#it's been so hard to get out of my own head lately

[gf2bellamy]

surprise — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: garcia and derek go into spencer's apartment, while you're sleeping in his bed. the problem? no one knows you and spencer are dating content warnings: secret relationship , reader also works in the bau a/n: hiii !!! i'm back to my secret relationship roots and i hope you like this <3 bc i had so much fun writing this ( i've been writing it for ages and i'm finally happy with it)

"No, no," Spencer shook his head frantically, his voice almost pleading as Derek expertly maneuvered the car into the parking spot at his apartment complex.

"Why not?" Garcia's voice was full of curiosity as she looked back at Spencer from the passenger seat.

The trio had spent the whole afternoon shopping for your birthday, which was just around the corner. Garcia, as usual, had already gotten everything ready—gifts, decorations, the whole nine yards. She even had a closet near her office packed with presents for you, waiting for the big reveal at the surprise party she was planning to throw at the BAU.

The whole mission was meant to be a fun, collaborative effort, the three of them picking out something special for you to celebrate.

But now, as Derek parked the car and they were all about to get out, Garcia’s sudden idea was making Spencer break into a cold sweat.

"I mean, we can just hang out at your place for a bit, right?" Garcia asked, her tone more like a suggestion than a question. She had already unbuckled her seatbelt, clearly excited about the idea.

Spencer swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the seatbelt.

"I don’t know if that’s such a good idea," he said quickly, trying to sound casual, though the nerves were practically radiating off of him.

"I have… stuff to do." His words stumbled, but Derek caught on immediately.

"You've got a date or something?" Derek teased, raising an eyebrow. "Come on, Reid, live a little."

Spencer’s face turned a light shade of pink, but he quickly deflected with a nervous laugh. "No, no date," he replied, but the nervous energy in his tone was giving him away. "I just—uh—need to get inside."

Garcia didn't miss a beat. "Come on, Spencer," she insisted with that gleam of excitement in her eyes. "It’s been forever since we just hung out at your place. You know, a little downtime."

But Spencer’s mind was racing, heart pounding.

The last thing he needed was for Derek and Garcia to come upstairs and see you there.

He knew you were in his apartment right now, sound asleep in his bed, curled up in one of his sweaters. This morning, you had practically melted into him that morning, clinging to him as he reluctantly told you he had to go.

You had been so warm, your face tucked into the side of his neck, holding him like you didn’t want him to leave. He’d rubbed soothing circles on your back, whispering that he’d be back soon, but you hadn't been ready to let go. Eventually, he had managed to peel himself away, promising to return as quickly as possible.

Now, his heart pounded as he watched Derek and Garcia hop out of the car without hesitation.

"No, no, no—" Spencer muttered under his breath, scrambling to open his own door. He practically stumbled out, rushing after them, but they were already making their way toward his apartment building.

They didn’t even wait for him.

"Of course," he thought bitterly as he hurried behind them. He knew he was too late. There was no way he could stop them now. His only hope was that you were still asleep.

And there was a high chance that you were.

Spencer knew your sleep schedule well—knew exactly how you curled up beneath his sheets, how deep you slept when wrapped in one of his sweaters. If he could just get inside before them and shut his bedroom door, everything would be fine.

As they reached the top floor, Spencer’s fingers fumbled in his pocket for his keys. His hands were practically shaking as he yanked them out, quickly jamming the correct one into the lock.

Slowly, he pushed the door open just a crack, peeking inside, praying you weren’t—

"Dr. Reid. What are you doing?" Garcia’s voice was laced with amusement as she leaned against the doorframe, watching him with a smirk.

Before Spencer could stop her, she pushed the door open wider, stepping inside.

Panic surged through him. His breath caught in his throat.

But—

You were nowhere to be seen.

His eyes darted toward the bedroom door. It was closed.

No sign of you.

Spencer swallowed hard, trying to compose himself as Garcia and Derek strolled inside, completely oblivious to the absolute terror he had just experienced.

Spencer quickly shut the door behind them, tossing his jacket over the nearest chair—something he never did. Normally, he was meticulous about hanging it up properly, but right now, his priority was making sure nothing seemed off.

Slipping off his shoes, he warily watched as Garcia and Derek made a beeline for his kitchen.

As they rummaged through his cabinets, Spencer seized the opportunity.

He darted down the hallway toward the bedroom, his socked feet barely making a sound on the hardwood floor. He cracked the door open just enough to peek inside, and there you were, still fast asleep, curled up under the blankets with his sweater draped loosely over your shoulders.

The sight made his chest tighten with affection, and a small, involuntary smile tugged at his lips.

He closed the door gently, careful not to make a sound, and hurried back to the kitchen before they could notice his absence.

Crisis averted.

He stopped in his tracks, however, when he saw the disaster unfolding before him.

“What are you doing?” Spencer asked, exasperated, watching as Derek and Garcia rummaged through his cabinets like raccoons.

Garcia, mid-bite into a granola bar, waved a hand dismissively. “Relax, genius, we’re just looking for snacks. By the way—” she held up the granola bar with a raised brow, “—I thought you hated these?”

Spencer froze.

He did. He never ate those granola bars.

But you did.

You loved them, so he always kept some stocked just for you.

He scrambled for an excuse, clearing his throat. “Uh—I just wanted to give them another try,” he mumbled, avoiding Garcia’s sharp, suspicious gaze.

Derek, now chewing a piece of toast, barely looked up. “Yeah, okay,” he said, mouth full.

Spencer shot him an unamused glare. “Can the two of you stop eating my food?”

“No,” Derek replied, taking another bite, completely unbothered. 

Spencer sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You know, most people ask before raiding someone’s kitchen,” he muttered, though there was no real bite to his words. 

Garcia giggled, popping the last bite of granola bar into her mouth. “Oh, come on, Spence. You love us. Besides, you’re acting super weird today. What’s going on with you?” 

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, and he quickly looked away, busying himself with straightening a stack of papers on the counter.

“Nothing’s going on,” he said, his voice a little too high-pitched. “I’m just… tired. It’s been a long day.” 

Garcia and Derek just exchanged a look.

Spencer sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He needed to get them out of here before they found something they weren’t supposed to. 

Like, say… you.

“Do you think she’ll like my gift?” Garcia asked, peeking at the bag on the counter, her fingers fidgeting with the ribbon.

“Most definitely, babygirl,” Derek answered without hesitation, dusting the crumbs off his hands after finishing his toast. “She’s been talking about it for weeks.”

Spencer, still trying to recover from his near heart attack, nodded in agreement. “Yeah, she’ll love it,” he said, meeting Garcia’s eyes with a small, reassuring smile.

Garcia beamed, clearly pleased with herself. “Oh, she’ll love yours, boy genius,” she added, pointing at Spencer. “You know her so well.” Her voice carried a teasing lilt, her grin mischievous.

“Maybe too well,” Derek chimed in, eyebrows raised as he leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed. His grin was knowing, smug.

Spencer stiffened.

“When are you finally gonna ask her out?” Derek asked, his grin widening.

Spencer felt his face heat up instantly. He blushed, but not for the reason they thought.

He blushed because he remembered the day it happened. 

HThe way his heart had pounded in his chest, his palms sweaty as he rehearsed the words in his head over and over. He’d been so nervous, he’d almost convinced himself to back out.

But then he’d seen you—your smile, the way your eyes lit up when you noticed him approaching—and all his doubts had melted away. 

When he finally asked, his voice trembling slightly, your reaction had been everything he’d hoped for. Your face had lit up, and you’d nodded so quickly, it was almost comical.

“Yes!” you’d said, your voice filled with so much enthusiasm that it made him laugh. In that moment, all his anxiety had washed away, replaced by a giddy, almost overwhelming sense of relief and joy. 

“Aww, how cute!” Garcia practically vibrated with excitement, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she pointed an accusatory finger at Spencer. “He’s blushing,” she sang, her grin stretching impossibly wide. 

Spencer groaned, shaking his head in exasperation. “Did you two come into my apartment just to eat my food and make fun of me?” he asked, arms crossed.

“Pretty much,” Derek said, completely unfazed as he made his way back toward the fridge.

Spencer let out a sharp breath, trying to mask his anxiety. He knew you were still asleep, but that didn’t stop the lingering fear that their loud voices might wake you up.

But then—

Derek stopped in front of the fridge.

His eyes locked onto the calendar hanging there, and a slow, amused smirk spread across his face.

“Look at this, sweetheart,” Derek said, turning toward Garcia, his voice thick with amusement.

Garcia leaned in, her eyes widening as she saw what Derek was pointing at. There, on the calendar, your birthday was circled in bold red marker, surrounded by a carefully drawn heart.

Garcia gasped, clapping her hands together in delight. “Oh. My. God,” she said, her voice rising with every word. “Spencer Reid, you are down bad!”

Spencer felt his face burn even hotter. He wished he could disappear into the floor—or maybe just teleport to another dimension entirely. Anything to escape this moment.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t been the one to draw that heart on the calendar. It had been you.

He remembered the moment perfectly.

The day he hung the calendar up, you had been standing right there beside him, watching with an amused little smile. Then, without hesitation, you had grabbed the nearest marker—a red one, of course—and went straight to your birthday month, drawing a huge heart around the date.

"So you don’t forget."

He had chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped behind you, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist. Then, he had pressed a soft kiss to your temple, murmuring against your skin—

"I don’t forget anything. Especially not something like that."

You had blushed.

And Spencer had loved making you blush.

Now, standing in his kitchen, faced with his coworkers’ relentless teasing, he was struck with the embarrassing realization that Derek and Garcia thought he was some hopelessly lovesick teenager who had scribbled hearts around his crush’s name in a notebook.

(Which—if he was being completely honest—wasn’t that far from the truth.)

But what was he supposed to say?

Tell them the truth? Admit that the woman he’d been secretly dating for months—the same woman they were here shopping for—was currently asleep in his bed down the hall?

Absolutely not.

But then—

The choice was taken away from him anyway.

Suddenly, the sound of running water echoed from down the hallway, causing both Garcia and Derek to freeze mid-sentence. Their heads snapped toward the source of the noise, their eyes widening as they stared at Spencer.

Spencer stared back, equally wide-eyed, his mind racing. You were in the bathroom, happily brushing your teeth, completely unaware that two of your—and Spencer’s—coworkers were standing in the kitchen, mere feet away.

