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pastshadows · 9 months ago

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Shadows of the Past

Chapter 10: Eclipsing Shadows

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 6.6K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

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Please note:

There are mentions of Astarion's trauma in this chapter.

Mr. Blackwell’s green eyes look like murky poison puddles that drip with corrosive contempt. His burgundy garb is wrinkled, creased and stained, clearly unchanged for some time. Whatever remains of his sparse, dingy-grey hair is slick with grease, dishevelled, and unkempt. He’s in a plight of disrepair not often seen in the noble class, eliciting wide-eyed stares and snickers from the crowd in the ballroom.

Guards are warily observing the onset of the altercation with avid attention. Their hands instinctively drift and sit precariously on the hilts of their weapons. You can hear the clinking of metal amour as they inch closer, ready to spring into action. From what you know of Mr. Blackwell, he is well-connected and an influential figure in Waterdeep. If you allow the quarrel to escalate, the guards will likely take heed of his requests and pay little attention to yours. You must tread carefully, a daunting prospect as your palms heat and your temper bubbles under your skin like an overboiling cauldron.

Your eyes scan the mob roving through the ballroom, subtly looking for Astarion. Aldous spoke to his father about the pale Elf with red eyes. You cannot allow Mr. Blackwell to gleam a view of Astarion. Quick and practiced, you take inventory of all possible exits and escapes while you count the guards.

Your neglect to answer him only irritates Mr. Blackwell further, and he crams himself into your line of sight. He is not a small man and towers over you. “Did you hear me, girl?” He squalls, gruff and strident. His hands slam into the wall beside your head with an ear-splitting boom as he barricades you in. “What have you done with my son, you fucking miscreant!”

Girl? Miscreant?! Why did I tell Astarion that murder was off the table?

His fetid breath feathers over your face. An inhuman, snake-like grin splits your lips as your adrenaline spikes. You’ve rivalled devils in the Hells, eradicated a vampire lord, euthanized countless fiends, and rained death down on hordes of shadow-cursed creatures. You will not be intimidated by the likes of this cretin.

“Mr. Blackwell,” you purr unenthusiastically, straightening your back, squaring your shoulders, and bedecking your face with a saintly visage. “Welcome home. It’s good to see you. What’s this about your son? Is Aldous missing?”

“Don’t play stupid, sorceress.” Mr. Blackwell roars. His face reddens further as he descends deeper into his fit of rage. Blue-hued veins pop from his forehead and neck as he snarls in your face with bared teeth. Your palms heat until blisteringly hot, and you resist the urge to shove him. “I know it was you. Where is he? Where is my boy?!”

Dead, and rightfully so.

The guards are getting antsy, shuffling from foot to foot, and the other patrons gape at the dispute before them. A crowd of onlookers is starting to form behind Mr. Blackwell. They stare and laugh with gleeful tittering as the show plays out. Your heart crashes against your sternum, playing your ribs like a drum. Your blood is broiling in your veins, and your fingers twitch with the urge to incinerate the threat.

Where in the Hells is Astarion? He would have heard this as soon as it started. You’re surprised and infinitely relieved that a dagger has not skewered Mr. Blackwell yet, but his absence is starting to make you uneasy. Have the guards already apprehended him? Did Mr. Blackwell recognize and have him arrested? Astarion would not go quietly, and you haven’t heard or seen any evidence of a struggle elsewhere. Astarion is far from stupid. He may know that his presence will only magnify the issue, but it’s unlikely to stop him from stepping in. You grumble under your breath at the thought. No matter what he’s seen you do or how powerful you are, Astarion protects you as if you’re a fragile wildflower, but you are not fragile like a flower; you’re fragile like an unstable explosive.

I protect him with the same ferocity, and I will never stop. Perhaps we are even.

You lean close to Mr. Blackwell, almost nose to nose, and growl under your breath, “You would do well to get out of my face lest I introduce you to the fire of my ancestors.”

Mr. Blackwell gnashes his teeth, narrowing his eyes as his forehead pinches, “You dare to threaten me?!”

Oh, yes. I dare.

Your temper is getting away with you. A hand clasps Mr. Blackwell’s shoulder, and you almost lurch forward, preparing for the fight that is sure to ensue, until you see Gale, wearing an elegant and regal mauve suit with one arm behind his back. You’ve never been so damn relieved not to see Astarion.

Gale’s face is composed with a cordial smile, and he laughs kindly as if nothing is amiss. You see the pink current of the Weave wash over Mr. Blackwell and recognize Charm Person as Gale casts imperceptibly with naught but a murmur.

“Of course not, Mr. Blackwell,” Gale assures in a charitable tenor. “Such a thing would be crass. Isn’t that right, my friend?” Gale prompts you. Gale is skilled, but his charisma is not nearly as honed as yours, and you recognize the petition for assistance charming the man.

Cloaking your voice in an alluring baritone, you put your silver tongue to work, “Quite right, Gale. I would never dare utter such ill-portent to our very good friend here.”

Mr. Blackwell’s eyes glass over as the spell and your charm ensnare him, dousing his rage like water to flame. Mr. Blackwell leans back, tottering on his legs, and mumbles through numb lips, “Of course not. I must have been mistaken. Please, forgive the outburst.”

“All is forgiven,” you shrug while revelling in the influence you have over feeble minds and continue your coercion. “Mr. Blackwell was just telling me he was on his way home. He is ever so weary from his travels. We should not retain him, Gale.”

“Yes.” Mr. Blackwell stammers, blinking hard as your suggestion plants and grows roots. “Yes, I was just about to retire for the night.”

Gale nods curtly to Mr. Blackwell while offering you his arm, “Get some rest. We should be going as well. It’s getting quite late. Dawn is almost upon us, after all.”

Taking Gale’s offered arm, he leads you away from the onlookers ogling you. The guards have relaxed as tensions decrease, but they still watch you with a keen eye. Gale’s warning starts to sink in.

Dawn? Fuck! Where is Astarion? He must get home.

Your grip slips from Gale, but he catches it and pats your arm, “Keep calm. Your panic will only further alarm the guards, and I fear they will not be as easily swayed as Mr. Blackwell. We are quite a team, but we cannot charm them all without someone taking notice. Astarion is waiting for us outside, just beyond the grounds.”

“Astarion is outside?” You query with an arched brow.

Gale nods, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with people who take notice of him. Once he’s managed to excuse himself from the tedious small talk, he leans close. “I sought him out as soon as I arrived. He is ever so antagonistic and easily provoked when it comes to you. The man would brave the sun if he thought you were in danger. It was considerably difficult to convince him it was best to leave it to me. I apologize I did not come to your aid first. I know you have more sense than he and would a keep cool-head. When I found him, the idiot had already drawn his damn weapons. Always violence first with him, isn’t it?”

You swallow hard and keep your mouth firmly shut. Gale knows you, but perhaps not as well as he thinks. You would have incinerated that man as soon as he stuck his face in yours, guards and onlookers be damned. You do not take life unnecessarily, but you take it without guilt when there is a threat to your friends. Mr. Blackwell is a danger to Astarion, and you can be impetuous when it comes to him.

“Thank you, Gale.” You breathe a long sigh as relief sates your nerves. “How did you know?”

“Mr. Blackwell came to the manor looking for you. I tried to appease him, but I am neither as intimidating nor convincing as you are, and he stormed off before I could get more than a word or two in. I knew he would go scouring the parties for Aldous and more than likely come across you.” Gale chuckles, “I’ve been through several of these celebrations tonight. I should have known to go to the most extravagant one first.”

“Mr. Blackwell will be back.” You point out, mouth twisting into a grimace as your mind tries to piece together some semblance of a plan. “We have not heard the last of this.”

“No,” Gale murmurs. “We most definitely have not. It is my hope that he doesn’t realize I charmed him tonight. If he does, it will only compound his fervour. We will have to tread these waters carefully. If this reaches the Masked Lords of Waterdeep…” Gale trails off with a sullen shake of his head, “May the dice roll in our favour.”

Your eyes bulge. You don’t know much about the government of Waterdeep, but everyone has heard of the masked lords. A ruling council whose identities were well hidden and carefully guarded.

“Could he really do that? Take it to that height?” You wheeze breathlessly as an invisible hand grips your lungs and clenches, “The Lords of Waterdeep surely wouldn’t concern themselves with such a trivial matter of a missing boy. Would they?”

Gale shrugs, “I wish I could say. Mr. Blackwell is exceptionally renowned. It’s plausible that he will go to great lengths, and I’m unsure how far his reach extends. I will do what I can to protect you and Astarion, but even my influence has limits.”

The brisk air bristles against your skin, giving you goosebumps or perhaps that’s due to Gale’s mention of the lords, as you and Gale continue your hastened retreat. Gale takes long strides, making you trot beside him to keep pace since you are considerably shorter than he. What is with men and walking as fast as they can? You would ask Gale to slow down, but you’re in a hurry to get away. The rapid click, click, click of your heels on the stone makes you uneasy, as it sounds like a clock counting down your final moments.

There’s an eerie reticence in the courtyard this evening, as silent as the sheeted dead, as if the city beyond these stone walls has ceased to exist. A ghostly wind causes your modest steel-silver dress to flutter around your knees. The scent of incoming rain hangs thick in the air while drab clouds swarm the sky as a storm coming off the ocean makes landfall, and the weather fronts interact.

Magic glows in your eyes and fingertips as you practice the various spells in your repertoire. Your fingers are a spectacular florid ballet, the Weave tiptoeing over the pads as you rehearse the movements for Sunbeam, Chain Lightning, Cloudkill, and Blight and recite the incantations in your mind like a sermon without ultimately casting as you drill yourself. Weaving the intricate web of the Weave is ingrained in your soul, and this is not an exercise you need to practice, but the recent events and Gale’s mention of the Masked Lords have caused anxiety to breed in your muscles. You need to make sure you’re ready for war. You’re an incredibly gifted sorceress with the ferocity of your draconic ancestors dwelling in your blood. You can be death incarnate, and you will be if it comes to it. You will raze this damn city to the ground if it means to harm Astarion. No one will hurt him again if your lungs still draw breath.

You’re glowing so brightly, the Weave shimmering around you like an aurora, that you don’t notice that day has fallen victim to night when Astarion breezes into the courtyard. He looks at you, brandishes his dagger with a finesse that never fails to impress and descends into a defensive stance. He observes the surroundings with an acute eye and gives you a questioning look after he’s assessed there’s no danger.

With a quick step you learned from him, you pivot and toss a very weak Fire Bolt straight toward him. Astarion whirls, his propensity for dexterity evident in his movement, avoiding the spell.

“Impressive agility. I’m glad I taught you something at least, but what in the Hells was that for?” He smirks with a tsk and clicks his tongue. “At least, I ask before I bite. I am civil - unlike you.”

“Just making sure you’re not getting sloppy,” you giggle with a virtuous shrug.

“If that would have hit me, I would have deserved it,” he chuckles and glowers at you with an amused grin. “That was far too slow and weak. I did not even feel the heat from it. You can do infinitely better than that. Even I can cast that cantrip. Come on, darling. If you’re going to spar with me, you could at least give me the decency of a challenge.”

“A challenge, hm?” You smirk wickedly. Sparring with him isn’t a new activity. When you lived with him, you two would often spar long into the night until you were both sweating and tired. He craves thrill and danger as much as you, and you keep each other on your toes. “As you wish.”

Astarion’s rapscallion smile and the way he bends lightly at the knees indicate that he welcomes this exchange. The Weave brightens around you, and you cast Fire Bolt repeatedly in quick succession with a little more power and speed behind it with lithe steps. Astarion swings his body, nimbly ducking, dodging and avoiding everything you throw at him as he advances toward your position until he’s in front of you and takes you into his arms while he laughs.

“You caught me once. It tickled.” He glances toward a small burn mark on his shirt, “If anyone has gotten sloppy, it’s you.”

“What you call sloppy, I call careful casting,” you giggle.

“Sloppy,” he corrects, narrowing those scarlet eyes glinting vibrantly with excitement and adrenaline. “You’re already a veritable sovereign when it comes to magic. How about we work on expanding your skillset?” He twirls a dagger at his side without so much as looking at it, catches the blade between his fingers, and settles the hilt in your hand with a devious grin. Astarion takes a few steps backward and motions you forward, “Come on. Attack me.”

You stare at the dagger, your fingers sliding over the metal hilt, “You want me to come at you with a knife? Have you gone completely mad? There are training dummies right there.”

“Oh yes, those will surely help you.” Astarion rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue with audible disapproval of your reluctance. “I am positive your attacker will stand stationary for you so you can stab them - if you ask nicely enough. You will learn nothing from those.”

It’s unlikely that you’ll hurt him. Hells, if you did somehow manage to so much as nick him, Astarion would probably be proud of you, but you stare at the shiny steel with trepidation, “What if I cut you?”

Astarion’s head tilts back, and he laughs loudly, “Oh, you are adorable. Thank you for your concern, but I assure you, I will be fine. You’re more likely to hurt yourself, and if you somehow do cut me, what does it matter? It’s not like you can kill me further.” He giggles, “Now, remember your footwork and keep the sharp pointy end directed toward me and not yourself, love.”

Well, multiclassing never hurts.

Slipping off your sandals, you recall everything he’s ever taught you or tried to, at least. Bending your knees and rolling your weight into your heels for balance, you lunge toward him. You and he spar while he deflects your attacks with an ease that vexes you, and he barks various instructions - straighten your back, keep your weight centred, don’t lean forward, and use your momentum until your heart beats hard, a prisoner in a cage constructed of bone. Exhausted, you sit on the ground, gulping down ragged breaths.

Astarion crosses his arms with a chuckle, “Done, are you? Well, I’ve certainly seen worse - from a babe. Do not go getting into any knife fights without me. You will surely get yourself run through.”

“Astarion,” you throw your head backward exaggeratedly with the back of your hand against your forehead, “you wound me. I think I could rival you with one or two more lessons.”

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, “One or two centuries of lessons, perhaps. You stick to magic. I will happily do any required stabbing.”

The man doesn’t need to breathe, and you know it, but he’s not even sweating. You frown at him while wiping your brow, “Could you please pretend to be winded at least?”

“Apologies. Where are my manners?” Astarion drops to his knees and gives you a gentle shove, sending you sprawling to your back. Crawling over you, he mimics your heavy breathing with a smug smirk, “Better?”

Rolling your eyes, you stick your tongue out at him frivolously, “Kiss me, you fool.”

“Blood running a little hot, sweetheart?” He purrs sensuously, pressing his body into you, grabbing your thigh and guiding it around his waist, “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Astarion’s lips mould to yours, cool silk against your heated pout and as delightful to the senses as plunging into cool water on an arid day. His tongue traces your lower lip, enticing your mouth to part. His taste is rich and hypnotic, a firewater of desire and good Gods, it’s intoxicating. His fingers trail up the delicate skin of your upper thigh with firm pressure, leaving blazing trails of icy fire, coalescing between your legs and making you throb. Bolts of electricity amble up your spine in a slow progression, making your body shiver awkwardly as bumps rise over your skin.

Astarion wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you to your feet, tugging your dress back into place, and you give him a quizzical look.

“Gale has returned,” Astarion says, smoothing your hair down. “That man has the worst timing. Also, a bath. You smell.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you groan at his candidness. With a gentle shove, you grumble under your breath and stalk away from him to your room.

There’s a chill in the air that sinks its teeth into even his already frosty skin. Winter is drawing near. The trees have shed their leaves, preparing for dormancy, and the ground is stiff beneath his boots. He’s tired and filthy, spending much of his days lately in caves or held up in shabby barns or abandoned shacks during the day as he continues to run from the only love he has ever known. He has been lucky so far. He can often make it to the next godforsaken hovel to find shelter if he travels fast enough through the night, but as he progresses, the little towns are growing further apart. One of these days, he may not be able to find shelter before dawn, and the sun will consume him - a rather painful demise for a vampire.

Before Astarion enters the ramshackle tavern in this puny rural town in the middle of nowhere, he casts his eyes skyward and looks at the silvery moon as he does every night. If nothing else, he can take comfort in the fact that she is somewhere, under the same stars, and maybe, just maybe, she is looking at the moon, too.

The tavern is as destitute as the rest of this town, with low ceilings and lit by only a few oil lamps, giving it a gloomy atmosphere. It’s quiet. No minstrel or bard plays music here, and the only sounds that can be heard are the dragging of flagons across the rough tabletops and the grotesque gulps and burps of the few downtrodden labourers and drunks. It smells of mildew, fetid spirits and vomit. He crinkles his nose. He usually mimics breathing out of habit in public, but for this place, he will make an exception.

The floor is absurdly tacky, and even he can’t help the sound his boots make as they peel off it. He orders a pint and sits in a rickety chair that wobbles underneath him. Calling the ale rotten would be an understatement. He’s never tasted anything quite so vile in all his two centuries, and his diet once consisted of dead, putrid rats. It’s hard to say which is worse.

A pair of ne’er-do-wells attempted to extort some coin out of him by betting they could juggle more daggers than he. Fools. Even if blind drunk, his dexterity would be vastly superior to theirs. They could scarcely juggle two - child’s play for him. They left quickly with superficial lacerations to their fingers and hands. He wishes she had been here to witness this. They would have had a good laugh. She always loved watching him.

Even though the ale is terrible, the little table is starting to fill with emptied flagons. Tonight, every iota of him aches loudly in the silence of her absence. He does not need to trance, not since the tadpole no longer wriggles in his skull, but he will, if only so he can fall into a memory where they are sure to meet.

His vision is blurred, and his mind thinks of nothing but her. What would she be doing right now? Reading by the fire and sipping wine? Trying to mend her clothes and doing a terrible job now that he is no longer there to do it for her? Sleeping in their bed? Would she be alone, or would Halsin or Gale have come to console her? With him out of the picture, perhaps she could find happiness with one of them. The thought makes his very bones throb, and his fingers wrack through his hair, unsettled by the notion of any but him with her in their bed.

Astarion empties the next flagon and frowns while he grinds it across the table, clinking it against its fallen brethren.

Gale would be the most likely. Gale was a powerful wizard, but he had always been fascinated by her innate authority over the Weave. Where Gale had to read books, scrolls, practice and study spells, she could simply cast them reflexively with little effort. Early in their adventure, Gale had tried to beguile her, boasting his control of the Weave with a demonstration. Astarion watched with curiosity to see if she would reciprocate the obvious flirtation. She kept a straight face, smiling politely and copying as instructed until the foray was completed. She walked away with her arms crossed and a hard roll of her eyes in exasperation while Gale watched her all dew-eyed. It made him snicker at the time.

Despite his prowess, wealth and renown, Gale would probably bore her into an early grave. She craved excitement, risk, Hells, even danger. She needed someone not afraid to get into a little, or a lot, of trouble. She would not be satisfied sitting idle in a library for the rest of her days. She loves fiercely and deserves to be loved fiercely in return with untamed, unbridled passion.

Hot baths. Animals. Fresh fruit. Red roses. Long walks through moonlight forests at night. All the things she loves flit through his mind.

Her face appears in his blurry vision, laughing as she runs through the forest with him hot on her heels. Her modest pastel green dress waves in the wind. She casts Misty Step and disappears from his view. She is not quiet in the forest and knows it, but she pops out from behind the large trunk of a tree and yells, “Boo!” He pretends to be startled, but she doesn’t believe his facade and dissolves into adorable giggles.

She strolls up to him, smiling brightly, still laughing, and the stars themselves descend from the heavens and twinkle in her eyes. Her voice, majestic like a siren’s song, fills his ears as she says, “You’re an adorable idiot. I love you, Astarion.”

He smiles, blinks, and the memory dissipates. He tries to hold onto it, but it withdraws despite his efforts to keep her with him.

A woman’s voice catches his attention, “Stop, please. I said no.”

In Astarion’s drunken daze, he almost hears her voice, but it’s a hint too breathy and modulated. He narrows his eyes and tries to peer past the film of inebriation, mucking up his vision and making him see double. A young woman sits at the bar, and a man much older and ragged-looking pets her hair with clumsy fingers, muttering slurred, vulgar innuendos. She tries to push him away from her, but it’s futile. The man stumbles and chortles, taking another noisy sip of his ale, missing his mouth and washing his beard with it.

He cringes with a roll of his eyes. This is not his business. He does not fancy himself a hero, and he is not foolish enough to get caught up in such a quandary. He peers into his empty flagon. A deep, dark well of sorrow gazes back at him from the bottom. He should leave and return to the inn, where he can slip into his trance and be with her until the sun dips below the horizon.

“I said stop!” The woman’s voice rings out higher, making his ears twitch and grating on his nerves. It’s so close to hers that he has trouble reminding himself it’s not. It can’t possibly be because he... he left her.

He looks around the tavern, hoping someone else will step in, but no one even lifts their sagged heads to assess the situation. He leans back in his unsteady chair, and his fingers rap against the table with hard, rhythmic thumps portraying his increasing frustration.

He is no hero.

“No! I said no!”

Is no one going to do anything? Really? He growls, clenching his jaw and grating his teeth. The woman’s voice is just too close to hers. It’s making his fingers twitch over the hilt of his dagger, and his muscles tense.

“No! Please, stop. Help!”

The woman’s shoes drag across the floor, and he’s already out of his chair, stalking toward the commotion with a haunting scowl. He ignores the itch to draw his blade. If she taught him anything, it’s that talking is often all that is necessary, but if all else fails, he has no issue with killing.

He is a little peckish.

He stands beside the woman with his practiced liar’s smile, “My friend, how lovely to see you again. Funny we should meet here of all places.”

The man glowers at him through droopy, glassy eyes, releasing the woman’s arm. The woman simply stares at him, her cheeks tear-streaked and ruddy, unsure of what to do.

Gods, these people are dull. All she must do is play along. He attempts to make his intentions plain, “Allow me to walk you home. We can catch up on the way.”

“That lady is coming home with me.” The man snarls, poking his shoulder with a finger that he can’t even keep straight.

This man would be easy pickings indeed if it came to it.

“No.” Astarion stands tall, squaring his shoulders and layering on his most intimidating intonation, “I will be taking her home. If you try to stop me, I know a thousand ways to gut you before you can so much as blink. Do not tempt me.”

“Ah Hells,” the man snickers after sizing him up and stumbles back, “She’s not worth the trouble. She’s all yours.”

He hoped the man would force his hand, but this is probably for the best. He is looking forward to resting indoors today. It has been many days since he was able to wait out the day in a room with a bed that did not smell like some form of livestock.

The woman turns to him with big, round eyes full of adoration and grabs his arm, “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Astarion doesn’t quite know how to react, and he does not like the way she is eyeing him. He pulls his arm out of her grasp, “I’ll walk you home. Let’s go.”

The night feels too silent and still around him as he walks the dim streets. The woman follows on his heels, blabbering and stuttering her praises and gratitude. He doesn’t speak another word to her as he fights his mind. Emotions are stirring in his head. He's unsettled, angry even, and he doesn’t understand why. At least the walk isn’t long in a small place like this.

As soon as the woman opens her door, he turns to walk away.

“Won’t you come in?” Her eyes slink over him, and he feels revulsion. No one but her should be looking at him like that, and it only increases his discomfort further, “I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t give it,” he snaps back gruffly.

He keeps walking until he feels the woman’s hand clutch the back of his shirt, her fingernails grazing over his scars. Those old emotions flood him - fear, loathing, disgust, and he whirls with a fanged snarl.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Oh! I-I’m sorry, Astarion.” Her hand recoils from his back, and she jumps away, pressing herself to the headboard with eyes rounded in confusion. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Do you want me to go?”

Shit.

He let his mind wander off with him, and the memory bled into reality. Blinking hard, he reorients himself. He’s safe in Gale’s manor. He is with her. It was her touching his back - at his request, of course.

He jumps off the bed, flexing his hands as he paces the room. He needs time to get his head straight, but the raw anguish in her eyes is gnawing at him. This is why he left in the first place. He keeps hurting her when the storm sweeps him away in a flash flood, and he’s lost in it.

“I’ll go and give you some time.” She slips into her housecoat, cinching it at her waist and opens the door. Before she closes it, she turns to him, “I’m so sorry, Astarion. If you need space for the night, I understand. I will rest in my room tonight.”

He can’t get his godsdamned mouth to move or his tongue to form words. He stands idly as she closes the door behind her. He listens to her bare feet pad down the hallway at a quick trot and then the click of her door closing. His hands wrack through his hair, fingers curling into it. He knows better than to let his mind drift aimlessly, although the fact that it did roam is an interesting development. He’s used to being able to think of nothing but withstanding the sensation of her hands on his back. He’s improving, albeit slowly.

He laces his hands behind his head, arches his back and stretches his tight chest, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. Astarion closes his eyes and shakes out his arms. He feels panicked and tense. His skin squirms as if snakes are writhing below the surface. Patrolling his bedroom, he tries to mollify his unease, taking deep breaths of air he doesn’t need. The memory has agitated him for some reason that he can’t quite put his finger on.

His ears twitch as they catch suppressed weeping from her room. Fuck, he’s upset her. This was not her fault. It’s been a while since he went and fucked things up like he always does. He leans on the wall and closes his eyes. Did he make a mistake returning? For months, his singular goal was to find her, but now he wonders if this was selfish. He could not stand living without her, but she may have been better without him.

Astarion is sliding down an icy hill made of doubt, and he can’t stop his descent. Has he doomed her to a life sharing his pain? What does he have to offer her other than his unconditional love? The shadows have claimed him once more.

No.

He can’t let himself fall back into old patterns. She can handle his darkness.

The silence of this room without her heartbeat is dark and heavy. She should be here with him. A chill like an electric bolt runs down his spine at the sight of the empty room when he opens his eyes. It reminds him of when he left, a year as nightmarish as the one he spent in that tome, alone and hungry. He aches to hold her.

He takes long strides and taps on her door lightly.

“Are you okay, Astarion?” She sniffles, trying hard to confine the tears, making her eyes shine.

“I’m fine. Come here.” He wraps his arms around her, kissing her forehead and pressing his cheek against her. She hugs him awkwardly, more awkwardly than he hugged her the first time they did this. She keeps her hands off him, arms stiff at her sides. “It’s okay. You can touch me.”

She hesitates before placing her hands on his waist. He kisses her temple, gently grabs her arms and guides them around him, “A proper hug, yes? You can touch my back, love. It’s alright.”

He can feel the warmth of her hands hovering over his back, unsure, but slowly press into him, and she hugs him tightly. He’s surprised to find that it soothes the agitation. The spring coiled around his chest, constricting it, dissipates in her arms. He takes a deep breath to test how good the looseness feels.

“Come back to our room, hm? I will explain what happened.”

“You don’t have to explain,” she murmurs against him.

“I know,” he rubs her back, “but I want to - if you’re willing to hear it, of course.”

“Always.”

They sit on the bed as he describes the memory in as much detail as possible. She stays quiet as she always did, waiting patiently when he must take a moment to collect himself, offering him her hand. When something he recalls upsets him further, she squeezes his fingers, grounding him and encouraging him to take a break - when and if he needs to.

“I don’t know why it agitated me so much. It made me afraid,” he rasps faintly with a shaky breath as his brows pinch together, perplexed. It’s still troubling him. “Her touching my back was not the only reason, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

She nods with a contemplative gaze. Her beautiful doe-eyes blink as she ponders, and the candlelight scintillates in them. She grabs a blanket and pats her lap, “Do you want to put your head in my lap?”

He smiles. She always knows exactly what he needs. Astarion rests his head on her legs, and she covers him with the blanket, making sure his back and scars are entirely cloaked. Tucking it around him, like he tucks her in at night to ensure it doesn’t slip.

Rubbing his arm, she keeps her voice to a solacing whisper, “Do you want to know what I think, or would you rather I just listen?”

She has always been keenly observant and deeply perceptive. Often able to gleam the tiniest subtleties in inflection, tone or body language. It is what makes her a master at persuasion and intimidation. Her insight is as boundless as the cosmos. If anyone can help him shed light on this, it’s her. If he is to heal, he needs to know what provokes these feelings.

“I have gone over it in my mind time and time again,” he sighs. “I cannot figure it out myself. Tell me what you think.”

“Stop me at any point if you no longer wish to hear it,” she urges. “May I hug you closer?”

With the blanket covering his back and scars, he feels protected and secure. He nods, “Yes.”

She curls around him. Her warmth seeps into him, forcing back the gloom. “You said you did not like the way she looked at you. You mentioned it twice. What look did she give you, and what did it remind you of?”

Flashes of the woman’s greedy eyes play out in his mind. She stared at him as if she wanted to devour and lose herself in him. She stared at him like he was her saviour. She stared at him like they used to stare at him before he brought them to Cazador.

Hells.

Will he ever stop being astounded with how clever she is? She’s not telling him what she thinks. She’s bringing his attention to details he skimmed over so he can work it out himself.

“It… it reminded me of the way my victims used to look at me,” his voice quivers and cracks, tears spring to his eyes, rivulets rolling out the corners. Good Gods, his body is trembling as he fights to keep his emotions from giving way. “The bloody dingy tavern, the way she simply trusted me to walk her home, the quiet, dark streets and the ardent lust in her eyes… It all felt like I was back to doing his bidding as if I was the fucking rake again.”

She rescinds her pressure on him slightly. He used to hate being touched when he felt like this, but not anymore, as long as it’s her touching him. He pulls her back around him. His body shakes more violently now as he continues to fight the overwhelming emotions.

“You don’t have to fight, Astarion. Don’t be afraid to break. We all fall.” She soothes him with an almost ethereal voice like an angel whispering, “I’ve got you. For as long as you need. I’ve always got you.”

Sobs wrack his body, tears streaming down his face, and he falls to pieces in her arms. She’s not close enough like this. His body is painfully bare without her skin on his. She is the light that drives the shadows back. She is sunshine. She is his. He shrugs off the blanket with haste. She gasps at his quick movement, and his fingers find the hem of her nightdress.

She stops him with a confused look, “Astarion, what-”

“I don’t need it,” he chokes out, hoarse and urgent. “Not with you. Not anymore. I want to feel you. Will you let me?”

She removes her nightdress and opens her arms with a smile, tears streaming down her face. She wraps her arms around him, limbs cocooning his body, and pulls him securely to her, his bare back against her warm chest, choking away the fear.

With her, he is seen. He is understood. He is safe.

“I love you, Kamena. Ai armiel telere maenen hir.” He speaks to her through sobs in Elven, their mother tongue, meaning “You hold my heart forever.”

“I love you too, Astarion. Ai armiel telere maenen hir,” she chimes with a featherlight kiss to his shoulder.

Safe in her arms, he shatters and breaks.

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I've loved writing since I was a child but have never been confident enough to post anything for others to read. The encouragement I've received has been positively incredible, and it's been helping me through some hard times in my life - sincerely thank you so much! :)

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

We did name Tav in this chapter. I apologize if it's not well received but I think it will make senes going forward. I did try to do it in a natural-ish way.

#astarion x tav #astarion x reader #bg3 astarion #astarion x you #astarion x mc #astarion #astarion smut #astarion ancunin #astarion romance #baldurs gate astarion #shadows of the past #astarion x oc #named tav #astarion x named tav #astarion spawn #spawn astarion #astarion x original female character

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ladymarycrawley · 6 months ago

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Happy birthday amore mio - John Stones

Felt like writing this little thing that came to my head tonight, hope you like it 💕

Warnings: pregnancy with a lot of sarcasm and fluffiness

Tag list: @masonxomount @johnstonesfc @prideofpd

Having John in your life felt so good and you wanted nothing but the best for him, especially on the yearly occasion of his birthday.

You always seized the moment to make him feel loved. He was the centre of your world.

This year, the moment was particularly good as his birthday fell after the Premier League parade and had a few days off before embarking on the adventure of the Euros.

