#shes doomed the second you boot it up

[devotedlystrangewizard]

ff7 rebirth really embraced the whole "okay this horrible event in the story will always happen no matter what but what if this time is different" that is inherently part of a remake

[wolvietxt]

𝓕OR THE 𝓕IRST 𝓣IME …

pairing : dean winchester x female!reader warnings : crying, friends to lovers, fluff, really light angst (squint and you’ll miss it), hunts, food mentions, reader has implied insomnia (self indulgent sorry) wc : 6.1k😈

the gravel crunched under the impala’s tires as dean pulled into the parking lot of yet another roadside diner. the neon sign buzzed faintly overhead, casting flickering hues of blue and pink over the impala’s sleek frame.  

“another diner?” you teased, sliding out of the passenger seat. your boots hit the ground with a soft thud. “you know, there are other food groups besides pie.”  

dean smirked, locking the car with a flick of his wrist. “and i’m sure you’ll tell me all about them, kid. but i don’t need food advice from someone who orders salad at a steakhouse.”  

“first of all, that was only one time,” you shot back, walking alongside him toward the door. “and second, that salad was really really good.”  

dean snorted, holding the door open for you. “whatever helps you sleep at night, darlin’.”  

the diner was exactly what you expected: vinyl booths, laminate tables, and the comforting hum of an old jukebox in the corner. dean led the way to a booth by the window, sliding in across from you.  

“so,” you started, picking up a menu. “are you gonna do that thing where you order half of what’s on the menu? or just pie and coffee?”  

“both,” dean said without hesitation, his eyes skimming the options. “you know me. go big or go home.”  

the waitress appeared moments later, all smiles and a notepad in hand. dean ordered two burgers and, of course, pie. you went with something lighter, which earned you a raised brow.  

“you sure that’s enough?” he asked once the waitress left. “you’re gonna get hungry and start eyeing my fries. i can feel it.”  

“i am perfectly capable of ordering my own food, thanks.”  

“we’ll see.”  

the food arrived faster than expected, and you fell into easy conversation, catching up on the day’s events. the current hunt had been straightforward so far - just a basic salt-and-burn. still, you weren’t exactly looking forward to it. you never where when it came to hunts, they were more dean’s speciality. the looming anxiety and sense of impending doom wasn’t ever remotely enjoyable for you.

“so, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” you asked, grabbing a fry from your plate. “wrap this one up and hit the road?”  

“probably,” dean replied between bites. “unless we get more intel on that death omen case. sam thinks there’s a connection between the two.”  

“of course he does,” you said with a laugh. “guy can’t take a win without overthinking it.”  

“hey, that overthinking saves our asses sometimes,” dean pointed out, though his tone was more fond than annoyed.  

“true. but it also gets him hexed.” you grinned. “remember that time with the chickens?”  

dean barked out a laugh, nearly choking on his drink. “oh man, that was gold. i think we have a picture of him running from that rooster somewhere.”  

“we should frame it,” you said, smirking. “hang it in the bunker’s library for motivation.”  

“you’re evil, you know that?” he remarked, his smug grin widening further.

“takes one to know one,” you shot back, plucking the cherry off of his slice of pie and popping it into your mouth.

your conversations were effortless, the kind of back-and-forth that felt like second nature at this point. it wasn’t until dean reached over and grabbed one of your fries that you gave him a look.  

“you’ve got two whole plates,” you said, swatting his hand away.  

“what can i say?” he replied, popping the fry into his mouth with zero shame. “yours taste better.”  

before you could respond, the waitress returned to drop off the check. she hesitated for a second, then smiled warmly.  

“you two are such a cute couple,” she said, her voice casual but sincere.  

you froze, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.  

“we are not a couple,” you blurted out, at the exact same time dean said, “yeah, never.”  

the waitress blinked, clearly taken aback by your synchronized response. “oh, uh, sorry! my mistake.”  

she hurried off, and you stared after her, still processing what just happened.  

“well, that wasn’t awkward at all,” dean muttered, reaching for his coffee.  

“why does this keep happening?” you asked, more to yourself than to him.  

“beats me,” dean said with a shrug, though you caught the flicker of something in his expression - amusement, maybe? “guess we just give off the vibe.”  

“the vibe?” you echoed.  

“you know.” he waved a hand between the two of you. “like… a vibe.”  

“that explains nothing.”  

“then i guess it can just be one of life’s great mysteries, sweetheart.”  

you tried to let it go, but the waitress’s comment lingered in the back of your mind. it wasn’t the first time someone had assumed you and dean were a couple, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. still, it felt… different this time.  

you glanced across the table at dean. he was back to his usual self, leaning against the booth with a lazy grin and a smart remark on the tip of his tongue.  

he caught you staring and raised an eyebrow. “what?”  

“nothing,” you said quickly, looking away. “just thinking.”  

“about what?”  

“the hunt,” you lied.  

he didn’t press, but you could feel his gaze lingering for a moment longer before he turned his attention back to the check.  

“you ready to hit the road?” he asked, sliding out of the booth.  

“yeah,” you said, grabbing your jacket. “let’s go.”  

the drive back to the motel was quiet, the hum of the impala’s engine filling the silence. dean had turned on the radio, and metallica’s prince charming filtered through the speakers. you leaned your head against the window, watching the dark countryside blur past.  

“why are you being so damn quiet?” dean said after a while. “i know i’m always complaining about it but it really doesn’t feel right when you’re not yapping my ear off.”

“‘m just tired,” you replied, though that wasn’t entirely true. your mind was still replaying the waitress’s words and the way dean had brushed them off so easily.  

“well, get some rest,” he said, his voice softer now. “we’ve got a long day tomorrow.”  

“okay, dean.” you nodded, letting your eyes drift shut as baby rumbled on.  

the next morning, you were back on the road, this time heading toward a small, rundown cemetery. the salt-and-burn had gone smoothly, but the death omen case was proving to be trickier than expected.  

“so what are we looking for?” you asked as dean parked the car near the edge of the cemetery, trying to rub your eyes subtly so he wouldn’t notice your fatigue.

“old journal entries mentioned a spirit tied to a cursed locket,” he said, grabbing his duffel bag. “we find the locket, we find the spirit.”  

“sounds easy enough,” you said, though you both knew it rarely was.  

the two of you spent the next hour combing through the overgrown graves, your flashlights cutting through the dark.  

“anything?” dean called out from a few rows over.  

“not yet,” you replied, brushing aside some vines. “but this place gives me the creeps.”  

“aww, don’t tell me you’re scared, sweetheart,” dean teased, his grin audible even from a distance.  

“you wish,” you shot back, though you couldn’t deny the way your nerves prickled.  

as you moved to another section of the cemetery, you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone - or something - was watching you.  

“dean,” you called out, your voice quieter now.  

“yeah? you okay, sweetheart?” his voice softer now, a hint of panic sneaking through. 

“i think we’ve got company.”  

he was at your side in an instant, his flashlight sweeping the area. “stay close,” he said, his tone serious now.  

you nodded, your heart pounding as the shadows seemed to close in around you. whatever was out there, you had a feeling this hunt was about to get a whole lot messier.  

the night was heavy with an unnatural stillness, the kind that made your skin crawl. somewhere deep in the shadows of the cemetery, you just knew something was watching you.  

you stayed close to dean as the two of you scanned the overgrown headstones, flashlights cutting through the darkness.  

“you hear that?” you whispered, your voice barely carrying over the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.  

“hear what?” dean replied, his gaze darting around.  

then it came again - a low, guttural moan, echoing through the cemetery like a warning.  

“that,” you said, gripping the iron crowbar in your hand a little tighter.  

dean’s jaw tensed. “stay behind me,” he muttered, pulling out his gun.  

“you know i’m not great at staying behind,” you quipped, though your attempt at humor fell flat against the weight of the moment.  

“yeah, i noticed,” he said, flashing you a wry grin despite the tension. “but humor me, darlin’. just this once.”  

the two of you moved cautiously toward the source of the sound, your flashlights dancing over moss-covered graves and weathered stone angels. the air grew colder the closer you got, your breath puffing out in visible clouds.  

then you saw it - a faint, ghostly figure hovering near an old, crumbling mausoleum. its features were obscured, but its presence was anything but subtle.  

“that’s gotta be our spirit,” dean said, his voice low.  

“looks like it’s guarding something,” you observed, nodding toward the mausoleum door.  

“the locket,” dean guessed.  

“how do we get past that thing without getting our faces ripped off?”  

“i distract it, you grab the locket,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious plan in the world.  

“oh, sure,” you said, rolling your eyes. “because splitting up always works so well for us.” when you looked up at, him he finally noticed the twinge of fear in your tired gaze.

“trust me, sweetheart,” dean said, flashing you a soft smile he hoped appeared reassuring. “i’ve got this.”  

against your better judgment, you let dean take the lead. he stepped into the spirit’s line of sight, his gun raised.  

“hey, casper!” he called out. “over here!”  

the ghost turned toward him, its hollow eyes locking onto his figure. it let out an unearthly wail that sent chills down your spine, then began moving toward him with an unnatural speed.  

“anytime now!” dean shouted, firing a round of rock salt to slow it down.  

you darted toward the mausoleum, shoving the heavy door open with all your strength. inside, the air was damp and musty, the faint smell of decay clinging to the walls.  

your flashlight landed on an old wooden box sitting atop a stone altar. you didn’t have time to think - you grabbed the box and pried it open, revealing the cursed locket inside.  

“got it!” you called out, stuffing the locket into your pocket and running back toward dean.  

the ghost was still focused on him, though it was clearly losing its patience. dean fired another shot of rock salt, sending it reeling.  

“move it, kid!” he yelled, glancing back at you.  

“i’m coming!” you shouted, skidding to a halt beside him.  

together, you pulled out matches and a small jar of accelerant. you didn’t waste a second, dousing the locket and striking a match.  

the moment the flames touched the cursed object, the ghost let out a piercing scream, its form disintegrating into a shower of sparks before disappearing entirely.  

“well, that was fun,” dean said, lowering his gun.  

“yeah, a real blast,” you replied, still catching your breath.  

he turned to you, his expression softening slightly. “you okay?”  

“yeah,” you said, nodding. “thanks for the save.”  

“always,” he said with a small smile, clapping you on the shoulder. “come on, let’s get out of here before something else decides to show up.”  

the drive back to the motel was quieter than usual. the adrenaline from the hunt had worn off, leaving you both exhausted.  

“you’re really bad at staying behind,” dean said suddenly, breaking the silence.  

“and you’re really bad at not playing the hero,” you shot back.  

he glanced at you, his expression somewhere between exasperation and fondness. “you’re gonna get yourself killed one day, you know that?”  

“not if you’re around to save me,” you said lightly, though there was an edge of truth to your words.  

he didn’t reply, but the way his grip on the steering wheel tightened said enough.  

back at the motel, you both collapsed onto your respective beds, the exhaustion from the hunt settling into your bones. the cheap, scratchy sheets were far from comfortable, but you barely noticed, too tired to care.  

“you want first shower?” dean asked, already kicking off his boots and wincing at the creak of the bed frame beneath him.  

“you take it,” you mumbled, waving him off and stifling a yawn. “i’ll just... lie here for a sec.”  

he paused, giving you a look. “you good? you’ve been dragging all day.”  

“just tired,” you said quickly, forcing a small smile. “nothing a shower and some sleep won’t fix.”  

dean didn’t seem convinced. “you sure? you’ve been looking... kinda rough.” his voice was softer now, almost hesitant. “when’s the last time you actually got a decent night’s sleep?”  

“i sleep,” you said, avoiding his gaze by focusing on the ceiling.  

“yeah, but do you sleep?” he pressed, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “like, real sleep. out cold. no tossing and turning. none of that zombie stuff.”  

“i’m fine, dean,” you said firmly, though your voice lacked any real bite.  

he lingered for a moment longer, clearly unconvinced but unsure what else to say. eventually, he grabbed a towel and disappeared into the bathroom with a quiet, “if you say so.”  

the sound of the shower running filled the silence, but your mind was louder. it wasn’t that you didn’t want to sleep - it was just that you couldn’t. not really. the hunts, the adrenaline, the nightmares - they all tangled together into a mess you couldn’t quite escape.  

you stared at the water-stained ceiling, your thoughts drifting back to the hunt and, inevitably, to dean. the way he’d thrown himself between you and that ghost without hesitation, his instincts sharper than anyone you’d ever met. it wasn’t just about the hunt; it was about him.  

you sighed, shaking your head at yourself. this wasn’t the time to overthink things.  

when dean emerged from the bathroom, steam trailing after him, his hair damp and sticking up at odd angles, you were still lying in the same spot.  

“your turn,” he said, tossing a towel onto your bed.  

you groaned, forcing yourself to sit up. “if i fall asleep in there, it’s your fault.”  

he smirked, stretching out on his bed and crossing his arms behind his head. “just don’t drown, sweetheart.”  

rolling your eyes, you dragged yourself into the bathroom, the hot water doing wonders for your sore muscles and the lingering chill from the hunt. by the time you came out, the room was dark, and dean was already passed out, one arm draped over his face.  

you stood there for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest, his face relaxed in a way you rarely got to see.  

“goodnight, dean,” you murmured softly, pulling a blanket over yourself as you sank onto your bed.  

as you lay there, the quiet hum of the motel settling around you, you tried to let the exhaustion take over. but your thoughts wouldn’t quiet, your body still on edge despite how tired you were.  

at some point, dean shifted, his voice groggy but unmistakable. “you okay?”  

“yeah,” you lied, turning onto your side to face the wall.  

“you sure?” his voice was softer now, thick with sleep.  

“get some rest, dean,” you mumbled, not trusting yourself to say more.  

“right back at you,” he muttered, the faintest hint of concern lingering in his tone before his breathing evened out again.  

you closed your eyes, willing yourself to follow his lead, even as your thoughts refused to let you.

a storm rolled in by the time you and dean reached the next job. thick, gray clouds churned overhead as rain hammered against the impala's windshield, the wipers working overtime. the cabin in question - a decrepit thing that looked more haunted than it probably was - loomed at the end of a dirt road.  

"of course it's in the middle of nowhere," you muttered, peering at it through the rain.  