“Spencer Walter Reid,” Garcia gasped, her voice loud enough to carry through the apartment. She clutched Derek’s arm like she was about to faint. “Is there someone here?”

“No, no,” Spencer said quickly, shaking his head so vigorously that his curls bounced. “It’s probably just my washing machine turning on.”

As if on cue, the bathroom door creaked open, and then closed again. Spencer’s heart sank.

“Oh no,” he mumbled under his breath, his stomach twisting into knots.

And then, there you were.

You padded into the kitchen, blissfully unaware of the chaos you were about to unleash.

You were wearing Spencer’s boxers, which hung loosely around your hips, and one of his Star Wars shirts that was far too big for you, the hem brushing against your thighs. Your hair was slightly messy, and you were still rubbing sleep from your eyes.

Then you stopped.

Blinking, you finally seemed to register the two extra people in the room.

Garcia. Derek.

Standing there.

Staring.

At you.

In Spencer’s clothes.

Two pairs of eyes stared at you. And you stared back, your own eyes wide, your brain struggling to process the scene in front of you. Spencer, meanwhile, was staring at the ground like it might suddenly open up and swallow him whole.

Garcia broke the silence, her voice low and uncharacteristically quiet—something almost more shocking than if she’d screamed.

“Am I… dreaming?” she whispered, clutching Derek’s arm like a lifeline. She looked pale, her usual vibrant energy replaced by sheer disbelief as she took in your disheveled state.

Derek, for once, seemed just as stunned. “I… no, I don’t think so,” he said hesitantly, his usual confidence replaced by uncharacteristic uncertainty.

He blinked at you, then at Spencer, then back at you, as if trying to piece together what exactly was happening.

“Spencer,” you hissed, your voice low but urgent. “What the hell is happening?” You tugged self-consciously at the hem of his Star Wars shirt, trying to pull it down further.

Normally, you were the picture of professionalism at work, always impeccably dressed and composed.

But here you were, standing in Spencer’s kitchen in his boxers and an oversized shirt, your hair a mess and your face still flushed from sleep.

It was beyond awkward—it was mortifying.

Spencer finally looked up, his expression a mix of guilt and panic. “I, uh… this isn’t—” he started, but Garcia cut him off.

“Oh no, no, no,” Garcia said, her voice rising with every word, her hands flailing dramatically as if she were conducting an orchestra of chaos. “You do not get to ‘this isn’t’ us right now. This is happening. This is definitely happening.”

She pointed a finger at you, then at Spencer, her eyes wide.

“You two. Together. In his apartment. Wearing his clothes. Oh my gosh, this is the best day of my life.”

You froze, your cheeks burning as you tugged self-consciously at the hem of Spencer’s shirt. “Penelope, it’s not—” you started, but she cut you off with a wave of her hand.

“Nope, nope, nope,” she said, shaking her head so vigorously that her curls bounced. “No explanations, no excuses. This is happening. I have been waiting for this moment for years.”

Spencer groaned, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Garcia, please—”

“No,” she interrupted again, her voice rising an octave. “You don’t get to ‘Garcia, please’ me right now. This is huge. This is monumental. This is—”

“A disaster,” Spencer muttered under his breath, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Derek, who had been quietly observing the scene with an amused grin, finally chimed in. “Man, Reid, I gotta hand it to you. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “This is so embarrassing,” you muttered, though there was a hint of laughter in your voice.

Garcia, meanwhile, was practically bouncing on her toes, her excitement palpable. “Oh, this is going to be so much fun. I can’t wait to tell—”

“No!” Spencer and you said in unison, your voices sharp enough to make Garcia freeze mid-sentence.

“You are not telling anyone,” Spencer said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Garcia pouted, but there was a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Fine, fine. But only because I’m feeling generous. For now.”

Derek chuckled, shaking his head. “Man, this is going to be the best office drama ever.”

You groaned again, burying your face in your hands. “I’m going back to bed,” you muttered, turning on your heel and heading back down the hallway.

As you disappeared into the bedroom, Garcia and Derek turned to Spencer, their expressions a mix of amusement and disbelief.

“You’ve got some explaining to do, Pretty Boy,” Derek said, his grin widening.

Spencer sighed, knowing there was no escaping this. “Yeah,” he said, his voice resigned. “I know.”

[chimielie]

match point

hajime opens the door, blinking blearily as the permanent fluorescents of the hallway greet his eyes. he drags a hand down his face, taking a quick opportunity to take you in, your shorts and knees (the left one has a nasty green bruise, leftover from his forcing you to try indoor climbing last week) and fuzzy socks peeking out from your sneakers. your shirt almost swallowing you, making the jacket you’re wearing look oddly cropped. your hair sticking straight up.

“hi, hajime,” you say, yawning uncontrollably. “thank you. sorry.”

“no problem,” he says, “come in, it’s too bright.”

inside, there’s only the pinpoint of his cell flashlight on, a beacon leading you to his room—first left in the hallway, you really would be able to find it blindfolded. you don’t act like it, though, putting a hand on his back and closing your eyes while he forges forward. the light brush of your fingers over the thin t-shirt he’d pulled over his head thirty seconds ago is the confusing kind of thing leaking out of his dreams.

“there’s a protein shake pack there, watch your—yeah. your step.” the warning comes just in time for you to stub your toe as he shuts the door behind the both of you.

he busies himself digging in his closet while you swear as quietly as you can.

“you want the bed? i’ll take the couch,” he offers.

“‘m not kicking you out of your own bed at—” you squint at your own phone screen. “3:47 a.m. i just really appreciate you letting me stay over, haji. thank you so much.”

“not your fault your roommates set off the fire alarm at 3:47 a.m. seriously, take the bed.”

you were lucky, he thought, lucky he had your contact set to break through Do Not Disturb, lucky he lived a floor above you so you didn’t have to scream hysterically at them for waking you up like this again in the middle of exam season. the violent string of texts he’d woken up to (and the distant shrieking of your apartment’s alarm) had made him laugh so hard he’d typed come over almost without thinking about it, i promise i won’t hotbox the bedroom while you’re trying to sleep.

“let’s just share,” you suggest, and he fumbles the spare blankets in his hands. he’s glad he’s facing away from you. “it’s too early to fight.”

“too late,” he corrects you. “you sure we’ll both fit?”

it’s a reference to your freshman year, when you used to climb into his twin XL bed and lie on top of him so neither of you were falling off the edge. physical affection was more common for you then, before he’d realized that his dumbass had gone and fallen in love with you and you were just his very affectionate friend.

“yeah, you have a big boy bed now. i miss the lightning mcqueen sheets, though.” you’re already hanging the jacket on the back of his chair, crawling through the vast ocean of cotton to curl into a ball near his pillows. he checks his phone again, wondering if he ever really woke up. he has dreams, secret, shameful ones, like this often.

there’s a song and dance missing. shouldn’t he be fighting harder to take the couch? building a pillow wall? as he joins you, even as he’s stretching his body out and feeling his left shoulder pop, you gravitate into him. he puts an arm around you, his bicep thick enough beneath your back to make you shift around to get comfortable again. your fuzzy sock-covered foot pushes up the ankle of his sweatpants.

“hey, wait,” he says. you make a soft sleepy noise that breaks his heart to hear like this: so close, and yet not at all. “was that my jacket you were wearing? the one i’ve been looking for?”

“yeah,” you nod into his chest. “you gave it to me last time we went out.”

“oh, i’d forgotten,” he hums. a few more moments pass, his own eyelids getting heavy.

“i like wearing your clothes,” you tell him, “it makes me feel like you’re my boyfriend.”

maybe in the morning he’ll do something about that; for now, he sleeps with your deep, even breathing an inch away, the warm glow of something new and right and shared suffusing his chest.

[mediumgayitalian]

"Don't worry about me."

"I'm allowed to worry for people when they are doing stupid, foolish things."

"You worry about everyone."

"False. I've never worried about Cecil Markowitz a day in my life."

Nico snorts, tugging on his boot and yanking on the laces. "Right," he drawls, "and the insistence on walking him fourteen entire fucking miles to the bus stop at the end of camp was because..."

Will flushes. "Because he's stupid, okay. He's actually unwell. I checked his brain and everything. If I leave him alone too long he'll get kidnapped, and then what?" He cocks a hip to one side, crossing his arms and tapping his foot and generally just looking like a carbon copy of his mother. Nico mourns his lack of camera. He needs to send Naomi another snapshot for the Wall of You Do Act Like Me, You Little Shit. "What am I gonna do if he dies, huh? Resort to off-brand Twizzlers? I'd rather kill myself."

The frayed ends of his laces cooperate, finally. He desperately needs new combats but the thought of having to break in a new pair makes him want to strangle the nearest karpoi. Any one of them would do.

Nico pushes himself to his feet, cupping both sides of his boyfriend's scowling face and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, holding there until he feels them soften. He smiles, snickering at Will's huffy pout.

"I am doing one errand," he says, exasperated. "Just one."

Will throws his hands up. "You know who else did one errand?! Orpheus! That's right, dumbass, and he died! So!"

He waves his hands again, because obviously he cannot simply make his point with his words alone. Oh, no. His whole body needs to get involved, or else there is Not Enough Emphasis.

Gods, Nico loves him to death.

To death, and then some.

"You are more dramatic than your father," Nico says, kissing him again before pulling away. "You know that?"

"I thought you loved me," Will grumbles. "I thought you loved me, and then you go around saying such insulting things. Don't you love me? People who love me would never say that to me."

"I have actually heard that exact speech come from Apollo's mouth. Twice, at least."

"I'm about to commit a felony. It rhymes with shmassault and battery."

"Shut the fuck up," Nico says, but he's grinning. Will is scowling hard but doing a very bad job of it, and Nico can actually see the don't you dare fucking laugh you're mad at him you have to stay mad at him flashing around in his eyes.

Nico swipes his thumb gently over his freckled cheeks.

It does not take very long for him to cave.

"I'm just worried," he admits, sagging into Nico's hold. His head, as it always has, fits perfectly in the crook of Nico's neck. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to his temple.

"Knew it."

"Shut up." The quick curve of his exasperated smile twitches against Nico's collarbones. "I just mean. Gods above, Nico. It's all the way across the country."

"I shadow travelled all the way across the world, once," Nico reminds him. He runs a hand through fraying curls. "I was fourteen at the time."