After having celebrated in Manchester, you wasted no time and went to the seaside, to the breathtaking Amalfi coast where you could relax and take in all those amazing landscapes. It was literally like paradise on Earth, as your days went by between chilling at the beach and strolls around the historic centers of those small but picturesque cities. The fact that it felt as if nobody knew you were there nor who you were felt even more perfect as you could go around almost unnoticed and act like a normal couple on holiday: holding hands, kissing each other whenever you felt like doing so, bickering like an old couple. It all felt so perfect and the little secret you had been carrying for the past days was about to top it all: you were pregnant with your first child and you wanted to wait until the 28th to announce it to John.

To be honest, it was rather difficult sometimes to hide it because you wanted to shout it to him, but you held on for the sake of the surprise you were planning.

There were days where you would have eaten every food that passed under your nose, even the smell of it was enough to make your mouth water and some others where the last thing you wanted was eating and you crossed your fingers in the hope not to throw up, as it would surely have turned your boyfriend's suspicions on.

“What's wrong? Why don't you drink your usual glass of white wine?” He asked, raising his eyebrows while you were at dinner the night before his birthday. You couldn’t throw all of it in the air, you had to stay calm and keep acting as if nothing happened.

You could have waited until midnight so it was already the day of his birthday, sticking therefore to your original plan. You only had to wait a bit longer, making that dinner last as long as possible.

“I haven't been drinking for a few days now, Sherlock”

“Yeah but when we're out for dinner, in such places, you always drink wine…it's more sophisticated” He explained, quoting what you said to him once he took you to a posh restaurant on one of your first dates.

“I know but it's been kind hot these days so I need to drink water, it's more refreshing”

John kept on staring into your eyes, even when he brought the glass to his lips to take a sip of his wine. He knew you were hiding something but didn't know what exactly.

You tried to change the topic by trying to talk about what you would have done the next day, distracting your boyfriend for a moment.

Another suspicious look was thrown at you when your eyes fell on a young couple carrying their newborn child in the stroller. You cooed and your eyes got teary almost immediately: the image of John pushing the stroller with your baby sleeping in it, his strong arms all veiny due to the effort he was doing…God you were horny too now, great.

John’s look was somehow puzzled as he couldn’t figure out what was going on with you.

“It's the second time today you react like that when seeing a baby…are you okay?”

“Yes, they're so cute when they're that small with their tiny clothes on” You gushed, making your boyfriend giggle.

“Is that a cute way to ask me to put a baby in you?”

Not necessary dear, you already did that.

You almost gorged on the water you were drinking and smiled.

“No thank you”

“Babe, you called me daddy in a square full of people this morning and it's something we usually keep secret, don't act all shy now”

“I didn't shout it, I whispered it in your ear, that's different”

“Your whisper was anything but shy”

“Erm can we just order our food now? I'm starving”

“Bet you are, you felt nauseous all day and skipped lunch”

“It must have been the boat trip we went on, it wasn't so relaxing as they described it”

“Speak for yourself, it was amazing”

“Yeah I know, you almost fell asleep on my legs”

“It means it was relaxing”

You rolled your eyes, trying to make eye contact with the waiter to make him come and take your order.

When you ordered your food, you hoped they would have taken a bit longer than usual to prepare it as it would have helped you wait for midnight.

In the meanwhile you couldn’t help but stare at John who looked especially good that night, in his ivory linen shirt loosely fitted thanks to the couple of undid buttons on the front that let you look at his chest.

“You're so handsome tonight” You smiled, stroking his hand over the table.

He smiled back, moving his finger in circular motions over your skin.

“Thank you but only tonight?”

You rolled your eyes. “Especially tonight”

“You're quite hot as well” He said in a husky voice, bringing your hand towards his lips to kiss the back of it. You would have taken him there and then if it wasn't you were in a public place...

Suddenly a brilliant idea struck you in the middle of the dinner, distracting you from your hormones, and got up, pretending to go to the toilet. You found a waiter and asked him for something similar to a birthday cake, explaining to him it would have been your boyfriend's birthday in less than two hours.

You got back kind of excited but tried to keep it cool, finishing what was left on your plate.

“You're almost a birthday boy” You sang, smiling widely to John who was trying to act as if he wasn't the birthday boy you were referring to.

“Who? Me?”

“Yes, you dumbass”

“Hey that's not nice”

“You should know I show my love for you by not being nice”

“You're definitely a weirdo”

“You chose me”

“Think I've made the wrong choice”

“OI!” You kicked him under the table, making him yelp.

You tried to act normally when you saw the time on your phone: 23:30.

“Do you already have three wishes you'd like to make at midnight?”

“Yeah the first one is to get rid of you”

“You're so nice, that's why I love you”

“And sarcastic”

“Yep, that makes two of us”

“I don't know, I'm boring I always ask for the same things”

“You're not boring, it means you know what matters in life”

“That's a mature definition for boring?”

“You're annoying, not boring”

“Okay, I won't put a baby in you then”

“You're not mature for your age and you should be”

When there were 5 minutes left to midnight and you saw the waiter carrying the plate with the small cake, you got up to cover his eyes with your hands, signalling him it was time for the surprise.

“What -”

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear John” You started singing and, once you were done, you took your hands away and kissed his cheek before letting him realise he had in front of him a mini cake with a candle waiting to be blown off.

He was laughing as he didn't expect such a surprise.

“Thank you baby”

“Happy birthday, amore mio” You gently kissed him on the lips before sitting back in front of him.

“I have another surprise for you. Do you want to see it now?”

John stopped licking the whipped cream off his finger and gave you an unmistakable look.

“Are you really thinking about stripping down for me right here?"

“No, silly, it's not that kind of surprise” You took an envelope out of your bag and placed it on the table.

John raised an eyebrow and looked at the white paper thing.

“What's that?”

“Your surprise” You said in a tone as if it was the most obvious thing ever.

John took it, curious but suspicious at the same time and tried to feel it before opening it.

His heart beat faster than ever when he took in his hands what was an ultrasound, and looked at you. Then he took a letter you wrote to him that contained a simple but meaningful sentence: Happy birthday to the most handsome and silly daddy ever (in all senses).

The envelope was now empty but you took the last hint out of your bag: a tiny, lovely onesie which looked like a dress with the Three Lions badge on.

John couldn’t believe his eyes and bit on his lower lip not to cry.

“That's why you didn't want me to put a baby in you” He laughed through those happy tears watering his face.

You smiled and got up to kiss him.

“And that's why I haven't been drinking any alcohol” You placed a gentle kiss against his forehead.

John kissed you and instinctively brushed his hand over your covered belly.

“I know you like to keep these things private, but we had a room just for the two of us here, so I thought it would have been okay”

John nodded and kissed both your cheeks.

“So we're having a girl?”

You nodded, telling him about how you found it out and what month you were in.

“The chances it's a girl are high and the doctor almost confirmed it”

“I'm so so happy, we have to celebrate! Let's go back to the hotel, can't wait to cuddle my girls”

“Erm your bigger girl has some needs, urgent needs”

“You have to pee? Some weird cravings?”

“I have a craving but it's not a weird one…it's a 6ft tall craving, looking so good I'd like to have a bite…”

John blushed and helped you out of the restaurant, squeezing your butt.

“Let's see what can I do for my bigger and horny lady…”

#john stones #john stones imagines #john stones fics #john stones x reder #john stones x y/n #manchester city imagines #mcfc #premier league imagines #england nt imagines #england nt fics #england nt fanfictions #football imagines #footie fics #football fanfictions #football fics

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redislazy · 12 days ago

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Deadly Attachments, Chapter 06

<< Chapter 05　|　Chapter 07 >>

[EVENTUAL SMUT] - Minors DNI > ao3 <

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x female!Reader

Summary: As a skilled mercenary, you've navigated countless high-stakes missions—until one job puts you in the crosshairs of Task Force 141 and the elusive "Ghost." Now forced into an uneasy alliance, you’re drawn into a dangerous game of shifting loyalties and hidden motives. But as the stakes climb higher, one question lingers: how close can you get to the man who was meant to be a shadow in your path?

Content Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Military Action & Romance, Mercenaries, Soldiers, Non-Canon Antagonists, Eventual Smut, Military Inaccuracies, Slow Burn, Will add smut-specific tags later as the story goes

You arrive early to the briefing room where Ghost is already waiting along with Soap and Gaz, leaning back in his chair comfortably, looking as unreadable as ever. He’s busying himself with some papers, seeming completely oblivious to your presence, so you just stare as long as you can.

“You plannin’ to burn a hole through my head, or you got something useful to say?” His tone is flat, all irritation and none of the warmth you thought you’d seen last night.

You huff and sit across from him. “Just making sure you haven’t completely lost it yet, old man. Thought I might be doing you a favor.”

He raises an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth pulls in a faint smirk. “Nice of you, but I’ll manage. Maybe worry about yourself first, yeah?”

You roll your eyes, feeling the familiar sarcasm you've grown accustomed to. “Right. Sorry for checking in on the team’s resident grump.”

He scoffs, shifting in his chair as he returns his attention to the paperwork. “Better me being a ‘grump’ than someone who can’t hold her liquor. Didn’t take you for the lightweight type.”

The comment hits, bringing a slight heat to your face, but you brush it off with a shrug. "That's how you know I had a good time."

He glances at you briefly, almost like he’s weighing something, but his expression stays as neutral as ever. “That's how one causes trouble.”

The banter feels… normal, comfortable even. No strange glances, no hidden softness, and certainly no hints that he intends to bring last night up. You feel almost relieved. Whatever happened, it doesn’t seem to have shifted anything between you.

Nothing’s changed. And for now, you’re perfectly fine with that.

As he continues busying himself, you sit in silence, your eyes flicking over to Ghost as he moves around the room. He’s completely absorbed in whatever task he’s working on, never glancing your way, but you can’t help but watch him.

The way he stands, shoulders squared and back stiff, like he’s ready for anything, always alert. His mask is still firmly in place as always, but there’s something about the way he moves, how precise and controlled everything he does is, that makes you think he’s not just playing the role of the soldier. Perhaps all this time, it's truly just who he is.

Your gaze drifts to the way his hands move, brushing over the papers on the table, his fingers rough, yet graceful in a way that feels… deliberate. He’s not careless, never in a rush. Everything about him is measured. Even the way he breathes. Like he’s never not prepared for what’s coming next.

You can still feel the warmth of his hand against your face, the delicate pressure, how he lingered there for moments longer than necessary. His eyes on you, not cold, but something else—something that makes your chest tighten just remembering it. The way he brushed his thumb over your lips last night comes back to you, unbidden. The way he seemed to want to burn that moment into his memory, or maybe it was just you imagining things because you’d had a few too many drinks. You know how that goes.

But then you see it again—how his jaw tightens when he’s working, the faint furrow between his brows when he’s concentrating. You remember his eyes, the way they looked at you last night—not like you were just some mistake or a distraction, but like you mattered.

You bite your lip, eyes narrowing slightly. And just like that, it clicks.

You like Ghost. Not like some sudden revelation, more like a fact you’ve known for a while now but only just admitted to yourself. It’s not hard to see why, really. You’re not blind. The guy’s impossible to ignore.

He is intense, guarded, sure, but there’s something underneath it all that draws you in—his quiet authority, the way he handles situations, the way he holds his ground even when things get messy. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice how his voice, even when he’s pissed off, somehow still manages to send a shiver down your spine. Or the way he stands, like the weight of the world could rest on his shoulders, and he’d still carry it with no complaints.

You’ve seen men acting like him before, the type who carry themselves like they’re always in control, always ready for the next mission. But Ghost is different, very distinct. You know he's someone who’s had the kind of life that leaves scars, both physical and mental. You never needed confirmation to realize that. And there’s something about the way he hides behind his mask that makes you want to get past it, see who he really is.

But you’re not some love-struck fool, and this isn’t some sappy revelation. No, it’s more of an acknowledgment. A recognition of something you’ve known but never let yourself bother with until now. Because, truthfully speaking, you don’t have time for distractions. You’ve got bigger things to focus on.

And yet, here you are, watching him like a hawk, silently hoping he’ll look up at you the same way. But he doesn’t.

So, you keep your head down, keeping your distance like always, but in the back of your mind, the fact remains.

You like Ghost.

And that's not so bad.

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“Right, listen up,” Price starts, his voice steady and authoritative. “HQ managed to pull something useful from that drive we retrieved in Istanbul. Turns out, we’ve got a lead on one of Aegis’s high-ranking operators, someone who could lead us to the top brass.”

He pauses, his eyes sweeping across the room. “There’s always one, isn’t there? One high lackey in these secretive organizations who gets too lax. Thinks they’re untouchable, starts cutting corners, leaving traces. It’s a pattern as old as time—and lucky for us, they’ve made themselves our best chance to tear this operation wide open.”

Price leans on the table, his tone sharpening. “This is our window, but it’s not wide. We get in, we hit fast, and we make sure this bastard talks. Whatever they know, we need it. Aegis has been untouchable for too long, and I don’t plan on letting this opportunity slip through our fingers.”

You glance around, seeing the same looks of anticipation from the rest of the team. A lead—finally, something concrete.

“The problem is, this operation’s gotta go through channels. We’ll need clearance, assets… the works,” Price continues, his tone a little grimmer. “That means we’re waiting until HQ gives us the green light. Could take weeks. But sitting around isn’t an option.”

He pauses, scanning each of you. “So, until then, we’ll keep busy with some local missions. Nothing too complex, but I don’t want anyone getting rusty while we’re on standby.”

There’s a murmur of agreement around the table, but you feel a pang in your chest. You’d been focused on the Aegis mission from the start, never really thinking about anything outside of that. Now that they’re talking about ‘local missions,’ you can’t help but feel… separate, like the outsider you originally were. No one mentioned your role beyond helping with the Aegis case. After all, you’re still just a hired hand—a merc brought in for a single purpose.

Ghost is focused on Price, his posture tense as ever, while Gaz and Soap exchange a knowing glance. You’re about to quietly excuse yourself, assuming you’ll sit this out when Price’s gaze settles on you.

“Oi, where do you think you’re going?” Price’s tone is sharp, but there’s something almost amused in his expression.

“I just… thought I’d step back,” you say, keeping your voice steady. “I’m not a soldier. I’m just here for the Aegis lead, remember?”

Soap rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “Rubbish. You’re with us now, aye? Doesn’t matter if it’s Aegis or not.”

“Didn’t realize we were so quick to get rid of you,” Gaz chimes in, a smirk playing on his lips.

Ghost, too, narrows his eyes at you, though his expression is unreadable.

You blink, glancing between them, your stomach flipping in a strange mix of relief and disbelief. You’d prepared yourself to step back, to be the outsider again, but now… it feels like they’re giving you something more.

“Alright,” you finally say, unable to hide the slight smile that tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Guess I’ll stick around, then.”

The murmur of approval that follows feels oddly comforting. You might still be a mercenary, not fully one of them, but in this moment, it feels like you’re finally part of something more.

“Here’s what we’ve got,” Price begins, laying a folder on the table. “A series of thefts from a military supply depot in Manchester. The MoD’s breathing down our necks to sort it out.”

“Thieves?” Soap grins, leaning back in his chair. “Aye, Captain, do we bring tea and biscuits too? Sounds like a right thrilling job.”

Price’s glare silences him. “Could be a gang. Could be a test run for something bigger. Either way, we’re not taking chances. Ghost, you and her go in first for recon. Soap and Gaz, you’ll back them up if things heat up.”

“Bring them in quiet, then?” Ghost asks, arms crossed.

“Quiet’s the goal. Fireworks if they bring the match,” Price replies.

You raise an eyebrow, unable to resist. “So, am I here to fill a quota, or are we pretending I have a role in this?”

Soap chuckles, but Ghost’s gaze cuts to you, sharp as a blade. “Your role is to follow orders. Don’t muck it up.”

Before you can retort, Price ends the briefing. “Gear up. We move in ten.”

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The depot is dark and quiet, rows of warehouses illuminated by dim, flickering streetlights. A faint breeze carries the metallic scent of the train tracks nearby. Ghost moves ahead of you, a shadow among shadows, his movements deliberate and controlled.

“Nothing yet,” you whisper into comms, your voice low but steady.

“Keep your eyes open,” Ghost replies, scanning the area with unnerving precision.

As the minutes drag on with no signs of life, your patience thins. “Riveting stuff,” you mutter, sarcasm lacing your tone.

“Keep quiet.”

“Afraid I’ll spook the crates?”

His silence is almost worse than a retort, but you catch the faintest exhale, like he’s suppressing a smirk.

Then movement catches your eye—a shadow slipping between crates near the far end of the depot. Your instincts kick in, adrenaline spiking.

“Got something,” you whisper, pointing toward the figure.

Ghost’s voice stiffens. “Stay there,” he orders, already moving.

You scoff, your pulse pounding in your ears. Stay? That's not what you are trained to do. Flanking around the opposite side, you keep low, your steps silent on the gravel.

The shadows ahead resolve into two figures: one with a crowbar prying open a crate, the other keeping watch.

The crowbar wielder spots you first. “Oi!” he shouts, raising the tool to strike.

You duck, the swing whistling past your head, and drive your shoulder into his chest, sending him sprawling. Before he can recover, your knife is at his throat, and you shove him hard against the crate.

The shout has drawn others. Lights flicker on, illuminating more figures emerging from the shadows.

“Shit,” you mutter, already ducking for cover as gunfire erupts.

“What the fuck did you do?” Ghost’s voice growls through comms, furious.

“I improvised!” you shout back, squeezing off shots to keep the advancing figures at bay.

“By fuckin’ everything up?” His tone is venomous, but there’s no time to argue.

Soap and Gaz burst onto the scene, their arrival a storm of gunfire and shouted orders. The quiet op spirals into chaos: bullets ricochet off steel crates, shouts echo through the depot, and the thieves scatter like rats.

One lunges at you with a knife. You sidestep, twist his arm, and drive him to the ground with a sharp knee to his stomach. Ghost appears out of nowhere, finishing the job with a brutal kick that leaves the man unconscious.

The firefight ends as abruptly as it began. The depot is secure, the thieves restrained and lined up like wayward schoolboys under Price’s watchful eye. But the air is thick with tension, and Ghost storms toward you, his fury palpable.

“What the fuck was that?” he snaps, his voice low but deadly.

You open your mouth to explain, but his eyes—dark with frustration—stop you before you can speak.

“You disobeyed a direct order, endangered the op, and nearly got yourself killed. That’s your idea of handling it?”

You open your mouth again, but this time, the words don’t come. The truth hits you like a freight train. It’s not about the mission. It’s not about the team. It’s about you. You’ve always operated alone. For ten years, it’s been nothing but you—no backup, no team, no one to rely on but yourself. You’ve learned to trust no one, to act quickly, decisively, because there’s no one else who’s going to cover your back. You’re a mercenary by trade, a lone wolf.

But this—this isn’t that. This is a team. And you’re still learning how to fit into it. You’ve tried, god, you’ve tried. You’ve been making an effort to follow orders, to listen, to work alongside them, but it’s never been your way. Never has been, and it’s not as easy as just switching off your instincts. You’re still holding on to that lone mentality, still thinking like you’re the only one in control, like you’re the only one who matters.

Ghost’s words hit harder than they should. “You’re reckless. Dangerous. You don’t belong here.” His voice dips lower, sharper. “Having you with us is a mistake.”

The sting of those words reverberates deep within you. You know he’s right. You are reckless. You broke the plan, you jumped in too fast, and now the mission’s been compromised because you couldn’t hold back. Because you couldn’t trust them. Trust anyone.

"Ghost, that's enough." Price steps in, his voice firm, but it’s too late. The damage has been done. Ghost’s anger is there, thick and bitter, and you can’t shake the weight of his words. The worst part is that they’re true.

You didn’t belong to this team. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You stand there, your chest tight, trying to process his words. Part of you wants to explain, to defend yourself, but the other part—the part that’s tired of being on the outside—wonders if he’s right.

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The ride back to HQ is suffocating. The armored van rumbles along the quiet roads, but the silence inside is deafening. No one speaks. Soap sits with his arms crossed, his mouth set in an uncharacteristic frown. Gaz glances between you and Ghost occasionally, his expression unreadable. And Ghost—he doesn’t even look your way, his body stiff as he stares at some indeterminate spot on the wall.

You keep your gaze fixed on your lap, your knuckles pale from gripping your knees. The tension coils around you like a vice, tighter with every passing minute. Price’s rare silence makes it worse, his disappointment palpable even without words.

When the van finally pulls into HQ, you are the first to move. No one stops you.

You barely register walking through the base, your boots heavy against the tile floors. The whispers from the other soldiers, the curious glances—they barely scratch the surface of your awareness. You reach your quarters in a haze, shutting the door behind you with a loud click.

The shower is the first thing you need. Stripping off your gear and bloodstained clothes, you step under the scalding water, letting it cascade over your skin. The grime and sweat of the mission melt away, but it does nothing for the knot in your chest.

You scrub harder, like you can wash away the words Ghost spat at you.

“You don’t belong here.”

The lump in your throat grows heavier, and before you can stop it, the tears come. Silent at first, slipping down your face and mingling with the water. But then the weight of it all crashes over you—his anger, the guilt, the humiliation. The sobs wrack your chest, harsh and unrelenting.

You press your hands to your face, muffling the sound.

The mission went wrong. You know that. You broke formation, ignored orders—again. But the way Ghost spoke to you, the venom in his voice, made it so much worse. Like you are a liability, something to be discarded.

You sink to the floor of the shower, the water pounding against your back as you bury your face in your hands.

You hate this. Hate how his words linger in your head, hate how they make you doubt yourself.

You aren’t a rookie. You’ve been a mercenary for over a decade. But this is different. Being part of their team—fitting into their system—it isn’t something you’ve ever had to do before. And tonight proves you don’t know how.

By the time the tears stop, your skin is red from the heat of the water, and the room is filled with thick steam. You turn off the shower and sit there for a moment, staring at the tiles.

Eventually, you force yourself to move. Drying off, you slip into comfortable clothes and sit on the edge of your bed. The exhaustion is bone-deep, but sleep feels impossible.

The words replay in your mind. “You don’t belong here.”

And the worst part is, you aren’t sure if he’s wrong.

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Getting off base for the night isn’t as straightforward as walking out the gates. It never is. You spend the better part of the night navigating the layers of protocol required for someone in your position. Hired hands aren’t exactly afforded the same privileges as the soldiers stationed here.

First comes the request—a formal nod to the chain of command. You keep it simple: a few hours in town to unwind, a brief break from the monotony. It isn’t a lie, but you know better than to overshare. They don’t need your life story, just a reason they can’t argue with.

Next is the approval process. Someone with a clipboard, a sharp eye, and just enough authority to make you wait longer than necessary finally hands over a clearance slip. It’s flimsy, just a card with your name, a stamp of approval, and the time you need to be back, but it’s freedom—conditional as it may be.

At the gate, the guards barely look at you as they check the slip, scan your ID, and wave you through. Their disinterest is palpable, an unspoken understanding that you’re no longer their responsibility once you step outside.

The heavy gate creaks open, and the air beyond feels different. Lighter, less stifling, with the faint promise of anonymity in the night ahead. You climb into the waiting cab, settling into the seat as the base lights fade behind you. For the first time in weeks, you feel untethered, even if only for a few hours.

The driver glances at you in the rearview mirror. “Heading out for a quiet drink?”

“Something like that,” you murmur, your voice even.

The cab rocks gently as it takes the turns, the faint hum of the radio filling the silence. You keep your eyes on the window, watching the rolling countryside give way to the first signs of town life—rows of small buildings glowing under streetlights, signs of a world that doesn’t feel burdened by the weight of missions gone wrong or words that cut deep.

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The club comes into view, its neon lights flickering in an erratic but inviting rhythm. The bass thumps faintly in the night air, reverberating through the pavement as you step out of the cab. The loose sweater hangs over your frame, the sleeves just slightly too long, and the worn sneakers you slipped on feel out of place among the sharp heels and sleek outfits of the gathering crowd. But you don’t care. Tonight isn’t about fitting in—it’s about forgetting.

The bouncer eyes you up and down, his expression unreadable as he takes in your attire—clothes that scream out of place in the sea of glittering dresses and sharp suits around you. For a moment, you brace yourself for the inevitable shake of his head, but instead, he jerks a thumb toward the door, a flicker of something like amusement crossing his face. Maybe it’s the weariness in your eyes or the way you hold yourself, like you’ve seen enough to not care what anyone thinks. Whatever it is, he doesn’t stop you. “Go on,” he mutters, barely sparing you a second glance. The cacophony of music and voices hits you in a rush. The heavy beats, the swirl of lights, the haze of motion—it’s everything you need to drown out the thoughts still clawing at the back of your mind.

At the bar, you order something strong and down it quickly, the burn trailing down your throat a welcome distraction. The familiar motions of drinking, of sitting at a bar surrounded by strangers, almost make you feel normal. Almost.

The crowd shifts and sways to the music, bodies moving in chaotic synchrony, a rhythm dictated by the pulsing bass. You stay at the edges, nursing your second drink, your loose sweater brushing against your arms like a phantom reminder of the gear you shed.

You feel anonymous here, and maybe that’s the point. No missions, no formations, no Ghost’s livid words playing on repeat. Just the music, the heat of the room, and the simple, fleeting luxury of being nobody in a sea of strangers.

For a moment, you wonder if this will work—if the noise and chaos can smother everything else. You don’t feel like a mercenary tonight. You don’t feel like someone trained to kill. You feel like a woman who needs to disappear for a few hours, to let the beat carry her someplace else.

The glass is cool in your hand, condensation dripping onto the bar as you swirl the remnants of your drink, lost in the haze of the pulsing music. You don’t notice the stranger until he’s right beside you, leaning casually on the bar.

“Rough night?” His voice cuts through the noise, smooth and self-assured.

You glance up, taking in the sharp jawline, the easy smile, and the confidence that radiates from him. He looks like he belongs here—perfectly at ease in the swirl of lights and music, his shirt just tight enough to hint at a well-built frame.

“Something like that,” you reply, your tone light but guarded.

His grin widens, and he motions to the bartender. “Another for her, on me. Whatever she’s having.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Generous of you.”

“Let’s call it an investment,” he says, leaning in just slightly. His cologne is subtle, a faint mix of something woodsy and clean. “Trying to see if I can make you smile.”

You can’t help the small twitch of your lips, though you mask it with a sip of your freshly placed drink. “I don’t think I’m your type.”

He tilts his head, his gaze warm and teasing. “Maybe you’re exactly my type.” The words should sound cheap, but something about his delivery makes them feel playful instead.

The glass feels heavier in your hand as his words sink in, and you glance down at yourself—oversized sweater swallowing your frame, hair thrown haphazardly, and sneakers peeking out from beneath your jeans. You’re a far cry from the sleek, confident crowd that moves around the club, their sequins and sharp tailoring catching the strobe lights like polished glass.

A bitter laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it. “I doubt that,” you say, the edge in your voice barely concealed. “Look at me. I don’t exactly scream ‘fun night out.’”

He doesn’t miss a beat, his expression softening but still holding that spark of charm. “You think I care about what you’re wearing? Trust me, I’ve seen enough people dressed to the nines with nothing going on behind the eyes. You? I don’t think you realize how much you stand out.”

The comment makes your stomach twist—not with discomfort, but something lighter, warmer. You take another sip of your drink to hide your reaction, but his gaze stays on you, steady and sure, like he’s waiting for you to actually believe him.

You clear your throat, trying to brush it off. “Not sure if that’s a compliment or a really polite way to say I don’t fit in here.”

“It’s a compliment,” he says firmly, leaning closer. “And for the record, you’re a breath of fresh air in a place like this.”

For the first time in the evening, you feel the tension in your shoulders ease just slightly, his words carving a sliver of space in the wall you’ve built around yourself. Still, a small voice in the back of your head whispers disbelief, but you shove it aside—just for tonight.

“Alright,” you say finally, setting your drink down. “Show me what you’ve got.”

He extends a hand, palm up, an invitation that makes you hesitate for just a second. Then you slip your hand into his, letting him guide you to the dance floor.

The music envelops you, a bass-heavy track with a rhythm impossible to ignore. The crowd presses in around you, a blur of bodies and heat, but he keeps a respectful distance at first, moving in time with you. He’s good at this—confident without being overbearing, his movements fluid and easy.

“You’ve done this before,” you note, raising your voice over the music.

“Once or twice,” he admits, flashing a grin. “You’re not bad yourself.”

You snort lightly. “Don’t get used to it. I don’t dance often.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He spins you suddenly, his hand firm but gentle on your waist as he pulls you back.

The motion catches you off guard, but you go with it, the tension of the last few days starting to dissolve in the rhythm and the sheer absurdity of the moment. Here, under the lights, surrounded by strangers, you feel a little less weighed down, a little more like someone who can laugh at a flirtatious stranger and just enjoy the moment.

The bass thumps through your body, drowning out your thoughts. The weight in your chest hasn’t fully lifted—it lingers there, a reminder of the earlier mess—but the alcohol in your veins, the stranger’s hands gently brushing your waist as he dances behind you, and the sheer energy of the crowd help blur the edges of the pain. For a moment, you let yourself get lost in it.

His movements mirror yours, easy and fluid, and when you glance over your shoulder, his attention is locked solely on you. There’s no pretense, no guessing; he’s fully engrossed, his smile wide and genuine. It’s almost disarming, that kind of focus, but it also makes you feel… present.

You raise the drink in your hand to your lips, taking a slow sip, and catch his amused glance. He leans down just enough for you to hear him over the music. “Not bad, huh?”

You smirk. “I’ve seen better.”

He laughs, the sound melting into the rhythm of the song. “Liar,” he teases, his hands brushing your hips in time with the beat, keeping just the right amount of distance to make it playful.

The song shifts to something slower but heavier, the lights dimming, and the crowd around you sways together like a single entity. You hesitate, your instinct to step away clashing with the alcohol-fueled buzz in your head. Instead, you turn to face him, your drink now just a forgotten weight in your hand.

His eyes scan your face, a flicker of curiosity and something warmer behind his easy smile. He steps closer, his movements deliberate but not invasive, giving you space to pull away if you want. You don’t.

“You know,” he says, his voice low enough to cut through the music, “I don’t usually get this lucky.”

“Lucky how?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, though you’re already sure of the answer.

“Meeting someone like you,” he says simply, his tone sincere.

It’s a line—probably one he’s used before—but in the haze of the club, it feels… nice. You tilt your head, studying him. The lights strobe, casting his features in flashes of blue and red, and for a second, you let yourself relax into the idea that this is all there is. Just a night, just a moment.

He leans in slightly, and you can feel the shift in the air between you. His hand brushes your arm, and his voice drops even lower. “Can I…?”

You don’t answer immediately, your mind catching up with what’s happening. Then, slowly, he leans closer, his lips brushing yours with tentative softness.

It’s fleeting—a kiss that doesn’t demand anything, just a gentle question. And for a heartbeat, you let yourself lean into it, letting the world outside the club disappear completely.

The kiss deepens for just a moment, the stranger’s hands resting lightly on your hips, when suddenly, a sharp tug yanks you backward. You stumble, breaking away from the man, and find yourself face-to-face with Ghost.

He stands rigid, his imposing figure towering over both you and the stranger, his eyes blazing behind the mask. Even in the dim lighting of the club, the tension rolling off him is palpable.

“What the hell are you doing?” you demand, your heart racing—not from the kiss, but from the sheer intensity of Ghost’s presence.

“Saving you from making a mistake,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. He turns his attention to the stranger, who looks bewildered and more than a little intimidated. “Back off.”

The guy raises his hands in mock surrender, his earlier charm replaced by wariness. “Hey, I didn’t know she was taken. My bad.”

“I’m not—” you start, but Ghost steps forward, his stance shifting like he’s ready for a fight.

The guy takes a step back, looking between the two of you. “Look, man, she’s all yours. I wasn’t trying to start anything.”

“Ghost!” you snap, grabbing his arm to stop him. “He’s a civilian. You can’t just—”

Ghost’s gaze snaps to you, the fire in his eyes still smoldering. “A civilian,” he repeats, his tone sharp with disbelief.

“What is wrong with you?” you shoot back, your own anger flaring now.

