision.

you were ethereal, an angel sent from God just for him. your hair, unruly in how the wind tossed it about, was flowing behind you like a fairy with her wings. the side profile of your face was directed towards dean, your back facing the passenger side door as you stuck your head out in the placid and dry air.

the fullness of your cheeks was properly on display to dean’s eager eyes, and he wanted nothing more than to run his lips across the skin, brushing delicate kisses onto your cheeks and face until you were covered in his love. he could faintly see the plump pout of your own lips, eyes shimmering with admiration and desire as he pictured running his tongue across them; your soft lips pressed timidly against his as he pulled you into his body, almost swallowing you whole.

he loved you, so incandescently. you were the face of beauty, a true goddess in the eyes of the eldest winchester. it wasn’t just your delicate features that pulled dean in, it was the way you carried yourself, a graceful mist following you wherever you went.

softness rolled off of you in tidal waves, and dean loved how your gentle nature contrasted and grounded his frequent pessimistic and grumpy behaviour. the human embodiment of a doe; a creature full of love and life, who walked through flower gardens erupted by spring like it was her calling.

it didn’t help that your eyes resembled one of the animal; big and round, always so soft and caring. he loved you so much, it physically made his soul ache.

you were always there for him, never wavering even when times got tough. you didn’t love his job, believing that hunting was dangerous and the stem of all of his childhood and lasting trauma. but dean always waved you off, saying that this was his life, and he would never do anything that would jeopardize a life and future with you.

but he could still see the emotional tole it was taking on you, weighing on your heart like a heavy burden that you shouldn’t be carrying. he ached for you to feel secure in this life that he was giving you, but dean also knew that everyone needed breaks. so, he decided to give you one.

a couple nights ago, the two of you found yourselves tangled in the sheets of a nebraskan motel, limbs intertwined as dean embraced you in his arms, your fingers drawing small hearts on his chest.

“let’s go to california.” the random outburst from dean had you pulling away from him slightly, lifting up on your elbows so you could get a better look at the man who’s eyes glimmered with hope and mischief. “what are you talking about, dean?”

“what i’m trying to say is,” dean sat up as he spoke, resting against the headboard and grabbing your hips so he could pull you into his lap. “let’s go to california. you are always begging me to go to malibu, and you deserve a vacation every now and then.”

the smile on your lips was beaming, a shine that could light up a thousand skies. dean wanted to bottle it up, put it in a jar, and never let it leave his side. he felt your hands move to his shoulders, those big, beautiful eyes staring at him with unbridled excitement. “you’re being serious right now? this isn’t just some sick joke?”

“no jokes baby,” he drawled, hand brushing your soft hair away from your face. pulling his face closer to yours so he could brush his lips against your ear, dean whispered so softly you believed you were imagining it. “do you wanna go see the west with me, pretty girl?”

you were elated the whole car ride, excitedly babbling about all the things you two would do in the golden state. as the nights rolled into days, the air started to get more and more humid, which led to the very moment that dean was in now. he shook his head from the memory of how he got here, watching your smile take up your whole face as you giggled at something unbeknownst to him. he didn’t really think about the why, he was too busy getting drunk on the sound of your laugh.

lightly patting your thigh, dean grinned over at your windswept and sticky frame as your giggles danced alongside the flow of the wind. “c’mon crazy girl, get back in here. can’t have you falling out.” his words held a joking lilt, yet you could see the concern in dean’s eyes. with a joking huff, you retreated back into the car, legs immediately sticking to the leather as the hot air melded your skin like sticky glue.

“oh c’mon dean, it’s so hot.” you groaned out, another giggle rippling through your lips as you saw dean playfully role his eyes in your peripheral. “i can basically feel my skin melting off.”

“you’re so dramatic,” his teasing was palpable, you could feel it in the way his smile reached his eyes and how his fingers clutched a little tighter onto your thigh. “what do you think cali’s going to be like, baby? think it’s going to be an ice box?”

letting out a grunt as you smacked his arm, dean watched with love struck eyes as your grin got impossibly even more wide. “you’re such a jerk, dean winchester!” dean swore he has never smiled harder in his life than when he was with you. that sweet, playful nature always brought out the best in him, and he didn’t even dare think about a life without your brightened presence.

crossing your arms over your chest, those pretty pink lips dean loved so much puffed out in a pretty pout. dean’s hand itched on your thigh, wanting to reach up and pull down your bottom lip. “i’m prepared for the weather in california, dean.” your voice broke him from his revere, making dean slightly cough as he intently listened to your ramble

“we won’t be spending all the time in the car. we’ll be at the beach, santa monica pier — oh i’m so excited for all the rides!” the vibrant glimmer of your excitement shined through the car, hitting dean straight in his heart, spreading until it was pumping through his veins.

“yeah, no rides, doe.” the previous excitement in your eyes dwindled, a shocked expression breaking through. “what? we have to go on the rides dean! it’s almost like a birthright.” he just loved how you expressed yourself, loving how when you defended the things you loved, your eyes got wild and your cheeks tinted. it was such a pretty sight, though dean was starting to believe everything about you was pretty.

dean’s words came through his lips in a chuckle, a grin etched onto his face as he looked at your pretty features. “i don’t do rides. never have, never will. sorry, sweets.”

shaking your head in disdain, a sad pout decorated your face, turning towards dean as he continued to drive down the desolate, montana road. “you’re such a buzz kill, do you even know what fun is?”

your question was a joke, your voice light and airy as it always was, but this time with a twinkle of comedy. but dean was already so wound up from the image of how pretty you looked with the wind blowing in your hair, illuminating you like a framed painting, that an idea slid into the depths of his mind.

a smirk adorned his lips as he shifted the wheel, pulling the impala off to the side of the road. your face twisted up in confusion as dean pulled the gear shift into park, cutting the ignition and turning his body to face you. your lips parted in question, about to voice your thoughts before dean’s hands grabbed at your calves.

with a squeak from your lips, dean hauled your legs onto the front seat, moving your body so your back was leaned against the door. he then tracked his fingers down the smooth expanse of your skin, grabbing at your ankles and pulling you down until you laid flat on your back.

the space was cramped, but dean somehow found a way to make it work; bending your legs at the knees and spreading them open so he could fit in between them. words were lodged in your throat, a sputter of air leaving your lips as dean situated himself. he had that shit eating grin on his face, and you could already tell that he had something wild up his sleeve.

“dean!” you exclaimed, hands going to rest against his chest as a laugh erupted from your lips. “what are you doing?”

he just smirked, trailing his hands from your ankles up your thighs, one hand gripping your waist as the other worked to pop the button of your shorts. “just showing my girl how fun i can really be.”

the words that fell from his lips were amplified with the sound of your zipper undoing, and your eyes widened suddenly at the realization of what dean had in mind.

“we can’t do this now, dean.” you exasperated, hands pushing at his chest as his fingers worked to take off your pants. “someone could drive by, they could see us for christ’s sake!”

dean just leaned down to leave a lingering kiss on your forehead, shimmying the waistband of your shorts a little ways down your waist before his hand on your hip shifted to go under your ass. “no one’s been on the road for miles, sweet thing. we’re alone, everything is going to be okay.” his words were followed by the softening of his eyes, the hand that had been undoing your zipper went up to stroke your cheek. “do you trust me?”

sliding your hands up from his chest to around his shoulders, a soft, serene smile graced your lips. you brought your face upward, brushing your mouth against his as the shallow breath’s leaving dean’s lips hit your own. “of course, i always do.”

you felt him smile against your lips, placing a delicate kiss on your nose before he pulled back slightly. “good,” he breathed, hands going back to your waistband. “now, lift your hips f’me, baby.”

a dusty blush adorned your cheeks as you obliged, hips lifting slightly as dean slid your jean shorts from your legs. when they got to your ankles, dean helped you kick them off, picking them up and throwing them somewhere in the backseat with a grin.

“that’s much better.” words wrapped around a grin as his fingers dipped into the waistband of your panties. the giggle that left your lips at his comment turned into a shallow whimper as one of his fingers dipped into your folds, his fingers slipping through your already wet cunt.

a breath left dean’s lips, eyes blowing wide as he watched your face twist in pleasure from the finger he had down your pants. “jesus, sweets, you’re already fucking soaked. did i do this to you? was it my words and my finger that got you this wet?”

a high pitched ‘mhm’ left your lips as you nodded your head, eye’s half lidded as you watched dean stare down at his finger teasing your folds. moving the finger that was teasing your entrance towards your clit, lightly pressing down and eliciting a sharp moan from deep in your gut. “there’s my girl,” dean cooed, his fingers moving in tight circles on your sensitive bud. “you’re doing so good for me baby, such a good fucking girl.”

the sensation was overwhelming, a shot of bliss the curled in your gut and wound into your soul. your half-lidded eyes caught sight of dean, his head down as he watched the way his finger played with your clit. the mid-day sun was washing over his figure, bathing him in such a light that made him look almost angelic.

as dean pulled his finger away, you felt a sense of emptiness unfurl in your stomach. a deep whine left your lips, hips lifting upwards to try and chase the high that dean was providing you. “more dean. please, give me more.”

“patience, pretty girl.” his voice was soft, but there was an air of demand and dominance that hid behind the cracks of his voice. “i’m just getting started. didn’t know you were so needy for me.”

another whine tore from the depths of your throat, whimpering as dean slid the side of your underwear out of the way, exposing your cunt to his eyes and the cold air that was whirling through the car’s vents. a groan rumbled in his throat, your eyes half lidded as you watched him put the finger covered in your slick in his mouth.

“jesus christ, you taste like a fucking dream.” his words sound slurred, and they were heightened as two of his fingers went back to your leaking pussy, prodding at your entrance as tiny whimpers left your throat. “i can’t wait to see how you look stuffed with my fingers, gushing all over my hand like the good girl i know you are.”

the whine that would’ve left your lips at his words turned into a deep moan, dean’s middle and pointer finger entering your tight walls, his own ragged breaths mixing with yours as he felt you clenching around him.

he watched as your breathing grew ragged, chest heaving up and down as you gripped onto his shoulders for dear life. he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, so dean waited until you gave him the green light, his other hand smoothing down the hair the fell in your face.

after a couple of moments, he felt your hips rut into his hand, eyes screwing shut in pure pleasure. that was all he needed to thrust his fingers into your tight walls.

high pitched whimpers left your lips as dean’s fingers prodded at your cervix, a guttural moan leaving your lips as he brushed against your g-spot.

“there it is,” he breathed, hollow breaths leaving his own lips as he watched his fingers go in and out of you. “that’s the spot, isn’t it baby? you like it when my fingers make you feel good?”

all you could let out was a guttural moan, hands clawing at dean’s clothed chest for any sign of resolve. too caught up in your own pleasure, you didn’t realize that dean had forgotten to roll up the windows, your loud moans and whines flowing through the wind and alerting anyone who drove by about what was going on inside of the impala.

but in the moment, you didn’t seem to care. dean started to move his fingers faster, your hips rutting up to meet the frenzied pace of his hand. the coil in your stomach was starting to tighten more and more, and you couldn’t help but scrunch your eyes closed and slightly turn your head as the euphoric feelings started to intensify.

though that didn’t last for long, because without a warning, the hand that dean had previously used to smooth down your hair tangled in it’s strands, gripping tightly as he pulled your head upwards so you were face to face with him.

“open those pretty eyes for me, sweetheart.” his voice held that same softness with a lilt of dominance, fingers quickening as he felt your orgasm approach. “i wanna see you when you cum. see how good i make you feel when i fuck you with my fingers.”

your eye’s shot open, lips parted and heavy pants and whines leaving your throat as dean kept going with the relenting pace. “i can’t- fuck, dean! i’m gonna cum!”

the pace at which dean’s fingers were moving inside of you was relentless. each thrust of his fingers hitting your g-spot as his piercing green eyes stared into yours. at your words, he moved a little faster, lips brushing yours as his voice travelled from his lips to yours. “c‘mon, my sweet girl, come for me.”

you could feel it, the bliss that started in your core and creeped it’s way into your entire body. the coil in your stomach tightening and tightening until, like a crashing wave, it gave way.

you came with a loud cry, back arched and head leaning into dean’s hand embedded into your hair. you watched as dean kept moving his fingers inside of you even as you gushed around his fingers. he was transfixed, completely enchanted by the bliss that took over your face.

“there you go,” he cooed, the hand in your hair lessening as his fingers started to slow down. “pretty girl, all messed up, coming on my fingers. you look fucking unreal.”

his words were mixed in with the small whimpers that left your lips, mouth parted and cheeks flushed with bliss. there was drool running down the corners of your mouth, and you felt as dean took his hand out of your hair and wiped it away with his thumb.

you whined as he pulled his fingers out, feeling empty without his fingers deep inside of you. looking down, you watched as your juices spilled out of your entrance, dean immediately dipping his two already wet fingers in the mess and putting them in front of your mouth.

“open up for me, doe. want you to taste yourself on my fingers.” with wide, wet eyes, you parted your lips for dean to place his two fingers on your tongue. when you closed your mouth, sucking on the two digits, you felt as the pads of middle and pointer finger prodded at the back of your throat.

“that’s my girl.” dean breathed out, watching in awe as he stared at your pretty face sucking your juices off of his fingers. he swore you weren’t real in that moment, too good to be true. yet as you swirled your tongue around his fingers, he realized that you were his, and he was yours, and he wouldn’t trade that for the world.

as you came down from your high, dean cleaned you up with a napkin that he found in his centre console. when he was done, he helped you sit up, moving your underwear back into place and allowing you to take a breather.

realizing your shorts were in the backseat, you leaned over the seat to try and find them, jumping as you felt dean land a smack on your ass.

“jesus dean,” you laughed, grabbing your shorts and sitting back down. “can’t get enough can you?”

“when it comes to you?” he grinned, turning the car back on and starting to pull back onto the street. “i can never have enough,”

TAGS: @haunteres @starzify @floralscented @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @honeyryewhiskey @foolinthera1n @vaiieydoii @bluemerakis

NAT BABBLES: i’ve been so wrapped up with my angel series, that i wanted to reset and write a little dean story. also, this is my first time writing smut, so i know it’s probably ass, but just bare with me😭

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Wrought in Honey and Flame

Amelia’s backstory. A Hoodoo Apprentice prequel.

Summary: Amelia Broussard’s backstory unfolds in a slow-burning tale of grief, magic, forbidden love, and the dangerous sweetness of longing.

Warnings: Light smut, Angst, Flashback

“Sweeten a man’s thoughts with sugar and fire, and he’ll follow you straight into the water.”

— Old conjure saying, St. Landry Parish

“I didn’t mean to burn him. I only wanted to be loved. But some of us are made from things that don’t cool easy.”

— Amelia Broussard

Long before Amelia Broussard ever opened her eyes to the world, she was already a secret the bayou couldn’t keep.

In Louisiana, folks say the feu follet are trickster lights that drift just above the water at night—flickering blue-white orbs that draw travelers off the path. Some say they’re the souls of unbaptized children. Others swear they’re witches in exile, restless and cruel.

But the oldest tellings—the ones whispered over boiling pots and told in French-Creole by candlelight—say the feu follet are fae folk, born of swamp mist and starlight, wild as river currents and bound by rules older than blood.

They don’t marry. They don’t bear children.

And they sure as hell don’t fall in love with humans.

But Lysara did.

Lysara was not of the Bright Court—not silver-haired and crowned in jewels like the fae in books. She was wilder than that. A bayou-born daughter of dusk and marshlight. The kind of beauty whispered about in nighttime stories, where men vanish following flickers between the trees.

She stood at just under average height, but nothing about her ever seemed small. Her presence filled a space the way mist fills a field—slow, sudden, impossible to hold.

Her skin was a radiant bronze-brown, with undertones of gold that caught the light like wet stone. It shimmered faintly when she moved, not like glitter, but like heat rising off summer roads. People often stared and couldn’t say why—only that she glowed.

Her hair was thick and long, black as swampwater at night, but when it caught the moonlight, it revealed strands of deep green and indigo, like oil slick on river glass. She wore it loose and wild, tangled with moss threads or little clover flowers when she returned from the trees. It curled like smoke around her shoulders and sometimes moved even when the air was still.

Her eyes were the color of dark amber honey, flecked with motes of green and gold. When she looked at you, it felt like sunlight filtering through cypress trees—soft, warm, but full of secrets. The kind of eyes that saw through you, and into you, all at once.

Her lips were full, always slightly parted, as if she were holding back laughter or a sigh. Her smile was rare but devastating—not from cruelty, but from the way it felt like light breaking over the bayou after days of rain.

She walked barefoot, even in places she shouldn’t, and she never made a sound. Her footsteps were silence. Her presence was thunder.

She smelled of wild things—crushed mint, fresh rain, and the faint sweetness of night jasmine. If you got close enough, you’d catch a trace of something deeper: like damp earth, warm sugar, and candle smoke. That scent lingered long after she left a room, clinging to clothes and memory.

Her voice was low and melodic, with a lilt like wind in the reeds. When she spoke, it was as if the trees leaned in to listen. There was music in her tone—not song, exactly, but rhythm. Gentle. Lulling. Dangerous in its softness. She never raised her voice. She didn’t have to. You heard her whether she whispered or wept.

Lysara was a full-blooded fae of the feu follet kind— born of light, moon-soaked waters, and marsh spirits.

Her court was wild and ancient, dwelling in the bayous of southern Louisiana, hidden in veils of mist and magnolia bloom. The feu follet fae are luminous, emotionally potent beings who walk the line between seduction and sorrow.

Lysara was known for her beauty and her curiosity about humans, which made her suspect in her court. She often slipped into the mortal world to dance at the edges of hoodoo rituals and funerals, unseen by most —but not all.

August Broussard was a mortal man—a preacher’s son and jazz pianist in Louisiana. Handsome, thoughtful, and disillusioned with the rigid expectations of his family.

He was tall—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders and a long, lean frame shaped by years of hard work under Southern sun. There was something statuesque about him, like he’d been carved from river stone and polished by time, a man who carried the weight of expectation but bore it with quiet ease.

His skin was deep umber, rich and dark as fertile soil, with undertones of copper that came alive when the light touched him. It gave his features a kind of glow that wasn’t magical, but still arresting—the glow of a man fully alive in his body.

He had high cheekbones and a strong jawline softened just slightly by a neatly kept beard. His nose was straight and broad, his mouth full but rarely smiling— though when it did, it changed his whole face. His teeth were ivory and even with a touch of gold, a flash of brightness that felt earned, not effortless.

His eyes were dark brown, almost black, with a steadiness to them—the kind of eyes that could silence a room without raising a voice. When he looked at you, it felt like a quiet challenge: Tell the truth. Say what you mean. But those who knew him well swore his eyes held a softness too, something protective, especially when he looked at Lysara.

His voice was low, resonant—a preacher’s voice, but without the fire. He spoke with patience, depth, and a quiet conviction that made people lean in. Whether reading scripture, reciting poetry, or simply asking how your mama was doing, there was music in the way he talked. Earthbound music. Southern gospel. Muddy water hymns.

He often walked alone at night, especially after gigs, humming lullabies his mother used to sing. One night in the bayou, he saw a flicker of light—and followed it. That’s where he found Lysara. She didn’t flee. She laughed. And she kissed him before he could ask her name.

It began as a secret—stolen hours under cypress trees, in the crook of Spanish moss.

Fae magic does not know time the way mortals do. A season to a fae can feel like a lifetime to a human—and for August, those nights were eternal. Lysara fell in love despite knowing she shouldn’t. Fae are not meant to bear children with mortals—it breaks laws older than any written. Her court warned her: “If you carry his blood, you’ll lose your light. Or worse—your child will bear both hungers.”

But she was already pregnant.

August called her his ‘sugar-light.’ She called him her jeune fou, her foolish boy. They met under moss and moon, traded kisses for poems, made love in wildflower patches only the fae remembered.

For a season, it was bliss.

The bayou sang with it. Her glow softened around him. His music changed; became richer, aching.

But when her people discovered she’d conceived a child, the swamp itself recoiled.

“A feu follet does not give life,” they told her, “If you keep the child, you will fade. If you stay in this world, you will tear it apart.”

August asked her to stay. To live with him. Raise their child. Lysara wanted to, more than anything. But her magic began to change. The child inside her dimmed her glow, made her ache in ways she didn’t understand. Her kin grew fearful of her. She was no longer safe in the fae realm and not safe in the human one either. On the eve of Amelia’s birth, she returned to the Broussard family home in the dead of night. She was weak. Fading.

She didn’t want to let go. August begged her not to.

“Stay. We can raise her. I’ll love her. I’ll love you. Just be mine.”

But she wasn’t made for staying. She was made of in-between. The longer she held the child inside her, the more her glow dimmed, her skin thinned. Her kin turned their backs. Her magic faltered.

August’s mother, Mère Vivienne Broussard, was a powerful rootworker and midwife. She had seen Lysara once before, dancing at a crossroads when she was a child. She knew what she was. Knew what her son had done.

She helped deliver the baby.

“She shines too bright,” Vivienne whispered, “She’s not meant for here.”

Lysara, dying, begged her, “Raise her. Hide her light. Teach her love but not hunger.”

Vivienne agreed. But she made her own vow: Amelia would know the truth one day. And no man — no magic — would claim her before she knew who she was.

Lysara kissed Amelia’s forehead once before she vanished in the mist before dawn. Vivienne wrapped baby Amelia in blue silk with silver threads, fabric woven with old fae symbols to protect and veil. She laid her gently on her own doorstep, as if someone had left the child by accident.

She called the neighbors and said only, “A baby’s been left at my door. Looks like kin to me. I’ll take her in.”

After Lysara’s disappearance, August spirals quietly and grieving, still holding onto his baby girl from afar. He’s changed. He stops playing music in public. Whispers swirl around town about him. August becomes an object of suspicion—a Black man seen consorting with someone people claimed was ‘not right.’ One night, a white woman accuses August of ‘looking at her wrong’ in the street. No crime. No trial. A mob forms. He’s taken from his home. He is lynched at the edge of the swamp, near the same waters where he first met Lysara. His mother, Mère Vivienne, buries him quietly, lighting candles for both her son and the daughter of magic he left behind.

a few days after August Broussard’s death. Vivienne sits in her candlelit living room in New Orleans. Rain taps on the roof. Outside, the town pretends not to know what happened. Inside, she’s building a shield between Amelia and the world.

The baby wouldn’t sleep unless she held her. Her beautiful granddaughter.

Vivienne rocked gently in an old creaking chair that belonged to her late husband, her arms full of too much light and too much sorrow. The child swaddled in blue silk shimmered faintly, even in sleep, her breath like moth wings, her skin warm like sunlit water.

Vivienne had seen many things in her years. Rootwork and spirits, dreams that came true. She’d pulled babies out of women screaming, buried others too small to cry.

But this child?

She was something else entirely.

Born of a man whose love got him killed. Born of a woman who vanished like fog. A child glowing with fae fire and carried by blood that made her a target before she could even walk.

Vivienne whispered a prayer under her breath—not one from the Bible, but older. A calling to her people. To the old spirits. To the ancestors who walked barefoot through fire.

“Watch over her. Don’t let her shine blind. Don’t let her light get twisted...”

She lit seven candles and placed a small jar of honey on the windowsill.

She’d done what she could for August. Washed his blood off the porch, cut a lock of his hair, buried it deep beneath the cypress tree he used to sit under when he played the blues alone. But she hadn’t saved him.

She couldn’t save Lysara either. That poor glowing thing who looked at her like a girl begging to come inside from a storm.

But this baby?

This baby girl she could raise. Quietly. Carefully. Between hymns and hoodoo. Between sugar water and salt lines.

“You gon’ grow up strong,” she whispered to the infant, “But quiet. Hidden. I ain’t letting the world eat ya’ like it did ya’ daddy.”

Amelia stirred, eyes fluttering—and for the first time, they glowed.

Just for a moment.

Vivienne didn’t flinch. She only pulled her closer.

“Ain’t no light that bright that can’t be taught when to dim.”

She blew out six of the candles. Left one burning.

Always one.

And as time passed, the girl glowed…

It’s a warm Louisiana evening, thunder rumbling in the distance. Mère Vivienne is brushing her hair on the porch. The storm hadn’t broken yet, but the wind told secrets.

Seven year old Amelia sat between her grandmother’s knees, her little feet bare, a book clutched in her lap. Mère Vivienne’s fingers moved through her hair slow and steady, the same way she stirred a pot or mixed herbs for a customer—with intention, with knowing.

“Keep still now,” she murmured.

But Amelia fidgeted. Her skin prickled. She was too warm. Not from the weather, from inside. She opened her mouth to speak and light leaked from it. Just a flicker—like candlelight dancing on a wall. But Vivienne saw it.

Her hands paused.

“Did you feel that?” Amelia whispered.

Vivienne didn’t answer right away. She placed a cool hand over the child’s heart.

It beat fast. Glowing faintly beneath the skin.

“I didn’t mean to,” Amelia said, trembling. Misty–eyed.

“I know, baby. You never do.”

Vivienne stood and went inside. She came back with a glass jar filled with bay leaves, ashes, and a drop of molasses. She anointed Amelia’s temples with the thick mixture, muttering words that weren’t English.

“What’s that for?” Ameila asked.

Her grandmother exhaled, “To keep ya’ light low. Ya’ too little to carry what ya’ carry. Too many people see brightness and want to break it.”

Amelia didn’t understand. But she nodded.

She fell asleep in Vivienne’s lap, glowing faintly, the storm finally breaking overhead.

Then there was a time when she was nine years old, it was a late summer evening in Louisiana. Amelia was playing in the yard behind her grandmother Vivienne’s shotgun house. Crickets hummed. The smell of warm bread and woodsmoke lingered in the balmy air.

Amelia was supposed to be skipping rope. But the rope had other ideas.

Every time she got to seven, the air shimmered.

The first time, she thought it was just heat.

The second time, she saw fireflies hovering in daylight, circling her, matching her breath.

The third time, the rope sparked in her hands.

It wasn’t flame. Not exactly. More like light—gold-white, flickering across her fingers like something alive.

She dropped the rope and backed away.

The fireflies followed.

She ran inside, heart pounding, hands trembling.

Vivienne didn’t flinch when she saw her.

“It’s coming sooner than I thought,” she muttered, already lighting a candle, “Your mama had the same shimmer in her blood.”

Her teenage years were torture living in secret.

Vivienne taught Amelia how to dim her light with baths of blue hyssop, chamomile, and graveyard dirt. She taught her to speak softly to mirrors, to never cry in public, and to carry iron when walking alone at night.

But it didn’t always work.

Her glow leaked out when she was overwhelmed, when she blushed, when she bled, when she loved anything too much.

At fourteen, a boy tried to kiss her under the magnolia tree.

When he touched her cheek, he gasped—said she felt ‘like warm lightning’ he never looked her in the eye again.

And then 1922 came, a little before Amelia’s eighteenth birthday.

Tragedy struck.

The house smelled of mint and old pages.

Vivienne lay beneath a quilt stitched with protective sigils, her breathing thin as thread. She reached for Amelia’s hand.

“You were born from something wild, baby. Something bright. You got both the ache and the hunger in you.”

“What am I?” Amelia questioned between sobs.

“You ain’t a curse, no matter what anyone says. But you got to learn to walk careful…”

Vivienne placed a velvet pouch in Amelia’s palm.

Inside: a small, obsidian pendant strung on red thread, and a folded note wrapped in oil paper.

“This’ll help keep ya’ light tucked in. When ya’ feel like you’re gonna glow, hold it. Think of me.”

Amelia cried.

Her grandmother cupped her cheek, smiling weakly.

“Don’t be afraid of what you are. But don’t trust the wrong hands to love it, either.”

Vivienne died that night. Quiet. The candle at her bedside snuffed itself.

After the funeral came a new scenery. Amelia packed up and moved to New Orleans with Celine, her aunt, in a tall, polished house along Esplanade Avenue, in a neighborhood lined with magnolia trees, wrought iron gates, and quiet money.

The people there were Black and powerful��bankers, doctors, teachers, wives in pearls and linen gloves.

They didn’t speak of hoodoo or ghosts.

They spoke of Jesus, of dignity, of not being like the old folk from the backwoods.

Celine was marrying Nathaniel, a doctor with a voice like scripture and skin like mahogany. He didn’t smile easily. He didn’t touch often. But he looked at Amelia— really looked.

Celine Broussard was raised in a world where appearances were survival—especially for light-skinned Creole women navigating both privilege and constraint within the Black elite. Her family, especially her mother Vivienne, carried power behind closed doors through conjure and healing, but in public, they cultivated a gentle image of piety and refinement.

Marrying Nathaniel—a well-respected, dark-skinned Black doctor and preacher—elevated her. It allowed her to reinforce her position in society as ‘The First Lady’ of the church, admired for her beauty, her grace, and the impression of virtue. It gave her legitimacy not just socially, but spiritually.

She loved the idea of being admired.

Celine warned Amelia:

“No glowing. No humming. No stories about spirits. You keep that side of you locked tight. You hear me?”

Amelia nodded.

But the light inside her wasn’t meant to stay hidden forever.

Celine first noticed it in the plants.

Her lilies, so carefully tended in the front window, leaned toward Amelia when she passed. The camellias bloomed early. Her lavender wouldn’t dry right—it stayed wet, fragrant, pulsing like it was still alive.

Then it was the animals.

The neighbor’s cat refused to cross the porch unless Amelia was gone. Dogs barked through fences. And birds lingered too long outside her window.

Then it was the light.

Flickering candle flames. Mirror surfaces humming with faint gold. Once, Celine swore she saw a second reflection of Amelia in the glass—glowing, smiling faintly—even when the girl looked solemn.

She began to pray harder. Burn frankincense. Salt the thresholds. She said nothing.

But she watched.