"yeah, because monsters love suburban neighborhoods," dean said, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he parked the car.  

you snorted, unbuckling your seatbelt. "remind me again why we couldn’t tackle this in daylight?"  

"because the kid who called us swears the thing only shows up at night," he replied, grabbing his shotgun and tossing you a flashlight. "come on, sweetheart. we’ve got work to do."  

the inside of the cabin was worse than the outside. peeling wallpaper, creaky floors, and an unsettling number of broken mirrors made up the interior.  

"i'm guessing the shattered mirrors aren't just bad decorating choices," you said, shining your flashlight across the room.  

"nope," dean said. "sounds like we're dealing with a vengeful spirit. probably tied to one of these." he gestured to the shards of glass littering the floor.  

"great," you muttered. "so, we find the mirror, salt it, and burn it. easy enough."  

"you say that now," dean said, smirking as he headed toward the stairs. "but nothing's ever that easy, is it?"  

you split up to cover more ground - though not without a bit of grumbling on your part. it was horrible hunting without dean, the anxiety looming over you multiplying by a thousand. the cabin had two floors, plus a creepy basement you were hoping to avoid.  

"why do i always get stuck with the creepy basements?" you whined after him as he ascended the stairs.  

"because you're the rookie," dean shot back, his grin audible even from a distance.  

"oh, real mature," you muttered, making your way toward the basement door, sucking in as many deep breaths as you could manage.

the basement was every bit as awful as you’d imagined. damp, dark, and filled with cobwebs. your flashlight flickered as you descended the creaking stairs, and you swore under your breath.  

"if this thing jumps out at me, i’m leaving dean to deal with it solo," you muttered to yourself, sweeping the light across the room.  

you spotted an old, ornate mirror leaning against the far wall. it was cracked but still intact - a likely candidate for the spirit's anchor.  

"dean, i found something," you said into the walkie-talkie dean had insisted you carry.  

"copy that," came his reply. "on my way down. don't touch it."  

"wasn't planning on it, boss," you said, rolling your eyes even though he couldn’t see you.  

dean joined you a minute later, shotgun in hand. he gave the mirror a once-over, his expression hardening.  

"yep, that's the one," he said. "you got the salt?"  

you nodded, pulling the bag from your backpack.  

"good. i'll cover you," he said, positioning himself between you and the dark corners of the basement.  

"you know, for someone who calls me a rookie, you sure don’t trust me to handle things on my own," you teased, pouring the salt over the mirror.  

"nah, i trust you," he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "just don’t want you getting yourself killed. i'd miss you too much."  

the comment caught you off guard, and you glanced at him, trying to gauge if he was serious. but before you could say anything, the temperature in the room plummeted.  

a figure materialized behind dean - a translucent woman with hollow eyes and a twisted expression of rage.  

"dean!" you shouted, and he spun around just in time to fire a round of rock salt at her. the spirit screeched, vanishing into thin air.  

"you okay?" he asked, turning back to you.  

"yeah," you said, your heart pounding. "but she’s definitely not gone for good."  

"not until we burn this thing," dean said, nodding toward the mirror.  

you struck a match, lighting the accelerant you’d poured over the salt. the mirror went up in flames, and another anguished wail echoed through the basement before fading into silence.  

back upstairs, you and dean collapsed onto the dusty couch, both of you breathing heavily.  

"you know," you said, leaning your head back, "for a rookie, i think i did pretty well tonight."  

dean chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "yeah, you didn’t screw up too bad."  

"high praise," you said, feeling fatigue spread over you once more.

he glanced at you, his expression softening in that way that always caught you off guard. "i mean it," he said. "you did good, sweetheart."  

you couldn’t tell if it was the exhaustion or the way he said it, but something about the moment felt different. heavier.  

"thanks," you said softly, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious under his gaze.  

before either of you could say anything else, the walkie-talkie crackled to life.  

"hey, uh, guys?" sam’s voice came through, tinged with static. "you alive down there?"  

"barely," dean replied, grabbing the device. "but the spirit's toast. we'll meet you back at the motel."  

"got it," sam said.  

the drive back was quiet again, but this time, it wasn’t just the exhaustion. something unspoken lingered between you, making the silence feel heavier than usual.  

"so," you said finally, breaking the tension. "you think sam's gonna be mad we didn’t wait for him?"  

"nah," dean said, though his smirk suggested otherwise. "he’s used to it by now."  

you laughed, shaking your head. "poor guy."  

"hey, he knew what he was signing up for," dean said. "besides, he’s probably just glad you didn’t burn the whole cabin down."  

"oh, so now i’m a fire hazard?"  

"just saying, i’ve seen you with matches," he teased, and you couldn’t help but laugh again.  

back at the motel, sam was already poring over research for the next hunt.  

"how’d it go?" he asked, barely looking up.  

"spirit's gone," dean said, flopping onto one of the beds. "but the place was a real fixer-upper."  

"great," sam said, clearly not listening.  

"you know, you’re a terrible audience," you said, plopping down beside dean.  

sam hummed distractedly, still scrolling through his laptop.  

"don’t take it personally, sweetheart," dean said, grinning at you. "he’s just jealous he missed all the action."  

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. despite the exhaustion, there was a strange warmth settling in your chest, one you weren’t quite ready to examine too closely.  

later that night, after sam had gone to bed, you and dean found yourselves sitting outside the motel, the night air cool and refreshing after the storm.  

“you still can’t sleep, huh? we really gotta get that checked out.” dean uttered, breaking the silence. “c’mon kid, what’s got your mind going so crazy?”

"you ever think about, you know, taking a break?" you asked, staring up at the stars, surprised with how he could always clock you so quickly.

"from hunting?" dean asked, raising an eyebrow.  

"yeah," you said. "just... doing something normal for once."  

he snorted. "normal’s overrated."  

"come on," you said, nudging him with your elbow. "you’ve never thought about it? not even a little?"  

he was quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "maybe," he admitted finally. "but normal’s not in the cards for people like us."  

"i guess not," you said softly, though you couldn’t help but wish it were different.  

the conversation faded into a comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need to be filled.  

"you know," dean said after a while, "you’re not half bad at this whole hunting thing."  

"high praise," you said, smiling faintly.  

"i mean it," he said, his tone more serious than you expected. "you’ve got guts. most people wouldn’t last a week in this life, but you - "  

he stopped, shaking his head like he wasn’t sure how to finish the thought.  

"but me?" you prompted, your heart pounding for reasons you didn’t quite understand.  

"but you’re different," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.  

you didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t say anything. instead, you let the moment hang between you, heavy and unspoken but somehow perfect in its own way.  

the next hunt came quicker than expected - barely two days after the cabin job. a string of disappearances in a sleepy town near a dense forest had drawn your attention. while sam was still digging through lore, you and dean decided to scout the area.  

"we’ll take the impala and check out the woods," dean had said, tossing you your jacket.  

"because that worked so well last time," you quipped, zipping up your coat.  

"what can i say?" he said with a smirk. "i like to live dangerously."  

the forest was eerily quiet as the two of you trudged along a narrow dirt path. the afternoon sunlight barely filtered through the thick canopy of leaves above, casting the area in a dim, golden haze.  

"you know," you said, stepping over a fallen branch, "i don’t think i’ve ever seen you willingly go for a hike. kind of nice to see you in your natural habitat."  

dean shot you a look. "i’ll have you know i’m very outdoorsy."  

"oh, sure," you said, grinning. "nothing says 'man of the wilderness' like a guy who packs cheeseburgers for every meal."  

"hey, those cheeseburgers keep me alive," he said, pretending to be offended. "besides, you’re one to talk. what’s in your backpack right now? candy bars?"  

"no comment," you said, giggling as he shook his head.  

you reached a clearing after about an hour of walking. the ground was covered in strange markings - symbols carved into the dirt, arranged in an ominous circle.  

"well, that’s not creepy at all," you muttered, crouching to get a closer look.  

dean knelt beside you, his brow furrowed. "witchcraft, maybe?"  

"maybe," you said. "but why the forest? wouldn’t a house or barn make more sense?"  

"maybe they like the fresh air," he said, scanning the area with his flashlight. "either way, we need to be careful. whoever’s behind this probably doesn’t want us poking around."  

"yeah, no kidding," you said, standing up and brushing dirt off your hands.  

the rest of the day was spent investigating the clearing, but the markings didn’t offer many clues. frustrated, you and dean decided to head back to the motel.  

"we’ll regroup with sam, see if he’s found anything," dean said as you walked back to the car.  

"do you think this one’s human?" you asked, wide eyed with expectation.

he glanced at you, his jaw tight. "maybe. but something about it feels... off. i don’t like it."  

you nodded, falling silent. his instincts were rarely wrong, and if dean was uneasy, you knew better than to dismiss it.  

back at the motel, sam had made some progress.  

"the symbols in the clearing - they’re part of a summoning ritual," he explained, showing you a dusty old book.  

"great," dean said, flopping onto the bed. "so, what are we dealing with? demons? spirits? something worse?"  

sam hesitated, glancing between the two of you. "it’s a summoning ritual for a wendigo."  

your stomach dropped.  

"a wendigo?" you repeated. "seriously?"  

"yeah," sam said grimly. "and if the markings in that clearing are any indication, they’re close to finishing the ritual."  

"perfect," dean muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. 

the plan was simple: return to the forest, disrupt the ritual, and kill the wendigo if it had already been summoned.  

"simple," you said, your tone dry as you loaded your shotgun.  

"hey, it’s worked before," dean said, smirking as he handed you a flare gun.  

"yeah, and almost got us killed before," you shot back, though you couldn’t help the fearful expression that broke out on your face.

"what can i say?" he said, shrugging. "we’re good at not dying."  

the forest felt different this time - heavier, like the air itself was charged with something dark and unnatural.  

"stay close," dean said, his voice low.  

"i definitely wasn’t planning on wandering off," you replied, gripping your shotgun tightly.  

he shot you a quick glance, his expression softer than you expected. "just... stay close, okay?"  

"okay," you said quietly, feeling your heart skip a beat.  

the clearing was empty when you arrived, but the symbols on the ground glowed faintly, pulsing with an eerie red light.  

"that’s new," dean said, his jaw tightening.  

"you think the ritual’s already started?" you asked.  

"probably," he said, scanning the area. "we need to move fast."  

you started disrupting the symbols, kicking dirt over them while dean poured salt and lighter fluid around the edges.  

"almost done," you said, glancing over at him.  

but before he could respond, a bloodcurdling roar echoed through the forest.  

"guess that answers that," dean muttered, raising his shotgun.  

the wendigo burst into the clearing, its pale, emaciated form moving with unnatural speed.  

"stay back!" dean shouted, firing a shot that barely slowed it down.  

you raised your flare gun, aiming for its chest, but the creature was too fast. before you could fire, it lunged at dean, knocking him to the ground.  

"dean!" you screamed, panic surging through you.  

he rolled out of the way just in time, his shotgun skidding across the ground.  

"shoot it!" he shouted, and you didn’t hesitate.  

the flare hit the wendigo square in the chest, igniting it in a burst of flames. it screeched, thrashing wildly before collapsing into a smoldering heap.  

dean scrambled to his feet, his breathing ragged.  

"you okay?" you asked, rushing to his side.  

"yeah," he said, wincing as he rolled his shoulder. "you?"  

"fine," you said, though your hands were still trembling.  

he gave you a once-over, his eyes lingering on yours. "you did good, sweetheart."  

the drive back was quiet, the adrenaline slowly fading. when you finally reached the motel, sam was waiting anxiously.  

"did you - "  

"it’s dead," dean said, cutting him off.  

sam sighed in relief, but his attention quickly shifted to the way dean’s hand lingered protectively on your waist as you headed inside.  

later that night, as you sat outside the motel again, dean joined you, a beer in hand.  

"that was really scary. are you sure you’re okay?” you admitted, breaking the silence.  

"‘m fine, sweetheart,”  he said, his tone soft.  

"i know," you said, glancing at him. "but still."  

he met your gaze, something unspoken passing between you. "you know, you’ve got guts," he said, echoing his words from before.  

"so you’ve said," you replied, smiling faintly.  

he shook his head, his expression turning serious. "i mean it. you’re different. special."  

your breath caught, and for a moment, you couldn’t speak.  

"dean - "  

"just let me say it," he said, cutting you off.  

you nodded, your heart pounding.  

"i’ve been doing this job a long time," dean said, his voice low, almost like he was thinking out loud. "and i’m not exactly the kind of guy who’s good at this stuff, but… i like you. more than i probably should."  

your heart skipped a beat, your breath catching in your throat, but you stayed quiet, letting him keep going.  

"it’s not just because you’re super fucking cool or because you can keep up with me," he added, a small smirk tugging at his lips before fading. "it’s because you’re the one person who makes all this crap we deal with feel… worth it."  

his gaze locked on yours, steady and serious. "i don’t know what that says about me, but i know i don’t want to screw this up."  

tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you bit your lip, refusing to let them fall.  

"i… i don’t know what to say," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the pounding in your chest.  

"you don’t have to say anything," he replied, his lips twitching into a small, nervous smile. 

but you did anyway. "i feel the same way, dean," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.  

his lips quirked into a small smile. "yeah, baby?"  

"yeah," you said, and before you could overthink it, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his.  

the first kiss had barely ended, and you still felt breathless, the taste of him lingering like honey. you pulled back just enough to meet dean’s eyes, your hands still clutching the front of his jacket as if letting go wasn’t an option. he looked at you with a softness that felt rare, his usual bravado replaced by something raw, unguarded.  

"so," you began, trying to find words that didn’t feel ridiculous in a moment like this, "i - "  

but dean leaned in again, cutting you off with another kiss, this one slower but somehow even more consuming.  

"dean," you mumbled against his lips, trying to catch a breath, but his hands cupped your jaw, tilting your face up toward him as if the conversation could wait - like anything else in the world could matter right now.  

"mm-hmm?" he hummed, not pulling back. his mouth moved to the corner of your lips, then your cheek, trailing down to your jaw.  

"i’m trying to - " you started again, only to dissolve into laughter as he pressed a kiss to the spot just below your ear, his stubble grazing your skin in a way that sent a shiver down your spine.  