He doesn’t respond immediately, his jaw clenching beneath the mask. His grip on your arm loosens slightly, but he doesn’t step away. “You don’t know what kind of people come to places like this,” he mutters, his tone quieter but no less heated.

“I can handle myself,” you say firmly, pulling your arm free from his grasp.

“Clearly,” he bites out, his eyes flicking to the stranger, who wisely starts edging away.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Ghost, let it go. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

Ghost’s shoulders stiffen briefly, but after a moment, he exhales sharply, the tension in his body easing just slightly. He steps closer, his voice low and firm. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” you snap, but he doesn’t give you a choice. His hand closes around your wrist—not painfully, but with enough strength to make it clear he isn’t backing down.

“Ghost, I mean it—”

“Don’t make me carry you out,” he warns, his voice calm but laced with steel. His grip tightens just enough to guide you firmly toward the exit.

Fuming, you let yourself be dragged outside, too aware of the growing number of eyes on you in the club. Once outside, the cool night air hits your flushed skin, but it does little to cool your temper.

“Get in the car,” Ghost orders, nodding toward a black vehicle parked by the curb.

“You can’t just—”

“Get. In. The car,” he repeats, his tone brooking no argument.

Angrily, you yank your arm out of his grip and climb in, slamming the door behind you. Ghost rounds the car and gets into the driver’s seat, the air inside thick with unspoken tension.

As he pulls away from the curb, you whirl on him. “Why the hell were you following me? I got clearance. I’m not under your leash anymore.”

“I wasn’t following you,” he retorts, his tone sharp. “I was making sure you didn’t get yourself killed.”

“Bullshit,” you snap. “I’ve been on my own plenty of times before, and you never pulled this crap.”

“This isn’t the same,” he growls, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “You’re reckless, and you don’t think about what’s waiting around the corner. A place like that? You’re asking for trouble.”

“I’m asking for a night off,” you counter, your voice rising. “You don’t get to decide where I go or who I talk to anymore.”

His jaw tightens beneath the mask, but he says nothing.

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The drive is silent, tension filling the car like a thick fog. Ghost grips the wheel tightly, his knuckles white under his gloves. You sit stiffly in the passenger seat, your thoughts swirling with confusion and lingering frustration. The alcohol in your system is dulling your ability to piece things together, but one thing is clear—he's angry.

The car finally slows as he pulls into an empty park, dimly lit by streetlights and eerily quiet. He cuts the engine and sits there for a moment, his hands resting on the wheel, before turning to you with a sharp look.

“Get out,” he says firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You blink at him, caught off guard. “What?”

“I said, get out of the car.”

His tone sends a shiver through you, and for a moment, you hesitate. But the look in his eyes is unyielding, so you push open the door and step out into the crisp night air. Ghost follows, his boots crunching against the gravel as he comes around to face you.

“Why do you always cause trouble?” he demands, his voice low but biting.

The question hits you like a slap, and for a moment, you’re too stunned to respond. “Trouble?” you repeat, your voice shaking. “You dragged me out here just to call me trouble?”

“You don’t think!” he snaps, his frustration boiling over. “You act on impulse, you break formation, and you put yourself—and everyone else—at risk. What the hell is wrong with you?”

His words are like a punch to the gut, and before you can stop yourself, the dam inside you bursts. “Have you already forgotten what you said to me?” Your voice trembles, rising with each word. “That having me around is a mistake? That the idea of me is a mistake?”

His mouth opens slightly as if to respond, but you don’t give him the chance.

“You don’t think I’m trying?” you cry out, the alcohol making your emotions impossible to suppress. “I’ve been a merc for ten years, Ghost. Ten years of flying solo, doing things my way. You think I can just switch that off and magically fit into your team overnight?”

He doesn’t say anything, but the flicker of guilt in his eyes is undeniable.

“I’ve been trying,” you continue, your voice breaking now. “I really have, but it’s hard. And you—you make it even harder. You’re so quick to throw me away, like I’m nothing. Do you have any idea how much that hurts?”

Your voice cracks, and before you know it, tears spill over, your shoulders trembling as you struggle to hold yourself together. You hate this—hate how vulnerable you are right now, hate how much his words got to you.

Ghost takes a step closer, his towering frame softening as he reaches out. His gloved hands cup your face gently, his thumbs brushing away the tears that streak your cheeks.

“Stop,” he says quietly, his voice stripped of its usual edge. “Just… stop.”

You meet his gaze, your breath hitching at the look in his eyes—raw, conflicted, and entirely unguarded.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean what I said. I was angry, and I... I was scared.”

“Scared?” you repeat, your voice shaking.

He nods, his hands still cradling your face. “You don’t get it, do you? Watching you throw yourself into danger like that, without a second thought—it messes with me. The thought of you getting hurt…” He pauses, his jaw tightening. “It fucks me up inside.”

Your breath catches in your throat at his words, the raw honesty in them cutting through the haze of your emotions.

“I don’t know how to deal with it,” he admits, his thumbs brushing over your tears in a gesture so tender it makes your heart ache. “But I know I’ve been taking it out on you, and I’m sorry for that. You didn’t deserve it.”

For a moment, the two of you stand there, the weight of his words settling between you. The anger, the hurt, the confusion—it all feels distant now, overshadowed by the quiet sincerity in his voice and the steady warmth of his hands.

You stand there, the weight of everything crashing down on you, and the question rises in your chest, burning with a quiet intensity. The words spill out before you can stop them. “If you care so much about me, then why would you say things that hurt me like that? Why throw all that shit at me, if you actually care?”

Ghost’s gaze drops to the ground, his jaw tightening. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak, as though he’s struggling with the weight of his own words. His hands remain on your face, cupping your cheeks firmly, as though grounding himself in you. He doesn’t pull away, and neither do you, despite the tension building between you.

Finally, his voice breaks the silence, low and rough. “You think I want to hurt you?”

“No,” you reply quickly, “but you sure know how to do it.”

His eyes flicker to yours before he looks away again, the frustration evident in his every movement. “I don’t know how to show I care, alright? I’ve never been good at it.”

You blink at him, the confusion deepening. “What do you mean?”

He sighs, his thumb brushing over the skin of your cheek, almost absentmindedly, as though he’s not aware of how intimate the gesture is.

“You’re right. I don't know how to treat people the right way. And that’s been a problem for years.” He pauses, his eyes briefly meeting yours before they drop to the ground again. “I’m not good at expressing myself either. It’s been like that for a long time. I don’t know how to show I care about certain people. Especially you.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, the weight of his words crashing into you. “So, all this time… it’s been about you not knowing how to… show you care?”

He nods, meeting your eyes once more, soft but unyielding. “Yeah. I’m puzzled, okay? I’ve never met anyone like you. Someone who makes me care this much and still frustrates the hell out of me. It messes with my head. And I don’t know how to deal with it.”

You take a deep breath, your chest tight, processing everything. “So it’s not just about the team, then? It’s about me?”

His eyes meet yours again, more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him. “Yeah. You get under my skin, and I don’t know how to handle it. I hate it, but I can’t stop it. And that’s what fucks me up.”

You try to process his words, still feeling the sting of the anger, but you can see the regret and vulnerability in his eyes. You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off.

“I’ve never met anyone like you, and I don’t know how to deal with it. I hate how it messes with me, how you’re different from the others. And that pisses me off, because I can’t fucking fix it.” His hands tense slightly on your face, as if trying to hold onto the moment. “I don’t know what to do, but I’m trying. I am.”

Your heart beats faster, the weight of everything crashing down on you. You swallow hard, your voice trembling as you look at him. “You don’t have to fix anything, Ghost. Just… don’t hurt me.”

His grip softens, and for a moment, you see him at a loss for words. He moves his thumb over your cheek again, almost as though he’s apologizing without saying it. Then, he looks at you, his gaze steady. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, the words carrying weight. “I really am. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—bloody hell, I'm lost when it comes to you.”

You nod, the emotions still swirling inside you. “I don’t need you to have it figured out right now. Just don’t…”

“I won’t,” he promises, his voice barely a whisper, but firm. “I won’t hurt you again.”

The air between you thickens, the silence heavy with everything that’s been left unsaid. You’re still reeling from the intensity of the moment, the weight of Ghost’s presence and everything unspoken between you. His gloved hands are still holding your face, steady and grounding, but his gaze shifts, dark and unreadable, as though he’s making a decision in real time.

You feel it before he moves, the tension crackling like a live wire, and then, with deliberate slowness, he lifts his own mask. It’s only to his nose, just high enough to expose his lips. The action feels monumental, the vulnerability of it making your breath hitch.

The sight of him—the strong curve of his mouth, the way his breath brushes against your skin—is startling, disarming. And before you can say anything, before you can even think, he leans in and presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is hard, unrelenting, full of frustration and desire that’s been simmering under the surface for too long. It’s not careful or measured—it’s raw, messy, and unapologetic. Like he’s trying to erase the memory of the stranger’s hands on you, of that kiss you shared, and replace it with this. With him.

His lips move against yours with a desperation that makes your knees weak, his hands tightening slightly against your face as though he can’t bear the thought of letting go. You gasp into the kiss, your hands instinctively clutching at the fabric of his shirt, and that’s all it takes for him to deepen it, pulling you closer, his body pressing firmly against yours.

There’s no hesitation in him, no second-guessing, only the overwhelming need to claim you, to make it clear that this is where you belong. It’s intense, searing, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you—his lips, his touch, the sheer force of his presence.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only just enough to catch his breath, his lips hovering over yours. Both of you are gasping for air, the space between you charged with the kind of energy that leaves you dizzy.

The sight of him like this—vulnerable and exposed—is almost too much to process.

“I followed you back there,” he admits, his voice rough but steady, “to apologize. For what I said. I thought maybe—maybe if I just said I was sorry, you’d—” His words falter for a moment before he pushes forward. “But then I saw him. That bastard at the bar, leaning too close, looking at you like—” He cuts himself off, his jaw tight as he fights for control.

��I hated it,” he whispers, voice rough and barely audible over the pounding of your heart. His forehead presses lightly against yours, and you can feel the tremor in his breath. “Seeing him with you. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to destroy everything.”

His words hit you like a punch, raw and unfiltered, leaving no room for doubt. Your chest tightens as you try to make sense of it, of him, of everything that’s just happened.

“I wanted it to be me,” Ghost mutters, his lips brushing yours again as he speaks. His voice is quieter now, but no less intense, each word laced with meaning. “It should’ve been me.”

You’re left breathless, stunned into silence, your heart pounding as his words settle into your bones. The weight of what he’s said, what he’s done, lingers between you, unshakable and impossible to ignore.

The world around you feels like it’s stopped moving, as if everything has frozen, leaving only you and Ghost, this moment, hanging in suspended time. His lips are still gently hovering over yours, but the kiss he just gave you lingers like fire across your skin, burning away any remnants of the confusion that was there before. His touch, his presence—it's so different from that stranger’s brief, fleeting kiss at the club. This? This feels real. This feels right.

Your head is spinning, heart hammering, trying to make sense of what’s happening. It’s like the fog is lifting and you can finally see the clarity you’ve been ignoring. The space between you and Ghost feels like it’s always been meant to be filled, like there’s no question about it.

With a breathless laugh, you close the small distance between you two and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, anchoring him to you as you finally let yourself feel the rush of everything you’ve been holding back. You tilt your head, deepening the kiss, as if trying to show him what’s been building inside you.

When you pull back just enough to speak, your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s laced with certainty. “It’ll be you,” you say, your hands resting against his chest, your eyes locking with his. “From now on, it’ll be you.”

Ghost's eyes ignite with relief, his grip on you tightening as if he's been starved of your consent. Crushing his mouth to yours, he kisses you fiercely, devouring every inch of your lips. His tongue claims your mouth, tangling with yours in a wild dance of passion that mirrors the unspoken hunger you both share. His touch becomes more demanding, yet gentle, sending waves of heat crashing through your body. This raw, carnal connection eclipses everything else—the world, the mission, the tangled past—reducing it all to insignificance compared to the burning fire consuming you both.

You pull back slowly, your lips still tingling, the world around you sharpening back into focus. His breath is heavy, his chest rising and falling beneath your fingers as his gaze locks onto yours, raw and intense. The silence stretches, but it’s no longer uncomfortable—it’s charged, full of implicit understanding.

“I’m scared,” you whisper, your voice trembling with uncertainty. “Everything’s different now.”

He doesn’t look away, his thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that’s almost too much. “I’m scared too,” he admits, his voice a low growl. “Hell, I’m terrified.”

But the fear isn’t something to avoid. It makes everything feel real, exhilarating, like a dare. You both know that whatever this is, it’s a risk worth taking. No safety nets, no guarantees. Just the thrill of diving in, together.

And as his lips find yours again, the fear becomes fuel—the kind of fear that pushes you forward, deeper into the unknown, but this time, you know you’ll face it side by side.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ -

Author's Note: definitely a rushed chapter (sorry about that, work’s been killing me), but things are about to get steamy after this. :^)

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stardancerluv · 3 months ago

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A Space Journey

Part Four

Summary: Tyler finds things out, more training has taken place.

Notes/Warnings 18+ themes, squint breeding kink, angst, suspicious company behavior

❤️, reblogs, comments, & feedback are always welcome. Thank you. 💐

Reid, pressed the bridge of his nose. “Listen you, are far too young to be sent to one of those ‘shake and bake’ colonies.”

Typer stood squarely in front of his desk.

“I am not saying now but maybe after this cycle.”

Reid let out a loud sigh. “Look, you icao jgot a good thing here. They like you. If this one goes well, which I know it will the credits sliding your way will be very nice.”

“Appreciated. Truly. But the nightly broadcasts are always stating that younger is better. That if you are strong and have good lungs;” He paused, his lips curling before adding in a sing song voice. “Don’t be selfish and make human kind healthy once again.”

Reid, took off his glasses and rubbed at one of the lenses. Looking up in a dismissive manner.

“The sarcasm isn’t needed between us.”

Tyler shrugged.

“To be honest, you are not even near the danger zone and neither is your girl. She’s healthy. Her womb is strong. It will carry your seed very well.”

“And how do you know this?“ A stillness came over him.

“Harrison, don’t be naïve. You don’t think we didn’t check her out as well?”

“But why?”

“That’s classified.”

He closed the distance, then placed both hands on his desk as a flash of annoyance ignited in him.

“Classified, huh?”

“Harrison, now calm down.”

He rose his eyebrows. “I am very calm. I thought I was the only who mattered.”

“You are.”

“Then why do they know about my girl’s womb?”

He chair creaked as he rolled back to look up at him. “Her evaluation was up close to when yours were so when we tested you, they tested her.”

“I don’t like that.”

“You don’t like knowing you got a prime girl there? You have quality.”

“I know I do.” He stepped back once again.

Reid lurched back to his desk. “Such a romantic. Well, now you know medically.”

All he could do was roll his eyes.

“Oh yeah here. Now get out of my sight.”

Tyler caught the sliver of metal. “Dog tags?”

“If the hostiles take you out, we need to know who to send back to your family and girl.”

“Love you too Reid.”

The man sighed. “You are truly insufferable.”

Tyler, let a smirk play on his lips. “That’s why you chose me.”

“Maybe. Now get out of here.”

“Alright.”

******

He hovered over the open side of his chifforobe. He figured that was the safest place to store the hand gun, they had him go back to the hauler with.

Absently, he tapped his fingers on the dog tag that now hung from his throat. The acrid smell of this gun and the other ones he had handled today clung to him, his clothes. He had handled so many. The sheer number of them was far greater then he could have imagined. He had held the infamous pulse rife. Colonial marines had made them famous. They had great aided in the acquirement of a new colony here or there in one of the many far corners of space. Up to that point, he only handled a a simple hand gun, he had pawned it years ago for extra credits.

There was always his trusty volt charger. He had refashioned it from their ability to restarting engines to keeping one safe. He had never needed it. Not even against a twitchy artificial person or anything else that may be lingering in the dark depths of space.

The hand gun, they had let him go home with felt heavy in his hands as he held it once more. The black metal easily could disappear into any shadow he could find himself crouching in.

His wrist chirped to life, a smile curled his lips when he realized it was you.

Placing the hand gun down, he slipped it back into the thickly lined sack they gave him to store it in.

He cinched it, then tapping the small screen. The small screen was framing your face. “Hi baby. What do I owe pleasure?”

A smile spread across your lips. “With my recent discovery, they are now rewarding me. Are you home?”

“Yes. Come on over.”

“See you soon.”

There was a flicker and his watch was blank again. Unease shot through him as he closed the door to his chifforobe, then tucked the dog tags under his shirt. His fingers danced down the worn edges of memories captured from days, cycles past.

With a genuine smile on his face he went to the hauler’s perch and waited for you. From where he stood, he was just out of the reach of the sheets of rain. A few we t splatters splashed him here there but he was not soaked.

As he leaned against the thick metal frame of the opening, the conversation he shared with Reid about you played back in his head.

You had a strong womb, images of you and your belly full with his child oddly enough aroused him. His breath quickened. He would have done it. A future of you and him, growing. Little imaginations of that or him holding you protectively close, a hand splayed on your belly; the two of you sharing a smile made his heart pick up speed.

“High up in your tower I see.” Your sweet airy, voice reached him. Bringing him back to reality.

He chuckled. “And there be my fair girl.”

Without a moment for a breath, he leapt down. It wasn’t terribly high up and he easily made a clean landing.

“Oh! Oh my!” You gasped.

He only chuckled and pulled you right up against. His heart pounding, his breath still shortened.

“Damn, how are you mine?”

He kissed you then. You wiggled against him before he felt you melt against him. The kiss lasted and the rain , did fall down on you and him and once again it was easily soaking him.

“I like this.” You managed, when you broke for air however and heavy with soot and whatever else swirled around.

He saw how the kiss had made your cheeks rosy. It made him smirk, fill bigger then he was. “So do I but let’s go…” His voice trailed off as he saw your bemused expression drop.

“What is this?” You tugged gently on the dog-tag, as your nose twitched.

It must have popped free of his shirt when he jumped. He pressed his lips together. In the back of his mind, knowing he had not had a chance to clean up he wondered if you could smell the training he had done.

You remained a little rooted where you stood but after a touch of hesitation you let him pull you close.

“Do you still trust me?” He brushed some wet strands from your face.

You nodded.

“Come inside and I will tell you.”

@luvscarlyle new chapter! New Tyler content! Enjoy, and thank you!

#archie renaux #archie renaux imagine #archie renaux fanfic #archie renaux fanfiction #tyler harrison #tyler alien romulus #tyler harrison fluff #tyler harrison angst #tyler harrison smut #tyler harrison x reader #tyler harrison x you #tyler harrison x y/n #alien romulus fanfic #alien romulus fanfiction #a space journey #part 4

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curator-on-ao3 · 6 months ago

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15 Questions

Tagged by @iamstartraveller776. ❤️ Thank you for the tag!

1. Are you named after anyone?

Yes.

2. When was the last time you cried?

Probably earlier today. I cry a lot. (Not in an unstable way. In an “okay, we’re having emotions that are leaking down our face again, next we’ll fold laundry” way.)

3. Do you have kids?

Yes. For which I am deeply grateful.

4. What sports do you/have you played?

As part of an actual team? Kickball. I’m more of a workout person than a sports person, though. But I guess Pilates isn’t considered a sport.

5. Do you use sarcasm?

Me???? Never. (That was sarcasm.)

6. What is the first thing you notice about people?

I gotta go with @iamstartraveller776’s answer here: Vibe. The vibes are usually instantly apparent and so, so important.

7. What's your eye color?

Let me put it this way — I break Punnett squares.

8. Do you prefer scary or happy endings for movies?

Happy.

9. Any talents?

If I do, one of them most certainly is not the ability to talk about my talents without utterly locking up.

10. Where were you born?

In a hospital.

11. What are your hobbies?

Writing. Organization. I might get back into quilting someday.

12. Do you have any pets?

Nope. (My husband is allergic to animal dander.)

13. How tall are you?

Not very.

14. Favorite school subject?

Either social studies or language arts depending on the school year.

15. Dream occupation?

Author, but the way the publishing industry is now … yikes.

No pressure tags: (I’m just copying these from the last tag game so I truly apologize if I’m leaving anyone out — please play away if you want to join in) @grissomesque @emilie786 @fiadorable @aristofranes @kejsarinna @regalpotato @enterprise-come-in @emonydeborah @divinemissem13 @pc-corner @elephant-in-the-pride-parade @coffee-in-that-nebula @notiscorvus @deadheaddaisy and everyone I forgot because I have tag anxietyyyyyyyyy

#tag games #15 questions #thank you again for tagging me #iamstartraveller776

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the-bad-batch-baroness · 1 year ago

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Beloved

Fives x Fem!Reader

Chapter 1: Hormones vs Pheromones

Summary: A horrible smell leads to a precious discovery. You and Fives have been enjoying your life together, but everything is about to change now that you’re pregnant. While your hormonal imbalance rages, Fives must hang on for dear life as he’s dragged through the stages of fatherhood. Luckily, the 501st has his back and comes to the rescue more than once.

Pairing: Fives x Fem!Reader

Characters: Fives, Kix

Tags & Warnings: established relationship, suggestive themes, pregnancy, morning sickness, vomiting, humor, domestic fluff, insults, sarcasm, light angst, dialogue heavy

Word Count: 4.8k

Author's Note: I came up with this idea after listening to a podcast about a woman whose pregnancy hormones made her absolutely hate her husband. Then it turned into a series… Whoops. Written in second person, but from different perspectives. Main focus is on Fives. Also, lots of dialogue because sarcasm and insults require some talking.

Beta Read: By the lovely @commander-sunshine because I was going to throw this fic in the trash and she convinced me otherwise. Thanks babe 💚

@clonexreaderbingo Square: Fives

Chapter 1

Your life is blissful nowadays. You and Fives live peacefully in the GAR Commons, which houses the entire 501st Battalion. The communal building complex has multiple accommodations, including studios, one bedrooms, and multi-rooms that will fit up to four clone troopers at a time. There’s also a community mess hall, medbay, shooting range, weight room, and even a courtyard with benches and flowers to enjoy. For GAR standards, it’s a nice place to live.

As an ARC trooper, Fives was able to swipe himself a one bedroom for the two of you. It’s a little thing, but it’s cozy and it’s spacious enough for all of your needs. When you first moved in, you completely fell in love with its simplistic charm. It has all of the necessities, a bedroom, refresher, kitchen, living area, and lots of closet space. You quickly set to work making it a home for you and Fives by adding pictures, a couple decorative pillows, and some nice curtains.

There’s not much else you could ask for to complete your little world. The life of a clone trooper’s wife isn’t always the best, but you never let yourself dwell on the unpredictable aspects of the war. Some days Fives will wake up and be gone for sixty-five rotations and other times he will wake up and be gone for two rotations. Better still, some days he wakes up and doesn’t have to go anywhere. Those are your favorite days, the ones where you get him all to yourself.

Everything is pretty quiet at the moment. Fives hasn’t gone out on assignment for eighty rotations, which is his longest base assignment on record. Although, he still has duties at the GAR headquarters. Sometimes he trains the shinies and other times he has local missions, but at the minimum, he still makes it home for dinner every night. Well, almost every night. Once and a while, he’ll kick back at 79s with the boys and drink late into the night like old times.

Fives isn’t the party boy he used to be, so you find it funny when he makes an attempt. When you first met him at 79s, he was wild, rowdy, and an absolute terrible flirt. He tried time and time again to get you to go out on a date with him using cheesy pick-up lines, but they never worked. Eventually, he stopped trying, and you found yourself missing his playful advances. You thought he was charming and funny, and adored his hearty laugh. Finally, you caved and began dating.

Now married, he spends more time at home and less time at the bar. Neither of you know when he will ship out again, so it’s important to spend quality time together as a couple when he is at home. This particular evening is brimming with relaxation while you watch the latest holo-film. Both of you are snuggling in bed, your head resting on his shoulder while he holds a bowl of popcorn on his chest. You put your hand in the bowl, take a few pieces, and pop them into your mouth.

“He’s going to die,” you say while munching away.

Fives cocks his head. “You think?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” you nod.

“Why do you say that?” Fives asks while grabbing a handful of popcorn.

“They’ve built him up way too much to let him live,” you point out while gesturing towards the holo-film.

“Brutal,” Fives shakes his head.

“I know right?” you chuckle and toss more popcorn into your mouth.

As the holo-film draws to its conclusion, you begin to doze. You nod off repeatedly, all the while Fives giggles to himself at your adorable attempts to stay awake. He turns his head to look at your sleeping face and plants a small kiss on your temple. He flexes, stretching his legs, and carefully lifts you off his shoulder to lay you down without waking you. He turns the holo-film off as the credits roll and gets up to bring the popcorn bowl into the kitchen.

He returns to bed and crawls in next to you, spooning your back tightly against his chest and draping an arm across your stomach. He breathes deeply, inhaling the faint scent of your gardenia and jasmine shampoo before snuggling in for the night. But, just as he gets comfortable, you shift under his arm. He shifts with you and readjusts. A couple minutes later, you shift again. He sighs and repositions himself to accommodate you. The third time you squirm is when he breaks the silence.

“What’s the matter?” he mumbles into his pillow.

“Do you smell that?” you ask as you scrunch your nose. You can smell a putrid odor in the air, but you can’t figure out where it’s coming from.

“Smell what?” Fives takes a whiff, but all he can smell is your shampoo and maybe something else mixed in with it.

“That smell,” you answer in annoyance as you roll out of his arm’s hold and onto your back. “You don’t smell it?”

“I don’t smell anything but you,” Fives laughs as he props himself up on his elbow.

Your face scrunches in repulsion of his movement and you pinch your nose. “It’s you!”

“Me?!” Fives exclaims, a mix of surprise and confusion.

“When was the last time you showered?” you ask in disgust.

He blinks in bewilderment at your question. “This morning.”

“I don’t believe you,” you argue while sitting up. “You smell awful.”

“You were there,” he reminds you with a sigh. “In the shower, with me.”

You think back and realize he’s right, you both showered this morning and you’ve been together all day. You wonder what else it could be. “Deodorant?”

He sniffs his armpit to make sure. “Yeah, I put that on too.”

You both look at each other, puzzled at the weird occurrence. You think as hard as you can about where else the smell might be coming from, but you swear it's originating from Fives. You ask him to move again and he sits himself up against the pillow. Your nose is immediately assaulted by a horrendous smell and you gag in response. You turn away from him and gag again. Fives raises an eyebrow in concern at your bizarre response to his body odor.

“Why don’t I go take another shower,” he says as he gets out of bed.

You're not sure if it will help, but you nod in between gags as he moves away from you.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, not knowing what else to say. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but it seems like he’s the cause and he feels bad about it.

You lean back against your pillow and try to relax. The awful scent still lingers, but at least it’s weaker now that Fives has left. You grab his ill-scented pillow and toss it off the bed to try and get rid of the rest of the smell. You roll over on your side, away from Fives’ side of the bed, clutch the covers to your face, and begin to cry. Why you're crying, you don’t know, but you feel the need to cry anyway. At least the congestion from crying will help clog your nose and keep the stench out.

When Fives returns from the shower, toweling dry his wet hair, he sees you laying in bed crying. He drops the towel, rushes over, and crawls onto the bed next to you. He places a tender hand on your back to let you know he is there. “Cyare, what’s wrong?” he asks with concern.

“I…” you say through coughing sobs. “I don’t know. I… I just want to stop.”

“Stop what?” he inquires, looking for any semblance or idea of what is causing you to be crying so suddenly. He visually looks you over to make sure there’s nothing externally wrong with you.

“Everything,” you cry harder and curl into a ball.

Fives is even more baffled. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I don’t know!” you yell in frustration at yourself for also not knowing what you mean, and for the fact that he’s asking you questions you don’t have the answers to.

“Udesii, cyar’ika,” Fives soothes while rubbing your back. “Shh. It’s alright.”

As his hand gently circles your back, the putrid smell returns and you reach around to push his hand away to make him stop. Fives is taken aback by your rejection and recoils his hand. You turn your head to look back at him with apologetic eyes. You’re not sure why you pushed him away, but you don’t want him touching you right now. Something isn’t right. This is all wrong. Your emotions are running wild and you can’t seem to get them under control. You start crying again at your helplessness.

“Cyare…” Fives trails as he watches and listens to your insatiable distress, but there’s nothing he can do about it. If he knew what to do, he would be doing it already. There’s nothing in his training that has prepared him for whatever this is. All he can do is be here for you if you need him.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you say through your tears.

“Maybe we should go see Kix in the morning,” Fives suggests.

You nod, thinking it might be a good idea to have a medic look you over. Fives brings a hand down to cup your cheek, a sweet gesture he always does when you’re feeling down, but instead of leaning into it, you slap his hand away. You put your hands over your mouth in shock at what you just did. Fives curls his lips and sighs as he flops back against the backboard in defeat. He doesn’t know what to do and you don’t know what you want him to do. Everything is confusing.

“I’m so sorry,” you say as more tears fall. “I… I don’t know. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” Fives interrupts before you can berate yourself further. “I know.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you repeat as if saying it out loud will help you solve the puzzle.

“If it’s my smell bothering you,” Fives begins, his voice wavering with uncertainty, "why don’t I sleep down there, with my pillow.”

“Fives,” you begin to protest, even though you really do want him and his unbearable stench to be somewhere else.

“It’s fine, really,” Fives chuckles as he slips off the duvet and lays himself down next to the bed. “I’ve slept in worse places than our bedroom floor.”

You bury your head in your pillow as your shattering cries take over again. Fives can hear your muffled sobs and it kills him that he can’t hold you through them. You don’t know why you’re upset. It’s a terrible emotion to both want and not want your husband. It never crossed your mind. You have a playful and fun relationship, and always enjoy his company, that is, until now. You can’t wrap your head around it, but you’re hoping a good night's sleep will fix everything.

Eventually you both fall asleep, for the first time, separately. When Fives is home, you always sleep together in some form, whether it’s backs touching, spooning, or legs intertwining, even his hand accidentally smacking your face. No matter if you're happy with or angry at each other, you never sleep without some type of contact, that is, until tonight. You both feel it, the sting of separation, but there is a part of you that just can’t bring yourself to touch him right now.

As the early hours of dawn break, you feel a stirring in the pit of your stomach. You shift to try and alleviate it, but it only gets worse. The feeling travels up your esophagus and into the back of your throat, making you squirm in discomfort. “Fives,” you call out to him as you hold your aching stomach.

“Mhm,” he mumbles sleepily from his little blanket nest on the floor.

“I don’t feel good,” you answer as you curl yourself up a little tighter.

“What kind of ‘not feel good’?” he asks as he slowly sits up and rubs the sleep out of his eyes.

“I think I’m gonna puke,” you say while jolting up and putting a hand over your mouth.

“Oh no,” Fives groans as he stumbles up off the floor to find a bucket. “Hang on!” he calls back as he scurries to the kitchen.

Your stomach muscles contract and you start to gag. “Fives!”

Fives rushes back into the bedroom with a small bucket and comes around to your side of the bed, but he’s a little too late. Your mouth fills with saliva in preparation of what’s to come and you can’t hold it in any longer. Fives dives for it, but misses by a couple inches as you vomit on the bedroom floor. He’s able to catch the end of it, while simultaneously grabbing most of your hair to hold it out of the way. You continue to vomit into the bucket until the spasms stop.

“Sorry,” you pant when you can finally speak again. Your chest hurts from the convulsions and your throat burns from regurgitating your stomach contents.

“Don’t worry about it,” Fives says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ll clean it up.”

You smile lazily at him and are grateful he is there to help you, but something still doesn’t feel right. As he gets up to find some cleaning supplies you get a whiff of the same smell from last night and start gagging. Fives turns to bring the bucket back just in case and shoots you a worried look. Something is wrong with you. Something is very wrong with you. You don’t know what it is about his scent all of sudden, but it’s the most nauseating smell in the galaxy.

“Please, get away from me,” you plead through gags while putting up a hand to signal him to stay back. “You smell so bad.”

“That’s it,” Fives sighs while rubbing his forehead. “We’re going to see Kix.”

