#it's quiet and overcast and beautiful

[tggardens]

Planes, raindrops, and a breeze in the trees.

[misskohane]

"Borealis"

winter, 2025

[malfnction-54]

this was the beginning of my sad two hour long car ride that consisted solely of taking pictures to make my life seem a little better haha. it was a really pretty day so I took advantage of it despite going through an awful event :,)

[herbalnature]

The image showcases a serene natural landscape at Riverfront Park in Billings, Montana, capturing the tranquil waters surrounded by grassy banks and bare trees. The overcast sky adds to the atmosphere, dotted with sunlit clouds that reflect off the water's surface, highlighting the quiet beauty of the area. Credit: /u/Lindseyrj7

[ixloom819]

Snap Back to Reality (P4)

Here's the next part of the Yan!Sylus AU. Enjoy!

Sylus was a busy man, being the head of an operation such as Onychinus. There were endless meetings to attend and paperwork to do. He would spend hours clicking on his computer, eyes only occasionally glazed with boredom as they scanned pixelated words.

But now, his office wasn’t empty anymore.

When you first appeared in this world, Sylus gave you a harmless administrative job for Onychinus, so you could make yourself useful outside of your knowledge. While complaining about work was a fundamental human aspect, you did truly appreciate having something to do with your day. It helped give you some structure in the day and kept the calmer days from being boring.

Now, the two of you worked together in the same space, filling it with each other’s presence. You would talk occasionally, but there was no need for conversation. Existing in the same room felt like enough to soothe your souls.

Mid-afternoon, you stood from your chair and stretched. “I’m going to go get a snack from the kitchen,” you announced. “Do you want anything?”

Sylus glanced up at you and smiled. “I’m alright. Thank you, my love.”

It was ridiculous how easy it was for this man to make butterflies flutter in your stomach. Giving him a smile, you crossed the room and stepped out the door.

You had a second where you heard a panicked cry… Luke? “CRAP, WAIT-!”

A blinding pain struck your head, and blackness immediately engulfed you.

…

The first thing you saw was white. White with blurry lines.

You groaned and tried to sit up. Your body aches all over, but you only remember something hitting you in the head. Was it one of the twins’ pranks?

You caught someone out of the corner of your eye. Was that… a doctor?

You’re finally awake, he said. You’ve been in a coma for quite a while now. We were a bit worried.

You leaned back, stunned silent. A… coma…?

…Of course, that made sense. Being put into a fictional world? Somehow romancing a character meant for someone else? It had been one of your first theories when you ended up in that world.

And yet… it had lasted so long. Felt so real. Was it really all just a coma dream?

…Was it all fake?

…

You don’t remember leaving the hospital. But here you were, back in your ordinary life.

Familiar faces - coworkers, friends, family - welcomed you back. Told you how glad they were that you were okay and how worried they were.

You met them with smiles that didn’t quite reach your eyes, assurances that you were fine, and appreciation for their concern.

Life shifted back to how it was before the accident. Back to normal.

But it didn’t feel normal. Not when you had adopted a new normal, even if it was just in your head.

You found yourself squinting as you passed a window. It was too bright outside. You were used to seeing black clouds and a blood-red moon. Even when you first arrived, it was beautiful in its unnatural climate. You kept wishing for the weather to turn overcast.

There was busy noise around you, but it wasn’t the same as it was there. At the Onychinus base, it was either peaceful quiet or a huge racket from whatever mischief the twins were getting into. The noise here was a constant buzzing that grated on your nerves.

And the people…

It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with them. They were still the people you knew, people you cared about. But note they seemed… dull. Restrained. Compared to the unbridled chaos of Sylus, Luke, Kieran, and even Mephisto, they were all just… flat.

…

You don’t remember going home, yet here you were. You were curled up on your bed, looking at your phone. Looking at the Love and Deepspace app.

Do you dare open it?

You have to, you told yourself. If you were going to get over your coma-dream-world, you had to start going back to normal. And that meant playing Love and Deepspace and remembering that it was just a game.

You click on the icon. You went to Destiny Cafe.

There he was. Large stature, silver-white hair, and scarlet eyes, Sylus smirked at you in all his glory.

Except… it wasn’t the same. You internally marveled at your mind’s capacity to give Sylus features that couldn’t exist in his finite, pixelated form. The way his eyes wrinkled at the corners when he smiled. The line by his mouth that the twins swore up and down was a dimple.

He spoke. “Welcome back, kitten.”

You flinched. Without realizing it, you had exited the app and shut off your phone.

Kitten…

You remembered the one time Sylus had called you kitten in that world. You had reacted similarly. You had flinched away a bit and immediately said, “Don’t call me that.”

Sylus was surprised both by your protest and the speed with which you had done so. “And why’s that?” he’d asked teasingly yet genuinely.

You’d felt silly admitting it, but you answered, “…That’s your nickname for her. MC, Miss Hunter, your sorceress. That’s her name. Not mine.”

I’m not her is what you hadn’t said but meant.

Sylus didn’t soften or scorn you, nothing to show acknowledgement. But you hadn’t heard him call you kitten after that moment.

It was ridiculous, you told yourself. Kitten was just the voice line used. It was your name on the screen. The game didn’t have the capability to say each player’s individual name.

Yet, it was a reminder that he wasn’t talking to you anymore. He was talking to the protagonist, the one he was supposed to love.

You didn’t mean anything to Sylus anymore.

…

You don’t remember going to the store. You’ve been having trouble remembering going places. Maybe you should go back to the doctor, get some tests done.

Right now, you were in an aisle, trying to remember what you were there to get. You scanned the shelves of foodstuffs, wondering what it was you needed.

Someone called for your attention. You turned to look at them.

It was a guy, one you didn’t recognize. He wasn’t bad looking, but he didn’t catch your interest either.

He told you that you looked beautiful. A bit surprised to get a random compliment, you thanked him.

Then he asked if he could get your number, saying he’d like to take you out sometime.

You froze. What was happening? Was a random guy really asking you on a date literally out of nowhere? It didn’t feel real…

A face flashed through your mind. Silver-white hair. Red eyes.

Don’t be ridiculous, you scolded yourself. Sylus wasn’t real. It wasn’t like you’d be cheating on him.

Here was a nice guy asking you out. Maybe this is what you need. Probably not as a long-term relationship, but something to help bring you back to reality.

He wasn’t Sylus. It wasn’t fair to compare this guy to a fictional character; standards made to be unmet.

Yet the heart was hardly logical. And you couldn’t ignore the pit in your stomach as you considered it.

So you thanked him, informed him you weren’t interested in dating at the moment, and then left the aisle.

…

You don’t remember coming into a waiting room. The walls were all white. This must be the doctor’s office, right?

That must be why you’re here. These lapses in memory and purpose couldn’t be good for you. You needed to make sure nothing was wrong, that you were alright.

You passively scanned around the room. It was filled with chairs and side tables, and magazines were lying on the tables. There were other people in the room, presumably waiting their turn.

Finding nothing catching your attention and not interested enough to pick up a magazine, you sat back in your chair and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

How much time had passed? You looked at the clock on the wall. It looked a bit past… 

7:20? AM or PM, it was a weird time to meet with a doctor - either too early or too late.

Wait…

You looked around the room again, focusing on the people. There were people there, you were sure of that, yet…

You couldn’t make out any definitive information. You couldn’t tell how old anyone was, what their hair color was, what they looked like.

Was this…?

You grabbed a magazine. One last test. You opened it to a random page and tried to read it.

You couldn’t make out any words. You tried, but they came out as lines of black, squiggles in your vision with no meaning.

You were dreaming.

Your head started hurting.

That’s why things were so weird. That’s why you didn’t remember going places, because you just shifted to the next scene. That’s why you kept glancing over people, because they didn’t have semblance unless you actually knew them.

That’s why you felt disconnected from the world.

Because it wasn’t real.

Your head was pounding.

How did dreaming work? Weren’t you supposed to wake up soon when you figured out you were dreaming?

Wake up.

It hurts.

Wake up.

It hurts so much.

Wake up…

…

You felt the shift. Where you had felt awake and upright, now your body felt heavy with sleep, especially around your eyes. The headache persisted.

You forced yourself to open your eyes, blinking the blurriness away.

You recognize your surroundings. You were in the Onychinus medical wing.

You felt an enormous sense of relief. You were back…

The next thing you notice is the person by your side. It was Sylus. He was scrolling through his phone - probably some business-related stuff. His brows were furrowed in a way that indicated something was bothering him.

You marvelled at seeing him in his true glory. So many little details about him… how could your mind have come up with them? Your heart swelled at the sight of him.

You pushed yourself up, his name on your lips. “Sy-”

A splitting pain shot through your head, and you stopped in your tracks, hissing as you clutched your head. “Ow…!”

Large, steady hands grabbed you and settled you back down on the bed. You opened your eyes to see Sylus with his complete attention on you. He looked worried at the pain you were displaying, but you also saw relief, tangible in comparison to how you had seen him a moment before.

“Careful, darling,” he murmured. “You’ve got quite the concussion.”

“Yeah, figured it was something like that,” you said, trying to joke around the pain. “What happened?”

Sylus’ expression soured just a bit. “It would seem,” his voice was a bit chipped, “that the twins had forgotten that I’m not the only occupant in my office anymore.”

“Ah,” you said with comprehension. “A prank meant for you?”

“A prank meant for someone more durable,” Sylus agreed. “Trust me, they’re dealing with the consequences.”

You knew he wouldn’t hurt them. But you still winced inside at the idea of what Sylus would consider a suitable punishment for them.

You took a moment to steel yourself. Then you pushed yourself up again. Your head screamed in protest, but you didn’t stop until you had embraced Sylus, holding him in your arms.

You relished in being able to feel him. His body, his scent, his heat, his heartbeat. You didn’t realize how much he soothed you until you lost him.

You could tell you had taken him by surprise by the way he stiffened a bit. But he was quick to reciprocate, wrapping his arms around your shoulders while moving you closer to him to make you more comfortable.

“What’s this about, love?” Sylus asked in his teasing yet curious tone.

“I just… missed you,” you said softly.

“Did you go somewhere?” Again, said as a joke, but meant as a real question.

You had a moment’s doubt on whether to tell him. But you didn’t want to hide things from him either. “I dreamed that… well, this was all a dream. That I survived the accident and woke up.”

You felt the sliver of tension creep into his body. “Is that so?”

If you hadn’t felt the tenseness and learned his different tones, you’d think Sylus was merely conversational.

“Was it a good dream?” His tone was casual, but you could tell the hidden question behind it. Did you prefer being back in your world? Were you happier there?

And you knew your answer.

“It was nice to see everyone again,” you responded, because you wouldn’t lie to him. You moved back, wincing a bit, so you could meet his gaze. “But I missed it here.

“I missed you.”

It looked like your response brought back a year of life in Sylus. Any tension melted away, and he pulled you into another hug. “I’m glad,” he said softly. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear that…”

You smiled. “Sylus, you don’t have to worry,” you replied, rubbing his back soothingly.

“My home is with you.”

Hey everyone! I didn't say this in the last post so as to not spoil the twist, but I'm finished with the main story of this AU. I'm planning on doing a few more short stories like this, and I may take requests, but that's about it. Thank you so much for all the support and encouragement. I wouldn't have gone this far without you :)

[novaursa]

The Northern Heart (1/2)

- Summary: Your father, King Robert, gives your hand to Eddard's oldest son. A decision that might change the future of the North.

- Pairing: baratheon!lannister!reader/Robb Stark

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: 2/2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The journey north had been long and tiring, and the wind was colder than you’d imagined. Winterfell loomed ahead, dark stone against an overcast sky, its towers casting jagged shadows. The North was starkly beautiful in a way the warm halls of the Red Keep could never match. You adjusted the fur-lined cloak clasped at your neck, the black of House Baratheon contrasting with the lion clasp, a quiet nod to the Lannister blood that ran through you, though it was not yours to display openly.

Your mother, Cersei, rode beside you, her green eyes scanning Winterfell with an air of disdain barely hidden beneath her serene mask. She sat tall, ever the queen, her golden hair gleaming in the pale sunlight. Your brothers, Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen, rode behind, their bright golden heads standing out against the muted grays of Winterfell’s walls. And your father—no, King Robert—was ahead, already bellowing greetings at the sight of the Stark family awaiting them in the courtyard.

As the procession slowed to a halt, you dismounted gracefully, though your legs ached from days of riding. Your mother’s eyes swept over you, a flicker of approval in them as you adjusted your cloak, falling in line with her and your siblings. As Robert strode forward, eager to greet his old friend Eddard Stark, you remained back, your place clear beside Cersei. You caught her eye, and she offered a subtle nod, a reminder to stay poised, as she always did.

Ahead, Robert greeted Eddard with a boisterous hug, their laughter carrying through the courtyard. Your gaze wandered to the family gathered at Lord Stark’s side. Lady Stark, her auburn hair swept back, her expression cool but welcoming. The young ones were gathered around her, curiosity and interest clear in their eyes. But it was the young man at Eddard Stark’s side, tall and broad-shouldered, that drew your attention.

Robb Stark.

His auburn hair matched his mother’s, and his face, though youthful, already held the strength and quiet intensity of his father. He was watching you—or rather, he’d been looking toward your family in general, but now his gaze lingered on you, his blue eyes tracing your features with a kind of hesitant awe. He was handsome, undeniably so, and the confidence you’d honed over years of court life faltered, just slightly, under the weight of that gaze.

You looked away, hoping the color rising in your cheeks wasn’t too obvious. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Joffrey watching the Starks with open disdain, but you ignored him. Instead, you found yourself glancing back at Robb, curious despite yourself, and caught him still looking at you.

“What do you think of the Starks, sister?” Myrcella asked beside you, her sweet voice barely above a whisper.

You leaned closer to her, eyes flickering toward Cersei before answering. “They seem… honorable,” you murmured, struggling for a word that felt right. The North was a world apart from King’s Landing, and the weight of the Northern air, the forthright gazes, all of it felt different—real.

Meanwhile, Robert’s booming laughter filled the air as he clapped Eddard on the back. “It’s been too damn long, Ned!” he declared, his voice echoing through the courtyard. “Seven hells, I’ve missed this place. And your family—look at them, already grown!”

Lord Stark’s smile was reserved, but you could see warmth in his eyes. “The years have been kind to us both, Robert. And you’ve brought your own family north. It’s an honor to welcome them here.”

Robert looked back over his shoulder, waving an arm toward you, Cersei, and the children. “Aye, they’re a fine brood, aren’t they?” His gaze settled on you briefly, pride flickering there. “My eldest,” he said, his tone softening. “She takes after her mother in beauty, but she’s got her father’s spirit, I’d say.”

Your mother’s lips curved into a perfect, practiced smile at his words, though you could sense the strain in her. She inclined her head gracefully, accepting the compliment on your behalf.

“Princess Y/N,” Eddard said, nodding in your direction, “Winterfell welcomes you.”

“Thank you, Lord Stark,” you replied, keeping your tone formal, though your voice was soft. Cersei’s fingers brushed your arm briefly, a reminder not to be too bold or warm. “The honor is ours.”

But it was not Eddard’s gaze you felt lingering on you. Robb stood a step behind his father, his blue eyes keen and watchful. There was something gentle, almost reverent in the way he looked at you, and for reasons you couldn’t quite place, that small expression made your heart race.

“Robb,” Eddard said, his voice low but carrying the authority of a father and lord, “come and meet the king’s family.”

Robb stepped forward, his movements steady, though he appeared young and nervous beneath his composure. He nodded to Robert first and then looked back at you with an intensity that seemed almost out of place in the quiet courtyard. “Princess,” he said, his voice steady though softer than you’d expected. “It’s an honor.”

The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of your lips, but you fought it back, simply inclining your head. “The honor is shared, Lord Robb,” you replied.

It was a simple exchange, but in that moment, it felt like more.

The air in the crypts was cold and heavy with the scent of stone and earth, the silence settling thickly around Eddard and Robert as they descended the worn steps into the shadows. Torches flickered in their iron brackets, casting long, twisting shadows over the figures immortalized in stone, ancient Stark kings and lords gazing solemnly from their resting places.

Robert paused in front of a statue, his face softened by the flickering light. His eyes, usually sharp with mirth or tempered with anger, now held something else—a quiet, lingering sadness that Ned hadn’t seen in years. Robert reached out and placed a rough hand against the face of the woman immortalized there in cold stone: Lyanna Stark, her face carved with a gentle beauty that no craftsman’s hands could ever fully capture. Flowers lay scattered at the base of her statue, their colors muted in the dim torchlight. Ned had left them there just the day before, a gesture of memory and honor.

“She was always so damn beautiful, wasn’t she?” Robert’s voice was low, almost reverent. “And all of this, everything, might have been different if she’d been mine. If Rhaegar hadn’t…” He trailed off, bitterness tightening his jaw.

“Aye,” Eddard replied, his voice as soft as the stillness around them. “The gods saw fit to tear us all down that day.”

Robert nodded slowly, lost in thought, his fingers brushing over the stone flowers woven into Lyanna’s statue. “I asked you here for more than just memories, Ned.” He turned, his gaze sharpening. “The realm is… not as it should be. I am surrounded by vipers and whisperers. I need someone I can trust.” His voice lowered, taking on a familiar intensity. “I need you, Ned. I want you to be my Hand.”

Eddard met Robert’s gaze, his heart heavy. “Robert… I’m no statesman. The North is my place. I don’t belong in the South, nor do my children.”

“That’s exactly why I need you.” Robert stepped closer, his face earnest, imploring. “You’re honest, Ned. You’ll do what’s right, even if it’s hard, even if it costs you. The realm needs someone like you. I need someone like you.”

Ned sighed, his eyes drifting back to Lyanna’s statue, the ache of old wounds stirring within him. “And what of the North? My children… they need me too.”

Robert nodded, understanding yet unyielding. “Bring them with you,” he said, voice steady. “Let them know the court. Let them see the world beyond the walls of Winterfell.” He hesitated, his gaze shifting, something almost hesitant in his expression. “In fact… I have an idea. A way to unite our Houses, as we should have done, as Lyanna and I would have done.”

Eddard turned back to him, frowning. “What do you mean?”

Robert’s eyes gleamed, a spark of hope breaking through the sorrow that lingered in them. “A marriage pact, Ned. We unite our bloodlines, our families.” He straightened, his voice taking on the tone of a king. “My son, Joffrey, and your daughter, Sansa. And…” He paused, eyes narrowing in thought. “My eldest daughter, Y/N, to your son, Robb.”

Eddard’s expression tightened, surprise flickering in his eyes. He opened his mouth, hesitating, his mind racing with the implications of Robert’s proposal. “A match between our children…” he murmured, almost to himself. “You truly wish this, Robert?”

Robert nodded, his voice softening. “It’s what I always wanted, Ned. To be part of your family, for our blood to be bound together.” He glanced back at Lyanna’s statue, a faint smile pulling at his lips. “I wanted your sister… and though the gods were cruel enough to take that from me, this… this could be a way to bring our houses together, as it should have been.”

Ned felt the weight of the proposal settling on him, his mind turning over the idea of Sansa with Joffrey and Robb with Y/N. “Sansa is still a child,” he began carefully, “and Robb… he’s young yet. I’d want to speak with them both. And Catelyn.”

Robert nodded. “Of course. But think of it, Ned. You have a son and a daughter, and I have a son and a daughter of age.” He straightened, the gleam of determination in his eyes returning. “Sansa would be queen one day. And your son… Robb would be heir to the North, united to the blood of both Baratheon and Lannister.”

Ned frowned. “The girl… Y/N,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “She has Lannister blood, Robert. I know how you feel about her mother’s family.”

Robert’s face darkened briefly, his gaze hardening. “Aye, Cersei is a Lannister. But Y/N is my daughter too. She carries the blood of my House, and though she bears the lion on her face, there’s stag in her heart.” His tone softened, almost pleading. “Ned, she’s not her mother. She’s…” He paused, searching for words, “She’s got fire, spirit, and I want her to know a man like your son. One of true honor, not some… viper of the South.”

Eddard considered this, his mind drifting to Robb. His son, dutiful, strong, and honorable—a match for any in the realm. And Y/N… she’d seemed poised, striking in the courtyard, with that quiet grace he’d seen in only a few women. He thought of Sansa, who had dreamed of becoming queen since she was a little girl, and his heart ached.

“Let me speak with Catelyn,” he said finally, his voice steady. “And with my children.”

Robert clapped a hand on his shoulder, a grin breaking through his somber expression. “I knew I could count on you, Ned. Together, our families could be what the realm needs. Strong, united.”

They turned to leave, but Robert lingered a moment longer, his gaze fixed on Lyanna’s stone face, his eyes shadowed with memories.

“Tell me, Ned,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper, “do you think she would have loved me?”

Eddard’s heart ached, the answer lodged somewhere deep, known only to him. “She was her own woman, Robert,” he replied softly. “And the gods alone know what lies in the hearts of the dead.”

Robert nodded, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips, tinged with sorrow. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, his voice growing firmer. He tore his gaze away from Lyanna’s statue, focusing on the path ahead.

“Come then,” he said, his tone lightening as he turned to face the stairs. “Let us speak of the future and leave the past to rest.”

And together, they left the crypts, the echoes of their footsteps fading into the silent halls where shadows lingered, bearing witness to the choices that would shape their families and the realm.

Here, by the fire’s light of private chambers, shadows softened, and the familiar scents of woodsmoke and winter roses made the space feel like a retreat. Catelyn sat across from Eddard, her brow furrowed as she listened to his words, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Nearby, Robb and Sansa sat side by side, both listening intently. Bran, Arya, and Rickon were sprawled around the room, though Arya’s restless gaze and occasional sharp glances made it clear she was as engaged as her older siblings.

Eddard took a breath, letting his gaze move from his wife to each of his children in turn. “King Robert has suggested a marriage pact to unite our families,” he began, his voice steady, though he felt the weight of the decision pressing down. “He has offered Joffrey’s hand to Sansa… and Y/N’s hand to Robb.”

Sansa’s face lit up immediately, a wide smile breaking across her features. “I would be honored, Father,” she said, her voice filled with excitement. “To be Queen someday, to be married to Joffrey… it’s everything I’ve dreamed of.”

Catelyn’s face softened as she looked at her daughter. “Are you certain, Sansa? It is a serious decision, one that would take you far from home, to the capital.”

Sansa nodded, almost eagerly. “I understand, Mother. But I’ve dreamed of King’s Landing—the court, the feasts, the tournaments.” Her cheeks flushed with excitement. “And Joffrey… he’s handsome, and he’s a prince.”

Ned exchanged a glance with Catelyn, her expression mirroring the concern he felt. Sansa’s eagerness was not unexpected, but it still struck a chord. He was about to speak when Robb cleared his throat, drawing their attention.

“I would accept the match as well,” Robb said, his voice calm, though there was a quiet intensity to his gaze. “To join our Houses… it would be an honor.” He hesitated, glancing down as if gathering his thoughts. “And… I saw her today. Y/N. She seems… dignified.” His cheeks colored slightly, a rare vulnerability in his usually composed demeanor. “I wouldn’t be opposed to a match with her, Father. I think I could be happy.”

Eddard raised an eyebrow, surprised by Robb’s swift acceptance. Robb was young, and Ned had half-expected resistance or at least more hesitation. Catelyn, too, looked taken aback, her mouth parting slightly as she considered her son.

“It’s a big decision,” Catelyn said gently, her voice measured. “You would be bound to her for life, Robb. Have you truly thought about this?”