"nah, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice low and teasing. "you’re not trying to do anything but stay right here."  

you laughed harder, the sound bright and almost giddy, your chest shaking against his. you couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt this light, this happy.  

"dean," you said again, still giggling, "let me talk!"  

"nope," he said, his grin audible even as he kissed the side of your neck. "’m way too busy."  

"dean!" you squealed, trying to push him back, but he was relentless, his arms wrapping around your waist to keep you close.  

"what could possibly be more important than this?" he asked, finally pulling back just enough to look at you. his smile was cocky, but his eyes were warm, filled with a tenderness that made your stomach flip.  

you opened your mouth to respond, but instead, a strange mix of a laugh and a sob came out, and suddenly you were crying - just a little, just enough that he noticed.  

his face changed immediately, his smile dropping as he cupped your face with both hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had escaped.  

"hey," he said softly, his brows knitting together. "what’s wrong? fuck… ‘m sorry baby, i - "  

you shook your head quickly, the absurdity of the question making you laugh again, even as more tears fell. "no, no, it’s not that. i’m not upset, i swear."  

"you’re crying, sweetheart," he said, his voice low and concerned. "that usually means something’s wrong."  

"i’m happy, you idiot," you said, laughing through the tears.  

he blinked, his hands still holding your face, as if trying to process the words. "happy?"  

"yes, happy," you said, your voice cracking a little as he wiped at your cheeks. "like... stupidly, ridiculously happy. i just - i didn’t think this would ever happen."  

his expression softened in a way that made your heart ache. "you really thought i wouldn’t want this?"  

"i didn’t know," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "i mean, it’s not like you’re exactly forthcoming with your feelings, dean."  

he let out a breathy laugh, his forehead pressing gently against yours. "yeah, well, you’re not wrong there."  

his hands slid down to your waist, holding you close as he looked at you, his green eyes searching your face like he was trying to commit every detail to memory.  

"but for the record," he said, his voice serious now, "this? you? it’s all i’ve wanted for a long time."  

your breath caught, and before you could respond, he was kissing you again, his lips soft but insistent, as if he was making up for lost time.  

this time, you didn’t try to pull back or say anything. you just let yourself fall into it, your fingers tangling in his hair as his hands slid up your back, holding you like you might disappear if he let go.  

when he finally broke the kiss, his lips barely left yours, and he stayed close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin.  

"still happy?" he asked, a teasing edge creeping back into his voice.  

you laughed, your forehead resting against his. "stupidly, ridiculously happy."  

"good," he said, his hands slipping under the hem of your shirt to rest against your waist, his touch warm and grounding. "because i’m not letting you go now, sweetheart."  

"bold of you to assume i’d want you to," you teased, smiling up at him.  

"damn right," he said, his grin returning as he leaned in for another kiss, and this time, you didn’t even try to stop him.  

ᰔ dean winchester : @person-005

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[raainberry]

let it snow (x3)

sana x gn!reader

« silly series - 18 »

synopsis - why would sana want to daydream of the day she met her partner when she relives it every few weeks? (but she’d really like to stop having to arrest you)

wordcount - 1.4K

T/W - nothing except the police i guess. oh and blood kinda but nothing crazy.

A/N - 🧍‍♀️. go thank @cry4mina for the comeback they bullied me into with this. jingle slay to you all💃

Oh, the weather outside is frightful.

White coated trees, blanketed grass, booted up kids throwing snowballs at each other, missing their target but not the innocent passersby struggling with black ice.

You love when the lyrics match the scene. After all, who doesn’t love relating to something. Even as small as a snowflake. That good old feeling of being linked, cuffed to something bigger than yourself.

Something that matters. That proves you exist. That you’re alive.

“You’re under arrest for trespassing and damage of property. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you’ll say can and will be—”

“—used against you in a court of law.” You finished alongside her. “I know, sweetheart, I keep hoping to see you there.”

You smirked, twisting your neck as best you could to get a glimpse of her. The reason you feel alive, cuffing you for the third time in two months.

You caught her rolling her eyes, and your lips stuttered out a dumb joke between your own giggles. Something about reliving this scene in a much more comfortable place last time…

“Shut it, I’m serious.”

Her voice was sharp, but you saw that corner of her lips move up as she tightened the cuffs. The cold metal bit into your wrists, and the winter air nipped at your flushed skin, but that chill down your spine? Nothing more than the thrill of the game.

“Oh, you’re serious?” you teased, turning your head again just enough to catch her glare. “Then why are your ears turning red, officer?”

“They’re red because it’s freezing, not because I’m amused by your antics,” she shot back, tugging you upright and guiding you towards the waiting patrol car.

“Antics?” you repeated, stumbling slightly on the icy sidewalk. “All I did was entertain the neighborhood kids. What’s wrong with a little community service?”

“Community service?” Sana stopped short, pulling on your cuffed hands to make you face her. Nothing funny about the furrowed eyebrows hardening her gaze, yet there you were, grinning like an idiot. “You whacked a window with a baseball bat, trespassed—again, and got into a fight with the homeowners.”

“First of all,” you scoffed, “the ball was a snowball. The bat? Snow baseball regulation standard. And the fight was crazy, like I went to apologize and they started hitting me—do you not see the bruising!?”. Your voice raised in pitch as you fought your restrained limbs, desperately trying to point out the spots that stung on your lips and cheek. “Why don’t you book them for assault too, huh?”

Sana raised an eyebrow, her eyes flicking over your face to notice the small bleeding cut on your top lip and the faint, pinkish bruise on your cheekbone.

Enough to pick at her heart, messing with the rhythm of its beats for a hot second before her brain took over. She scoffed at the sight, “Nothing crazy, only you.”

“Wow.”

“Done?”

You took a deep breath, finally taking your eyes off her before letting it all out in an exaggerated sigh. Just to put it out there, make it known you’re annoyed. “Fine… let’s go.”

Sana didn’t hide the smirk tugging at her lips, pushing you forward with a sharp motion. Her fingers were still firm around your wrist, and it was the only thing you could focus on despite the doom walk towards the patrol car.

“You know I really wish you’d stop getting yourself arrested to see me,” she said, her voice laced with that professionalism you both knew she was barely holding onto.

“It’s not like I do it on purpose…” you mumbled before giggling. “But it’s our thing I guess. You, arresting me, cuffing me… It’s like fate,”you teased, nudging her with your shoulder. “Come on, admit it. I spice up your boring shifts.”

Her pace didn’t falter, the crunch of snow beneath your shoes was the only sound for a moment, but you didn’t let up. Barely holding on but very tightly… “There’s nothing boring about my shift. The only thing you’re doing is giving me a headache,” she shot back. Her eyes flicked back to your face, softening for just a second before she steeled herself again. “You’re lucky I don’t add ‘wasting my time’ to the list of charges.”

“You’d never,” you chuckled. “You care too much.”

“About my job? Yes,” she retorted, already pulling you towards the car again.

“About me.”

This time she did falter, for just a second, but she recovered quickly, shoving you into the back seat with as little care as possible.

“Ow! Where’s the damage control, officer?” you whined, shifting uncomfortably. “Aren’t you supposed to make sure I’m okay? Get me a band-aid or som—”

Sana’s exasperated sigh cut you off as she leaned into the open door, one hand gripping the top of the frame while the other rested on her hip. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” you shrugged, flashing her a grin.

Her jaw tightened, but there was something in her eyes, something softer. She knew she was fighting a losing battle, so she glanced over her shoulder, scanning the snowy street for any sign of too curious passersby. Nothing but snow and the same busy people fighting for their lives on black ice so she turned back to you, finally mirroring your smile.

“You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

“Can you blame me if this is what I get from it?”

For a heartbeat, you thought she might laugh it off. Maybe roll her eyes, slam the door, and drive you straight to the precinct like last time. But then she leaned in, her hand still braced on the car as her face hovered inches from yours.

And then she kissed you. Time froze. Everything stilled but your lips, allowing her to give into the warmth of her desires.

Her kiss was soft, lips pressing gently against yours, mindful of the bruising on your mouth. The faint sting of your split lip was nothing, a mere distraction from the delightful fire she’d lit up inside your heart.

If anything that pain made it real, kept you in touch with reality while this ridiculous rom-com moment unfolded. The cold touch of her free hand hovering on the side of your neck did a great job too, her thumb grazing your jawline.

She pulled away first, but she stayed close, her breath mingling with yours. Her gaze flickered to your lips from your eyes, “You’re bleeding again.”

You chuckled, nodding your head towards her mouth, “Yeah well, you’ve got some too.”

She blinked, bringing her hand up to her lips, “What,” she swiped her thumb on her lips, gasping softly at the faint smear of red. “Great.” she muttered, grabbing a tissue from her pocket.

“You know, you should be careful with these things,” you teased, grinning despite the ache in your lip. “What are they gonna say if we walk into the precinct and your captain sees that?”

Sana’s head snapped up, her glare weakening at the sight of your smile. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“No but think about it. Just walking in with matching bloody lips, Jihyo jumping you for sleeping with the perp,” you giggled at your own joke before continuing, “Maybe you should just let me go. I’ll cook tonight and put it behind us.”

She paused for half a second, tissue still pressed to her lips as your words registered. “Right, because that wouldn’t look suspicious at all.”

You sighed, throwing your head back dramatically. “Sana just please let me go,” you whined again, drawing out the words in hopes to tug at the bit of sympathy you knew she felt for you.

Only for her to roll her eyes. And instead of answering and bickering some more, she leaned back and reached back for the edge of the door.

“Sana—”

The door slammed shut with a thud, cutting off your protests for good.

You watched through the window as she rounded the back of the car. When she slid into the driver’s seat she seemed composed enough, but you could see the faint pink dusting her cheeks.

She refused to look at you.

The car soon started to fill the silence with the soft hum of the heater, and you leaned forward, trying to catch her eye in the rearview mirror.

“You’re awfully quiet,” you said as the engine came to life, “Thinking about dinner already?”

“Shut up.”

[eerna]

First of all thank you SO MUCH for being a safe space to be critical of the new arcane season. I wanted to love it. I really really did. But there’s just too much I can’t look past. It’s nice to have a blog I can scroll through where everyone is in a similar boat.

The more I think about it the more I take issue with the concept behind episode 7. Don’t get me wrong from a stand-alone perspective it’s the best episode in the new season and had my favorite moments. But the more I think about the more it feels…icky. I’m absolutely not opposed to seeing a well adjusted Powder I love Jinx and her tragedy is the hardest hitting part of the show for me. That said, season 1 gave me the impression that powder was always going to grow up “bad” due to the circumstances she was born into.

Even from the beginning, we see she experiences psychosis, and likely other unnamed mental conditions (I resonate most with the idea of her having bpd.) OBLIGATORY mental illness OBVIOUSLY does not make you a bad person—I deal with a lot of them myself—but Powder was growing up in a situation where the world was against her. She was in a triggering environment that exacerbated her mental health issues. In my opinion, Powder’s tragedy was about how the situation she was born into took a vulnerable young girl, chewed her up, and spit her out as a “monster.”

Then we get episode 7 where… everything is ok?? Don’t get me started on the peace between zaun and piltover its ridiculous and that’s all been said. The scenes on the bridge especially irk me WHY are people so freely traveling between the two cities what happened to the classism WHERE IS THE SOCIOECONOMIC INEQUALITY??

To return to Powder, I get what they were going for. I do. I personally have OCD that only flares up when my mental health is bad and is mostly unnoticeable otherwise. I get that one episode isn’t much time to explore things, but I take issue that after LOSING HER SISTER powder would just? Be okay??? Well adjusted?? Maybe I’m biased. One of my favorite things about Jinx are her struggles with mental health—it hits close to home. It hurts to see Arcane mostly drop that in the second season. Does au!Powder have psychosis episodes? Does she ever hallucinate Vi? What about her abandonment issues? It feels so cheap to me to say actually if Powder had never accidentally blown up her family she would have been completely healthy and fine actually—her path to becoming Jinx always always had a societal problem at the root of it.

And maybe you’ll say well powder has a better support system so of course she’s doing fine and I can almost accept that… except for the apparent peace between piltover and zaun?? ARCANE WHERE IS THE SOCIOECONOMIC INEQUALITY YOU CANNOT TELL ME YOU FORGOT? She’s not facing the same kind of discrimination and hardship that main universe Jinx experienced and that made her story so compelling. Now again, one episode isn’t much to explore and perhaps she has issues bubbling under the surface, but it feels strange to completely drop that part of her character in favor of everyone is happy and fine and alive (except vi fuck you vi).

Tldr; Jinx’s story stood out to me as a tragedy about how a bad environment can exacerbate already present mental health issues. She was ALWAYS doomed—she did not have the kind of support and care she needed. Jinx’s problem was never that ooooooog trauma (and silco’s parenting) made her evil. Jinx’s problem is that the world simply doesn’t give a fuck about her and throws her to the wolves. You can remove the trauma from the Powder, but you can’t ever forget that she’s living on the underside of Piltover’s boot.

I can see what they were going for with well-adjusted powder and don’t get me wrong I LOVED her she was so cute. But in combination with some of the other uhhh decisions this season made it just feels like a cop out. Her issues with mental health are nonexistent and yay piltover doesn’t hate poor people anymore, isnt that great? If I could change even one thing I’d give her a little psychosis episode in the scene where Ekko questions her about VI’s death—tying her back to Jinx and causing Ekko to break down the boundaries even more between his mental schema of Powder vs Jinx.

Also don’t even get me started on how I’ve seen some people in the fandom respond. I’ve already seen “awwww ekko should’ve gotten to keep sane!jinx” which. HELLO???

Np~ I am glad to share people's thoughts with the world!! It's nice to read similar thoughts and opinions to your own.

Yeah T.T I enjoyed the p so much, but it was still riddled with the same issues that plagued the rest of the season. The largest is definitely the fact that none of the kids had proper childhoods because the system they live under doesn't allow them peace. You are so right on Powder's episodes - when Ekko started pressuring her and she told him to get out before she does something she'll regret, I legit thought we were about to witness one. She had the body language and the tone of someone who IS about to go off, but then she... Just didn't... Add to that the unrealistic economic situation, which I've already ranted about, and you remove the two unshakeable factors which contributed to Jinx' downfall. Once again the writers are forgetting that the characters didn't start having issues in s1e1, but were suffering long before the show started.