Sunday Morning at Mount Calvary Baptist Church

1925:

The church smelled of sweat, starch, and sweet oil— the holy trifecta.

Crisp white gloves, pressed suits, and polished shoes filled the sanctuary like a river of devotion. Ceiling fans turned slow and deliberate overhead, clacking in rhythm with the rustling of paper fans printed with funeral home ads. The choir had just finished a number that shook dust from the rafters—all low moans and high wails, voices lifted to Heaven and somewhere deeper. Somewhere closer.

The sanctuary was a long rectangle, wood-paneled and warm, with windows painted in pale stained glass that let in the sunlight like softened fire. The pulpit stood elevated at the front, wrapped in white lace and gold-trimmed velvet, and behind it towered Dr. Nathaniel DuPont, pastor, healer, and pillar of the congregation.

He preached like thunder rolled through his chest.

Not loud. Not wild. But with a stillness that commanded. When Nathaniel spoke, the room leaned forward. Every syllable landed like a nail in wood—deliberate, strong, crafted to last.

“There is a light,” he said, holding the air in his palm, “and it is not ours to hold or to dim. It is the Lord’s. And He places it in each of us as He sees fit. But beware, beloved, for not every light comes from God. There are other lights. Strange ones.”

There were nods. Calls of mmm and tell it. The kind of agreement that passed down through bone and blood.

From the first pew, Celine Broussard, fiancé of Nathaniel DuPont, sat tall and polished like she was carved from marble. Wide-brimmed cream hat. Gloves that matched. A delicate veil shadowed her painted mouth. She never said amen aloud, but her posture exuded satisfaction—a woman not just engaged to the preacher, but master of the house of God itself. People whispered about how refined she was, how her women’s ministry raised more money than the men’s ever could. They said God had blessed her hands.

And maybe he had. Or maybe someone else had.

Celine’s rootwork was never visible, never spoken of. But it was there. It was in the oils she dabbed behind her ears before service. In the bathwater she poured down the drain before hosting luncheons. In the church donations that always seemed to circle back to her. She kept her altar locked in a back closet and wrapped her working jars in lace handkerchiefs, but the spirits knew her by name.

Beside her sat Amelia Broussard, a shadow in silk.

She was too quiet, too still. Fresh-faced from grief, still mourning the death of her grandmother—the woman who had raised her, taught her things in secret and in moonlight. Here, under Celine’s roof, she had no footing. No roots.

Her dress was simple. Her hands folded. She barely blinked as Nathaniel spoke. She didn’t say amen. She didn’t move. But she felt everything.

And the eyes—the eyes of the congregation felt her back.

They looked at her like something uncertain. She was family, yes. But not of them. There was something soft about her, something other. A strange shine behind her gaze, like dusk just before the lightning bugs appeared. Her presence unsettled. Women whispered behind fans. Men looked twice and then looked away, shame burning at the edges of their thoughts.

Amelia didn’t know the words to their hymns. She didn’t know the names of the women in the second row. But she knew the weight of judgment.

She felt it press into her shoulders like hands from behind.

And yet, when Nathaniel glanced down from the pulpit, just once, and their eyes met, something passed between them. Not recognition. Not yet.

Just an ache. The kind grief carves into those who pretend they’ve moved on.

He looked away quickly, back to the Bible.

“Let your light so shine before men,” he said, voice deep, solemn, “that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in Heaven.”

Amelia lowered her gaze.

Because her light did shine.

But it had never belonged to Heaven.

Four Years a Flame in Hiding

New Orleans, 1922–1926

Amelia Broussard, aged 18 to 22

She bloomed slow, like something half afraid of sunlight.

The house was beautiful but cold. Celine kept it pristine, full of lace curtains and polished wood, and every mirror wiped spotless. Amelia learned to walk through it like a ghost—quiet, careful, unseen. She kept her grief hidden beneath silk and prayer.

At eighteen, she was still all colt-legs and caution. By twenty, she had grown into her curves like honey settling into glass—smooth, deep, sweet. Her hair thickened into a wild halo of curls. Her eyes, wide and dark, held a flicker of gold that never went out, though she tried to dim it.

Because Celine watched her.

And so did Nathaniel.

She made friends—eventually.

Girls from church, mostly. They called her pretty but strange. They liked to braid her hair and tell her which boys liked her. They whispered during service and passed notes folded in fans.

Sometimes she snuck out with them, just after supper, when the heat of the day clung to the bricks like molasses. They’d meet boys on corner stoops, near the ice cream parlor or behind the neighborhood school. Boys who smelled like pomade and cologne. Boys with hands that moved too fast but words that melted like butter.

Amelia let them kiss her.

She’d lean back against peeling wood and part her lips just enough. Let them touch her cheek, her collarbone. But she never let them past her dress buttons. Never let their breath tangle too long in her throat.

Because she couldn’t trust what might slip out of her— that golden shimmer that burned brighter when she was flustered, the flicker that made boys fall too fast, too deep.

One boy swore he saw light in her mouth when she sighed.

Another tried to follow her home after one kiss and carved her initials into a tree.

She stopped seeing him after that.

By day, she was Celine’s niece. Respectable. Quiet. Presentable.

She wore pastels to service. Said ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no sir.’ Read scripture aloud at the dining table. Nathaniel barely looked at her when they ate, but she felt the crackle of tension—low and persistent, like heat behind the walls.

He was kind. Reserved. But sometimes his gaze slipped.

Celine never mentioned it. But she noticed everything.

By night, Amelia became someone else.

She would lock her bedroom door, turn down the lamp, and draw the curtains tight. Then she’d pull out her grandmother’s leather-bound journal from beneath a loose floorboard. A book soft with age, full of folded prayers, dirt smudges, and wax seals.

She practiced quietly.

Footwork first—where to step to find or lose a thing. Crossroads blessings. Ways to turn someone’s tongue or sweeten a neighbor’s opinion.

She whispered Psalms into jars and slipped cinnamon under her tongue. Pricked her finger just once, to learn what power tasted like. Learned to blow smoke just so. To anoint. To hide.

All of it in secret.

Because even though Celine worked root too—Amelia felt the difference. Celine’s work was all command and iron, her jars full of hair and heat and pressure. Celine’s magic controlled.

Amelia’s didn’t want to control. It wanted to call.

To beckon. To illuminate. To stir.

Which made it far more dangerous.

Suppressing her light was the hardest thing.

At first, she used cotton gloves to hide her fingertips when they glowed. Sat in cold baths to calm the fire in her blood. She prayed hard and often. Chewed bitter roots to keep her magic still. Bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper every time she smiled.

By twenty-one, she had learned to keep it in—most days.

But it was like trying to hold back tidewater with her bare hands. Especially when she was alone. Especially when Nathaniel passed too close. Especially when her own loneliness pushed against the corners of her ribs, aching to be seen.

She became a woman quietly, secretly, dangerously.

Not the kind who bloomed in public.

The kind who kindled in private—learning her curves in candlelight, whispering her grandmother’s name when the light started to rise. She didn’t need anyone to tell her what she was becoming. She felt it every time a boy looked at her too long, or a married man tipped his hat, or Celine’s gaze cut sharp like a blade across her back.

She was becoming something Celine feared.

Something even Nathaniel, for all his righteousness, would not be able to resist.

The Ride Home

Early Summer, New Orleans, 1929:

The heat didn’t let up, not even after sundown.

Church had run long. Nathaniel’s sermon had been on temptation, but his voice had softened by the end— less fire and brimstone, more like a man preaching to himself. The congregation lingered in the fellowship hall, sipping sweet tea and fanning themselves. Celine was still inside, smiling tightly at Sister Marguerite’s gossip, already halfway into next week’s planning.

Amelia slipped out onto the front steps, arms folded around her waist. The cicadas had begun their night chorus, humming like something ancient and relentless. Her hair clung to her neck in damp curls. She longed for air, for stillness. For somewhere she could be herself again.

A shadow fell across her shoulder.

“Would you like a ride home?”

She turned.

Nathaniel stood a step below her, his hat in his hands, shirt collar slightly unbuttoned, sweat darkening the edges of his vest. The look in his eyes was practiced— neutral, authoritative. But his voice had a catch in it, low and unreadable.

“I can walk,” she said, though her feet ached in her Sunday shoes.

“It’s late. Celine won’t be leavin’ no time soon either. Got work to do back here. I can take you to the house, Amelia.”

She hesitated, searching his face for motive.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t crowd her. Just waited.

And she said, “Alright.”

The car was quiet.

A clean old Ford, smelling of cedar and something sharper—maybe bay rum or holy oil. The windows were cracked, letting in the warm wind as they rolled past the dark oak-lined streets. They didn’t speak at first.

That was, until he broke the silence.

“You’ve grown,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road, “Not just older. Wiser.”

Amelia glanced at him, then quickly away. “That what you tell all the girls?”

He laughed, surprised. “You’re not a girl.”

The words hung between them.

She shifted in her seat, suddenly hyperaware of her own body—the curve of her thigh against the leather, the pulse in her wrist, the way her bosom sat full and rose and fell with her shaky breath.

“…You used to call me that when I first came to live with Celine.” Amelia recalled.

“Well,” he said, “you aren’t that anymore.”

Silence.

The house came into view—tall, pale, still glowing with electric light. Celine’s fortress. Amelia felt her ribs tighten just looking at it.

He pulled to the curb.

“Thank you,” she murmured, hand on the door handle.

But before she could open it, his fingers touched her wrist.

Just lightly.

Just long enough.

The heat from his skin went through her like flame. Her light—that cursed, beautiful thing—sparked under her skin, flickering behind her eyes.

She didn’t move. Neither did he.

“I know what it’s like to live in someone’s shadow,” he said quietly. “To feel like you gotta shrink just to survive.”

Her lips parted, but no words came.

Then he let go.

She slipped out of the car without another glance, heart pounding like a drum in her throat. She didn’t look back until she was halfway up the walk—and even then, only once.

He was still sitting there, hands on the wheel, unmoving.

Watching.

Then came the sweetening of the flame.

Nothing transpired for some time, but then by late fall, 1929—Amelia is twenty-six.

It began with the brush of his hand again.

This time, he didn’t pretend it was accidental.

It was a Wednesday. Bible study had ended. Rain tapped soft against the chapel roof. Nathaniel offered her a ride again, and she took it again—this time without hesitation.

He didn’t speak when they reached the house.

Didn’t let go when his fingers grazed hers in the doorway. His touch lingered—thumb grazing her palm, a pause full of something unspoken.

Then he leaned in.

Not to kiss her. Just to look. To be close enough that she could feel the breath between them. Her light stirred beneath her skin, drawn to him like a tide to moonlight.

“You feel it too,” she whispered.

“I’ve been fighting it longer than I can stand.”

And then she was back inside the house, alone, trembling, lit from within like a paper lantern about to catch fire.

That night, she made the jar.

Not for him exactly. Not at first.

She lit a white candle and a blue one. Wrote her full name and his, folded the paper in honey, and pressed it into a small jar with rose petals, brown sugar, orange peel, and cinnamon. She added his handwriting—a scrap from a discarded sermon draft. A sliver of his sermon robe’s thread. A whisper from her mouth.

“Sweeten his thoughts of me. Pull him close, let it build.”

It was half rootwork, half instinct.

Part of her—the fae part—understood how sweetness could snare. How longing could bind. How fire could feed. When the wax melted down, she felt it inside her. Like something opening.

The first time happened days later.

Celine was away—called out to tend to a friend dealing with her own mother’s sudden illness. Nathaniel stayed behind to tend the church. Amelia wandered into the sanctuary just before dusk, barefoot and silent, drawn by something low and humming in the air.

She found him in the pulpit. Alone.

Reading scripture by lantern light.

He looked up when she entered—and didn’t look away.

Neither spoke.

She stepped forward like sleepwalking. He came down from the altar like he had waited a thousand years. And when their bodies touched, it wasn’t desperate—it was inevitable. As if the universe had always planned for this.

He kissed her first. Gentle, reverent.

Then again. Harder. With tongue and grunts.

He lifted her onto the front pew, parted her thighs with trembling hands. Her dress hiked up over her hips. She felt like silk and smoke, warm and wet, breathless beneath him. She let herself open—not just her body, but the light inside her, that golden, forbidden thing.

He got on his knees and spread her flower that bloomed with arousal and inexperience. Nathaniel removed his glasses so they wouldn’t fog his vision. He took one look at Amelia, at the way she glowed like the sun. He delve in for a taste of her and Amelia moaned so angelic.

“You taste so good…this virgin pussy is so good, baby…”

She wanted Nathaniel to be her first. She needed him to break her down.

And he responded to it. Moaned into it. Sank into her like a man starving.

Nathaniel fucked Amelia in that church like he ain’t have pussy in a long time. The sound of their sex echoed within the sanctuary beneath the large cross nailed to the wall. Instead of preaching the word, Nathaniel preached lustrous.

“Pussy so tight…been wanting this pussy for so long…you take me deep, baby…look how you take me…”

He lifted so Amelia could watch. Dress hiked up. The ache had settled into a tingle she was addicted to. The wetness and the heavy girth of him. He had grown man dick and it fucked her with talent and attentiveness. Something the younger men couldn’t give her. Nathaniel hooked her legs over his arms and plowed into her, claiming her pussy as his, thick sweat trickling down and over her.

Amelia gasped with each stroke. Eyes glowing and brows pinched together.

“Yes, Nathaniel! Take me! Take your pussy!”

He groaned.

Nathaniel picked her up and fucked her standing. She glowed in his arms. Powerful. All consuming.

“You tugging on the root of my dick, baby…what kinda pussy you got?” Nathaniel spoke between moans.

“I–I feel like I’m gonna climax!”

Amelia felt Nathaniel hold her legs open further and he dipped her, drilling into her while she clung to his neck. He fucked her so hard her breasts popped out of her silk dress and bounced.

“NATHANIEL!”

Her head lulled back and her eyes crossed. Like she was capturing the holy essence. Nathaniel didn’t stop feeding her broken in pussy with seven inches of fat dick. He felt her grip him up tighter, tugging on his dick like a boa constrictor to its prey.

“You gonna make me cum, Amelia…”

Nathaniel sat her down and dug in her with all he could, sweet moans tickling his ears. He pressed his lips into hers, swallowing her cries of pleasure. Nathaniel felt himself ready to bust.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum!”

Nathaniel pulled out, jerking his hot semen all over Amelia’s pubic hair. He fought to catch his breath.

After, Amelia lay stretched out across the empty pews, chest rising slow.

Nathaniel sat nearby, his head in his hands. Regret already thick in the air.

But Amelia didn’t feel shame.

She felt powerful.

Not over him—though she knew now she had that, too.

But over herself. Her own body. Her own hunger.

Her light hummed low under her skin, fed by touch, by heat, by the release of holding back for so long. Her magic had fed. And it wanted more.

She turned her head toward him, lips still swollen, curls wild across her shoulders.

“I’ve never felt like this before.”

“You shouldn’t,” he muttered, eyes dark. “We crossed a line I can’t uncross.”

“But you wanted to.”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Because the truth was in the way he looked at her now —not like a child or a niece or even a woman from the pews.

He looked at her like she was dangerous.

And she was.

The jar never left her room.

She hid it beneath her bed, in a velvet pouch wrapped with silk thread. The honey inside grew darker over time, thicker—like time itself had settled into it. Like all the sweat and sighs and secrets between them had soaked into the sugar.

She’d light the same candle when she wanted to stir him. And it worked.

He would show up.

Late at night, with excuses and shadows. Under the guise of checking the lock on the side gate. Or coming to leave a Bible in the parlor. Sometimes he’d only linger near her door. Other nights, he’d slip in.

And each time, she gave in.

Not because she was powerless—but because she wanted him. Loved him. Needed him to need her.

He was her first.

The first man to see her, want her, touch her.

And every time he returned, it reminded her: she could keep him.

But she couldn’t keep all of him.

Even as he loved her, he married Celine.

The wedding was a church affair—lace and pearls and lilies. The First Lady of the church, finally crowned. Celine glowed with pride, not love. She wore success like perfume, thick and heavy. Her smile was sharp, her hands cold as crystal.

Amelia stood on the church steps, watching the white doves release, the crowd clapping, her heart folding into itself like paper in flame.

Nathaniel looked at her only once that day.

A glance.

It was all she needed.

Still, it continued.

Behind closed doors. In hotel rooms. Once even in the church office, late on a stormy night when he said he couldn’t help it.

He told her he loved her. Told her he wished he’d met her first. Told her she made him feel young, like God hadn’t given up on him yet.

And she believed it.

But belief doesn’t hold a woman through the night.

Eventually, she began to see other men.

Not because she didn’t love Nathaniel—but because she needed to feel wanted in the open. Not stolen. Not hidden. Not touched only in shadows.

She let young men take her dancing. Let them kiss her neck, slow and soft, on streetcars and porch swings. Let their hands touch her waist in public.

She never slept with any of them.

But Nathaniel saw.

And it worked.

His jealousy flared like a match—sudden, violent, consuming.

“You think I don’t see the way he looks at you?”

“Let him look. At least he’s not ashamed.” Amelia argued back.

Nathaniel never said he was ashamed of her.

But he never said he wasn’t, either.

Amelia kept the jar anyway.

Even when she thought about smashing it. Even when she hated herself for lighting that candle again.

She kept it because it was hers. Because it had worked. Because it was proof that she could take something, shape it, and make it stay. Even when the world told her she was unnatural. Even when Celine gave her that tight, knowing smile across dinner plates and prayed longer every time Amelia passed the salt.

The jar was control.

A spell for sweetness. For longing. For power disguised as love.

But it was still love.

And with every stolen night, Amelia changed.

Her light burned lower, but deeper. No longer wild. No longer flickering.

It smoldered.

Nathaniel never understood how much of her he was feeding. How each kiss—each desperate return—wasn’t weakening her. It was growing her.

She stopped asking him to choose.

Because she knew he never could.

Celine had always been watchful.

She never raised her voice, never accused. But she could peel flesh with a look. And lately, she looked at Amelia too long. When they sat together in the parlor, the silence between them grew heavy. Sticky.

She asked strange questions.

“You still lighting candles in your room at night?”

“You walk with so much light, girl—don’t let it blind you.”

“I remember how your grandmother glowed before she burned out.”

Celine started keeping track of her husband’s hours. Staring longer at his collars. Laying out shirts with starch so sharp it scratched his neck—as if she wanted the marks left behind.

She began sprinkling powders at thresholds, whispering at night behind her closet door. Her altar grew fuller—oils, bones, a cracked jar of molasses.

And when Nathaniel came home one night too quiet, smelling faintly of gardenia and guilt.

The walls of the parlor hummed with silence, too still for midday. Outside, cicadas droned in the heat, their song like static under the thick tension in the house.

Celine sat perched in her velvet chair, her back rigid, hands clasped so tightly in her lap her knuckles paled. Nathaniel was just inside the door, hat still in hand, the sweat of the street clinging to his collar.

“…I ran into Sister Deveraux at the market this morning,” Celine said coolly, eyes fixed on the embroidered cushion beside her. “She said she saw you stepping out of the Hotel Maison. With a girl.”

Nathaniel blinked. He remained still, like prey trying not to spook the huntress. “She must’ve been mistaken.”

Celine finally lifted her gaze. “Don’t insult me.”

He sighed and set his hat on the small table near the door. “Celine—”

“You’ve been slipping!” she cut in, rising from the chair. “Sneaking in late. Avoiding me. You barely touch me anymore. You think I wouldn’t notice?!”

“I’ve been working more. You know the clinic’s short-staffed.” Nathaniel argued in his defense.

“The Lord may forgive liars, Nathaniel, but I am not so generous.” Celine replied spitefully.

That stopped him. He stepped forward, tone low. “You want the truth?”

“I deserve the truth.”

His face faltered, but only for a moment.

“You’ve built this life to be a monument. A museum. No room in it for love. Only appearances. Respectability. You stopped seeing me years ago, Celine.”

Celine’s lips parted, then flattened. “So you find yourself in the arms of some little whore instead?”

The word struck him. His jaw clenched, hands balling at his sides.

“You don’t even know what you’ve done,” he said, voice trembling, not with fear—but guilt, “You think you can shame me into righteousness, but you don’t know the half of it.”

A silence stretched between them like a drawn blade.

Celine’s voice dropped to a hush. “Who is she?”

Nathaniel’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

Celine stepped forward, searching his eyes.

“It’s someone close, isn’t it? Someone I know.”

Still, he said nothing.

Her voice broke. “Is it her?”

His silence was answer enough.

Celine staggered back like she’d been slapped.

“My niece?” Her voice cracked. “That girl I took in? That child?!”

“She’s not a child.”

“You raised her with me!”

“NO! You raised her. You used her to fill a silence you refused to face. She was never yours to control.”

“And you think she was yours to take?!” Celine’s hand flew to her chest. “You disgust me.”

“I never meant to hurt you,” Nathaniel said, stepping back toward the door, pain etched deep into the lines of his face.

“No,” she said coldly, “You just wanted to ruin the last good thing you had.”

He stood there for a breath longer, then reached for his hat.

“I’ll come for the rest of my things tomorrow.”

He left without another word. The door clicked shut like the final nail in a coffin.

“I hope she’s worth your soul.”

A day later, Amelia sat cross-legged on the wide windowsill of her small room, overlooking the alley behind the jazz club below. A trumpet floated up, muffled and mournful, while cigarette smoke curled like lazy ghosts around her. Her suitcases sat half-unpacked beside the bed.

She hadn’t meant to stay long. Just long enough to figure out her next move. It had been two days since she’d fled Celine’s house. The walls there had started to close in, thick with tension, judgment, and the shadow of everything she and Nathaniel had done.

She thought she might weep again, but her tears had dried out like the swamp after a long drought.

A knock rattled the door.

Her heart jumped, but when she opened it, no one was there—only a slip of paper tucked under the door.It was Nathaniel’s handwriting.

Room 302. If you’ll still have me.

She looked down the hall, but it was empty.The club downstairs burst into applause, the crowd roaring under the rise of the saxophone. Amelia pressed the paper to her chest, eyes fluttering shut. She didn’t know whether to run or to open the door wider. But in her bones, she already knew what she’d do. The hotel room was Nathaniel’s final goodbye. A discreet room above a jazz club, late one afternoon.

The hallway smelled of sweat, cigarette smoke, and the ghost of old perfume. Room 302 waited at the end, its number brass-plated and tarnished by years of fingertips.

Amelia opened the door slowly.

Nathaniel stood inside, hat in hand, kinky hair damp from the walk in the rain. The soft light from the bedside lamp gilded the edge of his profile, catching the deep lines of guilt etched around his mouth.

For a moment, they just looked at each other.

“You came,” she said, voice hushed.

“I shouldn’t have,” he answered.

“But you did.”

He shut the door behind him and crossed the room in three slow steps. She stood in a simple cotton slip, her curls loose around her shoulders, face bare but glowing with something that wasn’t of this world.

“Tell me not to touch you,” he said.

She didn’t.

So he did.

His hand rose, trembling slightly, and cupped her cheek. “I thought I could stay away,” he whispered, “I told myself it had to end.”

“I know.”

He kissed her.

It wasn’t the kiss of a man who planned to stay. It was the kiss of a man starving, who knew the meal was his last. His mouth claimed hers with longing and guilt braided tightly together. Her hands slid beneath his coat, pushing it off his shoulders, and he let it fall to the floor.

His fingers moved with reverence, pulling the strap of her slip down her shoulder, tracing the path with his mouth. She moaned softly as he trailed kisses down her collarbone, her breath hitching when he knelt and pushed the fabric down past her hips.

Amelia guided him to the bed.

He worshipped her slowly at first—his mouth moving over her belly, her thighs, between her legs— murmuring prayers in the shape of her name. She arched under him, her body lighting from within like swampfire. The glow behind her eyes pulsed, faint but unmistakable.

When he entered her, it was deep and unhurried, as if he wanted to memorize every sound she made. Her hands pressed into his back, her mouth at his ear. Usually, he couldn’t last inside of her, but this time, he fought the urge to release prematurely. He wanted it last.

“I love you,” she said.

He froze for a second—just a second—and then moved faster, as if to chase the truth back into the dark.

They came together wrapped in sweat and shame and something too sacred to name.

After, he lay beside her in silence, one hand resting on her bare thigh, the other pressed over his eyes. Amelia turned her head to look at him.

“I know you’ll go back to her,” she said.

He didn’t deny it.

“She’s calling you already,” Amelia murmured. “I can feel it.”

He sat up, hands trembling. “I don’t want to hurt either of you.”

“But you already have,” she said, softly.

A wind picked up outside the window, rattling the loose panes. The jazz had long since faded into quiet. Something was stirring beneath the surface of the night.

The sheets were still warm when Nathaniel rose from the bed. The sun filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting golden stripes across Amelia’s bare skin. She lay on her side, watching him button his shirt with practiced guilt. His collar trembled in his fingers.

“I can feel it, you know,” she said softly, “When you start pulling away, even before you speak.”

Nathaniel paused, knuckles tightening around his cufflink.

“It ain’t about you.” Nathaniel spoke.

“That’s a lie.”

He turned, his jaw hard, lips thinned like a closed door.

“Celine’s been looking at me different. Watching. I come home smelling like… like gardenia and something older. Something that ain’t her.”

“You said she didn’t believe in magic,” Amelia murmured.

“She don’t. But she believe in sin,” He walked over and crouched beside the bed, the weight of his body making the mattress shift, “This can’t go on.”

Amelia’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers curled in the sheet.

“Don’t say that. Don’t make this something ugly. You came to me. You followed me here.”

“I was weak.”

“You were human.”

He cupped her face with both hands, thumbs brushing the high arc of her cheeks.

“You’re not, “His voice cracked, “I don’t know what you are, baby, but I can’t be part of it no more.”

Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with light. That faint, otherworldly glimmer just under the surface of her brown irises, like a candle’s reflection in a puddle. He kissed her once, too quickly. Then stood and gathered his coat like it was a shield.

She didn’t try to stop him.As the door closed, Amelia sat up in the quiet, the ache settling between her ribs. Outside, a jazz trumpet wailed in a slow, lonely note.

New Orleans, 1932 – Late Night

The parlor smelled of ashes and rosewater.

Celine sat on the floor before the cold hearth, her silk house robe open at the throat, curls unpinned and wild like a storm had passed through her. Candles circled her—red for passion, white for peace, black for truth. She held Nathaniel’s undershirt in one hand, still damp at the collar with the sweat he’d worn out of their home.

Her mother had taught her not to meddle too much with the heart. “A man’s will is like a snake,” she once said. “If you force it into a jar, it’ll still try to bite.”

But Celine didn’t care. Not tonight.

She ground cassia bark with her teeth, letting the heat burn her tongue, and spit it into the bowl. Next came his hair, plucked from the comb in their bathroom. Then a sliver of her fingernail. Her blood, drawn fresh from the palm. Last, a pinch of dirt from the church steps where they married.

She chanted low:

“Come back on bent knee, with guilt in your chest.

Forget her taste, remember mine.

Dream of the wedding bed,

And wake with my name in your mouth.”

The candle flames jumped.

The room trembled—or maybe it was just her heart, fluttering like a sparrow with a broken wing.

She bound the shirt around the bowl with red thread, tied it thirteen times, and buried it in the hearth ashes, whispering, “Let shame drag you home.”

Meanwhile, Amelia feels the shift

Across the city, in a room above a jazz club, Amelia startled awake.

Her breath came fast, heart pounding. The air had turned heavy, like the moment before thunder cracked. She felt it — the pulling. Not from Nathaniel. From something around him.

A spell.

She sat up in bed, pressing her hand to her chest. She could still feel the echo of Nathaniel’s touch, the softness in his voice when he said he didn’t want to leave her again. But something in him was bending now. Like a tree forced against its natural lean.

“Celine,” she whispered.

She closed her eyes and tried to calm the glowing heat rising in her blood—that strange, ancient light that wanted to push back, to unravel whatever had been done.

But she didn’t fight it.

She let him go.

And Nathaniel returns home.

The front gate creaked open as the sun began to rise. Celine had fallen asleep in the parlor, slumped against the velvet arm of the couch. She woke to the sound of keys turning in the door.

Nathaniel stepped in, his coat wrinkled, face drawn, eyes red. He looked like he hadn’t slept—or had dreamed too much.

She rose, wordless.

“I shouldn’t have left like that,” he said.

“You did,” she said, voice soft.

He came to her slowly, like a man walking into a confessional.

“I—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just—”

“I do.” She stepped closer. “It’s her. She bewitched you.”

He blinked.

“No woman takes another woman’s man without some sort of working. I see the shine on her. Something ain’t clean.”

Nathaniel didn’t argue. He simply sagged into her arms, overwhelmed by guilt, by something pulling him back—home, whatever home meant now.

Celine held him tightly, but her eyes stared into the dark, calculating.

Amelia prepared to leave.

Later that afternoon, the sky hung low and gray. Rain threatened. Amelia stood at the edge of her hotel room, her suitcases packed. Her hands lingered on the window ledge one last time.

The jazz club’s music below was faint, just a memory now.

She hadn’t heard from Nathaniel since dawn. That meant he went back. She felt the severing of it, like someone cutting a thread tied to her soul.

She didn’t blame him. Not entirely.

Celine had deep magic, thick with old pain and old pride. It was the kind of rootwork that clung. But it wasn’t truth. What she and Nathaniel had—that had been something real. Even if it wasn’t meant to last.

She touched the necklace her grandmother had left her —a simple glass bead on a thread of fae silk. It shimmered faintly in her hand.

“I’m going home,” she whispered, and meant it this time.

To St. Landry Parish. To the cypress trees and waterbirds. To the memory of her grandmother. To the swamp that still knew her name.

She turned her back on New Orleans, on the secrets that had bloomed there like poison lilies. And walked out into the rain.