Robb nodded, his gaze meeting hers with quiet conviction. “I have, Mother. She seems strong, and I would welcome the chance to learn more about her. If it’s what the realm and our House needs, I am willing.”

“Robb, you’re not actually thinking of marrying her, are you?” Arya’s voice broke through the quiet, incredulous and disapproving. She scrunched her face, her expression mirroring her distaste. “And Sansa, Joffrey’s awful. He’s arrogant and cruel.”

“Arya!” Catelyn chided, though her tone was soft, almost indulgent.

But Arya only shrugged, crossing her arms. “It’s true. I’ve seen him, Mother. He’s unkind to everyone around him just because he’s a prince. I’d never want a marriage like that.”

Sansa’s expression tightened, her smile fading as she glanced at her sister. “You don’t know him, Arya. Joffrey is a prince. He’s noble and brave. You just don’t understand.”

Arya rolled her eyes, but her expression softened slightly as she turned her attention to Robb. “But… I like Y/N. She doesn’t act like the rest of them. I saw her today, and she didn’t look down on anyone.” She looked at her father, her gaze challenging but hopeful. “If Robb has to marry someone, I’d rather it be her.”

Rickon, sitting on the floor beside Bran, looked up, his young face alight with curiosity. “What’s she like?” he asked, his voice filled with innocent wonder.

Bran shrugged, glancing at Arya. “She looked quiet, I guess,” he said, thoughtful. “Not like Joffrey, anyway.”

Ned sighed, feeling the weight of his children’s varied reactions. He’d expected Sansa’s enthusiasm and Arya’s protests, but Robb’s quiet acceptance had caught him off guard. The North had always been his family’s home; the thought of binding them so closely to the South troubled him.

He looked at Catelyn, catching her eye. She nodded, understanding his silent request, and rose from her seat, placing a comforting hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “Robb, Sansa,” she said softly, “this is a decision that will shape your futures. We don’t take this lightly.”

Sansa nodded, her eyes bright with anticipation, while Robb simply inclined his head, calm and steady. Arya huffed, but Catelyn silenced her with a look, and Arya fell back, though her gaze remained defiant.

As the children continued to murmur among themselves, Ned took Catelyn’s arm and led her a little way from them, lowering his voice. “There’s something more,” he said quietly, his gaze drifting back to his children, his heart heavy. “Robert asked me to be his Hand.”

Catelyn’s face tightened, her concern immediate and clear. “Ned… the Hand? I thought you’d never return to court.”

He nodded, his voice low. “Neither did I. But Robert… he says he needs me. And with Jon Arryn gone…” He trailed off, his gaze distant. “The realm is troubled, Cat. If I can help Robert, I feel I must. But I would bring all of you, as Robert suggested.”

Her hand tightened in his, her expression a mix of worry and resignation. “You know what lies in the South, Ned,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Whispers, plots. I fear for you—and for our children. They’d be far from the safety of the North.”

“Aye, I know,” he replied, his heart heavy. “But if I refuse him… Robert will be left to those who would only drag him down further. I owe him my loyalty, Cat.”

Catelyn studied his face, her eyes searching. She knew his sense of duty ran deep, and she understood the bonds that held him to Robert, the memories of war and brotherhood that could not be so easily dismissed. “Then let us think on it,” she said finally, her voice steady. “We’ll decide together, Ned. For our family.”

He nodded, feeling the warmth of her hand grounding him amid the storm of decisions and uncertainties. For now, they would hold to each other and to the North. 

The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with music and laughter, the warm glow of firelight casting rich hues across the long tables laden with food and drink. The Northern lords and ladies feasted heartily, their voices mingling in a cheerful cacophony. At the high table, you sat beside your mother, your attire shining like a jewel against the muted, sturdy colors of Winterfell.

You sat poised, your gaze serene yet attentive as you watched the revelry unfold around you. From time to time, you’d lean in to speak to your mother, Cersei, your smile soft but polite. You laughed at something your younger sister Myrcella said, the sound gentle, like a secret shared with the night. Across the hall, Robb Stark found himself wondering what it would be like to be the one to make you smile, to hear your laughter up close.

“You’re staring, Robb,” Theon Greyjoy’s voice interrupted his thoughts, a teasing grin on his face. “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? The lady staring at the lord?”

Robb gave him a playful shove but felt heat rise to his cheeks. “I’m not staring.”

“Oh, but you are,” piped up one of his other friends, a grinning Northern lad named Domeric Bolton. “She’s certainly caught your eye.”

Robb sighed, shaking his head but unable to keep a grin from spreading across his face. “She’s… well, she’s different,” he admitted, his voice low. “Not like the Northern girls.”

“Then go speak to her,” Theon urged, raising his cup in a mock toast. “Ask her for a dance.”

Robb hesitated, glancing back at you. Your presence was poised and refined in a way that made him suddenly feel rough and unpolished. But then he met your eyes, and for a brief moment, it felt as though the noise of the hall faded away. You gave him a shy smile, your eyes meeting his across the distance with a glimmer of interest.

Taking a deep breath, Robb rose from his seat, ignoring Theon and Domeric’s encouraging grins. He made his way through the hall toward the high table, his heart pounding with each step. When he reached you, he bowed slightly, his gaze meeting yours.

“Princess,” he said, his voice steady despite the quickening of his heart. “Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”

You looked up at him, your expression one of mild surprise before your lips curved into a soft smile. You glanced at your mother, who gave a curt nod, her gaze unreadable, before you turned back to Robb and inclined your head. “I’d be delighted, my lord.”

He offered his hand, and as you took it, the warmth of his touch sent a thrill through you. Together, you stepped onto the floor as the musicians struck up a new tune, a melody both gentle and lively, and Robb led you into the first steps of the dance.

“You seem well-versed in Northern customs, my lady,” he said, his voice warm with amusement as you moved through the steps. “I hadn’t expected a girl from the South to dance so well to Northern music.”

You laughed, your eyes sparkling as you met his gaze. “It seems the North is full of surprises. But I’ve had a lifetime of lessons in court dances. I only hope my dancing is… acceptable.”

“More than acceptable,” he replied, his own voice softening as he looked at you. “I’d wager even the most graceful Northern ladies would be envious.”

You lowered your gaze, a light blush coloring your cheeks. “You flatter me, my lord.”

He shook his head, unable to tear his eyes from you. “No, I speak the truth.” He hesitated, then leaned in slightly, his voice lowered. “I hope you’re finding Winterfell… welcoming. I know it must be different from King’s Landing.”

You looked up at him, your expression thoughtful. “It is different,” you admitted, your voice soft. “But I find I like it here. There’s… a warmth here that I hadn’t expected.”

“That pleases me to hear,” he said, his tone earnest. “This is my home, and one day… well, I hope to make it a place that someone like you could be happy in.”

Your gaze softened, and you felt the connection between you both grow as you moved through the steps, as if the hall and the people around you had faded into the background. “I believe I could be happy here,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper. “It’s… quieter than I’m used to, yes, but there’s something about Winterfell. A sense of peace.”

Robb looked at you, his expression earnest as he gathered the courage to ask the question that had been lingering in his mind since he’d learned of Robert’s proposal. “And… do you think you could see yourself here one day, as the Lady of Winterfell?”

For a heartbeat, you felt surprise flicker in your gaze. But then you smiled, a shy, genuine smile that made his heart race. “Perhaps,” you replied, your voice as soft as snowfall. “If the North would have me.”

You shared a quiet, lingering look, the unspoken promise between you both as delicate as the touch of his hand in yours. For a moment, Robb could imagine a future where you walked these halls as his wife, where your laughter and warmth brought light to Winterfell even in the deepest winter.

Robb led you through the steps of the dance, his touch gentle yet firm, his eyes locked on yours with a sincerity that warmed you even amidst Winterfell’s drafty stone walls. Around you, lords and ladies cheered and clapped, voices blending into the joyous hum that filled the hall.

But just beyond the laughter, at the high table where the royal family sat, an animosity simmered.

Cersei sat rigid, her fingers clenched around her goblet as she watched you move across the hall in Robb’s arms. Her green eyes were sharp, like cold emeralds, and her displeasure was barely hidden behind her carefully composed mask. Robert, beside her, laughed heartily with Eddard Stark, his voice booming over the din as he recounted tales from their youth. But Cersei’s simmering anger finally spilled over, and she leaned toward him, her voice low and venomous.

“So, this is your grand plan?” she hissed, her eyes never leaving you. “To bind our daughter to this… Northern boy without so much as a word to me?”

Robert’s laughter cut short, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at her, irritation flaring in his gaze. “What are you going on about, woman?”

She turned to him fully, her voice barely louder than a whisper, though her anger crackled beneath each word. “You’ve condemned her to this cold, dark place. My daughter, Robert. You would give her to a Stark—to live in this fortress far from court, from her family, from me. And you did this without consulting me?”

Robert took a long drink from his goblet, his brow furrowing as he tried to keep his voice steady, though a vein ticked at his temple. “Our daughter is old enough to wed, Cersei. And a match with the Starks would make her the future Lady of Winterfell. She’ll have a strong husband, and her place will be secure. What more do you want?”

“What more?” Cersei’s voice tightened, her fingers curling around the edge of the table. “She is my daughter, Robert. Do you understand that? My blood. And you’d give her away as if she were some toy in your games with Eddard. She was supposed to be in King’s Landing, to be part of the court, to learn her place. But here…” Her gaze flicked toward you with something like desperation. “You’ve taken her from me.”

Robert’s face grew dark, his patience wearing thin. “Taken her from you?” he muttered, shaking his head. “She is my daughter, too, Cersei. Or have you forgotten that? I’m doing what’s best for her.”

“Best for her,” Cersei repeated, bitterness coating her words. “And you think binding her to the North is what’s best? To send her to this frozen wasteland, where she will be as isolated as I am?”

Robert’s jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his goblet. “Enough,” he growled, his voice low. “This is not the time or place.”

Cersei’s lips curled into a cold smile, her eyes blazing. “Oh, so now you find restraint? Now, when it suits you to ignore the voices that oppose you?”

His gaze flicked back to you and Robb, who were laughing softly as you spun in perfect rhythm to the music, the two of you oblivious to the conflict boiling at the high table. Robert’s irritation softened slightly, replaced by a look of contemplation. “Look at her,” he muttered. “She’s happy, Cersei. You would deny her that because you think this match is beneath her?”

“Beneath her?” Cersei scoffed, her gaze icy. “I would deny her nothing, Robert. I would give her everything. A place in court, a life of comfort, of power.” She turned back to him, her voice low and scathing. “But you would cast her away to the ends of the realm, to live out her days as some Stark’s quiet wife in the cold.”

“Enough, Cersei,” he said again, this time more forcefully. “Our daughter is a Baratheon, and this is what I’ve chosen for her. The North is good for her. It’ll give her strength, and a place to call her own.”

Cersei’s lips pressed into a thin line, her expression tight with fury barely held in check. “You would know little of what’s good for her,” she spat. “When have you ever thought of what’s best for her? For any of us?” She cast a sharp glance toward the hall, where Robb was speaking softly to you, your face illuminated by a soft smile that made you appear every inch the regal lady Cersei had trained you to be. “That smile,” she murmured bitterly, “is what you think will last here?”

Robert’s expression shifted, his face darkening as he met her gaze. “Do not presume to lecture me on what’s best for our daughter, Cersei,” he said, his voice a low growl. “I’ve let you have your way with her long enough. This match is good for her and good for the realm.”

Cersei leaned back, her gaze hard and unyielding, her lips pressed into a grim line. “And when she comes to hate you for this—when she realizes you tore her from her family, her home—don’t expect me to soften her heart toward you.”

Robert’s patience snapped, his voice rising just enough for a few heads to turn in his direction. “She’ll come to understand, and she’ll thank me. You may not see it, but I know what I’m doing.”

At that, Cersei gave a bitter, humorless laugh. “If only you ever knew what you were doing, Robert.”

With that, she turned away, her gaze icy as she stared out over the hall, the tension between them leaving a chill in the air despite the warmth of the feast. Robert returned to his drink, the brief flash of guilt in his eyes fading as he watched you dance with Robb, your smile and laughter filling the hall as you swayed together in time to the music.

Though a bitter silence now lay between Robert and Cersei, neither could deny the spark that lit up the hall as you danced.

The early morning air was crisp, and a light mist clung to the ground as you walked beside Robb through the godswood, surrounded by towering trees that stretched their branches skyward. Robb had invited you out for a quiet walk, promising you a glimpse of the heart of Winterfell, where even the lords and ladies came to find peace. In the early light, the godswood was serene, the scent of pine and earth mingling with the soft murmur of the nearby stream.

You found yourself laughing easily with him as he recounted tales of his childhood in Winterfell, his face lighting up as he described the antics he and his brothers would get into. There was a warmth in his smile, a genuine ease that seemed to set you at ease in return.

“And then,” he was saying, barely containing his laughter, “Theon got the idea to sneak into the kitchens at midnight for pies, but Jon and I told him we had to outsmart Old Nan first. Well, we barely made it through the kitchen door before she caught us. Sent us all back to our beds with an earful.” Robb chuckled, shaking his head. “Theon tried to blame me, of course.”

You laughed, covering your mouth to stifle the sound, imagining a young Robb caught in the act, eyes wide with guilt. “And what about you? What did you do to make up for it?”

He grinned, a playful glint in his eye. “What every good brother would do—I blamed Jon.” He shrugged, feigning innocence. “He took it rather well, actually.”

The laughter between you settled into a comfortable quiet as you walked side by side. Every so often, your eyes would meet, and you’d find yourself caught in his gaze a moment longer than expected. There was an openness in Robb that felt… different from the formality of the court and the rigid politeness you were used to in King’s Landing. Here, it felt easy to just be yourself.

“So,” Robb said, his voice softer, “are you finding Winterfell to your liking?”

You hesitated, feeling his gaze on you, before nodding. “I am. It’s… quiet. Peaceful. I think I could grow to love it here.”

Robb’s smile softened. “I hope you do.” He looked out over the godswood, as if envisioning a future that included you here, walking these paths together in the years to come. “I’ve spent my whole life here, you know. These woods, this castle… it’s in my blood. I can’t imagine calling anywhere else home.”

You glanced at him, feeling a strange tug in your heart as he spoke. “You speak of Winterfell the way a poet would speak of his muse.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck with a shy smile. “I suppose I do. I never thought of it that way.” He paused, turning to look at you, his expression growing serious. “But I think, perhaps, if you were here… Winterfell would be all the more beautiful.”

Your breath caught, and you felt your cheeks flush as his words hung in the air between you. You opened your mouth to reply, but just as you were about to speak, the sound of hurried footsteps broke through the quiet.

A servant, breathless and wide-eyed, came rushing toward you. “My lord!” he gasped, his face pale. “My lord Robb—it’s your brother. It’s Bran.”

Robb’s smile vanished instantly, his expression tightening as he turned to the servant. “What happened?” His voice was sharp, tinged with fear.

The servant swallowed hard, catching his breath. “Young Bran… he fell from the tower, my lord. The Maester… they’re with him now.”

Robb’s face went pale, and his hand dropped from where it had been resting near yours. For a moment, he seemed frozen, his eyes wide as he processed the words. But then, as if a switch had flipped, he straightened, his features hardening with determination.

“Take me to him,” he said, his voice steady but filled with a quiet urgency.

The servant nodded, glancing between you both before hurrying back toward the keep. Robb took a shaky breath, looking at you, the vulnerability in his eyes making your heart ache.

“I’m sorry… I have to—”

“Go,” you said softly, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Your brother needs you.”

He nodded, his jaw clenched, and without another word, he turned and strode quickly in the direction of the tower. You watched him go, feeling a pang of worry settle in your chest as you thought of young Bran, whom you’d only just met, a lively boy with a boundless curiosity.

Left alone in the godswood, the peace and warmth of your morning with Robb faded, replaced by a heavy silence that seemed to press down on you. You glanced back in the direction of the keep, a sinking feeling in your stomach as you considered what had happened.

After a moment, you began to make your way back toward the castle, hoping, praying, that the news awaiting you would be better than what you feared.

[every-aj-needs-an-angel]

Okay this one's been stuck in my head all day but I have absolutely time to write it so please share this vision with me

Try as they might, Steve and Robin couldn't get tickets to Chrissy Cunningham's arena tour, but they could get tickets to a festival she was playing.

The last thing Steve ever wanted to do was go and stand in a muddy field for sixteen hours while they waited for the headline act. But he was pretty sure Robin was in love with her favourite musician, and he wasn't about to deny his best friend a chance at love.

So he helped her make personalised t-shirts because honestly all the other bands in the line-up kinda sounded like they sucked.

His read, "Only Here for Chrissy" on the front and "I'm Steve" on the back and Robin's read "Chrissy, Will You Be My Girlfriend?" on the front and "If Lost, Please Return To Steve" on the back.

And it turned out, as they stood against the barrier in a not so muddy field, on a lovely, warm, but overcast, May day, that even bands that sucked could be fun. Even if it was only because they spent their day with earplugs in, so their eardrums wouldn't combust, bitching about each artist's lack of ability to put notes or an outfit together.

During the lunchtime intermission, the pair made friends with the lesbian couple next to them, Kayla and Jess, who were also eagerly awaiting Chrissy's set and similarly liked to mock those who committed crimes against sound and fashion. Steve was glad to have met them, they were really nice, and he felt better about leaving her to use the bathroom or to fetch food, knowing Robin was in safe hands.

He also felt better about letting her wander off, not that it stopped him from stressing out when she and Kayla had been missing for over fifteen minutes. He spread himself out to keep their places against the railing with his back to the stage, watching the crowd intently. Jess wasn't quite as chatty once they were alone, but she seemed content enough, bobbing along to the band that'd appeared on the stage.

Steve didn't turn back around to face the stage until he spotted the girls heading back towards them, he gave them a wave and turned around to look at the guys who hadn't been attempting to destroy anyone's hearing and was met with the face of the most gorgeous man he'd ever seen. Pretty face, long curly hair tied up in a bun, muscle tee showing off his many tattoos, piercings and chains and glittery Docs; Steve felt himself owl blink and blush.

God's gift to mankind was kneeling centre stage, guitar in hand making the most beautiful sounds Steve had ever heard as his fingers flew over the strings, and it was only when the rest of the band kicked back in that the man looked up, winked directly at Steve, and then jumped back to his feet, spending the rest of the song bouncing around the stage.

Steve only realised his mouth was agape when Robin finally arrived next to him and elbowed him hard in the ribs, giving him the same look she did whenever he was embarrassing in the club. He watched the rest of the Corroded Coffin, according to the backdrop, set in awe. Screaming and clapping along when they wished everyone a great day, throwing picks and drumsticks into the crowd and taking a bow; patting each other on the back as they wandered offstage.

As soon as it was quiet again, Robin wanted to know what the hell was wrong with his face and honestly, he couldn't answer her. He didn't even believe in love, not for himself at least, and he certainly didn't believe in love at first sight. It didn't stop him from spending the next couple of hours watching the faces at the sides of the stage, hoping to catch a glimpse of his new favourite guitarist, though.

As soon as Chrissy hit the stage, Steve got lost, between filming the set and watching Robin trying not to hyperventilate when Chrissy spotted her t-shirt, pointed to her, and giving her a coy little wink, blew her a kiss.

"An old school friend is here with me tonight, and I'd like him to help me out with this next track. Especially for the beauty in the front row, this is Girlfriend!"

The crowd went wild as the beat kicked in, but Steve was still watching Robin because it looked like she'd stopped breathing altogether. That was until she gasped loudly and started smacking Steve in the way she always did whenever she got overly excited; pointing wildly at the stage, and it was only when he looked over he saw Corroded Coffins guitarist bouncing up and down next to Chrissy.

Instead of the black muscle vest and skinny jeans he'd been sporting earlier in the day, he had changed into pale blue board shorts and a baggy white t-shirt that read "Hey Steve!" written in black sharpie with a giant winking smiley face underneath that could only really be seen when he swung his guitar around his back to copy Chrissy's dance moves.

The song ended, and the friends hugged, Chrissy waving him off the stage and calling out, "Eddie Munson everybody!" letting the crowd go wild for her friend before launching into the rest of her set.

By the time Chrissy had actually left the stage, Robin looked exhausted, having screamed and sung and danced herself out. They hung around a bit, said goodbye to Kayla and Jess, wishing them a safe journey home, and they were just taking one last look at the now empty stage when he heard someone yell his name...

[onegayastronaut]

Unspoken Bonds

Requested by anon: rosalie hale x human girl dating hc?sfw and nsfw 🩷

Words: 1569

The town of Forks had always felt like a cage to you. It was small, suffocating, and damp—a seemingly endless rain that mirrored your own emotional storms. You never expected to find anything here but loneliness and monotony. Then Rosalie Hale walked into your life.

It started with a glance in the school parking lot. You were just a nameless face in the sea of students, a girl who barely registered on anyone's radar. But Rosalie—golden-haired, impossibly beautiful Rosalie—looked at you as if you were something worth noticing. Her sharp, honey-colored eyes lingered a second too long, and your heart stumbled in your chest.

You told yourself not to think about it. She was one of the Cullens: untouchable, mysterious, and as cold as the Washington rain. Yet, as weeks passed, you noticed her more often. She'd lean against her sleek car with an effortless elegance, her gaze occasionally drifting your way. At first, you thought you were imagining things. Why would someone like her ever notice someone like you?

Then she spoke to you. It was in the library, of all places. You were tucked into a corner, struggling through a biology textbook, when her shadow fell over you.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" she asked, her voice like velvet.

You looked up, stunned. Rosalie, in all her flawless glory, was asking to sit next to you. You nodded dumbly, unable to form coherent words.

She slid into the chair across from you, her movements graceful and deliberate. For a while, she said nothing, simply pretending to read while you fumbled with your textbook. The silence was charged, and you were hyperaware of her every shift, every breath.

Finally, she broke the quiet. "Biology giving you trouble?"

You glanced at her, startled. "Uh, yeah. It's not really my thing."

She smiled, a small, almost secretive curve of her lips. "I could help, if you'd like."

And just like that, Rosalie became a part of your life. What started as casual tutoring sessions turned into stolen moments in the hallways, lingering conversations in the parking lot, and a friendship that felt anything but ordinary. She was guarded, her sharp edges only softening in fleeting glimpses, but those glimpses were enough to keep you captivated.

It didn't take long for your feelings to deepen. You were falling for her, and it terrified you. Rosalie was dazzling, untouchable, and you were… you. Just a human girl with too many feelings and not enough courage.

The night everything changed was cold and clear, the stars a rare sight through Forks' perpetually overcast skies. She had invited you to her family's house—a modern mansion hidden deep in the woods. You hesitated at the door, nerves coiling in your stomach, but she appeared and pulled you inside with a warmth that contradicted her icy touch.

Her family was… intense. They were all as beautiful and intimidating as she was, their golden eyes tracking your every move. But Rosalie (or Rose, as she liked to be called) stayed by your side, her presence a shield against the overwhelming atmosphere. You couldn’t help but notice the way she relaxed when she was near you, her sharpness softening into something almost tender.

After dinner—a meal she didn’t touch but insisted on preparing for you—she led you outside to the wraparound porch. The forest was alive with nocturnal sounds, a symphony of crickets and rustling leaves. She leaned against the railing, her golden hair catching the moonlight, and looked at you with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

"There’s something I need to tell you," she said, her voice low.

You nodded, your heart pounding. "Okay."

She hesitated, her hands gripping the railing. "I… I care about you. More than I probably should."

Your stomach flipped. "Rose, I—"

"Let me finish," she interrupted, her tone sharp but her eyes soft. "You need to know what you’re getting into. I… my family and I, we’re not… normal."

