#sarcasm squared tag

[xervn]

melatonin | 2

two-shot | enemies to fuckers sevika x reader

pt. 1

ao3 link

summary: the aftermath.

18+ MDNI | 3.5k words | tags; canon divergence, sevika is a little mean, reader is a brat, angst?, very light sub/dom, vaginal fingering, semi-public sex, porn w/ plot-ish, no use of y/n

i rewrote this so many times, but here we are... mama i made it..

It’s not what you were expecting. It’s not how you saw things moving forward—not at all. 

Anyone would agree that you two shared a passionate night. Sevika fucked the insomnia out of you. 

So how’d she manage to make you hate her more?

When you woke up, Sevika was on her side of the room, adjusting her deep red poncho. She noticed you were awake and went straight to barking orders at you and proceeded with her thousandth attempt to get you to follow her schedule, which never worked.

It was as if last night didn't happen, and it was all a lucid, raunchy dream with deep moans you could still replay in your head. However, you woke up missing more clothes than you remembered taking off, so you knew that wasn't the case.

You decided to pass her crankiness off as stress, since it was a big day and all, but she only seemed crankier after the meeting. 

Don’t be fooled; you aced it. Your negotiating skills have always been top tier, and you’re incredibly personable, especially with good sleep on your side. You were so buddy-buddy with the Bilgewater traders, they invited you to their pub that night for drinks and karaoke. Exactly your style, a fun offer, but you declined. Declined because you were positive Sevika was going to give you congratulatory sex. Wrong. She gave you nothing but pure silence. 

You can hear hints of humor or sarcasm weaved into words, but you can’t hear any of that in silence. Was she mad at you? Jealous of you? Annoyed by you? 

It reminded you of when you first met Sevika, a time when you tried super hard to impress her, but everything you did ticked her off. You were so good at making friends with clients; total strangers, but not Sevika, even after months of trying. It hurt especially more since you had a massive crush—one everyone but her knew about; Ran still teases you about it from time to time. 

When you think back on it, you’re embarrassed. It shouldn’t have taken you a year to finally get on her case about it, but when you did, there was less judgmental silence and more words. Not the nicest words, but at least it created a semblance of balance—honesty that wasn’t outweighed by one-sided affection. But after that meeting, it was like it all reverted to square one. Silence and one-sided affection. 

That triggered you. 

So, what was it that you were expecting? Marriage? A gold medal? 

No, it was something much simpler. Kindness. The smallest amount of chivalry would’ve made you swoon, but she didn’t give you any. She continued to be the dickhead you were used to, and what did you do? 

You continued to be the dickhead she was used to, obviously. Amplified it even. There’s no such thing as being the bigger person in your dictionary. Not for this. If there’s anything you were bigger at, it was being a bigger cunt. If she was going low, you were going lower—and you stuck to it.

-

Days after the trip, you still haven’t talked to Sevika out of solidarity with yourself. Nothing but surface-level words have been exchanged between you two since that day. No witty remarks, no unnecessary teasing, no fruitless arguments. 

To be fair, there’s nothing you want to talk about. You’re too upset and ashamed. At the time, you couldn’t even discard the little dignity you had left to ask her to “help” you one last time because she factory reset you, and you slept like a baby all night. 

That is until now. Sevika’s magic has worn off, and you’re falling back into your regular routine of staying up late and getting wasted so you don’t have to watch the sunrise for a third time in a row. It wouldn’t be such a bother if you weren’t thinking about her every single night. 

Or during the day when someone says her name and the hairs on your arms stick up. Or when she’s a glance away and your body starts to think you're in a sauna. 

It was undeniable; you still have a crush. As obnoxious as the day it blossomed. You hate it. You should be hating her now more than ever, but your heart is fucking you over, and you’re sleep-deprived and pent up on top of it.

You’ve found yourself fantasizing about and craving a woman that has most likely moved on. It’s pathetic, and it shows you have no backbone, meaning it’s only a matter of time before you do something you will regret forever. 

You couldn’t back down, not after your dramatic promise to yourself that you weren’t going to let her play you again. 

Thankfully, fate graced you with an opportunity to redeem yourself. Silco put you on another short trip back to the port city, and he assigned Sevika to accompany you—expecting her to, since he didn’t bother to call her to his office because of how often you work together.

That meant the ball was in your court, so you did something neither you nor Sevika had ever had the guts to do.

You protested. 

Well, you lied. You told him that Sevika didn’t want to work with you anymore and that it’d be better for you to go with someone else. It’s probably not far from the truth anyway, but honestly, you thought he’d give you a speech about life or ask you to tell her to get over it. Maybe even a ‘fuck off,’ but instead he said, “Very well,” and shooed you out of his office. 

So now you’re at a loss because you didn’t think that far ahead. You didn’t really give it much thought at all and figured, realistically, both of you should be happy in the end. You knew it meant you’d see Sevika less, but you managed to convince yourself you were fine with it; that it was for the best.

“It’s probably the best decision I’ve ever made,” you tell Ran, who’s fiddling with the straw in their drink as they listen to you talk. Laughter, drinks clinking, and jukebox music makes for good background noise. “I’m just shocked, y’know? If I knew he’d accept it so quickly, I would’ve asked earlier.” You laugh half-heartedly. 

Ran twirls around the straw in their cup. “Didn’t I tell you it was that easy?”

You freeze. “Yes, but…”

“You still wanted to work with her.” They grin, going in for a sip.

“No! I genuinely thought he’d be against it.." You grumble.

“Right, right… Well, it’s good news then. You should be happy. Maybe we’ll be assigned together.”

Your eyes light up at the possibility. “That’d be great! There’s this pub I wanted to go to, but…“ You trail off when the bar goes incredibly quiet. There are a few whispers here and there, some more frantic than the others.

Loud, heavy footsteps pound against the wooden flooring, and you notice the pace picking up as the sound travels closer to you. 

You’re not allowing yourself to get ambushed at a time like this, so you turn, and, great heavens, there’s Sevika. 

Your chest, down to your stomach, twists uncomfortably. You’re surprised to see her, and she looks irritated to see you. Her face is plain, but there’s still a prominent frown on her lips.. 

“You.” 

You look around, pretending you’re not sure who she targeted that towards. By now, the bar has resumed its chatter, but Ran has moved three seats down. They give you a little finger wave before turning to the bartender. 

You slowly look up at Sevika, pointing to yourself, “Me?” You question jokingly.