Return to St. Landry Parish

Two Days Later:

The road curved through cane fields and low hills thick with cypress and willow. The train dropped her at a depot that hadn’t changed in twenty years. A single mule cart waited near the platform, and the driver recognized her at once.

“You Vivienne’s girl?”

She nodded. “Amelia.”

He tipped his hat. “Thought you looked like her.”

The ride to the old house was slow and swaying, the path muddied from summer rain. Spanish moss clung to the trees like secrets. Birds called from deep in the swamp, and the air buzzed with that thick, honey-slow stillness she remembered from childhood.

The house stood just where she left it—weathered but proud. White paint peeling from the shutters. Porch swing hanging crooked. Ivy claiming the back chimney.

But it was home.

Amelia stepped up the porch steps slowly, her boots echoing against the wood. She unlocked the door with the same iron key her grandmother had given her at eighteen. When it opened, the smell of old cedar, dried herbs, and dust washed over her like a baptism.

Inside, time had barely moved.

The dried bundles of rosemary and mugwort still hung from the rafters. Her grandmother’s rocker faced the hearth, a folded shawl still draped across it. On the mantle, a cluster of faded photographs, candles burned down to stubs.

She walked through the kitchen, trailing her fingers across the table where her grandmother used to crush herbs in a stone mortar. She touched the cupboard that once held charms and tinctures. A smile flickered across her face, then softened into something lonelier.

She didn’t cry.

She simply breathed.

And then—something stirred.

A creak in the floorboards beneath her grandmother’s bedroom. A memory whispered against her skin. She followed the pull to the far room, the one where Vivienne used to sleep.

Amelia opened the armoire. Beneath folded linens, she found a small chest bound in worn red leather. She lifted it gently, set it on the bed, and opened the clasp.

Inside:

•A bundle of fae silk, soft as spider thread and shimmering faintly in the light.

•A worn journal, its pages edged in gold leaf, written in a looping hand.

•A silver pendant shaped like a flame. When she touched it, her fingertips glowed faintly in response.

She opened the journal.

On the first page, there was writing in her grandmother’s script. Amelia settled down to read it.

To my dearest Amelia. If you are reading this, then you have begun to glow too brightly to hide it anymore. You are not just of this world. You are born of the feu follet—child of the marsh flame, the shimmer between dusk and dark. Your mother was fae. Your father, human. What you carry is both blessing and burden.

Amelia sat down slowly, heart thudding, the words ringing like bells in her ears.

Her fingers trembled as she turned the page.

I kept your truth from you to keep you safe. But you’ve always known, haven’t you? The way animals follow you. The way you light the dark. The way love burns too quickly in your hands. It is not madness. It is power.

She closed the journal gently, pressing it to her chest. The pendant still pulsed softly in her palm, warm now, alive.

And for the first time in weeks, she wept.

Not for Nathaniel. Not even for the girl she used to be.

She wept for the truth.

For the strangeness inside her finally having a name. For the ache of being other, and the strange peace of finally seeing herself—all of herself—clearly.

She stood, walked to the mirror in her grandmother’s old room, and looked at her reflection.

The soft glow behind her eyes was no trick of the light.

She didn’t need to hide anymore.

The house had settled around her like an old cloak. Floorboards creaked in familiar places. Wind sang through the trees outside. But inside Amelia, something new had begun to stir.

She sat cross-legged on her grandmother’s bed, the red-leather journal resting on her thighs. The pendant still lay against her chest, faintly pulsing like a heartbeat not her own.

She opened the journal again.

The ink was faded, but the writing flowed in her grandmother’s firm, looping script. The pages smelled faintly of rose oil, cinnamon, and smoke.

Your mother’s name was Lysara. She came from the swamps north of Belle Forêt, where the will-o’-the-wisps still gather under moonlight. She was not fully of the Bright Court — not one of their silken elite. No, she was bayou-born. Wildblood. Faeling. And she fell in love with your father, August, a preacher’s son who liked to fish the river bends at dusk. He saw her light one night, followed her flame, and never turned back…

Amelia’s breath hitched. She turned the page.

…Their love was forbidden. Not just by the fae, but by the people. The old women whispered your mother was a spirit. A temptress. They weren’t wrong. She loved fiercely, too much. And when you were born, glowing and quiet and beautiful, she wrapped you in silk spun from her own hair and left you on my doorstep. She kissed your brow and vanished before the sun rose…

Amelia swallowed hard, tears blurring the words. She turned to the next entry.

…I raised you in secret, masking your shine with salves and shadow work. You were always drawn to fire, to love, to water. You didn’t cry like other babies. You hummed. And when you grew, you made animals follow you like you were made of honey…

She reached the last entry.

…You are feu follet, child. A flame spirit. You carry the light of both bloodlines—human and fae—and your glow will always draw hearts, stir longing, cause unrest. You must learn to use it wisely. Love, when it flows through you, can be sweet…or ruinous…

Amelia closed the book, heart thudding. She pressed her lips to the cover as if to kiss the memory of Vivienne, her grandmother, her protector.

Everything made sense now. Why Nathaniel had been drawn in like a man pulled toward flame. Why animals tilted their heads when they saw her. Why her touch stirred heat and hunger, even when she didn’t mean it to.

She had always been half-light.

Now she knew why.

That evening, as the last light bled through the trees, Amelia lit the hearth.

Not out of need—but memory.

She moved barefoot across the floor, gathering the things her grandmother once taught her to use: sweetgum bark, cypress twigs, a pinch of cinnamon. She added dried rose petals to the flame for remembrance, and a drop of her own blood on the coal for truth.

She stirred the fire with an iron poker, then sat before it in silence.

No prayers. No chants. Just her presence. Her breath. The crackle of flame.

The air around her shifted.

It was subtle at first—a warmth blooming in her chest, the scent of honey and night-blooming jasmine curling around her shoulders. A faint shimmer began to thread through the smoke, like silver light dancing between the sparks.

Then she heard it.

A whisper—not with her ears, but inside her blood.

Welcome home, child of fire.

She didn’t flinch.

She let it wash over her.

Outside, fireflies gathered by the window. Inside, her skin shimmered faintly, her heartbeat slowing to the rhythm of the land.

She pressed her hands into the wooden floor, grounding herself. She felt her grandmother’s energy in the bones of the house. Felt the memory of old rituals humming beneath the boards. Felt the swamp lean in, curious, as if the land itself had been waiting for her return.

Amelia closed her eyes.

And for the first time since fleeing New Orleans…since discovering what she truly was—

She felt still.

Whole.

The girl, the lover, the root worker, the flame.

No longer hiding. No longer afraid.

St. Landry Parish – Three Days Later:

It came mid-morning, in a plain envelope, the handwriting unmistakably his—careful, upright, the tail of his s still curling like it did when he wrote scripture notes. She’d received letters from him before.

Amelia stood at the porch with the letter in her hands. Her stomach clenched.

She didn’t open it right away.

She laid it on the kitchen table beside a mason jar of fresh moon water and a sprig of black sage, then stared at it for a long time. The house was still. The birds outside quieted.

Eventually, she unfolded the paper.

Amelia,

I can’t find peace. I see you when I close my eyes. I wake up next to her and feel like a man buried in the wrong grave. I know I hurt you. I know I ran. But I can’t pretend anymore. Please. Just one more time. Let me see you. I’ll come to you if I have to…

Nathaniel.

She folded the letter, hands shaking. Not with longing.

With rage.

He had chosen. And now he wanted to un-choose? Now he wanted to come back, after all he’d torn up in her?

She didn’t burn the letter. She didn’t cry over it.

She just left it there, and walked into the swamp to gather Spanish moss, barefoot and bright with silence.

Dusk – Two Days Later:

The sun sank like a slow coin into the horizon, painting the bayou in deep gold and violet. Cypress knees poked from the water like crooked fingers. Bullfrogs called low in the distance. A heron shifted in the reeds.

Amelia stood waist-deep in the marsh grass near the edge of her grandmother’s trail, skirts hiked in her hands, the water cool against her calves.

That’s when she heard it.

Twigs cracking. A breath she didn’t recognize. A presence.

She turned slowly.

Nathaniel emerged through the moss and brush, soaked in sweat, chest heaving. He looked older somehow. Like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Amelia,” he said, voice cracking.

She went still.

He took a step forward, but her eyes flashed with something not human. The dusk light caught the shimmer in her irises. Her hair moved like it was alive with static.

“I told you not to come.” Ameila spoke with venom.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he said, stepping closer. “You wouldn’t write back. I—I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t pray. It’s like you’re inside me now.”

“You don’t get to say that!” she said, voice trembling. “You left me! You chose HER!”

“She put something on me, Amelia! I know it now. I can feel it wearing off. You’re the one I want—”

“No,” she said sharply, stepping back. “You’re just chasing what you broke. You want to fix it, not keep it.”

His eyes darkened. “You think this is easy for me? You think I haven’t been tearing myself apart trying to—”

She raised her hand and he stopped mid-sentence.

“You played with my heart,” she said, voice low and heavy. “You laid in my bed and told me you loved me. Then you left. And now you come into my land like it still belongs to you?”

The air shifted.

Fireflies blinked around her in erratic patterns.

Nathaniel took a step back. “Amelia…”

But it was too late.

The hurt inside her flared—too bright, too wild. It sparked like flint in her blood.

A glow began to rise off her skin, her hair lifting on a breeze that wasn’t there. Her body shimmered like the swamp lights—unearthly, tragic, burning from the inside out.

“I told you not to come,” she whispered again.

Nathaniel stumbled, suddenly disoriented. He looked around like the trees were closing in. The path was gone. The water deepened.

“Amelia?”

The swamp responded, not with words, but with pull. The mist curled, thick and golden, rising from the water like hands. The land had always known her. Now it answered her grief.

Nathaniel tried to move toward her, but his feet sank deeper into the mud.

“Please,” he gasped. “I didn’t mean—”

She screamed.

Not loud, but raw. A sound that cracked the sky open inside her chest.

The light burst from her, sudden and wild.

Nathaniel slipped, hit the water hard. The glow clung to him like fireflies in a storm. He reached for her, eyes wide—

And then the water pulled.

He sank.

She lunged forward too late, hand outstretched.

“Nathaniel!”

Silence.

The ripples calmed.

The birds stopped singing.

The only sound left was the rush of her breath and the glow fading from her skin.

She fell to her knees at the water’s edge, trembling, numb. The swamp watched, impassive. It had only obeyed the wound she carried.

Her light flickered faintly, soft as a candle in mourning.

St. Landry Parish – That Night:

Amelia sat at the water’s edge until the moon climbed high, casting a silver veil over the trees. Her skirt was soaked, feet caked in mud, curls limp with sweat and mist.

She hadn’t moved since the bayou stilled.

The air buzzed faintly, like the magic hadn’t quite settled. A few fireflies still blinked around her, circling close, drawn to the grief that clung to her like perfume.

Her hands trembled in her lap.

She had seen death before.

But never like that.

Never because of her.

Her breath came shallow, uneven. She didn’t cry—not yet. The shock hadn’t cracked enough to let the tears come.

She stared at the place where he went under. No body surfaced. No bubbles rose. Just dark water and memory.

And still, part of her wanted to call his name again. Part of her wanted to believe the swamp might spit him back out—angry, coughing, yelling her name.

But it was over.

He was gone.

And she had done it.

She didn’t walk home. She wandered.

Branches snagged her dress. Mud pulled at her ankles. The night hummed with crickets and frogs, but it felt like the swamp had eyes now—and they were all on her.

By the time she reached the porch, she was shaking.

Inside, she stripped out of her clothes and washed her hands at the kitchen basin. The water ran red-brown with bayou dirt, her reflection warping in the rippling surface.

Her eyes still glowed faintly.

Too bright.

Too much.

She gripped the edge of the sink and finally gasped out a sob.

A single, ugly, sharp noise—ripped from the pit of her.

And then another.

And then she was on the floor, crumpled in front of the basin, the pendant around her neck glowing dim as a dying star. She wept hard, her body folding in on itself like flame snuffed by rain.

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered to no one. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.”

But the land didn’t answer.

The swamp didn’t forgive.

And neither did she.

Now, the sweetening jar she’d made for Nathaniel changes. Inside has darkened. Not rotted — but thickened, like it’s carrying something unsaid. The jar sometimes fogs from the inside without temperature change. When Amelia touches it, she swears she hears faint echoes: his voice, or her own.

The rose petal has turned black at the edges. The note remains intact, but the ink bleeds slightly, as if the words are dissolving over time.

Most strange of all:

The jar has begun to warm when she dreams of him.

It hums faintly.

Soft. Sad. Almost like a heartbeat trapped in glass.

She keeps it in a velvet pouch inside her belongings — hidden, but never far. She tried once to bury it. The next morning, it was back on her windowsill, beads of honey at the lid.

Later that night, she sat in her grandmother’s rocker with the red journal in her lap. She didn’t open it. She just held it, like a child might hold a doll for comfort.

She tried to feel her grandmother’s presence.

Tried to imagine her hands, her voice, her touch.

But all she felt was heat under her skin, like embers buried beneath her flesh.

She knew now what her grandmother meant by blessing and burden.

She had the power to enchant, to glow, to stir hearts.

But she could also burn.

And she had.

“I’m not meant to love,” she whispered, “I ruin it.”

The rocker creaked softly as she moved.

A soft breeze stirred the curtains. Somewhere out there, the swamp was reclaiming him.

She thought about the way Nathaniel had looked—confused, afraid, reaching for her even at the end.

She could still feel his hand brushing hers before he sank.

The ache turned cold.

She rose, walked to the hearth, and placed the journal on the mantle.

Then she lit a single white candle. For the dead.

“For you,” she murmured, “For what we had. And what I took.”

She let it burn until dawn.

The glow didn’t vanish overnight.

It took days of practice. Days of sitting still in her grandmother’s old garden with soil between her fingers and her bare feet pressed into the earth. Days of whispering her own name over and over, as if calling herself back from the edge of becoming something too wild, too luminous.

Amelia learned to ground it.

To slow her breathing when her power flared.

To imagine pulling all that radiance back inside her body like coals drawn under ash. Still warm. But hidden.

She drank teas made from moss and wild yam and cooled her pulse with damp cloths of mugwort and fern. She stitched little sachets of lavender and salt and tucked them into her dress pockets, charms to keep her aura muted.

By the seventh day, even the birds that once lingered near her began to treat her like one of their own again. The fireflies stayed at a distance.

She had tamed her light. Or at least caged it.

No one would suspect now—unless they already knew.

The Visit from Celine:

It was near dusk when Amelia heard the sharp crunch of carriage wheels on gravel. A fine-boned white mare stopped at the edge of the path, its reins held by a man in a clean gray suit—hired help.

From the carriage, Celine descended like she was still stepping off the pulpit stairs: spine straight, jaw set, dressed in black satin like mourning suited her even when there was no funeral.

Amelia met her on the porch with calm eyes and clean hands.

“Celine,” she said, voice smooth.

Celine tilted her chin. “I hoped I wouldn’t have to come this far.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wrote Nathaniel,” Celine said, “He never wrote back. Then I followed his trail. I found your name in the ledger at that hotel on Chartres. I know he came to you.”

Amelia didn’t blink. “He left me too, Celine.”

Celine studied her face like it was scripture, her dark eyes taking in every line, every breath.

“I know he loved you,” Celine said, with the faintest quiver in her voice.

Amelia looked past her, out toward the trees. “And he still went home.”

Silence. Thick as summer heat.

Celine stepped up onto the porch, close enough to smell the rose water in Amelia’s hair. “You’d tell me if you knew where he was?”

Amelia met her eyes. Her voice was steady. “If I knew, I’d tell you.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not really. She had known. Just not anymore.

Celine watched her a moment longer, then relented. Her grief didn’t show on her face, but Amelia could feel it—taut and tight, roiling under the surface.

“Vivienne always said you were too soft,” Celine muttered. “But I see now. You’re just quiet. Not innocent.”

She turned and stepped down. The carriage rolled off with a brittle dignity.

Amelia waited until the wheels were long gone before she sank onto the porch steps and exhaled—deep, full of something that wasn’t quite relief.

She had held her mask. She had passed the test.

But she couldn’t stay.

That night, under a quilt that smelled faintly of dried camphor and cedar, Amelia stared at the ceiling and asked herself where she could go.

Not back to New Orleans.

Not deeper into the parish, where old families remembered her face too well.

She closed her eyes and let her mind drift like smoke—and then, like a warm note rising through memory, she saw her.

Annie.

Older than her by seven years, but never unkind. Strong hands, even as a girl, always tugging Amelia’s hair into ribbons or lifting her up so she could reach the sycamore fruit hanging from the tree.

Annie had laughed easily, talked slow, but watched everything. Her eyes were brown-black like polished stones, always catching glints of what others missed.

Her mother had been a healer, one of Vivienne’s few trusted friends.

Sometimes, when Vivienne left for her rootwork rounds, she’d leave Amelia with Annie. They’d sit on the back porch and Annie would braid herbs into Amelia’s curls, telling her stories about bones that danced and crossroads men who could grant you music in your fingers if you gave them something of your soul.

Annie had smelled like sassafras and moonflower, and even as a teenager, there was something grounding about her — like standing in deep water, cool and slow, but never dangerous.

St. Landry Parish, Louisiana — Summer, 1912

Amelia is 8. Annie is 15.

The colored section of Opelousas was a patchwork of red-dirt roads, shotgun houses, and porches that sang with gossip and music. Heat shimmered off tin roofs, and the air was thick with cayenne and the sound of washboards scraping rhythm into the afternoon. Zydeco spilled from radios and mouths like prayers.

Amelia ran barefoot down the road, curls bouncing, a rusted sardine can swinging from her hand. She was looking for crushed bottle caps to turn into charms. Her grandmother said she had a gift for finding the right ones — the ones that still held stories.

But the neighborhood children didn’t see that as a gift.

They called her strange.

“Swamp girl.”

“Creepy eyes.”

“Glows when she get mad.”

She tried to ignore them. But today, they’d followed her. Threw bits of gravel at her back. One boy grabbed her hair and pulled — hard.

“She ain’t right. She’s like a candle about to catch fire.”

That’s when she heard the voice.

“Let her go, ‘fore I put a root on your whole house.”

The kids froze.

Annie stood at the end of the alley, hands on her hips, skirts dusted with red clay. Fifteen and tall for her age, with smooth brown skin and sharp eyes like she’d seen more than most grown folks ever would.

She marched over, pulled Amelia behind her, and stared the boys down.

“You pick on little girls, you gonna learn what your mama’s belt feel like and what a snake root under your bed’ll do.”

They scattered.

Later that day, Amelia sat on Annie’s porch, knees pulled to her chest while Annie oiled her scalp.

“They call me names,” Amelia whispered.

“People fear what they don’t understand,” Annie said, parting her curls with careful fingers. “But fear ain’t the same as truth.”

Amelia relaxed beneath her touch—the rhythm of the comb, the scent of sweet almond oil, the hum of someone who cared.

Inside, Annie’s mama—Miss Geneva—hummed over a pot of herbs and bones. She didn’t talk much, but she’d given Amelia a long look earlier. A look like she’d seen her before. Not her face. Her light.

Later, Amelia overheard her speaking to Annie in a low voice.

“You watch that one. She’s touched. Not just by spirits…by something older. Something that walks between.”

“You mean like a ghost?”

“No. I mean like the wind that stirs before a storm. Like the glint you see in a fox’s eye right ‘fore it disappears. Girls like her shine too bright, baby. And light like that either draws folks in… or burns ‘em up.”

Annie didn’t understand all of it then.

But she remembered.

And so did Amelia.

Years later, when the memories blurred and the road twisted, Amelia would still remember the feeling of Annie’s hands in her hair. The sound of her defending her. The smell of fried okra drifting through the air.

And most of all—that someone had seen her, even if they didn’t yet know what she was.

Amelia hadn’t seen her in years.

But maybe… maybe she’d still be in Clarksdale.

Still working roots. Still living slow. Still sharp-eyed and warm.

Maybe she’d open the door, if Amelia knocked.

She would go to Mississippi.

To Annie.

To whatever came next.

St. Landry Parish – Two Days Later:

Rain tapped gently at the tin roof. The sky outside was overcast, low and thick like it couldn’t decide whether to cry or break open. Inside, the house was hushed. Amelia sat at the kitchen table, wrapped in one of Vivienne’s shawls, a cup of tea cooling beside her elbow.

Before her lay a blank sheet of paper, cream-colored and faintly textured. It looked too fine for what she was about to confess.

She dipped her pen in ink and began to write.

Dear Annie,

It’s been some years since I last wrote, though I’ve thought of you often.

I hope this letter finds you well, and that Mississippi has been kind to you. I heard, some time ago, that you and your mama had set up shop for healing and rootwork near Clarksdale. If she’s still with you, please send her my love.

I won’t pretend I’m writing with lightness. Things have gone dark for me here. My grandmother passed, and I’ve been adrift ever since. I tried staying with family, but it wasn’t right. Not safe, not for my spirit.

I remember how you used to braid herbs into my hair and tell me stories about the ones who walk the in-between. You always seemed to see more than others did—even then.

I need that now. Someone who sees. Someone who doesn’t turn away.

I was wondering if you might have room for one more. Just for a little while. I can work, clean, help with the healing if you still do that kind of thing. I won’t be a burden. I just need a place to be quiet. A place where I won’t be looked at too closely.

If it’s not too much to ask, write me back or send word to St. Landry Parish. I’ll wait.

With warmth,

Amelia Broussard

She read over the letter once, twice, and folded it carefully. No magic, no charm worked into the ink. Just truth—the parts she was brave enough to share.

She sealed it, wrote ‘Annie Fontaine, Clarksdale, Mississippi’ across the front, and set it near the door for the next post.

As she stood and looked out the window, she saw a single ray of sun slip through the clouds and strike the cypress trees beyond the fence line. The light shimmered briefly—not fae, not power. Just light.

Hope.

Clarksdale, Mississippi – One Week Later:

It was near sundown when Annie came back from tending old Mrs. Rucker’s hip poultice. The wind carried that earthy Delta scent—mud, cotton, honeysuckle—and the porch boards groaned beneath her sandals the way they always had.

Her mother’s old dog, Duma, lifted his head and huffed, tail thumping.

“Don’t get up on my account,” Annie murmured, grinning slightly.

She stooped to pick up the mail off the porch table— mostly circulars, one letter from Jackson, and then—

She paused.

The envelope was cream-colored. Southern Louisiana postmark. Handwritten in ink that curved gently, like someone who’d been taught to write with care.

The name hit her in the gut like memory:

Amelia Broussard.

Annie didn’t sit to read it. She opened it right there in the slanting light, her rough fingers careful, her heart suddenly tapping like a drum.

As she read, her eyes softened—then darkened. She reached the part where Amelia asked for shelter, and something in her throat went tight.

I just need a place to be quiet. A place where I won’t be looked at too closely…

She looked up from the page, the edges of her mouth pulled taut.

“Baby girl,” she whispered, “What’ve ya’ gotten yourself into?”

She folded the letter carefully, pressed it to her chest for a moment, and closed her eyes.

Annie remembered the way Amelia used to hum without knowing it, the strange way cats followed her around the porch like she was dripping cream. She remembered Vivienne’s warning once, years ago: “That child shines too bright. Best hope she learns how to shade herself before someone tries to bottle her up or burn her down.”

Annie didn’t write back.

She just set a bed with fresh sheets, cleared out the back room, and told herself: When she comes, I’ll be ready.

Arrival in Clarksdale

Four Days Later:

Amelia stepped off the train in Clarksdale with a small suitcases and a tired heart. The heat clung to her like breath on skin—Mississippi thick, sun low and orange in the sky.

The town moved slow. Mules in the street, voices floating from storefronts, blues drifting faintly from a porch radio.

She felt exposed, but no one looked too long. She had dulled her light well.

Still, the closer she got to Annie’s house, the more her stomach knotted.

What if Annie didn’t want her anymore? What if she had changed? What if—

Then the door opened.

Annie stood barefoot in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, a smear of flour on her cheek.

She looked at Amelia once, just once, and all the worry in Amelia’s chest crumbled.

“Get on in here,” Annie said, voice low and warm like river silt. “You look like you been run ragged.”

Amelia didn’t speak. Her throat was too full.

She stepped forward and Annie opened her arms without asking. Amelia melted into them like rain into soil. Annie held her close, one hand behind her head, the other stroking her back with long, patient movements.

“You ain’t gotta say a word yet,” Annie murmured. “You’re safe now.”

And Amelia believed her.

In that porch-light dusk, wrapped in the scent of woodsmoke and magnolia, something inside her exhaled.

@blackisy2k @thickeeparker @theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg @inkdrippeddreams @rolemodelshit

[underthetree845]

chuuya taking his hat off to hide when he kisses his partner 🤭

Hello saturn lovely! Sorry this took me so long to finish TwT I love the prompt, but as you know writer's block hit me kinda hard the second semester of school so over the summer I've been trying to get back into the swing of posting once in a while!

Hope you enjoy <3 thank you for the request! _

Kiss Me Hard Before You Go

Nakahara Chuuya/Reader (oneshot request)

cws: fem! reader, established relationship, bungou stray dogs s5 spoilers, meursault arc spoilers, fluff, hurt/comfort kinda? there was a little hurt, reuniting, airport reunion, ada dazai, reader cries about 2.5k words summary: Chuuya disappeared on a business trip for three whole days with no explanation- and no one would tell you why. Now he's returned to japan and back in your arms. a/n: This is my last fic for the summer before school starts aaa qwq I'm glad I was able to finish it before the semester starts though! *sigh* am I really incapable of writing something like this without accidentally creating so much plot? Anyways, hope you enjoy! <3 divider credit: (x) (x) ‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹ Chuuya had never considered himself to be a very possessive man; or a possessive boyfriend, for that matter. Protective, sure, but how could anyone expect him not to be? He understood, probably better than most, the risks that came with even so much as associating with a person in his position. It made Chuuya’s stomach churn unpleasantly to even imagine putting you in any sort of danger, so he used his position (along with the power and assets that came with it) to take certain preventative measures. The penthouse you shared was equipped with state of the art security, a technological system truly fit for an executive of the Port Mafia. Additionally, in case you ever needed to travel long distances without him, Chuuya often kept a trusted chauffeur on call. This individual also happened to be a professionally trained underground bodyguard of his personal selection. Even so, Chuuya knew you had a good head on your shoulders. He trusted that you would try to keep yourself out of trouble, or call for him at the first sign of it. It didn’t matter if he was on the road, halfway through a private meeting, or in the middle of pummeling down an enemy organization. Chuuya had always been a man with his priorities set straight. Not even Mori’s notifications were set to come through on silent mode. Coming home to you at the end of the day, allowing you to soothe away the crease between his brows, your voice uttering sweet nothings against the shell of his ear. You had become his lifeline, irreversibly carved your name into every cell of his body. He’d do anything to erase your pain, and it was making his heart break more than anything to know that he was the cause of the salty tears now streaming over your lash line. Chuuya did his best to hold back an ��oof’ when you threw your frame into his own, burying your sobs in the crook of his neck. He was immediately overwhelmed with the scent of your perfume, the familiar feeling of your body against his own, the softness of the sweater you wore, and the glimmer that never seemed to escape your eyes. The red colored contacts from earlier had given Chuuya one hell of a headache, which only added to the pressure from taking off and being stuck in one of the mafia’s smallest private jets with the most insufferable jackass he’d ever met and some hair dye obsessed casino manager passed out on one of the couches. Chuuya’s gloved fingers almost trembled as they gripped the fabric of your shirt. He lifted a hand to cradle the back of your head while the other remained planted firmly on your lower back.

Sakaguchi Ango, if Chuuya remembered correctly, stood a few yards away. He simply observed the situation from afar, as if he dared not insert himself into the scene. A government agent whom Dazai used to maintain his connection with the outside world. Ango stood with one hand folded neatly over the other behind his back, the faint ghost of a smile residing behind his glasses as he watched Dazai reunite with his fellow agency members. The brunette walked on a crutch, but the uncharacteristically tired look in his eyes brightened ever so slightly when he was swarmed by his coworkers. Chuuya continued to hold you close, patiently waiting for your sobs to die down enough for you to be able to speak coherently. He loosened his grip slightly, removing one of his leather gloves behind your back and bringing that same hand up to cup your face. A whisper of your name left his lips, and your teary eyes finally refocused to meet the warmth of his own. “Chuuya… how could you just leave?” your voice cracked; he could see the hurt in your eyes. Guilt crept into his chest, eyebrows knitting together as you subconsciously leaned into his palm. This was exactly the sort of thing Chuuya promised himself he’d never do. You were the absolute number one priority in his life. There was no doubt in his mind; he didn’t want there to be any doubt in yours either. “I know, Doll, ‘m sorry, it was never my intention…” he muttered, allowing you to rest your hands on his chest. “I know that’s a shit excuse, but I’ll make it up to you, I swear.” A beat of silence passed, the indistinct chatter of the agency fell on deaf ears as you zoned in on the man in front of you. His breath, the way his eyes searched your expression, how you could once again feel the warmth of his skin against your own. “You’re not hurt, are you?” your voice was pricked with concern, hands gentle as you cupped his jaw and turned his head from side to side. Chuuya let out a breath, fondness flickering in his irises at your concern. “Barely a scratch,” he murmured, and you seemed to accept his answer. “Chuuya,” you started, and his gaze locked onto yours. He voiced your name in response. “I need you to promise me something, please?” “Anything.” 