"Yeah, and you almost fuckin' died."

Will pulls away, agitated, and Nico lets him. The fraying curls get worse with every tug of his twitching hands, and the sound of his own echoing pacing makes him jump. The bags are deep and black under his eyes.

Nico sighs.

"Will," he says, and words hard to keep the frustration out of his tone, "Will, sweetheart, you cleared me."

But Will isn't listening. The mumbling has started, and so has the fidgeting; the bandages around his arms twist, and twist, and tug, leaving red marks on his bruised wrists.

"Monitoring hymn," Nico hears him mutter. "Or a lifeline..."

Nico checks his watch. He's -- well, he's late, technically, but he's never been punctual even one time, so it's fine. He's got time. He flops to the marble floors, leaning against his bedpost. He watches his boyfriend, notes the flicker and flash of his glowing freckles, of his spattered burn scars.

You and I both know you will be fine, Chiron had said. He had sighed, long and aged and hard, and stared at his buzzing, fritzy student. It will be good for him. Exposure.

"Will," he calls, eventually. "Tesoro."

Will stops. He blinks, coming back to himself, to the cabin. He searches around, eyes settling on Nico's comfy spot on the floor.

He sighs, shoulders sagging. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. He stands there a long while, still except his breathing, tense.

"Everything is -- green," he says eventually, voice small. "I don't know how to stop it."

"You know how to make it worse," Nico points out, as gently as he can manage. "You've been spiraling for weeks."

"Not -- weeks."

"Since the start of the month."

"Yeah, only a few days."

"It's the thirtieth, Will."

He looks up, eyes wide. "No." He blinks. "Actually?"

Nico's smile is small and sad. "Yes."

"I thought -- I thought --"

"I know."

He doesn't really. He's watched it for years, but he doesn't -- understand, not in the way he understands the depression, the anger, the grief. He and Will have more things in common than they don't, but he doesn't spiral. Not like Will does. His pain has always bubbled and burst its way out of him, tingeing the edge of his vision red and igniting the curl of his fists. His pain has made him quick. His pain has made him quick, it has made him bitter, it has made him miserable, but it has always pushed him forward.

Will's pain gets curled up endlessly inside him, twisting his insides to knots.

It robs him, sometimes.

"Come here."

Will does. The fight has drained out of him, and there are tears in his eyes, even as he tries desperately to blink them away. His bandages lay limp at his sides, fluttering in the breeze from the still-open door.

"It's not that I don't trust you," he says, somewhat desperately. He turns so they're facing each other, criss-crossed knees knocking. "I do."

"I know," Nico says. He manages a small smile. "I always know that, Will."

"Good." His bright eyes soften in relief, fingers rubbing at his sternum. "You -- you're powerful, Death Boy. More than anyone I've ever known."

Nico raises his eyebrows. "Careful with that, Sunshine. You're going to get smited."

"Smote."

"Don't correct me when we're having a vulnerable moment."

"Don't need correcting, then."

Nico's smile widens. Will's, this time, matches, dimple flashing on his left cheek. Nico presses his thumb there, relishing in the sudden heat of Will's face and accompanying rolled, flustered eyes. He lingers, and stares, and stares, even as Will squirms, as the glow turns into something hotter than blood heat.

"I'm going to be okay, my love."

"I know."

"It's one jump. Hazel is waiting, unicorn draught at the ready in case I start swooning like a damsel."

"I know."

"Even my dad knows."

"I know."

"I would actually have to try to die, Will. Like there would have to be real effort on my part."

"Just --" he scrunches up his nose -- "I don't know what you could say that would make me less scared of it. Of losing you."

"I mean it would kind of suck if you did." He tilts their foreheads together, because it looks stupid as shit at this angle, and he knows Will'll laugh. He's right. "Since you love me and everything."

"I suppose it's one of those conditions," Will allows. "The whole caring if you up and die thing."

"Yep."

"S'a real pain in the ass."

"You're telling me. I was just fine being an emo loner, not giving a fuck about anything, and then you had to go ruin it. Now I gotta stress about your wellbeing and shit."

"Must be exhausting."

"Miserable." He reaches for Will's hands and squeezes, hard, until Will squeezes back. "It is the most important thing to me, though. Ever."

Will swallows. "Okay."

"I love you, Will Solace. Even when you are annoying about grammar and when you are prodding me about my iron levels and when you are so far in your head you're losing time." He pulls back slightly, just enough to press a kiss to Will's knuckles. "Especially then."

"I love you, too." Will swallows. "You'll be okay."

"I will."

"And you'll IM me when you get there."

"I will."

"And I'll be okay. Waiting."

Nico smiles softly. "You will be."

Will takes a deep breath. He nods. He stands, pulling them both up, and walks to the darkest corner of the Hades cabin, shoulders tense but face brave. He turns, exhaling slowly, and brushes invisible lint of Nico's shoulders, hands lingering.

"I will see you when you get back," he says.

"When I get back," Nico echoes. He kisses him again. "Worrier."

Will huffs, and Nico laughs, and he lets go, and Will lets him, and he steps into the familiar darkness, and the last thing he sees before the shadows envelope him is the trust in Will's light eyes.

[woozinhos]

Js thinking about gym bro shua 😮‍💨😮‍💨

Notes: hope you enjoyyy gonna be hooked on gym idols now fr

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.

Joshua had been working out a lot lately, and you could tell by the way his muscles bulged under his shirt. You had noticed him sneaking off to the gym after work more often than usual, but you hadn't realized just how much it was affecting him. One night, after a long day at work, you found yourself pinned against the wall by him. His hands were on your hips, holding you in place as he pressed his body against yours.

"I've been waiting all day to get you alone," he growled, his breath hot against your ear. "I need you so badly." You could feel his hardness pressing against your thigh, and you knew he was serious.

"Someone's been working out a lot," you teased, running your hands over his chest. "You're all muscle now." Joshua chuckled, his grip on your hips tightening. "You have no idea," he said, his voice low and rough. "I've been putting in extra time at the gym, working out until I'm exhausted."

He leaned in and nipped at your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. "And I've been thinking about you the whole time. Imagining what I'd do to you when I finally had you alone." You moaned as he began to kiss and suck on your neck, leaving a trail of love bites in his wake. "And what do you want to do to me?" you asked, your voice breathless.

"I want to take you right here against this wall," Joshua said, his hands sliding down to your thighs. "I want to show you just how strong I've gotten." He lifted you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist. You gasped as you felt the cold wall against your back, the rough texture sending shivers down your spine.

"You're so light," he murmured, his lips moving down to your collarbone. "I could hold you up all night if I wanted to." And boy he wasn’t lying. Joshua's stamina was incredible, and he proved it as he held you up against the wall for what felt like hours. He pounded into you relentlessly, his muscles straining with the effort of keeping you in place. You clung to him desperately, your nails digging into his shoulders as he hit all the right spots inside you. "Joshua," you moaned, your head thrown back in ecstasy. "You're going to break me."

Joshua smirked, clearly enjoying the way you were falling apart in his arms. "You can take it," he grunted, his pace never faltering. "I know you can. You're my good girl, aren't you?" You nodded, unable to form a coherent sentence as he continued to drive you to the edge. The wall behind you was creaking under the force of his thrusts, and you were sure it was going to give way at any moment.

"I'm gonna make you cum so hard," he promised, his voice thick with lust. "You're going to scream my name and beg for more." You couldn't hold back any longer, the pleasure building inside you until it exploded like a supernova. You screamed his name as you came, your body trembling in his arms. Joshua held you through it, his hips still moving as he chased his own release. He groaned as he felt you clenching around him, his thrusts becoming more erratic.

"That's it, baby," he panted. "Cum for me again. I'm not done with you yet." You were oversensitive and overstimulated, but Joshua didn't stop. He kept going, his thrusts becoming slower and deeper as he neared his own climax.

"I can feel you shaking," he said, his voice hoarse. "You're so sensitive. I love it." He captured your lips in a heated kiss, swallowing your moans as he fucked you against the wall. His grip on your thighs was almost bruising now, but you didn't care. You were too lost in the pleasure to even think about anything else. Finally, with one last deep thrust, Joshua came undone. He buried himself inside you as he released, filling you with his hot seed. He panted heavily, his forehead resting against yours as he tried to catch his breath.

"Fuck," he whispered, slowly lowering you back down to the ground. "That was... incredible." You clung to him, your legs shaking too much to support your weight. You could feel his cum dripping down your thighs, and you knew you were going to be sore in the morning. Joshua scooped you up into his arms and carried you to the bedroom, laying you down gently on the bed. He crawled in beside you, pulling you close to his chest.

"You did so well," he murmured, running his fingers through your hair. "You took everything I gave you." You snuggled into him, feeling a sense of contentment wash over you. "You're going to have to carry me around for a week now," you joked, your voice hoarse from screaming.

[issues4him]

3 - FIRST TOUCH ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

ghost!rafe x shy!reader series

summary: rafe sneaks into your room late at night. he decides to answer the question that’s been brewing in the back of his mind.

cw: none, flirting, lowkey angst if u squint

the soft glow of the morning sun filtered through the grand windows, casting warm golden light across the lavish sitting room. you stirred, shifting slightly on the plush couch, the weight of sleep still pulling at your limbs.

a second later, the distant sound of clinking cutlery and muffled voices from the kitchen reached your ears. your brows furrowed as your mind sluggishly caught up with reality.

why were you on the couch?

the events of the night before rushed back all at once. the midnight glass of water. the painting. him.

your eyes fluttered open fully, scanning the room as if expecting rafe to still be there, but of course—he wasn’t.

just a dream, you tried to convince yourself.

“oh, dear, what on earth are you doing sleeping out here?”

you jolted upright, your heart leaping to your throat as your grandmother’s voice rang through the air. she stood at the edge of the sitting room, arms crossed, a concerned look on her face.

“i—i must’ve—” you cleared your throat, smoothing your dress as if that would make you look any less ridiculous. “i couldn’t sleep, so i came down here, and i guess i—”

“fell asleep in the draftiest part of the house?” your grandmother shook her head, though her voice was full of amusement. “honestly, dear, you’ll catch a cold.”

you scrambled to your feet, cheeks warm with embarrassment. “it was just an accident...”

your grandmother hummed knowingly, but she didn’t press. “well, come along, breakfast is ready.”

as you followed your grandmother toward the dining room, something made you hesitate. a prickling awareness ran down your spine, and without thinking, your gaze flickered toward the grand staircase—toward his painting.

your breath caught.

rafe was back.

frozen in oil and canvas, just as he always had been. his blue eyes bore into you with that same unreadable intensity, his posture upright, his uniform pristine. the golden frame around him seemed almost too perfect, too undisturbed, as if last night had never happened.

had it?

your fingers curled into the fabric of your robe as you stood there, unmoving. he looked exactly the same, and yet you could swear there was something new in his expression. something smug.

almost like he knew something you didn’t.