The point of the episode is sort of Dynasties and Dystopia 2: Electric Boogaloo, in that it's dedicated to Ekko's mental separation between Powder and Jinx breaking down. But where in the first instance the breaking came from a really organic place - him realizing mid-battle she remembers their childhood friendship as well as he does - this time it's much simpler. Like. Of COURSE he would start caring for her again if he met her under the most perfect circumstances, where loving her is super duper easy. Letting Powder exhibit her "Jinx"ish tendencies more often would have been a much more interesting situation. I did appreciate the ones she'd had - creating a Vi doll, treating her like she's still alive - but it could have gone even further imo.

As for those saying he should have gotten to keep her as Powder... No what. The point of the episode was that the Powder he'd met made him miss the Jinx he'd known. He wasn't tempted to stay in the perfect world (akhem Heimerdinger akhem) because none of those people could understand him. It's the reason he trusted Vi despite her suspicious return to the Undercity - he can't help but feel connected to those who went through the same trauma he had back then. And that's my fav aspect of why he still cares about Jinx - for the longest time, the two of them were the only survivors of THEIR Undercity. She chose Silco, but she was still the only one who could understand his pain, even across enemy lines. I missed this in s2, too. He said he'd given up on the Undercity becoming a better place, which is bs, he absolutely never did. The only thing he'd given up was her!! SO the speech really should have been about that, and the alienation he'd felt.

In short, I don't really think the episode should have had a "perfect" AU to show Ekko a lesson. It would have been much more interesting to keep it realistic. But oh well, I suppose that's just the chorus of s2

[utterlyvertigo]

A Mother’s Intuition…

“Surprise, my lady!” The sarcastic undertone gave Rio the air of wanting to be pummelled into the leaves. Agatha ripped the flower from her hand and slung it onto the road’s murky floor. Agatha went to scream, but it was interrupted by a low rumbling from the earth. Jen was the first to notice a hand, it grasped at Rio’s ankle. She audibly yelped and jumped back. The hand was bony, but youthful, its nails overdue a new coat of polish. The figure who pulls herself up appeared to be young, somewhere older than "Teen", yet clearly younger than Alice. “You bitch!” Agatha screamed upon recognising the figure, and she dove towards Rio, only to be held back by the rest of the coven, pleading desperately for Agatha to stay calm.

Rio picks the dropped flower up and offers a hand up to the girl. In what was likely an attempt to soften the blow of the situation, the girl addresses the rest of the coven. “I suppose two heads are better than one?” Agatha wasn’t soothed, she was agape. Then washed with emotion. Agatha took the girl into her arms. “Cassandra.” She greeted. Mere seconds later, she strode off in a tantrum.

“I thought you’d said she gave up her child?” Teen whispered to Jen, his tone unintentionally accusatory. “She gave her son up. That’s her daughter. Nobody touches a hair on that girls head. I have no idea why she’s here, what she’s doing.” Jen muttered back. “I… I’m gonna go check on Agatha.

Agatha was a good few boot strides further than expected, attempting to rein in her fury. “The… dangerous and charismatic lady is back. Are you okay…?” Teen asked, tentatively. “She has my daughter. You do the maths!” Agatha snipped. “Nobody "has" me. I’m not a puppy.” Cassandra stated. She’d taken it on herself to follow the boy, seeing as there was nought better to do. They couldn’t progress until Agatha had calmed down. Agatha sighed. “I know that! But did you really have to go to her?” She hissed, sounding remarkably like an oversized toddler requiring a nap.

“You said you’d come find me. After Westview. You never came! You threw me halfway across New Jersey and you never came back.” Cassandra accused, “I went to who I could! And it would have been nice to know who my other parent was seeing as she’s-” “Stop.” Agatha silenced. “She’s what?” Teen asked. Agatha didn’t respond. She kept walking, and the rest of the coven followed suit, Rio skipping happily along, as though this wasn’t some omen of doom. Cassandra knew better than to chase after her mother during a mood like this, so she hung back, letting Teen be the firewall.

Lilia, Alice and Jen had been hanging back too, staying a distance between the others, because of the palpable tension. “Hi…” Cassandra said, laced with clear awkwardness. Jen was the first to mutter a non committal “Hello” back. “So you’re Lilia, Jennifer and Alice, aren’t you?” She questioned. Alice perked up, “How do you know that?” She asked. “Leggings, Lawsuit and your Mother.” Cassandra admitted, respectively gesturing to each witch. “I’m Cassandra… by the way.” She added.

“Ace of Cups.” Lilia muttered.

“Pardon?” Cassandra asked. “She does that sometimes. We don’t really know why. Or where she goes.” Alice whispered, with a kind smile. That didn’t much help, but Cassandra had a feeling questioning anything on the road would end up with the same lack of understanding. So she just nodded.

And they went down down down the road.

————

Hey gang! Whilst we wait for the poll to decide which chapter of lore we’re learning about next, I’ll leave both options in the drafts and give you this little bit of writing. Hope you love it xx

[ihavenoideawhatiamdoingjustgay2]

And your fears could fill bootes void

Genre : Fluff, (Emotional) Hurt comfort,

Notes : ADHD and GN! Reader, you are wearing make up and a dress though, self indulgent, soft! Arlecchino :), please don't try to fill bootes void with anything it's 300 million ligth years big and houses only 60 galaxies, based on my horrible graduation preparation

Sypnosis : You are panicking and nothing seems to go rigth, but then Arlecchino comes to your rescue.

Take me to AO3

You ball the wipes up and throw them at the nearest trashcan, missing, but that wasn`t of your concern now. You grabed the eyeliner once again, the lid had been long abandoned, exposing the pointy liquid brush. You take a deep breath as you watch yourself setting it at the redend corner of your eye, drawing a straigth line in one fell swoop. You let the air escape from your lungs, moving to do the next eye. Then your eyes fall on the reflection of the clock and you start to visibly shake. Curses fall from your lips as you realize, and you hold your head in your hands, realizing only now how bad it really was.

„This is fine, it is ok.“

You tell yourself, lie to yourself. You release your head, you were sure that you could fix it still, very simple, esspecially considering your shaking body and the clock that is ticking closer to your independing doom. You turn to the mirror, mind with the clock, eyes on the line, you were sure you could do it. You set on, getting ready. But alas, it worked as well as it did before. Your breath quickend as you grabbed another round of wipes, tears rolling down your cheeks ruining your remaining make up. Why did they write the wrong time on the invite!? God fucking damn it. Why should you even go at this point? You would just embarass Arle and the whole Fatui as a whole. Worse even : you`d miss the start. Running in after everyone else certainly wouldn`t look flattering.

You screamed quickly, not noticing the woman in your mirror untill you were done.

Her presence was like a whiplash into your face, you wiped your tears away, standing up, your breath still short, tears still burning their way down.

„I will take that as a `no`.“

She must have asked you something. You suck in a breath. „I can not with this fucking eyeliner and now that I started crying everything is ruined! I am not even in my clothes and- damn we will run late! I called and gods! You should just go withouth me!“ during your outburst Arlecchino had moved to your vanity already, waiting untill you were finished. You watch her leaning against it.

„Sit.“ she said, her head leaning towards the chair.

You stare for a few second before your body follows her ask and sits you down on the chair, she takes your chin, making you look up at her. Her gaze sweps over your face, then she mumbles :“You`ve been to harsh on yourself.“ she takes a wipe herself and has it gently go over your eyes, a gentleness that was only reserved for you and maybe sometimes the children. „And you didn`t get everything.“ she adds, rubbing a bit. It takes her a while untill she holds your head up in satisfaction, untill her thumb strokes your cheek. „There. We can work with that.“

She takes a few steps back, to the trashcan and you get a better look at her. You bite your lips. „You look...“ she slowly turns back. Her body was covered with a formal suit, though she had removed her jacket and rolled up her sleeves, after coming in, exposing her muscles. You blush. How childish. „Pretty handsome.“

„And the person at my side will look equally as good.“ you smile, and her eyes got kinder. „Now close your eyes for me?“ you watch as she dips one of your brushes into a palette, then do as she asked. The brush caresses over your eyelids like a feather, while the ticking of the clock cuts into your ears like a knife. Your leg starts to shake again.

„We will be late.“ you state.

„It could indeed come to that. But, it is not our fault if they put the wrong time on it.“

You open your eyes as she looks for something, then hear her open the mascarra with a plop.

As you look up at her and as the ligth purs down at her she, she almost seems like an angle with an white halo. She would stab most for the comparison though, unless they put „Death“ in it. Your angle of death. „Don`t stab me with that?“ you joke.

She snickered. „I`d never.“ she applied it as gently as when she swiped your face, or when she did the eyeshadow. Arlecchino then took a good look at everything, turning your head, tilting hers, she then took the eyeliner, you watched her shake it to then close your eyes, biting your lips in anticipation. A smooth line was drawn twice and then both were filled in.

You wanted to open your eyes but she shut them.

„I am not done yet.“ she declares

Your ears go back to the clock. „Arle-“

„Do not worry. I will handle it.“ it didn`t do much, yet you decided to sit still. For the next few minutes, she is doing something with your face, you think she may be retouching the foundation and the blush, but who knows.

You hear the brushes being sorted in, everything really. She was a neat person, was she not? Always making sure the blood was scrubed away and always taking care of the witnesses herself.

„Done.“ she then announces withing a breath, you turn to the mirror with a smile, then crock your head while staring at the ligth eyeshadow, the blush accentuating your cheekbones.

„It is very decent.“

She puts her hands on your shoulders. „There was no reason for much. I just accentuated what was already there.“ she quickly kissed your cheek and then moved to your dress, to your shared bed.

You turn back to the clock, fear hovering above you like a sword. „We will be so late-“

„Will you need my assitance with the dress?“

You took a breath. „Perhabs.“ you then hurry to undress, while Arlecchino is putting her jacket back on.

„Alrigth.“ you state, sliping into the dress, nearly tripping in the process.

Arlecchino quickly zips you up, giving you another chaste kiss on the back of your neck, but you had no real time to react since she decided to twirl you slowly, but your eyes were only glued to the door. „You look ravishing my dear.“

You flashed a quick smile at her before taking her hand and formly dragging her towards the door.

Arlecchino only gave you a sigh as you asked if you`d come at the rigth time by foot.

She stopped you once you got in front of the door. „What, what is it?“

She pushed your hair back, grabbing your face. „The way is only five minutes, calm down.“

She then took your arm, opening the door for you, hushing a look at your shoes.

„Huh, you are wearing the shoes I gave you.“

You couldn`t stop yourself. „No.“ the lie slips from your lips like butter and she stares into your soul. You count the seconds, her steps. After a few years of being married you were able to lie and look into her eye after for maybe ten seconds before gaining a headache, though that number subtracted itself by half due to your nervosity this fine evening. You looked down. „Yes. They are pretty.“

She chuckled, taking your hip before walking down the stairs. „You should stop this little game of yours I´m slowly burning away all of your braincells at this point.“

„Well, have I ever had any to begin with?“

She would have chuckled if you weren`t out. Your wolf. „You have always been impecable.“ All of a sudden you felt her lips against your own. You let yourself melt into it, her, making you forget your fear for just a few seconds. It was not usuall for her to do this unprompted, most times you were gratefull for that, but now.

She parted from you, though her touch lingered for longer. You breated, remembering what she had said, smiling up at her. „Well thank you my dearest husband.“

And like that, you made your way to the event and it couldn´t have gone better.

[admiral-mason]

I'm bored, random crossover time again

Recently I have gotten into a little shooter game known as Ultrakill.

For those who don't know: Ultrakill is basically a shooter game that combines elements from Titanfall, Doom Eternal, Devil May Cry, etc. You play as V1, a literal blood-powered combat robot that descends into Hell (from Dante's Inferno) to get more blood. On the way, you fight demons, angels, and other machines.

So? With my blog basically sporadically alive, let me revive it with another nonsensical crossover!

Gender neutral reader

SPOILERS AHEAD!

How these two games crossed over:

So you own both a PC and a phone/tablet. You would mostly play Genshin Impact on your mobile device while you played Ultrakill on your PC.

You've managed to complete both games and right now you tried obtaining all the alternate 'slab' weapons in Ultrakill. You have one already, simply called the slab revolver by many. Your next weapon to obtain is the sawblade launcher, located in stage 4-4 Clair de Soleil.

So, you did so. Whiplashing the blue skull from the right room after you used the first jump pad, the door opened and you shot your railcannon into the water. However, when you did so, the game decided to crash on you.

"What the hell??" You said before grumbling a little and trying to boot the game back up to no avail. Closing out the game, you bothered to play a little Genshin. However, within a few seconds of booting up the game, you got shocked and blacked out.

How you got to Teyvat:

After waking up, you found yourself in a plains area... and then you saw an anemo slime.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake." A voice that sounded like Microsoft Sam said from behind you.

(V1's voice from this program)

Turning around, you were greeted by the blue camera head himself.

"What the frick V1 how are you here??"

"I don't fucking know, one moment I touched the sawblade launcher, and now I'm here in what appears to be Limbo but not fake with the human who basically assisted me in murdering all of hell for blood. By the way, you perform really great shotgun yeets!*"

"Uh, thanks." You awkwardly responded.

"Now where the fuck can I get some blood?"

In Mondstadt:

The two of you ended up wandering around V1 had managed to kill a few wild animals for blood with his revolver. It didn't take long for someone to hear the sounds and approach you two afterward.

"You two! Stop right there!" Amber heard the sounds of V1's revolver shots as she ran towards you two. If it weren't for you rapidly telling V1 to not shoot her, she'd likely be on the floor in a pool of her own blood.

"...Hi there." You awkwardly said before she ended up tackling you to the ground in a hug with V1 just looking at the sight.

After Amber took you two to Mondstadt, word spread quickly of the Divine One and their blue angel-looking machine. The two of you managed to receive free housing with the Knights of Favonius alongside a tour of the city.