You bit your lip. Your mind told you it was a selfish request. You understood, probably better than most, how unpredictable your boyfriend’s line of work could be. But you had accepted it as an adequate price to pay for his love when the two of you started seeing each other, even more so when you moved in together. He was yours, you believed it with every fiber of your being. Chuuya had told enough stories of his old work partner for you to gather that the two had never exactly been the chummiest of pals. So the fact that they cooperated for this mission must’ve meant that it couldn’t have been a minor dilemma. You understood why Chuuya made the decision he did, and that it was probably just as difficult on him. Albeit, that didn’t make your feelings any less real. Your heart reminded you of the unconditional love and comfort that Chuuya always offered you. You knew he’d never intentionally hurt your feelings, especially not without talking it out and making up for it in some way afterward. “Doll…?” he barely breathed, giving you all the space you needed to voice what was on your mind. You took a deep breath. “Don’t… please don’t scare me like that again,” your voice wavered as you spoke, “Everything on the news is scary. And every time I watch it all I can think about is the fact that you’re out there.” You took a moment to glance at the group of Armed Detective Agency members on the airport runway to your left. One of the so-called terrorists you heard about on the news stood amongst the group about ten feet away from where you watched. The world was confusing, and scary, but there was a certain security in your heart that told you as long as you had Chuuya by your side, everything would be okay. “First you’re leaving before sunrise and staying out late on special missions, and I get it, I really do…” you felt a lump beginning to form in your throat, threatening to make you choke over your words, “but then you just leave on a business trip to Europe without so much as a ‘goodbye, I’ll be home soon’? And I have to find out from a call from your boss? I didn’t- I still don’t understand what’s happening. Do you know how scared I was? That I might not ever see you again?” Chuuya’s thumb swiped away the teardrop that ran down your cheek, his eyes trailing over your expression. “You’re right, it’s not fair… I don’t think I could ever apologize enough,” he began, his hold on you tightening slightly, “All that I can ask is for you to understand. I can explain everything to you when we get home. And I promise, I’ll do my best to not leave you in the dark so suddenly. It was an urgent mission, but it must have been scary. You’ll never have to feel like that again, not if I can help it.” Chuuya’s face softened, the corners of your lips curving up slightly at his sincerity as he cupped your cheek. “Shit… you deserve so much better.” You stood there for a moment, just breathing. Soaking in each other’s presence as your heartbeat gradually fell back to its usual pace.

“My my, Slug, is this the lovely lady you were so eager to get back to?” a voice chimed from your left, and you turned your head to face the man at the same time Chuuya snapped his head in that direction. Your boyfriend clicked his teeth, pressing your body closer to his own. “What’s it to you, huh, Dazai?” Chuuya was clearly trying to suppress his irritation. He was doing especially well, considering the fact that he had been holed up next to Dazai on an airplane for the past fourteen hours. “I’m just trying to acquaint myself,” the man went on, a grin playing on his lips despite Chuuya’s glare, “As a responsible owner, I should at least make sure my dog is in good hands.” You tilted your head slightly, and Chuuya sucked in a breath. “You’re treading on some pretty thin ice, Mackerel,” he growled through gritted teeth, “Watch what you say around my girl.” The taller man only took a step forward, his eyes glittering in amusement, a sharp contrast to the hollowed out, almost dead look he carried earlier. “Oh? Holding back your more vulgar language around the lady?” Dazai hummed with mild intrigue, “Perhaps my dog is being well taken care of.” You simply stood and watched with intrigue, the interaction clearly more complex than distinguishable at first glance. Despite their constant verbal jabs and ostentatious insults toward each other, there was a sense of familiarity between the two that was almost palpable to you. They bounced off each other, knowing exactly which buttons to press and which ones to avoid. It was probably a welcome change of tone in contrast to what they had just been through. Your gaze flickered between the two once more, and you couldn’t help but notice how the tension in Chuuya’s shoulders had been released. “Dazai-san?” your voice was level, and both of the men fell silent to give you their attention. You looked at your beloved, then to his ex-partner, then Chuuya, then Dazai again. Mirth swam in your eyes. “I want to thank you for making sure Chuuya was able to return home safely today. Truly, I cannot thank you enough.” You gave a slight bow of your head, and Chuuya looked like he wanted to protest. For once, Dazai didn’t immediately produce a response; he fell silent at your sentiment. This time, a gentler smile curved onto his lips. “Please spare me, Miss,” Dazai began, “Truth be told, I don’t believe I could have made it out without Chuuya’s help either.” The redhead raised his eyebrows. "I'm passing him into your capable hands now. I trust you’ll take good care of him?” Dazai seemed satisfied with the chuckle that slipped from your throat. “You have nothing to worry about,” you replied, “And I trust that your detective agency will treat you well?” “They always have.” Chuuya let out a breath, sharing a look with his partner before turning to face a black passenger vehicle that had pulled up a short distance away. Tinted windows that prevented anyone outside from peeking in; glass, body, and tires that were all bulletproof. It was one of the mafia’s. 

“C’mon Dollface, we should get going. Don’t wanna be here when the press shows up, and the boss is probably dying for me to give him a call,” Chuuya nodded his head in the direction of the car; you brought your hand up to give a small wave to Dazai and the handful of agency members further away who glanced in your direction. You let out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding in, allowing your head to rest on Chuuya’s shoulder as you made your way to the car. You felt like you could finally breathe properly again. The door unlocked with a quiet click. Chuuya swung open the door of the vehicle with his non gloved hand and stepped aside to allow you to enter first. “...Chuu?” you started quietly, taking a step closer to where he stood. “Hm?” he raised an eyebrow. You placed your hands loosely on the back of his neck, fingers intertwined; Chuuya responded by resting his hands on your hips, listening intently.  You could have held more of a grudge. He disappeared overnight without a word, and no one would tell you why. You’d been on edge for three days straight. Hardly even sleeping through the night as you kept up with the news almost obsessively, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. To be able to hold Chuuya close again so easily felt almost surreal. A soft smile creeped into your expression, the corners of your eyes crinkling as you tilted your head to the side. Chuuya’s breath stilled. “I’m just…” you paused for a moment, your voice pouring with sincerity, “I’m really glad you’re back, and that you’re safe.” Chuuya paused for another moment, studying you carefully as an equally tender look came to his face. He glanced to the side for a moment, and let out a disgruntled huff upon discovering that Dazai’s head was still tilted in your direction; he kept a curious eye on the situation from several meters away. Your boyfriend pursed his lips for a moment before snaking one of his hands further around your waist. He plucked his pork pie hat off the crown of his head, and before you had the chance to realize what was going on, you were already being gracefully tilted backwards, forcing your hands to grip onto the lapel of Chuuya’s jacket for support. Everything seemed to still the moment he slotted his lips into yours, holding his hat up to act as a shield from certain prying eyes. You didn’t hesitate to pull him in closer, your lashes fluttering shut as you savored what you felt like you had been missing for an eternity. Chuuya’s eyes were shut in concentration, his heart thrumming with delight at the familiar sensation of your lips molded against his own. Chuuya didn’t pull away until you were both light-headed from the lack of air. Cheeks flooded with warmth, looking at each other as if you were the only two people in the entire world. “I missed you so fucking much, you know that?” Chuuya’s voice was low as he brushed his thumb over your cheek. The two of you stood straight, lingering in each other’s embrace for a moment longer. Chuuya lightly tossed his hat inside the car and once more gestured with his arm out for you to enter first. The satisfied smile on his lips morphed into one of slight perplexion when you didn’t show a reaction, raising your fingertips to brush over your lips. “Chuuya?” you questioned, and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He replied with your name, all the more puzzled when you let out an incredulous chuckle. “Since when are your teeth so sharp?” 

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹ a/n: Thank you so much for reading! Have a day/night/morning/evening as lovely as yourself. tagging: @judasgot-it (I noticed that I wrote down that I agreed to tag you for chuuya fics but I can't seem to remember why?? TwT please tell me if this is incorrect! Thank you <3)

[thoughtfulfiction]

Scooters Suck!

Author’s Note: Another dad!Justin rewrite. I have a new request planned to write next and then I’ll go through my inbox on my main and get those written and posted but as always if you want to see an old fic rewritten let me know!

You weren't scared of your toddler. Really, you weren't. She just wasn't the nicest person in the world before 9am.

Her ability to sleep in was probably unheard of and uncommon when it came to kids, which is probably why she barely took naps anymore. But in the morning? Remi was practically a zombie. Think, a tiny version of the Incredible Hulk. Don't wake her up. It’s borderline dangerous when she's woken up too early.

With all that being said…you had to navigate this situation very delicately.

"Remi?" you whisper. "It's time to wake up sweets."

From her spot in the middle of her new toddler bed you hear her sigh, her little body moving up and down like asking her to get up is going to be the end of the world. Her sleepy groan sounded like an old man after a 50-hour workweek. "Shh mama, I'm still sleeping."

Justin had a habit of mumbling incoherent, gruff sounds instead of words when he felt it was too early, and it seemed Remi had inherited his dislike for mornings, complete with her own dramatic flair. He usually didn't even speak to you in the morning if he felt like it was too early to be awake.

You walked over to her half asleep form, running your fingers along her cheek and kissing her head.

"I guess daddy is going to leave for his game today without his special basket..." you trail off and she sits up abruptly in bed, her hair and eyes wild.

"Oh no! I forgot to finish his basket!" She was now miraculously fully alert, already using you to scoot herself out of bed to head out of the room.

"Remington, please go brush your teeth and get dressed before you go into the playroom. I'll help you grab your stuff and we can finish it together. But you have to go to the bathroom first, got it?"

She nods excitedly, tossing her blanket to the side and heading to the drawers to pick out some clothes. "Got it mama!"

You shook your head at the complete 180 in your daughter's aura as you stepped into the playroom to grab the basket she'd been working on. The Chargers were headed to Carolina this afternoon to play the Panthers and Remi took her pre-travel activities very seriously. She liked to call it her version of gameday preparations. Her job was to make sure her daddy had everything he needs to secure the win and more importantly…come home as soon as possible. The gifts would oftentimes be prepared ahead of time but for whatever reason Remi ran out of time yesterday and with Justin coming home in an hour, the two of you were on a time crunch.

This “special basket” started when Remi was two, as a way to distract her from the fact that Justin wouldn’t be home. The idea began with simple comforts like a favorite snack or a small toy, but her growing creativity and determination turned the baskets into heartfelt packages that meant as much to Justin as they did to her. Even if it was just for two days, that one night without him was hard on her. So you came up with an idea to have this “basket” ready for road games to keep everyone happy. You knew that leaving Remi was hard on Justin too. You could’ve sworn he cried a little the first time he had to leave for an away game when she was born, even if he denies it to this day.

Remi was running around the room, putting her finishing touches on the main items, then headed over to the kitchen, grabbing her step stool to look in the fridge for a couple Gatorades.

"Lellow? Or blue?" She said aloud to herself, holding both bottles up. She shrugged and closed the door, grabbing both of them and walking back to the playroom to carefully put them into the basket. You watched as she meticulously made sure everything was up to her toddler standards, stifling a laugh when she stepped back to examine her work, an adorably intense look on her face that seemed eerily familiar. She then asked you if she had any room to add one more gift.

Before you could answer, a voice sounded in the hallway.

“I thought I heard my two favorite girls in here.” Justin pokes his head in, kneeling down and opening his arms. Remi didn’t hesitate—she took off and jumped right into them. She kissed his cheek and clung to his neck as he stood, holding her securely in his arms.

“Hi daddy.”

“Hi mini. What are you up to?”

“Me and mama made you some stuff. Wanna see?”

He walks her over the table, gently setting her down so she can begin her presentation. She started with the Gatorades, pointing and naming each color. Showed him a “note” that she had finished and had you sign approximately three seconds before he came home, and a new Nike beanie because she claimed that the one he had been wearing was “yucky.” She had pointed it out a week ago, wrinkling her nose and saying, “daddy, it’s all fuzzy and gross!” before insisting that he needed a new one.

"Yucky" was one of her favorite words to get her point across.

Justin chuckled as he examined the basket. "This might be one of your best ones. I love it. Thank you both."

“I have one more suprise, wait right here daddy. Don’t leave.” Before he can give her a response she runs out of the room. She returns with her hands tucked behind her back, a mischievous grin on her face. “Ta-da!” She reveals her tiny stuffed panda. “You can take Baby Po with you. He’s my strongest stuffy, I promise. He can take care of you, like the o-line does, right?”

“You’re exactly right bub. Looks like watching film with dad has been paying off.” You hold out a hand, and Remi slaps it enthusiastically for a high five.

Justin grabs the basket and the panda and follows the two of you back into the living room to say goodbye. He gives Remi a long hug, spinning her around just to hear her laugh. “Good luck daddy, try your best okay?”

“I will try my very best. You’ll be good and listen to mama?” She giggles a little but says yes. “Pinky promise?” Justin asks and Remi nods solemnly.

“Pinky promise,” she repeats, holding out her tiny finger. Justin hooks his much larger pinky around hers, and they both kiss their joined hands to seal the promise.

“I love you, Mini. I’ll see you in two days.”

“Love you too. I’ll set a timer.” Remi responds, walking to her room and you can’t help but laugh a little listening to her humming a made up tune.

You can’t help but laugh. “She’s too much sometimes.”

Justin grins, watching her disappear. “She’s so smart, it’s honestly a little scary.”

“Tell me about it. Sometimes I forget she’s not even four yet. Never a dull moment with that one, that’s for sure. Anyway…” You gesture toward the counter. “You have everything?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it.” He exhales softly, his eyes meeting yours. “Guess this is it. I love you. I’ll call when I get to the hotel tonight.”

You hand him the basket and lean in for a quick kiss, your voice dropping to a playful whisper. “I love you more. Go kick some ass.”

Before Justin can respond, Remi comes running back into the room. “Wait! One more hug and kissy!”

He crouches down again, letting her wrap her tiny arms around him. She plants a big kiss on his forehead like he’s done to her a thousand, then pulls back with a giggle. “Okay, now you can go.”

Justin stands, shaking his head with a grin as he grabs his bag. “That kid, I swear…”

“She’s got you wrapped around her finger.” You smirk, giving him one last wave as he heads out the door.

After lunch and half of a movie, the two of you needed something new to do. “It’s such a nice day out. Do you wanna go to the park bub?”

“Yeah! I can bring my scooter!” Remi’s eyes lit up with excitement. This scooter had been the latest thing she loved. Every single day she wanted to take her scooter and go somewhere with it. Last week, she even asked if she could bring it to preschool.

“You can ride your scooter but you have to wear your helmet and wait for me to walk with you.”

"Okay mama!" She nods excitedly, already heading off to the mud room. “I need my shoes!”

A park outing usually consisted of Remi needing a snack, a bottle of water and potentially the stroller in case she was too tired to walk back home. You gathered all of your things while Remi waited for you. In the midst of gathering everything, a sudden crash that echoed from the garage, followed by a high-pitched scream has you frozen you in place. For a split second, your mind raced with worst-case scenarios. Then, instinct took over, and you bolted toward the door.

“Remi!” you called, your voice shaky as you threw the door open. The sight in front of you sent a jolt of panic through your chest.

She was crumpled on the floor, her scooter tipped awkwardly to the side. Her small body shook with sobs as she clutched her arm to her chest, her tear-streaked face looking up at you with pure fear.

“Oh, baby…what happened?” you asked, rushing to her side. Dropping to your knees, you carefully lifted the scooter off her and set it aside. “Did you fall off your scooter?”

She nodded wordlessly, her lip trembling, and reached out with her good arm. “Mama…” she whimpered, her voice breaking your heart in two.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. It’s okay, I’m here.” Gently, you scooped her up, cradling her against you as her little fingers clung desperately to your shirt. Her sobs shook her tiny frame, each one twisting the knot of worry in your chest a little tighter.

As you carried her back inside, a thousand thoughts raced through your mind. Was it just a bad bruise, or something worse? Was she in unbearable pain? How could you have let this happen? You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay calm for her sake.

On the couch, you rocked her gently, whispering soothing words and brushing her hair out of her face. “Shh, it’s okay, baby. Mama’s got you. You’re so brave.”

It took a few minutes, but her cries eventually softened into sniffles. Her tear-drenched face pressed into your shoulder as you kissed the top of her head. “Let me see your arm, bub. I promise I’ll be really gentle.”

When she hesitated, you gave her an encouraging smile. “We’re just gonna look, okay? No touching.”

She nodded reluctantly, and you peeled back her sleeve. Your stomach sank at the sight of the angry bruise already spreading across her tiny arm. You bit back a gasp, keeping your expression neutral. “You’re so tough, sweetheart. I think we need an ice pack to help make this feel better.”

Although you probably shouldn’t have, you got on Google to check for signs of a broken arm on your phone while Remi distracted herself with a show. You’d noticed some discoloration already which wasn’t good and she wasn’t really moving it away from her body and after 15 minutes, you took off the ice pack and handed her the remote. “Rem, can you hold this with your other hand?”

She tried but quickly dropped it, her face scrunching in frustration. “It hurts, Mama.”

You put your phone down and paused the tv, making your daughter stop and stare at you like she was offended. “Sweetie, I think we should take you to the doctor for your arm. So we’re gonna go on an adventure in the car and the doctors are going to look at your arm and make it feel soooo much better. And then we can come back home and finish the movie.”

“I have to see the doctor like uncle Mitch for my ouchie? Why?”

“Yes! Exactly like uncle Mitch. But we’re not going to see him, we’re gonna see someone else because they have special tools and everything that kids need. Some things that I don’t have for you here. So we have to go see them and they’ll make the ouchie feel a little better. Is that okay with you?”

She gave you a small nod, holding her good arm out. “Can I hold you?” Which was her version of asking to be carried. You picked her up again, mindful of her injured arm and she nestled against you, her small fingers gripping your shirt as you buckled her into the car seat.

The drive to the hospital felt endless. You kept glancing in the rearview mirror, watching her doze off in between small whimpers. Once you arrived, you texted Justin: Call me as soon as you can. It’s important.

Remi clung to you through it all until the nurse offered her some children’s ibuprofen and asked if she’d like to watch a movie while waiting for her cast. The distraction worked wonders—she was now enthralled by the screen, giggling quietly at the animated characters despite the disaster that was the last couple hours.

You stepped to the other side of the room when Justin's name flashed on the screen and you answered the call. “Hey," he started slowly, his voice already sounding tense. "What’s going on? Your text sounded like it was an emergency. Are you two alright?”

“I’m fine,” you sigh, “but Remi fell off her scooter and her arm was really swollen so I took her to the emergency room. It’s broken.”

“Oh my god.” His voice cracked slightly, the weight of those words hitting him hard. “Okay, um…What did the doctor say? Is she in pain? Did they—do they have to do surgery? What happens now? How—how did this even happen?” The questions came rapid-fire, his tone a mix of panic and guilt. You could almost hear him pacing on the other end of the line.

“Justin, slow down,” you said gently, though you couldn’t help but smile a little at how frantic he sounded. Usually he was the chill parent. “She’s okay. She’s a little trooper, honestly. She’s been so brave. They gave her pain meds, and we’re just waiting for her cast to be molded. No surgery needed, thank goodness. They even gave us a little cast cover for when she showers. She’s very excited about that.”

He exhaled, the sound heavy and strained. “I can’t believe I’m not there. I should be there.”

“Hey,” you said firmly, keeping your voice low but reassuring. “She’s fine, and you’re not a bad dad for being at work. You know that, right?”

“But I should be there,” he said again, more to himself than to you. “She probably cried, didn’t she? I hate that I wasn’t there to hold her.”

“She did, but only for a little while. She was scared, but we got through it. And now she’s sitting here laughing at a cartoon. Babe, she’s okay. She knows you love her.”

There was a long pause, and you could hear him taking a shaky breath. “Does she? Because I feel like I’ve been gone so much lately. What if she thinks I don’t care?”

You softened, your heart breaking a little for him. “Justin, stop. She knows. She’s been asking about you nonstop since we got here. In fact, she’s probably going to demand to talk to you as soon as I hang up.”

“She’s really okay?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

“She’s better than okay. She’s handling this like a champ. Honestly, you should be proud of her—and yourself. She’s got that strength, and pain tolerance, from you, you know.”

“That’s my girl,” he said, and you could hear the faintest smile in his voice. “Can I talk to her?”

“Of course. Let me grab her.” You turned back toward the bed, where Remi was still glued to the movie, her uninjured hand clutching a Baby Po replacement. “Bub, guess who's on the phone? Do you wanna say hi?”

Her face lit up instantly, knowing exactly who it was before she reached for the phone. “Hi, Daddy! Guess what? I’m getting a blue cast, and the doctor gave me a sticker! But they didn’t have Paw Patrol stickers, so I picked a fishy one. It’s funny, right?”

You can hear him laugh on the other end, sounding much more relaxed after hearing her voice. “Very funny. I bet that fishy sticker is the coolest one they had. Can't wait to see it when I get home. And Remi? Thank you for being so strong today. I love you more than anything.”

“More than cookies?” Remi asked, her voice filled with wonder.

“Way more than cookies,” Justin replied with a chuckle. “Even the chocolate chip ones.”

Remi gasped dramatically, her eyes wide as she looked at you for confirmation. “Wow! That’s a super lot, Daddy. I love you more than my pink sparkly shoes!”

Justin laughed, his voice warm and steady over the phone. “That’s the super-est love there is, mini,” he said softly, the pride and love in his tone unmistakable.

He hadn't let her out of his sight since he came home Sunday night. After the win, they had an off day, which he gladly spent catering to her every need.

“You hungry mini?” Justin asks, feeling like he could use a snack himself.

“Yeah! Can we get ice cream? Pleeeease?” she sang, fluttering her lashes in a way that seemed suspiciously calculated.

Justin froze, then cleared his throat dramatically, turning his attention to you with exaggerated disbelief. “Do you see this? Look at her!”

“What? Why are you looking at me?” you asked, holding back a laugh.

“This is your fault,” he said, gesturing at Remi as if she’d just pulled off a master plan.

“My fault? What did I do?”

“She got that from you! Batting those eyelashes and giving me that little face—it's the same move you use when you want something. You both know I’m powerless against it.”

“My baby broke her arm okay? If she says she needs ice cream then we should get her some.” You try to reason with him.

Justin shook his head, though a grin tugged at his lips. “Her wrist is broken, Y/N. Ice cream isn’t exactly a medical treatment.”

From the couch, Remi giggled, her little voice ringing out as she piped up, “I need ice cream medicine, please!”

“Oh, really?” Justin raised an eyebrow, glancing back at her. Remi nodded vigorously, her eyes wide with innocent pleading.

You give him a pointed look. “And where did she get this ice cream obsession from?”

Justin sighed dramatically, giving in with a smile. “Fair point.” He stood up and headed toward the cabinet in search of a bowl, the pink one has been a crowd favorite this week.. “Remi... chocolate or vanilla?”

She tapped her chin thoughtfully, casting a glance at her injured arm resting on a pillow. You caught her gaze and gave her a small nod, as if to say “go ahead.”

“Both, please!” she said, her voice sweet and determined.

“Smart choice, kid,” You said, grinning. “Put daddy to work.”

Before you can hear Justin's response to your teasing, the doorbell rings and you get up to go answer it. On the other side of the door is three large men holding sparkly balloons, a giant teddy bear, a couple bags of candy and a huge bottle of bubbles.

"You guys, what is all this?" You step aside to let Simi, Cameron and Foster in. Remi is already in Cam's arms, showing off her cast by the time you get back to the living room.

“Tell me everything. How did it happen?” Cameron asked, looking at Remi with such tenderness that it made her giggle. He was her second favorite player, right after her dad, and he always made her feel like the most important person in the room.

The little girl sighed dramatically, resting her head on his shoulder, and began telling her version of the story from the beginning. She didn’t stop talking until she’d relayed every detail to Cameron, then she shifted her focus to Foster and Simi.

As Justin came back into the room from the kitchen, he stopped, taking in the scene with a shake of his head. He could hardly believe how spoiled Remi was—though he secretly loved every second of it.

The moment Remi saw him, she hopped off the couch, toddling over to him with a huge grin. “Thanks for the ice cream, daddy!” she said, her face lighting up.

Justin smiled, lifting her into his lap. “Anything for you, mini.”

Simi, Foster, and Cameron all took turns showing off the gifts they’d brought her. As each one came out, Remi’s eyes grew wider, and Justin’s heart swelled as he watched her in awe. The best part, though, was when they all gathered around to sign her cast.

When it was Justin’s turn, Remi asked him sweetly, “Can you sign my cast, but no ugly footballs, okay?”

He chuckled softly, his heart skipping a beat. “No ugly footballs, promise.” He focused, carefully drawing the best heart he could manage.

You caught Justin’s eye for a brief moment, and in that look, you both shared an unspoken feeling. There, on the couch, in the middle of all the laughter and excitement, was the perfect little girl that you two had created—a living, breathing testament to your love. A sassy three-year-old, full of life and energy, who couldn’t be tamed, but would always be adored beyond measure.

Justin wouldn’t trade this for anything in the world. As he held her close, he felt like he wanted to bottle up these moments, to keep them frozen in time forever.

[hedwig221b]

Do you by chance have BAMF Stiles recs? I'm reading your stories and all you rec so thank you for being awesome!!

Thank you so much! One wouldn't know by looking at my fics, but I absolutely adore BAMF!Stiles lol. He's a delight!

Daybreak by TheObsidianQuill

"There . . ." Stiles swallowed and looked down at the bottle in his grasp as he slowly swirled the amber liquid inside. "There's really nothing left. For me. Everyone is . . . gone, and it feels like I haven't thought of tomorrow in years." His words rang in the air like a gunshot, he took another heavy drink. "I would trade every last breath I take to just have another shot—not even a guarantee, just a chance to make things right and bring back even one of them." The pack was gone. He had nothing left. He had no one. With nothing to lose, Stiles puts everything on the line to go back in time to try to prevent the future from becoming his past. Broken, guarded, and haunted by his past, only one overgrown-pup of a wolf seems able to get past his defenses. Changing the future? Easy. Finding a place for himself in the Hale Pack? Impossible.

The Roads Not Followed by SylvieW

Scott decides to leave Beacon HIlls with Allison and her father. Stiles is left alone to deal with the supernatural troubles of his home town, so he turns to Derek. Years later, Scott’s new pack is threatened, and the only ones who can help them are the Hale pack and Derek’s powerful mate.

Not Your Disney Romance by Wrennefer

After a long-forgotten agreement of an arranged marriage between Derek and the daughter of another pack's alpha resurfaces, Stiles takes it upon himself to become the most amazing fake fiancé that a clueless, desperate alpha werewolf could wish for.

This is Ridiculous by zosofi

There's a unicorn in Beacon Hills. A fricken' unicorn. In fricken' Beacon Hills, California. And it turns out that unicorns aren't drawn towards virgins in a happy-go-lucky let-me-lay-my-not-at-all-metaphorical-horn-in-your-lap way. No. They kill them. And guess who's the only virgin idiotic enough to get sucked into the Beacon Hills supernatural scene? Stiles, that's who.

A Tangled Refuge by wanderingeyre

The Hale House has been rebuilt for the past five years and for all five of those years, it’s been a sanctuary for supernaturals that needed a place to stay, a halfway point, a place to recuperate, or a place to be safe from whatever was on their tail. Word traveled quickly in the small world of the supernatural and now they rarely had to seek out people who needed help. Most came to them.

What Fresh Twilight Bullshit Is This? by isthatbloodonhisshirt

“I am not Bella!” he insisted, shaking his fist angrily at Jackson, as if he’d been the one to suggest he was. “I am not Bella! I am, like, a Jacob, at least!” Lydia made a noise of debate from his right and he whipped around to look at her. “What?! What was that sound?!” “You’re more of a Mike,” she insisted, shrugging neatly and flipping some curls over her shoulder. “Wha—” Stiles had never been so offended in his life! “I am not! No way! I am a solid Jacob!” “Mike,” she argued. “Who’s Mike?” Scott asked. “Shut up, Scott!” Stiles insisted, pointing a finger at him but still glaring at Lydia.

Came For The Spark, Stayed For The Flame

Derek felt the panic build up in his chest as Jezebel held out a hand. He smelled it before he saw it, because who could forget the scent of what destroyed your life? Fire and spark and smoke curled from Jezebel's hands, and the wood stacked at Stiles' feet flared up. When Stiles and Derek get bonded as Emissary-and-Alpha, hidden attractions become a lot harder to hide, secrets are kept and secrets are surfaced, and an evil teenage girl is planning even more ritualistic sacrifice. Canon divergence from the end of 3a.

Dangerous by jjmash

There are a lot of things that the pack doesn’t know about Stiles. Some of it is little things he simply has no reason to mention, like how he almost failed organic chemistry his first semester at Stanford. Some of it is bigger stuff that he just can’t bring himself to think about, like the nightmares that still plague most of his nights and trap him inside his own mind in increasingly horrific ways. But most importantly, the pack doesn’t know all the ways in which Stiles has transformed during his time away from them. He doesn’t need fangs and claws to be dangerous.

The Person You'd Take a Bullet For (is Behind The Trigger) by SadieHerondale

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, but until he gets Derek back, Stiles' actions are going to be worse than bad. And he will get Derek back, come hell or high water.

Something More Than Human by gatergirl79

Stiles Stilinski has a secret, a huge secret. A secret that will change the way everyone sees him. No, he hasn't been bitten by a werewolf. Stiles Stilinski is the product of a government experiment to create the perfect soldier, a human weapon. As a second generation transgenic, Stiles has been living a normal life with his dad in Beacon Hills, playing the role of klutzy sidekick to his werewolf best friend. All that changes however when Derek saves his life, Stiles finds himself slowly embracing who he really is. - But at what cost?

Red Witch by rootbeer

The red hair of a banshee. The red eyes of an alpha. The red hoodie of a mage. The red of fire burning. Derek Hale has been a prisoner to the hunters since they burned his family alive. But now someone has come to save him: skinny, defenseless Stiles--147 lbs of skin and fragile bones. Turns out, sarcasm isn't his only weapon.