“Get up; let’s go.” She gestures for you to start moving.

You laugh sarcastically, turning away from her on your stool. “Fuck off.” 

A large hand lands on your bicep and pulls. You stagger backwards and onto your feet before you fall over. “What the f—? Let go of me!” 

Sevika says nothing and makes her way to the back of the building, forcing you to walk haphazardly through chairs and tables. Your face warms and contorts in embarrassment, given you’re being dragged to who knows where like you’re a misbehaving toddler. 

You begrudgingly follow along, not that you had much of a choice, and she stops in front of a supply closet. 

“Open it.” She commands monotonously.

You don’t know why, but you do it; you open it. You don’t even question it, and you deserve it when she shoves you in there. 

Her mechanical arm whirs as you stumble in, and it makes a short appearance to slam the door behind herself. Then everything turns blurry in a flash, and your back is suddenly hitting the door. 

“What did you do?” She asks through her teeth.

You try to yank your arm free, but she doesn’t budge. “What did I do? Why are you so angry? Can you fucking let me go?!”

“What did you tell Silco?”

Your heart drops, and your expression must’ve shown it because Sevika groans. You interject, “I told him what you couldn’t.”

“And what is that?”

“You don’t want to work with me.”

Sevika looks at the ceiling for strength, shutting her eyes. She takes a deep breath in. “When did I ever say that?” 

“You don’t have to; I can read it off you.” 

Sevika’s eyes suddenly meet yours, and you flinch. “Yeah? What are you reading now?”

You frantically search, and you stutter, “You’re—you’re pissed?”

“Yes, I’m fucking pissed, Einstein. Did I ask you to make decisions for me?” 

God, you have no idea why she’s so mad about it. Your breathing is picking up, and you don’t know if it’s because of conflict or the fact she hasn’t been this close to you in what feels like ages. “No, but you can stop acting like you’ve never wanted to.” 

“Why do you care? If I wanted to, I would.” She states.

“Sure. You must’ve loved working with Jinx then, huh?”

Sevika looks away to sigh loudly. “That’s not the same thing.” 

“Isn’t it? You don’t like me either—“

“What is your problem? Why don’t you just admit that it’s you who doesn’t want to work with me? It’s you who doesn’t like me.” She spits. Her jaw clenches as she calms down. “I’m ‘difficult’ now because of you. I’d like one day—one week—without Silco complaining when I’m doing my best.” She sighs.

Your mind goes blank. “I’m—I didn’t know he’d say that… He seemed okay with it, and I didn’t know you’d be upset.” You utter, completely guilt-ridden.

“I swear—you only think about yourself. Fuck everyone else living, right?”

“What? No, I didn’t…”

“Didn’t think? Do you think?” She exasperates.

It works, and you huff. “I thought you would be jumping for joy. Why aren’t you fucking ecstatic?” You ask angrily.

“Nothing about this is good for me. Or you. Unless you think Dustin can protect you.” She scoffs.

“Dustin? Well… well…” You didn’t think about that. 

You abandon the sentence. “You can be mad, but not this mad. I should be this mad. We did things together. Things you don’t try to forget about, and that’s what you—looked like you did.” You say, correcting yourself because you’ve learned your lesson from assuming things. 

Sevika looks heavily perplexed. “You’re the one who stopped talking to me.”

“No, actually, you are. Not to mention your first words to me the morning after we fucked were, ‘You have twenty minutes.’”

“You had twenty minutes. Did you want a ‘good morning, baby’ first?” She scoffs, shaking her head.

Your stomach does a somersault. “I don’t know.” 

Sevika pauses, making what feels like judgy eye contact with you. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t know, but I do know that you acted like nothing happened and went straight to being bossy.”

“Huh. I thought you liked that.” She replies, and there’s something in the way she said it that makes your legs falter.

“When did I ever—“ The air changed, you notice. “When did I ever like that…?” 

Sevika studies your face for a few seconds. The silence is unnerving. It’s like time slowed, because you have no idea when she’ll speak or what she’ll say. “Somewhere between you moaning my name and cumming on my fingers.” She bluntly states.

You choke on your spit, coughing. There were a million different ways that could’ve gone. Most of them sounded like that, but it still caught you off guard.

“What? You said I forgot about it. I’m trying to jog up my memory,” she teases.

You frown, but it comes off as endearing, so much so it makes Sevika awe. “Don’t you want me to remember? I’m remembering.”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant you acted no different from the day before, and you never, y’know, came to me again after that either.” 

Then regret starts rushing in. You used to curse your friends out when they got back with their shitty situationships. You know what it feels like now. You can’t believe you alluded to sex, let alone wanting it at a time like this, but she did it first, to be fair.

You two stare at each other for several beats. 

“Came to you?” A smile begins to form on Sevika’s lips.

You shake your head, as unconcerned as you can make it. “Shut up. Forget I said anything.“

Her head tilts slightly. She looks you up and down. “I don’t think I will.” 

You exhale loudly, "I'm so serious."

"No, really, tell me what you meant by that. "

"You know exactly what I meant."

She perks an eyebrow at you, and you roll your eyes in response. She huffs out a laugh.

Sevika swivels you around so you’re facing the door, so fast you have to catch yourself with both hands so you don’t face-plant into it. "What are you—!"

Her flesh hand slides across your waist, and then she suddenly jerks you towards her, making you bend over just enough for you to poke out.

In contrast to how she was manhandling you before, she slowly presses herself against your ass but makes sure to hold her place firmly, like she was planning on leaving a print there, rolling her hips into you as if she doesn’t wanna miss a spot. 

Leaning over you, she whispers, “This is what you wanted, right?” So close to your ear, you can feel her words brushing against it. Your whole body shudders, and all your sexual frustration starts to unravel.

You peer back at her with a glare that’s too clouded with lust to be intimidating. “You’re so full of yourself.” 

“You love it,” She replies, so surely, because you haven’t noticed how desperately you’ve been backing into her, chasing the sliver of friction she gave you a moment ago. She drifts her hand towards your front, and between the legs you immediately begin parting for her. "But I could stop..."

"Don't." You interrupt. You don't have to see her to know she's got on an egotistical grin.

Four fingers feel down your covered cunt, then back up, lingering at your clit with purpose. Your thighs threaten to close around Sevika’s hand, and you pathetically whine out her name. 