V1 abused his superior mobility to cross the entire city from one side to the other in less than a minute. This astonished the local citizens at this strange individual's movement skills. And then he accidentally crashes into a random citizen's cart.

"WHEEEEEEEEEEE"

"V1 don't you're gonna-!"

V1 crashes into a cart full of cabbages, toppling it

"..."

Everyone's also confused at his ability to seemingly generate coins... before shooting at them with that curved thing he holds in his hands and then it kills stuff. (I presume that most Mondstatians have never seen guns, the closest they have seen is probably a bow,)

Then he somehow pulls a giant double-barreled minigun?? Then a tube that shoots rockets??

Expect Klee to be all over him.

"Well see, this rocket launcher used to be an industrial tool, until some-"

"HOW BIG OF A BOOM CAN IT MAKE?!"

"...Let me demonstrate!"

V1 activated the freeze mode on his Freezeframe Rocket Launcher and fired a few rockets at a group of wolves...

...Safe to say, those wolves and their surroundings got blown up to high hell.

When Jean found the destructive duo, V1 just took Klee into his arms and proceeded to abuse his mobility yet again.

"BOING! Catch me now, bozo!"

"Get back here you blue thing-"

"I am not a blue thing thank you- BOING!"

Looking past shenanigans, Albedo and Sucrose have taken an interest in V1's lethal arsenal that's even far superior to Fatui tech. Noelle might ask to train with the machine after some introductions.

In Liyue

After a few days of staying in Mondstadt, you kinda wanted to see Liyue so you told everyone else and asked V1 to accompany you. Upon arrival though, you found out that Liyue prepared a celebration for the two of you. Turns out news can leak out quickly to the world even if you've only interacted with a part of it.

V1 found Liyue significantly more fun to traverse and navigate around. From mountainous marvels to spacious streets, the nation provided him with no short of tricks to pull off.

Everyone interacted with V1 normally until he started using the Whiplash to grab items from various vendors merely flipping a few coins at them in return. This led to a scuffle with the Millelith and he ended up shocking everyone by knocking all of the soldiers out with a mere punch to their chest.

Thankfully you managed to calm him down.

When he saw the Jade Chamber, he made it a personal challenge to ascend without using the proper way. He unfortunately did so while Ningguang was pleasantly talking with you.

"This, your grace, is-" You could then faintly hear rocket sounds in the distance, with Ningguang following suit shortly after. You both turned in the direction of the sound to see V1 flying on a rocket with his Freezeframe Rocket Launcher yet again before he jumped off and landed right next to the two of you.

"Hi friend I'm back! Mechanic abuse is funny!"

Ningguang just blinked at the sight of the combat machine that somehow stood on a small flying object to get up here without proper authorization. "...Your grace what the heck did that thing just do??"

"I AM NOT A THING-"

Part 2?

*Shotgun yeets refer to projectile boosts.

[underdark-dreams]

Thank you everyone who has read this fic along its life! I finally got up the courage to tie it up with a bow. Here's the final chapter of my Rolan x Tav series Sage and Soldier, with links to the other pieces:

Blades and Spells [Fluff - First Meeting]

Good Night for Company - [Pining - Feelings Realization | NSFW] [ch1] [ch2]

[ch1] - [ch2] - [ch3] - [ch4] - [ch5]

A Strand to Climb - Ch.6

After the end of the world, there's a wizard's tower in the Upper City.

Tags: Mild Angst, Fluff, NSFW | Word Count: 4.8k [Read on AO3]

There was no time to celebrate the death of the Absolute—not when Tav and her companions stood trapped on its back like one of the doomed cities of Netheril. Not when her ears had already begun swimming and popping from the breakneck speed of their fall.

Tav yelled something back to the rest, some stupid bit of encouragement meant to keep them all on their feet. What else could they do but hold on, after all? They were all helpless, exhausted from battle, keeping their footing however they could as the brain’s pulsating flesh descended from the sky.

When they punched through the misty cloud layer below, Tav’s stomach leapt straight up into her throat. They were sailing across the Upper City, and the high spire of Ramazith’s Tower was rushing forward to meet them.

Too soon, her ears rang with the sickening, rib-shaking crash as the dying Netherbrain collided with the column of the Tower. Her shout of horror was lost to the explosive crumble of masonry and the whip of wind. She had only a second to fear the worst. 

The impact spun the creature on its descent; Tav was knocked hard to her side, forced to scrabble for purchase on the monster’s slimy flesh as it careened sideways. Her limbs skated ineffectually over the brain’s folds—she was sliding toward the edge—

Not like this, her mind screamed in protest.

Tav yanked the sheathed dagger at her thigh and plunged it into the dying Absolute. Two hands gripped the hilt with all her might, even as her legs swung over the side of the Netherbrain like those of a limp ragdoll.

“Hells, we’re headed for harbor—!”

Behind her, Wyll’s yell of warning cut through. Tav understood at once—if they hit the Chionthar still standing on the back of the Netherbrain, its mass would pull them deep underwater with the strength of a vortex. She craned her neck blindly.

“Gale!” Tav shrieked for him, mad with panic. What if he’d fallen in the Upper City? What if he was gone, and she was beseeching a void?

Then she heard Gale’s voice call out for the Weave, and his spell hit hard along her spine. Her boots lifted unnaturally, the feet within them tingling with the power of flight—

The Netherbrain banked hard over the central City Wall. They were low enough now that Tav could make out figures with upturned faces—people watching the monster’s fall from the sky and fleeing away on foot, as if all pushed back by the same bank of wind. With one more lilt, the fleshy ground under her veered straight for the ancient wooden river docks.

A sharp glint of hope. If they timed their jump just right—if Gale’s spell lasted—

“Fuck this—” Beside her, Karlach was of the same mind. She was crouched low for balance, inching forward to the edge of the Crown for a better position. 

Tav used her dagger for leverage to push herself crouched. “Aim for the roof of the Counting House!”

She heard the others fighting to their feet behind her. Gravity was accelerating their fall; sharp rain and river mist buffeted against her face as they swung rapidly for the water. But first, they passed beside a wide expanse of flat stone ramparts.

And then—they jumped.

—

Tav’s limbs cried out in exhaustion; her rain-soaked leg plates jangled heavily with each boot tread. She dragged herself through the streets of the Gate on adrenaline alone. 

Those streets were in chaos. Though the battle was newly won, each corner she rounded brought a fresh skirmish. 

Newborn mind flayers stumbled about in swarms, hungry and rudderless without direction from their Elder Brain. Many still dripped with blood from the death of their human forms. Those Baldurians who weren't running from them with crying children in their arms had snatched up tools and blades alike to run the creatures through with the ruthlessness of survival. 

The chaos helped. Grit and blood and thudding bodies distracted Tav from the one sight she wanted to turn her head to, yet couldn't bear to see. 

As her boots climbed the cobbles north toward the Upper City gate, Rolan’s tower crumbled over and over in her mind’s eye. She felt like retching. Her lungs were on fire.

Please let him be alive, please let him be alive, please let him be alive—she prayed to any god who might still be listening.

A child’s scream brought her up short on reflex.

Silfy—the timid one from the Grove, the little girl who cried when Tav caught her stealing a worthless trinket. A young mind flayer was reaching for her, one long-fingered hand directing its neural heat where she stood frozen in terror.

Tav’s teeth ground in her skull. She was so thoroughly fucking done—her longsword scraped out of its scabbard and arced straight toward the creature’s throat. 

Just as the blow connected, an arrow shaft pushed out between the mind flayer’s dark eyes. It crumpled lifeless to the pavement in a heavy heap. Silfy turned tail without a backward glance; Tav squinted through mist and smoke, trying to identify the Flaming Fist who still held her shortbow poised.

“Lia!” Tav could have sobbed in relief. “Thank gods—is Rolan—?”

“I don’t know—” Lia’s voice was desperate as she ran closer. “Cal and I took the Sundries portal to fight with Cerys. Last we heard, Rolan was up manning the turrets.”

Tav could have swayed and collapsed where she stood. Only adrenaline kept her upright.

“I’ll find him,” she shouted above the surrounding chaos, half to herself, half to wipe that terrible fear from Lia’s face. She pushed away into a sprint without another word to her. 

He’s not dead—he wouldn’t die like that—

Would she even be able to find Rolan’s body in the wreckage if he was? Tav’s knees wanted to give way at the thought. She gasped air into her lungs, wresting that image of him out of her mind with everything she had.

When she rounded the road from Flymm’s Cargo, a powerful wall of heat nearly knocked her back on her rump.

The ancient prow of the Blushing Mermaid was ablaze. Flames the height of ten men towered into the gray skies above, unaffected by the steady drizzle of rain. Her steel chestplate grew painfully hot as she forced herself up the crest of the hill.

Shouts and acrid air clouded her senses as she dashed beside the scene. Tav caught sight of Zorru and Danis, leading a bucket line all the way from Gray Harbor; their voices cracked from heat and smoke as they yelled directions.

All at once, like the emptying of a giant basin over their heads, a crash of water fell over the blaze and its surroundings. The cobbles under her feet were abruptly drenched; Tav slipped and careened forward, catching herself hard on both hands in a clang of plate armor.

There was a deep, ominous creak from somewhere above her. Knocked breathless, Tav nevertheless craned her head back. 

The heavy wooden spindle on the ship’s prow that jutted over the street was already weakened from fire; now it was soaked through from the magical downpour. As she watched dumbstruck, it splintered with a slow twang. Then the wood snapped clean down the middle, and the length of it swung downward, straight for her legs.

Tav scrambled forward on hands and knees. Her boots and gauntlets scraped over the wet stones toward safety—

Footsteps were sprinting closer. There was a shouted incantation and a flash; Tav smelled roses as the Weave enveloped her completely for the space of a blink. Then she landed flat on her stomach in the middle of the street.

Thoroughly winded now, she coughed and wheezed for breath. The blaze and heat of the fire was strangely distant from where she lay. 

As her lungs finally filled again, Tav realized she wasn’t just lying on pavement—something soft under her torso had cushioned the fall. She lifted up with a groan to look down at what she’d fallen on top of.

Rolan was entirely covered in soot and masonry dust from horn to foot. The effect was that he blended almost completely into the gray cobbles at first glance. Only when he opened his eyes did she recognize the two golden flames staring back at her.

“Tav!” 

Rolan sat up so suddenly his horns nearly collided with her forehead. His hands gripped around her forearms with bruising force. “The Brain—I thought you’d—”

Her body had begun to violently shake as she took him in, each inch of his face strained with anxiety and streaked with dust and thoroughly alive—

Unable to go another second without him, Tav threw both arms around his neck. Rolan gripped her ribcage in turn, so tight and so long that her vision went spotty from lack of air. She couldn’t care less; in this moment, she would have dissolved right into him if she could have.  

“I thought you were dead, Rolan,” she gasped into his shoulder. “Your Tower—the Netherbrain crashed right into it.”

“Only the observatory.” Rolan’s voice was muffled against her hair. “Never planned to use it anyway—not much of an astronomer—”

Tav could have laughed hysterically if she wasn’t so out of breath. Rolan continued against her neck. 

“I was following it to the harbor, Tav, I had no idea what became of you—but then the fire, there were people inside—”

“You had to help,” she finished. She felt tears streaming fast and hot down her cheeks. The strength of her relief could’ve bowled her right over again. “I know, I know, just—”

They released each other at the same time. The kiss was stained with sweat and grime, yet it was the most satisfying one Tav had ever felt. She gripped Rolan’s face between two gauntleted hands, crushing his mouth against her.

“Lia’s okay,” she gasped out when Rolan’s lips finally left hers. “I met her south of here. She and Cal went with Cerys. Cal must be fine too, she would’ve said,” Tav added in a rush.

Rolan jerked his head in acknowledgement, his expression punch-drunk as he took her in. He was smoothing her hair back with both hands as if the motion was the only thing keeping him grounded at the moment.

“Are you all right?” Her voice was very small.

Rolan nodded at her again. Clearly spell-spent and dusted in plaster, he looked like his own ghost. “Are you?” Despite all that, his baritone reverberated warm and familiar in her chest.

“It’s so quiet,” she whispered hoarsely. Her words fell in almost comical contrast to the distant sounds of shouting, fire, and steel meeting illithid flesh. 

But she could tell from the way Rolan’s eyes moved over her expression that he understood. The tadpole was finally gone—her mind was entirely her own again.

Rolan’s spark was beginning to return. “Can you stand?”

As he rose, Tav wobbled experimentally to her feet along with him. Her knees were bruised from the tumble, and her calves threatened to cramp from exertion—but she put on a brave face. 

Unconvinced, Rolan kept an arm looped behind her back just in case; one hand fastened along her waist. Walking with him close at her side, the adrenaline began to ebb in her veins. Bone-weariness was instead closing in like a shroud. 

“We should find Cal and Lia,” she said, trying to sound purposeful. Her boots dragged with each step.

“Yes,” Rolan agreed. He was holding her very firmly—practically supporting half her weight. “And we should be sure your friends made it safely from the docks.”

Tav gave a mumbled assent. It was difficult to care about any of that now, though she knew she should. She found herself staring up at his profile beside her. 

“Rolan?”

He looked down in concern. “What is it?”

“After that…will you take me home?”

“My darling—” His lips pressed firmly to her brow. “Yes.”

—

Tav shifted on top of him with a mumble.

Rolan froze with arms still looped around her; perhaps the crinkle of scroll parchment had awakened her. 

But then her face snuffled back into the bare crook of his shoulder. The dead weight of her across his chest assured Rolan that she was still fast asleep.

It was a lucky thing that he’d settled with reading material at arm’s length—the small pack of rare scrolls Tav herself had gifted him. She’d been out cold since dawn, when they all made it back to the Tower. It was nearly twilight now, and the sun’s last orange rays were fading fast through the high windows of Rolan’s bedroom. The distant streets had grown quiet as the city retired to nurse its wounds for the night.

Rolan hadn't seen much of her battle with the Netherbrain. Tav hadn't been in a state to tell many details once it was finally over, either. She could barely keep her eyelids open. The only thing clear was that she was completely exhausted from it.