Oh my (let me look at those eyes) by Gorgeousgreymatter

A few months ago, he might’ve been able to solve this with some force—a little man-handling, a snarl, a glimpse of teeth. But he looks at Stiles’s broken face, knows he’s seen too much horror and blood and evil, the whole Big Bad Wolf routine is just going to fall flat. Because Derek looks at Stiles and he doesn’t carry himself like a teenager anymore. He carries himself like a soldier.

Now with part 2!

[masterlist link]

[thecordelialetters]

She's my Angel I Five Hargreeves x Reader

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Post Apocalypse Au! Pt2 Pt3

WC: ~3,258 Warnings/Tags: Sexual Tension, Mentions of Abuse, Agedup!Five, Mentions of previous trauma, 18+

Summary: The Umbrella Academy saved the world, the Commission is no longer after them, the moon is in one piece and everyone’s lives start to fall back into place. Five attempts to start his life over again when Klaus brings home a girl with unusual shadow powers. ⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

˚

The Apocalypse was over and Five Hargreaves did what he did best, drink and cope. The first few weeks of freedom he tried things he had missed early on in his childhood. It started when Viktor took him shopping for a new, more appropriate wardrobe, that someone who looked his age would wear. Then he would often visit the park just to admire the beauty of places that were once a baron landscape. And sometimes he just spent his time reading catching up on what he missed in the last few years.

But old habits die hard when you spend 54 years alone and the next 2 weeks desperate to save yourself and save your family. Maybe Klaus was right when he called the apocalypse his drug because, for a while, it was all he’d ever know.

Five hadn’t slept well in a long time and despite his newfound freedom without the looming feeling of impending doom. He would find himself waking up at 4 am to check his window and just to see if everything was real.

The Academy had been empty for a bit, the first week his family had stayed back to collect themselves, celebrate, and appreciate one another but slowly their lives fell back into place. Allison went back to Claire wanting to get back her career and her daughter back. Luther wanted to find his independence and took a small helping from his inheritance to live on his own. Diego and Lila had also moved out in hopes of continuing to grow their relationship and perhaps find happiness in normalcy. Viktor, now confident in himself wanting to explore the world more began traveling and meeting new people. To Five it felt like everyone had moved on, except him. He had been the one to jump through time, and now he felt like he was stuck in it.

However this morning, his silent coffee and breakfast time was interrupted but a surprisingly sober Klaus barging through the door with a girl no taller than 5’3 who looked as if she had been dragged through the mud and a forest in his arms.

“I didn’t know where to bring her she ran into me frantic and couldn’t speak much,”

“There wasn’t anyone chasing her so I have no idea where she came from and she’s in pretty bad shape.”

Klaus looked panicked, he felt bad for the beat-up girl in his arms but what could he do besides bring her to the place he knew could help her best.

Grace and Pogo immediately took action, bringing the girl into the spare room to care for her wounds.

“What makes you think you can just bring random people in here? She could be dangerous?”

Five arched his eyebrow at Klaus’s behavior. He wasn’t a trusting man but he trusted his brother’s intuition and the girl genuinely looked like she needed help.

“I couldn’t just leave her on the road. I’m not a bad person Five. There’s something different about her I swear.”

Five looked distrustful at what his brother was saying.

“Well, we’ll just have to see when she wakes up.”

The two went back to doing their own things in the Academy waiting for you to wake up.

————————-3 days later————————

The sun shone brightly in the room you stayed at. Your eyes slowly opened, blinking harshly to adjust to the shining light. You had no idea where you were, this new place was uncomfortable and unfamiliar. Warm wood furniture decorated the walls, and the mattress you slept on seemed more comfy, soft, and warmer than your old hay-filled cot. Unsurprisingly your wounds ached but were clean nevertheless. You jumped when the door swung open to reveal a monkey? no an ape? in a suit. "Ah you're finally awake, Ill let the others know"

"I am Pogo by the way, please rest, we don't want your stitches reopening." Maybe it was the exhaustion catching up to you, but you listened to his words and laid back, staring at the large high ceilings waiting to see if whoever brought you here would be like your old doctors. Back downstairs Pogo noticed Five pacing around in the living room. "Any troubles worrying you?" "Yes that girl, I can't find any information about her, she had no ID, no name card, I even looked around the area trying to track back where she came from, and nothing." Five glanced around, more cautious of his surroundings

"What if the commission sent her?" "This is not good, not good at all"

And with a quick turn, he teleported to the room of which his unwelcome guest occupied. A flash of blue interrupted your daydreams when a boy about your age in a green flannel, cargo pants, with slightly long side parted hair entered your space. Besides appearing out of nowhere he looked almost normal, but that didn't stop you from being scared. Shivering you pushed yourself back on the bed as far as you could to try to get away from him. Sensing your fear Five held out his hands as a way to show you some form of peace. Lowering one hand he slowly approached you. But the closer he came the farther back you shuffled. Something wasn't right Five thought. You were terrified of him, what had happened to you to cause you to be in such a state.

Hey Im not going to hurt you, I don't know who you are but Im not going to hurt you." Five could see that you weren't budging so he reached into his pocket and pulled out a hazelnut toffee-flavored candy. He wasn't a big fan of sweets but had kept some from his last visit to a local coffee shop. "Here you must be a little hungry, it's good to see." He popped it in his mouth to show her that it was safe, not a trick. Slowly you reached out and touched his hand, grabbing the little treat, unwrapping it before letting the gooey sweet melt on your tongue. Five smiled at your reaction. "See? It was good." He thought you looked adorable with big doe eyes waiting to see if he had any more. He reached into his right pocket and pulled out another handle full of candies. "Ill give you one each time you answer a question. Can you do that for me?" You nodded slowly. "Okay, can you tell me your name?" "Angel" you pointed to yourself "Five" you pointed to him. You had heard Klaus shouting his name when you entered the house. "Angel? Do you have a last time?" "Five. Five Hargreeves" He pointed to himself. "Angel" You repeated. Okay maybe you didn't have a last name that was fine, at least he had gotten a name. He gave you another candy and watched you excitedly open it. "Okay Angel, another question where did you come from? Who or what were you running from?" "Doctor" you responded looking down. "What Doctor? What did he do to you." You felt like you should have known better than to trust the boy in front of you, but he looked so earnest so sweet, that you decided to show him your secret. Opening your fist a ball of shadows appeared in your hand before you tossed it into the air letting whatever light was in the room dissipate. Five knew what this had suggested. Whoever took you, held you captive, and experimented on you. Perhaps they were trying to make you into one of the unlucky 43. Another candy was handed to you.

“Show me more” Five demanded. You blinked at him slowly before he put another candy in your hand. “Show me.”

You looked at him and brought both your hands up into the air. He watched shadows run from the ground into the room and swirl around you. It appeared you could summon shadows at your will and control them.

“Good girl” and another candy as placed in your hand. "Tell me, Angel, do you know where or who it was? Do you know the name of the commission?" You stared at him blankly not understanding what he said. Before Five could ask any more questions Klaus had burst through the door. "My Angel! You are okay !" As he rushed towards you to grab your face. Stunned you jolted back from his presence. "Angel, that's why she called herself that, it's not her name, it’s what you called her!" Five went to smack Klaus in the back of the head when his hand was stopped by a shadow. "No hurt, Klaus friend" With heart eyes, Klaus dove into Angel's arms "LOOK AT MY ANGEL PROTECTING ME!!" With the gentleness of a newborn deer, Angel reached out to Klaus with a small sweet in her hand. "Candy?" "For me? Of course, Angel thank you!" Rolling his eyes at the scene Five teleported to his room to think. Where had this girl come from she had no name could barely speak and had a dark power with unknown consequences. Angel clad in Umbrella Academy uniform, and Klaus were in the living room when a flash appeared in the doorway. "Cinco! Where are you off to?" "Library I need to do some research." But just before he would reach for the doorknob a body was flung into his back. "Here take Angel with you, she needs a new set of clothes, can't have her wearing this uniform, you know all about that wouldn't you?" Klaus said as he shoved Angel forward. "I don't have time, I'm not a babysitter." Five expressed as he grabbed your arms and pushed you back. "Five...mad?" You looked up at Five with tears in your eyes. Reaching out to his face with his hand you softly pet his cheek. "Five...happy. Happy"

The time travelers face softened at the kindness you showed while trying to console him.

“I’m sorry Angel, yes Five is happy. Come on let’s go.”

He grabbed your hand ignoring the feeling of his heart when your soft skin wrapped around his.

————————-In the Car—————————

“Alright Angel, as cute as you look in the uniform we have to get you some normal clothes.”

Five looked over at you, but you were looking out the window. His green eyes passed over the cuts on your legs and the faint but visible bruises on your neck. It wondered him how someone could do this to you, turn a girl who seemed like an Angel into a shadow user. He parked the car at Gimble's before flashing to your side of the door to open it, Five was still a gentleman after all. "Okay now Angel, we're here to buy you some new clothes." You nodded your head to show you understood him and hopped out of the car excited to see the world around you. Being locked up for so long you had forgotten what the outside world looked like. Today the sky was blue with warm gusts of winds filling the air. People and families were seen chattering about. You reached out to grab Five's arm and pulled him closer to the store. Five chucked at your childlike antics, letting himself be whisked away by you. You dragged him to the dress section; some of the kinder doctors had given you books to look at to pass the time, many of them being princess books. There were cute frilly dresses that caught your eye immediately. Rushing forward you grabbed 3 dresses that might have suited you. With a sigh Five grabbed your shoulders wanting to tell you to go find some more practical everyday clothes. But after seeing the glimmer in your eye as if you found the most priceless thing...he couldn't bear take that away from you. "Come on Princess, let's go try them on." He ushered you to the changing room and waited outside. As he turned his back you grabbed his hand, but Five had yanked it back at the unexpected contact. He wasn't completely used to physical touch yet.

Ignoring this you grabbed his hand once more and tried to take him into the dressing room with you. "No Angel I can't go with you, just put on the dresses inside and Ill wait out here."

You had refused to let go of his hand. With another sign he allowed himself to be pulled into the confined space of the changing room. You quickly shimmied out of the uniform skirt and tie throwing it into a random corner. Five's face turned a deep scarlet red, although he was an older man the sight of your small and barely clothes body was enough to make him shift in his pants. Before he could embarrass himself any further he blinked out into the waiting room fanning his face as if he ran a marathon. There were small warning signs in his brain, don't get too attached, she doesn't know better, please don't get a boner right now. Trying to collect himself he put his hands in his face wanting to be anywhere but here right now. You interrupted his train of thought when you came out bouncing with a big smile on your face. The dress you picked out was a cute white summer dress that was white had thick straps tied on your shoulders. The skirt part stopped right above your knees and flared out with a twirl. You looked absolutely adorable, an Angel who wielded the power of a devil. "You look...beautiful" Five muffled through his hand. "Beautiful?" You questioned. "Yes you, Angel, you are beautiful." And as if your smile couldn't get any bigger, you ran and jumped into Five, his arms slowly wrapping around your frame to prevent you from falling.

"Five! Beautiful!" You smiled and pointed at him. Your fingers had graced his cheeks into a smile. Pointing at his dimple "Five! Beautiful" you repeated. "Oh, you think I'm beautiful Angel?" Five couldn't help but also feel happy and continue smiling, something about you felt like a breath of fresh air. His last few weeks had been nonstop paranoia and feeling the effects of an identity crisis, but hearing your laughter and seeing you call him beautiful, it felt as if he was actually living again. However, that didn't stop the nagging fear in the back of his mind of where you came from and what had happened to you. Perhaps it was the assassin in him that just couldn't let him...enjoy a moment. "Come on Angel, let’s get the rest of the dresses and pay. We need to head to the library before it closes." You nodded your head and skipped off to grab the rest of your dresses and clothes. You and Five stood at the cashier waiting to pay. "That will be 45.78." Five pulled out a 50 and felt your head lean on his shoulder. "Five, thank you." You looked up at him with a mischievous gleam in your eye. As he was retrieving his change you leaned up and placed your soft lips on the corner of his mouth. "Five happy?" He looked down at you and blushed "Yes Five is very happy." ————————The Library—————————- You were sat in Five's lap flipping through a picture book while he was doing research. Unfortunately, there was almost no information about any kind of suspicious activities in the area where they had found you or even how you even got to the city. Five had to expand his research on places that might have to do with experimental tests but with so little access he was found himself at a dead end. "Nothing! Absolutely Nothing!" Five yelled before slamming his notebook on the table. You jumped in his lap and covered your ears, eyes filling with heavy teardrops waiting to fall. "Shit Angel Im sorry come here." He cooed wrapping his arms around you for the fourth time today. Five pressed a kiss to the top of your hair and inhaled slowly. You smelt like a blooming meadow and a hint of cinnamon. Closing his eyes he rested his head on yours. It wasn't been often when he felt a peace like this, heck he didn’t even remember the last time he felt calm, other than when he was drinking or passed out after a mission. Your eyelashes fluttered on his neck as you began to press small kisses on his jawline. "Come on Angel what are you doing?" "Make Five happy. Kiss you" You mumbled and continued leaving marks on his neck and jaw. Five clenched his fists around you "Angel if you keep this us I'm not going to be able to hold back." Five groaned as he pulled you closer into his lap. And with his last bit of resolve, he blinked you guys back into the car. "Come on Angel let's go home." He kissed your cheek slightly to assure you he wasn't mad and drove the two of you back. ————————the academy———————--- "Mi hermano and Angel ! You guys are back" Klaus shouted from the couch he was currently lying on. You ran into the living room jumping in front of Klaus to show off your dress.

"My cutie Angel! You look so pretty!"

Klaus then swept you off your feet and into a fit of giggles. Five, who had been observing the scene from the bar was actively trying to fight off the green monster that was creeping up his heart. "Leave her alone Klaus we had a long day. Come on Angel let's have your shower and get ready for bed." It was obvious you needed to be cared for and Five had already begun to assume the role. Pulling out some extra pajamas Five had in his wardrobe he handed them to you before showing you the bathroom. "Shower here and come back to my room when you are done okay?" You nodded back and went into the bathroom. With a sign Five flopped on his back in bed wondering more about you. How could someone he just met cause him to feel such a way? Maybe it was his messed up time-traveling brain that was causing these emotions but deep down he knew he had a hidden attraction to you. He began to think more about your powers. You couldn't be part of the 43 because you were too young but you also showed an understanding of your abilities and more control than Viktor did when he first found out about his. Five would have to talk to you after you shower about your abilities. Small footsteps padded outside his room before stopping. The door swung open and there you stood wrapped in only a small towel Grace had given you. Five green eyes turned wide as you skipped into his room.. You had turned to grab the pajamas he had left you on the bed and dropped your towel. Five sat up instantly, his eyes wandered over the curve of your breasts and the plumpness of your backside. Being in the apocalypse and focused on getting back home to his family never allowed him much time for romance or women, besides Delores. You stood up as bare as the day you were born, nipples perked up at the cold air and you put the silk top and bottom on. Now properly clothed you turned to Five who was staring at you with eyes that rivaled a burning sun. In a blink, he was in front of you grabbing your waist with such a force it felt like you would disappear if he let go. Bringing his lips to your neck he kissed gently and dragged his face to meet your eyes. Soft despreate lips met plump shy ones as you and Five melted into each other. The kiss grew hungry, more desperate, both parties missing the feel of one another. The two of you fell back onto the bed with Five on top of you. Two souls both isolated from the world finally finding solstice in one another. All the questions Five had for you were gone from his mind, the only thing replacing it was the thought of how your body felt against his. A small hand reached into the front of Five's pants. "I want to help Five" You had whispered into his ear. It was going to be a long night.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ Authors note : I kinda of wrote this on a whim in the middle of the night. I’d want to make this into a full series although and go really in depth about Angel who she is and how she got her powers and I defiantly want to bring back the rest of the Hargreaves but I'm not sure when Ill have another creative burst.

[thatrandomidiot182]

Weddings and Funerals

Chapter Warnings. unhealthy coping mechanisms, underage drinking, arguments, reader downplaying other peoples trauma, reader is an unreliable narrator.

The couple of days leading up to the funeral are a blur.

You call out of work for the weekend, needing the time to just... take a break and gather your thoughts. Sift through your emotions and prepare yourself to go back to the manor and see everyone for the first time since you left.

God knows what shit you're gonna have to put up with when you get there.

You hoped you would also be able to get some rest since you didn't have to worry about your horrid work schedule, but that was just wishful thinking. You haven't had a proper, relaxing, eight hour sleep since before you were bitten by that damn spider.

Alfred's death only fueled the nightmares that already plagued your life, and the few times you did manage to pass out, you woke up within minutes, screaming and drenched in your own sweat.

You honestly felt bad for your neighbors, especially the new one. What a great first impression you were making on the guy. You two haven't even met yet, and he's already having to deal with your bullshit...

The fact that you and Dick were arguing loud enough for the whole building to hear probably didn't help either.

That night, Dick didn't end up leaving your apartment until nearly two in the morning. With the two of you spending nearly three hours in a heated back and forth about whether or not it was appropriate for you to attend.

In the end, Dick threatened to bury the letter with Alfred if you didn't go.

So, because you felt an obligation to him and yourself, you caved.

Which is the only reason you're currently sitting in a cab, paying the absurd fare to travel from your place all the way up to Wayne Manor with a tumbler full of stolen whiskey and a knockoff brand of cola.

"Jesus, you sure picked a day to come all the way out here, huh?" The drivers voice calls out to you playfully, eyes carefully trained on the muddy terrain as he skillfully maneuvers through the rain and fog.

He had a point though, Gothams weather is notoriously bad, but today it seems like even the city itself was mourning.

Rain had been pouring down since before the sun rose, with thick fog following not long after, making the roads slick and dangerous, which is why the ride was so expensive.

Apparently the Gotham taxi cabs charge an extra, 'extreme weather' fee, who knew?

At least someone was getting something good out of all of this.

You respond with a small, polite hum, eyes glued shut after having spotted one too many shadowy figures hidden in the passing scenery.

"Well, here we are, creepy ass Wayne Manor. You got the code to the gate or you want me to drop you off here?" The man's accented voice rouses you from your thoughts.

"Here's fine, thank you." You pull out a wad of cash from your pocket, swiftly counting out the ridiculous amount, seriously, ninety bucks for a fourty five minute drive!? Before handing it over with a frown.

The man offers you an unbothered shrug in response to your irritation, handing you the receipt after quickly snatching the cash from your hand.

You exit the car with a huff, pulling the collar of your coat higher in an attempt to keep dry as you rush towards the gate, wincing at the sound of screeching tires behind you.

"I hope he gets robbed today." You grumble irritably as you punch in the code, brow furrowing as it blares a bright red 'INCORRECT.'

You try again, thinking maybe you put the number in wrong, only to get the same result.

You try once more, a disbelieving smile on your face as the number is once again rejected.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" You let out a frustrated growl, moving to push the intercom button instead.

"Dick Grayson, you gave me the wrong fucking code, you asshole! Let me in!"

You shiver as your clothes get more drenched the longer you stand in the rain. Moving to pace the length of the gate to keep your feet from sinking into the mud.

Five minutes goes by with no response, and you're just about ready to turn and walk back to the city when a car pulls up behind you, blinding you with the bright led headlights.

You squint through the pain, trying in vain to see who the hell just pulled up on you, when the sound of a car door opening breaks the silence.

Your name is said through a shocked laugh, "Holy shit! Is that really you? I didn't believe Dick when he said you were gonna show up." Stephanie Brown's high pitched voice is easily recognized by your trained ears, and you have to prevent yourself from immediately snapping at her.

"Yeah, well, don't go thinking he's Mr. Reliable. Dude gave me the wrong gate code." You roll your eyes as she lets out a sympathetic groan.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that. Here, why don't you hop in the back seat and we'll drive you in?" Her offer is about as tempting as a can of sardines, but you take it with little hesitation, wanting to get out of the rain that had finally made its way to your inner layers.

You huff quietly as you plop into the backseat of the sleek, black suv, blinking in surprise at the other occupants.

Cassandra Cain stares back at you through the rear view mirror, offering a small nod of acknowledgment that you ridgedly return.

Duke Thomas then gives a small, awkward wave, occampanied by an equally awkward smile as he inches away from your soaked figure on the seat next to him.

"Hey." You repeat the greeting stiffly, swiftly uncapping your tumbler and taking a large gulp of the mixture as Stephanie makes her reappearance, slamming the drivers door shut behind her as she starts moving forward.

"It's been a while, huh? You look good. I like your hair!" Her grin is forced, and you snort at her attempted small talk.

"Thanks."

There was a million other things you wanted to add onto that, things like;

'It's the exact same as it was two years ago, but you wouldn't know that, huh?'

Or, 'Wow, I'm surprised you actually noticed I cut it!'

Or maybe, 'I'm actually shocked you realized it's almost double the length it was when I left because I doubt you even realized what it looked like before!'

However, once again, you decide to be the bigger person and keep your thoughts to yourself, content with the visible cringe she adorns after your dry response.

Thankfully it doesn't take long to reach the driveway, and you don't bother hiding the smirk of amusement as Duke all but jumps out of the car as soon as it rolls to a stop.

Cassandra is expectedly silent as she waits for Stephanie before making her retreat as well.

You take an extra second to gather yourself before you follow their lead, slamming the car door behind you as you begrudgingly stalk up the brick walkway.

The silence surrounding the area is sufficating.

Not in the usual, 'creepy old manor that's almost always empty despite the nearly dozen of inhabitants' way. This silence was heavy, and you can tell by the way their shoulders tense that the three people with you also felt the weight of the moment as you all stand before the front door solemnly.

"He'd usually have the door open by now..." Stephanie's voice is smaller than you've ever heard from her before, and it's then that you take the moment to reprimand yourself while coming to a sinking realization.

You've been so caught up in your own grudges and emotions about the people here that you've overlooked the fact that they're all mourning too.

However, despite you, who has been through something like this more times than you'd like to think about, this was the family's first time loosing someone so close, so brutally. That you knew of at least.

So far, the only thing that's prevented you from breaking down and crashing out on everyone this long is the fact that this isn't your first rodeo.

You fiest had to deal with it when you watched your mom and step-dad die.

Then, you dealt with it when you had to watch Gwen's funeral from afar, hidden in the branches of a tree.

You dealt with it when you cradled Henry in your arms during his dad's own burial.

You dealt with it when the responsibility of planning your tia's death rites fell onto you.

This was actually the sixth funeral you'd been to in the last decade of your life.

But right now, you have to remind yourself that they aren't you. They haven't gone through, seen or dealt with all the shit you have in the past nine years, so it's unfair of you to bring your personal issues into this when they're struggling during such a time.

Although, it'd almost be poetic justice to give them a taste of their own medicine.

You'd keep that in mind for later, right now, the sudden epiphany leaves you squaring your shoulders and cracking the door open as you make a promise to yourself.

Today was about Alfred, and you won't be the one to draw away from that.

"He'd also be scolding me about coming in like a wet cat and getting his floors dirty." Your remark gets a shocked wet laugh out of Stephanie and a small, grateful smile from Duke. Cassandra's eyes soften as her lips quirk ever so slightly.

You quickly split from the trio with little more than a nod of farewell as you make your way to the kitchen, pausing at the entryway as a lump forms in your throat.

Besides Bruces office, this was where Alfred spent the majority of his time. Between cooking, cleaning, and teaching you how to cook and clean, his presence was more often than not somewhere in the kitchen. Either rummaging through the cabinets for ingredients, placing leftovers in the fridge, preparing plates on the island or rinsing dishes in the sink.

Your hands shake as you watch him turn away from the stove, his aged face meeting your eyes with the patient smile he always wore whenever you'd mess up a recipe.

You blink back tears as you eagerly brush past him, avoiding looking at him as you sling a web to grab the fancy whiskey off of the top shelf of the cabinet.

You hastily yank open your tumbler, refilling the canister with the expensive liquid and scoffing at the disapproving stare you see out of the corner of your eye.

"Don't look at me like that. You used to do the same thing when Bruce and the boys had a rough night." You roll your teary eyes, taking a swig straight from the bottle before moving over to the trash can to remove the web.

"Thought nobody knew about your little habit, but I could always smell it on your breath–" You laugh, "I don't blame you, of course not. This family could push even an angel to alchoholism–"

A whisper of your name has your mouth snapping shut, arm moving behind your back in a shotty attempt to hide the bottle from whoever had entered the kitchen.

Bruce looms in the entryway like a shadow, blinking in surprise as you stare back at him with wide eyes and pursed lips, looking very akin to a child being caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

Your face is quick to fall into a scowl once you meet eyes with the man, turning your back on him in order to place the bottle on the counter, berating yourself for being so jumpy.

"I... didn't think you'd show up... Who were you talking to?" His voice is meek, and you have to physically bite your tongue to keep from making a sparky remark.

He's grieving.

You repeat the sentiment in your head as you lean against the counter, hands busying themselves with closing your tumbler as you avoid looking at him.

"Yeah, nobody did, apparently." You scoff. "Just... talking to myself..." You glance at the stove wearily, heart dropping as the space before it remains empty.

Any response Bruce may have made is prevented from seeing the light of day as another gruff voice interrupts from behind him, "Why the hell are you here?"

You roll your eyes, scowl back with a vengeance as you glance over Bruces shoulder to meet the sickening green eyes of Jason Todd.

One of your top five least favorite people in Gotham looms over Bruce menacingly as he glares back at you, face mirroring your scowl with equal ferocity.

"I was invited–"

"You have no right!" He cuts you off with a shout, easily shoving past Bruce to crowd you against the counter.

"Jason." Bruces warning tone is ignored.

"You have got some fucking nerve showing your face here after what you did!" Your posture is tense, body effectively roused from its slump as you square your shoulders, raising your chin to meet Jason's stare head on as he jabs his finger in your collarbone.

"Jason!" Bruce snaps at the contact, eyes darting warily between your face and hands as Jason continues to ignore him.

"You didn't even know Alfred! You're probably just here because playing the big bad adult got hard, and your little minimum wage day job isn't paying the bills–" Your lips curl into a snarl, unnaturally sharp canines bearing defensively as you shove him out of your face, effectively sending him stumbling back into the island.

"You don't know shit about what I've been doing! And I'm willing to bet that I spent more time with Alfred then you did these past couple of years–" Bruce swiftly rushes to stand between the two of you, placing a hand on Jason's chest warningly as he mirrors the action on your shoulder.

"That's enough! Both of you!" You give a disbelieving scoff at his reprimanding, mentally beating yourself over the pang of hurt that rolled through you.

"Sad to see nothing changes in this fucking house." Bruces appearance is almost enough for you to feel a bit of remorse for your comment– if it weren't for his obvious favoritism in the moment.

His skin was pale, even more than usual with a pallor closer to a corpse than a living man. Sunken cheekbones and purple eyebags have his face nearly unrecognisable if it weren't for the unmistakable steel blue gaze that glared at you. His graying hair was neatly combed back, but your enhanced eyesight has you catching the clumps of dandruff and grease that hide in between the strands.

He dons a black blazer with mismatched cufflinks over a black turtleneck, with black slacks that were wrinkled to hell and back. His oxfords are scuffed and dull, and it's obvious he didn't bother to prep them beforehand. Not like Alfred would have done...

He looked smaller than usual, and you can only assume he hadn't been eating well, if at all, since Alfred's death.

However pathetic he may or may not look only further enrages you as you can't help but draw the similarities between your appearance and his.

You've never looked so alike before.

The Wayne genes are strong, but your mothers were thankfully stronger. You'd never had to confront the fact that you looked like your father because he was never around during your youth, making it easy to hate him without gaining a sense of self-hatred as well. However, ever since coming to Gotham, you've been harshly forced to face the reality that you do look like him.

And right now, the matching scowls, eyebags and exhaustion only solidify the fact as you feel like you're looking into a fucked up mirror the longer you stare at one another.

"Bruce? The-uh, security guys are here..."

Tim's meek voice breaks the tension, and works to bring you back to your senses.

Based on Bruces tense shoulders and Jason's guilty face, the same could be said for them as you all turn away from one another.

"Thank you, Tim. We'll be leaving soon, I suggest you get yourselves together before then." With that, Bruce takes his leave, sparing you and Jason one last stern glare before following Tim out.

Jason scoffs but says nothing as he harshly bumps your shoulder on his own way out, sparing you annoyed glare when you don't budge.

"Alfred, there better be a gold coin in that letter..." You groan quietly, rubbing a tired hand down your face and grabbing your tumbler before silently padding behind them.

Hushed murmurs make their way to your ears as you reach the foyer.

"–come out of his room–"

"–don't even know if he's dressed!"

"–hasn't said a word for three days..."

Bruce and Barbara are engaged in a heated discussion at the bottom of one of the staircases, the rest of the family loitering around the room awkwardly as the security team waits by the front doors.

"I'll go talk to him–" Barbara hurriedly moves in front of Bruce, placing a gentle hand on his forearm with a nervous frown, "We've already tried, he won't even open the door... Dick's up there right now, I think we should let him handle it."

You snort at her words, gaining a sick sense of amusement at Bruces hurt, confused stare.

"Why don't we just get the cars arranged while we wait–" Barbara's voice goes quiet at the sound of footsteps, everyone's attention moving to the top of the stairs where Dick and Damian make their appearance.

Dick gives everyone a small, relieved smile as Damian stands there silently. Arms crossed over his chest with a tear stained face and puffy, red eyes.

His cheeks were glistening in the dim light, and you could see him becoming more uncomfortable the longer everyone stared.

"Damian–"

"I call shotgun." Your words work to break everyone from their stupor, eyes snapping towards you as you interrupt Bruce by strutting towards the exit, stopping only to confirm the decision with security before walking outside.

The ride to the cathedral was so awkward you ended up downing half of your drink before everyone gathered back together.