She hums questioningly, knowing she wasn’t getting an answer from you. She finds the waistband of your pants, shoving her hand underneath, panties and all. The warm heat and slickness of your wetness meet her palm. “You really love it.”

You inhale sharply, placing your forehead against the door. “ I hate you...”

She laughs darkly, and her fingers part meticulously over your folds, massaging your clit between her fingers. “Is that what we’re doing? I 'hate' you too,” she says, “I’ll show you.”

You moan at that, and Sevika harmonizes. You don’t feel an ounce of shame. All your self-respect left when you opened the door. “Please.” 

Sevika's finger presses against your entrance teasingly. It doesn’t take much longer before she slides two fingers in you; her middle and ring, and scissors them in you so you adjust to the size of them properly. You groan, muffling yourself into the back of your hand. The heel of her palm is so close, yet so far from your clit, and you still need it there. 

It was as if she read your mind. Sevika brings her hand closer, and her fingers curl in you as a result. They slowly straighten out, then curl again, straighten out, curl in, and now she’s restlessly fucking her fingers into you while you needily hump into the palm of her big, scarred hand. All that movement makes it messy, but messy feels so good. 

So much heavy breathing and pitchy whines. You’re trying your hardest not to make noise, but all your best attempts are strained and guttural. It drives Sevika insane. They’re better than she remembered. “Stop trying. Let them hear how much you hate me.” She murmurs against you.

You lightly shake your head, refusing to do something so mortifying yet so fucking hot—in theory. Until cold metal fingers appear under your jaw. “C’mon, baby, please?” She coos.

There’s the first crack in your metaphorical dam. Your legs start wobbling. “Fuck—I h—hate you.” You pant out, not entirely because she asked you to; you were a little upset with how well she threw that pet name in there. 

It makes her chuckle. “You said I never ’came to you,’ but I’ll tell you a little secret,” she says, breath staggering from her constant movement, “I came to the thought of your fucked-out face last night,” she confesses. You sob out her name, and she soothes it with a full kiss on your cheek; so unexpected, you can feel your heart lurch forward. “And the day before, and the day before that, and—you get it, yeah? I couldn’t forget you if I tried.”  

You’re getting closer; pussy tensing, and your heart is racing. So much to process in such little time. “… I missed you.” You breathlessly whisper. You missed her tangents, her nagging, and the dumb fucking arguments. You missed her; it was true, and you admitted it to her before you admitted it to yourself.

“Did you?” She asks softly. You can tell she’s really wondering. Her fingers still haven’t slowed down a bit, however.

“Mhmm—shit—wait.” You’re on the brink of undoing, and you don’t know if you can speak any further.

Sevika presses herself closer to you. “Tell me one more time.” She gruffly demands, like it was a need. It may as well be.

Your anticipated orgasm fills up to the brim; your eyes press shut. “I m—I missed you so,” you come; your moans are barely controllable, and your hips are stuttering against her hand, “s—ugh—much, Sev...”

Sevika’s mech hand turns your face towards her, and your heavy eyes momentarily widen when her lips meet yours in a fervent kiss. She removes her fingers from you, and when you cry at the loss, she slides her tongue across yours—that shuts you up real quick. She leaves her hand there, just so you can grind out your orgasm a little longer. 

Sevika stopped letting her brain control her; she wasn't going to let it get in the way of this. She's been dreaming about kissing you since she realized it was an option.

You didn’t know how badly you needed to kiss her. You weren’t sure you’d ever, but with how perfectly her lips feel on yours, this can’t be the last time. You really hope it’s not the last time.

But you pull away. “What is this...?” You ask shakily, trying to catch your breath.

Sevika’s eyes keep flickering to your kiss swollen lips, clearly drunk on them; she doesn’t understand what you’re saying yet. “What’s what?”

“This. What are we doing? Is it just—just sex like you said it was?”

Sevika zones back in, and there’s a lump in her throat. She can’t say she never said that, because she did. She swallows hard, retracting her hand from between your thighs, and gently turns you around so you’re facing her. 

She says your name, “It has never been ‘just sex.’ It would never be that with you.”

You try to assess the validity of that, staring at her doubtingly. “You ignored me the entire day after.” You mention.

Sevika’s face warms up, and she looks to the side. “I got jealous.”

Your brows furrow. “Of what?”

“You were so friendly with those Bilgewater folks, and it pissed me off,” she grumbles. “Then I got frustrated with myself, because I’m the reason you hate me. At the time, it made sense to go back to how it was before,” she exhales sadly, “I’m sorry.”

You awkwardly play with your hands. Sevika frowns, hoping you say something soon. “The reason why I stopped talking to you wasn’t because I hate you; I thought you did, so I... I don't know what to say other than I’m incredibly petty and childish. I’m sorry—and I shouldn’t have said anything to Silco either.” 

“I wouldn’t let you go without me anyways.” She looks so serious when she says that, but you can’t help but giggle. It’s going to take a while for you guys to get through all your apologies properly, but this is a good start.

“I do prefer you, so...” You add, smiling up at her coyly.

She has a grin—the big win kind—and you gravitate towards her for a kiss, wrapping your arms around her shoulders. It’s much gentler and warmer than the first time. You’re sure there’ll be more where that came from. 

—

“Ran, hey.” You take a seat by them, wanting to wrap things up before you go. Quickly too, since Sevika is waiting.

“Hey,” they reply, eyeing you oddly, “I went to check on you earlier; make sure Sevika wasn’t dismembering you or something, but it sounded super scary in there, like you really hated her, so I ran away…” They pretend to cower in fear before sputtering out a laugh.

“Alright then. Goodnight.” You silently get up and start walking out. Ran’s laughter doubles.

[sturnmeovr]

♡‧₊˚ Babydaddy!Chris x Sweetheart!Reader - Licensed Driver

(not me posting this a week before Chris told us he got his license😭)

“I fucking did it!’ your boyfriend shouts throughout the house as soon as he opens the front door. The boys had been gone the last few hours, failing to tell you what their plans were since you in a dead sleep on the couch when they decided to leave.

Your morning sickness was starting to ease up, only enough to make you feel like you're somewhat functioning. The last few months consisted of nothing but vomiting, off-and-on fevers, and sweats and shakes, making it nearly impossible to get anything done. You were happy your constant state of nausea was finally wearing off.  Chris, being the big help he was, always made sure everything was squared away for you.