Before anything else, Rolan coaxed several very potent healing elixirs down her throat. Then he drew them a bath and helped her out of her bloodied armor. She leaned heavily against him under the water. By the time he wrapped her in a towel to dry, he practically had to carry her back to his room.

The only hint of her fire came out when he’d tried to guide her toward the bed for sleep. Tav refused to go anywhere near the large four-poster frame that had belonged to the Tower’s previous archwizard. In fact, she declared that the whole thing was to be burned, mattress and all. 

Rolan couldn’t decide whether he was more amused or touched by her vehemence.

Instead, she’d grabbed a fistful of the blankets and dragged them away in order to fall against the massive direwolf pelt rug in front of the fireplace. It was no feather bed, but still leagues more comfortable than how either of them had slept on the road to Baldur’s Gate.

Especially so with Tav draped over him, Rolan had since decided. She’d promptly held him to her and drifted off. Her bare torso was a comforting weight on his chest. Her cheek pressed against his shoulder as she slept, little steady breaths tickling against his neck.

Home. That’s what Tav had called this, hadn’t she? Silently, Rolan leaned his cheek against her hair as he read.

Lia and Cal had moved all their things into the Tower the same day its ownership changed hands. The few of Rolan’s possessions remaining in their Heapside flat had been left in a little pile just inside his bedroom door. Among them was the small leather scroll pouch Tav had gifted him on her arrival to Baldur’s Gate. 

By this point, Rolan was certain he could find a much larger wealth of arcane knowledge in his new library. Still…it felt important to study from these first. 

For one, they were certainly beyond anything he’d managed to teach himself from hand-me-down textbooks back in Elturel. Whoever she’d stolen them from must have been an advanced practitioner of the Weave. Or perhaps just a man with the wealth and fancy to build a collection, much like Lorroakan had been.

They were also a gift from Tav. That simple fact made them more valuable to Rolan than most of the wealth he’d inherited along with Ramazith’s Tower. 

Had she collected them one by one in her travels here, thinking of him while she did? A warm affection bloomed in his chest at the thought. He’d have to ask her when she finally woke.

It was as if she sensed the thought. 

With a deep inhale, Tav arched and stretched full-body against the length of him under the covers. Her hands both landed to tangle in his hair against their makeshift fur bed.

“Morning,” she purred sleepily against his neck.

Rolan decided then and there—he could very much get used to waking up like this. However, it seemed the right thing to correct her. 

He kissed her brow. “Evening, actually.”

Tav raised her groggy face from his chest then, wiping one corner of her mouth. His eyes left the page to watch her blink around his bedroom in a daze. The blood-orange light of sunset was stretching long and dim across the floorboards now.

“Oh,” she said softly, a single word holding great recognition. Her wide eyes flicked to his face. 

“Have—have I been laid on top of you like a dead fish this whole time?”

“I’d never call you that,” Rolan assured her calmly. “But yes.”

Tav looked at him in appraisal for a long moment. 

“I think you like it,” she decided, and laid her head back down over his heart. He chuckled to himself and raised his free hand to smooth the hair back from her face.

Tav sighed happily at the gesture. “What are you reading, Rolan?”

“One of the scrolls you gave me.”

“Oh? Tell me about it, then. I’m curious.” One hand had gravitated suspiciously close to his ear. Sure enough, her thumb and forefinger began tracing along its edges to the pointed tip.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Rolan sighed. He’d always been unable to ignore the shivers that flowed down his spine when she touched him there. “I’d tell you regardless.”

“I'm sorry—” Her touch fell from him immediately. “I don’t do it on purpose, really. They’re just so pretty.”

Rolan cleared his throat. “It’s fine. You can—go on. If you like. Just know it’s a bit distracting.”

After a moment, her fingers cautiously returned. She was careful to keep the motion smooth and predictable this time. Rolan focused back on the page he’d pressed to fall flat before she woke.

“This one teaches a technique for arcane portal conjurement. The linking of two locations with a path carved through the Weave.”

Tav swiveled on her chin to look up at him. “Like the one from the Sundries to your library here?”

Rolan hummed in assent. “I've read about wizards who linked much more distant places together. The distance from here to Waterdeep, for instance. It requires a tremendous bit of spellwork.”

“How on earth?” She frowned at him in curiosity. “Where do you put a portal if you can't see where it's going?”

“Not sure yet,” Rolan mused, already being drawn back in by his reading despite her affectionate intrusions. “Most likely it requires two casters to sculpt the spell properly. I’ll need to understand the basic mechanics first.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Tav replied. She snuggled back into to the warmth at his neck.

“Of course I will.” Rolan shook the parchment out with his hand to punctuate the statement. 

Tav let out a quiet exhale of laughter—but she said nothing to question him. It made Rolan swell with pride a bit.

He held her for another quiet moment as the fire snapped and danced in the hearth beside them. Its light seemed to burn brighter and even warmer now, with the sun finally gone behind the horizon.  

When Tav shifted further over his lap, he didn’t think anything at first. Perhaps she was still trying to get comfortable on their makeshift sleeping arrangements.

Then she ground the heat between her legs over his half-hard cock, and a reflexive sound was pushed from Rolan’s throat.

“Tav,” he groaned.

“I’ve always loved that confidence of yours.” She had propped herself up with hands on his chest to gaze down at him. The covers fell back to bathe her lovely bare shoulders and breasts and stomach with firelight. “You don’t understand, it’s like catnip to me.”

“Where's this coming from?”

“What? Is it not enough that I just woke up naked with the most handsome, brilliant young archwizard on the whole Sword Coast—”

As she showered him with teasing flattery, Tav canted her hips harder against his own. Rolan leaned back against the tips of his horns with another involuntary groan; the scroll fell away dangerously close to the fire, forgotten.

“Tav,” he repeated more forcefully, pushing himself up on one elbow. Her face above him was full of mischief. “You’ve just been through hells—are you sure you’re well enough to—?”

“Yes.” She threw her head back in a moan with the word. Rolan’s hands flew instinctively to her hips. She was already rocking and grinding in rhythm against him, leaving a wet patch of heat where their hips slotted together.

“You’re unbelievable—” Rolan held her arms back insistently, forcing her to look at him. 

Tav panted and bit her lip as they watched each other. He was of half a mind to return the favor. Look at the pretty hero of Baldur’s Gate, fresh from battle and already writhing on my cock—but the clear desire between her legs had rather scrambled his own thoughts. 

Instead, Rolan did what he could manage to tease her. “Tell me how you feel right now.”

“Hot.” Her voice was low and tempting; her eyes were dark with desire. “Wanting you. Needing you inside me—”

Even without leverage from her palms, Tav managed to shift over his ridges in a way that made Rolan twitch and shudder under her.

“Good gods—I want you too,” he heard himself gasp out. 

It was all the encouragement she needed. His grip had gone slack in distraction; with one hand guiding him, Tav angled herself up and sank down over the hard ridges of his length.

Her tight, wet heat all around him nearly knocked him breathless. Rolan lay back and ran his hands up her thighs. The firm muscle there led him straight to the lovely swell of her hips, and he gripped each hand with nails dimpling into her flesh.

Strong and soft—Tav was somehow both of those things at once. As she sat adjusting to him, her eyes certainly had never been softer than they were now, moving over his face.

“I missed this,” she breathed. 

Rolan nodded in silent agreement. From tonight on, he swore to himself, neither of them would ever have a chance to miss this.

When she began moving, it was slow and deliberate. Her hips glided up and down to take him—so warm, so perfect. Rolan glanced where their bodies met, watching his length disappearing into her again and again. The sight was almost too much; he felt compelled to close his eyes.

Instead, Rolan pushed himself seated. He couldn't be close enough to her. 

Tav folded her arms around his shoulders at once, adjusting to the new angle without breaking rhythm. Her face was bathed in firelight.

As he took in every inch of her, Rolan caught sight of an old blade scar under her jaw. He’d never noticed it before now. He leaned to press his lips against it.

She tilted her head with a soft sound, opening up the rest of her throat to his mouth should he want it. And he did—Rolan kissed and nipped at the flesh there while Tav rode him, her voice softly gasping and whispering his name over and over like a prayer. 

The rhythm of their hips together increased to something desperate. Rolan felt heat licking under his skin, burning like flame everywhere their bodies touched. She clutched desperate fingers over the deep ridges along his shoulder blades.

“Come in me,” she gasped. “Please.”

That one little word was his undoing. Who was he to deny the woman who had just saved everything he loved in the whole Realms, herself included? 

Rolan forced his mouth away from Tav’s throat to watch her come apart. She was already close—he could tell from the way her mouth fell open, the way her walls twitched and gripped him tighter each time she bounced down onto his lap. 

“I love you—” 

He wasn’t sure she heard with the way she arched and tensed into him—but then she already knew, didn’t she? Tav’s arms were trembling around his shoulders when she came, as if he was the only thing keeping her anchored down to earth. 

When he felt the coil inside him unraveling, Rolan buried his face into her shoulder again. She was whispering praises against the tapered shell of his ear—things too sweet to even commit to his own memory. Rolan clutched at her back with both hands as he finally shuddered and spilled inside her.

He kept his arms locked tight around her middle as the twitching waves at his core echoed and subsided. Then they tipped backward together, their bodies still connected, to land in a soft pile of fur.

For a long moment, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the way they both panted against each other. Lying on top of him again, Tav’s lips brushed against the trail of ridges below his collar bone.

Soon enough, one of his long fingers began tracing over her back. He practiced the shapes of his somatic spell components along the empty expanse of her skin. She was so soft and smooth there—so unlike the way Tieflings were formed.

He felt goosebumps raise where his fingers touched. Tav shivered against him. 

“That tickles,” she mumbled into his chest.

“Apologies, darling,” Rolan told her. Some other time it would be very interesting to investigate how ticklish she was. For now, he stilled to press his palm against her lower back instead.

Tav heaved a deep sigh against his chest. “What are we supposed to do now?”

Rolan crooked his head down at her. “What do you mean?”

“Now that it’s over.” Tav propped her chin on both hands to meet his eye. “I can barely remember what it feels like to just…live my own life. You know?” 

Rolan carded one hand back through her hair. He understood the feeling well. 

“There’s still plenty to occupy both of us,” he assured her. “I need to complete the Tower repairs before the next storm, which could be any day knowing Sword Coast weather. And the Lower City is in a state of absolute ruin. I’m sure you’ll have a hundred people knocking on my door come morning, asking for their hero’s help with a hundred different things—”

To his surprise, Tav sat up on his lap in a huff. The motion reminded him he was still softening inside of her. 

“There you go spoiling my fun,” she complained good-naturedly. “Here I expected you to be thrilled at the prospect of finally having me in your bed day and night, with no mortal peril hanging over either of our heads, no less. And you only want to discuss Baldurian civics—”

Rolan felt himself beginning to laugh at her, a relaxed and throaty sound. “Is that what’s troubling you? Tav, I thoroughly intend to fuck you often and well.”

“You’d better,” she warned, but the corners of her mouth had begun to twitch. He wanted to devour her.

“And since you’ve declared my own bed permanently off-limits—” 

In one motion he rolled their bodies to pin Tav under him. It earned him a little ‘oh’ of surprise; he was conveniently still buried between her legs. “You’ve put me in the position of having to be resourceful.”

“Big change for you, that?” Tav teased. But her legs crossed behind his flanks to keep him close. As they did, one of her heels inadvertently rubbed against the sensitive base of his tail. 

Rolan hissed in air between his teeth. He saw her eyes spark with recognition, and leaned down to kiss her senseless before she could do anything wicked with this new information.

By the time they surfaced from lips and tongues and teeth, he was already achingly stiff inside her again. Her hands ran down his front, flowing over each concentric pattern on his chest with open want. It sent a shiver all the way down his spine, from neck to tail.

The way Tav looked at him—the way she touched him as if he was perhaps the loveliest thing she’d ever seen. He decided it would take him years to get used to. Maybe he never would.

Rolan kept still regardless, waiting for her to finish her explorations. All traces of teasing were long gone from her now. 

Tav’s eyes reflected the warmth of the dying fire as reached up for him. She passed one more deliberate hand over the planes of his face, as if she’d like to memorize the feel of them. Her fingers landed to gently clutch around his jaw.

“My wizard,” she said softly. 

Rolan had never been one for pet names; even from the people he cared about most. Those words should have sounded diminutive and sentimental to him, even spoken by Tav. 

Instead…

They fell sweetly against his ear, flowed like honeyed wine down his throat, and nestled into a space that glowed with warmth somewhere behind his ribs.

And why shouldn’t they? He was her wizard, after all.

[meadow-roses]

Grace finally gets to have a conversation with Dauntless, face to face :D

Written/full version of the scene under the cut

***

Grace opened the door and immediately froze. 

Felix was standing across the room from her in front of an open window. He was dressed in dark clothes with boots that reached up just below the knee. In his hands he was holding a helmet with a dark visor. 

He turned when he heard the door, and for a second their eyes met. It was only for a second.

“Wait! Dauntless!” Grace shouted, taking a step forwards before stopping herself. She didn't want to chase him.

Felix froze halfway out the window.

“Please…” she said gently. “Just stay. Talk to me?”

He made no response, but she watched his shoulders droop before taking his foot down from the sill and turning to face her.

Even with all she'd put into schooling herself to read faces, she couldn't quite tell what he was thinking. His face was mostly blank, was it resigned, maybe sad?

He just looked at her, waiting for her to speak.

“I'm not going to tell anyone, I… haven't told anyone. I've known for a while now actually.”

Felix tensed and confusion crossed his face.

“What-” he started. “How did you know?”

“Well, I didn't know,” Grace took another step into the room and reached to close the door behind her back. “But I had a pretty good guess.”

He spoke his next question by furrowing his brow and tilting his head.

Grace gave a short laugh. “You're a terrible liar, Felix.”

He bit his lip and looked down at the floor.

“I just wanted to know, why… why didn't you tell us?” 

She gave him a moment to stare at his feet before adding on, “and tell me the truth- please?”

He turned and leaned his back against the wall with a defeated sigh.

“The truth? I… I'm not sure I even know the true answer myself. I guess… I was afraid.”

He looked down at his gloved hands and awkwardly slipped his fingers together in front of him.