You frowned, confusion mingling with unease. "What do you mean?"

She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself. "We’re vampires."

The word hung in the air, heavy and surreal. You stared at her, waiting for the punchline, but it never came. Her eyes bore into yours, earnest and unflinching.

"You’re serious," you said, your voice barely a whisper.

She nodded. "I understand if this is too much. If you want to walk away, I won’t stop you. But I couldn’t keep lying to you."

You should have been afraid. You should have run. But instead, you stepped closer, your pulse racing for an entirely different reason.

"I don’t want to walk away," you said, your voice trembling but resolute. "I… I care about you too."

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, you thought she might cry. But then she pulled you into her arms, holding you as if you were something fragile and precious. You melted into her embrace, your fears dissolving in the warmth of her presence.

From that night on, your relationship shifted. It was still full of stolen moments and quiet conversations, but now there was an undercurrent of something deeper. You learned about her past, the pain and rage that shaped her into who she was. And she learned about your fears, your insecurities, the ways you felt invisible in the world. She saw you, truly saw you, and it was both exhilarating and terrifying.

But loving Rosalie wasn’t easy. Her world was dangerous, and her family—protective and wary—constantly reminded you of the risks. Rosalie herself was a paradox: fiercely protective one moment, distant the next.

One day, without warning, she vanished. She left no trace, no goodbye, nothing but a chasm where her presence had been. At first, you thought she was simply pulling away like she had done before, giving you space she thought you needed. But days turned into weeks, and the silence remained unbroken.

You searched for her—in the parking lot, in the library, even outside her family’s mysterious mansion in the woods. But there was no sign of her. The ache of her absence was unbearable, a hollow void that nothing could fill. You replayed every moment you’d shared, searching for answers. Had you done something wrong? Was it your fault?

Eventually, you found out the truth—not from her, but from her brother Emmett. He found you one day after school, his usually boisterous demeanor subdued.

"She left because of you," he said bluntly, though not unkindly. "Not because she doesn’t care, but because she cares too much. Rosalie doesn’t handle vulnerability well, and you make her feel… exposed. She’s scared."

It was both a comfort and a dagger to the heart. She loved you, but her fear had driven her away. Knowing that didn’t make her absence any easier to bear.

Then, one night, she came back. She appeared at your window, her golden eyes red-rimmed, her perfect features marred by an expression of raw vulnerability.

"I’m sorry," she said, her voice breaking. "I thought I was protecting you, but all I’ve done is hurt you. I… I couldn’t stay away. I love you."

You pulled her inside, your tears mixing with hers as you held her close. "I love you too," you whispered. "And I’m not afraid."

From then on, you were inseparable. Rosalie seemed determined to make up for the time you had spent apart. She started planning thoughtful dates, ones that felt impossibly romantic. One evening, she took you to a secluded lake nestled deep in the forest. The water mirrored the twilight sky, shimmering with hues of orange and purple. She had set up a small rowboat, complete with cushions and lanterns that cast a warm glow. You spent the evening drifting on the tranquil water, sharing stories and laughing as she rowed with effortless grace. When the first stars appeared, she stopped the boat and leaned close, her hand brushing yours. The kiss that followed was soft and lingering, leaving you breathless.

Another time, she surprised you with a drive to the coast. The two of you stood on the cliffs overlooking the ocean, the salty breeze tangling in your hair as Rosalie wrapped an arm around your shoulders. Her presence felt like a shield against the world, and when she kissed you—soft and deliberate—you forgot about every storm in your life.

Rose also found joy in taking care of you in quieter moments. When you caught a nasty cold, she showed up at your house with soup, blankets, and a stack of your favorite movies. She stayed by your side, her cool touch soothing against your feverish skin. She even braided your hair to keep it out of your face, her fingers gentle and precise.

"You don’t have to do all this," you murmured, your voice hoarse.

She smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. "I want to. You mean everything to me."

Her care wasn’t always grand gestures—sometimes it was in the way she noticed the little things. How she carried an umbrella for you even when she didn’t need one, or how she always made sure you had your favorite tea stocked at her house. You realized that for all her sharp edges and icy demeanor, she loved you fiercely and completely. And you wouldn’t trade that love for anything in the world.

[revelboo]

Heels(Starscream) always had a special place in my heart, but more as a comedy relief character, but damn, your writing has actually made me feel bad for/love that dude. XD

I was the same way at first, but then I kept wondering why he acts the way he does and, well, you can see what I made of his character in the end.

Everything is Alright Pt 31

Starscream x Reader-lost

• This is the right thing. It hurts too much to be anything else. Your little hands shift on his palms, as he keeps you caged. More so he doesn’t have to look at you than any worry of you falling. If you start asking questions his resolve is going to shatter. It’s already so thin it’s fraying at the edges, but that dream has dug its claws into him and won’t let go. Not a possible outcome, a maybe, but an inevitable one that he can’t allow and it’s tearing at his spark. One good thing just for him alone, but he isn’t even allowed that.

• He’s quiet except for the faint sound of his wings shifting in little fits and starts, that little tell giving away that as silent as he is, his mind is busy as you peek through the servos caging you. It’s the frown on his lips that snags you, though. Not like he’s displeased, but something else you can’t put your finger on. Something is bothering him. He was like this when he left for the day, and now that he’s back, his mood is even darker as he carries you. He’d brought you outside again, but not for stargazing and that sense of something being off pulls at you. “Star?”

• That affectionate, little nickname rings through him and he almost shutters his optics. Because that just makes this so much harder. Servos flexing against you as he studies the overcast sky before dropping his attention to you as the breeze stirs your hair when he opens his hands. In the distance, thunder rolls. “Quiet,” he says, trying to keep his tone all ice when he’s anything but. It’s still not too late to turn back. Carry you back home where you belong. Be selfish again, because he needs you. Your little hands shift on his servos as he moves out of the woods and up onto a road.

• Isn’t he afraid of being seen if someone drives this way? You look around at the empty stretch of road, feeling an uneasy sense of familiarity. You know exactly where you are. Your car’s gone, probably towed away, but this is where you went off the road. Your fingers lift to that healed gash as your heart begins to race. The tree branches overhanging the road are broken and ragged where his wings had clipped them, the road surface pocked from weapons fire. It seems like a lifetime ago. Why bring you back here? “Starscream, what’s going on?”

• You cling to his servos as he bends and lowers you to your feet, holding on as he pulls his hand away. He can’t look at you, not while you’re staring up at him in alarm. Like you don’t understand, even though you must. Wings lifting stiffly, he forces his expression to empty, reaching for that cold indifference that’s been his armor so long. “Go home, human.”

• Your throat goes dry as you look up at those icy optics staring down at you. There’s no contempt in that stare, no bemusement. Nothing at all. It’s utterly empty and that cuts you clean to the bone, because he doesn’t care at all. He’d finally gotten tired of you? It’s what you wanted, right? A chance to escape, but you just feel lost. And as he turns and walks away without a look back, you can’t move. He leaps, transforming into that jet and it’s beautiful to watch even as panic paralyzes you. A rain drop lands on your cheek, the thunder lost to the scream of his turbines, your own cry too late. “Star?"

Previous Next

[filmabyy]

«Heart On The Window» Cho Hyun-ju x Male!Reader Part 1?

Cho Hyun-ju x Male reader!

Summary: Y/N has always had a crush on her neighbor across the street, Hyun-ju. He has never had the courage to speak a word to her. Until one day they meet again in the most unexpected place.

«English is not my first language and I'm sorry if I get some words wrong» 😔🤍

The sound of the alarm clock early in the morning woke Y/N from a deep sleep. When he opened his eyes, he felt an empty feeling in his chest, like an inexplicable nostalgia.

He got out of bed, got dressed, and put the finishing touches on his uniform. However, the sky was overcast and the weather seemed as gloomy as his emotions.

Just as he was about to leave the house, something caught his attention: the neighbor across the street was leaving her apartment. It was Cho Hyun-ju.

Although they had barely ever spoken, Y/N always saw Hyun-ju from her door or sometimes they passed each other in the elevator, every day at the same time. His gaze would linger on her and his heart would race slightly.

But he never found the courage to approach her and talk to her... He didn't think he was someone handsome, someone who could catch someone's attention because of his beauty. He just wanted to catch someone's attention and that someone was only Hyun-ju.

That morning, Hyun-ju seemed to be taking longer than usual. Her gaze was lost, as if something was tormenting her. Y/N watched her from afar, growing increasingly worried. What could be tormenting this beautiful girl?.

He gathered his courage and approached her cautiously. “Oh, hello Hyun-ju…” He greeted her in a soft tone with a shy smile. Trying to feign confidence, him nervously grabbed the straps of his backpack as he stood beside her to wait for the elevator as well.

Hyun-ju turned around upon hearing his voice. She looked a little surprised to see the Y/N greeting her. She smiled slightly, but it was clear that she was distracted from something else.

“Hello…” She replied in a soft tone, and returned her gaze to her phone in hand.

"What a busy day, huh?" Him asked timidly. But he mentally scolded himself for the somewhat silly question.

It was obvious that he was having a busy day but he didn't know what to ask anymore, the words wouldn't come out. And he let go of the straps of his backpack to play with his hands, it was a hint of nervousness that he usually had.

And he tried to start a conversation but he was probably being stupid.

How could he not be when the pretty woman was by his side and made his heart beat faster with just her presence.

Hyun-ju sighed deeply. Her seemed a little exhausted and distracted. “Yeah, too much…” She said, her gaze fixed on her phone.

She was short on time and the elevator was about to arrive, so she was aware that the reader was trying to be nice.

Seeing her, he tried to lighten the mood a bit and maybe make her feel comfortable.

“I understand… as my grandmother used to say, after the storm there’s a rainbow right around the corner.” He said jokingly and laughed softly as he looked at her.

Him was trying to take the awkwardness out of the conversation, but he was probably being a weird jerk. If she saw him, his grandmother would surely scold him for how silly he was acting.

Hyun-ju laughed softly, her expression relaxing a little at Y/N joke. "I hope so," she replied with a small sigh.

The elevator arrived, and the doors opened in front of them.

The two of them entered the elevator in silence. It was the opportune moment to continue talking, or to stay quiet and keep their distance.

After a silence, I turned around to look at her and admire her at the same time.

That was the effect Cho Hyun-ju had on him.

"You know... ehh... I know we don't know each other very well but if you need help with something... you can knock on my door, you know... between neighbors we help each other." He joked the last bit and fell down a few seconds later.

*You're acting like a weirdo, react*

He told himself mentally and looked back in front of him. He had surely made Hyun-ju uncomfortable and maybe ruined it with a few words.

Hyun-ju seemed a little surprised by Reader's offer, but soon sounded grateful. "Thank you," she replied softly, as her gaze met his. And she gave him a gentle smile.

At that moment, Y/N could see that beautiful sparkle in his eyes. And she almost fell over if it weren't for the fact that he was gathering strength to maintain the composure of a love-struck fool.

It was the first time she had conversed with him seriously, and his presence had already lightened her mood a little.

The elevator was close to reaching the lobby and the door was about to open.

They both disconnected their conversation and headed to the lobby of the building. As they headed towards the door of the place, silence filled the space again.

Would he have the courage to say something else to her? The moment was still there, waiting for a word, a question, a gesture, an acknowledgement of the other's presence.

It was his chance to invite her to eat something or something she liked to do. He had to muster up the courage and do it. It was just a few words and that was all.

Could he do it or not?.

Because everything seemed to be so difficult for him.

Without further ado, his steps stopped at the door of the small hall and he looked at Hyun-ju.

Before he could say anything else, her words simply played a trick on him.

"Goodbye Hyun-ju..." He reluctantly said goodbye to her.

Hyun-ju stopped at the sound of his farewell and turned to look at him.

His gaze finally connected with Y/N's, and a sort of sense of recognition flashed across his expression.

"Bye, Y/N. See you later." She said as he gave her a small smile.

Though there weren't many words, that brief exchange of goodbyes seemed to have dissipated some of the tension of the moment.

The connection felt brief, but meaningful...

As Y/N walked away, the feeling of sadness and self-loathing settled in his chest.

He knew he was a fool for not being able to communicate with Hyun-ju properly, for not having the courage to get closer to her.

What would have happened if he took more of a risk?.

Doubt flooded his mind, and the weight of the lost opportunity became more visible with each step he took away from the building.

But only time would tell, he just had to gather more courage and try to start more conversations so she could get to know him better and feel comfortable talking to each other.

I had to keep trying.

[cryptictongues]

The Sun Lives in His Eyes

pairing: Vincent Valentine x Fem!Reader rating: Explicit (MINORS DNI; 18+) word count: 6.9k summary: You try on swimsuits for Vincent, and he doesn't know how to handle it.

warnings: porn with feelings, angst, teasing, lots of dry humping and making out, come tasting, sexual tension

Spoilerwise, I made it so the emotions after the second visit to the Golden Saucer were present but didn't get very specific as to why aside from the keystone and what the stone is needed for (which is in the OG game too). Other than that, this is pretty spoiler free!

Also, just to add, when trying on bathing suits, please for the love of GOD keep your underwear on. Don't let your bare cooch touch it.

Please read my pinned post before following me! Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked as this blog’s content is NSFW.

[AO3 link]

It was midday in Costa Del Sol and it was alive as usual. The beach goers were all in their swimsuits, with their beautiful lays and their skin that had been kissed by the sun. The sky was as blue as can be with a slight overcast of clouds. Booths of a multitude of items for sale and fun games that make the atmosphere of the area feel like one big fair. It was a refreshing change of scenery, especially after the last 24 hours.

Traveling back to Costa Del Sol was no easy task, especially when exhaustion, anger, and disappointment have infiltrated the air. With the failure to retrieve the keystone, the direction of the group had faltered. No one had a clue where the Temple of the Ancients was located, and the future seemed bleak. That was until the mysterious man, the one you have grown very attached to, had suggested using the Tiny Bronco’s radio to try and intercept the signal from the Turks to retrieve the coordinates.

Vincent Valentine: the epitome of peculiar. A man, a beast, a creature of mystery. You and everyone else’s first interaction with him being an almost fatal one, for the bestial side of him was quite destructive. He was fairly fast for a creature of his size, strong reflexes, and phenomenal perception. He wasn’t a normal beast, but of course he wasn’t: he was still a human underneath it all. Which is why once he had transformed back into his original form, the brokenness and anguish that appeared on his face was apparent. You remember vividly how he had looked directly at you, stunning you in your place as you wondered what you had done to receive such a stare. 

You never thought you’d make contact with those eyes again with his lack of interest in coming along. So, it was a surprise to see him hop on the Tiny Bronco, explaining the sins he must atone for. It made sense, but a weird part of you sensed that it wasn’t the full truth, especially when he kept looking your way during his tiny monologue. It stirred something within you, having never felt an intensity such as his before. All in all, however, he was a quiet one, kept to himself, and very much an observer. 

A very, very good observer. 

Something that drew you to each other was neither of you were talkers. You’ve always been the reserved one of the group, not minding wandering around on your own while the others stayed together. The introvert in you enjoys the peace and quiet when able to have it, even though you love your found family. You assumed Vincent relates in some way because after the arrival to Costa Del Sol the first time, he has lingered by your side ever since. You didn’t mind the company, especially when there was a silent mutual understanding between you two.

What you did mind, however, was how utterly insane he’d make you feel. You don’t know if it’s all in your head, but day by day you swear he is advancing his way into your heart and loins. It started with simple glances that led to subtle grazes of his covered fingers on your exposed ones. The intimate moments have gradually increased, which have haunted your dreams in the most intimate of ways.

Back at the Golden Saucer, you and Vincent had been off on your own together. You both had stayed in the Queen’s Blood gaming area for a while, playing stacked games since you both were considered pros amongst most people. It was the last round, and you had a slight lead. You were waiting for him to take his turn, watching him contemplate his hand. You were hoping, praying even, that he didn’t see how you had set yourself up to win. 

But of course, he had seen right through it. Once he plucked the card he wanted to use from his deck, you already knew it’s game over. You had let out a groan before he could put it down and the look in his eyes shifted as quickly as they had shifted back in amusement.

“You don’t even know what I am playing.”

“I can take a wild guess.”

“Hmm, is that so?” He had hummed, leaning in as close as he could without his body messing up the board. He had held his card between two of his left fingers, dangling the damn thing in front of you. “If you guess the specific card I’m about to play correctly, you win.”

You were in shock as he was one to never willingly gamble his wins. In your dysfunctional brain, you had thought about all of the cards he had in his possession. Vincent’s biggest asset as a player was knowing how to use his cards, often using ones that didn’t seem to do much on the surface. You had thought long and hard, debating between which cards he could have considered, before deciding there was only one that made the most sense.

“Grandhorn.”

Vincent chuckled, putting his card down, and low and behold the Grandhorn appeared. It boosted his score a point above yours, but it hadn’t mattered. You had won.

“So, I guess I won since I guessed correctly?”

“I suppose so, but I expected nothing less.” He had leaned in once more, a glimmer in his eyes as he looked you dead on. “Smart girl.”

The way he had said it had made your insides curl with delight. Having someone like him be so teasing and flirty in his own way with you had you flushed, and you knew he noticed. Before he had said anything to send you into another flushing fit, you had quickly gotten up and told him exactly what you wanted to do next.

You had dragged him over to the G-Bike game, insisting to play as you’ve always wanted to ride a motorcycle, even if it’s just in simulation form. However, within 30 minutes, you were flinging yourself left to right with frustration with the lack of ability to get at least a one-star rating. It wasn’t until you had felt a weight behind you, recognizable leather clad arms wrapping over yours, did you realize how fucked you really were. His body was pressed right against you with every limb touching your own. His fingers had curled over yours and his breath was brushing against the sensitive skin of your ear. 

“ Give me the glasses ,” he murmured.

“Let me take you for a ride.”

Needless to say, you had to excuse yourself. You had felt a tinge of embarrassment at how you reacted, but it was quickly stomped out by how much you needed to relieve yourself. You had felt bad leaving Vincent alone to wander a place that was outside of what he was acclimated to, but the hormonal teen in your brain was screaming at you to do something. 

You had been thankful that everyone was out doing their thing because the minute the hotel door was shut, you were on your bed with your hand down your pants. All you could think about was how good he felt against you. He was warm and you could feel everything; from the buckles, to the leather creases, to the outline of his long cock you felt pressed against your backside. With every twist and turn, your bodies would shift, and it created a friction so teasing that you couldn’t have helped but whimpered.

You had thought about his groans when you would accidentally push back on him. The sound had vibrated on your skin, proving how close his mouth was to your neck. You remembered how his cock twitched against you. Those thoughts had only made you rub your weeping cunt more, leading to more devious ones. You wondered what would’ve happened if you had just kept grinding on him. Would he have lost control? Would he have been as flushed as you had been 30 minutes prior? Picturing images of him flushed below you as you worked each other up had sent you spiraling into release, biting your arm so as to not cause any alarm. 

You had a hard time looking at him the next day without your mind wandering to something sinful. Things have toned down since due to the interruption of plans, but his gazes have stayed firm. You could always feel the stare of his eyes burning into you, and it never failed to make you squirm and plunder. 

Presently, all of you were on the dock, discussing the coordinates Vincent had found over the radio. A game plan was being formed, an agreement that the rest of the day should be one of rest and preparation before the journey tomorrow. The party started to disperse, some with tasks like gathering supplies and booking rooms for the night. You were left to your own devices, debating on what you wanted to do to pass the time. You look out onto the water, and you don’t know if it is the heat or the exhaustion in your muscles, but going for a swim sounded absolutely divine. 

You heard the metal clanking of Vincent’s shoes behind you, making you turn around to greet him. The thoughts back at the saucer were begging to be reminded but you pushed them back, not sure if you would survive those them with him in front of you. He greets you with a hum, hovering very close to you to the point you have to look up at him. Damn, he is so tall!

Clearing your throat, you greet him back with your thumbs twiddling with each other nervously. “So, is there anything you want to do today?”

“That is entirely up to you. Wherever you’d like to go, I’ll follow.” 

Your breath starts to shutter, but you cough to cover it up. You didn’t want to make it obvious how much he is affecting you right now, even though you are sure it didn’t matter what you did. He always knew. 

“Well, this may sound crazy, but I kind of want to go swimming.”

“Oh?” His head tilts, eyes amused.

“Y-yeah, but I know you cannot be comfortable in this heat. I wouldn’t want to keep you in it.” 

“I can manage.”

You laugh because of course he can. “If you say so, but I will need to get a swimsuit. You don’t mind coming with me to buy one, do you?”

He shakes his head, moving to your side to allow you to lead the way. You both start walking towards the bathing suit booth up ahead and as usual Vincent’s fingers linger by yours. There is no touching, but you can feel them right by you, causing your fingers to twitch. It’s driving you mad, and you are tired of him teasing you to the point of insanity. So out on a whim, confidence boosting, you let your hand grab his metal one. You feel his walk stutter, but he quickly recovers to let the gold claws wrap around your own. 

You lead him to the booth right past the dock and start to look around. There are so many options, and you can feel yourself become a little overwhelmed at your choices. 

“Is everything okay?” Vincent was behind you. You guess he can see the tension in your shoulders as you peruse the different styles.

“I guess I just don’t know what would be best to wear.” You admit. 

The young woman running the booth must have been waiting for an opportunity to sell because the next thing you know she is right in front of you. “Good evening! Would you like some help?”

“Oh, uh…” Before you can utter anymore words, she continues her pitch.

“It is no trouble! I can curate some of our different pieces so you can decide which ones you like best!”

Before you can decline again, she is already ushering you to the changing booth, basically shoving you in. “I’ll be right back with some swimwear!”

You peek out and you can see Vincent about to walk over to the seller, irritation clear on his face. Shit.

“Vincent, come here!”

He turns to you before walking up. As he stops in front of you, you see how much his eyes are flared, burning more red than usual. You aren’t sure how to calm him down, not seeing him like this since the incident at Shinra Manor. You reach out, letting your palm rest against his cheek, hoping that will somehow ease his mind. 

“She shouldn’t have put her hands on you. She is lucky to still be standing on her two feet.”

The protective nature he was exuding was endearing, but also very sexy. You put those thoughts on the backburner, bringing your hand to his neck to stroke the irritation there. 

“I appreciate you looking out for me, but I promise it’s okay. I’m okay.” You reassure, squeezing his skin right above his collarbone. “Let me try on what she offers and then we can get out of here.”

“Alright, here are a few pieces I think would go perfectly with your style!” She hands you the pieces, and turns to Vincent, clueless to the absolute annoyance he wanted to convey in that moment. “I apologize, sir, but let’s give your lady friend some privacy.”

You see his eyes flare again, and you quickly shoot your other hand out from behind the curtain to keep him facing you. “It’s okay! He can stay!”

“Well, if you insist! Just no funny business you two!” She winks at you both and walks back to her station. You gulp out of a nervous habit, even though there is no spit to swallow. Is it that obvious that you two have some unspoken thing for one another?

“Okay, um, let me try these on.” You squeeze his arm in reassurance before going back into the changing booth. You close the curtain and lay out the pieces you were working with. You inspected each one, and you came to a horrifying conclusion: these were very revealing swimsuits.

There was nothing wrong with revealing swimwear, in fact you actually quite liked the ones the lady picked for you. However, Vincent was right outside and would see you in one of these. Would it be too much for him to see you so bare? You are very covered up in your usual attire, so this is a complete 180 and leaves little for the imagination.