“Put your keys away, baby,” he jokes as he bounces around the corner, holding up a laminated square card next to his face with an ear-to-ear grin. You let a gasp roll off your tongue, standing up from the couch. Before you can say anything, Chris is already putting his feet in motion, “ya babydaddy is a licensed driver,” he beams, not letting his smile drop one bit. His comment makes an oh-so familiar redness creep to your cheeks, and you press your lips together, fighting back a smile. It was obvious he still had the same effect on you as he did the day you met. Clearing your throat to make no words get caught, you take the license from him to admire his picture, “you look so cute,” you coo at him. 

Chris hurriedly snatches it back, “my picture is bogus. I had hat hair,” he admits before you snatch it from his hand, “hey!” astonishment laced around his words.  “Chris, I’ve literally seen you with bedhead, I don’t care about your hat hair,” you snort before taking another look at his license, “why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve came with you!” 

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” he tells you, sitting down on the couch and picking up a bag of Doritos you had abandoned an hour earlier. You sit down next to him, watching as he shoves a few in his mouth, “I don’t want you driving to all the appointments with how baby bean’s been making you feel lately," his voice muffled by the crunching of chips. You knit your brows together, indicating you could barely understand him. Once Chris finishes chewing, his words become more clear, "I don't want you go out late at night on snack run either. People kidnap pregnant ladies, y'know," he tells you before sitting up to take a sip of his Pepsi, oblivious to the fact he had just unlocked a new fear for you. You weren't leaving the house anytime soon by yourself.

“Yea, now he can stop asking me to get all the disgusting food combinations that kid wants,” Matt chimes in as he strides over the opposite side of the sectional, plopping down with a playful smirk plastered on his face. His comment earns a bellowed laugh from Nick who was sitting at the kitchen island, “It's Chris’s kid, what do you expect?” his voice laced with sarcasm. Chris lets out a heavy sigh as he tosses the bag of chips in your lap, “wow, no congratulations?" matching the same playful energy as his brothers, "I got a kid on the way, and I just got my license. Shows how much you guys care,” he pouts, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Matt turns to you with the same shit-eating grin Chris had smeared across his face a few moments prior, “looks like you’re gonna have two babies on your hands in the next couple months, huh?” 

“As long as you babysit,” you shoot back, and he follows it with, “you fucking wish," quickly after.

I love how I came up with this fic a few days before Chris got his license 😂😂

Wc - 628?? Not proofread yet

An - Since you guys loved the last blurb 🥹 I just love this au sooo much Don’t forget to send me asks about babydaddy!Chris & sweetheart!Reader. Check out my babydaddy!Chris masterlist or my main masterlist in the meantime! I have a few post scheduled so be on the lookout if you aren’t on my tag list 🫶🏻

Taglist for all my works (comment to be added)

🏷️ - @lvrsturniolo @ribread03 @unknvhx @m11rx @emely9274 @loveparqdise @sweetshuga @frickin-bats @katie-tibo @leila-marie4 @delusional-4-fake-people @shadowthesim

© All Rights Reserved to m00nl1ghts1vt. Please do not copy my work.

Dividers & photo edits are mine. Feel free to use.

[mamajamasquamas]

CUDDLES W SYLUS

photo from Pinterest

warnings:

grinding, rough kissing, making out, comfort, not a lot sex just so you guys know.

“Your too slow!” I say, turning around to look back at Sylus. He’s a few feet behind me but he’s stopped running.“Are you sure I’m the one whose too slow, kitten?” He asks, smiling.

“Seeing as I’m in front of you yes!” I say, laughing. The cold night air fills my lungs, cooling my throat. I’d spent so long running it was nice to take a moment to breathe. Sylus stares at me, his eyes twinkling. My face flushes with awareness. It’s just the two of us now. The campgrounds are so far behind us I can’t even make them out anymore. We’d run for a long time, alternating between being the chaser and the one chasing. Sylus glances down at my skirt. I tighten my grip on the sides of it. I’m holding it up so I won’t dirty the hem, revealing my legs. I’m tempted to drop it just to tease him but I don’t get a chance to. His evol wraps around my waist, pulling me towards him. He taps my arm, his eyes darkening.

“I believe your it, kitten.”

“Cheater!” I gasp, placing my hands on his chest. His skin is hot beneath mine.“Tag.”

His evol dissapears. Wrapping his arm around my waist, he pulls me flush to his body. His cock presses against the front of my skirt, full of blood. I bite my lip, stifling a moan.

“I believe your it,” he says, moving his other hand to the small of my back.“Unless your going to cheat again?”

“Cheat again?” I ask, my eyes widening. “Your the one who cheated!”

“No,” he says.

“Yes you did! You were supposed to be chasing me!”

“I was,” he says.

“Not at that pace,” I say, chuckling.

Sylus leans in closer, his hair falling into his eyes.

“Are you being a sore loser, sweetie?”

I frown, wrapping my arms around his neck.

“I demand a rematch!”

He raises his brow.

“A rematch? We’re playing a game of tag.”

“So,” I say, jutting my chin. “I still demand a rematch!”

He laughs, grabbing my chin.

“Your bossy today, kitten,” he says, leaning down towards me. I hold my breath. Broken pieces of dandelion fluff blow around in the wind, tickling our faces. I lick my lips, lowering my eyes to his mouth.

“Am I being bossy for wanting to win fair and square?” I ask. But I can’t keep up this fake argument for long. I rub my thighs together consciously, my eyes still on his lips. Sylus smiles, moving his hand from my chin to my throat. Pulling me closer to him, he brushes his lips against mine. Teasingly. I shut my eyes. It’s almost a kiss. Almost. The breeze blows harder, sending more pieces of dandelion fluff blowing against my face. I shiver, opening my eyes. He looks up at me, his eyes softening.

“Cold, kitten?”

I nod.

“Should we go home?”

I shake my head.

“I want to…” I don’t know how to say it. This is going to be our first kiss. I look over at the sky. We’d been so focused on running, we’d missed the sun set. The night sky is clear and there are no clouds, just a half-shaped crescent.

“Want to what?”

I look back at him. Sylus glances at my lips.

Kiss. It sounds so simple in my head but it gets so easily caught on my tongue. A flash of light catches my eye from beneath me. The grass is lit by orange light. I smile, kneeling down. Wet grass brushes against my bare knees. I pull my skirt down over them, watching as fireflies fly around in the grass, illuminating it in a soft, orange glow that goes in and out. I run my fingers through the grass. It’s cold, and wet. Sylus kneels beside me.