“are you coming, sweetheart?” your grandmother’s sweet voice snapped you out of your daze.

you swallowed hard, stealing one last glance at him. rafe remained perfectly still, the portrait of a long-dead soldier.

you tore your gaze away and hurried after your grandmother.

but as you walked away, it felt like he was burning holes in the back of your head.

——————

it’s late—later than you meant to stay up. you sit at your vanity, brushing through your hair, your eyelids heavy with sleep. the room is quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old house settling around you.

then, you feel it.

a soft little tug at the end of your hair.

your brush stills in your hand.

slowly, you raise your eyes to the mirror, your pulse quickening. at first, there’s nothing—just your own wide-eyed reflection staring back at you. but then, behind you, a shape flickers into view, leaning down close.

“miss me?”

your heart jumps as rafe’s face appears right beside yours, his lips curved into that lazy, smug grin.

you whip around so fast that you nearly topple off the stool, one hand gripping your vanity for balance. “oh my—”

“careful now,” he chuckles, straightening. “wouldn’t want you to get hurt on my account, darlin’.”

your pulse pounds in your ears, hands clenching at your the vanity’s edge. “you—you can’t just do that!” you whisper-shout, cheeks burning.

rafe tilts his head, feigning innocence. “do what?”

“you know what!”

he chuckles, arms crossing over his broad chest. “you should’ve seen your face.” his voice drops, teasing. “cute.”

your stomach flips at the word, but you scowl, refusing to let him see how flustered you are. “i thought ghosts were supposed to be all ominous and brooding.”

he steps closer, his translucent form passing right through the edge of your vanity. “maybe,” he muses, “but where’s the fun in that?”

you grip the edge of the white vanity as you’re still seated on the stool.

rafe is way too amused. his arms are crossed, his blue eyes glinting in the dim candlelight, looking like he just won some kind of game you didn’t even know you were playing.

“you look like you’ve seen a ghost, hun.”

you glare at him, heart still racing. “you are a ghost!”

he shrugs, completely unbothered. “and?”

your mouth opens, then closes, because—yeah. and? what exactly is the proper reaction when a ghost just appears in your room at midnight, smirking like he owns the place?

your stomach is still in knots from the initial shock, but rafe just tilts his head, watching you, looking far too entertained. his gaze flickers over your body, your gaze following his.

you then notice where his eyes have drifted—

oh. oh no.

you’re wearing nothing but a tiny, lace bralette and matching sleep shorts. barely-there cotton that clings to your skin. clearly, you had not expected company.

heat rushes to your face. you fight the urge to cover yourself, but it’s impossible to ignore the way rafe’s gaze flickers over you, slow and deliberate.

his smirk deepens. “cute outfit.”

your whole body burns. “get out.”

he ignores that completely, stepping closer instead, his voice dropping to something lower, something teasing. “you’re mean tonight.”

“because you broke into my room!”

“broke in?” he chuckles, shifting his weight onto one hip, all effortless confidence. “sweetheart, i don’t need doors. you should know that by now.”

your fingers tighten around the vanity. “why are you even here?”

he sighs dramatically, like the answer is obvious. “i can’t just check in on my girl?”

your face flushed with color. “wha—i’m not your—”

“oh, please.” he tilts his head, eyes dragging down way too slowly before flicking back up. “you picked that outfit for me, didn’t you?”

your skin burns. “NO—i did not—”

he just looks at you. that same cocky, knowing look.

you visibly deflate.

rafe grins. “that’s what i thought.”

your stomach churned at the certainty in his voice. the nickname, the way he spoke to you like he knew you better than you knew yourself—it was infuriating. and maybe a little bit true.

groaning, you stood from your vanity chair, and dove under the floarak-patterned duvet on your bed, desperate to create some distance from his stare.

you peeked over the top of your blanket, heart thudding. rafe stood at the foot of your bed, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself for someone who had just appeared in your room.

your breathing quickened when he stopped right beside your bed. he tilted his head, studying you. “so… tell me, honey… if you’re so scared of me,” he murmured, “why aren’t you running? screaming? calling for help?” his voice was teasing, but his expression was softer now, curious. “or is it because deep down, you don’t want me to leave?”

“shut up.” your throat tightened. he was too close. too solid-looking for a ghost, despite the way the room’s dim light passed through the edges of his form.

rafe exhaled through his nose, almost like a sigh. then, slowly, he lowered himself onto the edge of your bed. the mattress didn’t dip. he didn’t move the blankets. he just sat.

he hesitated. then, after a second, he reached out.

you flinched instinctively, expecting the touch of nothing, of cold air. but then, warmth. a whisper of pressure against your wrist. faint. barely there.

rafe froze. his hand still hovered over yours, his eyes locked onto where his fingers had made the softest contact with your skin.

neither of you spoke.

then, carefully, like he was afraid you might disappear, rafe flattened his palm over the back of your hand. the pressure didn’t change much, but the warmth was stronger now. he wasn’t just there. he was real.

his voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet. “you can feel me?”

you swallowed, nodding. “yeah,” you whispered. “i can.”

for a long moment, he just stared. then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted—not in a smirk, not in teasing. just relief.

you barely noticed when your own fingers moved, barely registered the way you turned your hand palm-up beneath his. his fingers curled hesitantly over yours, still light, still not all the way there.

his voice was barely above a breath. “guess that means i’m not just a memory, huh?”

you shook your head. “no,” you murmured. “you’re real.”

rafe swallowed, gaze still fixed on where his hand held yours. and for the first time since you’d met him, he looked almost human.

rafe didn’t let go. he didn’t move, didn’t shift away, didn’t tease you like he normally would. he just held your hand—light, but warm. real.

you felt like you couldn’t breathe. like if you spoke too loud, moved too fast, the moment might shatter, and he’d be gone.

his thumb brushed over your knuckles. it was the softest touch, just a whisper of pressure, but it sent a shiver up your spine.

rafe must’ve noticed, because his lips quirked up the tiniest bit. “didn’t mean to make you so nervous, sweetheart.”

“i’m not nervous,” you whispered back, even though the way your pulse raced in your ears completely betrayed you.

his grin deepened. “liar.”

you huffed, looking away, but he squeezed your fingers—barely, like he was testing how much he could actually touch you. the warmth was steadier now, stronger. his grip wasn’t solid, not quite, but it wasn’t slipping through you completely anymore, either.

it made your head spin.

“how is this happening?” you murmured. “you’ve never been able to touch anything before, right?”

rafe was still watching your joined hands like he couldn’t quite believe it himself. “no,” he admitted. “not in two hundred and fifty years.”

that made your stomach dip. two hundred and fifty years. that was impossible. that was tragic.

you hesitated, then, before you could second-guess yourself, gave his hand a gentle squeeze. his head snapped up, eyes sharp with surprise.

you swallowed, shy all over again. “does it—does it feel the same for you?”

rafe exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what was happening. “not exactly,” he said. “it’s like…” he frowned slightly, searching for the words. “like holding onto a ball of warmth. like grabbing at hot air.”

your brows pulled together. “so it doesn’t feel like real skin?”

he huffed another laugh, lifting his gaze back to yours. “no, princess,” he murmured. “but,” his face softened slightly, “it’s the closest i’ve gotten.”

something about that made your heart ache. his lips parted, just slightly.

“you’re the difference,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter, more thoughtful.

you blinked. “what?”

“you,” he repeated, brow furrowing. “i’ve never been able to touch anything. but you… you can feel me.”

your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “why me?”

rafe tilted his head, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face. “c’mon, sweetheart,” he said, voice warm as honey. “i think you already know why.”

your throat tightened. he wasn’t teasing. not really. he was right.

you’d spent your whole life loving the boy in the painting.

maybe that was all it took.

maybe love was enough to bring a ghost back to life.

a/n: i’m so sorry this took so long

[lezhuntrr]

we’ve been having a rough couple days. not that trying to live under my heel is ever easy, but its been hard being my pet. you had a break and remembered how to say no, and it promptly went to your head; trying to argue, fighting back again, not playing your role.

so we have a few spats, and the privileges you’ve earned start disappearing from your room night after night; your sun lamp, your big warm comforter, your soft, comfy clothes. your plushie. but you’re stubborn past your own good even when I start getting rough. you got a piece of your backbone back and were terrified what’d be left if you lost it again.

you knew something was off when I came for you the next evening. it wasn’t the fact i didn’t come by for breakfast or lunch: losing a meal or two was common enough when you misbehaved. no, when i came in to feed you and tend to the fresh wounds id given a day earlier, what struck you was that i was wearing my boots. and just like you were wondering, after youd eaten and been bandaged, i came around to bind your wrists and told you we were going to go somewhere. i gag and blindfold you before i bring you out to the car, and you guess from what light gets in around the edges of the fabric that sunset will be starting soon. but the car ride is long and uncomfortable, and though you try to keep track of the time and the turns we take, it just gets too much after the first two hours, and you slump crestfallen against your side of the car door.

you wake up groggy and confused to my hand on your shoulder and my voice stirring you back to consciousness, stern and uncharacteristically neutral; for the first time, you miss the sickly sweet suffocating flavor that it usually takes with you. i take you and lead you out. the ground is soft but pokey, dirt with the occasional stick and bit of planty undergrowth beneath the soles of your feet: you recognize it as a forest before i remove your blindfold. my eyes meet yours after i do, deep, dark, and holding you in their gaze for a few seconds as i free your hands. i take one in mine, and i lead you away from my car and the dirt road through the woods it’s parked on. it’s late now, and it takes most all of your attention span trying to find the path and keep up to my pace with what moonlight gets through the canopy; failure is inevitable, and your feet are tired and sore by the time we get wherever we’re going. it wasn’t quite a clearing, more a breath between the trees, but there was room to stand and look out on the scruffy grass and sparse wildflowers growing in pale clusters throughout. the sound of my lighter snaps you out of the scene, and you feel me untying your gag. we stand in the chill and the silence and smoke. the fire of my lighter lets you watch me light a second as i speak:

“this is where i bury the bodies.” another minute of silence. i press the joint into your hand and we pass it back and forth like the last. you shiver in the night and think.