He leaves the bedroom to empty the bucket and comes back to clean up the floor. He places a clean bucket on the bed for you to use, trying with difficulty to respect your new boundaries. He then opens the dresser and throws on whatever he can find the quickest and tosses you one of his shirts. You grab the shirt, but it's covered in that horrific smell so you throw it at his back and it plops on the floor by his feet. He slumps his shoulders and you put your head in your hands and start to cry again.

Fives lets out a discouraged sigh and grabs something of yours from the closet that will be comfy to wear to medbay and something you won’t mind throwing up on, just in case. He eventually finds an oversized hoodie he knows doesn’t smell like him and he tosses that to you. You smell it to be sure, and you sigh in relief as you pop it over your head. You grab the clean bucket and slowly get up from the bed, legs still wobbly from the stomach convulsions earlier.

Fives does everything in his power not to hold you steady. He reaches, but he pulls back knowing you’ll probably start vomiting again if he gets too close. He grabs the keys and your bag and opens the door to the GAR Commons hallway and waits for you to follow him. You trail after him as he leads the way to the medbay. It’s strange walking behind him and not alongside him, or holding his hand, but you quickly realize that following him was a terrible idea.

You stop and vomit into your bucket. You’re not sure where all of this is coming from, because there’s no way you have this much food in your stomach, but you don’t take the time to try and figure it out. Fives stops at the familiar sound and turns around to look at you. His eyes are compassionate. “I’m leaving a trail, aren’t I?” he asks knowingly.

You nod.

He sighs. “Why don’t you take the lead and I’ll follow you?”

You nod again and walk past him while holding your breath.

As you enter the medbay, you see Kix bustling about as he gets ready for the day. The medics always start early, but since Kix is in charge of the Common’s medbay, he has to start earlier than the other medics, which is great for the both of you. He doesn’t notice you at first, but as you both hobble awkwardly into his periphery, he catches a glimpse and stops what he’s doing. “Are you two okay?” Kix asks as he checks the time and looks at your fatigued states.

“I think I’m sick,” you answer while clutching your bucket.

“I can see that,” Kix says as he notices the bucket you're holding and glances at Fives suspiciously standing a good distance away. “Come on, let me take a look at you.” He gestures with his head for you to follow him to one of the exam rooms.

You both sit down, on opposite sides of the room, and it doesn't go unnoticed by Kix. He can already tell something is amiss. He sits down backwards on the rolling medical stool and crosses his arms over the seat back. He looks at you, sitting closest to the door, and then swivels the chair to look at Fives sitting in the opposite corner. “So, tell me what’s going on,” Kix asks as he swivels back to look at you.

“It started last night,” you begin to explain. “We were watching a holo-film, ate some popcorn, and then went to sleep. But, suddenly, I started smelling this weird smell and it made me super nauseous. But the weird thing is that the smell was coming from Fives.”

Kix raises an eyebrow at your last comment and looks over at Fives who’s sitting with his arms crossed over his chest, foot tapping rapidly on the floor. Kix can only describe the expression on the ARC trooper’s face as a mix between confused, concerned, and annoyed.

Feeling Kix’s stare burning a hole in his skull, Fives adds to your comment about his odor. “Then, I took a shower thinking that would fix the smell issue.”

“Did you use soap?” Kix asks blankly.

“Yes, I used soap,” Fives answers with an unamused huff. “But she still said I smelled.”

Kix narrows his eyes and looks back and forth between the two of you, but doesn’t say anything about what he’s thinking yet.

“Then I woke up this morning feeling like I was going to vomit,” you continue on with the timeline of events.

“Yeah,” Fives interjects with a small laugh. “And she missed the bucket too.”

“Shut up, Fives!” you exclaim in frustration at his irritating laughter. His penetrating voice grates against your eardrums, so you rub them to try and get some relief. None of this is funny to you and you don’t understand how he could be laughing so flippantly about it. Something is seriously wrong with you and his perceivable apathy is making you furious.

Fives’ mouth drops open in shock at your uncharacteristic outburst, but Kix just snorts at it. Your overreaction is the last piece of information he needs to connect a few dots that have been rolling around in his head since you got there.

“What are you smiling at?” you exclaim at Kix with annoyance. You wonder why everyone all of sudden thinks you’re suffering is a joke.

“I think I know what your problem is,” Kix chuckles as he pushes his feet to the floor and rolls his chair backwards to one of the drawers. He pulls the drawer open, grabs a small box, and slowly wheels himself back over to hand it to you.

You look at the box and your eyes widen. “You’re joking?”

“Afraid not,” Kix grins while placing his chin in his palm. “You have most of the early stage symptoms.”

“What?” Fives asks nervously, completely oblivious to the contents of the box as he cranes to look from his position across the room. “What is it? What does she have?”

You let out a heavy sigh at Fives’ pestering questions and toss the small box to him with an exasperated shake of your head.

He examines the box and gives Kix a puzzled look. “This is a pregnancy test.”

“So, you can read,” Kix says sarcastically.

“How did that happen?!” Fives wonders in shock.

“If I have to explain it to you, then you probably shouldn't be having sex,” Kix answers bluntly.

You place your head in your hands in defeat and let out a small squeal of irritation. How in the world did you end up with this idiot for a husband? What was it that you saw in him that made him so appealing? At this point, he has as much appeal as a bantha’s backside, and that’s being generous. This changes everything. You can’t be pregnant, can you? Your life has been perfect up until now. You don’t need anything else to make you happy.

“I know how it happens,” Fives retorts with an eye roll. “I’m just surprised that it did happen.”

“Contraception isn’t one hundred percent effective,” Kix explains. “Abstinence is, but we both know you don’t have any of that.”

“Does it even matter?” you interrupt their annoying banter, about ready to smack them both. You’re not sure where all the agitation is suddenly coming from, but your fuse is wearing thin. You get up and walk over to Fives. “Give me that.” You swipe the box back from him and go to the nearest refresher to take the test.

“So, how did you know?” Fives asks after you leave the exam room and close the door behind you.

“Easy,” Kix answers with a shoulder shrug. “The hormone changes during the first trimester can be drastic, including morning sickness, food cravings, breast tenderness, irritability, heightened sense of smell, and in rare cases an aversion to the father.”

“She has at least four of those,” Fives notes while listening intently.

“The others will come eventually,” Kix explains further. As a medic, pregnancy is not what he is trained for, but he can never be too knowledgeable about these types of things, considering the amount of men he has to look after. One of them was bound to have a baby at some point in his medical career.

“Is she really not going to like me anymore?” Fives asks nervously, still thinking about the list of hormonal changes Kix mentioned.

“Eh,” Kix scratches his head, trying to be realistic and honest. “More like she’s going to hate your guts, if this morning’s events are any indication.”

“Hate?” Fives questions with concern. “How long is that going to last?”

“Could be just the first trimester,” Kix begins while thinking out loud. “Or the full 280 rotations.”

“280 rotations!” Fives exclaims. “What am I supposed to do during all that time?”

“I don’t know,” Kix says. “That’s your problem, not mine.”

“Can’t you give her something for it?” Fives frantically asks as he goes into panic mode.

“Yeah,” Kix says sarcastically. “Vitamins and prenatal supplements.”

“No, not that,” Fives corrects while waving his hands. “I mean for the hormonal changes.”

“You want me to give her something to change her pregnancy hormones to non-pregnancy hormones?” Kix clarifies with a raised eyebrow. “Fives, I know you can be clueless at times, but that’s gotta be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“But, how am I going to survive this?” Fives asks, desperate for guidance. “She can’t even stand the way I smell.”

“Again,” Kix repeats. “My only concern is mother and baby, not your identity crisis.”

“C’mon, Kix,” Fives pleads. “You gotta help me.”

“Get a therapist,” Kix advises bluntly.

Fives and Kix’s conversation comes to an abrupt stop when you swing open the door to the exam room. Fives sees you crying and isn’t sure if they are happy tears, sad tears, or angry tears, but he’s bracing for all the possibilities. You look at Fives, smile, and nod your head to let him know that the test is indeed positive. You are pregnant. You are going to be a mother and Fives is going to be a father. You feel an overwhelming sense of joy at the prospect and can’t stop smiling.

“Congratulations,” Kix says with an ear-to-ear grin. “You're going to be parents.”

Fives takes a deep breath as his heart beats rapidly in his chest. Him, a father? A parent? He doesn’t even know what a parent is, let alone how to be one. All at once, the issues of last night and this morning seem to melt away as he’s now flooded with anxious thoughts about what the rest of your lives will look like. Will he be a good father? How does one take care of a baby? He’s a soldier. He isn’t bred for this sort of thing. It’s not part of his genetic make-up.

Rex is good with kids, but him? He is the most awkward person alive when he gets around kids. Most of the other clone troopers seem to be naturals, always knowing what to say, what to do, and just fun to be around. He, on the other hand, makes children cry. Echo too. Maybe his batch got messed up during the cloning process. Maybe the rest of Domino Squad was terrible with kids and he just didn’t know it since his original batchmates have long since departed.

You cock your head at your husband's silence as his brain short circuits from the news. “Fives?” you prod to try and get a response. He hasn’t moved or said anything since you came back into the room, so you’re not sure what his thoughts are. What if he doesn’t want to be a father? What if he doesn’t want a baby? What if he doesn’t want you anymore? The destructive thoughts wash over you in waves as your anxiety increases while awaiting his response.

Kix, seeing the dazed look in Fives’ eyes and your nervous expression, picks up a tongue depressor off the counter and throws it at Fives’ face. It bounces off his cheek and he slowly looks up at the two of you. Finally realizing he is not alone with his thoughts, he snaps out of his swirling haze and sees your worried face. The affection and protectiveness he feels for you, his now pregnant wife, begins to overwhelm all his senses.

Fives shoots up from his seat, rushes over to you, and pulls you against his chest. He squeezes you tightly and presses adoring kisses against the top of your head. “We’re going to be parents,” he whispers against your hair, the corners of his mouth turning up into a smile.

“Yeah,” you mumble into his chest as fresh tears of joy roll down your cheeks. “We are.”

Kix watches the adorable display and sighs happily. It’s not every day a clone trooper makes a baby and he knows he’s going to have his hands full with your prenatal care. He chuckles to himself as he thinks about what the rest of the pregnancy is going to look like and if Fives will be able to survive it. However, something is nagging at the back of his mind and he can’t quite put his finger on it. But then his thoughts are interrupted by the sound of you retching. Oh, yeah.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize to Kix. You are mortified at what you just did. It was so involuntary that you didn’t have any time to find somewhere else to let it all out.

Kix shakes his head and sighs as he gets up from the medical stool. “Don’t worry. I’ll get an orderly to clean it up.”

“Can you get me something to wear while you’re at it?” Fives requests as he looks down at his vomit-covered clothes.

“Might as well get used to it now,” Kix waves dismissively as he leaves the room.

“Sorry,” you apologize again while looking up at him in embarrassment. “I forgot how bad you smell.”

“This is going to be a long 280 rotations,” Fives sighs while pulling off his soiled shirt.

“It might get better, right?” you encourage while trying to offer some optimism into the bleak situation.

“I hope so,” Fives agrees, but he has a sinking feeling it won’t be that easy.

Chapter 1

Masterlist

A03

Tag List: @nahoney22 @commander-sunshine @kixs-husband

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wayward-dreamer · 1 year ago

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Better Late Than Never

Square/s Filled: Snowed In @anyfandomfluffbingo | FREE @jacklesversebingo |

Pairing: Dean x F!Reader

Word count: 2,017

Summary: Dean and Y/N find themselves snowed in at Bobby's cabin. With a little whiskey and a cozy fire, it leaves Dean vulnerable to admit something to her he's been keeping to himself for some time.

Warnings: Minor angst, 99% fluff, brief mention of erotica.

A/N: I've had to forego tag lists as battling with dumblr isn't worth risking my mental health lol. So please go ahead and follow @wayward-dreamers-library and turn on notifications, if you want to read my stuff.

Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy this, because it's been a while since I've written a Dean one shot. Thanks to my besties and beta's @hintsofhoney and @makeadealwithdean for looking over this one! <3

Dean pushed the door open, the gust of chilly air causing it to hit the wall as he hurried inside, forcing it closed against the wind and shutting the cold out. He unwrapped the thick scarf from his neck, breathing heavily as the warmth from the fireplace in the living area thawed his frozen nose. He pulled the gloves off his hands and took off his leather jacket, hanging it up on the rack next to the door, before turning around, frowning at the quietness in the cabin.

“Y/N?”

Suddenly, he heard boots coming up the stairs from the basement, Y/N’s head appearing from the hatch followed by the rest of her, as she carried a big box in her hands.

“Hey,” she nodded at him as she set the box down on the dining table. “I hope you’re hungry for canned chicken soup because that’s all there was.”

“Well, as great as liquid salt in a can sounds,” he began with his signature sarcasm in place, “I got a few other things to eat, and something absolutely necessary to get through the next few days.”

He reached into one of the bags, pulling out two bottles of Bourbon, smirking as he placed them on the table. “We’re really livin’ it up here, huh?” he jested, chuckling.

“Oh yeah, it’s a real Four Seasons vibe,” she added, rolling her eyes as her laughter joined his.

“Called Bobby, told him we pulled in here and we’re gonna be staying until they clear the roads in the morning or the next,” he informed, taking out two glasses from the kitchen cabinets. “Said if we break anything, we owe him.”

“Sounds about right,” she muttered.

“So, looks like it’s just you and me,” he said, handing her a glass and cracking the seal on the bottle, pouring a generous amount into it. “Hope you don’t get sick of my face ‘cause there’s no tellin’ how long we’re gonna be here for.”

“As long as you don’t annoy me, I think we’re good,” she said, looking between her glass and him.

“Oh come on, where’s the fun in that?” he teased, smirking before he poured some bourbon for himself.

They clinked their glasses together before Y/N took a sip, turning away from him to avoid his gaze. Being in close proximity to Dean like this for God-only-knows-how-long was a dream scenario in her head. In reality, it was a nightmare. She had harbored feelings for him for longer than she cared to admit, and now being around him constantly until she finally got to leave was going to be incredibly difficult. She had to keep her bourbon intake low too; there was no telling what she would confess with too much of it in her system. She thought it was just a stupid crush she had from the first hunt they met on, something that would fade away soon enough. Then they kept meeting up, sometimes because a phone call from Sam would convince her to join them on a particular hunt, and other times by coincidence.

More cases led to more time around each other, until they became a pretty permanent part of each other’s lives. She’d even go as far as to say they were really good friends, which just made being in love with him even more complicated. Sam had been trying for a while now to get her to be part of their team, that it was better than her hunting alone, but she couldn’t do it.

Why torture herself with spending every single day in Dean’s presence when nothing was going to happen?

That was exactly what happened, however, when Sam got injured on a hunt and was resting up at Bobby’s. It had forced Dean to call her in on a vampire case, telling her he needed backup as the next was larger than he could take of on his own. The drive back to Bobby’s had been difficult, as the snow started falling harder, and they both knew they had to pull into his Montana cabin until the impending storm was over, as that was the closest place they could get to. It was five days and counting being alone with the man she had feelings for, and she wasn’t sure she’d survive it any longer.

“I’m gonna keep outta your hair until dinner, I promise,” he proclaimed, walking past her. “How does 7 sound?”

“Sounds great,” she replied, smiling. “Thanks.”

“All good, sweetheart,” he smirked, turning on his boot to face her again. “Plus, I know you need some time with that dirty book in your duffle bag you think I don’t know about-”

“Dean!” she yelled as her eyes widened, her reflexes kicking in quickly as she picked up a couch cushion and hurled it at him.

He threw his head back as he guffawed, stumbling to catch the cushion in his hand and tossing it back on the couch. He shook his head as he continued to chuckle to himself, walking into the bedroom he’d be using and shut the door. She glared at the wooden barrier, dropping down on the sofa and taking a big sip of the amber liquid in her glass. She really had no desire to read her book now that it had been discovered.

At least she still had plenty of other fantasies to keep her company once she retreated to her room for the night.

“Fucking… piece of–son of a bitch,” Dean muttered under his breath, battling with the ancient TV antenna.

Y/N pressed her lips together to keep from laughing, her eyes squinting as the glare coming off the screen as the static black and white crackled. “It’s no use, Dean.”

“This is literally the only thing to do here other than research. I’m fixing this thing,” he grumbled, glaring at the antenna.

“I saw a deck of cards in one of the drawers,” she stated, pointing towards the kitchen.

“Fine,” he lamented.

He finally gave up, turning off the TV with a scowl on his face. He retrieved the deck from the kitchen and sat across from Y/N, shuffling them quickly before dealing them out between them.

“Care to make it interesting?” he asked, grinning as he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“If you’re thinking strip poker, you better think again, Winchester,” she countered, an unamused expression on her face.

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “You’re no fun, Y/N.”

“I know,” she giggled.

They played a few rounds of regular poker, with Dean winning the first round and then losing the next two. He grumbled as he handed his money over, but Y/N promised that she’d save it to buy drinks the next time they were at a bar. He stood up and put another log on the fire, before grabbing the bottle of bourbon and pouring some more for himself. He picked up her glass, which caused her to bite her lip, nervously. She knew she really shouldn’t, in fear that she might admit something she couldn’t if she had anymore to drink than she already had.

“Uh, Dean… I think I’m good,” she said, covering the glass with her hand.

“It’s not like we’re leaving any time soon,” he stated, gesturing at the snow outside.

She sighed, handing over her glass. She knew he had a point. “You twisted my arm.”

He poured her some before he took his place on the couch again. They fell into a comfortable silence, her eyes focused on the flickering flames and crackling of the fire. Dean looked at her, a soft smile pulling at his lips as he noticed the peace on her features. She always looked beautiful, but when she was completely relaxed and had no worries that plagued her was when she looked the most stunning. He could never tell her that though; he didn’t know how she’d react. He had liked her from the moment he met her, but he wasn’t sure if she felt remotely the same. He didn’t really want to find out, fearing that she wouldn’t.

“I can feel your eyes on me,” she broke the silence, glancing over at him.

“Sorry,” he muttered, frowning at the fact that she caught him.

“It’s okay, Dean,” she reassured him, resting her head back against the couch as she kept her eyes on him. “Anything on your mind?”

He took a sip of bourbon, staring down into the glass. “Nope.”

“That was a long pause,” she observed, smirking. “Okay, spill. There’s clearly something.”

“I was taking a sip,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, but there was still a lot of silence,” she argued.

“Y/N, it’s-it’s really nothing-” he started but his words dissolved on his tongue as she shifted closer to him on the sofa.

“Is it about Sam?” she asked. She knew his little brother was always a source of worry for him.

“No,” he replied, taking a large gulp of the alcohol in the tumbler.

“Is it about Bobby?”

“What is this, twenty questions?” he responded, annoyed at the third degree.

“No,” she sighed, holding his gaze. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me. I shouldn’t push it.”

His eyes closed briefly as he let out a deep exhale, his lids fluttering open as he looked at her. “No, it’s not about Bobby.”

Their eyes never left each other as she thought his words over for a moment. “Is it about me?”

He knew he couldn’t ignore the question, or what he felt for her any longer. “Yes.”

She was taken aback by his answer, instantly fearing that she had done something wrong. She shifted closer to him, the scent of his aftershave tickling her nose, a couple of inches still between them.

“Dean, whatever it is… you can tell me,” she whispered, slowly curling her hand over his.

He could’ve explained himself through words, but he had never been good at expressing his feelings that way. Actions always spoke louder.

With their gazes still locked, her heart began to beat rapidly in her chest as his green orbs stared down at her, making her gulp at how close they were to each other. He slowly leaned in, and before she even realized it, a gasp escaped her just as his lips pressed against hers in a soft kiss. Her eyes fluttered closed as he squeezed her hand in his, allowing herself to move closer to him. She lifted her other hand, cupping his face and letting her thumb stroke over the chiseled line of his jaw, a low moan leaving her as his tongue slipped between her lips, deepening the embrace.

It was over just as quickly as it began, leaving her breathless when he pulled away, both of them staring at each other. Dean shook his head, hoping he hadn’t overstepped, that he hadn’t just ruined everything between them. A small smile, hopeful but weary, pulled at her lips.

“I wish you would’ve done that sooner,” she admitted, laughing.

He grinned. “Better late than never, I guess.”

She leaned into him, her hand resting over his heart covered by his red and black plaid shirt, her forehead pressed against his. She couldn’t really believe what had just happened, feeling like she’d wake up at any moment and it would’ve all been a dream. The longer she stayed in that embrace, in the peace and quiet of the cabin, the only sounds coming from the fireplace, she knew it was all real. It was finally real.

“We have until this storm is over to make up for lost time,” he said, peering into her eyes.

“Hey, better not just be during the storm,” she warned, lifting an eyebrow.

He chuckled, shaking his head as his lips hovered over hers. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I ain’t lettin’ you go any time soon.”

“Sounds good to me, Winchester.”

They spent the rest of the night curled up together in front of the fire, before moving things into the bedroom, finding a better way to keep warm during the snowstorm.

#anyfandomfluffbingo #jacklesversebingo23 #Dean x Female!Reader #Dean x Female!Reader One Shot #Dean x Female!Reader Fanfiction #Dean Winchester Fluff #Dean Winchester One Shot #Dean Winchester Fanfiction #Supernatural Fanfiction

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emilykaldwen · 8 months ago

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The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Seven

Rating: Explicit Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

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CHAPTER SEVEN - THE LOOK YOU GIVE

Abby and Helaena find their voices in different ways, and we have new arrivals at the Red Keep.

Abby pressed her hands against her bared collarbones, feeling the prickle of heat that crept down her cheeks and flushed across every bit of skin that was revealed by the square cut neckline of the new gown. Wylla Karstark’s ruby red pout was pulled into an amused smile while she tugged at the laces of the other girl’s bodice. The pale blue taffeta had a satin shine and was, by far, the loveliest thing she’d ever owned. The neckline and cuffs of her fitted sleeves were edged with the finest ivory lace. Her golden red curls hung freely down her back, with delicate, mother of pearl combs keeping her hair from her face and the light, ivory veil that covered her hair in place. She watched Wylla move in the reflection of the mirror, wishing her own hair could look as thick and lovely as the elder girl’s raven curls.

“You look lovely, my lady.” Wylla’s northern accent was a song in itself, her amusement nothing but lighthearted. “You might make him swallow his tongue, since he already can’t keep his eyes off you.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Aegon’s…” Abby bit her lip before Wylla tsked at her like a cat so she could dab some coral paint onto her mouth. Abby remained still and silent until she was done. “Aegon does, well, I mean I do catch him looking. But,” her brow furrowed and her hands fluttered and smoothed over the bodice of the dress. She missed her woven belt, and the feel of the tiny mends she’d made in the fabric.

“But what?” Wylla asked with a finely arched eyebrow and promptly reached up to pinch Abby’s cheeks until they went a deeper pink. She’d been here only a fortnight, having come south with her brother while he discussed some sort of trade agreements, and was promptly pulled into service by the queen. Better than a Hightower cousin, in Abby’s book. With Wylla, she didn’t feel spied on like Lady Penrose, nor belittled. In the short time they had known one another, Abby thought she might be making a friend.

‘Maybe', came the shy, giddy thought, 'she could be a sister.’ She loved Helaena, who had been her sister and companion, with all her heart, but Wylla had quickly filled the empty spot in Abby’s chest that she suspected her own sister, Corynna, should have filled.

It was a strange feeling to not have to take care of someone. While she was still struggling to get used to the idea of being waited on, she wouldn’t deny that there was something in her that ached to be cared for. Wylla’s no nonsense and relatively pleasant manner, and surprising sarcasm, was a delight and a surprise and she found herself hanging on her every word, looking to her for guidance in only these last few days.

“But what, my lady?” Came Wylla’s repeated question, and her cool fingers touched her chin, rubbing off a bit of stray lip paint with her thumb. Abby crinkled her nose and huffed.

“But I feel as though this is too much. That I shouldn’t be… that it’s unseemly to attract attention.”

“Och!” Her fingers flicked the tip of Abby’s nose. “What southern nonsense are you spouting now? You’re betrothed to a prince, are you not?” Abby nodded. “You want him to admire you, and no others, right?”

A heated sensation curled in her chest thinking about Aegon looking at other girls, and resolutely ignoring her. “Well, of course I want him to admire me. I want to please him.”

“And he should also please you, that’s what my mother always says. A woman takes her own pleasure in a marriage, just as much as the husband, and if you flush any redder, you’ll turn into one of those apples, I’m sure.”

Abby nodded again, pressing her hands once more to the expanse of collarbone on display. She felt so silly being self-conscious about her dress. It was nowhere near as revealing as some of the dresses the ladies of the court wore. Nowhere near as revealing as what some of the women she’d seen Aegon flirt with wearing. Collarbones and shoulders and the swells of their breasts teased in the candlelight; Aegon flush with wine and preening beneath the attention.

“Mayhaps I should tug the shoulders down some more?”

Wylla did little to disguise the indelicate snort she let out and Abby felt her hands tug along the tops of her sleeves. “Won’t work on this dress but maybe you should push your breasts up.”

“My what?” Abby squeaked, her hands now pressing against her perfectly concealed bust.

Wylla rolled her eyes, and shoved her hands down her own top to adjust her breasts. “Now you try.”

“I… Oh, just…” Muttering soft curses beneath her breath, she reached down into her tightly fitted bodice to push her breasts up so they swelled ever so softly, framed by the lace. “Do you think he’ll like this?”

“My dear girl, he won’t know what to do with himself. Lucky for me, I get to watch. Now come on.”

Abby’s fingers carefully clasped the thin, silver chain around her neck. The charm was the shield and rivers of her house, tiny against her decolletage. It was so delicate she was always afraid of snapping it, but it was the one bit of jewelry she had. So fretful over herself, Abby did not immediately notice Helaena falling in step beside her, dressed in pale pink and silvery blue, sleeves puffed at her shoulders and elbows. Abby noticed her breasts looked nice in the wide cut of the neckline, not as deep as her own.

“It’ll be better once you have the jewels on you,” Helaena said as if picking up Abby’s self-conscious thoughts, or maybe she simply understood the look. “I like it when Aemond looks at my breasts. Aegon likes breasts, he talks about them all the time. Aemond says Aegon talks about yours a lot.”

Wylla, half a step behind, positively cackled. “Oh, this is going to be glorious.”

Abby knew she was as red as her hair. “I-I can’t do this, I have to change.” Helaena grabbed her by the arm and jerked her back, her other hand coming up to straighten the necklace around Abby’s neck.

“No you don’t. You change nothing, do you understand? There is nothing lacking, and there is nothing wrong with you,” Helaena said softly, brushing a kiss at the corner of her mouth.

She opened her mouth and then shut it with a click of her teeth, nodding mutely and took a deep breath. “I’m not this nervous seeing him day to day,” she said softly.

“Nor when you pulled him behind the tapestry outside mother’s room to kiss him,” Helaena said knowingly, a smile playing across her face. “Or when Aemond found you pushing him up against the bookcase.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Abby could see Wylla’s face going red from how hard she was trying to keep her grin at bay. Failing, of course, but she appreciated the effort. She shifted on her feet and smoothed her fingers over the delicate satin bodice once more. “I don’t think that’s true. Tis I who…” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely into nothing. “It’s rather unbecoming. He never initiates anything. He’s exceedingly good about it.” Which continued to confuse her to no end because she’d seen the way he’d ogle serving maids and the other ladies, not to mention how he did, in fact, like kissing her. She’d seen him reach and pinch a lady’s hip while passing, that stupid and devastating smirk crossing his features. His hands would encompass her waist or cup her cheeks, but other than that, he surprisingly did not reach for her.

He also didn’t complain when she reached for him. Aegon didn’t resist when she was the one who dragged him into quiet spots, grinning at her giggles and returning her kisses.

“It’s Aegon. He’s a fool, and he drinks too much, and if you don’t think he’s as nervous about you as you are of him, then I don’t know what you’ve been paying attention to our whole lives.” Helaena’s tone was gentle, if firm, as if patiently explaining to a child that the sun rose at dawn and set at dusk. Her lavender eyes looked down the hall towards the grand staircase and then reached up to adjust one of the combs in Abby’s hair. Helaena’s own silver-gold hair was braided back from her face, a vine of pearls woven into it. Guilt stung her that she hadn’t been the one to do Helaena’s hair.

“So you’re saying he’s too nervous to, um…”

“Accost you?” Wylla supplied helpfully. “In a good way.”

Abby huffed. “Yes. Accost me the way I want to accost him. No, surely there’s a better word than that.”

A smirk crossed Helaena’s features, wicked and lovely across her pretty mouth. “You want him up your skirts the way you want to see beneath his breeches.”

“Helaena!” Abby gasped just as Wylla let out a bubbling screech of giggles, unable to contain them. Helaena joined in the mirth and Abby growled at them both. “I am not dignifying that with an answer.”

The Targaryen princess, a dragonrider in her own right, with a mount older than most, leaned in to brush her cheek against her own, mouth close to her ear. “I know you were thinking about Aegon when we practiced kisses,” Helaena murmured, mirth in her voice but even amidst all the teasing, Abby didn’t feel belittled. “And you’ve been putting it to good use.” She pulled back, and Abby breathed through the heated pool in her belly and all the squirming wriggling that came with it. “It’s Aegon,” Helaena repeated.

She nodded. “It’s Aegon.”

“He calls his horse Mighty Mighty, and if he could get away with it, he’d likely go sleep in the Dragonpit next to Sunfyre.”

Abby felt herself smiling at that, a soft hint of a giggle escaping her. “Mighty Kostōba, the mighty mighty horse.” None had the heart to correct him when he was young, but the eventual teasing still made him growl. Helaena pressed her hands to her shoulders, turning her back towards the stairs and pushing her forward, smacking her bottom for good measure and earning a yelp for the trouble. The princess grinned, tongue poking between her teeth and blushing, Abby returned it, heading through the growing throng of people moving through the corridor.

“You’re not used to this, are you, my lady?” Wylla murmured beside her.

“Abby, please,” she returned with the anxious thread still in her voice, picking up her skirt out of habit. Thankfully her skirts did not trail. She wouldn’t want to ruin the finery worrying about picking her way through the city.

“Mmm, we’re in public now,” Wylla said but bumped her shoulder against her and the warm fondness usually reserved for the clutch bloomed in her chest at the elder’s camaraderie. “How scandalous.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Abby giggled, inclining her head in greeting as they passed Lord Tyland on the stairs, who only spared a surprised look at her as he headed up. “You’re ridiculous and I love it, truly.” She felt the northerner keep close and Abby reached a hand behind her to take Wylla’s and give it a reassuring squeeze. The Keep was a lot, she knew, and she’d grown up there. She couldn’t imagine how much it was for a woman from the edge of the world and silently hoped that chaperoning them through the city would not be too much.

It was then her eyes fell upon Aegon, lounging at the foot of the stairs against the bannister, arm slung over the carving of the dragon that reclined along the the end, its forelegs and head resting at the pillar. His moonlit hair was a cloud of soft waves around his head, his pale skin pink and very scrubbed clean. The leather jerkin he wore was new: buttersoft black leather with shining, golden clasps in the shape of dragon heads, their gaping mouths swallowing the flame closures. The shirt beneath was red, of all things, instead of the green his mother forced him and Aemond into. As crimson as the Targaryen dragon embolized on the banners around them, the cuffs of the linen were tied with gold lacing that criss crossed their way up his sleeves, his arms crossed while he waited. The golden belt around his waist was carved to represent dragon scales, and a dagger in a matching scabbard hung from it, the pommel also a golden dragon. Even the leather trousers he wore, shoved into shining black boots, had the same gold lacing up the sides.

She bit her lip, admiring him while he hadn’t noticed her approach, until she saw that his gaze was towards a group of women laughing near the doors. The fluttering, heated squirming in her belly increased, and she made a sound in the back of her throat, aware of it only because of how it scratched.

“Did you just growl?” She barely heard Wylla mutter before she was making her way down the stairs.