The family big enough that everyone needed to split between three cars, not including the three additional decoys that were empty and filled with the security team.

Bruce, Dick and Damian were in the first car, and you could only imagine what they were saying to the poor kid.

Barbara, Jason and Cassandra all occupied the second, a smart decision on Bruces part, as placing Jason with either you or Damian at the moment is an instant recipe for disaster.

Your car followed last with Tim and Stephanie, and you spent the entire ride trying not to bash your head through the window from Stephanie's attempted small talk. You assume she was just trying to distract Timothy from his moping, as he looked almost as bad as Bruce, but still, her inauthentic prodding into your life was unwelcome.

So, to entertain yourself and fuck with them, you answered all of her questions with the most ridiculous answer you could conjur on the spot.

'How have you been?'

Fine, you know, besides the incident with the hotdogs.

'Where do you live?'

You rent a room in the Iceberg Lounge. Yeah, it's pretty great besides the occasional gang war in the living room.

'Where do you work?'

You train pigeons for local magician shows.

The best part was that you knew that they already knew the answers, which made it even more hilarious when Stephanie finally gave up and stopped trying to talk to you.

When you finally arrived at the steps to the building, you were horrified to see the sidewalks flooded with paparazzi, civillians and reporters. And because Bruce has an image to uphold, you were all forced to walk right through the center of the crowd, being blinded by the flashes and deafened by the shouts.

The security guard to your right ends up tugging you forward with an iron grip on your bicep after you attempt to lunge towards a photographer who shouted at you to walk faster.

Once you're safely enclosed in the building, hidden behind the thick, wooden doors, you turn around to see Kate Kane, Harper Row and Selina fucking Kyle all awaiting your arrival. You ended up taking a large desperate gulp of your drink at the sight of Bruce melting into the latter's embrace.

The absolute rage that overcame your being at the view of them being all lovey-dovey had you denting the steel canister in your hand in frustration over the fact that you didn't feel even the slightest bit tipsy by now.

Every day, you find more reasons to curse that spider to hell. Your ridiculously high alcohol tolerance is only the latest to be added to the list.

The only reason you even bother drinking anymore is because the sting that follows a sip of alcohol has become a soothing sensation in your toughest moments.

The burn is grounding, and you find yourself itching for that sensation whenever you start spiraling.

Concerning? Perhaps.

It's not like you got anyone to worry about it, though.

They're all dead.

The entire three hour service was excruciating.

Not only were you stuck sitting the entire time, but you were also still in semi-wet clothing, and you finished your drink during the first half hour.

Which made sitting through the entire ordeal so much harder...

It was painfully obvious that the whole thing was planned just to upkeep appearances.

From the way Bruce and Dick had basically caged Damian in-between them with a steel loving grip on his shoulders to the way Jason sat alone in the very back, carefully placed away from the 'hidden' cameras and journalists that littered the crowd...

It was obviously all just a show.

Of comraderie, solidarity, love and family...

It made you sick.

It made you furious to the point of nausea.

The way Tim, Dick and Bruce all had a generic, PR-approved speech to go up and deliver for ten minutes...

The way Selina clung to Bruce like a wet napkin and whispered in his ear with an exaggerated pout...

The way Stephanie and Cassandra spent the whole three hours whispering and giggling back and forth like it was a fucking wedding and not a funeral.

But most of all, it pained you, watching the way little Damian Wayne had to sit and grit his teeth and bear it all in the front row. Trapped between his keepers like an animal who's expected to lash out at any moment...

It had you setting aside your grievances the moment you began to see yourself in him.

Had you hiding the bent remnants of your canister in your coat after discreetly taking your super powered frustration out on it once it was sufficiently empty.

The salt in the wound was the fact that the man leading the rites had blatantly never met Alfred before. He spent the first two hours droning on in vague metaphors and dramatic readings, with the last fifteen minutes of his time being dedicated to rambling on about nothing relevant to the man or occasion.

The last fourty five minutes were then reserved for Bruce to make his final comments and lead everyone in a joint, 'moment of rememberance.'

Fucking bullshit is what it all was, and you were regretting ever letting your guard down and allowing Dick guilt you into coming just to end up playing the part of the perfect family.

The ride back to the manor was swift and silent, thankfully.

You don't know if it was because Stephanie finally caught a hint or they caught onto your foul mood, but either way, you were grateful for the chance to mellow out.

Or, try to, at least.

Because as soon as you stepped out of the car, you were greeted by Damian and Bruce glaring at one another, Dick and Selina standing between them with a grimace.

"Damian, he didn't mean it–"

Dick didn't get to finish his sentence before Damian took off into the manor, slamming the doors open and closed hastily.

You rub the crease in your brow with a heavy sigh at the sight, ignoring everyone's concerned murmurs and strolling inside quietly. Quickly making your way to the second, unused, living room and straight towards the dusty fireplace.

Where, once again, you were greeted with a familiar smile, a teasing comment accompanying the sight, "Finally done being stubborn? Shall I fetch the matches?" His accent bleeds into your ears with an ease similar to the way your aunts would, and it has your heart sinking.

You decidely ignore the phantom this time, brushing past his nonexistent form to spark the fireplace to life.

Plopping down on the couch, you immediately slump into the cushions, closing your eyes and forcing all of your attention to the roar of the fire and the warmth seeping into your skin.

You take the moment to breathe through your emotions. Imagining all the anger, frustration and pain flowing out of you with every exhale, solitude and silence replacing the adrenaline and regret.

A choked, shuddering breath suddenly brings you out of your haze, eyes snapping open at the noise. You strain your hearing to the best of its ability, before your spider senses finally kick in and alert you to the additional presence in the room with you.

You can hear their heartbeat.

Loud. Strong, but irregular... Erratic. Like it was struggling to decide between speeding up and slowing down.

Their lungs follow a similar pattern, breaths catching and pausing in a sequence of stutters and sobs.

What had the hairs on the back of your neck raising, was that if it weren't for your spider senses, you wouldn't have known they were there at all.

Slowly, you drag your eyes along the wall before you, from the top corners where webs were beginning to form, down over the portraits and decorations littering the wall paper and all the way to the bottom trim– and the body huddled in the left corner of the room, furthest from the entryway.

Damians green eyes met your own in a defensive glare. The light of the fire reflecting off his glassy irises with a sickening glow, reminiscent of a cat in the night.

Not a bad comparison, for at the moment his defensive posture, forced scowl and weary eyes are similar to a cornered kitten.

You stare back at him in silence for a long moment, your own tired gaze eyeing him in the dim lighting with conflicting emotions.

You only speak when Damian shuffles slightly, muscles tensing in what you assume is the intention to flee, "Pretty shit service, huh? Alfred hated The Beatles." You snort, head slumping back onto the couch with a weak laugh.

You hear his shuffling stop. "I imagine he'd be strangling your dad right now for letting them play that song. If there was one thing he never played about it was his taste in music." Your lips quirk at the memory of Alfred's scowl whenever he spoke about his distaste of the band.

You close your eyes, allowing your sixth sense to take over and alert you to Damians presence drawing closer.

"It's kind of funny... Now that I'm thinking about it, they pulled the same shit at my mom's funeral too. My Tia was so upset, and I was so young that I didn't understand why–" You laugh weakly, "–I mean, it's just music right? What's the big deal. It's not like she could hear it anyway." You abruptly stop yourself, pausing to take a deep breath as Damians presence lingers beside the couch.

"But it's not just music. It's the fact that there were so many people there who insisted on helping out... and yet none of them actually knew her. They didn't care about her or know her favorite colors or songs. They didn't use her favorite pictures. Didn't put her favorite flowers in her casket. They didn't even put the right fucking name on her grave." You huff, eyes welling up with tears as you stare into the fireplace.

You take a second to compose yourself before you start again, voice low and heavy as Damian takes a hesitant seat on the furthest cushion from you, curling into the corner. "You know... Everyone always says it gets easier... That eventually, you stop crying when you think of them, and that your chest doesn't hurt as much when you talk about them but... It doesn't." You feel the movement through the couch as Damian flinches.

"I think everyone who says stuff like that is full of shit. Especially when they've never had to sit and watch someone they love die, without being able to do a damn thing about it." Your jaw clentches and you ignore the way Damian tenses beside you, giving him the gift of privacy for his vulnerability.

"I've been through it... More than I ever should have." You pause to swallow the lump in your throat, "I was ten when I watched my mom and step-dads murder from the kitchen closet..." You ignore his shocked stare, eyes trained on the burning logs before you, "Fifteen, when my girlfriend died in my arms. A month away from seventeen when my Tia was killed and I had to..." You stop there, taking a deep breath before changing your trajectory.

"They mean well. Dick... Bruce... All of them, the-they do. They care about you, and they want to make sure you're okay, which is why they're being so... suffocating." You smile sadly.

"But they don't get it. None of them will ever be able to get it..." You trail off hesitantly, "Bruce's parents died so long ago. He's forgotten the details, fogotten the pain that comes with witnessing the brutality." You huff, crossing your arms as you stare blankly into the flames, "Dick was so young when the accident happened that he doesn't even remember looking away." You frown, "Jason's mom wasn't mangled or mutilated–" You ramble, "–Barbara, Tim, and Duke's parents are all still alive, and Stephanie and Cassandra are no-contact with their families!"

You take a moment to catch your breath after your rant, face screwed up in a pathetic display of hurt and envy.

"... I'm not going to sit here and tell you that it'll get better. That he's in a better place or that a day will come when his death doesn't haunt you, but... I will tell you that it wasn't your fault." You finally turn to face him, placing a hand on the couch behind his head as you demand his attention.

"Damian. Look at me." You see him scowl, his eyes glued to the carpeted floor as he clutches his knees closer to his chest.

"Look at me." Your voice is stern, but quiet. Demanding, but not harsh.

He finally, hesitantly, draws his gaze to meet yours, angered face falling at your soft eyes and furrowed brows.

"There was nothing you could have done to save him." You hate yourself the moment the words leave your lips, but you push on, desperate to reassure the boy in a way you wish someone would have done to you.

"It was out of your control. There was nothing you could have done to stop Bane, and he was always going to kill him no matter what you did or didn't do. You are fourteen years old, and he's a grown ass man built like a fucking tank who's jacked up on a fucked steroid knockoff... You couldn't save Alfred, and that is not your fault." Your voice cracks with emotion, and you hand your head to hide your tears from Damians face as he quietly lets his own fall after.

You don't know how long the two of you sit in that room before someone finally finds you guys. Simply basking in one anothers presence and the solidarity that comes with your words as the fire dwindles by the minute.

Damian never spoke a word, but you can tell that your speech had left him with a lot to think about.

You didn't speak after that either, content to close your eyes and enjoy the calm stillness of the room.

Your clothes are finally dry by the time Jason stalks through the doorway, glaring at you suspiciously as he rounds the couch to eye Damian in disbelief.

"So this is where you ran off to? Hiding away with them, of all people? Do you know how long we've been looking for you!? His body–" You interrupt him with a scowl, pushing up from the couch to stand in front of him.

"You must really like the sound of your own voice, huh? You just never shut the fuck up–"

"What the hell did you say to me!?"

"So you're deaf now too? I said–" You pause at the feeling of a tug on the end of your jacket, looking back to see Damian glaring at the taller male with pained eyes.

The action has you speechless, voice caught in your throat at the first friendly contact he's ever made.

"Lets... Let's just go." You stutter, shoving past Jason with Damian hot on your heels, trailing your featherlight steps with his own silent patters.

You hear Jason stomping behind you but don't bother sparing a glance back, focusing instead on the nearly unnoticeable presence at your side.

Why the hell is he so quiet?

Not even Felix had your ears straining so much to hear him, and he's the most light-footed person you know.

The oddity only adds to your suspicion of Damian.

He's always been an enigma to you, ever since the day you met.

He's violent, arrogant and incredibly rude, but also concernedly disciplined and tense.

Quiet and confident, always eyeing the faces in the room like someone was about to jump out and attack.

He's analytical and defensive, but not paranoid.

He's everything that a kid his age shouldn't be... and it worries you.

Sets off the nerves that scream there's danger around. That something is out to get you and you need to be prepared.

You always shoved those thoughts aside, assuming he was just an angsty tween with a concerning fascination with blades.

Until he finally turned one on you, and you realized there was more to the story than Bruce was feeding you. His movements were too precise, too swift and comfortable for him to have just been in a blind rage. His strikes were carefully calculated, every one delivered with the intent to hit.

To kill.

And somehow, you were the bad guy for fighting back?

You shake your head to ride yourself of the thoughts, reminding yourself that it wasn't the time to dwell on such things.

Not when Alfred was waiting.

The three of you step into the garden in a lingering tense silence. Damian still lingered at your side, while Jason immediately took off to stand next to Cassandra and Barbara, who stared at you like you had grown another head.

You ignore their baffled stares as you grab an umbrella from the porch before walking closer, stopping a few feet away as you wait for the rest of the group.

Their hushed whispers and side glances don't bother you for long as your attention gets drawn to Bruce and the rest of the family, who finally make their appearance.

"Damian, there you are, we were worried..." Dicks voice trails off as he glances at you in shock, eyes darting between you and Damian confusedly.

You simply offer a shrug in response, still pretty confused yourself as Bruce looked like he's a second away from a heart attack at your proximity to the boy.

"If I knew there was a dress code, I wouldn't have worn this dress." Selina's sultry voice snaps everyone out of their confused, concerned stares as they turn to her.

She simply smiles and raises a brow as she gesture to where you, Bruce and Damian had all unintentionally clustered together. "Must be a Wayne thing, hm?" You glance down confusedly, before balking as the joke finally lands.

Bruce and Damian were almost carbon copies of one another with their black turtlenecks and matching blazers.

Glancing around, you notice Tim and Cassandra also looking at one another in amusement as they take in their matching black turtleneck sweaters.

You also spot Harper nudging Kate with a grin as the redhead tries to hide her own shirts collar behind her leather jacket.

Of course, you had also decided to wear a black turtleneck today... What a fucking coincidence...

You scowl at the reminder of the blood in your veins, turning to take off down the winding path to the graveyard as laughter rings out behind you.

You hear Damian huff, glancing down with a small smirk at the unamused frown decorating his face.

Everyone was quick to follow behind, and the light atmosphere was swiftly replaced with solemnity as the graveyard slowly came into view.

Damian eventually staggered back to walk next to Dick, and you laughed as you picked up on Dicks concerned questioning.

Like you were the one who had a history of violence...

The thought had you shaking your head in disappointment and hurt. The night at your apartment had you foolishly hoping that maybe he wasn't like the others. After all, he wasn't really around enough to know everything, simply believing whatever bullshit the others fed him. Maybe you guys could still work past your issues and... become friends?

You honestly don't know what you were thinking. He's just like everyone else.

He always was.

You come to a stop just before the burial site, throat closing at the sight of the casket hanging above the empty grave.

Bruce had opted for a closed casket... apparently, Bane hadn't just snapped Alfred's spine but actually crushed his entire head.

There wasn't much left to view.

Unlike the cathedral, there was no official schedule. No professional religious leader to spout nonsense and religious guilt. No reporters, no police, just family.

And you, of course.

Surprisingly, Barbara takes the lead. Taking a moment to read from some of Alfred's favorite verses and quote his favorite poets before moving on to reminisce about the man.

She speaks of the good times and brings smiles to everyone's faces when mentioning cherished memories.

The fact that none of them contained you only made you the slightest bit uncomfortable, since you were expecting it.

Didn't make it hurt any less, though.

Still, you had to give it to her. She did a good job. Better than you did.

Once she was done, Dick, Tim, Jason, Cassandra and Stephanie all took turns to say a few words as well.

Jason and Cassandra were very blunt, short with their words and quick to say what they wanted before pulling back to lurk in the shadows.

Tim and Stephanie spoke one after the other, and held each other's hand through it all. Tim choked on his words and Stephanie lightened the mood with a small quip that Alfred would have ripped his hair out at the state of everyone's attire.

Dick spoke for a few minutes about the man he considered a grandfather, but eventually had to stop as he could no longer muster words through the tears.

Kate, Selina and Harper all ended up next to you as Bruce encased his eldest in a desperate embrace, Damian hanging onto their coattails with barely concealed tears.

"You gonna say anything?"

"No. Doesn't feel appropriate, you?"

"No, I uhm– Didn't know him that well..."

"What about you?"

It takes them calling your name for you to realize that they were addressing you, turning your head to meet Harper and Kate's inquisitive stares with wide eyes.

"Oh. Uh– No. He uhm– He already knew everything I would want to tell him... H-He knows..." You nod shakily, moreso to reassure yourself than them as they offer you their own nods of understanding.

Selina is unnaturally silent as she lurks beside you, head trained on Bruce as she grazes her shoulder against yours.

"He misses you, you know. He regrets what happe–"

"If he really did then he'd be the one here telling me, not you."

Your voice is harsh when you cut her off, hand cracking the plastic of the umbrella in your hand as her words have you losing your composure at her audacity.

Her silence has you eyeing her from the corner of your eye, scoffing at her disapproving frown.

Alfred's casket is lowered just as the sun begins to set, the dark mahogany glistening in the remnants of the days fading light.

Everyone slowly makes their way back to the manor as Bruce begins shoveling dirt into the grave. Damian lingers beside him, watching the wood dissapear with haunted green eyes.

Dick walks with you on the path through the garden, a thick silence surrounding the two of you as you share your umbrella.

The rain had lessened considerably since your morning escapade, but it was still falling in a consistent drizzle. Enough to have you watching your step to avoid getting mud on your shoes.

"It was nice... seeing you– seeing everyone together for once..." Dick is hesitant with his words, and you can tell based on his rapid heartbeat that he's nervous about it.

"I think it'd be good to do it more... You know, it's not right that the only time everyone gets together like this is for weddings or funerals–" You roll your eyes with a weak smile, biting your tongue hard enough to draw blood to prevent yourself from spitting at him.

You'd never attended a wedding with them.

"–If... If you're not too busy.. I want to start having dinner with everyone, like this. Maybe once a month, or–"

"Dick, let's not do this." You cut him off with a choked whimper.

"Let's not pretend that everything's okay. That today changed anything between all of us." You laugh humorlessly, "Jason hates me. Bruce looks at me like I'm a bomb waiting to go off and everyone else thinks I'm unstable!" You stop yourself at the sudden rise of your voice, squeezing your eyes closed to gain a semblance of stability.

"The only reason I even came today was for Alfred. That's it." You sigh.

"I didn't come here planning to reconcile or start playing along with your guys' little happy family routine. I'll go back to my apartment, and you guys can continue on like I don't exist." Your voice is shakier than you'd intended, and you hate the way it has Dick looking at you.

"But what if you didn't–"

"I will. I am." You're stern with your words, eyes hardened as you meet his pleading gaze. "I'm not going to force myself to saty here and apologize or act like what I did was wrong. It's unfair of you to ask me to do that–"

"That's not what I'm–"

"–but it is!" You don't let him escape accountability.

"It is. You expect me to just ignore everything that happened, everything they said and did to me, just because you feel– what, guilty? Remorseful?" You scoff.

He's silent, and you pause as you finally reach the porch. "I'm done trying to fit in here. I don't belong, I never did... The one person who bothered trying to prove differently is dead... and I... I only regret leaving because it meant disappointing him."

Your words settle in the air with a weight that hangs on both of your shoulders like a brick.

Dick finally begins to understand the depth of your pain.

You begin to finally let go of your delusional dreams of having a father.

You depart from one another with a stiff embrace and the one-sided promise of fixing things.

Dick pays for your cab, and hands you Alfred's letter after scamming your phone number out of you.

You block his own as soon as he finishes putting it in.

Now you sit, shaking your head and giggling in disbelief at the contents, giggling in a fit of manic amusement. Salty tears trail your face as you grip the paper with trembling hands.

Forgive them.

Forgive yourself.

This world needs all the heroes it can get. Especially Gotham.

– Grandpa Al

Taglist <3: @onceinamillionposter , @jscrawls @bat1212 , @1abi , @cosmosluckycharms , @homeless-clown

Updates are going to slow down from now on bc this is the third series I have going on rn. I'll do my best to update at least once a month, possibly twice, depending on when I have time, but they'll all be pretty long. Not quite as long as this one tho, this chapter is a monster, I feel like it might even be a bit too long, lol.

Thank you all for the support <3

[vigilante-3073]

Cuddle For Warmth

Daryl Dixon x Female Reader

Summary: Cold nights and shared sleeping bags.

TW: Fluff, pre-established relationship, cuddling.

The group had been traveling down the same road for days, slipping into the woods at night when they needed to set up camp. Daryl found himself getting antsy as more time passed without a solid form of shelter.

He didn't like being out in the open for long periods of time, especially with Y/N. Daryl worried about her more than himself at times, ensuring that she was always in his line of sight.

Daryl was not clingy by any means, but he couldn't keep himself from worrying.

He knew how dangerous the world had become and he couldn't help but be protective. Y/N was his one good thing in the world and he wouldn't be able to live with himself if something happened to her.

Their relationship had formed slowly over time, definitely not something that anyone would have expected. Y/N had always been kind to everyone, but she seemed to pay particular attention to Daryl.

She told him once that he made her feel safe and he believed her.

Daryl had never been good with words, but he showed his love for her in a variety of different ways.

He taught her how to survive on her own in case they were ever separated, paying particular attention to hunting and shooting. Daryl wanted her to be able to protect herself if there was ever a situation where he couldn't.

Daryl always made sure she was warm enough while also ensuring that she had enough food and water. He would even give her some of his portion when rations were limited.

Daryl was also one for physical touch, whether it be his arm draped around her waist at the campfire, his lips pressing quickly to her forehead before stepping away or his hand holding onto her's as they walked.

Daryl found it reassuring to know that she was there.

...

Y/N rolled out her sleeping bag by the fire before slowly crawling inside. She left the zipper open as she turned onto her side.

Daryl moved behind her, sliding into the sleeping bag with his chest pressed against her back.

"Lift your head," He muttered.

She lifted her head, allowing him to lay his arm across the ground for her to rest her head against.

"Thank you," Y/N said softly, Daryl grunted.

His arm wrapped around her waist securely, holding her close to himself as the fire crackled softly beside them.

Y/N rested her hand on his forearm, sliding her palm downwards and intertwining her fingers loosely with his.

"You're cold," He muttered.

"I'll warm up," Y/N replied, closing her eyes as she enjoyed the comforting warmth already seeping into her body.

Daryl laid awake long after she had fallen asleep, listening for noises in the surrounding area.

It was like he couldn't turn his brain off when there was a possibility of danger with Y/N involved. His attention was pulled back to her as she shifted in his arms.

"I can hear you thinking," She mumbled without opening her eyes, "Glenn is on watch, we're okay," Y/N assured.

"I know," Daryl said gruffly, arm tightening around her waist to pull her body closer.

Y/N turned in the limited space the sleeping bag provided, looking up at him with tired eyes. Daryl lifted his hand, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"You need to sleep," Y/N said, he nodded.

She pressed herself against his chest, fingers slipping underneath his jacket before she slid her arm around him.

Y/N closed her eyes, letting out a content sigh as her head rested against his chest.

...

Daryl blinked his eyes open, surprised to find that he had actually fallen asleep for a few hours. The fire had dissipated, leaving only a small flame and bright red coals.

Daryl shifted, lifting his arm from around Y/N's waist as he slipped out of the sleeping bag carefully.

Her eyes fluttered open, turning onto her back as she blinked up at him, "Where are you going?" She mumbled.

"Just grabbing a drink. Go back to sleep," He said, lifting the warm material of the sleeping bag further over her shoulder.

Daryl dusted off his knees as he stood up, making his way over to the car and opening one of the backpacks. He pulled out a crumpled water bottle, taking a few sips before tucking it away.

Glenn sat on the hood of the car, a rifle held in his hands as he listened.

"Anythin'?" Daryl asked, Glenn shook his head, "Not a peep. I wake Rick in an hour to switch off," Glenn said.

Daryl nodded, he felt like he wasn't contributing when he had the privilege of sleeping through the night, but Rick had insisted that he take a night to rest.

"You two are really cute together," Glenn stated.

"Thanks," Daryl muttered.

"I think everyone deserves to have a love like that... One that makes life worth living again, you know?" Glenn said.

Glenn couldn't have been more right. Daryl would give his life for that woman in a heartbeat and he couldn't imagine a future without her in it.

Y/N was absolutely everything to him.

Daryl nodded, returning to his sleeping bag and laying down behind Y/N. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close to his chest.

"Are you okay?" Y/N mumbled, hand finding his under the material of the sleeping bag.

"Yeah, I'm good," Daryl assured.

[novaursa]

Hello dear Nova! I hope you are having a beautiful day/night Could I ask you for a one-shot about Broon where Reader is Tywin's daughter and they are at king's landing and he falls in love with her Reader is the reincarnation of her mother being her father's favorite etc ,she and broon fall in love first and then they could have a secret unexpected romance.?

Danger in Silk

Requests are closed

- Summary: Bronn sees you and for the first time in his life wants something more than gold.

- Pairing: lannister!reader/Bronn

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: I hope you are having a wonderful day/night as well, dear anon. 🫶

The stables at the Red Keep reek of manure, horses, and sweat — the city’s perfume. But Bronn barely notices. The clang of hooves on cobblestone, the braying of impatient mounts, and the grumbles of goldcloaks fade into a low, distant hum as his gaze lifts and catches her—you—standing just beyond the gate, in the courtyard bathed in the dusky orange of the evening sun. The silk of your gown catches the dying light, ivory with threads of gold that shimmer with each movement. You are laughing, soft and unguarded, as your fingers brush a lock of blonde hair from your cheek, and for a moment, Bronn swears the whole bloody world stops.

“You didn’t mention that,” he mutters out the side of his mouth, half to himself, half to Tyrion as they dismount.

Tyrion snorts, dusting travel dirt from his doublet, brow arched in lazy amusement. “Mention what?”

“Your sister,” Bronn answers, nodding subtly in your direction. “That sister.”

Tyrion follows the line of his gaze and sighs, already tired. “Ah, yes. Y/N. My golden sister. Father’s pride and joy.” He dusts off his gloves and gives Bronn a sideways glance. “You’d best wipe that look off your face. Like a starving dog eyeing a roast. My father would flay you just for blinking too slowly in her direction.”

Bronn gives a low chuckle, eyes still fixed on you. “Didn’t think Lannisters made ‘em soft. Thought they all had teeth and venom.”

“They do,” Tyrion says dryly. “But she’s his favorite. Looks like our mother, acts like someone doesn’t belong in this nest of vipers. Which makes her more dangerous than all of us put together.”

You finally glance their way, smile still on your lips, and your eyes meet Bronn’s.

He doesn’t look away.

Your gaze lingers just a moment too long to be proper before you nod, polite and restrained, and turn back to the Lady-in-waiting speaking beside you.

“Well,” Bronn mutters, wiping sweat from the back of his neck. “Fuck me sideways.”

Tyrion groans, already regretting bringing him. “Do me a favor, Bronn. Whatever your prick is whispering, drown it with wine.”

“You planning to introduce us?” Bronn teases.

“I’m planning to keep you alive for a few more days,” Tyrion answers. “And that means keeping you far away from her. She's not a barmaid or a camp follower—she's a Lannister.”

“You're a Lannister,” Bronn points out, grinning.

“Yes, and you know how I turned out. She’s the rare kind with dignity.”

But you are walking toward them now. The hem of your gown trails like mist over the stone, and your presence seems to quiet the noise around you. Even the guards stand a little straighter. You stop before Tyrion, offering him a warm smile.

“Little brother,” you say, leaning to kiss his cheek. “You smell like road and horses.”

He beams. “As do all proper adventurers. And this,” he adds, gesturing to Bronn, “is my sword arm. Also known as Bronn. And no, you may not ask where he comes from.”

You glance at Bronn, and something in your expression shifts, just a hair—curiosity, perhaps. Amusement. He bows slightly, more out of instinct than courtesy, and offers a sly half-smile.

“My lady,” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel soaked in honey.

Your head tilts slightly. “You don’t look like a knight.”

“I’m not,” Bronn replies, straightening. “I’m worse.”

That makes you laugh, soft and genuine. “Honesty. That’s rare around here.”

“Only because I haven’t learned how to lie like a Lannister,” Bronn says, glancing at Tyrion. “Yet.”

Tyrion groans again. “Gods help us all.”

But you’re still smiling. “Then let’s hope my father never hears you speak.”

Bronn grins, unbothered. But even he feels the chill in the air when you mention Tywin.

Your expression softens again as you look back to Tyrion. “You’ll dine with us tonight, yes? Father will want to speak with you.”

Tyrion’s face falls a little. “Of course he will.”

“And your sellsword?”

You glance at Bronn again, and it’s impossible to tell if the question is innocent or testing.

Tyrion answers before Bronn can open his mouth. “He’ll dine in the barracks. With the other dangerous men.”

You give the faintest nod, then walk past them, your perfume trailing like memory.

Bronn watches you go, entranced.

Tyrion exhales heavily. “You’re going to die in this city, you know that?”

“Maybe,” Bronn says, licking his lips. “But what a way to go.”

The sun had barely begun to dip behind the red stone walls of the Keep when Bronn saw his chance. You were alone in the gardens, your guards dismissed, your handmaidens nowhere in sight. He could hardly believe his luck. You sat on the edge of a carved marble bench, bathed in the golden hues of twilight, head tilted as you read from a small book of Westerland poetry. The wind tugged gently at the gossamer veil pinned behind your hair, catching it like a silken banner, and Bronn felt, absurdly, like some knight from the tales—watching a princess in her solitude, ready to risk his life for just one word, one glance.

His boots barely made a sound on the stone path as he approached, a shadow slipping past hedges and roses. It wasn’t stealth that got him this close—it was gall. And something deeper than that. Something he didn’t have a name for.