“First time seeing fireflies, kitten?”

“No,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Thanks for the sarcasm.”

I push his chest. He falls onto the grass, grabbing my wrist, pulling me down with him. I fall on top of him, my hair blocking my vision as it falls into my eyes. He moves it away from my face, his fingers brushing my skin. My heart slams against my chest. Is it going to happen now? Are we finally going to kiss?

“What were you trying to say earlier, kitten?” He asks. I shake my head, my throat dry. I can’t tell him. He flips us over, pushing me down onto the grass. Cold drops of rain drip from the tips, hitting my skin. I stare at Sylus, his tall body illuminated by the moonlight. He’s still wearing the outfit from the grassland competition, showing off the hard muscles of his chest. I place my hands on top of his chest, the brown leather that partly covers it hard against my fingers. He presses his body flush to mine the sheer strength of his body, pinning me down to the grass. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Feisty and bossy,” he says. “I’m afraid you’ll have to pick one, kitten.”

“Why can’t I be both?” I ask.

“Because it’s impolite.”

“To you,” I say.

“Tell me what you were trying to say.”

I shake my head.

“Tell me.”

I shake my head again.

“Next time I won’t be asking, kitten.”

“Fine,” I say. “I want to…” I push him up off of me, laughing as I lift up my skirt. “Keep playing tag!”

“Your ridicolous!” He gasps, pushing his hair away from his eyes.

I lift up my skirt again, running through the grass. The grass is cool beneath my bare feet. I move around one of the trees in front of me. Petals break off from the branches, floating lazily in the breeze. I keep running, approaching a small pond, the outside lined with large rocks. Pulling my skirt up higher, I look back at Sylus. He’s only a few steps away from me now. I dip my toes into the pond, shivering. Sylus moves closer. I step in, my teeth chattering. The water is shallow, rising to only my ankles. Hands grab my waist. I turn my head.

“I’m surprised you still want to play when you didn’t admit defeat the first time,” Sylus says, pulling me against his body.

“I demanded a rematch. You refused.”

“Not true,” he says.

I twist around in his grip, determined to keep running. He turns me around, cupping my cheek.

“No more running,” he says.

I hold my breath.

“Why?”

“What were you going to say?”

He takes a step forward and I take one back. My legs are wet now, so are his pants.

“Why do you want to know so badly?” I ask as my legs hit the edge of the bank.

“Tell me.”

“Okay,” I say.

“I want to-“

He grabs my hip, probably thinking I’ll run again.

“Want to what?” He tilts his head.

Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

“Kiss,” I finally say.

He smiles, grabbing my throat.

“That’s what you were struggling to say?”

“Yes! Don’t make fun of me,” I say, my face flushing.

“I’m not,” he says, brushing his nose against mine. “But kitten,” he lowers his voice, “All you had to do was ask.” He presses his mouth against mine. I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Parting my lips, he slips his tongue into my mouth. It’s so different than I imagined our first time would be. Sylus’s lips are gentle against mine, coaxing me to kiss him harder. I deepen the kiss, licking his tongue. He slides his hand underneath my legs, lifting me up out of the pond. He pushes me against one of the trees. Rain drips from the flowers overhead, rolling down my arms. He kisses me harder, his grip on my legs tightening. The wind blows against my ears, becoming colder every time our lips meet and separate to find each other’s again, tree bark digs into my back and cold raindrops keep dripping onto my skin. Soon, all of that seems to fade as I focus my attention on Sylus’s mouth, becoming lost in the way his lips feel against mine, so soft so warm, the way his body is pressed so snugly against mine, full of hard muscle, unmistakable beauty. I tilt my head, kissing him back harder as I tighten my grip on his neck, afraid to let him go. I don’t want this kiss to end. I don’t want… Sylus pulls me off the tree, lowering himself down to his knees. He pushes me onto the grass, sliding his fingers into my hair. He digs his fingers into my scalp, moving his hips against mine. I gasp against his mouth, moving my hips in turn. He separates our lips a moment later, his dark eyes meeting mine. He tightens his grip on my hair, moving his hips faster. His cock brushes against my pussy with every movement, and I moan, tilting my head back. Sylus kisses my jaw, moving down to my throat. When he gets to the fleshiest part, he sucks the skin into his mouth. I wrap my legs around his hips, pushing against him as though we’re actually fucking.

“Kitten,” Sylus groans against my ear. “Are you cold?”

I shake my head.

“Faster,” I whimper.

Sylus obliges, moving his hips faster. I let out a soft moan, my hips arching up. Warmth fills me.

“I’m gonna cum,” I say.

He presses his forehead against mine, kissing me again. Our hips keep moving, the friction enough to bring me close to an orgasm. A few moments later, I orgasm, arching my back. Sylus grunts in my ear as he cums before rolling off of me. I turn around, looking at him. His evol pulls me closer to him. We lay against the grass for some time, just listening to each other’s breaths.

“We should go back soon, sweetie,” he says. “I need to clean you up.”

I nod.

“Can we stay like this for a moment?” I ask, snuggling against him. He nods. His skin is hot against mine. “Sylus.”

“Mhm?” He says.

“I don’t know why but when I’m with you, I feel so safe and happy,” I say, closing my eyes. “You make me feel so warm.”

He kisses my forehead.

“I feel warm with you too.”

I place my hand on his chest.

“I want to do it for real one time,” I say, tracing lazy circles into his chest.

“Do what?”

My face flushes.

“You know,” I say.

“Don’t be shy now, kitten,” he says.

“I want to fuck.”

He laughs, rubbing my hair.

“Soon, kitten, soon.”

[simpingforstardew]

misty [chapter two]

pairing: sdv harvey x reader

synopsis: harvey has always been a man of routine and order— although just as he begins to tire of his life in pelican town, a new farmer moves to the valley and turns his life around. chapter two.

warnings: some angst in this one (tw/ description of familial death). pure fluff and romance; eventual smut, but that'll be tagged when the time comes !! please enjoy my harvey playlist while you read ♡ (this is crossposted from ao3).

word count: 1.6k

<< last chapter | next chapter >>

The Stardrop Saloon, bathed in the soft glow of warm, dim lighting, welcomes its patrons with a comforting ambiance. The air carried the distinct aroma of aged wood and the faint scent of a crackling fireplace, giving the bar a rustic charm. The gentle hum of conversation mixed with the mellow tunes emanating from the vintage jukebox, creating an intimate symphony that echoed throughout the space.