[sincere1ystar]

i’ve been adoring protective billy lately like maybe you guys went out and some other gang members recognized billy and used you as leverage against him 👀

Only you My Girl

billy the kid x fem! reader

authors note: sorry this is a little short 😭 but thank u for requesting this emsy i had fun writing it <3

Billy knew a treasure when he saw one. He saw the lengths men would go to find gold and jewels, the way how easily greed bled into the picture when treasure was involved. That’s why he vowed to protect you with everything he had, after all you were his most precious treasure being far more valuable than any block of gold.

Your gentleness was easily snatched away by the harsh world you were brought up into. Billy had known all about it and determined that you had gone through enough suffering for one lifetime. He brought your gentle spirit back, you were allowed to take off your armor of steel around him. The world forced you into becoming rough and hard-headed, but Billy allowed your soft roots to flourish and blossom.

When you would go on trips to town, Billy would be right by your side to help you out with your errands by carrying your bags and offering an ear to listen to your little rants. He didn’t mind following you around endlessly, if that’s what made you happy.

As long as it makes you happy. The phrase rang through his head when he allowed you to drag him off to some party hosted by a friend of yours. He was never exactly fond of these types of events, but you were. He was hesitant when you first proposed the idea of going to the party, but the way your smile slowly shifted into a smaller one when he tried to reject the idea made him quickly guarantee his attendance at the gathering.

He recognized a few people during the festivity, but still remained glued to your side the whole time while you chatted excitedly with your friends. One of them joked that Billy was like one of your accessories, and he couldn’t help but smile at the comparison. He stayed close to you for most of the evening until you accompanied one of your friends to go outside to get some fresh air since she was feeling sick.

“Really I’m fine going out on my own”, your friend Charlotte said as if you weren’t already helping her to her feet.

“I know you’ll be fine, I just thought you wouldn’t mind some company”, you say cheerfully offering her your shoulder for support as you help her outside.

Without you by his side, the only thing Billy was left with was the glass of water in his hand. He wasn’t exactly a social butterfly, and the few people he did know all seemed occupied by their own distractions. He was perfectly fine with being aside by himself as he waited for your return, but of course that doesn't stop one of the men of the House from approaching him.

“Well well, I didn’t expect to see Billy the Kid at a function like this”, the man snarls as he fails to gain any sort of acknowledgement from Billy.

“And I noticed you brought your girl with you”, the man continues carrying a threatening tone. At the mention of you, Billy turns to the man but keeps his expression unreadable.

“Oh I see that gets a reaction out of ya hm? Where did she trail off to… I thought I saw her somewhere around here… all alone”.

“Leave her out of this”, Billy hisses immediately. He wasn’t dumb, the man was from the House and Billy was a part of the Seven Rivers.

The man laughs menacingly ignoring Billy’s words. “Oh there she is!!”, he says enthusiastically but fakely as he points to you conversing with one of the party guests. The man quickly excuses himself from the conversation in his attempts to approach you, but Billy quickly grabs him by the collar and drags him away to a more secluded area outside.

“Now you listen here”, he spits as he pushes the man unforgivingly against the wall, “If ya have a problem with me, you take it up with me. Not with her, leave her out of this. I swear if I find out you’ve done so much as to lay a finger on her–”

“You’ll what?’, the man taunts.

“I’ll make your life a living hell an’ you’ll regret the first second you even looked her way. ‘F course ya know I’m more than capable of doin’ that, why don’t you ask a few of your friends about it. I’m sure they got a story or two to share”. Billy's words seemed to have squeezed the life out of the man from the House. “Now… we should be headin’ on back shouldn't we? Wouldn’t want anyone to notice that we’re missin’ for too long”, he sneered abruptly before letting the man go.

He comes back to the party to find you looking for him. “Oh Billy there you are!! Where were you? I was looking all over for you”.

He grins and places a kiss on the top of your head while wrapping his arm around you, “Jus’ taking care of business, nothing to worry your pretty little head about honey”.

You absentmindedly took his hand in yours, noticing the faint bruises on his hands, Unknowingly to you, the marks came from the harsh grip Billy had on the man. You choose not to question the sight, and instead solely rub your thumb over the aching spots to provide some sort of comfort. Billy held you closer to him for the gesture, the way he held you so delicately contradicting his previous violent actions.

[lexiepiper]

Remix Fics!

So maybe this is cheating with the posting style a little bit, but as the host for the @infiniterealms event I can bend those rules a lil.

I've written remixes for each of the intial fics (except for my own) and here's the first batch! The second batch will be up in a day or so! Yes I'm late, it's been a horrific week, but I'm surviving and working on the thriving.

Here are the fics! The initial fics are linked in the ao3 fics.

Split, a remix for @lavendarlily

"The last thing Danny had ever expected was for his two halves to be separated. Now that it's happened, he can only hope that his human self will take him back…"

Confounded, a remix for @princessfanonanona

"Tucker faces his worst nemesis: stairs."

Onwards and Upwards, a remix for @camels-pen

"Valerie has a decision to make, and it's going to hurt either way."

Student-Teacher Conference, a remix for @haleswallows

"No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get the thought out of his head. Phantom was a child who had died. How could Lancer just forget that?"

[grlmmjow]

Don't forget to feed your vampire...

It's been a day since my fiancé left (we are currently living 600kms away from each other because of work), and I've been feeling miserably lonely. I wrote this last night, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to publish it or not :( I'm sad.

Rating: non-explicit intimacy, kissing, vampire blood drinking.

Pairing: Astarion/Dark Urge (Amara)

Word count: 2495

Summary: two weeks after confessing their love in the Shadow Cursed Lands, Amara is trying to control her urges. She is terrified of hurting Astarion, and has been avoiding him at nights when he needed her the most.

More:

Amara showing Astarion his face using the tadpole

Running after Astarion on the docks

The fire cracked, and it snapped Amara away from her thoughts. They were consuming her, making her heart pound faster. Lately, her bloodlust had taken a new obsession: her incipient love, Astarion.

It’s been two weeks since the vampire asked her for a talk after they took down the orthon. Two weeks since she felt her heart beat for something else aside from surviving, getting rid of the tadpole and… unrestrained murderous thoughts. 

He said he loved her. 

She said that she loved him, too. 

But then Astarion asked if it’d be okay for them not to be intimate for a while. He sounded so nervous. So tense. So ready to be rejected… Amara jumped at the opportunity of agreeing. She masked it under a sweet, understanding smile, but deep down… She was deathly afraid of losing control and tearing his throat out during the act. 

This is for the best.

Ohhh… gods in heaven, that night… He was so sweet. So gentle. So vulnerable. His eyes looked even bigger than they already were, almost bulging out of his beautiful skull. She wondered how they would feel being squished under her–

“Wretched thing, pull yourself together.” Amara whispered, shifting in her seat. She began rocking her body, a habit she didn’t know she had, trying to quiet the thoughts that every night consumed her mind. 

I’m a menace. She repeated, biting her lower lip so hard she felt pain and the sweet taste of her own blood in her tongue. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him. He is not safe with me.

“Do we need to pull out the restraints tonight, darling?”

That sweet voice quieted those screaming thoughts in her head, lowering them down into a quiet murmur. Amara glanced at the source of the sudden calmness in her mind, watching as Astarion sat right next to her, very close to her body. She immediately tensed. It wasn’t like she didn’t want him close, quite the contrary… But, currently, her insides were screaming for her to rip out his guts and feast on his lungs.

“Maybe.” She answered, glancing away. Astarion noticed immediately that she was avoiding him again, so he scooted even closer to her. 

“Come on, Amara. Is it really that bad tonight?”

The redhead sent him a side glance, studying his closeness. His scent was delicious, and it did nothing to quench the hunger she felt to spill his blood. But.. something in the way he seemed so… trusting, made her relax a little bit. If he wasn’t worried… maybe there was nothing to fear, she thought.

“... It has been worse.” She finally admitted, daring to smile at him a little bit. Astarion responded with a smirk of his own, and Amara finally relented, leaning into him so her head rested on his chest. Astarion’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, bringing her close. 

The gesture surprised her. Astarion was tenser than usual. She saw his jaw clenching, his hand holding onto her arm a little bit too tightly. And, most importantly, he was silent. 

Something bothered him. And Amara couldn’t help but bring her thoughts to the night when they confessed their feelings. On a whim, she had hugged him, keeping him close to her body. He eventually ended up relaxing and accepting the hug, but she couldn’t help feeling like he was forced into it somehow. 

It ate her alive. 

But he still seeked her closeness. He kissed her every morning and every night before bed, and after an especially hard battle, when they were briefly aware that they could have lost each other. 

“Amara.”

She shifted in his arms the moment her name snapped her out of her thoughts.

“Hm?”

“About the other night… When we hugged.”

Oh, gods above, here it comes.

“Yes?”

“I haven’t been able to keep it out of my mind.” 

Astarion was now staring directly into her eyes, and they were so close Amara could count every speck and line of his red irises. 

He was so beautiful he left her breathless.

“It was a stupid urge. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable? Oh. My sweet impulsive thing. Quite the contrary.” His chuckle lifted some tension off the air, and both of them were thankful for it. Amara blinked up at her lover, not really understanding where he was getting at with all of this.

“Darling, you made me feel alive for the first time in two centuries.” His hand lifted and gently combed some coppery locks behind her ear, being mindful of the earrings and metals sticking out of them. “I’ve been chasing that high ever since.”

Amara felt her heart skip a beat. She knew little about her past life, especially about her past lovers… but knowing her current bloody urges, they probably never ended well. She didn’t want that for Astarion.

“Astarion…”

“You avoid me at nights, darling.” 

Amara clenched her jaw, immediately tensing, but staying silent, allowing him to continue his speech. “Why must you be so cruel to me? I would die to trance in your arms a single night.”

Amara’s mismatched eyes closed as she let out a long, tired sigh. She’d been dreading this conversation, fearing that it would push him away. She didn’t want to lose the single good thing she has done right in her life.

“I’m afraid I’d do just that, Astarion. Kill you. I am terrified of hurting you.”