You decide to try one on anyway, picking the one-piece swimsuit that is all black and has a long v-line cut. You strip away your clothes, and slip the suit on, adjusting it so everything is even. You go to tie the string in the back, but you can already tell it will be a challenge. You try to tie the knot, but you could feel yourself getting frustrated, grunting in aggravation as the tie keeps going undone. 

“Are you okay?” Vincent called from outside, obviously hearing you struggle.

You sigh in defeat, ready for some assistance. “Um, I think I need help tying the string in the back. Can you give me a hand if I come out?” 

You hear him hum in agreement, and you open the curtain and quickly turn your back. “Just the one string please.”

He hums again and gets to work, grabbing the two ends and crisscrossing them before pulling tightly. You hear him shuffle closer to you, and once again his breath is on your ear. “Is that tight enough for you?”

You freeze. He said it so quietly that you wonder if you are hallucinating but you know what you heard. He is teasing you again. He is trying to rile you up like he did at the Golden Saucer. Well, two can play at that game.

“Yes, that is good. Please tie it.” You feel him take a step back, and he ties the strings to ensure they stay together. 

Once you feel his hands pull away, you turn to him to show off your swimsuit. It hugs you in all the right places, quite comfortably, and it covers you aside from the middle of your body. The v-line shows off your chest, covering your breasts and getting narrower until the point stops down at your belly button. You feel sexy and seeing Vincent’s reaction was the cherry on top.

You watch as his eyes take in your form. You see them wander from your chest to your sternum and it is crazy how much the red of his eyes get smaller as his pupils blow wide. His fingers tremble against his side with slight movement in his arms like he wants to reach out for you, but they stay in place. His control is absolutely astonishing. 

“Vincent? Do I look okay?” 

His eyes snap away, coughing in the process like he didn’t just eye fuck you. He rubbed his neck, forcing himself to look anywhere but towards you. “Yes, it looks fine.” 

You release a smirk, feeling almost powerful seeing this man react the way he had. “Okay, well I am going to try the other ones on.”

You go back inside, and giggle quietly to yourself. It felt good to tease him. With how much he teases you, with how much he riles you up, it is his turn to be on the receiving end of torment. You rip off the one piece, and decide to put on one of the two pieces you were given to try. 

The one you decide to put on is a dark red bikini. The top clips on, so you didn’t need assistance this time. You look in the mirror and you notice how much the top pushes out your breasts. The flesh sticks out, making them look so much bigger than they were. You don’t know if Vincent was a boob man or not, but all you can think is you can’t wait to find out.

“Hey Vincent, can you tell me if this looks okay? I’m not sure how I feel about this one.”

You push the curtain open just as he turns to look in your direction, and his look is priceless. You see him take a heeded breath, one hand turning into a fist and the other gripping his side in what appears to be a hard grip. You hold back a smile, not wanting to give hints to your actions, and walk towards him. You are now standing toe to toe with him, looking up at a man who clearly was losing his cool. 

“Vincent, are you okay? You don’t look so good.” You coo, placing two fingers against his pulse point under his chin. He lets out a grunt at the contact, and your mind is reeling at how fast his pulse is going. 

“Vincent, what are yo-”

“I’m fine.” He grunts, taking your hand away from his neck.

You let it drop, and turn around to the booth. “Just one more and we can go, okay? I’ll be quick.”

You don’t give him another glance as you go back in. You fist pump the air in success as giving him a taste of his own medicine was truly a sight to behold. You are ready to go in for the kill with the last one, which is another bikini. However, this one was black with stretchy black laces that wrap around your stomach. This one felt like a good in between from the other two, but you feel this one will affect him the most. You don’t know why, but something about the intricacies of how it covers your body is simply seducing. 

You finish putting it on and you can’t help the excitement you feel. Out of the three, you like the way this one fits you the most. Not only is it comfortable, but it is an absolute confidence booster. It fits your body well and the laces across your waist accentuates it beautifully. Not only was this the swimsuit you would be purchasing, but you are excited to show it off to Vincent for another reaction. 

You rip open the curtain, cutting right to the chase, only to see he is no longer where he once stood. You hop out of the booth, looking around for the spiky black hair and red cloak, only to see him nowhere in sight. 

“You looking for your boyfriend, babes?” 

You turn to see the seller approaching you, the word boyfriend not even registering. You just want to find him.

“Yeah, did you see where he went?”

She nods over to the dock, back where the Tiny Bronco was located. “He went onto the dock. He seemed to be in quite a rush.”

You quickly thank her. You grab your things from the changing booth, and quickly round up the gil for the swimsuit you were wearing. “Thank you, keep the change.”

You run back to the dock and see the Bronco’s door slightly ajar. You push the door open, not wanting to alarm him as you climb on. You see him sitting on the bench in the very back, hands clutching his head and breathing heavy. Alarmed by how he is reacting, you make yourself known and slowly approach where he is sitting.

“Vincent, are you okay?” 

He grunts roughly, fingers visibly clutching his head harder. “You need to get off.”

You contemplated your next move. You could listen and get off, let him calm himself down. But then you think what if he can’t calm down? What if his mind spirals from his thoughts? Would you leaving really make things better or worse?

You think back to the time when you first met him, how defeated he looked after he had transformed back. How he had stared you down, taking your breath away at how utterly disheveled and beautiful he looked. He had been alone for so long, and that thought turned your rational mind off. You weren’t going to run. He needed you. 

“Vincent, I am not going anywhere.”

His head shoots up, his eyes crimson and face scrunched up like he was holding himself back. He notices your final change of the evening and the growl he lets out is feral. “You,” he snarls, “better not take a single step more.”

You stop again, realization hitting you like a freight train. Did I do this? Did I go too far? 

“Did I do something to upset you?” You ask quietly, afraid of what his response was going to be. “If I did, I am so sorry.”

He doesn’t respond, still looking to the ground although his breathing has subsided slightly. You approach him again, this time making it so you were only a foot away. 

“You don’t want this.” He mutters. 

“What do you mean?”

“I am a monster. The baggage I bring with me, the absolute madness that stirs from within. I don’t know if I can control myself, and that scares me, which means it will scare you.”

You can’t understand what he is saying. “You don’t scare me, Vincent. You could never scare me.”

He grunts out a laugh, like he doesn’t believe a word out of your mouth. “You don’t understand what primal thoughts are going through my mind right now.”

“Well, try me.” You reach out for his face, wanting to touch him, but his right hand grabs your wrist. 

“You don’t know what you want, so stop this.”

You feel like you could cry. The whiplash you are receiving after he has gotten under your skin only to rip himself away is too much. How dare he make your blood run hot and then make it go cold in an instant? You rip your arm away, taking a step back. Your gaze falls to the Bronco’s floor, feeling stupid at your attempt to draw him in. Your arms wrap around your body, sequestering it away from his gaze. 

“You don’t know what I want, so stop putting words into my mouth.” You choke out. Your fists are clenching on your tummy, anger starting to bubble to the surface. “I know you know how I feel about you because you wouldn’t continue to rile me up the way you do if you didn’t. I wouldn’t react the way I do if I didn’t. Truthfully, I love it. So don’t you dare tell me that I don’t know what I want.”

Everything goes quiet. The only thing that can be heard is the heavy breathing on both of your ends. Your anger disappears and is replaced with disappointment. You don’t know if there is any way to convince him, and you aren’t going to be made a fool in the process.

“I know what I want.” You say softly. “I have desires too.” 

It all happens so quickly, your body jolting forward until you are straddling his lap. You gasp, immediately feeling his hard on against your own clothed slit. He’s bigger than I thought, you think, for a man so skinny and sculpted . Two golden claws tilt your chin up, forcing you to be face to face with him. He is much taller than you, so he is slightly over you as he closes in. His breath fans over your lips, eyes erratic and glazed.

You let out a shaky sigh, letting your hands travel up to his face, cupping his cheeks gently as if to let him know what he wants to do is okay. “Do it. Show me you want me too.”

Lips press against yours instantly. It’s intense and intimate with the way he still has a hold on your chin and the way his free arm wraps around your waist to keep you grounded against him. You don’t know if it is the way he has you pressed to him or the way he surrounds your senses, but you feel calm. Even with the aggressive nature of his kisses, it is like he has seeped under your skin, a venomous serum to calm his prey down before he devours. You want more. You need more.

Your hands travel up past his temples to the back of his head, curling your fingers around his black locks. You pull delicately, not knowing how keen he was on pain, only to hear the most delicious whine leave his mouth into yours. You take the opportunity to let your tongue touch his, already becoming addicted to the way he tastes. His grip got tighter on you, trying to pull you in closer even if it wasn’t possible. There was an urgency in his actions as if what you two were doing was too much yet not enough. 

His erection was starting to react more and more against you. You could feel yourself growing restless with the need for some sort of contact. You work to shift your knees slightly, spreading them out more across the bench, and start to grind against the shape of his length. 

A growl from the deepest part of his throat rips out into the open. The claws of his gauntlet let go of your chin and latch to your hip. You stop your movements, thinking he was going to stop you, but he does no such thing. He pushes you down further onto his crotch, moving you himself to urge you to keep going. You follow his movements, letting him guide you back and forth on his cock. All you can think about is how large he is, and how good he feels against your pussy. However, it still isn’t enough. 

You move a hand down to your bottoms, sliding the part covering your heat to the side to get more friction. You can’t help the moan that leaves you the second your clit rubs against the leather of his pants, the roughness different from that of the silk. You move your hips faster, not skipping a beat as to chase a release. 

“That’s it,” Vincent growls against your lips. “Just like that.”

His encouragement sends dopamine right to your brain, giving your hips a mind of their own as you continue to rut against him. Your hips start to tire, becoming noticeable as your knees give out slightly before you readjust. Your mind begs you to keep going, begging to keep your pace so you can reach any type of peak. 

Your knees collapse again, and next thing you know your knees are no longer on the bench but spread far apart by Vincent’s thighs. His garbed hands are on your ass to keep you right where he wants you, and with the motion of his own hips he is rocking up into you slowly with firm pressure. You release his lips, your head resting on his shoulder as he grinds up into your cunt.

“Fuck, Vincent,” you drawl out, gripping his hair tighter with the hand still there, your other hand finding purchase on his shoulder. 

Vincent was having none of that, his right hand shoots to your head to pull it back to face him. What you see invigorates you, as Vincent’s eyes no longer had a red presense. They were the color of the light of day before dusk. The whites of his eyes were illuminated, and his canines had elongated drastically. 

“Is this what you wanted?” Vincent hisses. “Do you still want this?”

The self-pity in his eyes was becoming, and you weren’t having any of that. You were not about to have the man, who is making you go crazy by just nuzzling his long cock into your nethers, get distressed by disillusions. Your left hand drops from his head, dipping down where both of your crotches meet. The tips of your fingers dip into your dripping cunt, the evidence clear as day on his leathers. But if you must show extra proof, you will.

You stuff two of your fingers into your hole, still making eye contact with his yellow orbs as you let your face contort. Your fingers come out covered in your sticky fluid, translucent webbing formed in between your fingers. You bring it between your faces, your eyes bold and lips curling devilishly. “Does this answer your question?”

You don’t know what possessed you, but you let those fingers touch his lips. You pull his lower lip down, seeing if he would let his tongue travel out for a taste. You hum approvingly when he lets the tip give a small lick, and moan all together when he starts to lick them clean. Seeing Vincent obey such a small, unspoken command was the sexiest thing you have witnessed to date, and it makes you want to push him even more. 

You pull your fingers away, causing him to follow them to continue getting his fill. “Look at you,” you purr. “Like a kitten begging for milk.”

“You are one to talk.” He grumbles, thrusting his hips up so it rubs right against your clit. “You’re the one rubbing your bare cunt against me.”

A high-pitched moan wrangles from your throat as he bounced you up and down, followed by a sex drunken laugh. “Why don’t we change that?”

You push his chest so he is leaning way back on the bench, allowing you to steady yourself as you unbuckle his belts. As soon as you open his fly, his bulge pushes outward and you can hear the sigh of relief leave his lungs. Your hands dip into his underwear, pulling the elastic down to release his cock fully. His cock springs up, precum drooling from his swollen head. Your hand wraps around the tip, squeezing to see another pearl form. Your thumb sweeps over it, gathering as much as you can, before bringing it up to your mouth with the need to taste him.

If Vincent’s eyes could glow brighter, they would have blinded you with the way he was watching you. You let your thumb pop out of your mouth, letting some spit travel down your hand before rubbing it over his cock. You readjust once more, angling your hips so your clit would connect with his tip with each roll, and sit right back onto his lap. You both cry out in unison, both of you sensitive and in dire need of release. You crash your lips against his as you roll your hips in a slow, yet firm rhythm. Your hands grip at his hair, loving the way he ruts into you when you pull on it. You don’t hold back, too far gone to tease the daylights out of him, moaning into his mouth every time the head of his cock kisses your bud. 

Vincent wasn’t faring any better, his volume only increasing at the friction. He releases your lips, his head falling onto your shoulder with a long groan. You feel tiny prickles against your skin, his fangs grazing it as he kisses and sucks on your flesh. His hands go over the strings of your swimsuit, gripping the skin of your waist to pull you closer.

His mouth proceeds up your shoulder to your jaw, nipping your pulse point before licking it. The difference between the movement of his hips and his lips is drastic. His lips move slowly, caressing the skin after every love bite he gives you like you are delicate, while his hips buck into you with conviction. It is like he doesn’t know whether he wants to cherish you, or prove to you how much of a monster he can be. 

Both of your essences are mixing as you continue, creating easier movement and a more heavenly feeling. You can feel yourself getting close to your release, hips flying back and forth trying to grasp onto it. It isn’t until your hips give out, a frustrated whine leaving you as the peak downtrails.

“Don’t you dare give up on me.” Vincent orders into your ear. 

“Fuck, I can’t,” you sob, the ache in your hips and knees showing as you start to slow down.

You don’t fully comprehend what happens next, not until you feel the cold metal of the Bronco’s floor on your back. Vincent yanks your bottoms down your legs, exposing all you have to offer to him. He is on you, hunched over you as he thrusts against your fully exposed cunt. You can’t help but shove your head into the crevice of his neck, wailing at how fast he is going. You are surprised he hasn’t accidentally slipped in with how wet you are, the sounds coming from your nethers making that more apparent. 

“I am so close, fuck!” You whimper. You are on the cusp. You needed something. Just a little push to put you over.  “Please, please, please, Vincent! I need it so bad! I need you!”

You feel his fangs against your shoulder, nipping and licking the same spot over and over again. A warm sensation fills you, not registering it until the piercing pain of his incisors sink into your skin. It hurts so good, the combination of pain and pleasure shooting through your system. It sets the tone for your release, causing you to scream into his shoulder. It is electrifying, ecstasy filling in the gaps as your orgasm rolls in waves. Vincent wasn’t far behind, and something about your blood must have sent him into a frenzy. His hips are going inhumanly quick, and after a few more thrusts he ejects his fangs from your body as he cums.

His moans echoing into your ear has you gripping onto him harder, comforting him as he rides out his high. Fingers stroke the hairs on the back of his neck, hushing him soothingly as his body shakes. It isn’t long after he starts groaning, his grip tightening on your thighs. 

“Are you okay?” You ask worried, lifting his head so you can get a good look at him. But what you see stirs something from deep within your chest.

You don’t know if it’s because golden hour has reached its peak, but he looks ethereal. His fangs were no more, but there was blood that has stained his mouth. The beams of golden light reflect off of him, his pale skin shining from the light perspiration on his face. He looks so beautiful in the sun’s rays, like an angel wrapped in light. His eyes slowly open, and a soft gasp leaves your lips. His eyes were no longer illuminating yellow. His eyes, the vibrancy of them, have transformed into the sun. Their usual molten color is bright like the sun's surface. His usual orange rings that surround his pupil are golden, and you can see your reflection in the deep black.

He takes a minute to gather himself before nodding, a sigh passing through his lips before sitting up on his knees. You peer down to your lower half, which is now covered in his seed and your own mess. Vincent’s eyes are glued to your mound, his cum having pooled there from his heavy release. After a moment, he takes his leather glove off his right hand, skin pale and blue from the veins protruding. His fingers dip into his cooled cum, letting it collect on his fingers before pulling his hand away. 

“Vincent, what are yo-” you start before you watch him bring his fingers towards your lips. He lets them hover, waiting to see if you would be as keen to sampling him again like he did with you. 

A light chuckle leaves your lips. He is just full of surprises.

You sit up on your elbows, your mouth pressing light kisses to his fingers before indulging. Your eyes flutter close, a quiet moan rumbling from your chest as take in his taste for a second time. He tastes neutral, nothing too bitter or too musky. It tastes exactly as you expected. Because it was him, he tasted absolutely delectable. And you can’t get enough.

“Look at you,” Vincent mimics your tone from earlier, smirking in the process. “Like a kitten begging for milk.”

His fingers leave your mouth, making you chase after them until he kisses you suddenly. The iron attacks your senses pleasantly, and his humming tells you that his seed is having the same effect on him. You both stay there for a while, just kissing in each other’s mess, and before you know it the sky has turned into its orange hue before the nightfall. 

You decide to pull away first, bringing your hands to his face to soothe the sweat dried skin. “I don’t want this to end, but we should get going. The others may be wondering where we wandered off to.”

He hums slowly, like he was debating whether he cared or not, but ultimately decided to sit fully up. He puts his cock back into his leathers, getting himself situated before he helps you stand up properly. Your body doesn’t feel real from how drained your muscles are, and you think he can tell by the way he guides your hands to his shoulders. He brings your bottoms over to your legs, and urges you to put your feet through the openings. Using his shoulders as leverage, you do as he silently instructs and he pulls them up until you are covered. You look down and see the cum has dried on your skin, and the thought of anyone possibly seeing it makes your cheeks burn, knowing you’d never live it down. 

“Do you think anyone will notice?”

Instantly, like he was already planning to do this, he undid the buckles of his cape and wrapped it around your shoulders. With him being such a broad and tall man, his cape covered you very well and hid the evidence of your coupling.

“It gets cool during nightfall. It won’t be suspicious.”

“But what about your pants? There is cum on them too.”

“Truthfully, I don’t care.”

You pull the cape closer to you, inhaling and exhaling his scent, filling your brain with a sense of safety. Vincent believed he wasn’t deserving of you, that he was a danger to you and others. But when you feel such a sense of security with him, how can he not see that you need him?

He finishes putting his glove back on, flexing his fingers before he goes to open the door of the Bronco. Your brain reacts first, hand grabbing his arm before he could expose you both to the outside world. You needed to know something. You needed to know if he still feels how he felt earlier.

“Vincent, can I ask you something?”

He turns to you, curiosity peaking. He places his golden fingers over the hand gripping his arm, signaling for you to ask your question.

“You don’t regret what just happened, do you? I’m not going to wake up like it was yesterday, am I?” 

There is silence, and you mentally hit yourself for the lack of confidence, your voice having dropped to a whisper. Your head drops again, worried about what was about to not be said, before you feel a gentle kiss on the top of your head.

“There is nothing to regret,” he murmurs. “Especially when it comes to you.”

You lift your head up, eyes meeting his, before letting a smile form on your face. His facial features match your own, and he brings you in for a sweet kiss before you two return to the others. You don’t think about them though, because all you can think is that he let you in.

He willingly let you in.

[azen13]

CW: Yandere Themes Thinking abt Yandere!Neuvillette with a Sovereign!S/O who seeks asylum in Fontaine after years of hiding in Teyvat from the Fatui, Celestia, etc...

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

The moment you enter the Palais Mermonia, Neuvillette feels your presence; like when the sun peaks through a blanket of clouds on an overcast day, something heavy falls off from his soul, like a curtain opening. His office doors open and you find yourself face-to-face with the only being like you in this land.

Of course Neuvillette can't just drop any of his appointments or cases, so he asks you empathetically to wait out in the lobby until his lunch break. Before he returns to his office, he asks one of the Melusines working to keep an eye on you and to make sure you don't get hurt or run off. His fingers twitch as he takes one last look at you, his eyes searching deep into your soul.

When he's finally finished with all his paperwork and met with several people, he ushers you in his office, his face imperceptible. Beneath his human facade, there are currents of emotions pushing against one another like boiling water: protectiveness, anxiety, fear, jubilance, relief. Neuvillette asks you if you want something to eat. Some water from Monstadt to go along with it, maybe?

He lets you tell your story and listens patiently. His expression, perfected over the course of hundreds of thousands of trials, stays perfectly intact, but the tides of his heart lurch as you tell him about all the atrocities committed to you.

The waters roar, and the dragon stirs.

When you ask for asylum and protection he is quick to agree. Very quick. Almost immediately he promises to set you up with a comfortable apartment, a simple job at the Palais organizing papers, some Mora to help you buy clothes, and whatever else you might need. He has to return to work, unfortunately. But he asks again if you can stay in the Palais Mermonia until he is done with work—or at least his official work—for the night.

Your agreement is the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.

The rest of the day, Neuvillette cannot think. There is an permanent indentation in his mind now from that first feeling of sensing your presence. The feelings duplicate themselves in his mind until he can hardly grasp his pen. Words on pages turn into soupy mush.

For the first time in centuries, Neuvillette does not stay late to continue working. When the clock strikes seven, he has already neatly organized the work he has to get done on his desk to pick up later. Briefly, his expression eases, thaws in a way, the corners of his lips slightly upturned, a hint of fondness finding its way into his iridescent eyes.

Unfortunately, he says, he can't organize all of the papers and contact all of the people needed right now to get you what he promised. However, he can offer you a guest room in his home. Your agreeance is so beautiful, your smile radiant like the sun and eyes shining like stars. He wants to see you smile. He likes it. Loves it, even.

As the two of you walk through the streets of Fontaine, the energy of the city begins winding down; there are still people clustered at cafes and musicians spouting tunes off into the evening summer air, but already, stars have begun to appear in the dazzling dusk sky.

You say you love the stars. Neuvillette listens with rapt attention, as though he is studying for the most important test of his life. He is an Akademiya scholar, and his Darshan is the study of you.

You are his star.

After the walk home, Neuvillette finds himself blessed by your expression when you gaze into the foyer of his house. It's nothing extraordinary like the opulence of the nobility, but it is upper-class; a quiet luxury permeates through every part of the home, from the banister carved with patterns of the sea to the walls painted a rich, deep blue.

He holds in a laugh when you see a potted plant and gaze at it like it is a miracle of life. Perhaps it is, with its delicate petals and fragrant scent. How—he wonders as he guides you to the guest room, nearly reaching to put his hand on the small of your back before deciding against it—could it survive this long? How did it not get ripped apart or trampled on by beasts and humans alike? The thought lingers in the back of his mind like the last traces of sunlight beaming in through the windows.

Neuvillette files it away.

When he goes to bed, he cannot sleep. Part of him is worried that there is something genuinely wrong with him, that he should seek medical attention. But that's impossible. And he knows it. It is an easy, dismissive lie; thin like ice in late winter. Once he smashes through it, he plunges into something lethal.

Is it wrong, Neuvillette thinks, that he wishes to protect you?

He should rephrase that. It is wrong that he wishes to keep you tucked away somewhere where those beasts will never hurt you again?

He holds a court case in his mind, you versus him. He cards through the evidence. The laws. He goes on a hunt in his archives for a tome on the law when he needs clarification.

When he composes a mental opinion to this rhetorical case, it is after several hours of back-and-forths in his head. But he knows now.

You are a special case, Neuvillette thinks. Cursed by Celestia even, he would say, with how much you have gone through, escaping the clutches of the Fatui and their Harbingers, and countless other evils. He can trace the scars on your hands knowing there are thousands of tragedies written in invisible ink over them. Could he be what decodes those messages? He can. He will.