“There you are!” Abby declared, a smile on her face, feeling the chain of her necklace slide against her collarbones, feeling the warm metal of her sigil charm fall into the slight space between her breasts. Her voice felt too loud, for she did her best to ignore the other gazes that turned in their direction, focused only on Aegon who craned his neck at the call before he jerked up from his languid position to turn fully towards her.

There was a deeply satisfied feeling that trickled down her spine at the way his head meant to turn before looking back again, his lilac eyes widening and turning fully toward her. She smiled far more genuinely this time, feeling the flutter start up again as she approached and took the hand he offered her. “You look very handsome,” she told him softly as he simply gaped at her, her own mouth dry. Her belly fluttered again, and she reached up with her free hand to hook her fingers in the gold necklace he wore, the sapphires winking in the light streaming through the windows. She used her hold on it to tug him down enough to brush a soft kiss against his cheek, leaving behind just a slight shine of the coral paint over the flush of pink that suffused his own cheeks.

She heard Aegon exhale a muttered curse that had her swallowing, his hand warm where it enveloped hers, and he turned his head as she pulled back so his nose could bump against hers. It surprised her, and she let out a soft chuckle that had a grin spreading slowly across his face. Sharp and playful, safe and edged in danger all the same.

His pupils had blown black, the lilac a vibrant ring.

Abby rocked back on her heels, smiling back at him and let go of his necklace.

“Good thing we’re taking the damned carriage,” he said, his thumb stroking against the palm of her hand while he guided her down the last few steps.

“Why is that?” she asked and Aegon tugged her closer so she could slip her hand into the crook of his arm. They were being watched - they were meant to be watched - and she wanted to hide her face against his arm, but instead she only tilted her head towards his as he inclined his own.

“Because I fear someone would try to pull you from the horse and spirit you away,” he said, a sidelong glance towards the guards. She squeezed his arm, her other hand coming up to press against his chest while they made their way out the main doors to the courtyard. The usual smell of the baking red stone had given way to something that was earthier and fresh - the storms the previous few days having washed away the dust and dirt that clung to the air.

The carriage was waiting, the pair of horses attached pawing at the ground, their bay coats freshly brushed and harnesses clinking with the shakes of their heads. The Cargylls were both mounted on their horses as their escorts for the outing, Ser Harrold beside them, his polished helm gleaming beneath his arm.

Kostōba, Aegon’s horse, nearly as precious to him as Sunfyre, stood patiently beside the carriage, reins held by one of the stablehands while the footman stood at the open carriage door. The stallion was a gift for Aegon’s eighth name day nearly a decade ago, and had grown larger than most of the other horses in the stable that didn’t belong to the Kingsguard. His coat was a creamy gold color, dappled in a way that made it seem like he had scales of his own. Kostōba’s eyes, bright and brilliantly blue, took in his surroundings, and he let out a soft sound when Aegon whistled to him.

Abby’s fingers tightened in Aegon’s arm when he started to pull away, confusion tripping at her words. “A-are you not, are we not riding together?” The previous warmth had given way to an icy discomfort, and she reached up to press a hand to her belly, her fingers scraping against the fabric with nervous tension.

“We’re going into the city, so I thought you’d feel more comfortable riding with Lady Karstark.” He avoided her gaze, looking at some other spot on her face. His eyes darted lower, along her low neckline. Heat prickled against her skin, but she was not as giddy for it now.

“You said we’d be riding in the carriage, Aegon.” She hated how unsure her voice sounded in her ears, and she dropped her hands from him and instead held her skirts. A deep breath, and a glance at Wylla to give her a slight, reassuring smile. “Is this because we’re not alone? Because of last time?”

Last time they’d come from the Dragonpit had resulted in them being caught upon arrival, Abby half dragged across his lap, her fingers in his hair and his hands bunched in her skirts. The Queen had subsequently forbidden them from riding Sunfyre together. Abby’s feet were to remain firmly on the ground until the wedding.

She’d been the one to initiate that as well.

Aegon shook his head, a sound escaping him, and he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Immediately, she felt her mouth water, wanting to bite on the tip of his finger, and she allowed him to tilt her head back. The jealousy that lingered hoped those ladies saw this; that he touched her so intimately and not them.

“I meant what I said about rather you being in the carriage than someone thinking that you’re ripe for the picking.” While it was endearing in its own protective way, it now rang hollow to Abby’s ears. They were burning beneath her curls and the soft, ivory veil that hung around her.

“We have the Kingsguard, Aegon, I don’t understand. For that reason, I shouldn’t leave the Keep at all.” Aegon pulled away, brushing a kiss against her forehead, and she longed for more. She longed for his lips in other places. “Aegon-” she made to follow him but Wylla caught her elbow and ushered her towards the footman.

“Get in, make yourself cozy, I’ll handle this.�� She said it so matter of factly that Abby could only stare at her. Wylla merely smiled back, bobbing a curtsy, and gathered her dove gray skirts in hand, marching over to Aegon.

Abby climbed in, but lingered in the doorway to watch in fascination as Wylla Karstark hissed something to Aegon, unafraid of whatever royal protocol should be followed. There was some gesturing, and she watched her lady point toward the carriage, angling her way into Aegon’s space, not to flirt, but very clearly to intimidate. Aegon seemed to hesitate, and then shoved the reins back in the stable boy’s hands, tenderly petting the stallion’s neck and murmuring to him, before he marched towards the carriage. Abby hurriedly drew back and took her place against the far corner from the door, smoothing her skirt.

“Better this than me getting Ser Harrold,” she heard Wylla mutter, half in the carriage to glare at Aegon who was behind. “I’m not afraid of some pampered southern boy, dragonriding prince or no.”

Wylla gave her a smile as she climbed in and Abby stared at her in confusion while Aegon followed, throwing himself into the seat across from her as the door latched shut.

“Kostōba not so mighty today?” she asked, her hurt feelings demanding she needle him, even as her usual cheerful mask slid over her features. Aegon barely spared her a glance, pouting like a child instead of a man grown.

The carriage jerked as they headed through the gate and down the road. Wylla had turned her attention to unlatching the lattice covering on the window to peer out, the illusion of privacy appreciated. Aegon’s neck was as red as his shirt. He was clearly refusing to look at her and it wasn’t the first time he’d done this. In fact, Aegon had jumped from any casual touch she gave for the past few months. It was why they hadn’t ridden on Sunfyre together until they’d gone flying on the picnic and he’d apologized to her. Where she’d kissed him. In the subsequent weeks, between kisses she’d stolen because it was her stealing all the kisses, and dragging Aegon behind blind corners, although he never complained.

“I meant it, you know. That you look handsome today.” While she didn’t mind silence, she didn’t like this silence. The type where it felt like there were teeth along the edges, chewing into it if they weren’t careful. “I don’t know why that seems to have offended you so much.” The words came out a little harsher than she meant, her arms wrapped around herself and her gaze turned away.

“It didn’t offend me. I just thought that you’d like some privacy.” There was a crack at the edge of Aegon’s voice and it drew her gaze to the prince. Her betrothed. The one who tasted like whatever sweets he’d stolen from her, and whose hands felt like they’d swallow her whole, so hot that she could feel them through the layers of her gowns.

Abby turned from the window to look at him and met his gaze. Not as black as it had been in the hall. His eyes always went dark when she kissed him, so she knew that it was supposed to be a good thing, and she couldn’t understand why he was acting like this. She had been agonizing for days about this. She had just been lamenting to Wylla and Helaena about this and thought ‘This is just silly, Aegon cares for me, look at how he watched me come down the stairs’ but his mercurial behavior was nearly as bad as his mother’s.

The comparison was on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she met his lilac gaze with her own, blue eyes fixed upon his face, and said, “One moment, your hands are in my hair, and you look at me like I’m some sort of salvation or that you want to devour me. The next moment, like just now, you couldn’t get away from me fast enough. Lady Wylla had to threaten you to get in here-”

“She did no such-”

“I absolutely did,” Wylla interrupted. “Oh, wait, I’m not supposed to be listening.”

Aegon’s mouth snapped shut, and Abby didn’t glance over at the other side of the carriage. She kept her eyes on his. “If you don’t want me, then we’ll turn the carriage around and tell your mother.” She smoothed her hands over her skirt and took a deep breath. She was worried that tears would threaten, but her eyes remained mercifully clear and she raised her eyebrows at him. Aegon was staring at her, the pout faded from his sullen expression to look wide eyed in surprise. “We can. You can stop this. It’ll fade away, only just a rumor. A dalliance. There is no shame in being a prince’s momentary plaything, since we haven’t… I kissed you first, after all. I have only ever kissed you first and I will not let you keep doing this to me-”

One second, Aegon was frozen in his seat staring at her, the next, his hands grabbed hers and yanked her to him. Abby fell into him with the rocking of the carriage, and before she could straighten herself, Aegon kissed her.

Aegon kissed her first.

One large hand wound around her back while the other cradled the back of her head, his fingers tangled in the hair that escaped her veil. His mouth wasn't as soft as it had been before, this time moving as if he would claim her here in this carriage. She gasped when he tightened his hold against her, and he used the opportunity to slide his tongue between her parted lips, to curl it behind her teeth. She swallowed his sigh, her fingers bunching up the soft, red linen of his shirtsleeves.

Wylla’s presence was forgotten. All that existed was the way Aegon was kissing her like he was starving, as if someone had tried to take her from him - like in a song, like she was the source of every breath he needed. When they finally parted, Aegon tilted his head back against the side of the carriage, watching her with half lidded eyes and his mouth smeared with coral lip paint.

He hummed and she could feel it vibrate through her and she found herself humming in return, still holding herself with her grip on his arms. “I’ll fight anyone who suggests you’re a mere dalliance,” he said with his voice heavy. Abby reached up to cup his chin and stroke her thumb along where the color had smeared, wiping it away.

“So you’ll fight yourself, Your Grace?” She couldn’t help but point out that kissing her senseless was well and good, but her heart still felt sore and confused by his treatment.

Aegon scoffed and drew her closer with his fingers still cradling her head. She felt warm, and soft, and the sound that escaped her was equally so - a little mewl and a question she didn’t have the words to voice but that he seemed to understand because he licked along her cupid’s bow, teasing her and nipping at the swollen pout of her lower lip. “This is why I am the way I am, hunītsos.”

“I don’t understand,” she murmured with a shake of her head. Aegon’s fingers tightened briefly and drew a soft gasp from her when his grip tugged at her scalp. She shivered and his eyes glanced down to her low neckline, his teeth scraping over his own lower lip like he wanted to bury her face between her breasts. The understanding of why Wylla was in the carriage with them nudged at her, because had they been alone, Abby didn’t think she would even deny him. In fact, she thought she might even invite him to do so.

“What don’t you understand?” he asked and his fingers slowly loosened from her hair and pet her curls back into place before drawing his fingers slowly down her jaw and along her hammering pulse in her throat. “Do you not understand how badly I crave you? Because I thought that I made it abundantly clear.”

She blushed and shook her head. His thumb stroked along the front of her throat and she stilled, the weight and warmth of his hand making her tremble, the ache in her breasts taking her aback. “Sometimes, maybe. I’ve felt very…” She tried to find the words amidst her shyness. “I’ve felt like I’ve been chasing you, that I desire you more than you do for me.”

The wicked smirk she adored cut across his plump mouth and he squeezed her throat gently, pulling a gasp from her. “Abrogail Strong, I desire and crave you to madness and if I let myself go, I fear that I won’t keep myself from devouring you whole.”

Helaena pretended not to notice that there was a smudge of what looked like strawberry jam on the corner of little Floris’ mouth. Instead, her eyes took in the way one of the girl’s black braids was a little looser than the other. It lacked symmetry in a way that made her fingers itch to fix it. The girl’s dark eyes were wide with excitement and she could hardly keep still - a grasshopper bouncing on her feet and trying as hard as she could to contain herself in their presence. It did little to stop her from darting her gaze around, little mouth parted in wonder. She supposed the Red Keep was a magnificent sight to one who’d never seen it up close like this, let alone on dragonback.

Helaena’s lavender eyes slid to the elder girl.

Cassandra, the eldest of Lord Borros’ daughters, was more sedate in her observations. She did not share the same bubbling excitement as her little sister, and the black traveling gown she wore underscored the radical differences between her and the butter yellow clad Floris. Despite outer appearances, there was a blatant curiosity in her gaze as she took in the bustle of the courtyard; the Baratheon caravan had arrived ahead of the ladies, and the last of the trunks had just been carried inside to their new lodgings. Now it was courtiers and guardsmen, and servants all.

She felt Cassandra’s eyes fall on her critically, not unlike other ladies at court. Helaena had grown used to their gazes and the fact she did not fit the mold of a princess. She was not vibrant the way stories of her elder sister painted her - The Realm’s Delight, laughing and shining and riding and dancing. Helaena was quiet, far preferring the solitude of the garden to being in crowds, but she made every effort to be nice, to be friendly, and while she’d never heard a whisper about some perceived cruelty, Helaena felt as if she couldn’t quite get it.

She could not mirror the way Cassandra Baratheon looked to her, a golden necklace made up of antlers around her regal throat - a look that even a good week in a carriage could not take away how utterly put together she appeared..

How much of a princess she looked.

‘Sharp and soothing,’ Helaena thought. ‘The mint winds and chokes like ivy. The children can’t breathe, it’s bursting from their mouths.’

She blinked, shifting, and her shoulder brushed against Aemond’s where he was a warm presence beside her. His mouth was pressed in his usual stern expression, but at her movement, he lifted a hand to touch between her shoulder blades.

It was moments like these where Helaena felt most grateful for Aemond. Not when he was railing about their future together, the one that he’d decided and she didn’t deny, or about his place in life. It was the softer moments, when it felt like before: before the loss of his eye, before Vhagar, when it felt like her brother was there beside her once more. Quiet in his companionship, unwavering in his support, near supernatural in his understanding of her.

This was the Aemond she missed. The Aemond she cared for, the Aemond who was so absent.

Emboldened by the moment, Helaena straightened, a smile soft on her face. She did not need a crown or a herald to announce her place.

“It is our pleasure to welcome you both to King’s Landing. I hope that your journey wasn’t too difficult,” Helaena said, pushing past the urge to scream nonsense and make scary faces at them both to send them running all the way back to Storm’s End.

“We saw a bear!” Floris exclaimed with bright excitement. “Didn’t we, Cass? It was huge! I thought the guards were going to kill it, but they managed to chase it -”

“What my sister means to say is that the journey had its moments, but thankfully was uneventful, your Graces,” Cassandra cut in, a hand placed on the younger’s shoulder and a smooth curtsy performed. Her voice wasn’t unkind, but perhaps the long journey had made Lady Cassandra less tolerable to her younger sister’s excitement.

“Hmmm,” Aemond said, and Helaena smiled. Floris’ gaze was darting back from Aemond’s face to Helaena’s hands and she felt her brother shift beside her uncomfortably. “If you’ll follow us, we’ll take you to her grace, Queen Alicent, to be greeted.” Floris’ eyes went wide and Aemond was already turning on his polished boot to lead the way.

Cassandra’s own eyes widened some, her hands spasming against her skirts before reaching for Floris’ hand, jerking her behind. “Come along and don’t gawk,” she hissed softly, and Floris whined in response, a grumbling, “Not so tight, Cassa.” Helaena pursed her lips and followed Aemond, leading the pair.

It was, amusingly enough, Cassandra who let out the first quiet gasp entering the entry hall to Maegor’s Holdfast. The ceiling rose up so high that it was obscured with shadow. It was the early afternoon and the place was bustling with courtiers and administrators, all giving Aemond wide berth as he cut a path like a shark through the water.

“Your rooms will be within the ladies apartments,” Aemond explained when they reached the second landing. He paused, gesturing to the right. “It’s where the unmarried attendants of our mother’s stay.” His voice was even and steady, ever the proper one, ever the confident speaker. Ever everything, that was Aemond. Yet it rankled her that he would take charge of this when it should be her.

‘He’s only trying to protect you’, Helaena thought and while he was good at that, while she was grateful for it, Mother did the same. Everyone did the same.

“However, since you shall be serving me,” Helaena said, raising her voice and plastering a smile on her face, remembering that smiles could be heard in voices, “And Lady Abrogail, you shall come to us in the mornings for duties once things are settled. No need to worry about that now.”

Floris nodded excitedly, but her sister looked on more sedately, her expression polite. “Is it possible to have our own rooms until you… have everything sorted?” She asked. “I hope you can appreciate that given our station and our familial connection, such things would be appropriate.”

Familial connection? Helaena thought. She did not look at Aemond, not needing him to think he had to step in for her.

“I appreciate your concerns, Lady Cassandra. If you are concerned about your sleeping arrangements, you may bring it up with our mother, the Queen.” Helaena smoothed her hands over the soft pink of her skirt and gestured for them to follow. “This way!” Her voice rang through the hall and she fell in step beside Aemond, head held high.

Wylla stepped on her heels again with a half-distracted ‘sorry’ that Abby waved off, again. King’s Landing was bursting with activity that threatened to rival the crowds that were sure to arrive in the next moon for Aegon’s nameday tournament. The festival was to go on for a fortnight at least, as apprentices across the guilds presented their masterpieces to be judged and reviewed. It meant that the stalls were filled to bursting and more had sprung up in every nook and cranny and side street of the city. From finely woven fabrics and dyes, to ropes and carefully crafted saddles, the market was bright and loud with the calls of commerce.

Aegon’s right hand gripped her left, fingers entwined, and kept her between him and the stalls rather than risk losing one another in the stream of traffic down the center lane. They paused in front of a smith, the heat of the forge not as uncomfortable in the heat of the city for the breeze that kicked through.

“Oh, he’s a handsome one,” Wylla murmured, and Abby followed her gaze to the handsome smith covered in sweat and black soot, his linen shirt soaked, his arms bulging with the effort of hammering. Abby giggled softly, humming in agreement. She glanced at Aegon, who was perusing over the line of daggers on display, and noticed his own gaze flicking towards the blacksmith with clear appreciation.

Abby hummed and leaned over to brush her mouth against his ear. “Do you think he’s prettier than me?” she whispered.

Aegon didn’t glance at her, he didn’t even pause in his dual inspection of the merchandise nor the man before him. His tongue darted out, pink and wet, to slide along his lower lip in thought as he reached for another dagger. “I think he’s taller than you, which has its own advantages, especially with those shoulders,” he told her softly, tapping the hilt of the dagger. “Open, I want to see if it fits you.” She held out her free hand - she still hadn’t let go of his and he had not let go of hers - and he pressed the dagger into her palm, instructing her to wrap her fingers around it. “Sometimes one needs a good handling.”

Abby’s gaze flicked up at him, Aegon’s lilac eyes fixed on adjusting her grip. “I don’t usually hold a dagger like this. Aemond did teach me properly. Also, are you implying that I couldn’t give you a good handling?”

“I don’t think you are big enough to pick me up over your shoulder and slam me down on something.” Aegon’s lilac gaze met hers from beneath the soft bits of silver hair hanging in his eyes and he pulled the dagger from her grasp and set it back down. Even as she blushed, Abby didn’t look away. She smiled prettily at him instead and was pleased when he grinned back. She liked this side of him. No, she adored this side of him. The way he flirted, and held onto her, and the way it felt as easy as breathing between them like it always had. Only now, her gaze was more obviously drawn to that infernal tongue of his that kept swiping along his lower lip.

He was doing it on purpose. She was sure of it.

“I feel like you’re challenging me, Your Grace. Must I also now throw myself in the training yard and hope that I grow as big and strong as my brother? I think you’ll be sorely disappointed.” Aegon snorted and picked up another dagger. This one had an ebony handle carved with grooves for the fingers to fit and a thick silver inlay that encircled it and along the guard. “I don’t need a dagger,” she protested when he had her hold it and frowned at the fit.

“You see,” he murmured, releasing his hold on her hand and having her properly adjust her grip. “I already know you can handle me, my Lady. I think you’re a natural at it, even small as you are. But if you’d like to be handled, be exposed to new ways of doing things…new techniques…” He trailed off and made an approving sound at how she was holding the weapon. Somehow it made her flush all the more. “I’m at your service to give you whatever demonstration you desire.”

He met her eyes then, mouth twitched in a slight grin, but she saw the nervous look in his gaze.

Abby pushed up on her toes to press a kiss on his smirking mouth and drew away before either of them had a chance to deepen it. “I’ve been told I’m a very astute learner, and I always like to learn new things, especially with demonstrations.” Flushed, she reached for Wylla who was still admiring the blacksmith and took her hand. “We’re going to look at the fabrics over here.”

She’d much rather they do that than make a scene in front of the attractive blacksmith.

“If you two wanted privacy, then we’ll find it. I’ll stand guard outside the carriage door. Or, he’s the prince, I’m sure he can just get a room somewhere.” Wylla’s look was innocent and compassionate when Abby looked over her shoulder to glare at her, cheeks flushed red. “You know, people like us don’t marry for love often, but if you have that with one another, there’s no shame in being so affectionate before marriage.” Wylla nudged her shoulder against hers while they plucked at the delicate spools of ribbons and carefully embroidered lace.

“Being accosted in front of the blacksmith is something I’d hardly call simple affection,” Abby said.

“Weren’t you only just complaining that he didn’t accost you?”

“I need to find another word for that, and yes, I know I was! That’s not what I mean.” Abby ran a length of silky, vibrant green ribbon through her fingers, and tried to find shades of red and blue to match. “I just mean there’s a difference between doing it in public! And…”

“And?” Wylla prompted, plucking up a spool of black linen thread in hand.

“And I simply get very flustered. That’s all.” She reached into her the small purse hanging off her arm to retrieve the delicate fabric samples the seamstress had brought the previous week. “I need embellishments to go with this.”

“Oh,” Wylla breathed and ran her fingers gently over the ivory satin. “Abby, these are lovely.”

“Do you think so?” She held the pieces up to the spools of lace. “I’m half tempted to simply make my own lace but that feels so extravagant and excessive.”

Wylla clucked her tongue. “Must I remind you again, Lady Strong, that you are marrying Aegon Targaryen, Prince of the Realm? You will become a princess on your wedding day. You should have extravagance and excess because if you don’t have it for that occasion, what occasion will you allow it?” Her voice was not quiet and Abby noticed the pair of girls managing the stall perk up from where they were attending to another lady and her daughter at the mention of marrying Aegon Targaryen. The other customers looked at her as well, and Abby smiled politely back and resumed her perusal of the lace embellishments. She let her veil fall forward enough to hide some of her face, uncomfortable with the attention now that Aegon was not distracting her, moving easily through the crowds as if he were born for it.

That’s because he was born for it, she reminded herself.

“These look a bit like dragon scales, don’t they?” Abby ran her thumb gently over the uniquely shaped scallops of soft lace, mind thinking of decorations and embellishments and appliques for the gown that they were making. So many Myrish knots to embroider. She knew there was more fabric on its way, and that the delicate and sought after Myrish lace would be beyond comparison but presented with what was before her, Abby’s mind turned in contemplation. “Excuse me, my lady.”

The woman did not appear much older than Wylla, with a shock of golden curls peeking out of her little white cap. She was the younger of the pair who were manning the booth, and she bobbed awkwardly behind the counter.

“I am no lady, milady,” she said, her accent a proud, Westerlands clip. “Neva, if you please. Is there anything that you like before you? This isn’t everything we have but-”

Abby smiled, raising a hand to slow the girl down. “Neva, is this all your work? It’s absolutely beautiful.”

She glowed as bright as her hair, nodding exuberantly. “It is, milady! I’ve been an apprentice for nigh on ten years. I’ve submitted my masterpiece for guild acceptance.”

She couldn’t help but keep smiling back at the excitement Neva shared and gestured for the threads that Wylla was picking up. “Well, I’ll take these, if you’d be so kind, as well as… well I don’t want to take the whole spool of this.” Abby pursed her lips.

In the pause, Neva continued. “I can also make custom pieces, should you need something particular, milady.” The girl blushed but pushed on. “I did hear you mentioning a wedding, but I wasn’t dropping eaves! So if there is something in particular you’re looking for.”

Abby hummed softly, fingers still holding the delicate spool of scalloped lace edging. “I would like that very much. If you have more samples, I want you to bring them to the castle a sennight from today. The seamstress is coming back to do a fitting and I would like to look at what we can make. Is that too soon?”

The blushing cheeks of the Westerland girl went pale before flushing even deeper and she looked as if she was about to burst like a Dornish fire flare right there in the street. “Milady, I don’t know what to say! Yes, yes I will certainly be there. Thank you…” She trailed off suddenly, eyes widening before dropping into a curtsy, followed by the other women behind the booth. Abby felt Aegon brush against her back as he leaned over her shoulder to pluck at the lace.

“Pretty,” he said. “Do you like them?”

She nodded. “I thought the-they would look nice for my wedding dress. Do you like them? I want you to like them.” Abby tilted her head to look at him, teeth catching at her lip while Aegon’s cheeks flushed lightly pink.

“Aye, I like them.” His voice was soft and he gestured to the lot, almost negligently. “And the ribbons? We’ll take it.” Aegon spared a look at the gaping Neva, plucking the bag of gold from Wylla’s hands and tossing it to the girl.

Abby blushed, glancing between the gaping girls and Aegon, who was already looking around. “Thank you, Neva,” she said, which seemed to pull the other girl from her shock and start plucking items. “I do hope this isn’t all of your hard work.”

“Oh, no, not at all, milady.” She was positively glowing. “Good fortune to be sure."

[Chapter Eight]

#fic: the maiden and the drowning boy #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen fic #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon targaryen #aegon x oc #aegon ii targaryen x oc #hotd #hotd fic #hotd fanfic #house strong #aegon x abby

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ay0nha · 9 months ago

Text

Misery Loves Company | N.K. (prologue)

SUMMARY: Fear rolled right off of you. Fear was like a pet to you: something you picked up to get a better look at but that you soon grew tired of.

PAIRING: Nanami Kento x f!reader (anti-hero of sorts)

WORD COUNT: 1.3K

WARNINGS: Introduction to story/reader/plot, underground fighting/Gachinko fight club, higher-ups after reader, Nanami being a softie deep down, description of fighting/related injury, jjk typical things, tad angsty, made up cursed objects, etc.

A/N: Overdue to post something Nanami-related...missing our man extra these days... thank you, @hatsunemitskislobotomy, for talking this out with me and helping <3!!! Let me know if you'd like to be tagged for future parts. Enjoy.

Nanami tags:

@chimamire-ga @eliuriastwo @betterthanuyou @satorulicious @moon-taffy @thefutureastronaut @planetahmane @musababy @kannra21 @khaleesihavilliard @vee-ai @killlerqween @nokkoongie @anti-heroism @nanamin94 @darkstudentsaladbakery

“How obedient.”

Nanami just barely caught your taunt over the vigor of the crowd. The very one that begged for appeasement. They chanted while he fought, asking and receiving the dynamic movements they so adamantly desired.

Nanami delivered.

Your smile was bloody, alive with genuine pride. He had impressed you, listening to the crowd’s pleas for bloodshed. Nanami’s blow was delivered with predictable instinct, a protective measure against your coy fighting style.

“Do you always do what you’re told?” You hummed, pulling at your neck to alleviate the sudden stiffness. “You must if you came looking for me.”

You raised your fists, ready for another spat. You circled each other, the makeshift ring only allowing so much space for a proper fight. However, it could never be that.

The shadows were deep from the light of the dingy parking lot. Smoke clouded the crowd's judgment, swaying the bets in favor of the suited man. You couldn’t blame them; fresh blood was always teeming with hopes of prosperity.

You welcomed Nanami at the entrance, feeling his cursed energy blocks away. The guards surveyed him, unimpressed by being met with unwavering poise. He didn’t belong, but they were far more afraid of your soft touch on their shoulders that dissolved their interrogation.

Boys, you had purred. They stiffened. Let him through; he’s my guest.

You hadn’t led Nanami in directly; you allowed his presence to simmer. It wasn’t often that someone of his status didn’t pose a threat to the venue. It took sarcasm and wit on your end to pull out the reason behind his visit.

They’ve sent me for you, Nanami told you.

It was sterile in tone but revealed emotions long since buried. From childhood, the higher-ups deemed you dangerous. They wanted to see the gods fall. Yet, that wasn’t convincing enough to kneel before them.

Instead, you’d decided to return Nanami with a threat written in bruises.

“What do they want?” You hissed, your weight an extension, following through your fist. With no cursed energy attached, your hit was still violent. You knew Nanami could handle it. “Afraid to come themselves?”

Fear rolled right off of you. Fear was like a pet to you: something you picked up to get a better look at but that you soon grew tired of.

Nanami’s breathing became labored. “I’ve told you—”

“Come up with something better.” You moved swiftly, another charge at him.

You put on a show that for non-sorcerers seemed only possible in fiction. Nanami could feel the way you held back, and even then, he struggled to stay upright for long. Sliding under his legs, you swept your own for another satisfying fall of Nanami.

The premeditated outcomes you fixed were boring, your mind elsewhere while your body danced. This, though, this was worth every risk. It wasn’t hard to drag Nanami into the squared circle. He was logical, knowing the odds wouldn’t be in his favor if he didn’t play along. It was the only chance he had to get you to heed the warning he came with.

“They want to kill you—

Nothing new, then?” Your words came out hoarse, following through with your kick.

“They’re mocking up the bounty as we speak,” He said. “They’re looking to be—” Pausing, he’d just narrowly missed a broken rib. “—your highest payer.”

“Honestly,” you smiled. “I’m flattered.” There was truth in jest. “Finally, they think I’m something worthwhile.”

“No—” Nanami was blunt, never one to embellish facts. It always made you flinch. “You’re their scapegoat.”

You swung.

Nanami dodged you just barely, able to gain traction in his next few movements. Even without his blunt sword, he was always skilled in combat. He saw steps ahead, measured every movement precisely, and delivered.

Everyone had their weak points, their fighting style a clear giveaway in how they contorted their bodies. Typically, the ribcage, the exposed spine, or the unstable stance marked it. Your fluidity made it hard to pinpoint.

“That observation have a point?” You adapted instinctually, with no formality in any decision, and always found success.

Nanami’s tie loosed, the buttons of his jacket ripped apart by awkward movements; you were unraveling him by the minute. However, his appearance deceived you more than you thought. You grew comfortable winning, relishing at the shouts of your name followed by rowdy applause.

This was your element, where you could dance rehearsed steps without paranoia. It felt safe. You felt in control, contrasting how life had cruelly treated you. The non-sorcerers couldn’t see this, only attracted to a woman holding her own against men twice her size. Yet, Nanami could see beyond that.

He saw how you moved without restraint and extended beyond innate skill. You had untapped talent that the higher-ups were afraid of. Your technique, cursed energy, and gaze shattered any notions they had of strength.

You knew there was more to you but ignored that always sinking feeling. That was distraction enough almost to misconstrue Nanami’s movements for surrender. Then again, your body knew better than to accept that.

Your cursed energy absorbed the strike Nanami had landed on you, but you still used its momentum to involve those around you. You reveled at how the crowd supported your fall, only to push you back in, defenseless—it was your best performance yet.

“They think you have the Soul Harvester.” Another button was lost under the pounding feet of the mob.

“Fuck off—” Your laughter caused Nanami to stumble against your grapple. There wasn’t much humor to it, but the sound was just as addicting as years before. “No one knows where that piece of shit is.”

It was a myth.

The legend differed every time; no one knew the source or had an accurate understanding. A thread remained the same, a warning to the one who possessed it—you have been weighed in the balance and found wanting.

Your ears buzzed as Nanami explained further. Frustration bloomed across your features. Your eyebrows pinched together only to cave inward the further you worked; a frown turned to a scowl; that usually indifferent gaze was pointedly violent.

You refused to be consumed by something dragged to your doorstep like dead fowl.

"You're devoted to these causes." You started with proper vexation. The push and pull no longer lulled like a game; your words came with a bark of anger. “Always sniffing around where you don’t belong—doing more harm—always.”

“You’re no saint.”