You looked up before he could announce himself, as if you’d felt him coming. Your eyes weren’t surprised. They weren’t afraid either. Only amused, like you’d expected him all along.

“Does my brother know you wander the Queen’s gardens uninvited?” you asked, voice soft as silk drawn across bare skin.

Bronn gave a lazy grin and bowed—mocking, not mocking. “No. But I doubt he’d be shocked. Tyrion has a way of collecting trouble.”

“And are you trouble, Bronn?”

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, boots crunching lightly over scattered petals. “Only if you want me to be, my lady.”

A laugh spilled from your lips—low and genuine—and gods, that sound. It went straight to his gut. “I should have you whipped for such boldness.”

“You won’t,” Bronn said simply, leaning one arm on the carved back of your bench. “Because I think you like it.”

You didn’t deny it.

Instead, you closed your book with a soft thump and turned to him fully. The last rays of sunlight caught your features—eyes like emeralds, hair that shimmered with the same pale light as the mother you’d inherited it from. You were everything a noble lady should be—graceful, poised, untouchable. And yet there was something in your gaze that burned beneath the surface. A hidden fire.

“You speak like a man with nothing to lose,” you murmured.

“I’ve got everything to gain,” he said. “Including a kiss from the most beautiful woman in King’s Landing.”

You scoffed, but your lips curled. “I’m a Lannister.”

“You’re not Cersei,” he replied. “You’re something else.”

That gave you pause. And in the silence, the air between you tightened like a bowstring.

Bronn straightened. “You don’t belong in this city. Not with all its lies and poison. You’re too good for it.”

Your brow arched. “Is that your attempt at flattery?”

“No,” he said. “It’s just the truth. I’ve known vipers, and I’ve known women who wear silk over steel. But you…” He trailed off, searching your face. “You feel like the kind of dream a sellsword doesn’t get to have.”

You stood then, slowly, letting the book fall to the bench. Your skirts whispered around your ankles, and you stepped close—so close he could smell the subtle sweetness of your perfume, something with orange blossoms and myrrh.

“You shouldn’t say such things,” you said, voice barely more than breath.

“Why not?”

“Because I might believe you.”

And then you leaned in, soft and sure, and pressed a kiss to his cheek—warm, lingering, enough to make his knees ache with the need to touch you.

You drew back before he could, fingers brushing the place your lips had touched. “Tonight. My chambers. If you can come without being seen.”

Then you turned and walked away, leaving him breathless and stunned beneath the blooming trees.

Bronn watched you go, heart pounding like a war drum beneath his ribs. He’d been with women before—noble and lowborn, virgins and whores. But none had made him feel this. Like he was falling headfirst into something deeper than pleasure. Something dangerous. Something worth dying for.

He touched his cheek, where your kiss still lingered, and grinned like a man touched by madness.

“I’ll marry that girl,” he muttered to himself, already planning which guards he’d have to bribe—or kill—to reach your chambers unseen. “I don’t care if it kills me. I’ll marry her or I’ll die trying.”

[emmyc0z]

I have a request for Astarion ! What if reader is usually the one being seduced by Astarion (because that's how he is) but reader one day does the very chivalrous hand kissing to Astarion after maybe protecting him from an enemy?

Rizz if you will.

It's Called Chivalry, Darling

pairing : astarion x (gn) reader

summary : astarion makes a point to be chivalrous so you return the favour to distract him from being worried.

warnings :talk about weapons and fighting, reader gets hurt.

a/n: thanks sm for your request :). i tried my hardest to execute this idea, i hope you like it anon :0 (i have not played baldurs gate)

“I think we could stock up there. ” You point to a row of buildings, signs practically unreadable, grabbing the attention of the others in your group. They all hum in agreement before heading off in their own directions. The only store you assume you’ll be needing is a general store, so you head in that direction. 

You reach for the handle but someone else's hand beats you to it, pulling it open for you. Turning to look, you make eye contact with the ever handsome Astarion, smirk tugging at his lips. 

“Why’re you opening the door for me? What do you want?” You point an accusatory finger in his face, causing him to chuckle. His laugh is so soft it almost makes you drop your finger. 

“It’s called chivalry, my dear. You aren’t familiar?” He follows behind you as you enter the store, rolling your eyes at him. The store is mostly empty, besides a few men looking through the wares available. But even with all the open space for him to walk, Astarion seems to tail you as if the store is crowded. 

“Ooh get some more of that stuff, remember you used it on me? It made that cut on my arm feel like nothing.” He points from behind you at a healing balm in a small, glass jar. You stop in your tracks to grab it, causing Astarion to push into your back, and you look back at him with a confused stare. 

“Why’d you stop? ” His brows are furrowed, face close to yours.

“Why are you walking so close to me?”

“I just can’t stand to be far from you, my love,” He places his hand on his chest dramatically, voice incredibly theatrical as if he wasn’t already dramatic enough. You're sure that people in the store are shooting glances your way but, unusually, you can't bring yourself to care.

Not when Astarion is looking down at you with playful eyes and a giddy smile on his face. He looks so sweet like this, so free of worry and attitude, his guard is down. But you can't let him realize your thoughts, so before he could even notice your staring you force your face to remain as stoic as before.

You once again roll your eyes then continue your search for anything the group may need. Once you finish you head towards the door, making a point to open the door for yourself which causes Astarion to grunt in disapproval. 

The group finds each other once more and you head out of town, fully prepared for what might be ahead. At least that's what you think, maybe a stupid thought considering you're never truly safe on this perilous journey.

As you travel along the trail, your group seems to split off into its own smaller groups. Whispering and laughing with eachother, making far too much noise in your opinion. And Astarion, slowly trickling from the front all the way to the back where you're walking, finds his place beside you. 

“Why do you always walk so far towards the back? That’s a dangerous position for someone as small as you, no one to keep you safe from behind.” He chuckles to himself as he notices your brows furrow. 

“There’s nobody to annoy me either.” His hand flys to his chest, pretending to be hurt once more, his pace faltering ever so slightly then catching up with you again. 

“Ouch. How you wound me so with your cold words darling.” 

“Astarion, if you wish to accompany me in the back I’d appreciate if..” Your sentence is cut off with a yelp of surprise as you trip over a dip in the road, stumbling forwards. But you don’t fall very far, Astarion’s hand gripping onto your wrist and pulling you towards him. Your chest hits his, and you take a moment to regain your bearings before taking a step away from him.

He raises your hand, still in his grip, up to his lips and places a gentle kiss on the top of your knuckles, “You must be more careful, darling. Don’t want you getting hurt.” 

You know your face is pink, you can feel it, and the smirk on his face solidifies your worry, but you remain composed and give him a simple nod as you pull your hand away. 

“Shall I hold your hand to ensure you don’t trip again?”

“In your dreams, fangs.” He smiles, it's always so soft during these moments, and the sight alone almost causes you to take back your words and give in to his offer, but you stand your ground and keep your hands close to your hips. Astarion lets out a small laugh at this.

You continue to walk in peaceful silence, Astarion making small quips so the air is never truly silent around you. You've come to realize that Astarion can't stand silence whenever he's around you, and he makes a point to keep the noise level up. But when his tone shifts, and he becomes quieter, you take a peak around. You notice that the group is much closer than before but you don’t mind. Safety in numbers and what not. 

But something feels off. It’s eerily quiet. Not even the whistle of a bird and you swear the wind has stopped entirely. And you think the rest of your group notices as well, perhaps the reason that they had moved closer was so they wouldn’t be caught off guard. Their hands stay on their weapons ready to take them out. 

And then it happens. A group of goblins jump from the surrounding forest and circle around your party. Usually something as small a threat as a goblin would be no problem but in such large numbers they might prove to be a problem. When they initiate a fight, thrusting their blades towards you, you draw your blade. 

Slowly, you pick off goblins, one by one. They’re stronger than you expected and their weapons are much nicer than the ones you had encountered in the past. But you keep your guard up and they’re unable to land a blow on you. It’s when the amount of goblins in front of you is reduced that your guard is let down even the slightest. And your focus shifts. Not the smartest move.

You look around you, realizing that Astarion is no longer by your side.

In your state of distraction, a goblin is able to strike you, leaving a relatively large cut on your arms and cutting the arm of your shirt into a tattered piece. The pain causes you to refocus for a moment, just enough to kill the goblin before you look back towards Astarion.

When your eyes reach his position, your heart drops to your stomach. He is completely surrounded and you're certain that he is unaware just how shitty his situation is. So without a second thought, you leave the goblins in front of you behind, and rush over to him. 

Swinging your blade with as much force as you can muster, you kill the goblins behind him and grab his wrist to pull him out of his unfortunate position. You kill another, after ensuring he is no longer in the way. The two of you pick the goblins off together, standing back to back. And when the fight is over you finally allow yourself a moment to breathe. 

But it doesn’t last long. 

Astarion pushes at your shoulder, causing you to stumble forward, you hardly catch yourself but you do. When you’ve found your footing you straighten up, turning to him with furrowed brows, “What was that for?” 

“Why would you do that?” His tone is so aggressive it catches you off guard, “You could’ve gotten hurt! How could you be so irresponsible? Look at your arm, Gods!"

He holds your arm in his hands, hesitating for a moment before ripping off a piece of his own shirt. Gently, he pushes the arm of your shirt up to uncover your wound and begins to wrap the piece of cloth around the wound with shaky fingers, muttering curse words under his breath.

“You could’ve been killed Astarion! I would’ve gladly gotten hurt in order to prevent that.” You try to keep your cool. The pain is hardly noticeable with the amount of adrenaline pumping through your body. And you honestly find yourself more worried about him being angry with you Obviously, he’s yelling in your face, but it might just be shock getting to him. 

“Why would you do that for me? That is absolutely ridiculous.” He huffs, throwing his hands in the air, then allows them to fall back down to his sides. And an idea suddenly enters you brain. 

Slowly, with caution to not annoy him further, you reach for his still shaky hand. He stares at you, brows furrowed, but he doesn’t pull away. Gently, you place your lips against his bloodied knuckles, making an effort not to hurt his already irritated skin.

“It’s called chivalry, Astarion. You aren’t familiar?” You notice the smallest change in his eyes as they soften, even a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He isn’t mad, just worried. And you know that all the annoyance has fled his body at your attempt to make fun of him and his flirtatious remarks. Honestly, he's a little flattered you remember what he said, and flustered from you playing his own game against him.

You take a step closer, placing a hand on the side of his face to pull him in closer, to plant a soft kiss to his cheekbone. His curls touch your fingertips, and you take the opportunity to play with his soft hair for a moment. When you pull away, a pink tint lingers on his skin, allowing color to flow on his beautiful face. “You know I don’t want you getting hurt.”

This time he lets out a soft laugh, “That’s enough, darling. I understand what you’re doing, you can stop mocking me.” He turns away from you, but you rush to his side, wrapping your hands around his arms. You lean into him, resting your head near his shoulder as you look up at him.

“Shall I hold onto you so you don’t trip, my dear?” You mock his usual flirty tone, and he pushes your head away gently in an attempt to hide the color rushing to his face, ruffling your hair up.

“What, I'm not allowed to flirt with you but you can do it to me?”

"That's exactly right, my dear."

[gallifreyan85]

highkey im LOVING all ur agathaxreader fics im literally in a pool of tears when i read each one and I LOVE IT SO MUCHHHHHH ILOVEIT AND ILOVEUFORMAKINGIT,,, so pls dont explode anytime in the near future i need more fics, i literally need one everyday its now a drug ts insane i have a fic req, if u could make a 'tell ur baby that im ur baby' - i bet on losing dogs, where someone gets jealous that someone else is getting more attention that them, ex agatha losing her self bc she saw u hugging ur old teacher or reader crying themself to sleep because they think agatha likes billy more than them :) PLSPSLSPLSLPSLPSLPSLP I BEG OF U MAKE ONE IM GONNA DIE ILYSM IF U DO

Hii, I'm sorry if this took too long, I was traveling and then had college stuff, so I was in a bit of a hustle. I had started writing this and then kind of got off track a little (hence the title being different), but I tried to keep it around the whole reader thinking agatha prefers billy now, and all that jazz. I hope you like it, if you're not happy tell me, it has a bit more dialogue than my usual fics, but hopefully it'll be okay. Thanks for the request!!

<3

Hurt Me and Tell Me You're Mine

summary: Summary: after Wanda closed the hex, things got complicated. Now you’re on the witches road with your mentor after not seeing her for three years, and she brought someone who you think might be your replacement (Billy.) With everyone reeling after what happened during the third trial, you try to talk to her and sort things out.

pairing: mentor!Agatha x reader

A/n: as always, more stuff at the end, this was originally supposed to be part 5 of (𝐼 𝒲𝒶𝓃𝓉) 𝒩𝑜 𝑀𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒯𝒽𝒾𝓈 but I have something else planned for that sooo. idk. it's my bday tomorrow i'm a bit chaotic. enjoy!!

The Witches Road was no place for the faint of heart. You’d learned that the hard way, first getting drenched during Jen’s trial, then almost burning to death because of a curse during Alice’s. When Teen had gotten hurt you caught a glimpse of something in Agatha’s eyes, the way she lingered for just a moment too long after everyone had already made sure he was okay. It had been three years since you’d last seen her and you wanted to sit down and talk, catch up for lack of a better, less normal word, but time didn’t seem to be on your side. And it seemed Agatha wasn’t either. You’d been her student, if that was what you could call it, and she was relentless and strict and sarcastic, but she’d taught you things about magic no other witch ever would. You were sure of it. Her view on magic was all control and precision, yet chaos and power at the same time.

It was a lot.

It was unique.

But you didn’t regret it.

You still wondered if maybe she did. She never told you. In fact, ever since you barged in to find her and this other boy around your age in her house, along with a bunch of witches you didn’t know, she kept quiet around you. So you came along. Of course it would be dangerous, like everything else she ever did, but you could handle it. You didn’t spend three years perfecting your magic best as you could to flake out at the slightest opportunity of chaos. Maybe you were like her after all. And then her trial came along. You were there with the rest of them, on Teen’s side when the others tried to turn on her, and then her mother’s ghost was there, and Agatha was pleading with them, pleading, not to leave her behind, and Alice stepped in, and--

You shook the memory out of your head. Tried to clear your thoughts. It didn’t really work, apart from giving your already minor headache a boost, but you sighed and tried to relax anyway. Being tense would get you nowhere.

It was then that you realized the rest of the coven, whoever was left-- had finally stopped arguing. You turned to see Jen and Lilia talking to Teen, all three of them sitting down, not sparing you a glance. Neither Agatha or Rio were in sight. You sighed. While you did wonder about Rio, who she was and why Agatha seemed to hate her so much, you didn’t feel up to going to look for her. You wanted to find Agatha. And with the others preoccupied, this was your chance.

So, quietly, unnoticed by anyone, you slipped away from the path and onto a little clearing, hoping that Agatha didn’t go far. You’d learned that the trial would be ahead of you whichever way you went, but that didn’t mean you were eager to wonder around such a place alone. You had just spotted something resembling a small pond, or maybe more of a swamp-- it was covered with weeds and tall, wet grass hanging from overhead branches from the trees-- when a voice made you jump.

“You never were very good at following the rules.” Agatha stepped out from a dark nook you hadn’t even noticed, a distant smirk on her face, not quite reaching her eyes, “But then again, that was part of why I liked you.”

You turned around to see her striding towards you in a slow, seemingly composed way, hands shoved in her coat pockets.

“Liked?” you murmured quietly.

She chuckled.

“I did share my very vast magical knowledge with you. Be a little grateful.”

You stayed quiet. Her smirk, which you suspected was fake, fell into something of a contemplative expression. She seemed… less sure of herself.

It unnerved you a little.

“Stray not from the path,” she went on, her voice a teasing lilt. “And yet…”

“I was looking for you.” you murmured.

“Still, it’s no excuse.” she huffed faintly, coming to a stop next to you, blue eyes fixed on the muddy pond. “We’re already down one person. You shouldn’t wander off unless you wanna be number two.”

“Three.” you said faintly.

She gave you a confused look.

“Sharon Davis?” you gestured around the air to no avail. Agatha frowned.

“Who?”

You sighed. “The gardening lady.”

Her nose scrunched, a vague scoff escaping her. “Oh. Right. Two people then. But the point still stands.”

And then--

“Why are you here?”

You stayed quiet. She frowned.

“Pet—”

“You used to call me that all the time.” you said softly. She didn’t look at you.

“Did I?”

“Yes. Now you just use my name. It’s…” What was it? Odd, unnatural, distant-- too distant.

You knew she didn’t care for you in any soft, affectionate way, of course she didn’t, but you felt like she was purposefully being vague and quiet towards you. Maybe it was the three years of not talking. Maybe she already forgot about you. What were you really? A student? How many of those she must’ve had over the years, dozens, maybe hundreds, and you were just one in the long line of Agatha Harkness wannabes, making yourself think she had it in her to become fond of you.

Maybe she did. Or so you thought. The hope you held had slowly started to die out from the moment you stepped into her basement. When you turned to look at her her head was held high, one hand running through her hair, the other somewhere along her side, half hidden by that blue coat, fingers grasping around nothing as if she was perfecting an invisible spell.

“Did you get it back?” you asked quietly blurting out your thoughts.

She paused.

You weren’t sure if she was expecting you to ask about Alice, or what happened, why it happened, but you didn’t. Selfishly enough, you were meaning to keep on track for trying to get her to talk to you. To bridge that gap that was somehow there no matter how hard you tried to follow her, agree to her ideas, watch her when she was watching someone else.

“No.” she said flatly. “Not all the way, at least.” she raised a hand, twisted her fingers, and you watched as a small cloud of warm orange light slipped around her empty palm, swirled for a moment, and then vanished into a puff of smoke.

She wasn’t looking at it. Her eyes were fixed on some distant spot, far beyond the forest.

“That’s still something.” you tried to sound optimistic. “Something’s better than nothing.”

She scoffed, shoving her hands back into her pockets.

“You always were so cheerful. I suppose you’re right, sure. But this is nothing compared to—” she paused. You could see the inner turmoil in her eyes, that quiet fury mixed with longing.

“It’s different.” she said, turning away. “If it had been someone like Wanda—”

“I tried to find her, you know.” you said quietly.

You thought she’d at least turn to look at you. She didn’t.

“And?”

“People say she’s dead. I’m...not too sure. They didn’t even find her body, but…”

Agatha huffed. “You could’ve done something useful.”

You frowned.

What? Was she serious?

“I did it for you.” you said, firmly, a little surprised, almost desperate, “I was doing it to help you—”

“Well a lot of good that did.” she sighed.

You fell silent. Hurt. You saw her gaze flick over your face, and something sharp softened in her blue eyes.

“What did you think you’d do? If you...found her.”

“I would’ve asked her to lift that- that spell. Whatever it was.”

She tilted her head.

“Why?”

Because I wanted to help. Because you’re the only person I can call family, the only one who-

You decided to be honest.

“Because I-- missed you.”

She didn’t say anything. You thought you saw her huff, lightly, glance away-- but maybe it was all in your head.

She was turned away from you, her head towards the faint chatter of the others, Teen talking to Lilia, their voices carrying through the thicket of the underbrush. You felt a wave of frustration course through you.

“Agatha.” you said.

She turned. Perfect posture, perfect teeth, sharp smile in place.

“Yes?”

And no words left you. A part of you maybe wanted to scream. To ask her why she was acting like this, so distant, so unlike her to be gloating so much, the lack of teasing little taunts murmured to you in passing. Instead she was just… quiet. Yes, she teased the others, but you? It was almost as if she was ignoring you.

“Are you going to stand there and gawk at me or are you going to speak?” she asked, enunciating every word with clear precision.

That felt more like her. Something eased inside of you, a familiarity, a warmth, at her voice saying things you were used to. Things you wouldn’t admit you so dearly missed in your time apart.

You took a breath. “Why are you so curious about him?” you blurted.

It wasn’t what you were meaning to ask, your preferred response would’ve been something like ‘can you let me in on what’s going on’ or ‘are you mad at me’ and now she was looking at you like that, like you just asked her something very funny and amusing and she looked smug. More like the Agatha you knew. It hurt a little as much as it soothed. You wondered briefly if you would die with her one day, just like this, meet your end stuck in some nevereding loop of running after the affection of someone who might not even want you anymore, not in her coven, not as her student, definitely not as a daughte--

“Oooh.” she smirked, tilting her head, “is someone feeling left out?”

You crossed your arms. Your insides were screaming yes, yes I am, why are you so interested in him, why won’t you talk to me, I was there first-

Instead you just said, “No.”

She smiled. “No? Are you sure, dear? I do know you very well, and-”

“All this time you’ve been watching him.” you said, looking down at the murky water below, “I want to know why. And it’s not just boredom, you don’t look like that at the people you’re not trying to figure out. So why him? Is it the sigil? Or what?”

Agatha sighed. “And you’ve been watching me, have you?”

You were. You were always watching her, even before, when she was your mentor officially, watching the hand movements, the way she countered spells, cast shields and blasted hexes and walked around with that impeccable, unflinching flair.

“I just wanna know why you’re so interested in him.” you murmured. “He’s just some kid, same as me, and I was here first.”

She paused, lips curving just a little bit upwards.

But she didn’t answer.

You sighed.

Looked down.

Took another breath.

“Okay, fine. Don’t tell me. Just-- why-- at least tell me why you’re acting like this? What id it, what did I do? Did I do something wrong, are you- are you mad at me?”

At that, her expression changed. It was almost imperceptible, but you caught it easily, a softer shift in her stoic exterior.

“No.” she said after a moment. Her voice was quiet. “I’m not mad at you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You felt something deep inside your heart unwind, relief flowing through your veins, a hope growing brighter-- “Then why?” you uttered, your own voice quieter too, slightly uneven despite your attempts at keeping your composure.

“Because,” she sighed finally, turning back to look at you, “you weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to come with us.”

You frowned.

“What?”

She pressed her lips together, frustrated.

“None of this was supposed to happen, toots. No trials, no—” she gestured blindly around, annoyed, “middle-of-the-woods cabins and ghosts and—” she met your eyes, “no Road.”

You paused, not following.

“What do you mean no Road?”

“The Witches Road, it doesn’t exist.” she said.

You stared at her. Blinked. Still didn’t understand.

“But-- it does. It does exist- we’re on it, right now. We’re here-- this is real.”

“Yes.” she nodded, something darker in her eyes. “It’s real. And the question is, who made it real?”

You followed her gaze over to the others. Stopped. Finally understood.

“You think he made the road?”

She waited. “I had my suspicions from the start, but now I’m sure.”

“You’re sure.” you tried to read her thoughts and came up blank. “So he’s a powerful witch, you mean. Powerful enough to make all of this? You think he made-- everything around us, right now?”

She nodded, quiet, and turned to meet your eye, voice low.

“Yes. That much power in someone so young,” you swallowed down a sting of something unfair, “it’s a precious thing. Needs to be handled carefully, or else…”

“Now you’re saying he’s precious?”

“I’m saying his power is precious, and that’s really sweet actually.”

You frowned.

“How much you seem to care what I think about him. I never took you for the jealous type, pet, but here we are.”

“I’m not—” you swallowed. “jealous.”

She chuckled. “No. Of course not. You’re just worried your dear old mentor might’ve found a new favourite student.”

“I’m your only student. And he’s not-- Agatha—”

“It’s alright, pet.” she murmured. “You know you’ll always be my favourite.”

You died there, maybe. Those were the words you needed to hear, however pathetic, however needy, they made something settle inside of you, the frustration-turned-desperation melting to relief, to ease, and more hope.

You hugged her.

She wasn’t expecting it, not at all, and made out a slightly startled oof- as you wrapped your arms around her so tight, holding on for dear life, face tucked into her coat.

“Why does everything have to be filled with sentimental nonsense when it comes to you, hm?” she asked, but you already felt her arms coming up around you, hands that pulled so much life out of others smoothing over your back in a comforting gesture. You didn’t know for sure when the tears gathered in your eyes, but before you had a chance to stop them they were falling down your cheeks, and into the mess of her curled, dark hair. You sniffled.

She let out a sigh, as if this exhausted her to the utmost level, and ran her fingers through your tangled hair.

“There, there.” she said, a little awkwardly, voice laced with exasperation. “You’re okay.”

And you nodded, because she was right, you were okay, and you were fine--

“I thought you-” your breath hitched, “you might be mad at me for- for not coming back so soon- I was trying- I t-tried—”

She exhaled softly, a thousand heavy regrets in her heart, and shook her head.

“It doesn’t matter, darling.”

“But it does,” you insisted, “it does matter, I should’ve found a way-- and instead he—”

“He isn’t my favourite, only student, and he’s not my-”

“Your what?” you made out quietly.

“He’s not my anything.” she said. “You are.”

That was enough. Enough to ease your worries once and for all, all the untrue thoughts your mind had conjured up about you in the dead of night, that she might hate you, might not want you around anymore, that she found someone better- easier to teach, better at learning-

She pulled away from you with a quiet look, her eyes on you, studying your tearful face.

“What?” you murmured shakily.

“You really care, don’t you.”

“Of course I do-”

She turned away a little, only slightly, like she was maybe unsure if you should see. Her eyes were pale as always, blue and set like cloudy weather, and she had the look of someone so composed on the outside yet hiding a storm on the inside. That was most of her life, you realized at some point while staying with her before. Always so distant, yet so much emotion raging inside. You looked into her eyes and wondered if you were seeing a glimmer of regret. What she did to Alice was a reminder of who you were dealing with, that she wasn’t some friendly, smiling witch or sleepover buddy, but you weren’t about to turn your back on her like the rest of them. Not now. Not here. You might not agree with her morals, but this was something you knew when you begged her to let you join her. You knew what you were signing up for. Witchcraft wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows and Agatha Harkness wasn’t a cold-blooded psycho, not like everyone said or thought. You knew her. Deep down, quietly and from the sidelines, but you did. You believed that and you hoped she knew that too.

You wiped your eyes, quiet and careful, and stilled when she rose one hand and swiped off the liquid on your cheek with her thumb.

And you asked what kept lingering in the back of your mind since you all left the last trial.

“Agatha?”

“Hm?”

“Why didn’t you ask me?”

She tilted her head. “Asked you what?”

“To give you my magic. Juice you up, whatever you call it. I could’ve blasted you with it.”

She stilled just slightly, an almost-smile on her lips. “And you would’ve let me?”

“If you asked me, yes.”

“How do you know I just wouldn’t kill you?” she asked.

The truth was, you didn’t. You hoped she wouldn’t, but it was all a slippery slope. You did trust her. Not just a little. Maybe too much. You definitely believed her when she spoke about being on the Witches Road before. And you would’ve let her take some of your magic too. Naively, maybe, you also believed she wouldn’t have killed you. That maybe, somehow, she would’ve stopped just on the brink, and it would leave you slumped over and heaving and panting but alive. You were so close to stepping in when Alice did it first. Would it have been different if it had been you? Would you have saved a life, or exchanged it for your own?

Beside, quietly, Agatha said, “You don’t know what it’s like, dear. All that power, surging into you, it’s like breathing air after being underwater for too long. It’s all you need to do until you feel better. Until you catch your breath. Some could survive that. Some couldn’t. But Alice never stood a chance. And neither would you.”

That stung.

“You think we’re too weak?”

But Agatha shook her head, the look in her eyes almost remorseful. “No. Not that. But it was three long years. Anyone to blast me with even a spark of it was guaranteed to…” she stopped. “It’s not an easy thing, this.” she said, quietly. “Most days I love it. It’s saved me more times than I can count. But it’s not always the easiest to control. Do you think you could make yourself stop breathing the second you took that first breath of air after being down for so long? For three years?I’m glad it wasn’t you.” she said, and you were surprised to her the firm conviction of her tone, “I’m not glad it was her, but I’m glad it wasn’t you. I don’t know what I would’ve done if—”

She didn’t finish her sentence. There was a gentleness in her gaze you oh so missed, that soft look she gave you after saying something far too soft and indulging you in it. Her hand gently fixed your hair, tucking away a strand gently behind your ear.

And you didn’t know what to say so you just stood there, looking at her, feeling like you might cry all over again.

“So we’re on the same team?” you murmured. “Not like, the coven, them, and you and me. I just mean, us.”

She smiled. A fragile, uncertain smile, but it was there. Guarded. Healing. Safe.

“You and me.” she said back, “I promise, kid.”

For a brief moment, neither of you said anything. You felt the moment settle. Dissolve.

“We should probably get back to the others.” she said. “The sooner we finish this thing the sooner we can get home.”

Home? You turned to look at her, but she was already strolling away, posture poised, head up, back straight, that blue coat flapping behind her like a loyal apprentice, instead of you. You watched her for a moment, walking with her back to you, no doubt rather unwelcome now with the rest of the group.

You couldn’t blame them.

But you shoved your own guilt over it down. Perhaps they’d hate you for it, but you’d stay on her side. Just like before, just like always. There were times when even people like Agatha needed someone in their corner, and you swore to yourself you’d stay though the worst of it, where so many others turned their backs on her and left.

And so, with a purposeful stride in your step, you turned away from the lake and followed her back to the others. There was another adventure to come.

A/n: this wasn't proofread, i'm sorry. title is from Diet Mountain Dew (The Flight Demo) by Lana Del Ray. send me your thoughts on agatha or anything else, I love to talk with yall!!! I had a lot of college exams these last few days and tomorrow I'll be 21 (I literally do not feel old enough) but life goes on and what can you do. Thank you for reading and I hope you're all good and have a wonderful day!

Taglist 💜 @milflovers4 @senhorita-girassol @dandelions4us @kaymariesworld @ahintofchaos @atlasimagines

[slaytheusurper]

⭑ When in Rome ⭑ (Domina Mea, Chapter One)

Masterlist

Chapter Warnings: Death (gladiator fight)

Summary: After years you returned to Rome to visit your father, General Marcus Acacius, to celebrate his recent victory. However, when the Emperors Caracalla and Geta get you in their sights, they will not let you go so easily.