To put it more plainly, you don't fall under the standard limits of jurisdiction of Fontaine's law. You are a Sovereign, not a citizen of Fontaine, and in addition, you fall under the qualifications of a person in extreme danger. Your very existence is endangered, the elusive essence of your being alluring to the foulest forces in Teyvat. And since the Archon of your element has not rescinded their powers, you are so very vulnerable.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Time passes strangely after that night. The god of time has always been a strange, fickle thing in an immortal being like Neuvillette's eyes, but after meeting you, it has only become more warped.

You go out to cafes together. Neuvillette buys you a croissant. You ask him what lavender tastes like. He describes it the best he can, and you buy a lavender latte. You and him share easy, pleasant conversation on a small streetside patio. That is just one morning. There will be an infinite number of mornings like that, but they will all carry that insurmountable significance to Neuvillette. Just like your smile. Your face. Your eyes. Hair. Nose. Everything. Anything. All of it.

This is love. It must be.

Days float on by like meandering clouds, the guest room slowly transforms into your room, and the thought of an apartment is abandoned. Neuvillette asks you to start helping him organize papers in his office, find the right tome he needs on Fontaine's laws from his expansive shelves. He buys you clothes in shades of blue, gray, and white, your outfit's color palette harmonizing perfectly with his. Your days are spent constantly together, going from home to the Palais Mermonia, back home, maybe going out for dinner or some other excursion like an opera or show, and Neuvillette is pleased.

Pleased because you have not tried to fight against this. Pleased that you are just as affected as he is. Pleased that he wakes every day knowing you are safe in your home. Pleased that you are his.

His grasp slowly tightens around you like a gardener lining his pruners up against a flower. His hands clasp yours. They draw around your back. Cup your cheek. Brush your lip. When a stranger finds themselves talking to you, Neuvillette's gravity draws you back in, like the earth and the moon. The stranger is simply a speck of dust in this cosmos, never to fall into your shared orbit again.

When you finally kiss after months of this slow pull, Neuvillette knows it is over. You are his. Your room is now his room. Your bed now his bed. Your love is now his love. Your life is now his life. And you know it. And he knows it. And you both know it's for the best.

He will protect you. His rose.

His star.

His love.

Forever.

[khywren]

「 Resonance 」

summary: You can't lie to yourself about the way you feel for him, the way your heart skips a beat when you steal glances at his painfully beautiful face when you think he isn't looking, the way you've been thinking about him constantly after your night together at the Tiefling party.

What admittedly started out as lust has blossomed into something so much more, and you almost can't believe that your feelings have apparently been requited. You are certain that Astarion could have anyone he wanted, and yet, somehow, he's chosen you of all people.

And you can deny him nothing.

pairing: Astarion/f!Reader rating: 18+ MDNI status: complete tags/warnings: oral (female receiving), vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, blood drinking, smut, porn with feelings, soft Astarion, reader insert word count: 5.2k spoiler warning: contains spoilers up to the early part of act 2.

a/n: my first ever fic and me jumping headlong into the fandom and succumbing to the Astarion brainrot. cross-posted from AO3.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ◆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You heave a long sigh as you stretch your arms over your head and roll your shoulders, working away the aches and pains of another long day of travel. Tonight, your wayward band of companions have settled down in the remains of an abandoned inn somewhere outside of Moonrise Towers. They're hardly luxurious accommodations, but the place had seemed relatively safe, and there were plenty of soft beds to accommodate you all, always a welcome option over a dusty bedroll and the cold, hard ground. The building was one of the few structures in the area that still had a roof and all its walls intact, more or less. In these parts, that was nothing short of a miracle.

After ensuring that there were no enemies lying in wait within the premises, Gale had suggested you all sleep in the large, shared bedroom; better for safety in case of an ambush, as he had explained.

You couldn't disagree with his logic, but nevertheless you had wanted a little time to yourself, wandering upstairs and out on the balcony of the master suite after getting dressed for bed. You had had a lot on your mind, lately, and you didn't want to pass the opportunity up while you had it. You might not get another opportunity to relax like this for quite some time, and you had learned to take the little joys where you could since escaping from the wreckage of the nautiloid.

Now you find yourself leaning over the railing, bracing yourself against the old wood and chipped paint, your eyes passively scanning your surroundings. Because the sky is completely overcast, there is no moonlight reflected on the water's surface, and the lake is almost eerily placid. You certainly don't enjoy thinking about what the shadow curse might have done to whatever was living there, what sort of monsters might have taken their place.

A gentle breeze caresses your skin and you shiver slightly, rubbing your arms vigorously to rid yourself of the goosebumps that suddenly appear. After a long afternoon spent within the walls of the Moonrise Towers and their unsavory inhabitants, the quiet calm of the evening is a welcome reprieve, as you and your companions take the time to rest before planning your next move.

You close your eyes and relax, letting your mind wander...

“Enjoying the view?”

The voice immediately startles you out of your reverie and you can't control a yelp of surprise as you whip around, embarrassed to be so caught off guard. 

“A-Astarion,” you stammer, your heart gradually slowing its wild beating. “You shouldn't sneak up on people like that.” A smirk of satisfaction finds its way to his mouth. The smug bastard. Damn him for being so light on his feet, you think, doing your best not to give him any further satisfaction. If you do, you're sure you'll never live it down.

“What if I had fallen over?” you protest in a pathetic attempt to save face, gesturing dramatically to the balcony railing. “I can't imagine you'd have an easy time explaining my mangled corpse to the others.”

Astarion steps closer, his face the perfect mask of wry humor that you're so accustomed to. “Come now, darling,” he says, pretending to be offended. “You wound me. You don't think I'd let anything like that happen to you on purpose, do you? And besides,” he adds, shrugging nonchalantly, “if you'd actually become that clumsy, I doubt you'd be of much use in battle. You'd probably be doing us a favor by removing yourself from the equation, really.”

You try to scowl at him in disapproval, but you must not have been successful if the look on Astarion's face or the quiet laugh he offers in response is any indication. You'd say it was almost condescending if you didn't know him any better, but there is a hint of affection in his scarlet eyes as he looks down at you before approaching the edge of the balcony and standing next to you. He's so close that you can smell his distinct scent, something faintly reminiscent of bergamot and rosemary. It's comforting.

“Gods,” he sneers, scrunching up his nose as he looks out over the dreary scene before the both of you, “this place is dreadful, isn't it?”

You smile at him, thankful for the change in conversation topics, and nod your head in agreement. “I can't wait to leave this place behind.”

“As do I.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, his lips drawn back, one gleaming fang just barely visible. “There's hardly anything here for me to feed on besides rats and other filthy vermin, and you would not believe how foul their blood is.”

“I can't even imagine.” You wouldn't mind offering yourself to him again, if he asked, and you turn the thought over in your mind, considering, but before you can act on it, he's speaking again, drawing your attention back.

“And, by the way, speaking of vermin...”

You glance up at Astarion as he pauses; he seems almost hesitant, his expression pensive. “I didn't get a chance to thank you,” he finally says. “For earlier.”

“Hmm?” You tilt your head inquisitively, searching your mind for what he's referring to.

“For what you did back there, back with that vile Drow who wanted me to bite her.” He almost spits out the words, and you can plainly hear the disgust in his tone. “You stood up for me when you didn't have to. Thank you for that.”

There's something about the melancholy way he expresses his gratitude that makes your heart ache, as if he believes he isn't worth the effort, that maybe you were regretting losing out on whatever potion Araj had offered as a reward. Although you don't yet know much about Astarion's past, what glimpses he has shown you reveal a life of trauma and self-loathing, and you realize that, even though he is temporarily free from Cazador's influence, old habits die hard. You suspect that he has convinced himself that he is utterly unworthy of the freedom he has been granted by the tadpoles, not because he truly believes it, but because it is the mechanism that has, so far, guaranteed his survival.

But the way he seems now, allowing himself to be... vulnerable, to let you see more of the real Astarion behind the façade... it's nothing if not encouraging. You decide to risk opening yourself up to him just a little bit more, hoping that he will return the favor.

“Of course I did,” you say, reaching out clasp his hand between both of your own. Your touch is gentle but insistent, grounding him in the moment as you gaze into his eyes, which have darkened in contemplation as he considers your admonition. “There's no way I would have let you go through with it if you didn't want to, no matter what she was offering. Nothing would have been worth that.”

Astarion's eyes widen slightly, but he says nothing, clearly surprised by your response, by the vehement admission in your voice. Undeterred, you continue, hoping your words get through to him the way you intend them to. “You should be free to make your own decisions and choose your own path,” you say, baring your emotions raw. You hadn't intended to become so emotional, but you've grown quite fond of Astarion these past few weeks you've spent together, and you can no longer bear to see him continue to suffer as he has for so long. No one deserves that, least of all him. You know he doesn't want your pity, but you want him to know that you value his autonomy, whatever he chooses to do with it.

“I didn't know you felt so strongly about the matter,” he says thoughtfully, his voice barely above a whisper. “This whole time I've been acting purely on instinct, doing whatever has come naturally. I can't remember the last time I had the luxury of thinking for myself,” he says, a grim look contorting his naturally handsome features into something you can only describe as distinctly un-Astarion. “To tell you the truth,” he says with a wry laugh, “I've forgotten what it's like.”

“It's okay,” you say, squeezing his hand reassuringly, “These things take time. I'm here for you. I... I care a lot about you, you know.”

“Really?”

He sounds incredulous, like he doesn't believe what he's hearing. You don't know if he's ever been important to someone outside of being a means to an end for Cazador and his cruel intentions, a plaything to be taken advantage of and discarded once it's served its purpose. Until now, that is.

“Of course,” you insist. “How could I not?” You seize the opportunity to step closer to him, and you see him visibly flinch as if bracing for a blow, but before he can stop you, you wrap your arms around him and press him tightly to your body in a full embrace, your heart once again racing in your chest. After a moment you feel the tension in his shoulders ebb away and he relaxes into you with a heavy sigh, his relief more than evident. 

He rests his forehead on your shoulder, breathing in your scent, and you feel him tentatively return the gesture, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. You stay there for a while in each other's arms, the closeness of your bodies a comfort for you both. Astarion is warmer than you remember from your last encounter with him, but you suspect the blood from whatever poor creatures he drained dry outside of the inn is the cause of the lingering warmth in his body. It is an altogether unique experience, one that you have ashamedly been longing to experience with him.

“From now on,” you tell him, reluctantly pulling away, “I hope you'll feel comfortable enough to tell me what you want. I promise I'll never force you to do anything that you don't want to, no matter the circumstances.”

“What I want...”

Astarion considers your words carefully, and even through the darkness, you don't miss the flicker of a smile on his face as he gazes down at you through half-lidded eyes.

“What I want,” he repeats, closing the distance you had put between the two of you and brushing a stray lock of hair out of your face and behind your ear, “is you. Us. This. Whatever this is. You're the only one who's ever seen me, the only one who's ever looked at me with something more than fear or contempt.”

He rests his hand on the side of your face, cupping your cheek the way a lover might, silently asking for your permission. You look up at him, your eyes wide; he's taken you by surprise yet again, but you can't help but feel elated by what he's asking of you. 

You can't lie to yourself about the way you feel for him, the way your heart skips a beat when you steal glances at his painfully beautiful face when you think he isn't looking, the way you've been thinking about him constantly after your night together at the Tiefling party. What admittedly started out as lust has blossomed into something so much more, and you almost can't believe that your feelings have apparently been requited. You are certain that Astarion could have anyone he wanted, and yet, somehow, he's chosen you of all people.

And you can deny him nothing.

“Yes,” you say, almost breathlessly, and Astarion slips his hand beneath your chin and tilts your face upwards, capturing your mouth in a kiss. Your hands find purchase in his shirt as he coaxes your mouth open with his tongue and you happily oblige, letting him slip his tongue inside. 

Astarion is surprisingly gentle. The last time the two of you shared a kiss, it was full of passion and lust, of desperation to entangle yourselves in one another, but what you're experiencing now bears almost no resemblance. He takes his time with you, exploring your mouth and savoring the kiss. When you find your back pressed up against the wall, a small noise of surprise escapes you and you can feel his grin against your lips, the light prick of his fangs a subtle reminder of who and what he truly is.

But you've never thought of him as a monster. Even on that first night, you had willingly offered him your blood because you trusted him. Foolishly or not, you had believed him when he said he had no intention of harming you. You know the sentiment holds true even now - he has you practically caged, but the erratic beating of your heart has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the anticipation of where this kiss might lead you.

Astarion deepens the kiss, and you thread your fingers through his hair as he coaxes a soft moan from your lips. The sound seems to unlock something in him, and he pushes you even more firmly against the wall, wedging his leg between your own. A searing heat has already begun to build within you, and you instinctively grind against him, desperate for any relief from the ache you feel at the apex of your thighs.

Astarion huffs a laugh and lazily traces his lips across your jawline and to the shell of your ear, his voice downright predatory as he whispers, “My, my, what an eager little thing you are...”

Another moan tumbles from your lips, louder than the first, and you buck your hips again, but it's not enough. You feel his mouth buried in the crook of your neck, his fangs bared, a promise of things to come. For now, he turns his attention to your nightshirt, his fingers deftly unhooking all the buttons as the garment now hangs loose and open, barely covering your chest.

“Let's see what other sounds you can make for me, darling.” He practically purrs the words, his voice sending a jolt of electricity down your spine in anticipation. When Astarion slips his hand beneath your nightshirt and palms your bare breast, you suck in a breath, trembling beneath him. 

“That won't do,” he admonishes, before his fingers find your nipple and pinch, just enough to hurt in the way he knows you like it. 

“Ah... Astarion-!” 

As you cry out his name, a sound of satisfied pleasure echoes low in his throat, and you almost melt from the way he's looking at you. Greedily. Hungrily. And you have no intention of stopping him from having his fill of you. In fact, you want nothing more than to surrender yourself to him completely.

“That's a good girl.” 

The words ignite an inferno within you, and you pull him for another kiss, the familiar desperation taking hold of you once again, and he rewards you with his lips and his tongue and his teeth, one hand cradled behind your head as the other mercilessly continues to pinch and tease your over-sensitive breasts. You writhe against him, feeling his growing hardness through his pants, yearning for more contact. 

As if he senses your desires, Astarion begins to trace his free hand down the center of your chest, deliberately, achingly slowly. The centuries he has spent perfecting his technique are glaringly apparent, and you all feel no shame in begging him for what you want, what you know you need.

“Please, Astarion,” you whine, breaking the kiss.

“Please what?” he teases you back, his fingertips featherlight as they stop just above your waistband. “You'll need to be more specific.”

You know he's enjoying himself a little too much, but gods if you could fault him for it. As long as he continues to make you feel good, he's welcome to have his way with you.

“Please touch me,” you say, breathlessly. “I want... I need you to touch me.”

When his hand slips beneath your underwear, you vainly try to hold back your moans of pleasure, his fingers gently spreading you apart and finding the part of you that has been crying out for his touch. He traces lazy circles around your clit and you bury your face in his neck, your legs suddenly feeling as though they might buckle beneath you.

“So wet for me already,” Astarion muses playfully, “And I've barely even touched you. How scandalous.”

You cling desperately to him as his fingers continue to explore, applying pressure in all the right places and eliciting a string of filthy curses from your lips. Finally, you regain some clarity and you tip your head back, indicating to the bedroom on the other side of the wall. 

“B-bed... now... can't feel my legs...”

The sensation between your thighs dissipates immediately as Astarion hooks his arms under your legs and hoists you up effortlessly; you wrap your arms and legs around him as he carries you back into the master suite, your nightshirt getting discarded somewhere along the way. As you extract yourself from him, he lays you almost reverently on the bed before stripping his shirt and climbing on top of you and straddling your hips. The lantern in the corner you had lit on your way in casts flickering shadows across Astarion's finely sculpted chest and you marvel at how breathtaking he looks, his eyes dark and wild, his hair tousled and unkept from your wayward fingers. 

“Just look at you,” he croons softly, his eyes tracing a path across your body as you lay beneath him. You can't help but notice that he stops to pay particular attention to his favorite places - your flushed face, the column of your throat, your breasts. “Simply exquisite.”

As Astarion leans over you, you reach for him and pull him down, the ceaseless urge to feel him inside of you momentarily dulled by the tender way he kisses you, slowly but insistently as he grinds your hips together. He pauses only briefly to press his forehead against your own, and with his eyes closed, he looks strangely at peace in a way you've never seen him before.

Your heart swells and you know that you love him - no matter how deeply his feelings for you run, you love him all the same, and you wish for nothing more than his happiness. Astarion, your most treasured companion. 

This time when you wrap your arms around him, you find your fingers tracing the scars carved into his back, and his body grows taut as you feel him wrestle with the way such a bold gesture makes him feel. You hear it then, a single word echoing faintly in your mind: safe. You don't know if the thought is your own or one that Astarion has shared with you through the tadpole bond, but either way he soon relaxes once again, his mouth tracing kisses across your face and neck.

That's right, you think. I am safe with you, just as you are safe with me.

You feel dismayed as he pulls away from you, but when his fingers hook under your waistband and tug your pants and underwear down and off in one fluid motion, your words of protest immediately die in your throat.

Astarion coaxes your legs open before settling himself, and you watch, open-mouthed and gasping as he buries his face between your thighs, and you feel the wet press of his tongue against your most sensitive areas. When his lips close around your clit and his tongue swirls around the swollen bundle of nerves, you cry out and buck your hips, the sensations of pleasure shooting through your entire body. He uses one hand to grab you firmly by the hip, his vicelike grip holding you in place as he continues to drive you wild.

“Astarion... Astarion...” His name is like a prayer on your lips, and you can't help but cling to it like a dying man clings to water in the desert. He hums, clearly pleased with himself, the vibration threatening to send you over the edge. When he moves his free hand to slide two fingers inside of you, you cry out again, threading your fingers through his hair and holding tight as if you don't dare to let him go. 

The feeling of his lips and tongue on you and his fingers pumping inside you are too much to bear, and you find yourself quickly approaching the edge of what you are sure will be the most intense orgasm you have ever had. Astarion seems to sense that you are growing close, and his pace intensifies, his fingers curling inside you as he finally finds the sweet spot. With a desperate moan you finally come undone around him, your thighs shaking from the intensity of your orgasm, the intense pleasure of it all surging through every inch of your body. Your breath comes now in heavy gasps, and you lay there, utterly spent, as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you.

“I do so love those sweet little sounds you make for me,” Astarion says, his voice simultaneously too close and too far all at once. When you open your eyes at last, you see him there at the edge of the mattress, completely naked now, his hand wrapped around his aching cock. The tip shines wet with precum in the flickering firelight, betraying his arousal, and you feel immense delight at how eager he looks to lose himself in you once more.

“Fuck, Astarion,” you manage, your voice less steady than you had intended it to be.

“It would be my pleasure,” he drawls, twisting your words in his own expert little way and pumping himself a few times before guiding his cock to your entrance and pushing only the head inside you. He grabs your hips and positions you for better access, lifting one leg and spreading your legs apart once more.

You bite down on your lip to stifle your moan as you feel the achingly perfect way his cock stretches you out as he slips himself inside, the motion effortless because you are so thoroughly wet and pliant. He doesn't miss the way you attempt to keep yourself quiet. 

“Are you embarrassed, love? Afraid the others might hear you?” His voice is teasing and sly; he knows the answer to your question without you having to answer, but you humor him all the same because you know he wants to hear you say it.

“Y-yes...” 

Even as you admit this to him, he begins to thrust his hips forward, pushing himself deep inside, purposefully drawing more moans of pleasure from your lips.

“Let them,” Astarion says, his pace steady, his own moans mingling with yours as he savors the tight warmth enveloping him. “You don't think for a moment they haven't noticed the way you look at me, do you?”

Shit. And here you thought you had been so secretive. He had known the whole time - of course he had - and, apparently, so had the rest of your party. The only one oblivious was you. This, of all things, makes your cheeks flush hot with embarrassment, but Astarion only laughs, the realization nothing short of an amusement to him. 

As he begins to chase his own pleasure, Astarion suddenly picks up the pace, his hips snapping rhythmically as he fucks you, his cock bottoming out with every thrust. You can no longer bother with the effort of keeping yourself quiet as you whine and tremble beneath him, your hands fisting in the sheets as your head lolls back into the pillow.

“Look at me,” he says, voice low, and you obey his command, gazing up at him from beneath your lashes. His chest heaves as he surges into you, firelight casting dancing shadows across his figure, and you briefly think that you've never seen anything more magnificent in your entire life before the thought becomes a blur interspersed with his own thoughts of more, more, more that travel through the tadpole bond.

“Ohhh...” you moan out in a lazy drawl, “Ohh gods...”

He's brought you close to the edge of oblivion again, and your whole body tightens beneath him. You're so close, now, all it would take is just a little bit more...

“Astarion,” you manage, “I'm...”

He anticipates what you're about to say and his pace becomes agonizingly slow, and you do nothing to hide your whine of dismay as you search his face for an explanation, your breath coming in short gasps as you try in vain to grind yourself back against him.

“Not just yet, love,” Astarion croons, and in one easy motion he slips his arms beneath you and pulls you abruptly up and into his lap so that you're straddling his thighs, his cock still buried inside you. “I was hoping you might indulge me just a bit further...”

You watch as his eyes travel to your neck, the red of his irises an impossibly deep shade of crimson, and you can sense the hunger within him. 

“Yes... yes,” you tell him, knowing that there had never been any other answer. “Anything, everything, as long as it's you.”

You brush the hair away from your neck, baring the column of your throat to him, and he slots himself against the crook of your neck, his lips searching for the right spot. In the meantime, he thrusts himself lazily into you and you are more than happy to comply, doing all you can to move your hips along the full length of his cock while still allowing him access to your throat.

The bite comes quickly, and you cry out, the white-hot sear of pain gradually ebbing into a dull ache of pleasure as you feel him begin to drink deeply from your veins. It's a strangely intimate act, and as the weariness of the blood loss begins to overwhelm you, you cling to him, your hips moving automatically, ceaselessly as you share this moment with each other.

When Astarion has had his fill, he pulls his mouth away, and you can feel the faint trickle of blood as it drips down your neck. He runs his tongue along the trail of blood, savoring every drop before sighing contentedly. Newly invigorated, he gently rests his hands on your hips, aiding you in your thrusts as he guides you along his cock, pulling almost completely out of you before slamming back into you, slowly at first but then with a growing desperation that matches your own. He won't last much longer, and neither will you at this rate.

Dizzy from the bite and the adrenaline, you bury your face against him, calling his name over and over again as you grow closer and closer to release. All it takes is for his fingers to find your clit again before you lose yourself completely, throwing back your head and arching your back as the intensity of your orgasm claims you once again, your entire body electric with pleasure as you rock against him, babbling incoherently. 

The feeling of your tight wet heat around him is too much for him to bear now and he follows you over the edge, your name a guttural groan deep in his throat as he spills himself inside you. With a few more quick thrusts, he pulls out of you and lays you back onto the mattress, but he doesn't shift from where he kneels on top of you, his eyes tracing every curve of your body as if committing this moment eternally to memory.

You are utterly exhausted, and your eyes flutter closed as he settles himself beside you before you reach out instinctively for him. He allows you the small pleasure of holding his hand and lacing your fingers together as he presses featherlight kisses along your face, the act strangely domestic but nonetheless a welcome one.

“Get some sleep, love,” Astarion says, his voice laced with honey and something you are sure can only be genuine affection for you. “I'll be right here if you need me.” Satisfied, you feel yourself sink quickly into a deep sleep, perhaps the best you've had in weeks, safe in knowing that, at least for just this night, no harm will come to you. The last thought on your mind is of Astarion, his face a vivid reflection in your mind's eye, and you can't help but feel at ease.