“I don't know exactly what I was afraid *of*, just that I was. I wasn't afraid of you guys-” he rushed to add, unlacing his hands and lifting one up to gesture. “-but I was afraid of what would happen to you guys if we were friends.”

“And that's why you're planning on leaving?”

“How did you know I was-?”

Grace shrugged.

“You really think you can save the world by yourself?” she added, crossing her arms over her chest.

“No, I can't save the world. I’m just a mechanic wearing a bicycle helmet!”

“Who also has superhuman abilities and a lot of inside knowledge,” Grace pointed out.

Felix didn't respond. He hugged his arms around his chest and looked to the floor again.

Grace sighed and put her back against the door, mirroring Felix’s pose across the room. 

“It’s not like I can stop you,” she said at last. “You could pick up your helmet and jump out that window and I would never see you again no matter how hard I looked. We both know how well that worked for me the last several months. But I guess- you can keep running away from everything you're scared of and everyone who’s gonna call you out and just stay afraid, or you can stop trying to run, and face those fears. The biggest lie you've ever told is the one you're telling yourself right now that you have to be alone.”

Felix’s face remained blank as his mouth drew into a tight line.

“You aren't alone, Felix,” she continued gently. 

“And if I stay, and they find this place, and they kill everyone here- either the government or the [gang]. I don't-” his voice cracked along with the mask on his face and he reached up to scrub his hand over his face before resuming with wavering composure, “I can't let that happen. I'll still be around, like Dauntless has been, but Felix can't stay here anymore.”

“That’s the stupidest thing you've ever said!” Grace stood up from the door and took a step towards him. “What are you going to eat? Where are you going to sleep? You're basically dooming yourself to get caught by all those people looking to kill you. You should stay, and help us fight! You don't have to pull away to protect us from a distance. Let's work together to make this place safe.”

“I don't want my life to come at the cost of anyone else's!” Felix shouted, arms still crossed over his chest, but she could see he immediately regretted it.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbled.

Grace groaned and rubbed her hand down her face. “It doesn't have to be your life or all of ours. Do you really think we're so bad at protecting this place that you're the reason we're still here?”

“That's not what I-”

“Yeah, the government's going crazy right now. Yeah, the [gang]s are pressing closer. I'm not saying you haven't been helping a lot, but we could be so much more effective if we worked together. We could save more people, Felix. You don't have to go out there and die like some sacrificial dumb-dumb.”

She shook her head and walked across the room to stand in front of him. A breeze came in through the open window, catching her loose curls and sending them waving across her face.

“I know you know I'm right.” She said gently. “And I know you're scared. I'm just asking you to trust me.”

She held out her hand to Dauntless, and hesitantly, Felix took it.

“On one condition. You guys aren't allowed to die.”

Grace grinned and gave him a firm shake. “You've got yourself a deal.”

After an awkward stretch of silence, Felix spoke again.

“So… when was the point- how did you figure it out? That I was Dauntless?”

Grace tucked her arms behind her back with a chuckle. She felt embarrassed all of a sudden, and she wasn't sure why.

“Well, uh, I was talking to Dauntless, and he laughed. It sounded like how you laugh- like how Felix laughs- and it started me thinking. All of the little inconsistencies between the two identities made sense if they had the same common denominator.”

[sorceresssundries]

A Scandal In Sorcery

Chapter 2 - The Dance

Pairing: Gale x Fem Tav

Summary: A Regency era/Baldur’s Gate crossover. Set in an Alternate Universe, containing familiar faces and key events in new light.

It is, predominantly, a love-story which will contain explicit content as the slow-burning bond between Gale and Tav deepens.

Chapter 1 here

(This is also published on AO3)

Word Count: 3.1k

A/N: This story is set in an Alternate Universe. Though there may be echoes of sound and flickers of light from a well-loved place, please bear in mind this is a new path in a familiar forest.  Take comfort in the familiarity and care into the unknown.  Some things are destined to come together in every universe, just as others are doomed to fall apart.

Gale Dekarios wasn’t sure what it was exactly that drew her to him. Whether it was her sullen demeanour, unconventional beauty or the fact strands of weave shimmered around her like cracked light through crystal.  

He had sensed her almost immediately as he had entered the ballroom, felt the air spark as though she was an approaching storm. His gaze drifted her way, and as soon as he met her eyes he was spellstruck. Her skin, warm and tanned, adorned with freckles, bore a delicate pink blush across the bridge of her nose and the high points of her cheekbones —a complexion undoubtedly caused by a day in the company of the sun. While the majority of women in the room adorned themselves in the season’s satin, empire-waisted gowns, she stood out in corseted robes of navy and gold, sculpted to accentuate her curves and flowing gracefully to the floor. They were daringly slit on each side to reveal laced-up boots over fitted breeches. There had obviously been an attempt to tame her hair for the occasion, but loose black curls were making a desperate escape from the tight coil they had been imprisoned in. Amidst the tamed field of the other guests, she was a wildflower. A cherry blossom in a forest of pine, and he was determined to delight in the shade of her if only for a few moments. Perhaps being coerced into this charade wouldn’t be as unbearable as he had initially feared. 

He managed to interrupt his companion from flirting for a few seconds to enquire about her.  “Mr. Ancunin, who is that over there hiding away in the dark corner?” The silver haired man winked at the young lord he was talking to, before turning to flash a disarming, pointed smile. 

“Ah, that is young Duke Ravengard. Heart of gold, morals of a white knight, blade of a hero.” He gave an exaggerated sigh, as though this disappointed him. “Shame really, he is handsome, but frightfully boring.” 

“Not him, the woman he is speaking with.”

"Ha, Ostavia Olyn, now she is a much more intriguing character. Rumour has it her family is penniless, and her father is treating her like a prized mare at auction, but hush, you didn't hear it from me," he chuckled, a hint of cruelty in his laughter. "She's a firecracker, to say the least, but I'd advise caution if I were you. I hear someone has their eye on her." Before Mr. Dekarios could press further on the matter of her admirers, the silver-tongued Mr. Ancunin had already drifted back into conversation, and the host of the evening had begun his speech. As Lord Gortash talked, Gale began delicately moving through the enraptured crowd, determined to get as close to her as possible in the hope of asking for a dance.

Despite accepting his hand, her temper still sizzled. He couldn't quite fathom what had ignited her ire, but he couldn't deny the allure of a stoked fire over a tepid rain shower any day. Intrigued, he found himself eager to uncover more about her.

Gale had been a popular hand at the Blackstaff Ball back in his days as an apprentice. Admittedly, his time away from the material plane and with his Goddess had not allowed much room for practising his steps but he found it was an easy rhythm to fall back into, especially with such an enchanting partner. 

Tav, on the other hand,  was less practiced, less graceful, and far less enchanted. It took a few delicate moments for her to find her feet. He was more respectful than some of the other partners who had dared take a turn with her. His hand on her waist was courteous, yet there was a firmness to his grip that guided her with confidence, preventing her feet from stumbling - though it did little to steady her breath. In the proximity of their dance, she caught the scent of him—sandalwood and parchment - He smelled like crisp autumn. 

“Are you managing to enjoy the evening from your hideaway?” He asked politely.

At his attempt at small talk, Tav steeled herself for another dull turn with a dull partner. The politeness and reservedness of it all was suffocating. She felt restricted and bound - constantly stuffed into conversations two sizes too small. She was sick of it all. She wanted her hair down, she wanted to smile with her teeth and laugh from her belly. She wanted to sprint corsetless through warm summer rain and spin magic from her fingers like she was born to do. 

She often felt these long evenings of repression were unproductive for someone alive with magic. She should be spending her time with her gift settled on the surface of her skin, and soaking in the cool freshness of it. Instead, she felt like it was a caged, prowling animal she was destined to tame but never master. If only she had the freedom she craved, the pure, eternal, bright freedom of someone like Gale Dekarios. He had everything she wanted, and yet here he was letting himself be paraded around like a prized possession. He infuriated her, but she supposed she would have to indulge him for now, if only for one dance.

“Very much so Saer, I find it gives me a perfect vantage point to observe the events of the evening.” She tried very hard to keep the bite out of her voice, but sharp teeth are tricky to file down.

“And what have you discovered from your vantage point, oh mysterious spy?” His tone was refreshingly playful, and something flickered in her chest and in her smile. 

“If I told you, I wouldn’t be a very good spy would I?” 

Gale Dekarios realised he was very quickly dabbling with trouble in the crackling presence of this wildfire woman. “Wizards don’t make for good spies, I don’t think we are built for all that sneaking. Let’s leave that to the rogues and scoundrels shall we?” His observation surprised her, perhaps he was more attentive than she gave him credit for.

“What makes you think I am a wizard, Saer? Do I display their famous arrogance? I was not aware I had conjured any magic tricks this evening.” His response to her indignation was a smile which could brighten the darkest midnight. She continued, starting to feel a little unsteady.  “If you are expecting a show, I’m afraid I must leave you disappointed.”

"Well, for a start, you've opted for robes instead of a dress," Gale remarked, his gaze tracing the contours of her attire with a knowing gleam in his eyes. "And secondly, you're a flame around which the weave flutters like a helpless moth." There was a charged pause, his thumb delicately brushing against her wrist as they moved in tandem. "You seem to evoke a similar reaction in those attuned to it" He slowed their dance, and his eyes fluttered to her lips. “You are most intriguing…”

She tried not to meet his eyes again, in fear she would fall into them and not be able to find her way out.  So, instead she tried to distract herself with a turn in the conversation. 

“Your date is watching us very intently, Saer. I hope I am not interrupting anything.” 

Gale snapped out of his trance, momentarily confused. However, as he spun her gracefully across the floor, he realised she was referring to Mr. Ancunin, who indeed had fixed his stare upon them with an unreadable expression on his face.

“How kind of you to show concern, my lady.” She didn’t have to look at him to know he was smirking. “But he is not my date, he is my… escort.” Tav’s expression must have given her surprise away, as he quickly stumbled up with “I mean.. He has escorted me here from Waterdeep, under instruction of Lord Gortash.” She can feel his shoulder tense slightly under her hand as he mentions their host. How unusual, she thinks, why on earth could the presence of this chosen one be so important to this particular evening?

“Surely the chosen of a Goddess doesn’t need someone to hold their hand and guide them to our modest little gathering”

He chuckled and she felt her cheeks flush, as though somewhere there’s a joke she’s missed the punchline to. 

“It wasn’t a travel issue my lady, I can assure you my navigation skills are incomparable.” She risked a glance at him then, and her fears were confirmed. His eyes were so warm and dark that the sparkling candlelight came to life within them. She found herself momentarily lost, before mentally shaking herself free from his hypnotic gaze. 

She wasn’t sure if she imagined it, but she thought she was suddenly a little closer to him than before.

“Mr. Ancunin is a senior magistrate and dear friend of Lord Gortash. He was very clear with his.. focused...message that I was to attend here this evening.” His tone darkened slightly, and for a second he appeared lost in thought. “Upon our introduction he delighted me in conversation about his influence within the justice system, and let me know I need not bother him with smalltalk about my upbringing or connections. He knows everything about me and my inner circle, apparently.” His eyes met hers again, his meaning heavy.

Tav couldn't help but admire the audacity of threatening the prized possession of Mystra in such a brazen manner. Yet, she swiftly dismissed the thought. The political machinations and power plays of politicians and playthings held little interest for her. She was on the cusp of freedom from this city, and once she ascended to the rank of archmage, she vowed not to be coerced into attending such meaningless social gatherings ever again.

Her gaze once more met Mr. Ancunin's, noting his demeanour did befit that of a magistrate. However, her learnings had taught her to view most in such positions as nothing more than corrupt bloodsuckers. A shiver of distaste ran down her spine, earning a laugh from Gale.

"You have no talent for hiding your feelings, Miss Olyn," he remarked, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Tav's lips curled into a wry smile, her gaze unflinching as she met his. "My talents are unknown to you, Mr. Dekarios, and that is how they shall remain." Here, in his arms, unfurling the bright petals of her wit, she felt herself bloom slightly—a bud with a taste of sunlight. "Maybe I am a woman who likes to make her feelings known."

His arm moved slightly further around her waist, and he leaned forward to whisper in her ear. "One certainly hopes so."

He was so close now she could feel his breath against her cheek, one hand pressed against her back and the other softly clutching hers as they moved. Her temper had dimmed, she had noticed, and just as she found herself truly relishing the sensation of being in his arms, the music came to an end, abruptly breaking the spell they had cast together.

There was a brief moment in the dip of the music, just before he let her go, which he let himself sink into. Only for a burning second. The sensation of her small hand in his, the gentle curve of her waist beneath his touch, and the scent of vanilla, how warmth sang from her skin as though her day basking outside had dazzled her into the sun itself. He wondered how that warmth would taste against his lips…

She stepped back and bowed quickly, formally, now acutely aware of the whispers breezing around them. They had become the focus of the party. It was a position Tav had always been determined to avoid, yet here they were, at the centre of it all. Amidst the murmuring crowd, she caught sight of her father near one of the bowls of punch, appearing uncharacteristically flustered and oddly alone. It struck her as peculiar.

Gale was about to inquire if she would like to share another dance with him when a figure interrupted.

"May I cut in? I would be honoured if you would grace me with the next dance," the voice came, clipped but courteous. Tav felt a rush of relief as Wyll stood by her, offering her some friendly comfort on the dance floor. However, as she turned back from assessing her father's odd countenance, she realised Wyll was not addressing her, but rather Mr. Dekarios. Wyll was glaring at him as though trying to set him alight, but the wizard seemed unperturbed. 

He bowed at the invitation. “Of course my lord, how could I turn down such a genteel invitation.” Tav once again felt out of the loop, but despite the strange tension, she felt grateful for an opportunity to step out of the limelight and talk to her father. 

He became even more nervous as Tav approached him. 

“Father. I am surprised at you!” Tav mocked. “It is unusual for you to give up so quickly. Have you finally run out of suitors to harass, or are you just gathering back your strength for another round of negotiations?” Her mood had once again soured. 

“Ostavia…” his voice was a tired plea.

“I tell you what, how about I do a lap of the room ringing a bell and sending up sparks to draw some extra attention?” 