"At least I care about what happens to them” You were quick. You hadn’t even considered it an argument, as it was veracity. “Sorcerers like you always love to forget the mess you leave the rest of us with.”

Nanami used your temper, his elbow striking your solar plexus, making the crowd roar. The air was pulled from your lungs, your hand grasping at your chest as if it would help regain your breath.

7:3

Even the crowd was silent. You slid on your knees, absorbing the hit poorly. Your head hung between your shoulders as you tried your best to swallow the elicited tears.

The corners of this ring were under constant surveillance. Undoubtedly, if you didn’t finish this quickly, Nanami would be eaten alive by the sorcerers behind it all. The pain told you to allow it.

You frowned. “Ouch.”

The crowd booed when you stood, changing its allegiance. Copper filled your mouth, and your insides were begging for reprieve.

“Please understand I am not here to criticize you,” Nanami spoke lowly, hoping only you could hear his promise.

You shook off your discomfort, knowingly releasing whatever held you back. It was for his sake, you reminded yourself. In moments, you’d move faster, no longer pull back the weight of your punches. By then, If Nanami were still standing, you’d bless him with your domain.

“You’ve got my attention now, Kento…” From your lips to God's ear, you pulled him close. His tie was wrapped around your fist so tightly you could feel his Adam’s apple bob with fear. “...but answer me this: what is it you want with me?”

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lopsided-whiskey-grin · 2 years ago

Text

Flashbang

Ghost x Soap

Word count: 7.4k (i got on a roll and couldn’t help myself, much like the poor boys in this fic ;))

Summary: Ghost and Soap stumble upon one of the Las Almas Cartel's drug labs trying to escape from the Shadows. They get much more than they bargained for when a vial of a new powerful drug on the market breaks open at their feet. It's going to be one long fucking night.

Tags: sex pollen, mildly dubious consent, blow jobs, size kink, anal fingering, anal sex, choking, bottom Ghost, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, rimming, first time bottoming, frottage, praise kink, spooning, fluff, shameless smut, PWP, top switching, +18 only!

also on AO3

"Goddamn truck is losin' power," Ghost muttered.

Soap groaned and ran a hand roughly down his face. Three days worth of stubble rasped against his gloved palm. He looked over at Ghost. The dashboard was lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree and even with Ghost's foot pumping the gas pedal, the truck was barely lurching forward.

This was one of those times where everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. Murphy's law or some such bullshit. It felt like the day was never-ending and it appeared that they still had a long way to go.

They had not even made it out of Las Almas.

Soap glanced out the window to get his bearings. It was still dark as hell and pissing down rain and he had no idea what part of the city they were in. He hoped it was the outskirts, at least.

Doing his best to ignore the ache in his arm from the gsw he'd gotten courtesy of Graves' team, Soap readied his rifle. He knew they were going to have to bail and most likely fight their way through another wave of Shadows. Would this day ever end? Christ, he was so fucking tired.

The truck pitched forward and Ghost tried to gun it one more time, but the engine only sputtered. They rolled to a stop. "Bloody fuckin' hell," he growled, slamming his hands onto the steering wheel. "Looks like we're walking, Johnny. You ready?"

Soap sighed and squared his shoulders "Aye." He nodded to Ghost, hand holding steady on the door handle, awaiting L.t's orders.

"We need to get off this main road and look for another vehicle. We'll move interior to that building there," he jerked his chin toward a darkened mechanic's shop about 10 meters ahead of them, "and hope we can find something in the alley behind."

"Rog. I've got your six." Soap took a deep breath and opened the door.

The street was quiet as they exited the vehicle. Except for the sound of the pouring rain and occasional crack of thunder, it otherwise would have been a lovely fucking autumn evening. Soap rolled his eyes at his own sarcasm and fell in line behind Ghost. Please, let's just get the hell out of this in one piece.

Soap's eyes darted to every shadowed corner, hypervigilant. He had just barely gotten through the town alive when he was trying to find his way back to Ghost at the church not but ten minutes before; he hadn't had a chance to catch his breath or even dress the wound on his arm, which still stung like a motherfucker, thank you very much. And now here he was again, stuck back in the goddamn rain.

Ghost crept quietly ahead of him, lit dimly by the occasional streetlight, his cargos soaked and clinging to his firm arse. Soap had to admit, the view wasn't half bad from this vantage point. At least he had that going for him.

They finally came to the mechanic's shop and Ghost gave the signal to pull up and wait. Johnny did. He kept a look-out while Ghost jimmied the door. This side of the town was quiet, eerily so, and it made him uneasy as hell. C'mon, Ghost, crack on with it, mate.

In less than a minute, Ghost got the door open and they were inside. It was darker than the street outside and just as empty of people. Soap wasn't sure if that made him feel better or not.

Looking around, he realized that although it had looked like an auto shop on the outside, it was a front for something completely different. It was cluttered inside, but not with cars or tools. He's clicked his headlamp on.

"What's all this then?"

There were rows of tables with various bottles, tubes, bunsen burners, and scientific instruments. Along the back wall were hundreds of boxes, neatly stacked, ready to be shipped. There was a faint burnt chemical scent to the air mixing with the muted smell of old motor oil.

Ghost stepped along beside him, studying the tables. His hand rested on the butt of his holstered sidearm. "Must be one of the narcos' drug operations. Their laboratory."

He carefully picked up a small vial off the table and turned it in the light of his headlamp. Even with the mask covering his face, Soap could see the curiosity glinting in Ghost's eyes. It made his stomach flip, not unpleasantly, to be able to read his Lieutenant's expressions so clearly when many others had a hard time just getting a read on him. He felt like he knew Ghost better than most, but even then he wanted to get to know him on a deeper level. He wanted to know everything about him.

The liquid inside the vial was faintly pink and rolled and shimmered in an almost mesmerizing way as Ghost tipped the glass this way and that. "It's got a label on it," he murmured. "Flashbang."

Soap stepped closer, wanting to get a better look. "Some kind of heroin, maybe?" he asked.

Ghost shrugged and started setting it back down, but then pulled it back up, eyes narrowed like he was trying to remember.

"Wait. I've heard about this. In a classified brief I read last y—"

A loud crash at the back of the room cut him off and both men spun with weapons drawn. Soap's heart was in his throat as he aimed at the intruder.

It was a cat. Only a goddamn cat. After yowling at them, it leapt from a table of metal bowls and canisters then disappeared into a small hole beside the back door with an indignant hiss. Soap let out a shaky chuckle and turned back toward Ghost, but Ghost was not laughing.

"Shit," Ghost murmured.

Soap followed his line of sight to the floor. The vial that had been in Ghost’s hand was now on the ground, smashed open, its contents in a little puddle at their feet. A soft vapor coiled up between them and Soap instantly felt a little dizzy.

"Oh, this is not good, Johnny."

"What is it? Some kind of poison?" Soap took a step back, starting to panic a little from the concern Ghost was relaying. And that lightheaded feeling was only getting worse.

Ghost shook his head and hooked a finger in his collar, swallowing thickly. "No. A sex drug."

Soap huffed out a breath. "Is that all? What, like Ecstasy? Viagra?" You had to swallow those for it to get in your system, Soap knew that. So what the fuck was Ghost freaking out about then?

Ghost brought his head up, his gaze centering on Soap. There was no humor in his expression. Soap's stomach dropped. He was really starting to not feel well. "Fucking talk to me, Ghost. What are we dealing with here?"

Ghost squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. He made a bee-line across the room to a closed door that said oficina on it. Soap followed close behind, rattled and angry at Ghost for not answering him. His cheeks suddenly felt flushed and warm and he didn't know if it was from his exasperation or some reaction to the drug.

He watched as Ghost reared back and kicked the door in with a rough grunt. The door swung open violently, the knob clattering to the ground in a shower of wood splinters, and Soap realized with a shock that he was suddenly and inexplicably very aroused. What the bloody hell was going on?

Ghost stalked into the room but Soap only stood at the threshold, momentarily frozen. He was sporting a serious half-chub in his tactical pants and he couldn't decide if he should be embarrassed by it. He watched Ghost closely, feeling his pulse tick up to a rapid flutter.

The office was pretty small, with most of the room taken up by a cluttered desk on one end and a loveseat and coffee table on the opposite side. Ghost sat down on the couch with his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He sounded a little out of breath behind his mask and Soap's heart rate went higher. Ghost looked huge on that small sofa, looming, imposing, like he could fold Soap like fucking origami with no trouble at all.

Soap swallowed against a suddenly very parched throat and flicked the light switch on the wall next to him. A lamp on top of a filing cabinet clicked on, casting the room in a soft, almost romantic light. He took one step into the room. And then another.

Ghost had not taken his eyes off of him. He slowly lowered his hands so that his palms were clasping his knees. "S-soap. This drug..." He stopped, cleared his throat. "For lack of a better word… it makes people fuck."

Soap stopped and stood just on the other side of the coffee table from where Ghost sat. Molten heat pooled low in his belly and he adjusted his trousers. They were suddenly very tight. "What?" His brows shot nearly to his hairline. His brain felt a little too fuzzy, a little too light.

Ghost squeezed his gloved hands over his knees. "Inhaling even just a small drop induces… unyielding arousal. You can't help yourself and you can't stop." His deep voice shook over the last word. He dropped his gaze to his hands. "Johnny, we breathed in almost that whole vial."

The gravity of the situation came crashing down on Soap in a split second of clarity. He blinked and ran a hand through his hair. "Christ." If they did this, everything would change between them, even if it was something they had no control over. "How long do the effects last? Can we just wait it out?"

Ghost shrugged wearily. "There weren't many specifics in the brief. I don't know." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and Soap felt his judgment start to cloud again.

Soap shook his head to clear his thoughts. Unchecked arousal continued to simmer just under the surface, crackling like a slow burning fire in his veins. If he didn’t get his hands on Ghost, and soon, he felt like he’d literally die.

Silence hung between them for what seemed like seven agonizing hours but was really only seconds.

"So, we're really doing this then?" Soap finally asked. Please say yes. Please say fucking yes.

"If by 'doing' you mean each other, I guess so, yeah. Don't look like we have a choice here, Johnny." Ghost's gravelly voice saying his name rasped across his nerve endings, making him tremble.

Soap looked at him, met his eyes. He took a deep breath and let it out. "For what it's worth, I've been wanting to. For a while." He almost couldn’t believe he said the words out loud. But it was the truth, finally, for better or worse.

Ghost stared at him for a moment. Soap's heart was in his throat. Nervous anticipation thrummed through him like an ungrounded live wire. For all the times he'd stolen glances at L.t. or dreamt of touching him, he had never once let it show. He didn't know if it was pride, or fear, or something else entirely, but he had always been so careful to hide it — until now.

And now here it was, all laid bare. All it took was an accidental overdose of fucking Flashbang, his brain unhelpfully supplied.

Ghost's eyes were dark. He squeezed his knees again and finally said, "Me too."

The admission felt like a dam bursting loose, flooding Soap with a desire he had never known. He reached down, grabbed the coffee table before him and threw it to the side of the room. Ghost hardly had time to move at all before Soap was falling to his knees before him and spreading his Lieutenant's legs.

Ghost sucked in a sharp breath as Soap eagerly reached for his zipper. He leaned back on the couch, arms spread wide along the back of it, eyes heavy lidded and drilling into him. Soap wasted no time in tugging off his gloves, opening Ghost's cargos, and fishing out his erection. It was massive. With his hand wrapped around the base, Soap's fingers barely touched.

He looked up at Ghost in awe. "You've been hiding this thing all along? Sweet Jesus, how do you even walk around with this dick swinging between your legs?"

Ghost chuckled but put his hand on Soap's head and guided him forward. "Push on, Johnny. Enough chatter."

Soap licked his lips and sank forward. "Yes, sir."

This wasn't the first cock Soap had ever sucked, but it was one of the biggest. There was no challenge he'd ever backed down from, though. Holding the shaft steady, he drew the head into his mouth.

Ghost bucked at the contact, digging his fingers into Soap's hair. The sharp tug instantly drove Soap wild and he took the length of him (or as much as he could possibly fit) to the back of his throat in one go. The weight and taste of him on his tongue was pure fucking perfection -- a mixture of salt, and heat, and Ghost flooded his senses. He took a moment to savor then started bobbing his head up and down on Ghost’s cock, his lips feeling every delicious ridge and vein.

The groan Ghost let out above him was utterly unreal and sent a shock straight to Soap's stomach like a gut-punch. How long had he been waiting to hear exactly that? Too fucking long.

It quickly became a sort of game to him then, licking and sucking in all different ways, just to hear how many sounds he could pull from Ghost. He was intoxicated by it and his own cock jumped within the confines of his tactical pants in response. He'd see to that soon enough; for now his only mission was to make Ghost come.

With that one goal in mind Soap worked Ghost’s length with his hand in opposite time to the laving swipes of his tongue all along the underside of his shaft. He swallowed him down like he was a starving man being given the best meal of his life. And truly he was -- there was a hunger churning within him that made his insides ache.

It wasn’t long until Ghost was a panting, moaning mess above him. Soap slowly pulled off, then ran the tip of his tongue along the edge of Ghost's foreskin. A full body shudder wracked through him that reverberated all the way to Soap’s hand.

"Shit, Johnny, I'm gonna —"

That was the only warning Soap got before Ghost cursed roughly and painted his face with stripes of his release. Panting for breath, Soap looked up at him slowly with a grin and licked at a droplet clinging to his bottom lip. Ghost's chest was heaving and he looked like his brain was about to catch fire.

He gently stuffed his softening cock back into his cargos, but didn’t bother zipping up. "Your turn, MacTavish." His voice was hoarse and deep, rough from the noises Soap had just wrenched from him.

Soap quickly stood and undid his tactical vest. He tossed it aside then tugged his shirt over his head and used it to wipe his face clean. His boots and the rest of his clothes came off just as fast. Ghost's gaze raked over him with an undeniable greed that sent a shiver through his whole body and held his hand out for Soap, presumably to help him stand up from the couch. But Soap had another idea.

"I thought you said it was my turn?" he asked, finally giving attention to his neglected cock with a languid stroke.

"I do believe that's what I just said," Ghost replied, amused.

Soap smirked, giving himself another stroke. He felt so warm in this cool room and knew he was undoubtedly ruddy from his chest to his cheeks, thanks to his damnably fair Scottish skin. "Sit on the floor." His voice sounded thick and heavy to his own ears. He wasn't used to ordering anyone around like this, much less his own fucking Lieutenant, but the drug seemed to be bringing out a side of him he’d always kept shoved deep down.

Ghost complied, sliding down from the couch until his arse was seated on the ground. Soap stood before him, unabashedly naked and hard as a goddamn rock, with his feet on either side of Ghost's hips. He then pulled one foot up and set it on the couch to the side of Ghost's head and kept the other on the floor.

Heady arousal scorched through him as Ghost looked up at him then slowly pulled his mask up to uncover his mouth. He didn't go any further, but Soap didn't need him to. His plush, soft lips were all Soap needed at the moment and they were going to look downright sinful wrapped around his cock.

Ghost kept his eyes locked on Soap as he opened his mouth and let Soap sink right into him. He wasn't as well endowed as Ghost but he was just enough to make Ghost gag when he brushed the back of his throat.

"Fucking christ," Soap moaned. Hot, wet heat enveloped him completely, short circuiting his brain. The relief of the skin to skin contact was indescribable.

And then Ghost's hands, still gloved, came up to Soap's hips, encouraging him to start moving. Soap gulped in a breath and then move he did. He cupped the back of Ghost's head and rocked slowly at first, letting him get used to the feel of him in his mouth. But the pace was too slow for the urgency pounding through Soap's veins and he quickly kicked it up a notch. Ghost did not seem to mind at all -- welcoming it in fact, with muffled groans that vibrated right into Soap's core.

After a few thrusts, Soap pulled out, knowing he was getting close but not wanting this moment to end. He held his cock loosely in front of Ghost's mouth then ran just the tip across his lips. Ghost's eyes slipped closed.

From this angle he could see the glint of saliva and precome shining on Ghost's chin. It was one of the sexiest things he’d ever fucking seen. He couldn't hold back any longer. Feeding his cock back into the warmth of L.t's mouth, he began to snap his hips forward roughly. Ghost tightened his hold on Soap's hips, riding it out. Nothing else mattered in that moment, not the Shadows, not Graves, not even his duty to his country. Everything -- every fucking thing was reduced down to just Ghost and Soap and the incredible surge of pleasure arcing between them.

Soap continued pounding into Ghost's mouth, racing closer and closer to the precipice of his orgasm. He felt tight, coiled, ready to snap.

"Ghost." His name was a strangled plea.

Ghost's hand moved from Soap's hip to slide up between his legs. He cupped Soap's bollocks, rolling and tugging them with just the right amount of pressure and Soap was as good as fucking gone.

He came hard, shooting his load straight down Ghost's throat with a strangled shout. He could feel the constriction of Ghost swallowing around him and he spasmed once more. He felt blissfully sated and wondered if they had already worked each other through the drug's unrelenting grip, not knowing they were far from over.

Soap could stay upright no longer and sank down on shaky legs, straddling Ghost's still clothed body. He framed Ghost's partially masked face and dove in for a kiss. Ghost met his open mouth, hungry, searching. Soap could taste himself on Ghost's tongue and it nearly drove him out of his goddamn mind. He took and took and took until they were both breathless.

After a moment, Soap broke the kiss to press his lips and tongue and teeth to Ghost's exposed neck, making Ghost gasp. He could feel the rapid jump of Ghost's pulse just under the skin and felt it kick higher when he sucked a small bruise to the tender flesh below his ear.

Ghost tugged off his gloves finally and ran his hands all over Soap's back. "Johnny," he rasped, dipping lower to squeeze Soap's arse.

Soap couldn't help the surprised grunt that fell from his lips. He arched his back and squirmed down into Ghost's lap and felt the hard press of his cock. His own had barely had a chance to get soft and was already stiffening up again. His refractory period on this drug was nigh on non-existent. Bloody hell.

Ghost squeezed his arse again, hard enough to be just on the pleasurable side of pain. "I need to feel you inside me, Johnny," he growled. A cresting wave of desire plowed through Soap mercilessly at Ghost's words. It wasn't a mewling plea — it was a fucking order.

Soap scrambled up off Ghost's lap and hauled him up from the floor by his tactical vest. He slammed another kiss to Ghost's mouth. They worked together to undo his vest, untie his boots, pull off his trousers. It was all taking too long. The arousal screaming through his veins wouldn't let him take one more second undressing Ghost, and so, with his shirt and mask still on, Soap pulled him across the small room, cleared the desktop with one swipe of his arm, and bent Ghost over it.

Ghost was breathing hard, they both were. Soap's fingers trembled as he grabbed two handfuls of Ghost's ample cheeks. He shuddered beneath Soap's touch. Soap gave them a little squeeze and pulled them apart, ready to just dive right in. But then the fog clouding his brain briefly lifted. Lube. Christ, dinnae forget that at least, you dolt.

Hands abandoning Ghost's arse, Soap began frantically pulling desk drawers open. Ghost looked back over his shoulder.

"Soap, what the fuck'r you doing?"

"Lube," he said, still rummaging through drawers.

"Christ, Johnny, we don't need all that. You're fuckin' killing me here, mate," Ghost chuckled.

"We do need it. I dinnae want to hurt you, Ghost."

"I'm a big boy, Soap. I think I can take it." Ghost shook his head and chuckled again, but Soap could tell he was coming to the end of his patience. Soap was too. He needed, so fucking badly, to be buried in the perfect hole.

Finally, in the last drawer he opened, Soap saw a bottle of pure aloe gel. He held it up proudly. "Bingo."

Ghost glanced back to see what he had found. "Resourceful."

"You taught me well, L.t." Be smart with what you got -- Ghost’s words from earlier echoed in his mind and he smiled to himself. He wasted no time in cracking open the bottle, squeezing a generous glob of it onto Ghost's crack, and smearing it around.

Ghost jerked hard enough to shake the desk. "Christ," he swore under his breath.

Soap smiled devilishly and held him apart with one hand. He trailed his index finger over Ghost's entrance twice before sliding it in to the second knuckle. Ghost sunk his head down and slammed his fist onto the desk. He muttered something Soap couldn't make out.

Deciding he needed to put them both out of their collective misery, Soap quickly finished prepping Ghost by adding a second then third finger to scissor and stretch him open. Even for the short amount of time it took, it was agonizing. Though he couldn’t complain too much because even this, the feeling of Ghost's wet heat drawing at his fingers, was damn near enough to make him come again.

Ghost's thighs were shaking by the time Soap pulled his fingers free and lined up the head of his cock in their place. "You ready for this, then, Ghost?"

Ghost looked at him over his shoulder. "Johnny, I swear to fucking god if you don't get on with it, I will break your fucking legs."

"A simple yes would have been nice," Soap said with a grin, then pushed himself inside.

Both men moaned in tandem when Soap bottomed out. The sheer pleasure of it was staggering -- pure, feral connection. Soap squeezed his eyes shut and focused on breathing.

"Fuck,” he choked raggedly, pulling out halfway then slamming back in.

Ghost grunted, his hands scrambling for purchase on the desk, as Soap gripped his hips and began thrusting. He quickly set a punishing pace, pounding into him hard, chasing his body's unrelenting demand for completion. On one particularly brutal stroke, Ghost arched his back, pulling Soap in impossibly deeper and Soap swore he saw stars. They both gasped. Soap was not going to last long if they kept this up.

"G-ghost. Holy shit, you feel so fucking good," he stammered.

Ghost's answering growl echoed off the walls in the small room, ratcheting Soap's arousal even higher. Soap rubbed Ghost's hip soothingly then brought his hands once more Ghost's arse cheeks. He spread him open and looked down, needing, with everything inside him, to see the place where they were joined. Ghost was glistening and stretched tight around Soap's cock, pulling him in, accepting him easily into his body. Soap was utterly captivated.

"Shit, Johnny." Ghost's desperate voice snapped Soap back to attention. "I'm nearly there, but I need to see your face. I - I need to watch you come."

Soap moaned his eager agreement, knowing at the same time he wouldn't see Ghost's face because of the mask. Being denied that twisted something in his chest painfully, but he shoved it down. Swallowing hard, he said, "Aye. Yes. Please."

He gave Ghost one last thrust, then pulled out. The loss of contact left Soap bereft, so he quickly found a spot on the dirty rug on the floor and laid down. He stroked himself in the absence of Ghost and watched, fascinated, as Ghost pushed off the desk and stalked toward him. He knelt down beside Soap and hitched a knee over his middle to straddle him.

Without a word between them, Ghost grabbed Soap's cock by the base, then guided him back inside.

Soap grit his teeth and threw his head back. The feeling was incredibly wet and tight but lax and giving all at the same time. How did he get so fucking lucky to be able to experience this? With Ghost? He'd be eternally fucking grateful to whatever divine entity had decided to grace Soap with this experience. He’d cherish it forever.

Clamping his hands down onto Ghost's thighs, Soap looked up at him with a tangle of emotion tightening around his chest like a steel band. Ghost's mask was still scrunched up to expose his mouth and he had the bottom of his black t-shirt tugged up and clenched between bared teeth. His flexing stomach fascinated Soap and he couldn't resist running his hands along his warm skin. Ghost's eyes slipped closed and he began rocking his hips, his cock bobbing in time to the motion. He moved slowly at first, then rode Soap in earnest, bracing a heavy hand on Soap’s chest for leverage.

The weight of Ghost pressing him down, the squeeze of him surrounding him, the roughness of his movements abrading Soap’s back with rug burn, the thick scent of their coupling filling the air, all of it, every single last fucking detail was scorched into his brain. He tucked it all away, hoarded it deep inside, because if this was to be the last time, the only time this would happen between them, he needed to be able to replay it over and over and over.

Soap did his best to keep up, bucking into Ghost with a rhythm that was quickly devolving into an erratic spasm. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to focus on breathing, on feeling the moment. He didn’t want to come yet even though his body screamed and howled for it. But he honestly had no control over any of it and he had no choice. He was blazing a trail to his orgasm faster than he could possibly try to prepare himself for.

But before he could process another thought, there was suddenly a hand enveloping his throat. Soap's eyes flew open. Ghost was locked on, his gaze dark and hard as obsidian. He gave Soap’s throat a gentle squeeze, cutting off his blood flow just enough to fade his vision at the edges. “Look at me, Johnny.” His voice was deeper than Soap had ever heard it before. “Look at me when you come.”

Soap nodded and Ghost released his neck. He pulled in a deep breath through parted lips and dug his fingers into Ghost’s thighs where he had been holding on for dear life as Ghost rode him into oblivion. Then he watched in awe while Ghost sat back, pulled his shirt up over his head, tossed it aside, and finally, finally, slipped his mask off.

Soap’s next breath got strangled in this throat even though Ghost’s hand was no longer on his neck. His face was not what Soap was expecting but that was simply because he was far more handsome than Soap had ever envisioned. Quite the opposite indeed.

He reached a shaky hand up to Ghost's cheek, caressing his thumb across a deep scar there. Ghost nuzzled into the touch, continuing to grind down onto Soap's cock. Then he turned his head just enough to draw the tip of Soap's thumb into his mouth.

And with that, Soap was lost.

"Ghost," he choked. His climax blazed through him like an unchecked wildfire and he slammed up into Ghost one last time, emptying deep inside him.

But despite the frenzy of pure sensation knocking the literal breath from his lungs, Soap did not once take his eyes off Ghost.

Ghost rode him through it, chasing his own release, swirling his hips until Soap was bordering on overstimulation. It was too much — and far from enough. Soap shuddered and took Ghost's cock in hand and pumped until Ghost was shuddering too.

And then Ghost was coming, spurting across Soap's belly and chest. His hole constricted around Soap, still embedded inside him, and Soap moaned weakly. He was wrung out, blissed out, in the best fucking way possible. Surely, they had finally broken the drug's hold now.

Ghost slumped down with a hoarse sigh, covering Soap's whole body with the delicious weight of him, making a mess of the spend smeared between them. Soap fought to catch his breath. He brought his hands to Ghost's broad back, sliding his fingers along the perspiration there, feeling the delicate dips and valleys of the smattering of scars peppered across his skin like a road map of his life. Soap had scars of his own, of course, and had gained many of them on missions with Ghost by his side, but he wanted to know the story behind each and every one Ghost carried.

But he didn't even get a chance to form a question or even another thought before he was being rolled over onto his stomach. He was so numb from his post-orgasmic state he could hardly process what was happening.

"Up on your knees for me, Johnny." Ghost's voice drifted from behind him.

Without thinking, he complied to the command from his Lieutenant as best he could, but his arms were too shaky to support him, so he tucked his knees up under him with his arse in the air and his face resting on his forearms. And then the haze of pleasure and exhaustion lifted slightly.

"Ghost, wait." His voice was husky and frayed. Ghost stilled behind him immediately.

I don't think I can even get it up again he wanted to say, but he knew, just as soon as he thought it, that it was a lie. His cock was already starting to harden once more. Jesus fucking Christ, seriously?

But that wasn't his only concern at the moment.

"I haven't…" He swallowed, tried again. "No one's ever, uh…" How was he even embarrassed to say it after the unabashed intimacy they had been sharing? With his arse currently in the air like a bitch in heat, no less?

Ghost was quiet for a moment. "Johnny, are you trying to tell me this arsehole is untouched?" He asked breathlessly. It sent a shiver racing down Soap's spine.

He sighed. "Aye."

"Well, we'll just have to remedy that, now won't we?" Ghost's warm hand settled on his back. "Will you let me?"

Soap screwed his eyes shut and nodded.

"I want to hear you say it, Johnny." His hand rubbed from Soap's lower back down to cup an arse cheek. He gave it a little squeeze.

Soap's cock throbbed and he sucked in a sharp breath. "Aye, Ghost. Yes."

In the very next moment, Ghost was spreading him open and licking a hot, wet stripe from his bollocks to his hole. Soap could not stop himself from letting out the most pathetic whimper of his life.

He could feel Ghost smile against his skin. "Atta boy."

The praise first went to Soap's head then straight down to his cock. Well that's interesting. He filed that little bit of information about himself away for later use.

"Fuuuck," he moaned into his arms. He pushed his arse back at Ghost's face, quickly obsessed with the feeling of Ghost's mouth on him.

After laying a few nips and kitten licks to Soap's skin, teasing him to the point of madness, Ghost dove in earnestly. He probed his tongue against Soap's quivering hole, lapping at him over and over again.

Crying out at the sensation, Soap rocked his hips to feel more. His brain could hardly begin to comprehend that it was Ghost back there — fucking Ghost. Was this really happening? He wasn't unconscious in a ditch somewhere dreaming this, right?

Ghost murmured more praises against his skin and then started spearing his tongue inside, slamming Soap's focus back immediately.

"Relax, Johnny,” he heard him say. “Let me in.”

Soap's breath hitched painfully in his chest and he concentrated all his effort on loosening up. Taking inventory of his body, he realized how tightly wound he really was. He drew in a big gulp of air then let it out slowly, allowing his muscles to go slack.

"That's it, love," Ghost rasped against his sensitive skin. Warmth bloomed low in Soap's belly and he pushed back tentatively.

And with that, Ghost began licking deep inside. Soap quickly became a sloppy, shuddering mess under the relentless press of Ghost's mouth. His thighs were trembling and he was moaning uncontrollably by the time Ghost was able to spear his tongue almost all the way inside.

After plunging in a few more times he pulled back, giving Soap a moment to catch his breath. “Fuckin’ hell, Johnny. Judging from the noises you’re makin’ I’d just about bet you can come from my mouth alone.”

Soap’s heart knocked heavily in his chest. He was exhausted, tapped out, but there was still an unrelenting current of arousal roiling just under the surface, demanding it all. He was starting to worry that this was how he was finally going to cark it -- fucked to death by his own Leiutenant.

He shook his head. “I think I’ve run dry, L.t.,” he panted hoarsely.

Ghost kneaded his arse cheeks, keeping them spread open, and dipped just the tips of his thumbs into Soap’s spit-slick entrance. Soap quaked at the touch. “I believe you can, Johnny. For me.” His voice was a deep, liquid heat. Soap was struck momentarily speechless.

Ghost shifted behind him then dove back in and all Soap could do was groan against the onslaught. His cock was hard yet again, aching to be touched, aching for completion, aching more and more with each press of Ghost’s lips. Soap felt like he was about to fully lose his mind.

He was sweating and swearing and shaking and utterly falling apart under the continued ministrations of Ghost's tongue. He wanted to come, he needed to come, he'd die if he didn't fucking come, but he just didn't know if he had another one in him. This damned drug was pushing him harder and farther than he'd ever gone before in such a short amount of time.

"Ghost, please."

Ghost pulled his mouth from Soap's arse but only far enough to speak. "C'mon, love, I know you can do it." Soap could feel the hot rush of his breath against his already overheated skin.

He shook his head where it was buried against his forearms. "I can't, Ghost." He was on the brink of tears. He had nothing left to give.

“Yes, you can, Johnny,” Ghost coaxed. “I know you can.”

Soap bit back a sob. He was a soldier, his only job in this life was to follow orders, and all he wanted, the only thing he fucking wanted was to make Ghost happy. So, for Ghost, he would find a way -- for Ghost he would.

Blowing out a fractured huff, Soap squeezed his eyes shut so tightly he saw stars. He drug in one more deep breath… And then let go.

His orgasm hit him like a goddamn gut punch. He clenched up from the intensity of it, feeling like the wind was knocked clean out of him. And truly it was. He gasped air into his lungs, feeling like he had just finished running a marathon. His cock spasmed but produced only one weak spurt. Bloody fucking hell.

"Good boy, Johnny. I knew you could do it." Ghost patted Soap’s hip gently. The soft adoration in his voice made Soap's heart soar. He'd never felt more fulfilled than he did in that moment.

But he was also utterly knackered and could no longer hold himself up. He crashed to the floor in a graceless heap with Ghost following seconds behind, both men struggling for oxygen. Ghost pulled him in close, spooning against his back, skin to skin.