“Oh, sweetheart. Few things can kill me now. Haven’t you noticed? A tadpole, the cultists, my former master and his bloody monster hunters, and don’t get me started with the shadows.” He gestured vaguely at the edge between the light that the fire cast and the dark nothingness in front of them. It promised carnage. “None of that has gotten me. I think I can survive a single night with my own partner, thank you very much.”

Amara smiled at Astarion, feeling her resolve crumbling. She didn’t have a clue how Astarion managed to lift her spirits so quickly, and more importantly, how he managed to quiet the murderous voice in her head.

“I’m your partner?”

“Yes, darling, you are. It’s a little too late now to back out of this, don’t you think?”

That made her laugh, and the sound of her own happiness lifted Astarion’s soul. He kept his eyes on her face, as if trying to read her mind while waiting for her response.

It took Amara a minute to finally nod and ask her own question.

“Can I kiss you?”

It didn’t take Astarion by surprise… it never did. Amara always made sure to have his full attention and enthusiastic yes before doing anything, which cemented his feelings for her.

“How could I say no?”

The vampire leaned in, being the one to initiate the kiss. He pressed their lips together very softly, but the intensity that followed was enough to make Amara lean back a little. Her lips immediately parted, allowing him to explore her mouth if he wanted to, which he did. 

His scent was driving Amara wild. It ran into her nostrils and down into her lungs, grabbing a tight hold of her heart, which began rapidly beating as their lips danced against each other. The sound of soft sighs, hums and the movements of their lips filled the air, a deep contrast with the uncanny silence coming from the Shadow Lands. 

The kiss lasted for a few moments, but too soon, Astarion was pulling away, dragging his parted lips down her cheek, her jawline and to her earlobe. Amara wanted to protest, but she knew better than to ask for more. They were getting riled up, both of them, and they needed to stop before things got more heated and she lost control of the situation. 

“Mmm.” She hummed, feeling his soft lips leaving kisses under the curve of her jaw, on her earlobe, down her neck. They echoed in the night, sounding hungry and sensual, even though they were keeping their hands to each other. 

The tip of his teasing tongue played along the dimples of the old scars from the last time he fed, and the tickling sensation made her suddenly remember that it had been… too long since he had his fill. Amara had been too afraid to hurt him to allow him into her bedroll, and the Shadow Cursed Lands were no place to find a wild animal to feed from.

“Gods.” She pulled him away from her neck, earning a grunt of protest. “You must be starving.”

Amara scowled at the vampire, now both her hands cradling his face. She forced his eyes on hers because she knew he’d try to avoid the conversation.

“Ehh, it’s been worse?” 

That made her angrier. Why the hells did he always wait until she offered her neck? It was infuriating. 

“I hate it when you do this. Come now, we are going to your tent.”

“Will you stay the night, then?”

“Yes. You know I get dizzy afterwards.”

“To my tent it is, then.”

Before Astarion stood up, Amara noticed the way his pupils dilated with excitement at the promise of a good feeding session. It was baffling to her that he refused to ask her to donate her blood. She knew consent and autonomy were important to Astarion, yeah, she understood that. But he still refused to come to her at nights when he needed to feed. They had to rely on her rather… unreliable memory to keep track of his feeding. 

Amara followed the vampire into his tent, and stood there as he fixed the bedroll and brought the many cushions and pillows he collected into the space. She tried to distract her mind from her frustration, knowing that negative thoughts only made her bloodlust rise. 

“Here. The throne is ready, your Majesty.” 

His sarcasm made her snicker. He always cracked a joke when he was nervous, and Amara wondered what was getting him in this mood. Perhaps it was the fact that he was going hungry?

She laid down on the bedroll, smiling as she made herself comfortable. Astarion followed, straddling her legs and reaching down with trembling fingers to undo the buttons keeping her robe together. Amara stared up at his face, noticing the way he bit his lower lip. 

He hasn’t fed a single night since they arrived at the Shadow Cursed Lands. And that was… two weeks ago. Gods damn it. Amara. You need to be more mindful.

“I’m sorry, Astarion. I should have noticed earlier.” 

“Oh, come on. I understand. Not everyone wants to keep feeding a vampire.”

“Astarion. That’s not fair. You know I want to. I’d never do anything to hurt you. And… making you starve counts as hurting you. Please, forgive me. It will not happen again.”

Astarion managed to finish working with the buttons of her robe, opening it wide and exposing her chest to the air. Her freckled skin instantly covered in goosebumps - it was a chilly night - but Amara did nothing to cover her nakedness to his eyes. 

“Thank you, Amara.” He murmured, two fingers trailing her collarbone. The touch made her shiver, a familiar heat beginning to pool between her legs. She bit her lip, reopening the wound she did earlier. Calm down. He’s not here for that.

“From now on, you will be feeding every night.” She announced, interrupting his train of thoughts. “Every single night, after my dinner. And there will be no exceptions.”

That made Astarion raise an eyebrow, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lip. “Does that mean I get to sleep with you every night?”

Amara grunted, glancing away. “Fine. But you are tying me up. Just– Just in case.”

“Ooh. Fun.” 

The vampire leaned in, too impatient to keep this conversation going. Her jugular vein was pulsing under her thin skin, and it was beckoning him, calling his name. He pressed his lips to the very point he wanted to feed from, almost an apology. 

“I’m serious, Astarion.”

“Fine, fine. Now keep quiet, darling. I’m starving.”

Moments later, Astarion’s fangs were sinking into her flesh. The sharp pain made the sorcerer gasp and her eyes roll closed, her entire body arching into the vampire’s chest. The pain was intense -  more so now that it had been a while. But, by the gods, Amara did love it. A wide, lazy grin spread on her lips as she adjusted under his weight, one hand on his ribs and the other on the back of his head, keeping him in place.

Astarion groaned, drinking greedily from the blood Amara had to offer. He shifted on top of her, and he was visibly trying to keep himself from taking too much or making too much of a mess. 

Pain gave way to delicious numbness, and Amara tilted her head to the side, keeping her eyes closed as she let her lover take from her. A wild thought occurred to her, which made her grin.

I want him to kill me like this.

Gods! Wouldn’t it be glorious to let her life force feed him completely? To know that he is the one that took her life? That ended her suffering? To be part of him in something as intimate and personal as death… To be the blood in his veins, the sweat on his skin, the saliva on his tongue–

“Amara. Amara. Open your eyes.”

She gasped when he felt Astarion’s hands shaking her shoulders, her eyes flying open. She didn’t realize she drifted off, and now she felt everything: her fingertips were tingling uncomfortably, and she had tunnel vision. Astarion took a bit too much blood. She forgot to warn him. Whoops.

“Sorry, love, I fell asleep.”

“You passed out.” Astarion has his thumb pressed to one of the puncture marks on her neck, trying to stop the bleed. Amara felt a wave of exhaustion, and she scooted over to let him rest next to her. 

“Same thing. Come here. I want to hug you.”

Astarion stared at her for a few seconds as he decided if she was truly okay. But aside from the pallor and the dark circles under her eyes… she seemed like she would be okay. Nothing a quick restoration spell couldn’t fix in the morning. 

“Gods. I’ve been dying to hear those words.” Astarion immediately made himself comfortable next to her body, his head resting on her chest, white locks of hair tickling Amara’s nose. She had to push the fluff down, but she was smiling as she kissed the top of his head. Astarion settled beside her, an arm over her stomach and a leg tangled with hers. 

“Is– Is that–?” Amara blinked as she felt something pressing insistently against her thigh. She tried to peek down there, but Astarion didn’t move an inch.

“Ignore it. It’ll go away.”

“Oh.”

“Go to sleep, my sweet bloodbag.” 

“Alright.”

As if she could after what just happened. 

[agirlsawalittlerose]

This is Me Trying

ModernAU!Aegon x OFC

Fresh out of rehab, Aegon Targaryen is looking for a way back into music when he meets Victoria, a talented but stubborn singer-songwriter who wants nothing to do with his family’s record label. Reluctantly thrown together, they form an unexpected creative partnership, finding common ground in music and shared struggles.

TW: Alcoholism, Addiction, Sexism

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 14: Walkway Blues

Wine, Pringles, the red sofa in the living room, and her best friend. Vic couldn’t think of a better evening.

She desperately needed it, after the chaos of the past few weeks and the looming threat of the Christmas party hanging over her like a dark cloud.

On the TV, a contestant on MasterChef was having an absolute meltdown over an undercooked lamb chop.

“This is embarrassing,” Sara said, shaking her head as she tucked her legs under her. “How do you get on MasterChef without knowing how to cook lamb?”

“I know, right? How difficult can it be?” Vic agreed, narrowing her eyes at the screen. “You season aggressively, sear it hard, baste it in butter. It’s not complicated.”

Sara turned to look at her. “Love, why do you sound like a non-Scottish Gordon Ramsay?” she asked, grinning proudly.

Vic barely knew how to fry an egg. And as for Sara, 99% of her diet consisted of Tesco meal deals and Taco Bell.

Vic ignored the question, leaning forward slightly. “Oh, here we go. He’s gonna cry.”

The contestant, a man far too confident for someone presenting a piece of meat that was still practically alive, was stammering his way through an explanation. The judges were unimpressed.

“I bet he blames the oven,” Sara muttered, taking a sip of wine.

And, as if on cue—

“It’s just… I think my oven wasn’t calibrated properly,” the contestant said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sara groaned. “Unbelievable.”

Vic scoffed. “That’s like blaming your guitar when you play a bad gig.”

Sara smirked. “Or the tap for a bad Guinness.”

“Oh my God, Sara. Depressing. That’s the best you could come up with?” Vic asked, half exasperated, half laughing, she noticed Sara laughing with her mouth open, before turning back to the screen. “Look at his face. He knows he’s done for.”

They watched in silence as the head judge cut into the meat, exposing a raw center that could’ve still been bleeding.

Sara exhaled dramatically. “Pack your knives and go.”

“That’s Top Chef,” Vic corrected.

“Same energy,” Sara said, taking another sip.

Vic grinned and reached for her own glass, only to find it empty. Without thinking, she stood up and stretched. “I’m getting another bottle.”

Sara glanced at the clock, then at Vic. “Don’t you have studio tomorrow?”

Vic waved a hand. “Not until the afternoon.” She walked toward the kitchen, calling back over her shoulder, “I’ll be fine.”