-----------

When you awake the next morning - or whatever passes for morning in this place of constant darkness - your eyes open slowly, your body rousing from slumber as you become aware not only of where you are but why you are there. Reminders of the night you shared with Astarion come flooding back in an instant and you feel suddenly wide awake, sitting up with a start. Beside you, the mattress is empty, and you begin to feel disappointed before Astarion clears his throat from across the room and you follow the noise to where he stands, adjusting his clothing as he dresses for the day.

He hadn't broken his promise, you realize with relief. He had spent the entire night with you, though you doubt he got much if any sleep, as he told you once before that sleep was mostly irrelevant for his kind anyway.

“Good morning,” you say, offering him a tender smile. “How long was I out? I haven't slept that well in ages.”

“It's hard to tell in this place,” Astarion shrugs padding over to hand you your discarded sleepwear. “But long enough, I would imagine. The others are already up, at any rate.”

You can hear the faint sound of chatter and the distinct noise of cookware coming from the lower level of the inn, carrying with it the savory aromas of meats and whatever else your party is preparing for breakfast. Your stomach suddenly rumbles with hunger, and you dress quickly, sliding out of bed and instantly being met with the ache in your limbs that can only come from a night spent in the throes of passion. Your fingertips trace the puncture marks on your neck and you groan, realizing that as soon as you join the others, they will be painfully aware of how and with whom you spent the night - that is, if the noises Astarion had so expertly coaxed out of you hadn't already done the trick.

Astarion, ever-observant, senses your plight and you can tell he's barely holding back his laughter. He is positively elated. You scowl at him, half-hearted, but still deeply embarrassed.

“You think this is just hilarious, don't you?”

“Of course I do, darling, you do know me ever-so-well,” Astarion quips back, his eyes crinkling with delight as he regards you fondly. “Now then, shall we? We wouldn't want to keep everyone in suspense.”

He guides you to the door and towards the staircase, and your mind frantically tries to form a plan of action for what is surely about to be a truly mortifying moment. In the meantime, somewhere in the back of your mind, you also begin considering how you plan to make Astarion pay for his transgressions; after all, if you're never going to live this down, neither will he.

[yanderecrazysie]

Twisted Zoo Ending Three: Flying the Coop

This is based on the stories of a keeper reader with the octotrio by @ashensgrotto and @merakiui .

I am no longer doing tags. Tumblr hates me and I’d rather not waste my time when there are so many! You can keep up to date on Twisted Zoo on Tumblr, Quotev, Wattpad, or AO3.

WARNINGS: yandere themes

Note: For Tumblr, the mature version of the endings (the afterendings) will begin sometime after I finish all the normal endings.

Note 2: Tumblr was originally told that all the birds would have one ending, but I have decided to split them up into three endings (The Price of Beauty and Birds of a Feather alongside this one)

The sky was overcast today, your sunny mood not matching the dark gray, cloudy sky. As you approached the dome where the birds resided, you decided to check on the damage. 

You still found it hard to believe the birds had made any damage to metal. But surely Mr. Crowley wouldn’t lie to you. 

There were guards stationed outside the area of the dome that had been damaged. A white tarp fluttered in the cold breeze, making it impossible for you to see the extent of what the birds had done. 

The guards gave you a respectful nod as you passed by. Their eyes didn’t seem to leave you, even as you walked farther and farther away. You shook off the thought, assuming you were imagining things after everything Mr. Crowley had said.

You opened the door to the dome and immediately noticed the difference in the air. Tense, as though something was coiling tightly around you, ready to snap. You looked towards the damage but another white tarp covered the entire area. The rest of the enclosure was the same- the marsh where the flamingos lived, the bright green grassy expanse for the peacocks, and the individual cages for the-

Where was Deuce, Ace, and Trey? The raven, parrot, and owl’s cages were all empty, the doors ripped off their hinges. The bird houses were covered in deep scars, as if talons had scratched every inch of the wood.

And then you spotted them.

Ace gave you an enthusiastic wave, but Deuce and Trey remained serious, all three staring at you. Even from a distance, you could see their pupils were blown wide. Something was wrong with them.

With a gulp, you tried to force your legs to move, but you were frozen between approaching them and seeing what was wrong or fleeing. The trio began approaching you and your heart stopped in your chest altogether.

“Hey, (Y/n),” Ace said with a wide grin, his sharp eyes locked on you without blinking even once, “Did you come to check out the damage?”

You nodded despite your fear, feeling a shiver run up your spine as Trey and Deuce split off and began to circle you. Their wings were tucked tightly to their bodies, but occasionally twitched as though they wanted to spread them.

“Have you done any more damage?” you managed to ask.

Trey smiled pleasantly, “Would you believe us if we said ‘no’?”

Deuce, who was normally quiet, spoke up, “No harm meant. We want more space.”

“Space?” You looked at them curiously, trying to ignore the twisting in your stomach, “Why would you need more space?”

As soon as the question left your lips you felt stupid. Ace laughed, “Birds aren’t meant to be in cages. Do you think we’re supposed to stay in the little spaces Crowley and his goons made for us?”

“Isn’t that what you agreed to?” you asked.

“We were happy with it… until now,” Ace explained, “But we’ve grown restless ever since you arrived.”

You glanced back at the enclosure door and instead was met with the sight of a smirking Trey. He had positioned himself between you and the only exit. Before you could truly panic, Deuce was wrenching your arms behind your back and clapping a hand over your mouth.

Trey gave you a closed-eyed smile, “We want to talk.” He opened his eyes, his smile twisting into a devious smirk, “About you coming with us.”

Deuce’s thumb brushed circles against your cheek, trying to soothe you, while Ace gave you an earnest look, “What’s the point of escaping if you aren’t with us?”

So it wasn’t really about escaping- it was about claiming you. Mr. Crowley’s speech came back to you. “They will especially latch on to anyone who shows them true kindness.” 

You tried to pull your wrists free and began to frantically shake your head. You managed to slip from Deuce’s grasp over your mouth and wailed, “Come with you? Are you crazy? I can’t just-”

“Actually, you can,” Ace snickered, “After all, you don’t have a choice in the matter.” He leaned in close, his voice a conspiratorial whisper as a hunger swirled in his overblown pupils, “We’ve been working on this escape for a while, and guess what, sweetheart? Today’s the day.”

You began to squirm in Deuce’s ironclad grip, “I’m not going anywhere with you guys! I’m just a researcher- I didn’t sign up for this. Help! Security! Please! HELP!”

Ace laughed loudly, “They won’t help you, trust me.” His stare became a bit more gentle, “Look, you’ve been taking care of us for so long, now it’s our turn to care for you.”

Deuce’s wings twitched with barely restrained excitement, “Don’t fight. Be a good girl.”

“Yeah,” Ace agreed with a wicked grin, “We went through all this trouble because we love you! Isn’t that sweet?”

“Sweet?” you wailed, “It’s insanity, that’s what this is! Now let me go before you get in trouble!”

“Trouble? In trouble with who?” Ace tilted his head, pretending to be confused, “No, no, you have it wrong, silly. We’re not the ones who will be in trouble.”

“Whatever I did, I’m sorry!” A tear trickled down your cheek as you began to thrash in Deuce’s grip, “I’m really sorry!”

Deuce leaned in to your ear, “You not need to be sorry.”

Trey spoke up behind you, “We’ll be free. All of us.”

Ace picked up a vine from the floor and motioned for Deuce to hand you over. You let out a scream for help, but when you looked towards the guards outside the dome, you realized they hadn’t so much as flinched.

No one was coming to save you.

As soon as your wrists were bound tightly, Trey took flight, his talons quickly curling into your shoulders and under your arms. Ace and Deuce joined him in the air and you were lifted off the ground.

There was no point in screaming anymore and your voice hurt. Instead, you cried softly to yourself as the bird halflings blew through the white tarps like they weren’t even there. The damage was so extensive that it was basically a giant hole for them to fly easily through.

From the ground, Mr. Crowley waved goodbye to you, a smile on his face as though he was pleased to see you being dragged into the sky.

The gloomy sky finally matched your mood.

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

LOVE IS COMPLICATED - PART X

—lay all your love on me

summary: two idiots who got their shit together and now love each other unconditionally.

pairing: pedro pascal x actress/singer!reader.

word count: 13.2k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). lots of smut, p in v, fingering, unprotected sex, lots of fluff, cursing, age gap, mentions of alcohol. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know!

a/n: hello besties, dual pov so watch out for that, and reminding everyone this is a work of fiction so just sit back and relax and enjoy! but if this isn't your thing, move along :)

masterlist!

February 25, 2023

London, England

London felt different this time. The city hummed with its usual, muted energy—the overcast sky casting everything in a soft, diffuse light—but for you and Pedro, it was like being in your own world, hidden in plain sight. The press tour for The Mandalorian had begun, but this time things had shifted. You were together now, and the stolen glances, soft touches, and subtle smiles painted your days in colors no one else could see.

Five days of interviews and cameras, but you didn’t waste a minute when you were alone. London became your playground, with dinners tucked away in quiet corners and late-night walks along the Thames. Photos of the two of you surfaced online, of course—your laughter caught mid-frame as you leaned into him outside a restaurant, Pedro’s arm draped casually over your shoulders—but to the world, you were still just friends.

There was an unspoken ease, an intimacy that hadn’t been there before. It was in the way Pedro’s hand would brush against yours when no one was looking and how you’d catch him staring at you with that quiet, knowing smile that made your heart do somersaults.

One interviewer joked about Pedro’s tendency to play father figures on screen. "It’s funny," they said, "you keep playing these fatherly roles. What’s the draw?"

Pedro chuckled, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, glancing at you before answering. He wasn’t just answering the question—he was letting everyone into his head, just for a moment. "I like the idea of it," he said, his voice mellow and thoughtful. "Being able to imagine that responsibility, that kind of love. It’s... comforting."

You nudged him playfully, lighting up the moment with a grin. "Comforting, huh?" you teased, leaning in. "You’re really gunning for that ‘World’s Coolest Dad’ mug, aren’t ya?"

He chuckled again, the sound low and amused. "Oh, absolutely," he replied, mock serious. "But, let’s be real—I’m already cool dad material. Look at me." He spread his arms like he was showing off some award-worthy masterpiece.

You shifted on your seat, eyebrow raised, and whispered, “Honey, they want you to be the daddy, not the dad.”

Pedro froze for a split second before bursting into laughter, his eyes crinkling in that way that always made your stomach flip. "Touché," he said, still laughing. "I’m multi-talented, I can be both."

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your grin. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll get you the mug.”

The room erupted in laughter, and the easy banter between you two was back, but there was a difference now. Every joke, every shared smile held a layer of intimacy that no one else could decipher.

March 14, 2023

Los Angeles, CA

The night was electric, as it always was, a celebration of film and glamour.

Pedro looked gorgeous in his black Zegna suit, the sharp lines contrasting with the softness of his hair, longer than usual, curling slightly at his collar. His face lit up in that way you loved, the crinkles around his eyes deepening as he smiled. You, too, had dressed for the occasion in a stunning black Oscar de la Renta gown, the fabric hugging your body like a second skin. But it wasn’t the dress or the cameras that made you feel beautiful—it was the way Pedro looked at you from across the room. He looks at you, not at anyone else. It feels very nice when he looks at you. It's grounding.

You arrived separately. The decision had been mutual—to keep your relationship private for just a little longer. Inside the Dolby Theatre, you texted each other relentlessly, your phone lighting up every few minutes.

Pedro: You look unreal.

You glanced across the room and spotted him, his eyes locked on you like you were the only thing in the room worth watching.

You: Have you seen yourself? Ridiculous.

You watched him bite back a smile. You knew what he was thinking, that playful look he got when he was trying to be serious but couldn't quite manage it around you.

Pedro: Wanna trade seats?

You glanced over at your seating arrangements, aware that the cameras were everywhere. It was almost torturous not to be able to sit next to him, to lean into his side and steal private moments.

You: Don’t tempt me.

He raised an eyebrow from across the room, his smile lazy but full of warmth. You could practically hear him saying, "Try me," without even needing the words.

At one point, your phone buzzed again.

Pedro: I think the guy next to me just tried to flirt with me.

You: Well, tell him he’s got competition.

Pedro: Should I let him down easy?

You stifled a laugh, shaking your head and glancing toward the stage.

You: Maybe let him sweat it out first.

The night wore on, and he presented an award with Lizzie Olsen, and you couldn’t take your eyes off him—his smile, the way he owned the stage with that effortless charm. Every now and then, you’d steal moments—walking to each other’s seats under the guise of casual conversation—but there was thrill in the secrecy. It was fun, this private world you shared, just for the two of you.

Later, during one of the commercial breaks, the both of you managed to slip away backstage, away from the sea of people. The hustle and bustle of the theater seemed to fade as you both found a semi-dark corner. The dim light cast shadows on the walls, but all you could see was him—the soft smile on his lips, the playful glint in his eyes.

Pedro wasted no time. His arm slid around your waist, pulling you close until there was barely any space between you. His scent, familiar and warm, wrapped around you as he leaned down, stealing a kiss from your lips. It was quick but full of tenderness, his lips brushing against yours as if he couldn’t help himself.

You laughed softly, half-heartedly trying to push him away, knowing you had only a few minutes before you’d be called on stage to present the next award. “Pedro, stop,” you whispered, your hands gently resting on his chest. “We only have a few minutes, and I have to go soon. They’ll call me any second.”

But he wasn’t deterred. His lips found yours again, a bit more insistent this time, kissing you deeply before pulling back just enough to breathe. “A few minutes of you,” he said in a low, almost reverent voice, “would be enough to keep me going for years.”

You felt a flutter in your chest, the world outside your little bubble disappearing as his thumb grazed your cheek. You tilted your head up, your lips brushing his once more, a tender kiss that lingered just long enough to make you want more. His hand rested on the small of your back, the heat of his touch soothing you in the moment.

“You’re making this really hard, you know?” you teased softly, your voice breathless.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling against your chest as his forehead rested against yours. “Good,” he whispered, his breath fanning across your lips. “Let them call you. I’m not letting you go until the last second.”

You smiled, leaning into him, allowing yourself just a few more stolen seconds. His lips found your temple, a soft, lingering kiss, as if trying to memorize the feel of you before the moment passed. You closed your eyes, savoring the warmth of him, the safety of his arms around you.

Then, reluctantly, you heard the distant call of your name from the stage manager. Pedro sighed, his hand slowly sliding away from your waist. “My time's up.”

You looked up at him, a dangerous grin spreading across your face. “Don’t worry,” you whispered, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “you'll get to have me for the rest of the night.”

March 31, 2023

Los Angeles, CA

By the time the PaleyFest rolled around, Pedro was already feeling the weight of keeping everything hidden. He wasn’t a man who liked to keep secrets—especially not something as big as you. You sat so close to him, so near yet so far, and it took everything in him not to reach out and show the world how much he loved you. Instead, he found himself compensating, channeling his feelings into every casual touch, every stolen glance that was meant for only you.

He showed up that night in a brown and beige cardigan, the fabric stretching over his broad shoulders, paired with green pants and black Chelsea boots. You had told him once how much you liked them. His scruff had grown fuller, darker, and he knew you liked it like that. It drove him crazy when your fingers brushed against it, soft touches that sent flames all the way to his chest.

The night had gone by swiftly enough. Interviews, panels, the usual public-facing routine. Yet, every moment felt charged with the knowledge that you were there, just inches away. You were sitting beside him during the Q&A session, your knees touching. His hand would occasionally ghost over yours, brushing against your fingers, almost accidentally—except it wasn’t. Nothing about this was an accident. You were deliberate in everything you did, in the way you turned toward him, your laughter soft and quiet as if sharing a secret only he could understand.

It was maddening. Pedro was a good actor, but this was real life, and it was becoming harder to play the part of just colleagues, just friends. Every time you touched him, even in the smallest ways, he was reminded of how badly he wanted to kiss you right then and there. He had to keep his cool, though—keep things professional. But it was becoming impossible. You made it impossible.

The way you spoke during the panel, your voice warm and confident, filled with that easy charm that came so naturally to you—he was falling apart inside. He couldn’t focus on anything else. Every word out of your mouth felt like a temptation. Every soft glance in his direction was a tug on the string that bound his heart to yours.

God, you’re too much to be denied, he thought, his mind drifting as he watched you from the corner of his eye. He wanted to kiss you. Right there, in front of everyone. To hell with the secrecy. The privacy you two had was a blessing and a curse. It made loving you easier in some ways—no eyes watching, no prying questions. But it also made it sad, frustrating. All these private moments that he clung to—your stolen touches, your quiet words of affection—were everything to him. But there was a part of him that wanted more.

He sometimes forgot that you were supposed to be keeping things quiet. It just felt so natural to be near you, to let his hand graze yours, or to press his knee against yours while answering a question. Nobody saw a thing—or if they did, nobody said anything. It was amazing how invisible these touches of heaven were to everyone else, how easily they slipped under the radar.

As the panel went on, Pedro found himself drifting. His mind wasn’t in the questions or the answers—it was in the curve of your lips, the sound of your laughter, the way your leg brushed against his every time you shifted in your seat. You made it so easy to fall in love with you. Too easy.

When you turned to him, your eyes meeting his for just a split second longer than necessary, his mouth went dry. That quiet connection was enough to make him feel like he was losing his grip. He shifted in his seat, his heart pounding in his chest, trying to focus on the discussion at hand but finding it increasingly difficult with his pants growing tighter by the second.

He needed to have you.

Later, when the two of you made it back to the hotel, Pedro could barely keep himself together. The second the door clicked shut behind you, something in him snapped. He’d been holding back all night.

As soon as the door closed, his hands were on you—rough, needy, pulling you close like he’d been starving for you. Like a dog let off his leash. His fingers pressed into your hips, firm and demanding, and his mouth was on yours before you had time to take a breath. It wasn’t soft or gentle; it was raw, desperate. Slow, deep kisses like he’d been holding his breath the entire night, waiting for this moment when he could finally let it all out.

You barely made it to the couch before things escalated. He couldn’t keep his hands off you, his fingers slipping beneath your clothes, touching every inch of your skin like he needed it. Like he’d been deprived of you for days, even though it had only been hours since his hand had last grazed yours. His thumb brushed over your nipple through your shirt, and you gasped into his mouth, pushing your hips forward to meet his.

“You’re not wearing a bra,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and raspy, full of heat. It wasn’t a question. It was a realization that had his cock straining painfully against his pants, desperate to feel you.

His fingers slid between your legs, pressing against you through the fabric, and you moaned softly, your head falling back against the couch as he worked you open. Slick and warm, your body responded to him like it always did—eagerly, hungrily. His breath was hot against your neck as he kissed a line up your throat, whispering things only you were meant to hear.

“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he groaned, grinding his hips into the cushions beneath you. His cock was rock hard, desperate for any kind of friction, but he wasn’t ready to give in just yet. Not until he had you moaning his name like no one else could. “I couldn’t stop thinking about getting you like this…desperate for me.”

His fingers moved inside you with a kind of expertise that left you breathless, his thumb circling your clit with just enough pressure to have you arching your back, gripping his arms for stability. He hopes you feel his frustration—his need to release everything he couldn’t show in public, the need to pour every unsaid word into this moment. He kissed you harder, devouring you, his body pressing you deeper into the couch as he gave in to the desperation that had been simmering beneath the surface.

You clung to him, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your fingers curling in his hair as he fucked you with his hand, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. His mouth was close to your ear, his words a hot, breathy confession. “I can’t stand it sometimes… being near you and not being able to touch you the way I want.”

You moaned. The sound—so deliciously wanton—spurred him on, his movements becoming more urgent and intense.

Pedro groaned, his lips brushing the shell of your ear and his beard scratching your skin as he thrust his fingers deeper. “I’m always desperate to make you feel good,” he murmured, his breath hitching with the intensity of it. He was grinding his cock into the couch, trying to find some kind of relief, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

“Please, more,” you gasped, your voice trembling, your body tightening with the anticipation of release. Pedro could feel it, could hear it in the way your breath hitched, the way your hips moved against his hand.

Just when you were about to fall apart, his mouth was on yours again, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, swallowing your moans as you came undone beneath him. Your body trembled in his arms, and he groaned, kissing you harder.

You were still coming down when he finally lifted you into his lap, pressing you against him, his cock straining beneath you. He knew you could feel it. He knew you wanted it just as badly as he did.

But then came the frustration, the gnawing ache. His hand moved to your cheek, cupping it as he kissed you softer this time, a contrast to the earlier desperation. “I think about kissing you so much,” he admitted, his voice low and husky as his fingers traced lazy circles on your thigh.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Good thing you get to do it whenever you want now.”

Pedro’s lips hovered just above yours, his breath hot and ragged. “Well, not whenever I want,” he muttered, his voice low, almost hoarse, before he found your mouth again. His lips trailed along your jaw, slowly, torturously, until they grazed the corner of your mouth.

You laughed softly, the tension in the room shifting with your teasing tone. “Blessed be this tired conversation,” you murmured, your words brushing against his lips. “We agreed we’d wait, baby. It’s better this way.”

His forehead rested against yours, his warm breath mingling with your own as his fingers trailed down the side of your face. His eyes, heavy with love and frustration, bore into yours. “But I don’t want to anymore,” he confessed, his voice raw with need. His fingertips trailed down the side of your face, tracing your cheekbone, committing each detail of your skin to memory like it might be the last time he’d get to touch you like this.

You grinned, teasing him with that wicked smile of yours that made him feel both alive and tormented. “You could fuck me on the seven o’clock news, and they’d just say I was desperate for attention,” you said, laughing at your own joke. But Pedro couldn’t bring himself to laugh.

His thumb brushed over your cheek, and his hand cupped your face with a tenderness that made him ache. “We’ll face it together,” he whispered, the sincerity in his voice a promise. "Whatever they throw at us."

He didn’t know how, didn’t know when, but he knew that he was ready to take on whatever came next—so long as it meant he didn’t have to keep hiding you. Hiding us.

Before the moment could spiral into something heavier, before his thoughts took him down that path, Pedro kissed you again. Slower this time, more deliberate. Like he was trying to communicate with his lips what he couldn’t with words.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. Your breath was hot against his mouth as you spoke between kisses. “I know it’s frustrating, but we have this, Pedro. We have us.”

The words cut through the noise in his head, grounding him. He groaned softly, his hands slipping lower, his grip tightening as if you might disappear. “I don’t want to wait anymore,” he said again, the need in his voice raw, his body already pressing closer to yours. He felt like he was on the verge of breaking.

He saw something flash in your eyes—desire, affection, understanding. “Then don’t,” you said, voice firm with want. A playful smirk tugged at your lips. “Now shut up and fuck me, lover boy.”

He smiled, and the last thread of his restraint snapped. His hands moved quickly, fingers pulling at your clothes in a frenzy, his breath coming faster as he discarded his own. The second your bare skin pressed against his, Pedro felt like he was drowning in the sensation of you. He’d wanted this—needed this—all day, maybe longer.

You sank down onto him slowly, and Pedro groaned, his hands gripping your hips as he felt you take him in. The heat of you, the slickness, made him curse under his breath. The stretch of you around him, the way you clenched at every inch, drove him wild.

“God, you feel so good,” he groaned, his voice rough with arousal. He could barely keep his thoughts straight; the sensation of being inside you was enough to make him lose his mind. The way you gasped, the way your body tightened around him, made him dizzy with want.