Soap melted into him, eyes slipping closed, on the very edge of sleep. But then he felt the hard column of Ghost's cock pressing on his lower back. He looked over his shoulder, meeting Ghost's dark gaze.

"Did you finish?" he asked.

"Not yet." Ghost rolled his hips forward.

Soap pulled his gaze away, huffing out an incredulous laugh. "I can't do it again, Ghost. I'm serious this time."

"You don't even have to do anything, love. Just lay still."

Soap was about to give another protest until he felt Ghost's thick member suddenly pushing between his arse cheeks. He was still a slippery mess from Ghost's mouth so he was able to slide into the crease easily.

"I — Oh," he moaned.

Ghost pressed heated kisses to his shoulder blade and the back of his neck. Gooseflesh prickled up his skin in the wake of Ghost’s mouth and he suppressed a shiver. “You have no idea how long I’ve dreamt of having you like this.” He rasped the words against the sensitive shell of Soap’s ear.

Soap shared the sentiment. He’d thought of little else since meeting Ghost. It was a shame to think that Flashbang was the only thing that finally made it happen, though Soap supposed they would have jumped each other’s bones eventually. Their stubbornness was the only thing that had stood in their way.

Ghost’s hand snaked up over Soap’s side, then slid slowly up his chest while he rocked his hips, pistoning his cock through the wet channel of his cheeks and thighs. Soap arched into it, tangling his feet with Ghost’s, entwining their fingers together, holding on so tightly. He knew that it would all be over soon. He knew that even though the drug had made it feel like the night would never end, it would peter out at some point; it was only a matter of time. And then they would go back to the way it was before. The joking and teasing and stolen heated glances were fun to an extent. But Soap felt gutted, realizing that they would soon wash up, get dressed, and get on with their mission, chalking tonight up to nothing more than a fluke. Soap himself knew he wouldn’t -- he knew in his heart that drug or no, he had wanted this more than fucking anything. He just wasn’t sure Ghost felt the same.

“How long?” Soap breathed, almost afraid to ask. His pulse thundered loudly, awaiting Ghost’s answer.

Ghost tightened his hand in Soap’s where it lay right over his pounding heart. He nuzzled his lips to Soap’s ear. “Since the moment I laid eyes on you, Johnny.” He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

A weight he didn’t know he’d been carrying lifted from Soap’s shoulders and he blinked back the sting of tears. He huffed out a watery chuckle and pushed back against Ghost’s next thrust forward. “Took ya long enough to finally say something, you great British bastard.”

Ghost grinned into the crook of Soap’s sweaty neck. He snapped his hips forward a little faster. “I never should have waited this long. I promise I’ll make it up to you, love.”

The very next second, Ghost came. He pushed one more time with a soft grunt, then pulsed his release, spurting the warmth of his spend between Soap’s closed thighs. It was nearly enough to make Soap climax again, nearly. He would have, if he had the strength to do it.

They lay quietly for a few moments after that, tightly intertwined, catching their breath, until the drug demanded satisfaction yet again. Soap was not sure how he did it, but he and Ghost both came again three more times (the last two being completely dry orgasms) before the gray light of early dawn began brightening the windows of the mechanic’s shop. Each time was more spectacular and more depleting than the last, until finally, fucking finally, the drug cleared their system.

Soap had hoped they would be able to rest after that unending night, because he had never been more drained in his entire life, but of course they were not quite so lucky. Having only just barely thrown their clothes, boots, and tactical gear back on, Ghost and Soap were forced to fight their way out the back exit when a group of Shadows burst into the shop, because why the fuck not.

They were somehow able to find a working vehicle in the alley to Soap’s utter surprise. At least there was that. After he jumped into the passenger seat and Ghost cranked the engine, they shared one heated, albeit exhausted, kiss, and peeled away from the encroaching enemy.

Soap gave his middle finger out the truck window to the shop as they sped down the alley amongst a hail of gunfire. Ghost laughed heartily beside him, pulling his mask back in place.

“Get me to the nearest bed fucking bed you can find, L.t,” he sighed, flopping back against his seat. He couldn’t remember a time in his life he had been so tired.

“You’re not sick of me yet?” Ghost asked, amused. One hand gripped the steering wheel while the other cupped his crotch suggestively.

Soap turned in his seat, shaking a threatening finger at him. “Ghost, I swear to fucking Christ, if you don’t keep that cock away from me for the next two days at least, I will break your fucking nose.” Soap was sore everywhere, from his scalp to his heels, and he was not joking.

“What, and risk ruining this handsome face?” Ghost rumbled, a cheeky grin clear in his voice. He turned the truck out of the alley and onto a side street.

“I’ll take my chances.” Soap crossed his arms like a petulant child and sank down into his seat. He was already feeling the heavy pull of sleep trying to claim him. Looking out his window, he watched the rising sun peek over the horizon. There was not a cloud in the sky -- a stark contrast to the ceaseless rainstorm yesterday.

“Well, what about after two days?” Ghost’s voice drifted over to him. The rough timber of it coiled warmly in Soap’s stomach.

He pulled his gaze away from the window and centered it on Ghost beside him. His heart fluttered when Ghost met his eyes for a moment before looking back to the road. “After two days, L.t., when I’ve had some time to recuperate, I’m all yours. As long as there’s no fucking Flashbang involved.”

Ghost chuckled deeply and gave Soap a little salute. “Copy that, MacTavish. Copy that.”

#ghostsoap #ghost x soap #soapghost #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #cod #mw2 #pwp #smut #call of duty

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pastshadows · 7 months ago

Text

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 13: Imprisonment

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 6.2K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

The guards aren’t gentle as they march you through the streets, soaked in the mid-morning sun. You were not even extended the courtesy of putting on shoes, and your feet are chilled by the stone-paved roads that have yet to amass any warmth from the sun as they are gouged by pebbles and glass squishing in revolting puddles of fluids you dare not give much thought. The guards push and prod with unyielding pointed tips of their gauntleted fingers, chewing your skin and causing pinprick points of blood to plume on your pale blue shirt.

Mr. Blackwell trails the procession, spitting lies and causing a stir. Waterdhavians whisper in hushed tones, snickering and gawking. Parents holler and cheer as their unruly children throw rocks with their trilling laughter as you progress through the crowds toward the Waterdeep County Jail, which lies just beyond the city walls. It’s a mercy when you reach the large, square-shaped complex.

You instinctively scan the building and surrounding area, counting guards and inventorying potential escape routes and exits. The corridors and halls are a maze as you’re ushered through them into a small, cramped cell. Rubbing the raw skin of your wrists, you realize you don’t occupy this cell alone. Dirty faces with sunken eyes barely reflecting the low light are huddled along the walls, peering at you through the murk. Some are sullen and morose, barely lifting their heads at your arrival, while other’s lips are twisted in repellent smirks.

The air is damp and chilled without the sun to warm it, and you shiver harshly, wrapping your arms around yourself to try and muzzle the nip that feels like it’s penetrating your bones. The Weave doesn’t heed your call when you reach for it, and there’s an uncomfortable hollow pang where your magic usually resides in a burning reservoir.

You limp to the back of the cell and eye a corner that might give you an advantage if one of these ruffians decides to try and see what you’re made of. This is not the first time you’ve been in prison, and just as in the animal kingdom, the weak are conquered.

“I wouldn’t sit there if I were you,” an amiable voice from your left warns. “Tempting as it is, that’s the… lavatory corner.”

“Thanks for the warning,” you mutter with a cringe, peering around to scout out a place to sit and think about how in the Hells to get yourself out of this mess.

“Here,” you hear shuffling, and the woman’s voice growls, telling off whoever was beside her. “You can sit with me.”

You squint to make out details in the dim illumination. The woman is as dirt-streaked as the rest of the prisoners. The Tiefling’s white hair is tied back, and her flaming orange eyes starkly contrast the drabness. She pats the floor beside her with a sincere and kind smile that gives her an appearance of harmlessness. Then again, all the best and worst scoundrels appear innocuous at first glance.

The options are limited, and she looks less malicious than the rest of the brutes huddled around you, so you sit with a feigned affable smile.

“I’m Hecat,” she holds out a deep purple hand. “A pleasure.”

“Nice to meet you, Hecat,” you shake her hand but do not offer your name in return.

You glare at your upturned palms, trying to claw at the Weave, but it doesn’t matter how deep you dig; you cannot even get the faintest of sparks or magic to emit. Having your magic suppressed like this feels akin to having a limb amputated, and you let your head rest on the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“A sorcerer?” Hecat chimes pleasantly while she throws and catches a small rock for amusement, “Right?”

“How do you know?” You hiss more harshly than you should, narrowing your eyes at the Tiefling.

“Oh! Easy now,” she chuckles and puts up her clawed hands innocently. Hecat points to your face. “Your scales. Draconic sorceress, right? Not many of your kind around. You blend in with those as much as I do with horns.”

“Oh,” your fingers idly dawdle over the glassy-smooth, iridescent scales engraved into your skin. “I’m sorry. I— I’m a little on edge.”

“Not a problem,” Hecat nods curtly with a toothy grin. “We are all a little on edge given the environment we find ourselves in. I’ve been in more pleasant sewer canals.”

“Me too,” you can’t help but let out a small laugh, remembering Astarion’s expression when you told him you had to go trudging around the sewers under the Lower City.

“Come now,” Astarion cringes with an exasperated huff, “Do you really expect me to go down there? In these boots?! With this hair and these nails?! You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“You don’t have to join us, Astarion. You are free to lounge around camp while we do all the hard work,” you giggle, rolling your eyes at his theatrics as he glowers at you with crossed arms. “I’m sure Karlach or Halsin won’t mind getting out for a bit.”

“Absolutely not! No, no. Nope! Don’t you dare think about asking me to stay behind.” Astarion clicks his tongue disapprovingly, jutting out a hip and cocking his head defiantly. “There is no way in all nine Hells I will let you go without me. I can’t trust those fools to protect you sufficiently. Where you go, I go, my love. Always. Even if that means I have to go gallivanting through the bloody sewers. Gods above. Well, come on then - lead on. Let’s get this over with.”

“I’m definitely going to splash you when we’re down there,” you laugh mirthfully, jogging away from him, trying to retreat quickly.

“That had better be a joke, Kamena!” He growls. In a couple of soundless, long steps, Astarion picks you up by your waist, crushing your back against his muscular chest, kisses your neck and grumbles low near your ear. “Don’t jest, darling. I bite.”

Astarion whined every minute you spent down there. He annoyed everyone except for you, of course. You could happily listen to that voice nonstop, even when it’s complaining, scoffing at your not-so-funny jokes, or calling you “idiot” or “pig-headed.” Gods. You wish you could hear his voice now. You swallow the urge to cry and scold yourself for being weak. This is not the place for another pathetic breakdown. Inhaling a deep breath, you contract and relax every muscle, from your shoulders to your toes, to centre yourself. You’re not a maiden that needs saving from the jaws of a dragon; you are the dragon, and you will pour oceans of fire and eat the shadows whole.

“Your magic will do you no good down here, I’m afraid. They have an anti-magic field wrapped around this place.”

“Lovely,” you sigh while inspecting your bloodied feet, trying to pick slivers of glass out of the soles.

“Did they drag you straight out of bed or something? Hecat queries.

“You could say that,” you mutter, cool and dry.

Gods. I should have stayed in bed this morning.

“Animals,” Hecat scoffs. She shuffles around and offers you her soiled coat. You glare at her with questions in your eyes. She shrugs nonchalantly, “You look cold. We can share while we’re stuck here.”

The days in prison drag by slowly. It’s hard to know how much time passes in places like this where the sun does not rise or fall, but you’ve been paying attention to the stone’s temperature to figure it out. During the day, the walls and floor are still cold but generally dry. During the night, the bricks are bitterly icy and damp. It’s the best you can do in your situation. Your best guess is that you’ve been here nearly a week. You’ve been watching the guards, their routines, counting how many are on duty at once.

The prison corridors and halls are always well-lit by several wall torches placed at specific increments to leave no corner or cell door obscured by shadow. Sneaking out of this place is unlikely to be feasible. Magic is also out of the question, and there’s no knowing how far the barrier extends. From what you can gather without looking too suspicious, there are always ten to fifteen guards on duty. Pairs of them walk in perfected circuits.

You’ve been taken from the cell a dozen times for interrogations that you’re not sure usually happen. The guards query you about attacking Mr. Blackwell and why you would do such a thing to such a nice man. Then, they move on to his son and ask you where Aldous is. When you don’t answer the guard’s questions, they try to beat the answers out of you.

You’re tired, battered and bruised from head to toe. The last time was particularly rough, and you’re sure that one or more of your ribs have been broken, as indicated by the large hematoma that now extends up your side and the need to take shallow breaths lest the pain make you nearly faint.

Despite the dire situation you find yourself in, you’ve become increasingly close to the Tiefling, Hecat, coming to rely on her much more than you want to. The first night, you accidentally fell into your trance. The other prisoners thought that might be an excellent time to see if you had anything valuable to offer them. Hecat had stepped in and scared them off. She was a formidable Fighter that much is clear to you. Now, you take watch while she sleeps, and she watches when you trance. She also assists you with your wounds in any way she can, which is admittedly not much, but she tries. You continue to share the grimy coat, although she tends to let you have it more often.

If Astarion were here, he would say it’s because you’re “grumpy when you’re cold.” You can practically hear his voice tutting you, and it makes you want to laugh and cry concurrently.

The other captives in your cell have started to dwindle, and the room isn’t so crowded now. You and Hecat have taken a corner to yourself, far away from the dreaded lavatory corner.

“How are those bones of yours today? Hecat asks when she sees you yawn upon waking, wince and strangle back a whine.

“Never better,” you smile, but your voice sounds breathy.

“When they come for you next time.” Hecat snarls with her fists balled at her sides, “I’m going to take them out.”

“Don’t bother,” you sigh, shaking your head. They didn’t seem to take any other prisoners, but you haven’t yet figured out why. You assume Mr. Blackwell has paid them off, “I wouldn’t doubt if they were being paid to torture me personally. It’s fine.”

“You must have pissed off someone with deep pockets.”

Neither of you speaks to the reason you’re in prison. For all you know, Hecat murdered her entire family, or perhaps even worse. But, right now, you need each other, and the alliance has turned out to be rather helpful.

“The guards deviated from their routine last night,” Hecat whispers low, leaning in by your tapered ear. “There was some commotion, but I couldn’t make it out, and they all left their posts.”

This commotion she speaks of, you pray, is not Astarion. Hopefully, Gale has been able to talk some sense into that marvellously beautiful bastard. You’re relieved he hasn’t come in here, blade swinging. It would just cause a further scene that there is likely no coming back from. You believe, on some level, Astarion knows this. You can and will get yourself out of here. It’s just going to take a little time.

But Good Gods, you miss him. His voice, his fragrance, the way he feels like home, safety and happiness. You miss his lips on yours, his hands on your body, and his cock stretching you.

Not the time for these thoughts. Hells, Kamena. Get a hold of yourself.

“Would it have given us a chance?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Hecat shakes her head, “They were all summoned to the gate for something, and if what you’ve said is correct, that gate is the only way in and out of this godsforsaken place.”

Truthfully, you don’t know if that’s even the way out. At most, you know it’s the way out of this wing or sector, but what lies beyond the door is a mystery.

“We just have to bide our time.” You smile half-heartedly at the memory, “A smart friend once told me that “with patience, anything can be done.”

“Sounds like a smart friend indeed,” Hecat winks. There must have been a little too much fondness in your voice when you said that. Damn. “Patience has never been a virtue of mine.”

“Nor mine,” you laugh, but it’s low and almost sullen. You want out of this place before you get taken for another talking to. “But I don’t think we have much choice in the matter right now.”

“Will this friend of yours be coming to perform a heroic rescue anytime soon?” The Tiefling teases with a toothy grin. She’s obviously caught on to the fact that this friend of yours is a little more than a friend. You’re going to have to be more careful, “Throwing rocks is getting very boring.”

“I am hopeful he’s smarter than to come barging into a place he doesn’t know, but there’s still time for him to do something stupid, so who’s to say?"

Hecat laughs, “So, is this friend smart or stupid?”

“I’d wager a little bit of both,” you sigh. Missing Astarion hurts in a way that’s hard to describe. You’re undecided if talking about him is making it harder or easier, “He’s the most cunning man I know, but he can be reckless and a little murder happy.”

“Oh. Murder happy? I like him already,” Hecat says, and although it’s silly, your jealousy flares wildly. It takes considerable effort to remain poised, “What if those brutes come again and take you?"

You’re not sure if her concern is really for your safety or because she thinks you’re the best chance she has of escaping this place.

I assume it’s the latter.

“Don’t worry about it. Really.” You assure her, hiding your fear behind confidence. The beatings have only been progressively getting worse. You’re not sure how much more your body can take.

You are, of course, a little worried that if you do take Hecat with you when you escape, you’re releasing a murderer back into the city, but you’re going to need her fighting skills to get through the guards. You suppose if she is some heinous criminal, you can deal with her after. Astarion would likely be happy to have someone to murder.

Hecat puts a hand on your shoulder to get your attention, “Should we go over the plan some more?”

“Sure,” you nod and start reviewing all your possible escape routes and options.

Currently, you both think the best course of action is to rush the guards when they try to come and drag you away, but that will need to be done at night when fewer guards are on duty. Unfortunately, the guards do not appear for you at night often. There’s a concerning abundance of details that remain unknown. Like the prison layout, for example. You’ve only been in this corridor and one other where the small room of your torment exists. You don’t remember much of what you saw on the way in. There were too many twists and turns, and they made you walk briskly so you couldn’t get a good look at them. Hecat mentioned her arrival was much the same.

You’ve only seen the outside of this place once when you were being brought in. You remember very high stone walls, guard towers and gates. None of these would be any trouble if you had your magic, but you don’t, and you can’t imagine they would stop the anti-magic barrier until you’re at least outside of the complex, which means you will need to figure out how to get over the fucking walls or through the gates while being chased by guards.

No wonder Astarion always says that murder is efficient.

“Not exactly much of a plan,” Hecat snorts, but she already knew this.

“I never was much of a planner,” you shrug and comb your fingers through your increasingly filthy hair, trying to brush the knots and snag out, but to no avail. “Chaos was always more my thing.”

“I like you,” Hecat laughs. “I’ll take the first watch tonight. Get some rest.”

Your cottage amid a heavily forested area is hidden away on the outskirts of Rivington, close enough to the city to enjoy the comforts, shops and taverns and easy access to the forest so Astarion can hunt freely. You’d offered to be his primary food source, and he’d giggled at your enthusiasm to be a vampire’s juice box.

The wildflowers grow in patches, filling the air with a honey-sweet aroma. The tall trees filter the dappled sunlight as they sway slightly in the afternoon breeze. You tap on the door before opening it a crack to warn Astarion to get away from it if he happens to be nearby upon your return home. You only open the door a crack, enough to fit your body through, close and lock it promptly.

“Darling,” Astarion chuckles as he strides toward you with a bemused grin. It doesn’t matter how long you live with this man. You’re always awe-struck by his beauty, especially when he’s smiling at you like he is now - broad, happy, and unashamed to show his fangs. “You know you don’t have to knock when you get home. How many times must I tell you? I can hear your trampling approach long before you arrive.”

“I’m aware. You keep chastising me,” you roll your eyes with a snort. “What if you were tranced or otherwise occupied? Maybe I am extra quiet one day, and you don’t hear me? It’s just safer this way. It hardly takes any effort to knock on the damn door.”

“You, my sweet, fiery love, could never hope to be quiet enough to be successful in such an endeavour,” he taunts with a hand on his hip and boyishly handsome lop-sided grin. “You do realize that even if the sun touches me, I will be fine. It’s not an immediate death sentence. You have seen it for yourself.”

You cringe at the memory of the docks as it warps your heart, making your chest burn with a mixture of rage and despair. You still have nightmares of watching Astarion’s hopeful expression contort into one of mourning as his milk-white skin starts to smoke and turn matte grey. It was just not fucking fair, life rarely is, but this was an injustice that you’re having a hard time reconciling with. Astarion had accepted it with little fuss, but to you, it was unacceptable. You curse every single God in your head for their abandonment of the hero before you.

"I know,” you mutter. Your body suddenly feels heavy, laden under the weight of memories of watching the sunrise together, basking in the sun with him in meadows and fields, the way he was so captivated by colour, and you slam your palms onto the table to stabilize yourself. “I will find a way for you to walk in the sun again, Astarion.”

Astarion’s demeanour changes instantly. He knows this is a sore subject for you, even more so than himself.

“Kamena.” The timbre of his voice lowers into an auditory caramel, soothing, buttery and rich, “It doesn’t bother me any longer. I missed it briefly, but the shadows are part of me. I am at home in them. You are all the light I need in my life. You are my sun, Solicallor.”

The guilt makes tears start to prick your eyes. Astarion should not have to be comforting you over this; you should be comforting him. Your stomach sinks nauseatingly like an anchor has been tied to it and cast into a bottomless ocean. The feeling is so physical that your head spins and throbs.

“I will find a way,” you say, quieter than a whisper through a clenched jaw, but your voice sounds distant even to yourself.

“Sweetheart?” You totter on your feet, and Astarion wraps a solid arm around you. He places his hand, which feels colder than usual, against your forehead and cheeks, “You’re hot.”

“Why, thank you,” you try to giggle through this rather odd stupor you find yourself in and sag into him, allowing him to hold your body weight up.

“Not exactly what I meant.” His warm voice is steeped in cottony concern with a hint of alarm, “You’re a vision, but I mean, your skin feels hot - too hot. I think you have a fever.”

“Oh,” Astarion guides you to a chair to sit on, helping you into it. “I suppose that makes sense. I’m not feeling great.”

“You’re sick?” The tenor of his voice increases into a high treble, showcasing his worry.

“Maybe,” Astarion’s eyes are streaking around the room. No doubt, for some potion, scroll or other supplies that could help. He looks terrified, and you guide his eyes to you. “It’s okay, Astarion. Mortals get sick sometimes. It will pass. It’s nothing to be troubled over.”

“But I—“ he swallows thickly, making his Adam’s apple bob, “I do not know what to do. I haven’t had to worry about being sick in two centuries, and I hardly have practice taking care of someone ill. Tell me what to do. Please. Tell me how I can help you.”

“You don’t have to take care of me.” You walk his bouncing eyes back to you. You would find this a little humorous if Astarion weren’t so clearly distressed. He must understand that not every sickness is terminal, right? In another situation, you might taunt him playfully, but you decide reassurance is the best route. “Everything is okay, my love.”

Astarion places his hands on your forehead, which starts to sheen with sweat and then to your neck and chest. He looks utterly disorientated and afraid, believing a fever might kill you.

“I’ll help you get undressed and into bed,” he finally instructs, but his voice shakes.

Astarion’s fingers have less finesse than usual as he undoes the claps and ties, keeping your robe on, and removes it. Scooping you into his arms, he takes you to the bedroom and gently places you on the bed. Astarion busies himself with removing your underclothes until your bare, even while you protest that you’re okay. He glowers at you, and you’re sure he’s going to call you an idiot, but he keeps his mouth closed, deciding he probably called you an idiot enough with his eyes.

He has.

He pulls his shirt over his head, folds it neatly just as he did for your clothing, and starts unlacing the ties of his breeches. Astarion catches you staring and winks with a roguishly handsome grin, and you think this, right here with him, is bliss. Fever be damned.

“What are you doing, Astarion?” You chuckle but watch in rapture, taking in how magnificent he is; all toned muscle, perfect skin, perfect hair you long to tangle your fingers into and those damn breathtaking red eyes, “I mean... I wouldn’t say no.”

You would, in fact, scream a resounding “yes,” or probably several.

“Bloody Hells. Get your head out of the gutter,” he teases, head falling back and laughing, deep and gravelly. “You have a fever, and I am deathly cold. I don’t know much about mortal sickness, but I’m pretty sure we need to try to break your fever, yes? What better way than to curl up with your cold, vampiric lover.”

“I will take any chance I can get to cuddle naked with my vampiric lover,” you giggle, patting the bed with a theatrical pout, “What are you waiting for? Get in bed, Aerasumé. Come cool me down. I am ever so warm.”

“Always so eager.” Astarion chuckles, climbing into bed and pressing your back to his chest, making sure to get every contour of his body to align with yours. He places a gentle kiss on the back of your neck. “If you’re not feeling better come nightfall, I will fetch Jaheira. She’s still in the city being an absolutely fantastic mother, I assume?”

“Yes, she’s still in the city. She’s helping with rebuilding efforts. I spoke to her the other day, but you don’t need to trouble her.” You shiver against him, and he rubs your arm with his nose in your hair, gripping you tighter to him. “This will pass.”

“I could steal some Potions of Healing or whatever else you need.” His words come a little too quickly, not in his usual balmy, drawling baritone. “Tell me what you need, and I will get it, or I will be fetching the Druid come nightfall. I will drag that wizened elder here if I must.”

“I only need you.” You roll over to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your forehead on his. Astarion hugs you tight as if he’s afraid you might drift away. “Tell me why you’re so scared, Astarion. Surely, you’ve seen sick people before. It’s normal.”

“Of course, I have seen the infirm before,” he says, hands roaming your body in gentle, soothing caresses. You know Astarion is trying to use himself as a vampiric thermometer, but his touch always feels good - so you won’t complain. “The difference is I have never cared about anyone before. Whether they lived or died was of no consequence to me. You are the first person I truly care for. I love you. I can’t lose you. I could not bear it.”

“I love you too. You will not lose me to a fever. You’re stuck with me for hundreds of centuries yet.” He smiles widely at that and kisses you intimately, slow and savouring, with his fingers combed into your hair, massaging your scalp. You suppose one of the perks of having a vampire for a partner is you can’t exactly get him ill.

“Stuck with you for hundreds of centuries, am I?” He pulls you in so that your head is resting on his shoulder and his on yours, “I think I can live with that.”

“You think?” You purse your lips, jutting out your chin in a way that mimics how he does it. It takes a monumental amount of effort to keep your giggling suppressed. “I’m offended.”

Astarion knows you too well and simply chuckles at your display, “You know an eternity with you still wouldn’t be enough, silly thing. Now. If you’re quite done being dramatic, what would you like to do with our day lazing around in the boudoir?”

“Will you read to me?”

“Of course, love,” Astarion points at a pile of books beside the bed. He chooses which book to read on any given day depending on his mood, so he’s always in the middle of several at once, "What would you like me to read today?”

“You pick.” You giggle, making sure it’s the sweetest, chiming giggle he’s ever heard. “But will you do the voices?”

“I don’t know,” he glowers at you playfully while you wrap yourself around him, slinging a leg over him. You’re sure he’s softer than any silk you could ever import, “It’s terribly unbecoming of a hero.”

“Please, Astarion.” You pout, batt your lashes, and give him your best puppy-dog eyes. “I am sick.”

“Ugh,” he rolls his eyes, trying to look irritated, but it fails as the corners of his perfect lips twitch up, “You’re too fucking adorable. It’s inconceivably irritating. Fine, but only because you are not feeling well! If you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll fucking kill you.”

“What fun!” you snicker.

“Get up, dragon girl!” Hecat is furiously shaking you from your trance.

It takes you a minute to become fully aware of the clash of steel swords vibrating like a swarm of angry bees bounding off the cold stone walls. Metal boots thud, sprinting down the corridors with the angry wails and roars of battle.

“What in the Hells is going on?” You ask, looking to Hecat for answers. Your heart is pounding in your chest, requesting more breath than you can give it without feeling the shooting agony of your fractured ribs.

“I don’t know,” Hecat shrugs. “I tried to get a look, but the bloody cells are designed so you can’t see much of anything going on beyond a couple of feet.”

Please. Please. Don’t be Astarion.

Shoving and pushing the other prisoners away from the cell door, you try to get a good look, craning your neck to see if you can view anything over the stone lip, but as Hecat had said, visuals are limited. These cells are built depressed into a thick block arch to block prying eyes. You can see, at best, about halfway up the corridor, give or take a little. The melodies of battle are only increasing, but where there were bellowing battle cries and roars. Now, there are screams and pained yelps for help, but whether the screaming is from the attackers or the guards – you're unsure.

You and Hecat slink to the back of the cell together, giving yourself distance from the other prisoners so you can talk in private. Thankfully, everyone else is too focused on what’s happening outside the cell to pay you any heed.

“This wouldn’t happen to be your daring friend trying to rescue you,” Hecat waggles her brows with a saucy grin. “Would it?”

You shake your head at her, “No, I doubt it. My friend would not create this much havoc.” Something doesn’t feel quite right, and it’s nagging at you. You rub your arms to try and dispel some of your rising anxiety, “No. This wouldn’t be a rescue for me. Something else is going on here.”

Hecat gives you a once over, “You’re not wearing any shoes, and your ribs are still broken. You’re in no shape to be running, even if we manage to get out of here. Much less battling with guards and who knows what.”

“You let me worry about myself,” you scoff, crossing your arms with a scowl. Hecat has no idea who you are, and you’ve kept it that way on purpose. Although, you are sure that you don’t look very battle-proficient right now. “If I fall behind, you can leave me and get yourself out. You don’t owe me anything.”

“You think I would leave you behind?” Now it’s Hecat’s turn to scoff and glower at you. You like her, but you only trust her as far as you can throw her, and that isn’t far at all.

“Look,” you try to put your silver tongue to work. The last thing you need right now is to fight with the one person who has helped since you got here. “I didn’t mean it like that. If I become a burden, you need to watch out for yourself. I might not seem like much, but I have been in countless battles. I can hold my own with or without shoes and intact ribs.”

Hopefully.

“Can you use a sword?” Hecat’s pacing, tapping her lips in the usual way she does when trying to think, “If we could procure some from the guards, we might have a better chance.”

“No,” you admit, almost sheepishly. “But if we can get our hands on a dagger, I am slightly better with those. I am death incarnate when I have my magic, though. If we can get out from under the suppression, that’s where I will really shine. Admittedly, I won’t be much help here.”

“That’s okay,” Hecat smiles, patting your arm. “We planned to run, and I think that’s exactly what we should do as soon as we get the chance.”

“I agree. Running is our best bet. There are too many guards for only the two of us.”

Hecat nods and keeps talking strategies, but you’re drawn away from the conversation as you listen to the screaming getting quieter and the clash of blades reducing. There’s an odd aroma in the air. You’ve smelt it before, but it’s not quite strong enough to connect any specific memory to; it smells organic, earthy, wet, and cold. Whatever that smell is, even if your brain cannot comprehend it, it seems your body does. You’re shaking, surging with adrenaline, but you cannot place the unease you’re feeling.

There’s commotion in the hallway by the cells near the front where you can’t see. All the prisoners seem to gasp at once and start screaming, skittering and flailing. You can hear the sound of boots grating on the ground as they press themselves up against the walls of their cells. The high-pitched screeching of iron bars being wrenched on and doors being forced open increases the utter cacophony. People shout, but you cannot make the word out when it’s buried under so much noise.

You and Hecat push your way to the front of the horde, everyone trying to stick their heads through the bars so they can see what’s going on. They step on your bare toes with boots, and elbows smash into your already smashed ribs, making you let out a whimpering breath.

Hecat is right. You’re in no shape to fight or run.

Suddenly, it hits you like a gust of icy wind of a summer’s day, freezing you to your core and sending shivers down your spine. Your maltreatment wasn’t done as some pointless abuse at the hands of petty guards - no. They weren’t truly interrogating you for information or because they were paid to make your stay here extra special.

Someone wants you to be weakened, hurt, and your magic stripped away.

Someone needs you to be weak and helpless.

But that still begs the question - who and why?

You catch rapid glimpses of a pale arm here and an ashen leg there. They are sickly looking, slim and emaciated. Your heart palpates in your chest as you remember where you last smelled that raw organic scent.

The Szarr Palace.

You drift to the back of your cell, taking Hecat with you until your backs are pressed against the stone. Hecat quirks a brow at you, obviously confused with the dread you’re sure is framed in the features of your face. Sticking your hands behind your back, you hope she didn’t notice them trembling.