Sara didn’t reply, but Vic felt the weight of her silence. She ignored it. Focused on getting the bottle.

When she returned, Sara was watching her with an expression Vic didn’t like. Careful. Attentive. Concerned. Or at least something close enough to make her skin prickle.

Vic poured the wine, taking a long sip before settling back on the couch.

“So,” Sara said, her voice quieter now. “How are you?”

Vic blinked, caught off guard. “I’m fine.” She forced a lightness into her voice, but she could already feel the tension creeping in.

Sara gave her a look. “I mean, really.”

Vic took another sip. “Still fine.”

Sara set her glass down, watching her carefully. “You haven’t been yourself lately.”

Vic frowned, playing dumb. “What does that mean?”

Sara sighed, shifting to face her fully. “I mean, you’ve been a little… off. Since, you know—”

She didn’t have to finish the sentence.

Since St. Louis. Since her brother’s incident. Since Aegon, the red bricks, and an unfinished cigarette.

Vic’s stomach clenched.

She took another sip, keeping her expression neutral. “I’m fine, Sara.”

Sara didn’t look convinced. “You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?”

The words hit harder than Vic expected.

She should say yes. She should say of course. But the truth sat heavy in her chest, pressing down on her ribs, making it hard to breathe.

So she just smiled, small and tight. “Obviously.”

Sara didn’t push. Just studied her for a second longer, then let it go.

The silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable, until Vic grabbed onto the first distraction she could find.

“Oh, shit, he’s eating his own raw lamb,” she said, nodding toward the screen, forcing her voice to sound easy, amused. “Man’s got balls.”

Sara exhaled, but a small smile tugged at her lips. “I hope he gets kicked off just for the oven excuse.”

Vic laughed, taking another sip of wine—only to realize Sara was still watching her.

“I talked to Aegon…” Sara started.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Vic cut her off, lifting a finger. “Sara, babe, love of my entire existence. What did I tell you about using that name outside of work hours?” she asked, comically serious, her head light from the wine.

Sara huffed, rolling her eyes. “I know, but I talked to him and—”

“And unless you’re in mortal danger because of him—and honestly, not entirely impossible—I don’t care,” Vic interrupted again, trying to sound firm but keeping it lighthearted.

Sara sighed, clearly unimpressed with that answer. There was definitely something she thought Vic should know. But Vic had shoved Aegon under the rug as much as possible—she could even look at him now without feeling like an earthquake was ripping through her stomach. She didn’t need revelations.

“What about Aemond, then?” Sara tried again.

Vic raised a brow, grabbing a handful of chips. “What about him?”

Sara gestured vaguely. “I mean… you two have been spending a lot of time together.”

Vic snapped her head toward her, looking somewhere between bewildered and horrified. “Oh my God, Sara, no. We’re friends.”

“Friends like you and Aegon?”

“No, babe. Actual friends. He’s not my type.”

Sara shrugged, finally—finally—looking convinced for the first time that night. “Just checking.”

“For fuck’s sake, Sara, our conversations would not pass the Bechdel test,” Vic muttered, shaking her head with a laugh as she picked up her wine.

Sara burst out laughing, lifting her own glass and turning to her.

“Fuck men.”

“Fuck men,” Vic echoed, clinking her glass against Sara’s.

The next day, Vic stepped into the studio, nursing a mild hangover and a Coke zero. She wasn’t wrecked, not really, just slightly off-kilter in the way she always was after a night of drinking—like her brain was moving half a second behind everything else.

The studio was mostly empty, save for one familiar figure sitting on the sofa, guitar in hand. Aegon.

She stopped in the doorway. “Where is everyone?”

He barely glanced up, fingers still idly plucking at the strings. “Aemond sent an email. Moved rehearsal with the band an hour later.”

Vic blinked. “Oh.”

Aegon finally looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “You didn’t see it?”

“No.” She exhaled sharply through her nose, shifting her weight. “Didn’t check my emails.” Which was true. She hadn’t checked much of anything after she got home, too busy drinking and ignoring the part of her brain that sounded a lot like Sara.

Aegon didn’t comment, just nodded once before looking back down at his guitar. His fingers moved, coaxing out a quiet arpeggio.

Vic lingered by the door for a moment, fingers tapping against the side of her Coke. The silence stretched, awkward and heavy. Aegon was still fiddling with his guitar, picking out the melody to Oblivion, the designated single, almost ready for the Christmas party.

She hated awkward silences.

Without thinking too hard about it—because thinking too hard would mean acknowledging things she didn’t want to acknowledge—she wandered over to the bass resting against its stand.

Aegon’s eyes flicked to her, his fingers pausing for half a second before he shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He started playing again, and Vic fell in easily, plucking out the root notes first before letting herself settle into the groove.

But then Aegon, like the little shit he was, changed the chord progression.

Vic’s fingers stuttered for a split second before she adjusted, following the shift smoothly. She shot him a sharp look.

Aegon grinned.

Oh, so that’s how he wanted to play it?

Fine.

He changed the rhythm next, and Vic was right there with him, keeping up like it was second nature.

He sped up. She followed.

He threw in an unexpected pause. She anticipated it.

It became a game, a test of reflexes, a silent challenge wrapped in melody. Aegon kept throwing curveballs, expecting to trip her up, and she kept meeting them head-on, adapting so fast it was like she knew what he was going to do before he did it.

The grin Aegon was trying to fight off finally broke through. “Alright, show-off.”

Vic smirked, not even pretending to be modest. “You started it.”

He rolled his eyes and Vic did the same in reflex.

He settled back into the original progression, and Vic followed instinctively, their playing falling into sync like they hadn’t spent the last few weeks barely speaking to each other.

******

Aemond just didn’t know how to handle women—there was no other way to put it.

Sure, Aegon had occasionally caught him flirting with the harpist who dropped by the label every now and then. Maybe he’d even managed to sleep with her half a time, but it was painfully obvious that any woman worth her salt could eat him for breakfast without breaking a sweat.

But whatever, Aegon was in surprisingly high spirits that evening, thanks to that day’s rehearsals being particularly satisfying.

They were packing up their instruments when his brother showed up carrying a black coffee in a to-go cup and ceremoniously handed it to Vic, blushing like a schoolboy just because she’d said thank you.

Hazelnut syrup cappuccino—that was Vic’s favorite, Aegon thought as he plopped down onto one of the armchairs, momentarily marveling at his own memory. Maybe quitting drugs did have its perks after all.

But Vic had wasted no time and had already taken a sip.

“You were absolutely right, this stuff isn’t bad at all,” she commented, one hand resting on her hip as she shot Aemond one of her soul-destroying looks.

Aemond hunched his shoulders in response, his face holding something dangerously close to a smile—a sight rare enough to be noteworthy—and then launched into a ramble about aromatic qualities and how cigarettes supposedly tasted better after a black coffee. As if to prove his point, he pulled out the steel cigarette case he always kept in his pocket and offered her one.

She accepted. The two of them strolled out to the terrace, chatting away like it was the most natural thing in the world.

What a pathetic sight. What a complete disappointment.

Aegon forced himself to look away, muttering something under his breath as Cole and the rest of the session players packed up their gear. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

Maybe it was time to tell Cole to start looking for another bassist. It was only a matter of time before Aemond’s terminal awkwardness rubbed off on Vic, and she started driving Aegon crazy with nonsense about flat-wound bass strings. There was no way he’d put up with that.

"What do you think? Are you ready?" Cole asked, placing a hand on Aegon’s shoulder and snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts as he stared at the two idiots out on the terrace.

"Why? Did I seem not ready to you?" Aegon replied, his posture stiffening. He suddenly felt insecure, caught off guard by the question.

The label’s Christmas party was set for that Friday, and no, he wasn’t ready—not even close. But Aegon knew he probably never would be ready to endure his father’s sharp-edged judgment.

Of course, he couldn’t tell Cole that. Especially not with the other musicians in earshot.

"I think the track’s a hit, and you guys sound tight," Cole said with a quick glance toward Dan, the other guitarist, "but Dan’s an asshole, and I don’t trust him." Cole whispered to his ear.

Aegon laughed, unable to disagree. Dan had tried more than once to sneak in flashy flourishes that, first of all, sounded awful, and second, reeked of desperation and a need for attention—exactly the kind of thing Aegon couldn’t afford to let slide.

"What if you played it acoustic?" Cole added after a moment.

Aegon considered him, his mind churning.

If he performed it acoustic, his father wouldn’t be able to attribute the success of the song to anyone but him. And it would mean no Vic and her new sycophantic fanboy getting in his way for at least a few days.

It was a win-win.

“Oh Cole, you wanker, don’t threaten me with a good time," Aegon replied with far too much confidence.

*****

"You haven’t played me anything new yet," Aemond said to Vic as she huddled into her jacket, bracing herself against the biting December wind.

He immediately regretted the way it came out. His tone had been too stern, almost authoritarian—the last thing he needed was to put Vic on the defensive, especially now that her attitude toward him was no longer one of outright rejection.

She was finally starting to warm up to him, even agreeing to come to the Christmas party and perform in front of his father. The idea of her signing with the label felt closer than ever, a tangible reality within reach.

Thankfully, Vic didn’t seem rattled. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, taking a long drag from her cigarette, and smiled faintly.

"I don’t have anything good," she said, shrugging lightly.

"Bullshit," Aemond replied, his eyes glued to her in a way he couldn’t quite control. "Don’t make me show up at open mic night just to prove you wrong."

Vic smiled, shifting her gaze to the city sprawled out below them. “I thought you liked coming to open mic nights,” she said, throwing him a sly look.

“I only go to hear you,” Aemond replied impulsively, his carefully constructed filter—the one that had taken years to perfect—suddenly malfunctioning.

It wasn’t exactly how he would’ve phrased it if he’d given himself a second to think, but too late now. And, really, it didn’t matter; it was true. As she turned her eyes back to his, he thought he caught the faintest hint of a blush rising on her cheeks.

Surely he was imagining it.

“Need a ride?” Aegon’s voice broke through, startling them both as he appeared in the doorway leading to the terrace.

Of course. Of course his brother had to show up at the worst possible moment, as if timed by some cosmic joke.

Aegon tossed out the question with his usual cocky, indifferent air, the same attitude that grated on Vic just as much as it did on Aemond.

She raised an eyebrow, her expression sharp and skeptical, as if silently asking him to explain himself further.