His lips found your neck, his teeth grazing against your skin as he slurred a curse, his body moving in sync with yours. You didn’t start slow. Neither of you had the patience for it. Your hips rolled against his with a roughness that made his cock throb inside you, and Pedro couldn’t hold back the way he groaned into your neck, his hands digging into your waist, guiding you harder, faster.

Each thrust felt like a confession, like he was pouring all the things he hadn't been able to say for months into the movement of your bodies.

Your mouth found his ear, and through the gasps and the heat, you whispered, “I love you.”

The words broke something inside him. Pedro’s hips stuttered, his body jerking as he pulled you closer, his hand cupping the back of your neck. His lips hovered near your ear, and he whispered back, voice trembling, “I know, baby.”

You moved faster, grinding down on him, the wet sounds of your bodies echoing in the room, and Pedro thought he might lose it. The way you felt—the way you looked—was too much, too perfect. He was on the verge, teetering at the edge, and he didn’t want it to end.

Not yet.

But your body tightened around him, and he felt you shudder as you came, the sound of your breathless cry sending him over the edge. Pedro groaned, his hips jerking hard as he came inside you, his grip on you almost bruising as his release hit him like a wave, leaving him breathless and shaking.

You pressed a soft kiss to his freckled shoulder, your voice light. “So… still frustrated?”

Pedro chuckled, wrapping his arms tighter around you. “Not right now,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple, “but give me ten minutes, and I’ll probably be ready to go again.”

Your laughter filled the room, and for the first time all night, everything felt right.

Everything felt perfect.

•••

Several weeks had passed, and with them, the world had changed in quiet, insidious ways. Paparazzi photos had surfaced, capturing stolen moments and raising questions. The speculation had simmered, threatening to boil over. But this morning, when you woke up to the persistent buzz of your phone, the weight of those weeks hadn’t fully sunk in.

Your hand lazily reaches for his side of the bed, only to find it empty.

Still half asleep, you reached out for your phone, the screen blinding in the dim light of your room. As your eyes adjusted, you saw the thousands of messages, and a particular notification popped up—an Instagram post from Pedro. You blinked, and then opened it.

There they were, pictures of you, ones you hadn’t even realized he’d taken.

The first image was from one of your walks in London. You were bundled up in a thick scarf and coat, the fog of your breath visible in the cool air. Your hair was slightly tousled from the wind, cheeks flushed from the cold, and though you weren’t looking at the camera, you were looking at him, your smile soft, eyes alight with an easy, unguarded happiness. There was something about the way you looked at him in that picture—it was a look only he ever got to see.

Another photo showed you in a fit of laughter, your head thrown back, eyes scrunched shut, one hand covering your face as if trying to stifle the sound. It was blurry, like he’d caught you mid-movement, mid-moment. Completely unposed, completely you.

The next was a close-up, your hand stretched out toward him, your face only partially visible in the background, eyes shining, lips curved in a grin. You’d been reaching for his phone that day, playfully trying to snatch it from him, teasing him about taking too many pictures.

And then, a quieter one—an intimate photo of you curled up beside him on a couch, a book in hand, legs tucked beneath you. Your hair was untidy, and you weren’t paying attention to the world around you, just lost in your thoughts. The soft golden light of late afternoon bathed the room, and the moment felt like a secret—yours and his alone.

But what caught you wasn’t just the photos. It was the caption, simple yet profound in its clarity:

"Happy birthday to my best friend, the love of my life, my adventure partner, and my girl."

The internet exploded, notifications from friends, fans, your team, all lighting up your phone. Messages poured in—questions, congratulations, shock. But none of that mattered.

What mattered was the truth in Pedro’s words, as clear as the morning light filtering through your window. No more hiding, no more stolen glances or shadows in the background. Just this—a love that had been quietly building, finally stepping into the open.

May 6, 2023

New York, NY

The night of the Met Gala buzzed with energy, a heady mix of anticipation swirling in the air. You both got ready in separate hotel rooms, allowing your respective teams the space to work their magic. The atmosphere was electric, the evening monumental—not just for the fashion, but for what it symbolized: your first public event as a couple. You had spent hours getting ready, your heart racing for reasons beyond the red carpet.

When you finally laid eyes on Pedro in his Valentino ensemble, time seemed to slow. He stood in the doorway, resplendent in a long crimson coat that swirled dramatically as he moved, paired with tailored shorts and sleek black boots. The boldness of the look, the way it fit him so perfectly, stole your breath.

"Oh my God," you whispered, unable to stop your jaw from dropping. There was something about seeing him like this—bold, confident, unapologetically himself—that sent a rush of heat through you.

Pedro, amused by your reaction, raised an eyebrow. “I know,” he said, smirking slightly, clearly aware of the effect he had on you.

You couldn’t help yourself, a cheeky grin curling on your lips. “May I say, as the kids say, that you are serving cunt?”

He burst out laughing, the sound filling the hallway and bouncing off the walls, a deep, genuine laugh that made your heart skip a beat. As he stepped closer, his eyes roamed over you, taking in every inch of your body wrapped in the immaculate white Versace gown. The gown hugged your body perfectly, each intricate detail catching the light as you moved.

"Well," he said, still chuckling, his voice dipping as his gaze softened, "you're making it very hard to concentrate on anything else."

The cameras flashed endlessly as you stepped onto the carpet together, arms intertwined, your bodies pressed close as if the entire world didn’t matter. For the first time, there was no hiding, no second-guessing. Your love was out there, on display for everyone to see, the vulnerability of it both thrilling and terrifying. Every step you took together felt like a declaration.

Inside the venue, the evening flowed. The opulent setting melted into the background as you moved through the crowd, hand in hand. There were moments where Pedro would pull you in close, whispering jokes or sweet nothings in your ear, and you'd catch the glint of mischief in his eyes. You danced together several times, his hands resting on your waist, the weight of his touch grounding you in a night that felt like a dream.

The chaos of the night faded away as soon as you were alone, the two of you slipping out of your clothes. The city outside was alive, its lights casting a soft, romantic glow over the bed as you lay together, skin on skin. Pedro moved above you, his hands tracing gentle paths down your body, every touch filled with reverence.

His lips followed the same trail, soft and deliberate, until he kissed you, slow and tender, his body sinking into yours with a quiet intensity. The urgency of earlier was gone, replaced with something deeper, something that spoke of love and forever. His movements were languid, like you had all the time in the world, and maybe you did.

•••

Pedro had been cast in Gladiator 2 and left for Morocco in June to start filming. The distance was both expected and dreaded, the time apart a necessary evil in your world. But then he was gone, and you missed him every day. You flew out to see him twice, visiting the set with a thrill in your chest, knowing that you were entering his world, one where he wore armor and swords and commanded a screen.

The second time you visited, you stayed in a quaint residence near the edge of the city. The night air in Morocco was warm and fragrant. Lying on the bed, a soft breeze ruffling the curtains, you watched Pedro kick off his boots, shedding the intensity of the day's filming as his grin softened in your direction.

“Come here,” he murmured, voice still rough from the day's work.

You rose, crossing the room to slip into his arms, pressing your face into his chest. His arms tightened around you, pulling you into him. You sighed into the space between his collarbones, feeling utterly content in his embrace.

“You know, it never gets old—seeing you in costume,” you teased, peering up at him.

He chuckled, pressing a kiss into your hair. “If I knew you had a thing for gladiators, I would’ve done this sooner.”

You slapped his chest lightly, earning another laugh. “I don’t. Just you.”

•••

When July came, the vast ocean between you dissolved, replaced by the steady beat of his heart as Pedro flew from Morocco. The journey had been long, the hours heavy, but the moment he stepped onto the red carpet in Los Angeles and saw you, standing tall in your black dress, framed against the shimmer of camera flashes, his weariness evaporated. The world could have spun around you, but all that existed for him was you—radiant, poised, and undeniably powerful.

His eyes never left you, and as the evening wore on, he finally drew close, his presence a gentle comfort in the midst of the chaotic premiere. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, his lips grazing your ear, each word carrying a tenderness that only you could feel.

Without hesitation, you leaned back into him, your body instinctively finding its place against his. His arms encircled your waist, pulling you in just a little tighter, grounding you amidst the sparkle of the night. “Thank you for being here,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper, meant only for him. It was a moment suspended in time, the noise fading as his warmth enveloped you.

In his arms, you weren’t the glamorous you, the center of attention. You were just you, and he was simply Pedro—the man who had flown across continents just to be by your side for the night. His pride in you radiated through every gentle touch, every lingering glance, and in those precious moments, you felt it deeply.

There was no performance here, no expectations. You didn’t have to try; you didn’t have to prove anything. With him, you were never too much or not enough. You were loved—completely and without condition.

•••

The SAG-AFTRA strike gave you both a break you hadn’t anticipated, but it was exactly what you needed. For the first time in ages, there were no press tours, no filming schedules, no red carpets to think about—just you and Pedro in the brownstone you'd bought together in New York.

The place was still in disarray, a maze of half-unpacked boxes, paint swatches taped to walls, and mismatched furniture that had yet to find its place. But it was yours. It was home.

Most days were spent amidst the chaos, trying to bring some sense of order to the space. You’d argue, though never seriously, about where to hang a certain painting, or which color should blanket the living room walls. Pedro had been adamant about a soft olive green, his voice confident as he gestured to the swatch. You’d rolled your eyes, but eventually relented, knowing full well he’d win you over. The walls gradually filled with memories—framed photos of your shared adventures, artwork picked up during travels, and books, some stacked haphazardly, others lovingly arranged by Pedro himself.

One rainy Sunday morning, you found yourself curled up on the couch in the living room, wearing Pedro’s emotional support Lakers shirt, the yellow one, the fabric soft and familiar against your skin. Pedro lay with his head in your lap, your fingers absentmindedly threading through his dark curls. His eyes softened as he looked up at you, a smile playing at the edges of his lips, those crinkling lines at the corners that always made your heart flutter.

"Keep it until I come back," he had said, handing you the shirt the night before he left for Morocco. You’d kept it, of course, holding onto that part of him while he was gone, as if the shirt itself carried a trace of his warmth, his presence. Somehow, Pedro’s t-shirts always felt softer than yours, even though they were washed in the same generic detergent.

When he finally returned, seeing him at the door was enough to make your pulse quicken. You stood there, in his Lakers shirt, grinning at him in the way that only he could inspire. His eyes darkened when he noticed, a low sound escaping his throat. He didn’t even bother to hide the desire that bloomed so quickly between you, his fingers already tugging at the hem of the shirt before you even had the chance to say anything.

That night, he made love to you with the shirt still on, pushing the fabric higher as his hands skimmed the bare skin of your thighs. His fingers knew exactly how to touch you, how to unlock the deepest parts of you before you even knew what was happening. Pedro always wanted your company in such a frank, straightforward way, his need so clear and open that you found yourself giving in to him completely, surrendering to his hands and his mouth before you even realized what you were doing.

As his lips pressed against the curve of your throat, trailing kisses down your neck, he murmured softly, “Missed you so much, mi amor,” his words brushing against your skin as his hand curled tenderly against your ear, thumb tracing the delicate curve. Your eyes caught a glimpse of the tiny bullseye doodle inked on the back of his left hand, just between his thumb and index finger.

The days unfolded like that—long stretches of time where the outside world felt far away. You’d lounge in the living room, watching movies. Or dancing to Prince songs in the kitchen while cooking together.

•••

The strike went on longer than expected, giving him something he hadn’t had in ages—time. Time to breathe, to be with you without the constant pull of deadlines, flights, or set schedules.

When the idea of escaping to Europe surfaced, it felt like fate. He craved your company in ways he hadn’t realized until the possibility of uninterrupted days became real. And so, flights were booked, suitcases stuffed, and you ran away together.

Paris was the first stop. Cobblestone streets and the smell of fresh bread lingered in the air as you wandered hand-in-hand along the Seine. Pedro couldn’t keep his eyes off you. You were his favorite sight in the city.

One evening, the sky was tinted rosy, as if it, too, was in love, bathing the city in a soft, ethereal glow. You leaned into him, head resting against his shoulder, as you stood by the water, the Eiffel Tower looming in the background.

“We needed this,” you murmured, voice as soft as the setting sun.

“Yeah, we did,” he replied, pressing a kiss to your forehead. The simplicity of the moment made his heart swell. Here, in Paris, everything slowed down, and they had time—time to love without distraction.

•••

Mallorca had a way of making everything slow down. It was the kind of place that made Pedro feel young again. The air was thick with the scent of the sea, and the sky stretched out, impossibly blue, matching the water that shimmered below.

When you arrived at the hotel, the exhaustion from travel and the constant rush of life evaporated as soon as his hands found you.

He couldn't wait any longer, his hands reaching for you the moment you crossed the threshold into your room. His fingers tangled in your hair, his lips pressing urgently against yours as he murmured, "Take this off, quick," between heated kisses. You giggled, that soft, breathy sound that always made his heart skip, but the look in your eyes was anything but playful.

The two of you had tumbled into bed, a mess of limbs and laughter, desire taking over. You were on top of him, moving slow and deliberate, the way he liked it. Your skin glistened with sweat, the heat of the room wrapping around your bodies, and he couldn’t think of anything except how much he needed you in that moment. Every touch, every kiss felt like it was branding him, marking him as yours. His hands roamed your body, fingers tracing the curves he knew so well, and still, every time felt like the first.

When it was over, you both lay tangled together, the scent of your exertion heavy in the air. He could feel your breath on his neck, the warmth of your skin against his. For a long while, neither of you moved, content to just exist in that perfect silence, the summer heat pressing against the windows as the world outside slowed to a standstill. You didn’t know how easily you had marked him, how deeply you had sunk your teeth into his flesh.

Hours later, he woke to find you still draped over him, your head resting on his chest, your fingers splayed over his stomach. His heart ached in the best way—this was what it meant to be yours. Every part of him, from the way he loved you to the way his mind quieted when you were near, belonged to you.

The next morning, you were sitting by the water, perched on the smooth rocks that lined the shore. The water was clear as day, a sparkling, crystal blue that seemed to go on endlessly. You were wearing that purple swimsuit he loved so much. It made his pulse quicken every time he saw you in it.

You were eating fruit—mangos and berries, the sweetness lingering on his lips as you both played cards; the deck spread out between you. Pedro loved these simple moments. The sunlight reflected off the water, casting a coppery glow over everything, and he couldn’t help but stare at you as you talked, your wet hair falling loosely around your shoulders, your eyes bright and happy.

“You’re cheating,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him as you set your cards down, suspicious.

He grinned, pretending to be offended.

“Cheating? Me? I would never.”

“You totally are,” you insisted, reaching across to poke his chest. “I know that look. You’ve got something.”

He chuckled, leaning back on his hands, his gaze sweeping over you. “I’m not cheating, cariño. I’m just better at this game than you.”

“Liar.”

It was easy between you, the banter flowing naturally as you both basked in the warmth of the sun. There was a lightness to being here, a sense of freedom that neither of you could ignore.

Everything felt right—perfect, even.

A few minutes later, you stretched lazily, setting your cards aside as you glanced toward the water. “Wanna take a swim, old man?” you teased, your eyes sparkling. “I’m hot.”

He raised an eyebrow, his heart racing just a little faster at the sight of you.

God, you were beautiful.

"Yes."

You stood, offering him your hand, and he took it, pulling himself to his feet with a grin. “Come on then,” you said, leading him toward the water, your bare feet dancing across the hot rocks.

The water was cool against his skin as you both waded in, the heat of the day melting away as you swam lazily, floating in the crystal-clear sea. He couldn’t stop watching you, the way the water glistened on your skin, the way you smiled at him, carefree and full of life.

•••

Prague felt like stepping into another time, a place woven with cobblestone streets and Gothic spires. Pedro loved it here. It suited the two of you—a city where you could get lost, but it never felt like a mistake, only an adventure. As you walked hand in hand through the narrow alleyways, your laughter echoed off the ancient stone walls.

He hadn’t been able to stop staring at you all night, captivated by the way your red lipstick caught the dim light of streetlamps, the way it stained the wine glass at dinner. It was as if the color made everything else disappear, and his attention had been stuck on your mouth, tracing the lines of your lips as you smiled, teased, and bantered with him. The playful glint in your eyes was dangerous, addictive.

“You keep calling me ‘old man’ like it’s supposed to offend me,” he teased, his voice low as you strolled down the empty streets, slightly drunk, arm looped through his.

“Well,” you said, pausing dramatically to look up at him, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “You are older. Wiser, though. Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” he laughed. “Careful, baby, or I’ll stop giving you the benefit of my hard-earned wisdom.”

“Hard-earned wisdom, huh? Sure,” you teased, your fingers tugging gently at the fabric of his black dress shirt, your steps a little unsteady but your voice steady with danger. “Was it hard-earned the same way you’ve earned all those aches and pains?”

He groaned exaggeratedly, putting a hand to his back, pretending to wince. “See? There it is again. More ageism. You’re really hurting my feelings here.”

You couldn’t help but laugh; the sound light and free. “You don’t have feelings.”

“I do,” he replied, pulling you closer with a smirk. “But only for you.”

As you walked, your voice drifted into song, soft and playful, filling the quiet streets with warmth. He didn’t know if you realized how much those little moments, like hearing you sing absentmindedly, grounded him, made him feel like everything in the world was where it should be.

“Do you ever stop singing?” he asked, though not wanting you to stop.

“Not when I’m happy,” you said, leaning your head against his shoulder.

His chest tightened, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, inhaling the scent of your hair as the city’s chill air wrapped around you both. “I like hearing it.”

When you reached Waldstein Gardens earlier that afternoon, the place had been nearly empty. The serenity of the garden, the way your footsteps echoed in the quiet, felt magical. The trees arched over the pathways, casting dappled shadows that danced as you moved through them, your laughter mingling with the rustling leaves.

At one point, you had gotten lost, but neither of you cared. It was part of the charm, part of what made being with you feel so effortless—there was never a rush, never an urgency. You wandered the gardens as though you had all the time in the world.

“Getting lost with you isn’t so bad,” he had said at one point, his hand brushing against yours.

“You’re just saying that because I have no idea where we are.”

“Maybe.” He stopped walking then, turning to face you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth, smudging that perfect red lipstick ever so slightly.

“But it’s true.”

You kissed him then, in the middle of the empty path. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer, and for a moment, it felt like Prague, the gardens, the world itself, existed solely to frame this moment.

Later, back in your hotel room, you laughed about how lost you had gotten, and he couldn’t stop looking at your lips, still stained that perfect red.

•••

Budapest was a dream of thermal baths and long, lazy afternoons. One day, you both spent hours soaking in the warm water, your body pressed against his, head resting on his shoulder as you floated aimlessly. He had never felt so relaxed, so completely at ease with anyone else. You were his anchor, keeping him from drifting away into his worries.

“You sing when you wash yourself,” he told you one night as you stepped out of the bathroom, hair wet and a towel wrapped around your body.

“Do I?” you asked, smiling as you pulled him close.

He nodded, resting his forehead against your shoulder. “It’s one of the best sounds in the world.”

"Any requests for my next shower?"

"Hm, maybe some Fleetwood Mac?"

"Excellent choice, señor."

•••

Amsterdam was breathtakingly beautiful, and Pedro started to feel the weight of traveling in his bones. Though he didn't care. He was too busy loving you.

You two were in a bookstore, and you were a few aisles over, browsing through a stack of Russian literature, and he could hear you muttering under your breath, something about Dostoevsky. He turned the corner and found you flipping through a copy of White Nights.

“I swear, I’m like that annoying guy who’s always like, ‘Oh, I love Dostoevsky, I’m so cool, blah blah,’” you said, half-joking but self-aware, and Pedro couldn’t help but laugh at your expression.

He leaned against the shelf, arms crossed, his smile soft and warm. “I actually read Crime and Punishment,” he said. “Surprisingly, it was a pageturner.”

“So, that makes us both annoying, huh?”

“Guess so.” He chuckled, watching as you turned your attention back to the books, eyes scanning the shelves like you were searching for a treasure hidden somewhere in the pages.

Pedro had always been drawn to sad books—melancholic stories, poems filled with longing. He didn’t know why, but they spoke to a part of him that craved depth. Maybe it was his way of dealing with his own emotions, or maybe it was just the kind of person he was.

A few minutes passed, and he found you again, holding a book in his hand. “Have you read The Master and Margarita?” he asked, handing it to you with a curious look.

You shook your head, glancing at the cover. “No, but if it’s one of your favorites, it’s going in the basket.”

You slipped it into the growing pile of books in your arms, and he smiled to himself, a little satisfied. He always felt a thrill when he introduced you to something he loved, like he was sharing a part of himself with you in a way words couldn’t quite capture.

Later that day, you found yourselves biking along the narrow streets, the cool breeze ruffling your hair. Pedro had long since gotten used to the feeling of the city under his tires, but he could still feel the fatigue of the trip settling into his bones.

You, on the other hand, were full of energy, pedaling with ease and laughing as you wove in and out of the winding paths.

“Stop, stop!” you called out, laughing as you veered toward a small ice cream stand by the water. Pedro pulled up beside you, catching his breath as you hopped off your bike, grinning like a kid.

“You want some?” you asked, eyeing the menu as if you hadn’t already decided what you were getting.

He raised an eyebrow, watching you with that look he always gave when you were being particularly cute. “You’re the one who’s always saying I’m the one with the sweet tooth.”

“Yeah, but I’m hot,” you replied, throwing him a playful glance. “Old man, you should try to keep up.”

He rolled his eyes, pretending to be offended as he got off his bike. “You know, the more you call me ‘old man,’ the less inclined I am to buy you ice cream.”

You gasped dramatically. “You wouldn’t.”

He laughed, shaking his head as you ordered two scoops of stroopwafel-flavored ice cream. The vendor handed it over, and you took a bite, closing your eyes in bliss. It was one of the things he loved about you—how you seemed to savor every little thing, even the simple joy of ice cream on a sunny afternoon.

After you had both finished, you found a bench by the canal, sitting side by side as people biked past and boats drifted lazily by. You leaned into him, your head resting on his shoulder, and Pedro wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, breathing in the faint scent of your hair mixed with the cool air of the city.

“You know, this has been one of my favorite days,” you murmured, your voice soft.

He smiled, his heart full. “Mine too.”

A few days later, Pedro stretched his legs out on the couch, wrapping them around yours, as the familiar opening scenes of The Princess Bride rolled across the screen. The rain outside was steady, a soft backdrop to the cozy warmth of the hotel room. He was in his element, leaning into the cushions with a contented grin, quoting the movie with ease.

"Farm boy, fetch me that pitcher..." he said in perfect sync with the screen, his voice low and exaggerated. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, catching the slight roll of your eyes.

“Oh my god, P, you do know every line,” you said, your voice tinged with affection as you snuggled closer, resting your head on his shoulder. "You're such a nerd."

He turned to you, a mock look of indignation on his face. “Uh, do I need to remind you of all the times you’ve made me watch Mamma Mia?” His eyebrow raised dramatically, but his tone was playful. “And each time, you quote it in its entirety—and sing all the songs. Should I get started on Dancing Queen?”

You laughed, the sound soft and light. He loved that sound. Loved that it was his ridiculous comments that brought it out of you.

"Oh, don’t even tell me you don’t love it," you fired back, grinning up at him, your finger poking his side as if daring him to deny it.

He grinned wider, shrugging a little too innocently. “Well... I may or may not have had Super Trouper stuck in my head for weeks after the last time. So thanks for that.” He shifted, planting a kiss on the top of your head, his lips lingering in your hair for a moment.

You nudged him, laughing. “I knew it. You love it. Admit it—you secretly love ABBA.”