In the games lounge, a haven within the heart of the saloon, the atmosphere took on a relaxed and casual vibe. Two arcade machines stand as silent sentinels; their screens flicker with pixelated adventures. The soft glow of the games cast dancing shadows on the well-worn couches nearby, a testament to the countless conversations and moments that must have been shared over the years. Adjacent stands the pool table adorned with worn-out felt and scarred by countless games. A haphazard arrangement of colourful pool balls wait patiently for their turn, illuminated by the warm glow of an overhead light.

“What the fuck? Fired?” Shane’s disbelief echoed through the saloon, as the cue ball he hits ricochets off the side of the pool table, “Just like that?”

“Yep,” You chuckle— both at the absurdity of your own misfortune, and Shane’s awful shot “HR claimed my ‘extended bereavement’ could lead to ‘performance issues’ and ‘wasting company resources’… Whatever that means”

Shane let out a snort, taking a swig of his beer. “And here I thought working in retail was a special kind of hell. Turns out even the corporate suits have their own issues.”

You accepted the pool cue he passed your way, unable to resist a playful jab, “Thanks, Shane. You’re making me feel so much better.”

The short man scoffs, grabbing his beer from the table behind him to take a long sip. “Just sayin’, you dodged a bullet getting the fuck outta there.”

Chuckling, you circled the pool table, searching for the perfect shot, “Well, it’s not all bad. Getting the boot from Joja pushed me to embrace farm life here. Guess I’m lucky in a weird way.”

“Yeah, lucky you,” he deadpanned, though a glimmer of curiosity flickered in his eyes. His attempt at sarcasm faltered as your shot proved victorious, sinking the 8-ball with a delicate tap.

“Talk shit all you want, but it seems like my luck’s holding up pretty well considering I just wiped the floor with you.” You flashed a triumphant grin, leaning the pool cue against the wall. Shane’s stoic exterior cracked, and for a moment, a genuine smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Beginner’s luck,” he huffed, yet the twinkle in his eye hinted at a begrudging acceptance of your presence, “That kinda luck doesn’t count.”

“Yeah, yeah— A win is a win, Shane!” You shrug on your coat with a smile, heading towards the front door of the saloon, “You owe me a drink next time I’m here!”

Without turning to see Shane roll his eyes, you step out into the quiet darkness of the night. Your smile quickly fades as the door of the saloon swings shut, leaving behind the warmth of the bar. As you enter the town square, a serene hush settles over Pelican Town, its sett streets bathe in the soft, ambient glow of vintage street lamps scattered along the thoroughfare. The spring breeze carries the distant melody of an insectile symphony, the noise of crickets underscoring the serene ambiance that envelopes the town.

Strolling through unfamiliar streets under the moonlit sky, your steps echo against the rough cobblestones beneath you. Your shoulders are hunched against the night chill and your gaze remains fixed on the ground, a mosaic of uneven stones beneath your feet. Each step whispers a story of the town’s resilience, of seasons changing, and the curious rhythm of life in Pelican Town.

Once inside the farmhouse, however, you realize that you have made a grave misstep. Arranging for your grandfather’s funeral, clearing your new land of trees and shrubbery, drinking with the townsfolk— these had all allowed you to keep your hands busy and your mind blank. Now, alone in your dark farmhouse, you had no distractions from your new reality.

The house itself was bleak. Each attempt to redecorate felt like an intrusion— as if the space itself was resisting your efforts to make it feel like home. The bed stood as a lonely sentinel in the corner of the room, illuminated by the crackling flames of the fireplace on the furthest wall. The room itself was adorned with remnants of your grandfather’s presence; even your sleeping cat— Pixel— was the runt of your grandfather’s cat’s litter.

A small pot of forget-me-nots, once vibrant, now drooped listlessly on the windowsill. You reached out, your fingers gently brushing against the frail petals, a silent acknowledgment of the grief that clung to every corner of the room. You are at least blessed with a working CRT television, although with access to only two channels in the valley, the device feels like a relic of a bygone era.

A cold draft sweeps through the room as you look above the TV: the otherwise barren wall displays a single faded family photograph, featuring your late grandfather, grandmother, and you. The glass of the frame cracked during the move and the photograph itself never seems to hang straight. You move to bring the photograph down from its place on the wall, holding it delicately in your hands— as if it could shatter at any moment. The photograph captures a moment frozen in the sepia hues of nostalgia.

In the centre, your grandfather stands tall, a patriarchal figure with calloused hands cradling a newborn lamb. His eyes, warm and crinkled with a lifetime of stories, radiate a quiet wisdom that guided your childhood. Besides him, your grandmother’s hands gently cup a cluster of wildflowers. The fabric of her apron was slightly swept, caught in the breeze. In the foreground, you: a child with innocent eyes and a smile that mirrored the joy of the moment. Clutched in your small hands was a clumsy, makeshift bouquet. The backdrop was the farmhouse itself, standing proudly amidst a sea of greenery; the sun bathed the scene in a warm glow. Yet, even in this idyllic tableau, there lingered a subtle melancholy, as if the photograph itself harboured the prescience of inevitable goodbyes.

The frame, once resplendent, now bears the scars of time—a crack here, a chip there. The glass that shields the captured memories has grown cloudy, as if the passage of years had draped a delicate veil over the faces of those who once shared laughter under the farmhouse’s sturdy roof. A sob escapes your throat as a tear splashes on the glass of the portrait; hesitantly, you place the photograph on top of your small table. You take a step back. You chuckle solemnly, wiping your eyes using the back of your sleeves as you yawn.

Pixel mews softly, as you climb into the cold sheets of your bed, before falling back to sleep. The silence of the farmhouse envelopes you like a weighted blanket, as moonlight floods through the windows of the farmhouse. It seemed that sleep was becoming increasingly elusive as you tossed and turned in bed.

The gratitude for your budding friendship with Elliot and Shane brings a bittersweet comfort, as you stare up at the ceiling, watching the way the moonlight casts a silver glow above. Elliot was the first person in the valley to approach you. His efforts to get to know you eased your anxiety about the new town. Shane was a tough nut to crack, but you suppose any stranger is your friend after too many beers— at the very least, you had a new drinking buddy.

The doctor you met before entering the saloon flashes through your mind as your eyes flutter shut.