You swallow and whisper, “Have you ever fought vampire spawn before?”

Questions march through your head like a restless army, but you try to focus on the most important ones. How many spawn will you need to outrun? You shudder at the thought. You know firsthand how quick vampire spawn are, and your fingers hover over your broken ribs.

Hecat gawks at you with brows raised so high they look like they might be trying to mount her scalp. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Vampires,” you repeat hoarsely, obliviously trying to fight back tears. “Have you ever fought them before?”

You just got Astarion back, and now you might fucking die here in this prison after being arrested for a crime you didn’t even commit. What kind of cruel joke is this? Why can’t life give you a damn break? Why can’t you have a happily ever after with the man you love?

Fear suddenly relents and bursts into anger, and you stoke those flames to kindle it because anger is far more productive than fear.

Hecat is looking at you with a slack jaw and round eyes, “How do you know what’s out there is vampire spawn?”

“I have had a lot of experience with vampires.” You try to keep your intonation as unwavering as possible. “You don’t have to take my word for it. You will see them soon enough.”

“Yes,” Hecat confirms. Her forehead creases in worry, “I have some experience with them, but not much. I tend not to enter into battles I’m not sure I can win.”

Smart woman. Maybe I need to take a page from her book.

“The plan is still the same,” you instruct. “Run and only fight when you have to.”

“They are fast!” Hecat is pacing now, hands in her hair. “There’s no way we can outrun them, especially with you injured and magicless.”

“With this much blood, they will be frenzied. Their bloodlust will make them distracted. It works in our favour.”

“And the others?” Hecat points to the horde of prisoners still trying to figure out what’s happening, craning their necks at the gates.

In another life, you might have tried to save them, but you’ve learned that not everyone can be saved.

“Fodder.”

Hecat eyes widen at your detached answer, but she doesn’t have time to argue with you as the first spawn start coming into view from your cell. Everyone jumps back from the bars as their bloodied fangs snap, claws clench, and they hiss like snakes. Their eyes bore into you, black and glowing crimson like Astarion’s siblings when they were under Cazador’s compulsion.

“Oh, fuck,” you hear Hecat stutter as several more come to stand before the cell.

“Get ready,” you slide your feet across the stone floor, curling your toes into it, testing your purchase.

The spawn lunge at the cell door. Their teeth snap around the iron bars with loud, metallic pinging. They wrap their hands around the bars and pull with ferocious growls. The metal whines under the force, the stone where the door is moored cracks and crumbles, and the door gives way.

The spawn flood the cell like an ashen wave, cresting with bared frothing fangs over a restless, screaming sea.

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments :) Keep them coming (if you feel like it - of course 😅)

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

Expect us to stay in Kamena's POV 75% of the time, but we will be returning to Astarion's eventually. I want Astarion's POV to remain interesting and special, so there will be less of it. We're still going to explore more of what he got up to when he left though.

Vampire attacking the prison? Why? Is it Mr. Blackwell's doing or something more sinister?

I just want to express that I hate, loathe, detest, Mr. Blackwell.

#astarion x you #astarion x tav #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion x reader #astarion romance #astarion x mc #astarion ancunin #astarion smut #baldurs gate astarion #shadows of the past #astarion baldurs gate #astarion spawn #spawn astarion #astarion x oc

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millersdjarin · 2 years ago

Text

Some Invisible String

Chapter IV: When You're Young, You Just Run

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader (afab)

Rating: E (eventually)

Summary: Ten years after Reader left Joel for reasons he still doesn't know, they find themselves together again in a town called Jackson. Joel has questions he's too afraid to ask; and Reader dreads having to give the answers.

Chapter length: 4.2k

Warnings/Tags: injury recovery, light angst

Chapter III

Series Masterlist

notes: second to last chapter ahhh! thank u for reading and enjoying this fic with me, you're all just great humans!

Joel takes me up a nearby hill outside of the town’s walls, through old trails, over fallen trees and across the crunchy snow. I wrap my arms around him, pressing the side of my face into the back of his jacket, and I tell myself that it’s to shelter my face from the oncoming icy wind.

The view up here is incredible, stretching across the entire town and all the way to the hydro-plant beyond. Mountains surround us, covered in white, with light grey clouds hanging low over them and blue skies higher up. I can see birds of prey soaring up above us; could probably hear them if I listened closely enough. Despite the wind and the gentle crunch of Felix’s hooves on the snow, it’s so silent out here.

These days, silence isn’t necessarily the same thing as safe, but Joel tells me that this is one of his regular patrol routes, and he knows it well. If anything’s hiding somewhere, he knows where they’ll be.

So I just enjoy it.

Eventually we find our way to a building that looks half-snowed under. It’s not entirely covered, though; it’s a lookout post, probably used for fire watch way back when. A decent size, but only a square, the windows are mostly boarded up, except for one on each wall. Joel unlocks the door and the five padlocks that hold it shut. Before leading Felix inside, he helps me down, holding my weight until I’m stable.

Once we’re all in, and Felix is munching happily on the net of hay that’s already strung up in here, I take a moment to look around. There’s a hunting rifle propped up in the corner, along with some ammunition, and a bow sitting next to it with a few arrows strewn across the floor. A wicker bench, like something from a garden furniture set, is in front of one of the windows, complete with a pillow and a blanket. In the other corner there’s a fold-up chair beside a locked case, presumably full of more supplies.

“We keep it stocked for an emergency,” Joel explains, leading me over to the bench. I can manage without my crutches now, but the cold makes it harder, so he supports me around my waist until I’m sitting down. “People’ve got stuck here in blizzards before.”

“Thought you said this place was safe?” I joke.

He chuckles and grabs the blanket, wrapping it carefully around my shoulders. “It is. I promise. Here, put your leg up.” He gestures for me to turn in my place, taking a gentle hold of my ankle. Following his guidance, I lift up my leg and grimace at the discomfort. It feels better for having it up, though.

“Warm enough?” Joel asks.

“For now,” I say. “Depends how long you keep me here.”

“You make it sound like I’m holding you prisoner,” he pulls across the fold-out chair, takes off his backpack before sitting down opposite me.

“I mean, I can’t exactly leave on my own right now,” I smirk, gesturing to my leg.

He reaches into his backpack and pulls out his canteen. “How’s it feeling?”

“Better. A lot better.”

“Amazing what a little rest can do, huh?”

“Yeah. You’d know.”

He looks up at me and raises an eyebrow. “Really, with the sarcasm?”

“We all know you don’t know how to just stop and rest,” I say. “Don’t think I’ve seen you chill out since…well, ever.”

He holds up his flask like it’s proving a point, and gestures to the room around him. “What does it look like I’m doin’ now?”

The light from the windows surrounds us, casting shadows over his face. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, his lips just a little blue. It takes me a moment to gather my thoughts enough to respond, but before I can, he reaches into his pack and pulls out two…whisky glasses?

When he opens his flask and pours it, I expect to see water. But, nope. A golden amber liquid flows out into the glasses, and the smell hits me in an instant.

Yup, that’s whisky alright.

“Joel,” I gasp teasingly, “are you usually such a rebel on patrol?”

Grinning lopsidedly, he hands me one of the glasses. “This ain’t a patrol,” he says. I take it from him, and our fingers brush together for a second. “And it’s good for warmth.”

“Ah. And here I thought you were finally going to chill out.”

“Alright, alright,” he shakes his head and uses his own glass to gesture to mine. “Drink.”

“What are we drinking to?”

He doesn’t answer. He looks up and takes a good sip, smacking his lips after he’s swallowed. I watch the movement in his throat; his Adam’s apple bobbing down then up again. His eyes follow the glass as he lowers it again.

I wait for him to speak. Nervous, I lift my own glass to my lips and take a sip. It’s good. The best I’ve had in years, actually. The warmth goes all the way down my throat and to my insides, spreading through me in an instant. It makes me shiver in the best way. “Damn,” I say into the quiet. “That’s good shit. Strong, though.”

Joel nods in agreement. “Best in my collection.”

“Collection, huh? You’re living it up here in Jackson.”

“Sure am,” he smiles, wry. Tips his glass at me, then takes another sip. A small moment of quiet passes. “What brought you to Wyoming?” He asks then, surprising me. “Were you comin’ to Jackson?”

“No,” I almost laugh. “How would I have known about it? And besides, if I’d known there were so many people here I’d have stayed well away.”

“People find us in all sorts of ways. You’d be surprised how fast news travels.”

I shrug a shoulder and take another drink.

“So where’d you go?” He asks. Then, as if he wanted to word it differently, “I mean—where’ve you been? Since you…since we parted ways?”

“Here and there. I wanted to go South for the winter, but my plans went South instead, I guess.”

“You were alone when we found you,” he says, glancing up at me. “Have there been…any other groups since the old days? Friends…partners?”

I shake my head. For a moment, my thoughts are too bleak to say anything. I think of what it was like to be a hunter. It was hell. Carnage every day and night. Tommy and I used to talk of leaving; Joel was always reluctant, saying that we were safer staying put. He was probably right—that is, if my feelings hadn’t gotten in the way.

After that, it seemed better to be alone.

“No,” I answer eventually, staring solemnly down at my nearly-empty drink. It’s giving my head a nice buzz. A little burn in the back of my throat. If I really let myself, I could believe that we're in a cabin in the mountains during normal life, on vacation, sitting and enjoying a drink on the stoop before heading to bed.

“You…you’ve been alone this whole time?”

“Yeah,” I sigh.

He’s surprised into silence, it seems.

I glance up at him and catch him staring. He looks away straight away, but I see something on his face. Something sad. A slight crease in his brow, his mouth open a little like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing; like what he’s hearing devastates him.

“Jesus Christ,” he curses eventually, just a breath. Staring at nothing, he shakes his head. “You survived on your own all this time.…”

“Yeah. I mean, I wouldn’t have survived this,” I motion to my leg, “if I’d been alone last week. But other than that…yeah. Just me. Sometimes it’s easier like that. Easier to slip past people unnoticed.”

He still looks upset. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, then closes it again. I want him to look at me so badly that it hurts. I want him to turn to me and let the morning sunlight shine on his face and make all the coldness around me fade away.

I never thought I’d see him again. I thought I was dying, I thought I was hearing things when his voice came to me.

“Joel…” I start, finding a lump in my throat I hadn’t noticed before.

“You didn’t have to leave,” he says before I can say any more. Finally, he looks at me, and there is so much sadness and regret in his eyes that it actually hurts. “You hear me?” He asks. “You never had to leave. Back then. You could’ve stayed.”

“Joel…I already told you, I couldn’t let myself…”

He sighs. Looks away again, down at his glass, shaking his head over and over so much that he must be getting dizzy.

“Joel,” I say again. It feels like the only thing I can say that makes sense. “You don’t…we don’t have to talk about this…”

“Yes, we do.”

“…Okay. Yeah. You’re right.”

“I need you to hear me,” he says. Then his eyes meet mine, and it’s different. More intense, purposeful. I couldn’t look away even if I tried—even if I wanted to. “You didn’t have to leave. You told me why you left, and I’m telling you, it wasn’t…you didn’t need to.”

I shake my head. “I did,” my voice comes out as nothing but a whisper. “I did, Joel. I couldn’t—I couldn’t keep how I felt to myself, I couldn’t keep it in check…”

“Goddamit, you’re not—you didn’t have to keep it in check!” He raises his voice just slightly. “I’m trying to tell you that I…I had those feelings, too. Okay? It—it wasn’t just you.”

Oh.

I freeze.

Oh.

“…Oh,” because suddenly the racing chaos of my mind is silenced to just that one syllable.

He holds my eyes for another long, piercing moment, then looks away. Briefly he seems to consider something, his jaw working away as he thinks, and then he puts his glass on the floor and runs a hand over his hair. Jesus. The silver flecks in it are shining in the sunlight.

“I get why you thought you had to leave,” he says, quiet again. “I do. And honestly, I’m not sure I could say I wouldn’t’ve done the same thing if I were you. But I…if you’d just told me back then, if I’d known…”

Somehow, I manage to swallow the emotion in my throat enough to say, “Would it have made a difference?”

“It would have made every difference.” He says, with a tone that says Are you kidding me?

“Oh,” again. Dumbly. “But…it’s not like we could’ve…we could never have been…” I know what I’m trying to say, but it won’t come out. How do I express that I just never saw a way for a relationship to work? That I never saw how we could possibly fall in love and be together and act like everything was normal, like there wasn’t enough blood on our hands to fill a bathtub?

I close my mouth and regroup for a second. Or, try to.

“I just,” I say, my voice coming out smaller than I’d expected, “I thought I was protecting you.”

Resting his elbow on his knee, he runs his hand over his mouth, rubs it across his beard. He does it a few times as he stares ahead at nothing again, deep in thought.

I watch him, silent. Waiting.

Then, he takes a breath. “Do you still feel that way now?” He drags his eyes to me, and holds them.

I swallow heavily. Wide-eyed, I stare at him. “I…” yes. Of fucking course I do, Joel. I loved you then, and I love you now. I will always fucking love you. “Yeah,” I admit. I can’t lie to him, and really, there’s no point now, anyway. “I do. I never stopped.”

For so long, he just stares at me. Nervous, I fiddle with the fabric of my gloves, pulling at loose threads, unsure how much damage I’m causing to them because I can’t fucking tear my eyes away from Joel’s, despite the fact his gaze is making me lose my mind. I decide to take the gloves off, suddenly feeling closed-in by them.

I keep trying to speak, to fill the silence somehow, to try and mend a wound that I’m not sure is even still open anymore. It feels like it’s closed: the chasm of questions and pain between us is different now. Lighter. Like how Joel looks lighter these days, without the weight of the world on his shoulders, that’s how it feels in the air between us.

When he speaks again, I’m not expecting it, despite the fact I’ve been waiting with bated breath. “I missed you,” he says.

Oh, God.

“I missed you so goddam much, you know that?” His eyes flick to the space on the bench beside me. Without thinking I shift my leg, moving it off so there’s space for him if he wants.

“I missed you,” I say, my voice cracking a little from the truth of it. The gut wrenching, undeniable truth in just those three words. “Joel, I…” As I’m shaking my head, lost for words that better convey what I’m trying to say, Joel gets up and comes to sit beside me. I turn to face him, finding the backs of my eyes stinging with tears.

(I swallow them down so hard that it hurts. I’ve cried enough. I’ve cried enough over him.)

“Hey…” he says, dipping his head to catch my eyes that have somehow fallen from his. He puts his finger under my chin, holding it up and propping his thumb on the point. He took his gloves off when he came inside, so his bare skin is against mine, his fingertips cold and calloused but fuck, so perfect. Catching my gaze again, he looks so deeply into my eyes that it’s like he’s searching my fucking soul. “Don’t look away,” he says.

I shake my head. My hands are trembling in my lap. Heat is blooming from my stomach to my chest, threatening to burst out of me at any moment because fucking fuck, I never thought Joel would touch me like this. Holding me tenderly, not because he’s patching a wound or inspecting one, not to get me to look in his eyes to stop me from passing out from pain; no, holding me because he wants to, because he wants to be close to me, wants to feel me like I want to feel him.

At least, I hope that’s what he wants.

The way his eyes flick down to my lips gives me a little more confidence.

“Joel…” I whisper into the inches of empty space between us. I can feel his hot breath brushing against my face. “Joel, you don’t have to…you don’t have to forgive me, you know that, right?”

Surprising me, he laughs. Shakes his head a little, smiling at me with crow’s feet around his eyes, the sunlight glinting into the flecks of grey in his beard. Could I reach out and do what I’ve always wanted to? Touch him there, run my hands through the coarse hairs, maybe even feel them on my face?

“I know I don’t have to,” he says, still chuckling. “But I do. Even though I wish you’d have made a different call, or at least told me you were leavin’…”

“Joel…”

“—I’d say we got pretty lucky, findin’ ourselves here again.”

He’s so close to me now that I have to look between each of his eyes in turn. I could do it forever. He’s so close. I’ve wanted this for so long.

I never thought I’d see him again.

Let alone have this.

“Yeah,” I manage to whisper. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

“Now, if you don’t mind,” he shifts his hand from under my chin to my cheek, pressing his palm against my jaw and smoothing his thumb over my skin, “I’d like to do what I’ve wanted to do for a damn long time.”

I nod before he even clarifies. I’d let him do anything. Fucking anything.

He sighs before closing the distance between us, like he’s relieved. Like he’s saying, Finally.

My agreement doesn’t make it out of my lips because he’s pressing his to mine, capturing my top one between both of his, and—

Holy shit.

It’s the softest kiss I’ve ever had.

So tender. Like he’s just testing the waters. Asking me a question. He barely even lingers for a few seconds.

But, Jesus Christ.

I find myself letting out an embarrassing whine when he pulls away and tries to meet my eyes, his eyebrows raising, checking it’s okay; but I can’t wait, I can’t fucking wait or hold back any longer—

I pull him in by the lapels of his coat and push my lips back into his, barely even having time to open my mouth. He groans against me and I feel the vibrations of his voice in my fucking mouth.

It’s crazed at first, finding a rhythm; messy and uncoordinated but all I can hear is his lips sucking at mine and him trying to find his breath amongst the mess of our mouths. It doesn’t take long for it to flow, to work, to understand the push and pull of each other and I lean into it with everything I have. He’s breathing into my mouth, his breath hot and sweet, and his lips have gone from cold to hot in the blink of an eye.

He’s got two hands on me now, grasping at the back of my neck with his fingers pushing up into my hair from the roots. My hat slips from my head. He uses the extra space in an instant, gasping happily against my mouth when he can get his fingers up the entirety of the back of my head, threading them into my hair. Goosebumps spread across my skin, and not from the cold.

At last, my hands are where they’ve always dreamed of being. On either side of his face, fingers running through his beard. I can hear it; the hairs brushing across my skin and under my nails. Lightly, I curl my fingers so my nails scratch his jaw. He likes it; moaning softly as he tilts his head to the other side, barely pulling off of me before our mouths are together again.

Alas, though, as much as my hands have found their home, there is so much more of him to discover. One of them slides back into his hair and I swear to God he fucking whispers my name against my tongue as I take a handful and tug.

Soon I’m shrugging him out of his jacket after pulling on the zip, and he’s doing the same, undoing each of the buttons on my coat while I suck kisses to his cheek, his beard, wherever I can get to him.

As soon as our coats are on the floor, he unwinds my scarf and throws it on the floor, and makes the most of having new access to my neck. Hungry, he dives in, his mouth already open as he mouths at the expanse of my neck in long—but not long enough—kisses.

“Joel, oh, my God,” I gasp when he sucks particularly hard on the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. My hands are in his hair again, anchoring him to me. A bolt of pleasure comes from my neck to my brain, goes straight between my legs.

It’s as he kisses me again and I start to fumble with the buttons on his flannel that he makes a different noise in the back of his throat. A soft protest, I think.

“Hey,” he pants, breaking off from my lips and taking a gentle hold of my wrists, stopping them in their work.

I’m completely out of breath. I’ve not been this out of breath from something good in fuck knows how long. My lips are swollen, I’m sure they’re bright red, and I can feel wet patches on my neck. “You okay?” I ask with my hands settling on his chest.

He laughs, breathy, “Never better. I just…want to make sure that we…” he has to swallow and catch his breath for a moment. As he does so, he lowers his head and kisses up my forearm, all the way to my elbow. His hands caress the underside of my arm like it’s something he treasures. “God, I want this to go further, but I said we’d be back in an hour and I know Ellie’ll come lookin’ if we’re not…”

Still panting, I laugh a little. All I can do is press my forehead against his.

He lifts up my hand and puts it over his heart. Even through the flannel of his shirt I can feel it pounding. A gasp pulls into my throat at the feeling.

“Besides, it’s cold as hell, and I’d really like you to be warm and comfortable before we…”

He’s right. Goddamit, he’s right.

Resigned, I nod. We sit like that for a minute, just coming down, catching our breath. His lips are pinker than I think I’ve ever seen them. I think I was sucking at them even more than I thought I was; the pink colour fades gradually into his skin like smudged lipstick. I wish now that I’d had chance to suck at his neck, to mark him like I’m sure he’s marked me already.

Then, it hits me.

That I never even thought I’d get to touch his fucking beard.

Let alone suck his neck.

“God,” I whisper, mostly to myself. My voice cracks a little, and I’m not sure it’s just from the blinding desire still throbbing between my legs.

“You okay?”

“I just…yeah. Yeah, I’m…I’m really fucking good.”

He laughs. Keeping one hand over mine where it stays on his chest, he brings the other up to cup the side of my face. Our foreheads are still resting on each other and his palm is so warm against my cheek.

I’ve wanted this for so long.

I have to tell him. He knows, but I have to tell him. “I’ve wanted this for…forever,” I confess, probably only finding my confidence because we’re too close for him to look at me. With my spare hand I hold the side of his neck, the tips of my fingers brushing into his beard.

“Since the moment I saw you,” Joel’s voice is gravelly as he nuzzles his nose into my wrist, “I wanted this.”

I can’t help it.

I lean in and kiss him again. Close-mouthed and quick, but just because I can.

He takes a deep breath. Holds it a minute, then lets it out, his sweet breath brushing against me once more. I want to taste it again. Feel it going into my lungs. Feel it on my neck, on every inch of me.

“We should head back,” he says, reluctance coming from his very core. “You’re gettin’ cold.” He squeezes my cold hand.

“You’re the one who took off all my winter gear,” I retort with a happy smirk.

“Yeah, alright. You started it, though.”

“Um, you pushed my hat off as soon as we got started…”

“The hat thing was a mistake.”

I remember how it felt to have his hands spread out over every inch of my head, and shudder. “Oh, no, it was no mistake, Joel.”

He laughs. “Come on. Let’s wrap back up. I’d love to say we can pick up where we left off as soon as we get back, but I’ve got patrols today, and Ellie wanted me to take her riding…”

I hold the back of his neck. As much as I absolutely would let him take me right here on this freezing wooden floor, I don’t mind waiting. For the first time in decades, I feel like we might just have time for it. Like everything doesn’t have to be a rush. “It’s alright,” I say, meaning it.

“I promise, I’ll make it up to you.”

“Mm. I’ll hold you to that.”

“Good.”

After another—very restrained—kiss, we start wrapping up again and pack up to head back. In the back of my mind as we potter around each other, I feel the horrible tendrils of doubt try to creep in around me. Wondering: what if this is all too good to be true? What if there’s no way we can make this work? I was never even going to stay here, but does he want me to now? Is that where this is going?

But then Joel takes me in his arms before we step back outside, and holds me like it’s the first time.

And it is, really. He’s only ever done this before when I’ve been hurt or sick.

And for that moment as his hands press into my back, my mind is quiet.

{chapter 4/5}

notes: thank u for all the support and love on this fic, it means the world to me, i'm so glad you're enjoying it! there's more where this came from and i'm just so grateful to y'all for reading this <3 ps: the next chapter will have smut (YAY)! also, if you're reading this the weekend i post it (21st jan 2023) then please send me smut requests for joel miller or din djarin <3 love u xo

taglist: @rosymythologies @lover1307 @rh1nestonecowg1rl @pinkrose1422 @lavenderhhze @abbyhaslongshorts @trippoverrt @emilianamason

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fic #joel miller #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #my fics #my fic: joel #my fic #some invisible string

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heretopasstime · 1 year ago

Text

Ex-Boyfriend Childe // Angst-Fluff

🦊 ─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── 🐳

Synopsis/TLDR: You meet your ex Ajax- CHILDE, and surprise!! He misses you :( and wants you back.

Tag/s: Regret, Reader is gender-neutral, One-shot, Bad-writing, English is not my first language, Reader is referred to as ‘you’, Reader misses him too and kinda awk, bad writing + Childe is ooc here lol, not proofread

Posting this one as it was dwelling in the drafts. Reader is called ‘’YOU

Credit/s: @saradika (DIVIDER/S), GIF posted by @raidenei, emojicombo.com for sparkle text divider, quillbot for helping with my english :), notesapp for helping me. Inspired by a character Ai interaction.

You two were lovers for a long time, but after facing some problematic behavior you had finally decided to break up with Childe, and he still misses you oh so much. On one of your travels, you manage to spot him again, and he seems to notice you, walking in your direction with his characteristic smug smile.

"Well, hello there, my beloved comrade! It's been a long time since I last saw you."

Seeing him approach you, your shoulders square up and tense up.

"Hi there, Tartaglia."

The way you say his name is so unfamiliar to him; endearments or his real name is what you usually called him before the breakup. Childe raises an eyebrow, his smile still on his face, almost as if he didn't get that it was sarcasm, and he could feel his heart beating fast. Just as he tries to act normal, his thoughts run at the speed of light. It's so hard for him to accept that his ex-girlfriend hates him so much now, and he never realized he was messing up everything.

You express a characteristic subtle smile as I tuck in a lose strand of hair. Childe cant help but notice how you still kept it styled it in the same charming yet disheveled way you used too when we were still together.

"I’m doing... somewhat okay,"

you confess, trying your best to sound composed and well-oriented. Trying your absolute best to not reveal the mess that you so clearly are and haven't really changed

"Are you sure, Малыш ?"

He lets out the last word, with a small pause between ‘Малыш’, and his tone of voice is a mix of sarcasm and a hint of genuine care for you. The way he looks at you, he seems to still have those feelings for you, but his dignity stops him from begging for forgiveness or begging you to date him again.

Your eyes widen at the ever so familiar term of endearment, from a past that almost feels like a distant memory. You purse your lips tightly, feeling a bit pressured as a hurricane of emotions stirs in my stomach.

"Hah, I haven't heard that in a while."

You let out a breathy chuckle, meeting his yearning gaze with a look of longing for just a moment. Looking away quickly as even as pleasing as it is it felt almost wrong to see such a desperate, pained expression on his face.

He stops for a moment, looking at your expression, and takes a deep breath.

"Listen, I don't know if you still have any feelings for me, but if you do, please. Give me one last chance to show you I can change, that I can be better, and that I can make you feel loved again. I promise you."

His voice sounded both desperate and resolute, resolute to have one last try with the one he still loves.

“So please--”

"How can I be sure that my heart won't be broken into pieces again? I broke things off for a reason, Aja-.. Childe?"

Whoops. Almost said his real name as you expressed your own reasonable distrust towards his confession.

Childe is the name of the man you wanted to leave, the man who kept you unaware of his real job and whom you was foolish enough to love and still love as he is apart of him. Ajax, the man you yearn for even after leaving him. His subtle, gentle touches and somewhat annoying personality as a lover kept you engaged and happy. The real problem was whether he was even himself when he was with you. As lying is the only constant trait shared between the two personalities you had named.

"I swear." He looks at you in the eyes with a resolute expression; he wants to make you believe in his word. "I promise I will not mess this up again. I will be more honest, and I will do my best to make you feel loved again."

He puts one of his hands on top of your hands, a warm smile on his face, but there's something in his eyes. He looks a bit... afraid. He is afraid to mess up again, but he knows he has to prove himself to you to have you back.

At the touch of his hand against your own, you cant help yourself as your body noticeably and instinctively relaxes. A soft blush appears on your cheeks as you hear his words, listening keenly.

"Why do you even want to get back together again?" Looking up into his ocean blue eyes, mindless and yet deep in a way it carries many memories of us together. Your voice pleads out for answers, in near desperation as your own eyes widens and doe's in the oh so familiar way that makes him melt.

"Because I'm an absolute stubborn brash idiot, " he says softly and with a smile, his eyes full of affection for you, his whole body relaxed, a soft smile on his face. "And you are the only one who knows how to handle me , the only one that can make me happy." His eyes were shiny, with almost a tear in the corner of his eye. He still had that fear of messing up again, even if he was trying his best to calm you and convince you that you could trust in him again.

Your body tenses, and your grip tightens as you almost pull away from his touch.

"That reason is so fickle; there's no depth to it." I bluntly admit in response that my eyes express a look of worry, as if I had my heart broken again. I wished for more layers rather than a simple "I love you'.

I had loved him to the moon and back. Even when I drowned in his ocean eyes, I never questioned it for so long. I had spent hours awake in the wee hours of the night, worried and anxious for his arrival. I had poured my heart and soul out, but I could not see the same resolve that I so wished to see within him.

"Then what should I say?" He looked at you, looking like a kid that had been punished, with a sad expression on his face. "What more do I need to tell you so we can try one last time? Because I could say anything and I would do anything just to be with you, just to make you happy again." The sad expression, the sorrow on his face—it's all genuine; he was showing his true emotions, desperate to make his ex-girlfriend accept trying it one last time.

I've always had to help him clearly express his emotions; it was once a benefit when we were together, but when it came to it, I was the only one who truly understood what he was feeling. I want to chuckle to remind him of the similarities in behavior he still has, but alas, it just comes out as a sad smile.

I lightly grasped his larger, roughened hands in my dainty, smaller ones; the size difference always made him melt.

"Tell me all, what your life has been like without me. Then I shall decide."

I respond; my request is serious yet gentle. I'm asking him to confess and admit his worries. It'll reveal to me the truth—the truth that I long for and seek after.

"Without you, I felt like I missed something. I missed coming home and having someone I could hug or kiss. I miss everything we used to do together. Not only that, but without you, I feel empty. It's like nothing has meaning or color anymore. It's like everything is gray without the colors. It's like every emotion, every joy, every happiness, it's just gone." His voice sounded a bit hoarse; he was trying to control the tears. His emotions were sincere.

He looks at you and takes a deep breath. "Without you, I feel like I'm just going without a real purpose." Every morning I stay longer in bed because I'm not excited to start my day, and I just spend most of the day wondering how and if I can go on. I can feel your absence in my life.” “Not only that, I miss our small talks and moments together, or the more personal moments. I miss them all." He seems to blush a bit. "And every day without you feels like an eternity."

"Please, my love, I can't go on without you; you are my life, you are my reason to live, and you are the only one that makes my days worth it. I cannot imagine my life without you; you are the most important person to me, and I would do anything to keep you by my side, just to see and touch you again." He starts to cry; it wasn't fake tears or just acting; his sobs come from deep within his heart; he cried out of a raw desperation.

Seeing him cry makes my heart ache and melt, and as if it were instinct, You hug him tightly. Letting his face reach, touch, and smell your hair . You’re arms wrap around his waist to hold him close, and his head lies on his chest as you hug him close to comfort him and even myself.

He closes his eyes. His whole body starts to tremble as his heart and mind are overcome with emotions. "You are the most precious thing I've ever had in my life." Please accept to give me another chance. I promise I'll do anything, I'll be better, and I'll make you so happy. And I promise I'll never make you cry or feel sad again." A few tears fall from his face; some get lost in his hair. His breathing starts to get heavy as he seems to be on the verge of a panic attack.

You gaze up at him, your chin resting on his chest, looking at his expression. Once you hear and feel his quickened pace of breath and heartbeat through his chest, you don't even hesitate as your hand makes its way to his face, wiping away the tears ever so gently.

you’re expression is soft and sympathetic as you caress his face and tuck away any of his ginger hair that's askew. You can't help but look in somewhat awe at his beautiful collection of freckles adorning his cheeks and nose, the same pattern you kissed to no end. His eyelashes were long, and now they were dewy from the tears. Complimented by the light blush adorning his cheeks. Even in tears, you can't believe such a man as enchanting exists.

Your body straightens, and as your feet raise to the tip of my toes, you take a deep breath and kiss him.

Childe’s body tenses in surprise at your sudden attempt to kiss him; his eyes are wide open but his lips are closed; his heart beats at full speed; and his breathing gets heavier. His eyes close automatically, and he kisses you back, with a deep passion and desire in his kiss. His arms wrap around you, his hands gently grasping your waist, pulling you closer to him as he kisses you back. He seems to show his whole love and affection in those few seconds of intense romantic passion.

#genshin impact headcanons #genshin x reader #childe x reader #childe x y/n #childe x you #tartaglia x reader #tartaglia x you #tartaglia x y/n #ajax x reader #ajax x y/n

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