He groaned dramatically. “Okay, fine. But only because you sing the songs better than the actual cast,” he teased, grinning as he leaned in closer, his forehead brushing yours. "Also, because Pierce Brosnan’s singing makes me feel better about my own.”

“Oh, please,” you said, laughing, “I’ve heard you sing. He's good. You? you...try.”

Pedro’s grin turned soft as he looked at you. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he murmured, his hand absentmindedly running through your hair.

The movie continued playing in the background, but it was quickly becoming an afterthought as you tangled yourself further into him. Your feet brushed against his, and he shifted slightly to wrap his arms around you tighter.

"Honestly," he started again, "I don't know how you do it. Mamma Mia, what, three times a month?"

“Hey, ABBA is universal,” you shot back, poking him again.

Pedro chuckled, leaning back into the cushions.

“Alright, alright.”

He kissed the tip of your nose, and you scrunched it.

“Do you think we’re ever gonna get through a movie without this much banter?” you asked, grinning as you broke the tender moment.

Pedro laughed.“Absolutely not. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

You rolled your eyes again, settling deeper into his chest as the rain continued to patter against the window, and for a while, you both fell into a comfortable silence, the movie continuing on without needing your attention.

But then, just as the movie’s most iconic scene approached, Pedro couldn’t resist.

“As you wish,” he said, quoting Westley once more, his voice low and affectionate, his lips brushing the top of your head again.

You groaned, half-laughing. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” Pedro murmured, his grin softening into something more tender. “But I know you wouldn't have it any other way.”

"You're right for once."

•••

Lisbon was hot. The kind of heat that makes everything slow down—the air, the conversations, the drinks. Pedro loved it. The golden sunlight bouncing off the tiled walls, the lazy sound of street musicians playing as you wandered through the city together. His friends had joined you both here for a bit, filling the days with laughter and easy company.

Tonight, you were all crammed into a small bar. He was on his third cold beer, the condensation dripping down his fingers as he took a slow sip, savoring the moment. Every now and then, he’d feel your gaze on him, and when he looked back, there you were—teasing him about yet another ridiculous shirt he’d thrown on.

“Is this one an improvement over yesterday’s?” he asked, voice full of mock innocence. He gestured to the vibrant, swirling orange and pink pattern across his chest.

You squinted, a grin spreading across your face as you leaned closer. “It’s loud. I’ll give you that. If we get lost, I can just look for a neon sign with arms.”

He snorted, setting his beer down, and casually placed his hand on your knee. The conversation around the table swirled—friends joking, sharing stories, laughing—but his focus kept drifting back to you. The way your skin glowed under the low light, the way your shoulders were bare, save for that thin scarf you’d tied as a top. Every time you leaned forward to laugh, the knot on your back shifted slightly, and he found himself tracing the lines of it with his eyes, admiring the curve of your spine.

You said his name a lot lately. In that soft, familiar way you did when you were teasing him, or when you wanted his attention, or when you were just... comfortable. Every time you said it, it sent a small jolt of tenderness through him.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, letting his lips linger for just a second longer than necessary. The skin was warm from the Lisbon sun, and the smell of your perfume mixed with the salty sea breeze.

One afternoon, the group had convinced you both to take a pottery class. He hadn’t been sure about it at first—clay and his hands weren’t usually a good match—but seeing the excited look on your face when you found the studio made it worth it.

You’d both sat at a long table with his friends, laughing as you tried to shape bowls and cups out of the spinning clay. Your first attempt looked more like a lumpy rock than anything functional.

“Is that supposed to be a mug, or are you sculpting an alien egg?” he teased, leaning over to inspect your disaster of a creation.

He saw you glance at his perfectly shaped little vase and pretended to look offended.

“I’m going for abstract, thank you very much. It’s called art.”

He chuckled, reaching over to smooth out one of the many dents in your clay. “Uh-huh. Very avant-garde of you, Picasso.”

But as much as he teased you, he caught your sneaking glances, a small smile playing on your lips as you focused on your own project. He loved that look, the one you got when you were completely in the moment. It was one of the intangible things about you that had him wrapped up in this feeling—this deep, undeniable love for you that grew stronger with each passing day.

Then, there was that morning with the guitar.

You knew he could play a little—enough to get by—but since he’d be playing in the second season of The Last of Us, he wanted to get better.

Naturally, you’d offered to teach him. The two of you had sat on the balcony of your Lisbon apartment, overlooking the orange-tiled rooftops, the sunlight leaving soft shadows over the city. You had your guitar across your lap, showing him some basic chords.

He was fumbling through a chord progression when you placed your hands over his, your body pressing up behind him to guide his fingers. He could feel your breath on his neck, the closeness making it hard to focus on the strings.

“C’mon, you’ve got this,” you said, your voice encouraging but playful. “It’s not that hard.”

He let out a frustrated laugh, leaning back into you slightly. “Says the musical genius over here.”

You laughed, your lips brushing against his ear. “You’re just distracted,” you teased, your hands still over his, guiding his fingers through the chord.

“Maybe I am,” he muttered, grinning as he strummed again, this time hitting the right notes. “But I think I’m getting the hang of it now.”

You leaned closer, your chin resting on his shoulder, and he couldn’t help but steal a quick glance at your face. “See? I’m a great teacher.”

He shifted slightly, turning his head so your faces were almost touching. “Or maybe I’m just a great student.”

“Don’t get cocky, Pascal.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, feeling that same warmth spread through him again. These moments—when it was just the two of you, tangled up in something as simple as learning a song—they felt infinite. He knew he’d carry them with him long after this trip was over.

Back in the bar, as the night stretched on, Pedro sat back and took it all in. His friends, his drink, you. It was the small, intangible things that made him love you more each day. Every once in a while, he’d lean in to place another kiss on your bare shoulder, just because he could. Just because he was happy.

•••

Pedro leaned back in his chair, eyes half-closed, as the sun dipped behind the whitewashed buildings of Santorini. The sky was a vivid pink, painted like a postcard, and the sea below shimmered in a way that made it look almost unreal. You sat beside him on the balcony, sharing a bottle of white wine, your feet propped on the railing. The light caught your face, and Pedro couldn’t help but stare, mesmerized by how the golden hue played off your skin, tracing the curves of your cheekbones, catching in your eyes.

You turned to him, smiling as you took a sip from your glass. “What?” you asked softly, your voice teasing.

He shook his head, smiling back. “Nothing. Just... I’m watching the sunset.”

You laughed, the sound soft and melodic, filling the space between you. “Pedro, the sunset’s over there.” You motioned toward the horizon, but he didn’t budge.

“I know,” he said, his eyes still fixed on you. “I’m watching this sunset.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but your cheeks flushed, and Pedro swore he could spend every night like this.

"You're so cheesy."

Later that night, as you lay together in bed, Pedro traced the tan lines on your back, his fingers lightly brushing the places where the sun had kissed your skin. You had fallen asleep draped over him, your breath soft and even, and for a moment, he just watched you, trying to memorize the way you looked right then—beautiful, peaceful, perfect. He wondered if you knew what a cure you were, how you’d managed to stitch up the parts of him he didn’t even know were broken.

A few days later, you dragged him to a small, lively bar tucked away in the maze of Santorini’s winding streets. “Someone told me about this place at breakfast,” you said, pulling him by the hand. “They have fun cocktails, I heard.”

Pedro raised an eyebrow, but let you lead him. “Are you sure that's all?” he teased, his voice low and warm.

“Yes, yes,” you flashed him a grin, that wicked little smile that always made his chest tighten.

The bar was relaxed but bustling, filled with the soft murmur of people talking over drinks. Pedro wore a loose white linen shirt, feeling a bit too warm but too comfortable to care. You, on the other hand, looked like you belonged in a dream—a short, flowy white dress that clung to your body just right, showing off your legs in a way that drove him wild. All his thoughts kept coming back to you in that dress. He couldn’t stop looking. Every time you shifted, crossed your legs, or leaned in to talk, his mind wandered to how good you looked in it.

As the two of you sat at a table in the center, sipping cocktails and bantering over something stupid, Pedro noticed the energy in the room shift. The lights dimmed, and a woman—likely in her 60s, with long white hair and a colorful dress—stepped to the front of the room.

“Good evening, everyone!” she said, her thick accent cutting through the crowd. “If you’ve been here before, you know the drill. And if you haven’t, welcome to the karaoke section of the night!”

Pedro’s eyes went wide. He turned to you immediately.

“Oh no,” you muttered, pulling your chair back. “I had no idea—do you want to leave?”

For a moment, he thought you were about to escape, but instead, the woman with the mic suddenly appeared at your side, handing it to you. You grinned at Pedro, your eyes twinkling with mischief, shrugging as if to say, what can you do?

Pedro let out a laugh, shaking his head. “You’ve ambushed me,” he said, grinning as you stood up and made your way toward the front.

The crowd cheered as you started to sing Honey, Honey, and Pedro leaned back in his chair, watching you in awe. You were working the room like it was your own personal stage, your white dress flowing as you danced in your sandals and smiled, effortlessly captivating everyone.

As the music swelled, you pointed at him during the line, “You look like a movie star,” your eyes locking with his. Pedro played along, pointing at himself with an exaggerated look of confusion, mouthing, “Me?”

God, you were driving him crazy.

The whole room was watching you, and they had their phones out, and he loved it. Loved that this moment would live forever, likely plastered across social media by morning. But more than anything, he loved that you were his, that you could light up any room and still make him feel like the only person there.

When the song ended, the crowd erupted in applause, and you took a few pictures with some of the guests before sauntering back to the table, sitting down across from him like nothing had happened. Pedro was still grinning, his heart beating fast from watching you, completely enamored.

“Not bad,” you teased, sipping your drink, pretending like you hadn’t just stolen the show.

Pedro leaned across the table, lowering his voice like it was a secret meant just for you. “You’re killing me here, you know that?”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Killing you, how?”

“You... in that dress,” he said softly, his eyes dropping to your legs before flicking back to your face. “Dancing, in that dress. Singing. It’s unfair, really. I’m trying to keep it together over here.”

You laughed, your foot brushing against his under the table. “Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, voice dripping with faux innocence. “Should I have picked a more modest song or…dress?”

Pedro smirked, leaning in even closer, his hand reaching across the table to rest on yours. “You know what’s comfortable?” he whispered, his voice low and teasing. “The fact that you’re going home with me tonight.”

Your eyes sparkled, and Pedro knew that look all too well. “Well, sir,” you said with a grin, “then I guess I’ll have to make it worth your while.”

Pedro chuckled, squeezing your hand gently. “You already do,” he whispered.

•••

Amalfi Coast was like a postcard come to life. The sea carried out before him, sparkling blue. Both of you spent hours on the beach, the sun hot on your skin. You wore a red bikini that left little to the imagination, and every time he glanced at you, he felt something stir in his chest. There were parts of your body, those sun-kissed curves, that felt too sacred to stare at for too long, yet he couldn’t look away.

You could not be held responsible for his reaction to you, for the cry of your sunburnt skin against the bright red bikini.

When you both returned to the hotel room after a long day, you ordered a bucket of ice. Pedro didn’t question it, watching you from the bed as you moved about the room with that effortless grace you had. When the door clicked shut, you emptied the ice into a small towel and handed it to him.

“Will you do my back, baby?” you asked, voice soft but certain. Of course, he would. How could he deny you anything?

He pressed the cold towel to your sunburnt skin, your body arching slightly under his touch. “You should have stayed in the shade,” he teased, though his voice was filled with tenderness.

"You know how stubborn I am."

He wasn’t sure he had ever felt so content, so completely grounded in a moment. You were his fix, keeping him tethered to this world, to the present, to himself.

Later that night, with the cool breeze from the sea drifting in through the open window, Pedro pulled you close, pressing soft kisses to the places he had soothed with ice earlier. You moaned softly, and he felt that familiar warmth spread through him.

In those moments, he wants to give you everything—his time, his love, his energy. He hopes you take it. He wants to be yours completely, to listen to all of your musings, that you write him a thousand songs and letters, to be your safe space, just as you were his.

•••

He was nominated for an Emmy while you were in Rome, and he could tell you had never been more proud of him. You tackled him in the hotel room when the news broke, showering him with kisses, his laughter echoing through the space.

“Mi amor, you're going to kill me,” he laughed, though his arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly.

“I don’t care,” you beamed, your hands cupping his face. “You deserve this so much.”

October 28, 2023

Los Angeles, California

This week was etched into your memory as the final crescendo to a whirlwind of Halloween festivities. LA had been alive with spooky energy the entire month, and tonight was no different.

You had spent the past week with Pedro, hopping from one Halloween event to another, attending parties, and trying to outdo each other with costumes. A few nights ago, you went to Halloween Horror Nights with his sister, Lux, and it had been a blast. You kept things simple with jeans and a t-shirt, but the thrill of the night was anything but.

The three of you had navigated the maze of haunted houses, clinging to each other whenever something jumped out at you. Lux had led the way, fearless, while Pedro and you exchanged shrieks and laughter.

"Okay, next haunted house, I'm going first," Pedro had said, puffing out his chest.

"You said that last time, and yet..." you teased, raising an eyebrow.

Lux laughed, shaking her head. "Don't let him fool you, he's jumped every time."

Pedro gasped dramatically. "Betrayed by my own sister. I thought we had a pact."

The whole night had been filled with that kind of lighthearted banter, and by the end, the three of you were breathless from laughing, your sides aching as you relived the best scares over churros and hot chocolate.

But tonight was different. Tonight was the final party of the season, the one you and Pedro were hosting at your LA home. The living room had been transformed with cobwebs and orange fairy lights, pumpkins scattered around with flickering candles inside. The theme for your costumes had been a matter of heated debate all week, but in the end, you’d settled on something so ridiculous it was perfect.

You, in a buttoned-up suit and black tie, with a fedora perched on your head, were Oppenheimer.

Pedro, in black pants, a black shirt with white fringe, a pink bandana draped around his neck, and a white cowboy hat—was Cowboy Ken.

Together, you were, you guessed it: Barbenheimer.

For hours, you floated around the party, telling people, “We’re Barbenheimer!” while Pedro chimed in, “Or more like Kenenheimer, don’t you think?”

The whole night you were drifting from conversation to conversation, catching up with your girlfriends. All your old dramas are revived that night, and it is so sweet. But eventually, you found yourself alone in the kitchen, searching for a moment of peace away from the noise. You opened the fridge to grab another drink when you heard the familiar sound of Pedro's boots behind you.

"Well, hello there," he said, setting down two empty beer bottles on the island. His voice was soft, but there was a playful glint in his eyes that you recognized immediately.

You turned around, leaning against the counter with a smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, hi, baby.”

You took a step towards him, your eyes shamelessly raking over his cowboy getup. He really had committed to the role, he hadn't taken that hat off all night.

Pedro noticed your gaze, smirking as he adjusted his hat. “What are you up to, Oppie? Did you need a drink, or are you just here to admire the view?”

You chuckled, crossing the kitchen to stand in front of him. “You know,” you began, running a hand up the front of his shirt, “when you decided on Cowboy Ken, I was a bit skeptical. I thought you were going to look funny…”

“Oh yeah?”

“But it turns out,” you continued, letting your voice drop, “it’s actually really hot, mister.” Your fingers trailed slowly over the lapel of his shirt, down to his belt.

Pedro tilted his head, his smirk widening into a full grin. “Is that so?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, eyes gleaming. “I guess I have a thing for cowboys now.”

He chuckled, leaning in closer, his breath warm against your cheek as he spoke. “Good to know,” he whispered. His hand came up to rest on your waist, pulling you in just a little tighter.

You laughed softly, the sound muffled as you buried your face in the crook of his neck. The smell of him, that mix of cologne and something distinctly Pedro, filled your senses.

The morning after the party, you woke up to a flood of notifications. He was fast asleep next to you. Sleepily grabbing your phone, you scrolled through the pictures from last night, stopping at the one you'd posted of you and Pedro in your costumes.

The caption: "Save a horse, ride a Ken."

It had been quite a hit. People were already loving the playfulness of it, but then you noticed Pedro’s comment beneath the post. Of course, he couldn’t resist adding fuel to the fire.

Pedro had written: "How about we skip the horse and go straight to the riding? 😘🐎"

You burst out laughing, shaking your head at the screen. It was so him. And of course, the comment section below his was already blowing up with people reacting insanely to it.

This man.

December 22, 2023

Santiago, Chile

Christmas in Chile was supposed to be calm—a peaceful, family-filled holiday with Pedro’s relatives. You'd imagined quiet dinners, soft music, and some traditional Chilean dishes. But in typical Pedro fashion, things didn’t stay quiet for long.

It started innocently enough. The two of you had decided to explore the local market, weaving through the crowds, hand in hand. The air was warm and fragrant with the scent of grilled meats and roasted chestnuts, the hustle of people bartering, chatting, and living. Pedro was telling you something funny—some story about when he was a kid and his brother dared him to climb a tree.

You weren’t really listening, though, because your eyes kept catching on the colorful stalls and bright trinkets. It was the perfect, chaotic slice of Chilean life.

Then, out of nowhere, it happened. One minute Pedro was laughing, and the next, his foot caught a loose cobblestone, and down he went. Time slowed for a moment, and all you could do was gasp as you saw him hit the ground, his arm awkwardly twisted beneath him.

“Pedro!” You shrieked, rushing to his side, heart hammering in your chest.

He winced as you kneeled beside him, your hands hovering over him like you weren’t sure where to touch. His face was scrunched up, but he looked up at you with that familiar grin, trying to calm you down despite the clear pain written across his features. “Baby, it’s fine. Calm down.”

But it wasn’t fine. His right arm looked wrong, and even though he tried to brush it off, you knew better. Panic twisted your stomach, and before you knew it, you were helping him up, heading straight to the hospital.

The next few hours were a blur of waiting rooms and x-rays, and you held your breath every time Pedro winced. By the time they had him in an arm sling, you’d run through every possible scenario in your head, imagining the worst. But Pedro, as always, was trying to make light of the situation, his laughter filling the otherwise sterile room.

When you finally sat beside him, a mix of relief and exasperation washed over you. “Do you want me to kiss it better?” you teased, leaning over, your earlier panic slowly dissolving.

Pedro smirked, eyes sparkling despite the bandages. “Maybe later,” he said with a wink, his tone low, full of innuendo.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. Even in pain, even with his arm in a sling, Pedro was Pedro—never one to let anything dampen his spirits for long.

A couple of days after the initial chaos settled, you found yourselves at his family’s home. Pedro’s sling stood out against the twinkling Christmas lights, but he didn’t seem to care. And neither did you, because as you sat together, surrounded by family, you felt an overwhelming sense of warmth. Even if your quiet holiday had taken an unexpected turn, you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

December 31st, 2023

Los Angeles, California

New Year’s Eve felt different this time around—different in the best way possible. There was a softness to the night. The party swirled with music and movement, friends mingling and dancing in the flicker of colorful lights. But even with all that, your attention was fully drawn to him.

Pedro looked ridiculously adorable, even with his arm in a sling from that incident, and to top it off, he wore this silly pointy party hat that somehow made him even cuter. Every time you glanced at him, your heart warmed a little more. He had been a trooper through the night, navigating conversations and laughter with his usual charm, but always with that one lazy smile he reserved just for you.

After a few drinks, you found yourself perched on his lap, leaning against him like it was the most natural thing in the world. His left arm, the one still functional, wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close. You were rambling about something silly, pestering him like you often did, his brown eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Understood," he said, his fingers tapped lightly against your lips, a gesture that you had come to love.

You caught his fingers, pretending to bite them before leaning in for a kiss. His breath brushed against your skin, warm and familiar, and despite how long you’d been together, every kiss still made your heart race a little.

The song playing in the background, Do Friends Fall in Love?, fitted perfectly.

His hand slid gently down your back, making you shiver at the contact, his thumb tracing soft, lazy circles on your hip.

“You think you’ve got me all figured out,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, his breath ghosting over your lips.

You smiled, laughing softly as you nuzzled closer. “You’re an open book, Pascal,” you teased, rolling your eyes dramatically, though your words were laced with affection. “Easy to read.”

He raised an eyebrow, giving you that half-smile, the one that always made your heart flip. It was a smile full of challenge, like he knew something you didn’t but wasn’t about to tell you.

“Oh yeah?” he muttered, leaning in closer, his lips grazing your ear, making you blush even in the warmth of the crowded room.

The night carried on around you, the music mixing with the hum of laughter and conversations, but your attention never wavered from him. The countdown to midnight began, the excitement in the room rising as everyone gathered with glasses in hand, but you were only aware of the way Pedro’s thumb traced patterns on your thigh, the way his eyes softened as they looked into yours.

“Five… four…”

The rest of the party blurred, voices fading into the background as the two of you stayed locked in that moment.

“Three… two…”

Pedro’s eyes never left yours, and in the space between heartbeats, the room fell away. His gaze was warm, intense, and full of love—so much that it felt like you could melt under it.

“One!”

Cheers erupted around you, glasses clinking, people shouting “Happy New Year!” But you barely heard any of it because Pedro’s lips were on yours, warm, gentle, and full of everything that made your heart feel like it was soaring.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, you couldn’t help but smile, resting your forehead against his, feeling the soft tickle of his breath against your skin. “Happy New Year, baby,” you whispered, your voice filled with affection.

He smiled back, eyes twinkling with that familiar warmth. “Happy New Year, mi amor,” he replied, his voice low and tender, the words settling between you like a promise for the year to come.

a/n: alright so this was so nice and fun to write. please pleaseee let me know your thoughts besties!!! and don't forget to reblog and like. much love <3

next and final part!

[rohvee]

Normally I hate drawing landscapes (and backgrounds in general) but something about DS terrain is so soothing to paint 🖤

The air, as always, was cold and damp. Viktor had only seen remnants of the pre-Stranding world in photos and videos, but apparently, the ever-present fog and thick, overcast sky hadn’t always been the norm.

He didn’t mind, though. After too much time breathing the sterile, filtered atmosphere of the underground city—air that felt not just dead, but never alive to begin with—this was refreshing. And away from Zaun, beyond the chiralium-laced smog that made his skin itch and his eyes burn, it tasted almost sweet.

They were an hour into their journey, swallowed by the mossy-green expanse of the landscape. Jayce strode a little ahead, scanning the terrain, his sharp eyes picking out the hidden perils of loose rocks and uneven terrain. Every so often, he’d point out a potential hazard, warning Viktor of dips and ridges.

Unnecessary, but Viktor let him. Normally, he might have found such gestures condescending, but Jayce was impossibly earnest. It was sweet, really—the care. Being the subject of Jayce's attentiveness made his heart do strange, fluttering things.

“We should collect chiral crystals while we’re out here,” Jayce announced, gesturing toward a large cluster in the distance—a grotesque tangle of hands clawing skyward, frozen in time. “With the new Zaun trade agreements, we’re gonna be fighting other research teams for supplies.”

“Fine, but only the big ones,” Viktor said. “If we zigzag the entire journey, we won’t be back to the city until tomorrow night.”

“Nothing under 50cg, I swear,” Jayce returned with a grin.

Viktor smiled back, then turned his gaze toward the horizon. The land stretched out before them in rolling hills and jagged cliffs, shrouded in fog. In the far distance, mountains loomed, their peaks swallowed in shifting clouds, their silhouettes deep blue against the gray sky. The world here was eerily quiet, save for the occasional distant rumble of falling rock or the whisper of wind through the moss-covered earth.

It was beautiful in its transience—a landscape destined to be reshaped by timefall and chiralium. Not erased, but altered. Transformed. Evolved. Something new from something gone.