‘Harvey,’ You mentally correct yourself, ‘His name is Harvey… and he doesn’t like decaf.’ You softly exhale, a smile tugging at your lips. He was… cute? A little bashful, sure, but he was more than gorgeous enough to make up for his nerves. Your face heats up thinking about his broad, towering figure; and the way his moustache curls up with his coy grin; and the way his dimpled, freckled cheeks blush so intensely when you look into his forest green eyes…

You turn to cover your face in your firm pillow, attempting to control your wondering thoughts; eventually, your breathing slows and your blush fades as you finally drift off.

[faytelumos]

Rewrite My Line

Tagged for this one by @tildeathiwillwrite, and—

Oh gosh, it's an internal thought line! XD Before even touching this I can tell you it's going to be so much longer than the original!

---

my line:

He wandered about the city aimlessly, eventually stopping at one of the fountains and resting at a nearby bench. He stared at the splashing water almost desperately, trying to turn his mind to less depressing thoughts. It didn’t work.

rewritten as:

He wandered. He didn't know where he was going, where he wanted to be. Nowhere. Anywhere. As long as it wasn't here.

Eventually, he stopped at a fountain square. The air was cold where it blew off the mumbling stone. One of many in the park, the fountain muttered and grumbled, the water cycling endlessly in an illusion of permanence. He sat down on a bench to watch it, to distract his stupid mind from its stupid, depressing thoughts. Maybe he could go into a trance. Maybe he could find some kind of profound wisdom in the miracle of gravity made trivial by modern technology. Maybe he could just dunk his head in the basin and count all of the coins tossed in despite the signage, drowning the world out until he had to come up for air, choking and coughing.

He sighed and leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.

---

Gently as ever tagging @afoolandathief, @amethystpath-writes, @annakayy, @gummybugg, @kaatiba, @those-damn-snippets, @serenanymph, @surplus-of-sarcasm, @written-in-starlight, and anyone else who wants to play along!

Your line today is:

The leader stopped, and we each turned to take our places. There were moss-covered boards for us to kneel on, to save our knees from the hard, rocky ground. I knelt down, and when the leader motioned for us to get low, I leaned forward, placing my hands on the wet, gravelly ground, and rested my forehead on my fingers.

[again, I'm sorry if this is kinda long. @_@ You can cut pieces out, it's okay.]

@thelazywitchphotographer :D

[pastshadows]

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.

64.media.tumblr.com

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.

[ladymarycrawley]

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…”

[redislazy]

Deadly Attachments, Chapter 06

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[EVENTUAL SMUT] - Minors DNI > ao3 <

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x female!Reader

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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?

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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.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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. :^)

[stardancerluv]

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!

[wayward-dreamer]

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.

[justwhisperingfantasies]

Another one for @jarpadversebingo . Squared Filled: Bar meet cute Pairing: Cordell Walker x O.C Warnings: Language, Fluff, Drinking, Implied smut My Tag list My Master List Hope y'all enjoy ♡

“How about this.” Trey began “If I hit this one, you go talk to her.”

“Her who?” Walker played dumb.

“Oh, come on Walker, you’ve been staring at Ms. Curls all night.”

“Have not.” Walker protested.

“Bull.” Liam chimed in.

“Maybe I’ve glanced once or twice.” He admitted.

“Do we have a deal?” Trey asked, aiming his dart at the board.

He glanced at her again, a coy smile on his lips. She returned his smile when their eyes met.

“Deal.” Walker agreed, not taking his eyes off her.

Trey steadied his hand, took a deep breath, and let the dart fly.

She winked at him and that’s all it took, He started walking.

“Howdy.” He said, tipping his black hat as he approached.

 "Well, howdy there cowboy.” she replied, her voice smooth like honey.

He couldn't help but notice the way her eyes sparkled under the dim lights of the bar. “So, how have you been, haven’t seen you in a while.”

Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Do I know you?”

“Yea, you remember we had that one class together?” Walker asked

“No, I don’t think so…”

“You sure? I swear we had chemistry.” A grin spread across his face as he winked.

She laughed “Wow. Smooth.” Sarcasm dripped off her voice.

“I got more where that came from.”

“I don’t doubt it.” She teased. “What’s your name, cowboy?”

“Walker, yours?”

“Leah.”

“Well, Leah you thirsty?” he gestured over to the bar.

She looked over to her friends, who silently encouraged her to proceed.

“Come on, one beer.” He pleaded

“Alright, Walker. One beer.”

She followed him over to the bar.

“Lewis, two beers please,” he said leaning on the bar.

As they waited for their drinks, Walker turned to Leah with a curious smile. "So, what brings you to this neck of the woods?"

Leah shrugged, leaning casually against the bar. "Just out with friends.”

Lewis sat their beers on the bar "Here you go, Enjoy."

“Thanks.” Walker handed Leah a beer, their fingers brushing momentarily. “Cheers.” He held out his bottle.

“Cheers.” Leah echoed, clinking her bottle against his.

Leah took a sip from her bottle, glancing around the bar she noticed his friends staring. She chuckled, Walker followed her gaze. Liam and Trey awkwardly looked away, Liam started talking and pointing at the ceiling.

“Ignore them.” He insisted. "So, Leah, what do you do when you're not out with friends?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. Work, hobbies, trying to find the meaning of life."

Walker chuckled, his eyes never leaving hers. "Sounds like a full schedule.”

Leah smiled, tilting her head slightly. "How about you? What do you do when you're not being charming at bars?"

Walker grinned, taking a sip of his beer. "Searching for cheesy pick-up lines."

She laughed.

One beer turned into two as they continued to talk, they both realized how much they enjoyed each other's company.

 Two beers turned into five.

“No way,” she laughed

“I swear, it really happened.” He reassured, joining her laughter

“Hey walker.” Lewis smiled at them. “Last call.”

“Shit, already?” he asked looking at his watch.

Leah drank the last swig of her beer “Yea, I should probably get going.”

“Let me walk you out.” He offered, taking the last drink.

“Well, Walker it was nice to meet you.” She stuck her hand out.

 “Pleasure was all mine, Leah”

She gazed into his eyes as their hands slowed, her hand lingering in his.

She inserted the key card in the slit above the door handle as he trailed kisses down her neck from behind. He spun her when he heard the ding of the green light, his needy lips back on hers.

They stumbled into the room, their lips never parting, a clumsy dance of passion and laughter guiding their steps.