Word count: 3.3k

Your fathers victory stretched far and wide, as did the people's love for him. This provided you with an opportunity, a chance to leave one of your fathers estate’s and visit him in Rome after all these years. You were fairly young when your mother died of the horrible antonine plague. It had struck many and even your noble family was not safe. 

It took years for your father to overcome his grief, little by little he started to show pieces of his old self again. And it was Lucilla ‘the mother of Rome’ who fully healed him, you hadn’t spent that much time with her but you knew she was a good woman. You were happy for your father even though after your mothers death he had sent you away for your own safety.

The Aurelian Estate was grand and well protected, it was lonely too. Your mothers death left a gaping hole in your heart, and with your father being the general, he was needed elsewhere. The estate had made you grow bored and even though Rome was still unsafe with the twin emperors in power, you longed to see your father.

Knowing well he would refuse your visit, you lied to the household guard. You informed them how you were to visit your father and attend the games with him at the colosseum, all to celebrate his victory in Numidia. They were hesitant as they had not received orders from the general himself, but agreed after your promises. 

The road to Rome was long but durable, the stench of the city came closer and it made your face contort in disgust. Beggars were divided on each side of the road you were travelling and it made you uneasy. Your father had told you many times why Rome was grand but fragile as well, it was ridden with disease and plots, as well as two emperors who were as unpredictable as they were mad. 

Still, it intrigued you, the last time you were in Rome, you were young and you barely remembered it. The walls of the Aurelian Estate being carved into your mind deeper, while Rome eroded. One of your servants handed you a cloth on which she had poured some lavender oil, she gestured to hold it to your nose. 

You thanked her and glanced out of the carriage again to notice the Capitoline wolf upon the gate of Rome. Your fathers voice echoed through your mind upon recalling the legend that was behind the statue. Soon after passing it, Praetorian guards halted the carriage, demanding to know who you were.

When your name left the lips of Edas, your personal guard, the Praetorian muttered an apology and barked around to make way for the carriage. You had almost forgotten how respected your father was and kept in mind how useful it could be, being his daughter. 

You had, however, not thought about what your father would say or do upon your sudden arrival. It was safe to say he was not pleased that you lied to the household guard and travelled all the way to the most dangerous city without his knowledge. Lucilla however was a bit more enthusiastic, giving you a warm welcome. 

Standing in the inner courtyard of their estate in Rome was like a dream, even though you were born there, it didn’t seem real to you. To be back after all these years. Lucilla guided you to a table where fruit and wine was spread out, while your father continued lecturing you. 

“You know how many times I have warned you of this place, it is not safe! Especially not now these mad-” Marcus stopped himself when he noticed one of the servants being a little too interested in what he was about to say next. 

“You should not have come.” He said now calmer. “Father, I have not seen you in three years. How could you blame me for seeking you out? I miss you.” His expression softened at your words, Lucilla gave your hand a squeeze on the table and smiled at you. “She will be safe here, with me. Nobody would dare lay a hand on my daughter.” 

It was still a bit weird to hear her say that, but you had gotten more used to it a long time ago. You returned her smile and your father seemed to come to terms with your arrival. “I- I’m just afraid of losing my only child, it’s safer for you outside of Rome, protected by thick estate walls and our own men.” 

Lucilla offered him a sympathetic smile, understanding all too well after having lost her own son. “She is here now, safe in our estate. If she stays here, nothing will happen to her.” Marcus gave in and let one of the servants show you to a guest bed chamber. After your servants had unpacked your belongings, you finally got to get some rest.

The next morning you woke up feeling happier than you had in a long time. The dangers of Rome did not seem too much of a concern to you. No, being reunited with your father was what you needed to regain your spirit. 

Lucilla made you realise how much you missed your mother but she made sure you had a maternal figure in her, as she showed you the whole of the estate the next day. You shared stories, meals and laughs with her as you regained your energy from your travels, when evening fell, that peace was shattered. 

A messenger came, announcing during supper how Marcus was commanded to be present at the games in the colosseum on the morrow, alongside his wife… and child. Your father was furious, abandoning his food to isolate himself with his anger. How did the emperors find out you were in Rome?

You had only been ‘home’ for two days, nobody except for the household guard and your fathers own men knew you were here. In truth you were excited to see the colosseum and witness the well loved gladiator battles. “I do not understand how they know, and why they want you there. Oh sweet child, it is not entertainment for a young lady such as yourself.” Lucilla expressed.

You wondered why it was so bad for you to go, of course you knew of the stories surrounding the two ‘mad’ emperors but you were sure that with your fathers station they would not harm you. Your title as step-daughter of a princess and daughter of a loved general made you already liked by the people, you were untouchable, right? 

Sleep evaded you that night, you were excited yet afraid. What Lucilla said haunted you, were gladiator battles really that gruesome? And she was right, why did the emperors want you there? Lucilla told you it was probably in retribution of your fathers ‘rude’ request of taking leave to see his family, but how would they know your father didn’t want you there? 

You were awake early, only having caught some hours of sleep. And so you had already eaten and bathed before your parents were ready. When Marcus and Lucilla at last emerged to leave, the dreadful ride to the colosseum began. Your father didn’t speak a word the entire way. You knew exactly what he was thinking, that it was your fault, if you hadn’t come, you wouldn't be about to be face to face with the sick men that ruled Rome. 

Upon your arrival at the colosseum, your father left the carriage first, helping Lucilla out before he helped you. The ginormous building was riddled with praetorians and onlookers, to your surprise they not only chanted your fathers name but also yours and Lucilla’s. The grand entrance took your breath away, before you were grounded when your father pulled you towards him.

You hadn’t even noticed the man that had walked up to your father and Lucilla. “Daughter, you were asked a question.” Marcus said. The man in front of you looked at you expectantly, he almost looked royal himself, although you did not recognise him at all. “Forgive me, I was distracted by the grandeur of the colosseum, it has been so long since I’ve been in Rome.” 

“Do not worry Lady, I do not fault you. I merely wished to know how your travel had been, no complications I hope?” You shook your head. “No, it was fairly smooth. I am sorry, what was your name?” The man smiled at you and took your hand before kissing the back of it. “Macrinus my lady. Again, no need for apologies.” 

You felt Lucilla’s hand on your back and you were suddenly grateful for her presence, the man seemed kind but your intuition was telling you otherwise. “Thank you, Macrinus, for your warm welcome.” He gave you yet another smile. “Shall I escort you to your seats? The emperors are already there, I’ve heard they are- eager to meet your daughter General.” 

Your fathers lips thinned at Macrinus’ words but before he could snap back the man gestured you to follow him, Lucilla’s hand never left your back, your father keeping a fierce grip around your shoulder. Macrinus led you through the guarded halls and stairs of the colosseum until you noticed the light atop the last staircase. 

It was the emperor's box, nerves suddenly overcame you but you felt the reassuring and protecting grip of your father on your shoulder. As you reached the top, Macrinus greeted the emperors before moving out of the way, so you were face to face with them. 

Your father greeted them first. “Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla.” He said as he bowed, letting go of you for but a short moment before his protective grip returned. However the emperors barely paid attention to him or Lucilla as their eyes burned into yours. 

You were speechless for a moment before Lucilla placed her hand on your lower back, recentering you. “Your Majesties.” You spoke while curtsying. Everyone had always spoken of their madness, their ruthlessness, but no one told you of their beauty. You were taken aback by how handsome they were, though they had a mad look in their eye.

Emperor Geta spoke first. “General, you have quite the beauty at your side. Where have you kept her all these years?” You almost winced as your fathers grip tightened. “After Aurelia’s death, I sent her to a safe estate that was built in honor of her mothers memory. Rome was such a dangerous place to be at the time, your Majesty.” Geta hummed in response and Caracalla simply laughed.

“Mm, of course, what a delight that she has come to visit you then. No doubt wanting to join the celebrations, am I right Lady?” Caracalla spoke, both their voices made your heart thump louder in your chest. “Yes Caesar, that is right.” You answered respectfully, lowering your gaze. 

“Tell me, have you ever witnessed a gladiator battle before Lady?” Geta then asked. “No your Majesty, I have not.” He smiled at your answer and you were relieved that you seemed to please them so far. No one could tell what they would do if you failed. It was then that a tiny monkey appeared on Caracalla’s shoulder, holding on to his hair. 

You smiled brightly at the sight, never had you seen an excotic creature like that before. The only ‘creatures’ at your estate were horses, hounds and birds. Caracalla noticed your sudden change in demeanor. “Have you also never ‘witnessed’ a monkey before Lady?” Your cheeks burned red at his words, they must think you were stupid with how they spoke.

“No, your Majesty.” Caracalla giggled at that and guided the monkey into his arms. Geta’s piercing gaze never left you as Caracalla came closer. It was only then you noticed the weird scratches on his face. “Would you like to meet Dondas?” He giggled. “It would be an honor Caesar.” Your father reluctantly let go of you, as did Lucilla.

You caught Macrinus watching in the corner of your eye. Caracalla then led Dondas into your arms, you couldn’t help the big smile on your lips as the monkey made some adorable noises before holding onto the expensive fabric of your toga. Dondas inspected your necklace for a bit before he climbed around your shoulders and back into the Emperor's arms. 

“He likes you!” Caracalla exclaimed excitedly, followed by a fit of giggles you already secretly found adorable. You smiled at him. “Well I like him too your Majesty, you have a very sweet monkey.” He grinned widely and his golden tooth met your eyes, why did it suit him so well? 

“Since you have never witnessed a battle such as this before, Lady, why don’t you sit at the front, with us?” Geta spoke, although he rather commanded it then asked. You looked to your side at your father, who tried not to show his fury, Lucilla looked down. It seemed you had no choice, even though that did not bother you as much as it probably should.

“Of course Caesar, how thoughtful of you, thank you.” You answered politely, and relief washed over you once more when he smiled brightly. He commanded servants to move one of the large luxurious chairs to the front, between the thrones of the emperors. Then he gave the signal that the speaker could announce their arrival and that of your father.

“Emperor Caracalla! Emperor Geta! Citizens of Rome!” The speaker's voice echoed through the colosseum as the emperors now stood all the way up front of the box, in clear view of the audience. “These sacred games are in honor of General Acacius’ victory in Numidia!” Loud cheers and applause came from the audience. 

“Acacius.” “General.” The twins gestured for your father to join them so the citizens could see him. He raised his hand and loud cheers filled your ears once more. “Speak to them.” You could faintly hear Geta say. Your fathers words faded in your mind as you took in the colosseum. 

When he returned to go to his seat, he gave your shoulder a loving squeeze before taking his place. Lucilla was then announced and she too was welcomed with a loud applause and cheers from the crowd. Then both the emperors gestured for you to come forward, as you stood between them, the speaker's loud voice boomed through the colosseum again. 

“In attendance today is the beloved daughter of General Acacius himself!” Your brows furrowed as people chanted your name. It confused you, they did not know you. Nor had you conquered lands or won battles like your father. It showed you how much your parentage could mean. 

Lucilla had already taken her seat and after you too had raised your hand to the crowd, you took your seat just like the emperors on either side. The speaker then announced the gladiators, the slaves from Numidia, before announcing the gladiator of Geta and Caracalla themselves. 

The gladiators had taken their place in the low arena of the colosseum before a giant gate opened. Your mouth parted at the sight, an animal you had never seen before with the gladiator standing on his back entered the arena. You didn’t even notice both the emperors grinning at your reaction. Neither did you notice the sharp gaze of your father.

You leaned forward a bit and watched as the big animal came closer. It then stopped before the gladiator greeted the emperors. “Heil Caesars!” He roared, his low voice sent a shiver down your spine, he looked terrifying and you couldn’t help but feel bad for the ‘slaves’ from Numidia. 

Geta and Caracalla raised their hands in response before their gladiator made his first charge, the arena beneath you seemed to shake with the animal's heavy strides. The gladiators jumped out of the way at the last moment, except for one, who was launched into a nearby pillar and died upon impact. 

Your eyes widened at the scene, you were slightly frightened but also intrigued. Maybe you understand now why people like the games. Both Geta and Caracalla clapped beside you, feeling victorious through their warrior. You were on the edge of your seat as you watched how the large animal and its rider turned back around.

One of the gladiators caught your attention as he stuck his sword in the ground before clasping his hands together to cup some sand. He then waited for the animal to charge, let it come closer, before releasing the sand into the air, creating a dust cloud. When it seemed he would get hit by the animal's large horn, he jumped out of the way, causing the animal to crash into the wall. 

The audience as well as the emperors jumped from their seat, the animal was injured badly and the gladiator had been launched from his seat. You joined the emperors to see how the gladiator got up to fight the slave from Numidia. 

It only took a little while before the gladiator had taken the sword from the Numidian and already raised his arms to excite the crowd. You moved back to your seat before Geta spoke. “Brother, it’s that poet is it not?” You had no idea what Geta was talking about. “I can’t remember, that night was a blur.” Caracalla responded before taking his seat as well. 

“The gates of hell… are… open night and day- smooth- I forget-” Your brows furrowed, you knew that poem, Lucilla had once read it to you the night after their wedding, as she wanted to bond with her new daughter. “Smooth is the descent, easy is the way.” You answered. 

Geta looked at you and seemed pleased, thank the gods. The slave had gotten up again in the meantime and fought back against the gladiator with a shield, they fought back and forth until the gladiator had picked up the Numidian and launched him over his shoulder, causing his back to collide hard with the ground. 

The gladiator pointed his sword and looked up expectantly at Geta, the crowd chanted ‘mercy’. It seemed the emperors got to make the decision on who eventually got killed in the arena. Geta looked at Caracalla who almost immediately said ‘blood’. “My Lady, shall we show mercy?” You did not expect Geta to ask your opinion.

You did not want the poor Numidian to die at your hands. “Mercy.” You nodded, Geta smiled before turning to the crowd to raise his hand. While lowering it he balled it into a fist with his thumb out, before pointing it up. “No mercy!” The Numidian yelled. “Your life has been spared by the gods-” 

“I would rather face your blade than accept Roman mercy!” You almost cringed at his words, he was clearly stupid to ignore such a presence as Emperor Geta. He then rolled over to grab a blade from the sand before launching it into the gladiator's chest. It was then he looked at the emperors expectantly instead, to which Geta gave the crowd what they wanted by pointing his thumb down.

The Numidian slave then beheaded the gladiator, leaving the emperor's champion defeated. Caracalla stood and clapped his hands loudly while Geta, on the other hand, stormed out. You turned in your seat to look at your father, who gestured that it was time to go. You stood, and curtseyed to Emperor Caracalla, “Your Majesty.” He gave you a nod, and you joined your father and Lucilla towards the exit.  

When you had gotten back to the estate, your father retired to his rooms, not saying a word the entire way back either. You were relaxing in the garden with Lucilla, when that man, Macrinus, from the colosseum arrived. To your disappointment Lucilla requested you take a bath after all that happened and you left the two alone. The whole time you were bathing you couldn’t get the emperors out of your mind, neither the man that had won that day.

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: Your attempt to surprise Astarion with a thoughtful gift goes awry when his innate curiosity and suspicion lead him, again and again, to the wrong conclusions ... [Astarion x Tav/Reader]

Genres: Romance, humour, fluff, angst.

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics

(Hello Readers, I'm a little under the weather and needed to write some tooth-rotting fluff and humour, as always).

"What are you three mumbling about?"

Straightening sharply, you shot your companions a warning look. Gale scratched his ear awkwardly while Shadowheart, bless her soul, stared down her nose at Astarion, supremely unconcerned.

You cleared your throat.

"Nothing important, Astarion. We've got everything we need for now. Let's head back to camp."

He didn't question you further, but you had definitely aroused his curiosity, if not his suspicion.

You could sense it in the way his gaze traveled rapidly between the three of you as you made your way back, as if he'd catch any stray motion or gesture that might give away your hidden purpose.

That evening, as you replenished your quiver of arrows and checked your stock of potions, Astarion approached and settled on one of your cushions, lounging casually.

He did this every so often, when the fancy took him, or when he wanted to have a conversation, but something about the wary glint in his eye told you exactly what was on his mind.

Oh dear.

As much as you'd had plenty of practice deflecting questions over time, going up against the master of deception himself was somewhat daunting.

You granted him your most disarming smile and attempted a distraction.

"Do you want to drink from me tonight?"

He cocked his head, the curve of his lips familiar, dangerous.

"Of course, darling. But you know ... "

He leaned forward, watching you intently.

"I couldn't help but notice the conversation  you had with Gale and Shadowheart earlier. Why can't you tell me what it's all about? I'm closest to you, aren't I? We've shared so many things ... nights, bedrolls, blood ... so why not this one little thing?"

You sighed and straightened.

You should have known it would play on his mind like this. It wasn't entirely fair to him either. In spite of his guarded demeanour, all shielded smiles and barbed words, he was somewhat vulnerable when it came to you and your slowly budding relationship.

"Look, I really can't tell you because ... well, it's a surprise."

He looked taken aback.

"A surprise? I don't much care for surprises."

"This one is harmless, I assure you. And it's worth waiting for. You will find out soon enough."

He hummed and tutted, still looking rather put out.

"And you trusted Gale and Shadowheart with your surprise, and not me? I'm rather hurt."

His tone was playful, but you could see that his curiosity had not been dispelled.

Over the next few days, he was far more watchful than usual. It was actually rather endearing, at times. He seemed to be on the lookout for what the elusive 'surprise' could be and grew rather moody when he kept getting it wrong.

First, there was the incident with the chocolatier. You'd come across the newly opened store in the city and the smell coming from within had been far too appetising to ignore. When you'd tugged Astarion's sleeve and gestured to the door, he'd been on instant alert.

Following you into the shop, he'd glanced around uncertainly, until the eagle-eyed chocolatier had suggested, with twirl of his magnificent mustache, that he also dealt in 'custom-made delicacies' with 'special fillings' for his 'nocturnal customers'.

You'd immediately purchased some of these for Astarion, and others for those at camp, and happily made your way out of the store.

On the road back, Astarion was staring quietly, from time to time, at the small package in his hand. You bumped his shoulder gently with yours.

"Oh, go on. Try one. They must be delicious."

He shook himself out of his reverie and offered you a slightly brittle smile, fingers curling around the chocolates as if they were something far more precious.

"Oh. Well, I thought I'd save these for later, you know. We could ... sit together in your tent and have some wine. And eat these. I ... do appreciate your little surprise, you know."

You stopped dead in the road, eyes widening.

"Wait. Astarion ... this is not the surprise I had in mind."

He froze.

"What?"

"This is... not the surprise. I just wanted to treat you to something."

His gaze slid away from yours, mouth working in what looked like embarrassment. You took mercy on him and leaned forward, kissing him lightly on the cheek, then at the corner of his lips. He turned back to you slowly, regaining some semblance of composure.

"We can still have them in your tent later?"

You grinned.

"Naturally."

The second time he'd made an incorrect guess occurred on one evening, when he'd come to your tent for replenishment.

You'd lain back on the cushions which he'd arranged more comfortably under your head and neck, before tilting your gaze upward, ready to descend into a deep sleep after he'd had his fill of your blood.

Astarion hovered over you, taking you in. You reached up and stroked a finger down his cheek, smiling, assuring him that he could go ahead.

Truth be told, you were a little excited for him to drink from you tonight. Earlier, Jaheira had informed you of a specific exotic fruit, the unique sugars of which persisted in the bloodstream for some time after consumption. You'd tracked down that particular fruit in the market, consuming it as soon as possible under Jaheira's knowing glance.

You wondered whether Astarion would be able to distinguish the flavour. This thought was also accompanied by a healthy dose of nerves.

What if he hated it?

It was rather late to have second thoughts, however, as Astarion was already leaning over you, fangs tracing the side of your throat. He grazed over your skin gently, as was his habit, before locating your pulse point and sinking in. The delicate pressure, the icy slide of teeth into flesh, the sudden warmth of your blood exiting the wound, all familiar sensations.

Thus far, nothing out of the ordinary.

Until a few moments later, when Astarion's eyes shot open and he separated from you with a small exclamation.

Before you had a chance to question what had caused the interruption, he was at your neck again, lapping eagerly, then leaning back, tracing his tongue over his fangs. His eyes met yours, surprise and pleasure building to something far more heated.

"Darling, what have you eaten today?"

You couldn't help the laugh that burst from you.

"So you can taste it. It's a ... specific type of fruit that Jaheira mentioned to me."

You lowered your eyelids coyly at him, for once, the one playing the hook.

"So, what do you think of the flavour?"

He crawled up over you once more, peppering soft, wet kisses from your chest up to the base of your neck, moaning in delight.

"Nothing beats your natural flavour, my sweet, but this ... this adds a touch of honey that's just ... delectable."

His voice was now a full throated purr, and you struggled to contain your small huffs of amusement as he nuzzled into you, clearly very enamoured of your choice to treat him today.

Once he'd drunk his fill, he remained above you, eyeing you with ill-concealed passion.

"So this was your great surprise. I have to thank you for that. That particular fruit is ... rather hard to get hold of."

You raised an eyebrow, looping your arms around his neck.

"Astarion ... that's not my surprise for you."

"No? Are you serious?"

"As serious as I can get."

He let out a sharp breath of consternation, his mouth pulling into a decidedly sour line. He was wrong, yet again. It didn't stop him from licking the trace of sweetened blood from the corner of his lips, though.

The third time, he'd been slightly more wary, but sure of himself all the same. It all started when he'd been wounded during battle; an anomaly.

Somewhere in the rush and confusion, amidst the casting of an unwanted daylight spell, his position in the shadows had been revealed and the enemy had suddenly focused their attention on the swift, vampiric damage-dealer who'd been firing devastating bolts of poison and flame from his hiding place.

Karlach had carried him back to camp in a poor state and you'd been half out of your mind with worry, dosing him with powerful healing potions at the battle site and monitoring his wounds afterwards.

Eventually, Astarion had fallen into a fitful doze within the safety of his tent. You remained at his side for a while, watching his brows furrow at intervals, spectres pursuing him across a haunted dreamscape.

Normally, Astarion came to your tent to feed, so as not to disturb your sleep, or to ensure that you had a comfortable space to rest afterwards. You'd seldom had occasion to enter his little sanctuary.

Looking around, you felt a quiet surge of tenderness, taking in the various mismatched items of worn luxury, the cracked mirror, the bloodstained vessels, the ratty, threadbare blanket draped over his form.

Rising slowly, you made your way back to your own tent. Rooting among the items put away in your trunk, you drew out a warmer quilted throw, one you'd stitched together in preparation for cooler weather.

Right now, Astarion needed it more than you did. You had the materials to fashion another for yourself.

Returning, you took your time easing the old blanket from his slumbering form, pausing as his ears twitched and he rolled over. You pulled the quilt softly over him, tucking it in just beneath his chin. He sighed and curled up beneath it, the slight tremors that wracked his body somewhat easing.

You remained, watching his tousled mop of curls with a fond smile, before the weight of your own exhaustion  forced you back to your bedroll for the night.

The next morning, he appeared at breakfast, looking much better and rather smug. Peering over his shoulder, you noted that the new quilt had been folded neatly, displayed proudly on top of his bedroll.

A sudden thought struck you.

Oh no. Did he -

"Darling, there you are."

He sauntered over and seated himself on the log beside you, a certain stiffness to his normally fluid gait the only indicator of yesterday's injuries.

"I slept exceptionally well beneath the wonderful new blanket that somehow found its way into my tent. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

You took a sip of your tea, eyeing him carefully over the rim of your cup.

"Yes, the blanket is now yours. And it's from me."

"Ha! I knew it. Had your scent all over it."

He crossed his legs, looking rather pleased with himself.

"Well, I've got to hand it to you. That's a surprise I definitely wouldn't have seen coming."

A few paces away Gale coughed and busied himself with the porridge while Shadowheart shot you a smirk. You set down your cup of tea.

"Ah, about that - "

Astarion leapt to his feet.

"No. It can't be."

"That's not your - "

"Not even the blanket? I'm wrong again?"

"No, not the blanket either. It's ... not your surprise."

He was opening and closing his mouth, at a loss for words, hands flapping outward in pure bewilderment.

"Hells, are you just ... doing nice things for me all the time? Why? What's the surprise? How can it not be any of those things? Not the chocolates? Not the fruit? And not the blanket either?"

Heat coursed up your neck as you gazed at him defensively.

"Well, of course I do nice things for no good reason! I just ... want to do them. Because I care about you!"

Astarion's hands found their way to his hips and he sputtered.

"Well, all right, fine! I ... I love when you do those things, but - "

"Gods, this is almost nauseatingly sweet," came Shadowheart's mutter from across the campfire.

Gale cut in, voice measured.

"The actual surprise will be here tomorrow, if that helps put you out of your state of suspense."

You groaned.

"Gale - "

"This is Astarion we're talking about. He doesn't much like surprises anyway. So, just hold onto that thought. Along with every scrap of patience you possess."

Astarion was frowning across as Gale, arms folded.

"Oh, stuff your condescending tone in the goblin latrine, Gale. I was simply curious. It's my nature. It isn't a crime, you know."

Shadowheart's eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline.

You sighed and waved a hand.

"Well, what's done is done. I've got to ... go into town to see to a few matters. I'll be back later."

"Then I'll tag along, darling."

"No, you won't," came the firm rejoinder from Gale. "Just stay put or I'll cast a binding spell on you."

As you left the camp, you were fully aware of Astarion's eyes tracking you. You knew that he wanted to apologise in his own fashion, but that could wait for later. You had a delivery to attend to.

Astarion feigned nonchalance the next morning, but he wasn't fooling anyone. He lounged, of course, taking his time brushing out his hair, sharpening his numerous knives and checking his stock of poisons.

Amusement filtered into your thoughts. He was really trying to be on his best behaviour, considering that the real surprise was arriving today. From the amount of time needed to prepare, he had obviously deduced that your gift to him had taken some effort to procure.

The distant trundle of a wagon's wheels reached your ears and you put down the pack you were arranging. Astarion sprang to his feet, expression alert, while the rest of the camp gathered round.

When the covered wagon arrived, the yellow-clad driver, a boy barely out of his teens, hopped down and offered a smart greeting.

"Greetings, saer. I have here your delivery from merchant Boney, situated at the Circus of the Last Days. Please inspect the item to see that it is all intact."

You could sense Astarion's confusion growing by the minute. Stepping forward, you lifted the flap over the precious cargo before nodding to the driver.

"All seems to be in order."

"Then may I have your mark here, on this paper, to confirm delivery?"

"Of course."

Karlach rubbed her hands together with anticipation and stepped forward, beckoning to Lae'zel.

"Come on. This one's going to need some heavy lifting, know what I mean?"

Together, they brought the large object down, still in its hide covering, and set it in a fairly central area of the camp, in full view of Astarion's tent.

As you all crowded around, he planted himself front and centre, his anticipation now palpable even as he remained silent amongst the chatter of the others. You made your way over to him, gently winding your fingers through his. He turned to you and you gave a playful grimace.

"I suppose it isn't much of a surprise any longer, but it's here, and that's what matters."

Astarion's hand clenched around yours. You knew his tells well enough by now to see that the size of the 'gift' had filled him with a sense of trepidation.

"Darling, you've always had a flair for the ridiculous."

Offering the steady warmth of your knowing smile, you nodded to Gale who conjured the workings of a mage hand to draw away the covering.

It was a statue of Astarion, posed in all his rakish glory, hands slightly raised, a dashing smile on his face, the elegance of Facemaker's finest clothing carved in remarkable likeness over his form. His twin blades jutted over each shoulder, the scabbards etched out in beautiful tracery. Everything down to the delicate points of his ears had been lovingly fashioned under your careful direction.

There was a momentary silence over the camp, before Karlach whistled, Wyll whooped and Halsin's large hand came down hard on Astarion's back.

"Would you look at that! A most amazing likeness. As nature intended."

"Three cheers for Fangs!"

"Well, he certainly has more presence when he's carved in stone."

"For once, I agree. A lot less ... runty."

"Boo would like to sit on the immense shoulders of puny Astarion! The best perch in the camp!"

Through all this, Astarion had remained silent. He stood stock still, eyes drinking in the sight of his own countenance, rendered through your own vision of him, through dozens of hours when you'd sat beside the slowly forming sculpture, correcting, guiding, providing your own input in the form of hastily drawn sketches of all the parts of him you knew so well.

You watched him, his earlier nerves now transferring to you.

Had you done well enough? Was the likeness anywhere near enough to capture everything he was?

Some powerful emotion, barely held in check was burning its way through, coiling under his skin, palpable in the now convulsive clench of his hand around yours. He turned to you again, and his eyes glistened, yet held their unshed burden in check.

The sounds of the camp, and your companions, receded somewhat as he spoke, ever so softly.

"I asked you, once, what you saw when you looked at me. You told me ... back then, but I didn't really understand. How could I? I haven't seen this face in over a hundred years."

He paused and tugged you closer, burying his face in the side of your neck. You knew what the words cost him, the underlying truth to their spoken power, as bright as flame conjured on an icy mountaintop.

"I ... do see it now. Everything you wanted to show me. I see it."

You rested your head on top of his, the tangle of curls brushing your cheek softly. 

It wasn't a surprise then, not in nature, but in execution, oh yes.

From that day on, Astarion the Sensuous stood proud in your camp, surrounded by light, merriment, comfort through days of darkness, the ebb and flow of friendly banter, the scamper of Scratch around his plinth and the occasional hat or cape draped around him for the sake of jest.

Through his stony eyes, the life of his counterpart unfolded, delicate as a night orchid, embroidered with all the golden threads of new possibility.