“I have to drop something off with Sara,” Aegon added, his tone offhanded and deliberately vague.

Aemond smirked to himself at the flimsy excuse—probably the oldest one in the book. Why not just admit outright that something was going on between him and Sara? Aegon’s newfound sense of discretion was puzzling. Usually, he couldn’t help but brag about his latest fling.

And yet...it wasn’t like him to keep quiet.

Vic seemed to share Aemond’s suspicion, her confused expression lingering even now. “Isn’t she working?” she asked.

Aegon shook his head. “She worked the morning shift.”

Vic stubbed out her cigarette against the ashtray mounted near the doorframe, the motion so swift and feline that, for a split second, Aemond half-expected her to put it out on Aegon’s face instead.

Then, she turned back to him, handing him the lighter he’d loaned her just minutes ago.

“I’ll let you know if inspiration strikes,” she said lightly, her hand briefly brushing his as he took the lighter back.

And just like that, she was gone, disappearing into the night with Aegon following closely behind.

Aemond wanted to respond with something clever or even mildly charming, but all he managed was a useless, muted “mh.”

*****

Vic didn’t want to know what the hell they were talking about in the kitchen.

It wasn’t her business. Aegon wasn’t her business, and besides, she trusted Sara.

And yet, this whole he had to return her t-shirt excuse seemed like complete bullshit.

For one, Aegon claimed he’d borrowed it on the night Charlie stayed over—the same night Sara had closed at work and Vic had gone home early with Charlie. But Vic knew Sara’s wardrobe like the back of her hand, and there was no way—absolutely no way—Sara would have shown up to work in that shirt.

Also, why would Sara have lent Aegon a shirt in the first place? It wasn’t like she kept a stash of spares for emergencies. And even if, for some bizarre reason, Aegon had needed one, why the hell would he have chosen a Paddington t-shirt at least two sizes too small for him?

And if he’d borrowed it for whatever dumbass reason—why hadn’t he just given it back the other night at the pub?

Vic didn’t want to know what the hell they were talking about, and yet lying on her bed in silence, staring at the ceiling, was only driving her closer to insanity.

She sat up abruptly, brushing her bangs out of her face with a nervous swipe before slapping a hand over her face and glancing around for her tobacco. Her gaze caught on the guitar.

She felt a pang of guilt for lying to Aemond.

It wasn’t true that she had “nothing good.” She’d been writing nonstop ever since she and Aegon had stopped speaking.

“All You Wanted” had come out of her in one rush of emotion during a rare night when she hated him a little less. She’d been thinking about all the things she wished she’d said to him instead of...well, instead of what she had done.

Of course, maybe she hadn’t technically lied to Aemond. The song wasn’t ready. She was still tweaking it, still figuring out the last details.

But even if it was ready—even if it was perfect—she still wouldn’t play it. Not at open mic, not anywhere.

Too personal. Just a bit too revealing.

As she sat there, cigarette unlit, thoughts swirling, Vic found herself struck by the ridiculous dramatic irony of the moment. Here she was, about to pick up “All You Wanted,” while the man who’d inspired it sat just ten meters away, separated only by a wall.

Talking to her roommate. Sitting on her sofa. Probably drinking her tea.

Abandoning the tobacco, she reached for the guitar instead.

******

“You’re both pathetic,” Sara had said, without ceremony or even sparing him a glance. She sat at the kitchen table with her legs perfectly crossed, a cup of tea in her hand, shaking her head like a disappointed preschool teacher.

What annoyed Aegon even more was that every single attempt to steer the conversation away from Vic had failed miserably. Sara kept pressing him for updates—had they talked about what had happened? Had he grown a pair and told Vic how he felt?

If she weren’t the closest thing he had right now to the possibility of vulnerable sex, he would’ve told her to screw off.

No, actually.

If she weren’t the closest thing he had to a friend, he definitely would’ve told her to screw off.

“I don’t get what the hell you want from me!” he snapped, frustrated, slamming the tea mug down onto the table with more force than necessary.

“I’ve got nothing to say to her. I don’t want to talk to her, and even if I did, she’s practically glued to Aemond now!”

Sara snorted, the sound sharp enough to cut through his growing irritation.

“Unbelievable. You’re actually jealous of your brother.”

AS IF. Aegon didn’t even dignify the comment with a response. No, he wasn’t jealous—he just meant that even if he did want to figure out some way to smooth things over with Vic, maybe even talk her into ditching whatever girl code nonsense was stopping him from taking Sara to bed, he couldn’t exactly have that conversation in front of Aemond.

Or in front of the Uber driver who had ferried the two of them here together.

Damn Vic Dawson for putting him in this position. The entire ride over, he’d had to endure 20 minutes of painful small talk about Arsenal matches with the driver, all because of her.

“Why are you the one changing the subject every five minutes?” Aegon asked, finally fed up with circling around the real reason he’d come here.

Sara turned her face toward him suddenly, arching a single brow, though she radiated an air of total awareness. She knew where this was going, and maybe that was why she deliberately shifted her legs, angling them away from him.

“Because I’m not going out with you, Aegon,” Sara said firmly, her gaze steadfastly avoiding his.

Yeah, okay. Bullshit.

Aegon could smell bullshit a mile away—it was practically his second language.

“And why not?” he pressed, confidence rushing in to fill the space left behind by her discomfort. Her hesitation was like a soothing balm to his recently battered ego.

He had at least two solid counterarguments ready for whatever nonsense she might throw at him about not dating someone who’s been in your friend’s bed. For one thing, technically, he’d never been in Vic’s bed. Not practically.

And for another, it was obvious Sara was into him.

Painfully obvious from the way she turned toward him again, her chin resting on one hand, those green eyes of hers locking with his. Aegon could practically taste the victory teasing his tongue, sweet and just within reach.

“Because I don’t do placeholders or stand-ins,” she replied coolly. “Especially not for people who are clearly hung up on someone else.”

Aegon felt the blood in his veins freeze. He’d heard exactly what Sara had said, but his brain had processed her words in an entirely different way.

Sara had asked him not to use her—not to make her another one of his stupid coping mechanisms, just a temporary fix to make himself feel better.

His mind darted back to that damn night weeks ago, to how Vic had made him feel. Just a placeholder. Someone to fill the void because Charlie hadn’t wanted her back.

Suddenly, the blood in his body started flowing again—but now it was molten, boiling with shame.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his eyes dropping to the floor, unable to face what he had just suggested.

Sara didn’t say anything.

In the heavy silence of the kitchen, the only sound that broke through was the faint strum of a guitar.

The sound yanked Aegon’s head around almost instinctively.

“Does she always do this?” he asked, his irritation barely masked now that Vic had started to sing. Part of him was annoyed—Vic seemed to have a knack for getting under his skin without even trying—and part of him just wanted to dissipate the thick tension between him and Sara.

Sara shrugged, feigning exasperation. “Always,” she replied.

Suddenly, Aegon had no desire to stay in that house any longer.

He got to his feet, catching Sara’s glance as he moved. “Thanks for the shirt... and for the tea.”

“Anytime,” she said, her tone casual. But perhaps she noticed the guilt that clouded his expression, because she added, “We good?”

Aegon paused, studying her for a moment before giving her a genuine smile. “I hope so.”

Sara returned the faintest of smiles before standing to clear the empty cups off the table.

Aegon knew it was borderline psychopathic behavior to wander silently through someone else’s house, but he couldn’t stop himself. Curiosity had taken hold, steering his legs toward the partially open door of Vic’s room.

Vic was sitting on her bed, a pair of oversized headphones clamped over her ears, plugged into an amp. An old green notebook lay open in front of her, and from the way she was playing now—nodding furiously—Aegon could tell she’d just worked through something she hadn’t liked. She always nodded like that when she thought she’d nailed it.

She was turned three-quarters toward the window, and yet Aegon couldn’t look away from the curve of her cheekbone, the subtle line catching the glow from the room. It tilted upward as she smiled, the unmistakable signal that she was about to start singing.

It felt almost like cheating, but after everything that had happened, if there was a shortcut to Vic’s thoughts—even a morally questionable one—Aegon wanted to take it.

Maybe, despite the fear of stumbling into yet another irritating love letter to Charlie, he hoped he had been enough in her thoughts to force her to pour them out like this. After all, she hadn’t actually spoken to him about what had happened.

And while the first verse hadn’t offered him any real comfort, the moment Vic started singing about someone who seemed cold on the outside but needed someone to guide them, Aegon felt something stir in his chest.

And if that hadn’t been enough to convince him that Vic was singing about him—about the wave of insecurities they’d faced and how they could have ridden it together—when the chorus hit, the words shattered any lingering doubt.

Aegon felt like an idiot for ever doubting, even for a second, that everything Vic had done—her silence, the desperation with which she’d sought him out—hadn’t been anything less than a cry for help. One that she’d believed only he could hear.

He didn’t know what it meant entirely, not yet. He hadn’t figured out if this was the grand declaration of love he’d been waiting for that night outside his building. But for someone who’d spent weeks believing he was just a footnote, a scribbled thought lost in the endless sea of an old notebook, he now understood something else entirely:

He wasn’t just a passing idea.

He was an entire song.

In her mind.

In her chest.

In her voice.

Footsteps startled him, pulling him from the moment. Aegon instinctively stepped back, not wanting Vic to realize he’d been standing there, listening. His gaze snapped toward the source of the sound—and when he spotted Sara at the bottom of the stairs, her grin told him everything.

“I knew you’d like this one,” she said, her tone sly.

Hello, beauties! A quick message to thank you for all the love, you’re truly amazing 🥹 and to remind you that yes, I stole one of my all-time favorite songs and gave it to Vic. We declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist and she deserves THE WORLD, and that’s exactly why I wanted to pay tribute to her. Plus, I think it fits perfectly with the dynamic of our two idiots. Thanks for your understanding, I hope, as always, that I haven’t ruined your suspension of disbelief 🤍

[maddpool]

@nuggetpool-hi and @radpool saving my sanity one art piece at a time 🙇🏻❤️💛

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

Me, while manically cleaning my room at 3:27am: I should make several large, life-changing, irreversible decisions.

[jimmyspades]

[peapod20001]

I’m the type that can and will cry if think too hard <3

[arcane-vagabond]

.

[biracy]

Tbh I should probably take a break. I almost definitely won't but I should, yknow