The back of her calves found the bed as she fell onto it, pulling him down with her. His arms caught his weight, he smiled as he loomed over her.

“You sure about this, darlin’?” He asked trailing kisses on her jawline.

“Yes.” She replied, pulling the hem of his shirt up.

“So, she was gone when you woke up?” Trey asked as they entered the ranger station.

“Yep,” Walker said with disappointment in his voice.

“Damn dude, I’m sorry, But who knows you might run into her again.”

“Yea, My luck ain’t that great.” Walker objected, walking through the doorway to the room full of cubicles.

“Shhh.” Cassie told them, standing by the captain’s office door, she was trying to ease drop.

“What’s going on?” Trey asked her.

“New D.A came a day early. They are arguing about something.” Cassie explained.

“Yea. I heard she’s a real hard ass.” Walker told them as he sat on his desk.

“That’s just what we need.” Trey huffed.

Cassie rushed back over to her desk, as the door handle jiggled.

Captain James peeked his head out and then opened his door. “Good morning.” He nodded at them.

“Morning Cap.” They said in unison.

He stepped out of his office, and she stepped out behind him.

A grin spread over Trey’s face as Walker’s heart jumped into his throat.

“Ranger Barnette, Ranger Walker, Ranger Perez, This is our new district attorney Leah Jones.”

Tag List

@quietgirll75 @nightxcreature @namcymcl

@hunter-or-the-hunted @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @deansimpalababy

@roseblue373 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @spnaquakindgdom

[trashbag-baby666]

¹³⁾ a police station in a foreign country

Please enjoy from my high rise au :3

mota masterlist!

The day started like any other on their whirlwind WWII history tour through Europe. Gale had the itinerary memorized down to the minute, while John—never one for plans even if he was the one who insisted they take the trip—tagged along with his usual mix of charm and sarcasm. Today’s stop: a tiny French village, boasting a museum and a visit to Normandy Beach.

They strolled through the cobblestone streets hand in hand, Gale pointing out plaques and markers, John dragging Gale closer to read everyone of them. 

Besides the sight seeing, John was set to find a snack for the bus ride back to the hotel. He peaked in the windows of every shop before finding a souvenir shop that doubled as a bakery.

Gale wandered off from John as he struck up a conversation with the older man behind the counter. Gale examined a replica of a wartime map, lost in the details, while John chatted away. Gabbing about how they were from New York and what they were doing in France, Gale wandered back over to John bumping his hip gently. "What're you thinking about getting?"

"Think I'm gonna get a couple macarons and a pain au chocolat." John mimicked a French accent and pointed towards the chocolate croissant.

"Over a year duolingo streak and chocolate croissants is what you remember?" Gale snickered, glancing up at John; they had been relying on the man's French throughout the trip, and it certainly hadn’t always translated the way they had hoped.

"At least I remembered that," John shrugged with a lippy smirk, ordering for the both of them in French.

Gale watched as John pulled out his wallet and fished out a euro, handing it over to the man behind the counter and taking the box of pastries. John's hand found Gales as they walked out of the small shop before a sharp voice calling after them. The shopkeeper coming out from behind the counter, rapid fire French coming out with an accusing tone.

"John?" Gale stopped in his tracks, eyeing John and the angry shopkeeper.

"There's been a mistake, uhm," John squared his shoulders and turned back toward the man. "Quel est le problème?" he asked, his French now slower but still deliberate. His tone was calm, but there was an edge to it, the New Yorker in him stirring to life.

The shopkeeper spat a word neither of them had hoped to hear: "Voleurs." Thieves.

Gale’s stomach sank. He looked at John, whose face went from puzzled to defensive in an instant. John's eyebrows pinched together in confusion, a small crowd now gathering around.

The man stepped closer, pointing not at the pastries but at Gale’s pocket. Confused, Gale instinctively patted himself down, only to realize he still had the folded map he’d been examining earlier. His stomach dropped further.

"Oh no," Gale muttered, pulling the map from his pocket. He unfolded it, showing it to the shopkeeper. "I didn’t—"

The man cut him off, his accusations growing louder. The crowd around them was now watching intently, some recording the scene with their phones.

"I didn’t mean to take it," Gale insisted, his voice firm but apologetic. "I must have—when I walked over—" He looked at John, the guilt evident in his eyes.

Before they knew what was going on two police officers were filing through the crowd. Plucking the map from Gale's pocket and handing it back to the shopkeeper and escorting John and Gale away.

The two sat in a small holding cell, the pink box of pastries sitting on the desk, taunting John with each grumble of his stomach.

“Think they’ll let us call Meatball for bail?” John asked, smirking.

“John, this isn’t funny.” Gale shot him a glare, though the faintest smile tugged at his lips.

“Come on, it’s kind of funny.” John nudged Gale’s foot under the table. “How many people can say they got arrested on a WWII history tour? Adds to the authenticity, don’t you think?”

"John, we missed the bus..." Gale trailed off as a teenage girl walked in, likely a volunteer or intern. She took one look at the couple and switched to perfect English.

“You’re the tourists?” she asked.

"Yes, there's been a misunderstanding, he didn't mean to take the map." John explained, standing up from the uncomfortable, wooden bench.

The girl raised a brow, glancing between John and Gale before focusing on Gale’s sheepish expression. "Misunderstanding or not, the shopkeeper was pretty upset. You’re lucky he didn’t press charges."

Gale let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders slumping. "Thank you. Truly. I didn’t mean to take it—I just got distracted."

The girl nodded, clearly unimpressed but not unkind, "Fine. You’re free to go, but maybe stick to buying souvenirs next time."

The officer standing nearby unlocked the cell door, waving them out. John and Gale grabbed their things, including the now slightly squished box of pastries, and followed the girl out of the station.

As soon as they stepped into the sunlight, Gale let out a long breath. "That was humiliating."

John chuckled, holding up the box. "Worth it, though. These pastries better be amazing."

Gale gave him a look but couldn’t help a small laugh. "I’m never going to live this down, am I?"

"Not a chance," John said, slipping his arm around Gale’s shoulders. "You’re officially my partner in international crime."

[curator-on-ao3]

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

[emilykaldwen]

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

no tag list. please follow @emkald-fic and turn on post notifications for updates or subscribe on AO3

Tumblr Masterpost

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six

AO3 Link

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]

[ay0nha]

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?”

[heretopasstime]

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.