“Tav, please… we must speak privately, there is someth…” He was speaking in a hushed tone, and Tav was becoming more and more irritable. What a dream it would be for one to be able to express their thoughts openly and at a normal volume.

“Let us speak privately at home father, Leyana will be desperate to hear all about the evening, and what kind of a sister would I be if I deprived her of such fascinating tales. I am tired and this silly circus of a party is of no use to us.”

"Silly? Oh, I don’t know. I've found the evening rather... eventful," a low, amused voice chimed in from behind Tav, causing her to whirl around. There, standing before her, was Lord Gortash. Handsome in a different way from Mr. Dekarios, he exuded a certain invitation, like a dark path veering away from busy, lamplit streets—enticing, alluring, and perhaps dangerous. Up close, he appeared more pallid, with shadows under his eyes making him appear slightly haunted. His features were undeniably strong, his eyes so dark they were almost black. However, unlike the warmth she had felt with her dance partner, these eyes held a colder, more baleful gaze. They were focused, attentive, and fixated on her.

“My apologies, my lord.” Tav gave a slight bow of her head, she ought to be embarrassed but she was having such an awful time she was past caring. Perhaps if she came across as rude to their host she would be excluded from all social events, or perhaps she just didn’t feel like being polite to any more men this evening.

"You are forgiven, dear lady," he smiled warmly. "I see you've been enjoying the company of some esteemed individuals. Tell me, what is your impression of Mr. Dekarios?" At his mention, Tav turned to see him still immersed in dance with her friend. Wyll led, both in steps and conversation, his expression bearing an uncharacteristic sternness. Whatever they were discussing didn’t look particularly agreeable.

"The legend of his magical ability certainly travels," Gortash continued before she could answer, his tone deliberate, almost intimate. "He must be absolutely fascinating for one such as yourself who is also... gifted."

At the last word, Tav's eyes whipped back to him, stunned into silence. What did this man know of her gifts? Perhaps he had heard of her prowess during her studies? But she couldn’t fathom why someone like her would be on the radar of someone so deeply entrenched in politics.

He chuckled at her. “Don’t be alarmed, my dear. Your father and I have been deep in conversation and I've been keeping a close eye on you for some time. He has much to be proud of, to have not one but two daughters gifted with such powerful sorcery.”

Tav flicked her eyes toward her father, who couldn't meet her gaze, and a wave of panic surged through her. What had he done? What had he let slip?

She summoned every ounce of composure, striving to calm her racing heart and settle her tumultuous thoughts into still waters. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Saer,” she replied, forcing a serene smile. “My sister is no sorceress; she was not blessed with…”

He laughed again, each peal a shard of ice down her spine. “She does you proud, Yondrel. Sharp as a whip and as pretty as a night orchid.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Tav’s father offered with frustrating meekness.

“Do not fear. The secret of your sister’s condition and family standing is safe with me. I promise you that,” Gortash assured, and for a moment, the veil of threat lifted, replaced by something resembling sincerity, though Tav couldn't be certain if it was genuine or merely a flicker of hope in darkness. “Do not be angry with your father, dearest. It wasn't him who told me of your sister’s troubles.”

Dearest? Who was this man to call her dearest? To bring up family secrets and slip them sharp between her ribs like a rogue in an alleyway. Tav could feel her skin crackle with anger and indignation at the gall this arrogant, jumped up…

“It was Grand Duke Ravengard. His son is a close friend of yours, yes? I’m afraid there’s no such thing as family secrets in such a close-knit, generous community such as ours. I have many friends, in many positions.” He took a step closer to her, and she could not move, her feet were made of lead. “Besides, the two of us should have no secrets between us.”

Tav did not like where this was going, she felt out of her depth and did not want to continue the conversation until she had whetted her courage and supplied some well-needed ammo to her arsenal, or at least some decent armour to protect from the concurrent blows. She did not enjoy feeling like she was on the back-foot.

“If you would excuse me, Lord Gortash, I thank you for your hospitality but my father and I were just leaving.” She bowed low and went to turn away as politely as possible, but was stopped by Gortash’s hand placed softly in the crook of her arm. 

“Such formality, my dear. I can assure you, it is not needed.” He leant forward and grasped one of her hands in between his. 

“Not now we’re to be husband and wife.”

[yanderecrazysie]

Idol Chapter 2: Game Start

I decided to keep it as Haikyuu, since that poll was winning.

Chapter One: here

Characters: Kozume Kenma

WARNINGS: swearing, Doom being ported to a handheld gaming system

You chewed on your watermelon-flavored bubblegum, your lidded eyes giving off the impression of boredom. In reality, you were not even remotely bored- more like a nervous wreck. You exited the car and swaggered up to the door of the massive building in front of you, trying to look more confident than you felt.

Aunt Rika clearly sensed your hidden feelings, because she took your hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. Gritting your teeth, you walked through the door and to the elevator. Aunt Rika pressed the number 12 and the elevator began to move.

You looked down at your combat boots, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious… No, fuck that, this was a great decision!

You stood straighter. You weren’t going to change who you were just because this was a corporate environment.

The elevator opened to a modern lounge area with leather couches, huge windows, and sleek decor, like a sculpted bust, nice paintings, and countless- I mean, countless- posters of the same five boys you had seen in the autographed photo in the car.

A large desk stood against the wall but had no one behind it. You glanced around, playing with the hem of your suit.

“Hello, Kenma, this is your new assistant manager!” Aunt Rika announced, making you jolt a little in surprise.

Confused, you looked around the empty room, wondering who the fuck she was was talking to. Then, you spotted him, sunken into the couch and slouching heavily, his pudding cup brown-to-blonde hair barely showing over the arm of the couch. 

Immediately, your mind blanked. Shit, I’m meeting one already? I was not prepared! And wasn’t his surname Kozume? Is Aunt Riza so familiar with him that she calls him by his first name? Or do all idols go by their first names? 

While you were frantically chewing your gum at 60 mph, your aunt walked over to the couch and sat down next to the male. To your surprise, he didn’t so much as blink at either her greeting nor her presence.

You walked closer to get a better look at the idol and found that his golden-brown eyes were glued to the screen of a handheld game console. He gave a tiny nod, the only indication he’d heard anything. 

You stared at him, unsure of what to do with this guy. You could barely see his face, curtained by his blond hair and red hoodie. His expression, from what you could see was detached, as if anything beyond his game didn’t matter.

The silence seemed to go on forever and, the longer it lasted, the more pissed you got. What’s wrong with this guy? Does he not know even the slightest bit of politeness?

Aunt Rika, sensing a storm brewing, gestured for you to join her on the couch.

“Don’t just stand there! You’ll be working closely with Kenma- he’s the main songwriter of the band. It’s important to build a connection.

Ew, professionalism, you made a face, but you strode over to the couch anyways and sat down gingerly next to the male engrossed in his game. It almost felt as though you were intruding on a private moment.

Kenma’s golden-brown eyes flickered up for the briefest second, taking the sight of you in before returning to his game. A soft clicking sound filled your ears as he tapped on the buttons at top speed. You weren’t sure if he was ignoring you on purpose or this was “normal Kenma”.

Either way, it pissed you off.

“Hi,” your voice came out uncharacteristically squeaky and you tried again, “Yo, I’m (Y/n), I look forward to working with you.”

No response.

Not even a glance.

You chewed your gum ferociously, feeling both anxious and seriously annoyed.

Aunt Rika, however, didn’t seem to think the guy was rude, she simply smiled and patted Kenma’s shoulder like this was entirely normal. “Kenma’s not much of a talker,” she said quietly. Why she bothered to stay quiet was a mystery to you, considering he was lost to the world, “But he’s one of the most reliable people in the group.”

“Uh huh,” you grunted. Reliable wasn’t the first word that came to your mind as you watched him silently tap away at his game.

You fiddled with the hem of your suit jacket again as the silence stretched on, your eyes darting between Aunt Rika and the near-stranger engrossed in a video game world. What do I say? Does it even matter? Can we leave this guy and meet the others now?

Suddenly, Kenma’s soft voice startled you out of your thoughts, “Don’t worry about trying too hard. Just do your job, and we’ll be fine.”

It wasn’t much, but it was finally something.

“Right,” you said, trying to sound confident, “I’ll do my best!”

Kenma didn’t respond, but you felt as though you’d gotten enough acknowledgement from him. 

Aunt Rika smiled at you, clearly pleased with the exchange, “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted, I have to attend a meeting,” she looked at Kenma, “Make sure you’re not too hard on her.”

Kenma didn’t respond in the slightest. You reached out an arm and mouthed “don’t leave me” to your aunt, but she merely laughed in response and waved goodbye as she walked down the hallway.

You were left alone with him. Great. Fantastic. Really fucking amazing. Now, the only sound was the clicking of buttons once more.

“So, uh, what game are you playing?” you asked, figuring that would get a response.

Nope. Nothing.

You peered over his slouched form and curiously looked at the game yourself. You recognized it instantly as one of the older Doom games.

“Oh, sweet, Doom,” you said, unsure of what else there was to say, “Pretty sure I’ve beat that one.”

Kenma stopped pressing buttons instantly and turned to stare at you. His face was of the uttermost seriousness and disbelief when he said, “I didn’t know girls played video games.”

You just about slapped him right then and there.

[dragongirlie56]

Doubts and Surprises

My first post and Zelink oneshot on Tumblr! Hope you enjoy! I loved writing this one :)

Ship: Zelink

Warnings? None!

Zelink master list <——- my other one shots! :)

///////////////////////////////

Zelda didn't know why she was here. 

Her father and his advisor, Tarak, were having what seemed like a private conversation (might as well have been) with herself being the topic of discussion along with the utter doom that loomed above Hyrule. One that she was reminded of every second of every day since she was six years old. She really tried to ignore them and think of something to take her mind off of their words but she couldn't.

Her green eyes focused on a tapestry in the far corner. The triforce was elegantly sewn into its dark blue fabric. Why did everything have to be a constant reminder of her failures?

She shifted her feet from side to side, her dress restricting her movements. Her hair itched the back of her neck. Her shoes pinched her toes. And the soles of her feet hurt.

"I think it would be beneficial for the princess to continue her training," Tarak's voice sliced through her thoughts.

Red filled Zelda's vision and her fists tightened at her sides. Training always ended with nothing but disappointment and failure. She knew it, her father knew it, and the people of Hyrule knew it. 

"I agree." King Rhoam's voice carried through the throne room.

Of course he would. Zelda couldn't bring herself to look at her father. The King of Hyrule. She knew he meant well but he did a really good job of being a king instead of her dad. With Zelda's mother's passing, she had no one to teach her the ways of Hylia's sacred power. But the amount of training and praying to the silent goddesses gave nothing in return. Nothing but a boiling resentment that fueled Zelda's inner turmoil.

Did he not have another plan? Nothing to go off of? Clearly the last 11 years of training with nothing to show for didn't faze her father.

"She is scheduled to visit the last two springs. They are our last hope," Rhoam mentioned.

"Either spring will likely spark some power." Tarak added.

Zelda bit her tongue, nothing good would come out of arguing with either of them. Neither would listen to her. It always ended in flames when she argued with her father, she didn't need the both of them coming at her. 

Her fists tightened with every agonizing second. How long had it been? At least a half an hour of them referring to her in third person. Would they even notice if she left? 

Tears threatened to sting her eyes, she would not cry. Not in front of them. She needed out. She needed— Her eyes caught a familiar shade of blue, the champion's tunic. Her breathing stopped short all together when she met Link's ocean gaze. He was stationed by the wall with the master sword strapped to his back—something she used to despise with all her being but now it reminds her of him. He furrowed his brows slightly as he glanced between her and the King behind her.

That's right. He was here. She wasn't alone anymore. Oh why had she been so cruel to him before? 

Maybe she could sneak out with him or come up with some excuse. She knew he would take her away from everything if she asked, which was unrealistic considering their circumstances and duty but Zelda still wished for it. It took everything in her not to run to him then and there.

He tilted his head slightly toward the door—-he must've seen the pleading in her eyes.

"Please be off with your training, Zelda." The golden haired princess never guessed she would be somewhat relieved for her father to say those words, though they still made her grit her teeth. Why did he ask for her in the first place? To listen to someone else drone on about how she should continue her sacred training? To have a second opinion? As if she didn't get enough scolding from him.

"Of course, Father." It took everything in her not to spit the words towards his neatly polished boots. She felt like a child all over again.

She spun on her heels and descended the steps—fighting the urge to sprint down the stairs—to meet Link. Her safety. 

"Please escort her, Link." 

Link didn't need such an order, he was already holding out his hand for her to take. Her fingers wrapped around his own and he led her out.

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

Her other hand flew to her mouth as she heard the doors close behind her. 

She didn't know where to go, but she didn't have to. Link tugged her down the hall without a word.

—————————————————————————————————

Zelda's shoulders relaxed as she breathed in the fresh air of the castle gardens. The sun rose high in the sky with little clouds to cast away its warm rays. Her ears twitched as she heard bees zip between flowers and birds chirp in the trees. She had to admit, the castle crew had really outdone themselves with the garden grounds.

Her blonde-haired knight guided her towards one of the benches covered in peppered shade.

Her throat tightened, she wanted to cry for an entirely different reason. How can he be so thoughtful? I don't deserve it. 

"Thank you, Link." She reluctantly released his hand and took a seat. Her heart sped in her chest, had she really held his hand the entire time?

He nodded once and gave her a slight smile.

"Do you really think the princess can do it?"

Zelda's shoulders tensed at the new voices. She turned her head to glance behind her. There were two guards strolling through the gardens, their armor clinking against their weapons.

"That's what the King says. If she listens to him we should be fine." The other replied to his comrade.

"I don't know. I've heard talk around. People have lost hope."

Their voices muffled as they rounded the corner towards the courtyard.

"I'll be back," Link said, his voice quiet. She flicked her gaze to him and her eyes widened.

"No! Link you don't have to talk to them. It's fine. They... have a right to doubt me."

"How can you say that?" he questioned.

"What?" Zelda didn't stop her mouth from falling open.

His eyebrows were knit together as he stared at her.

Her hylian ears drooped slightly and her voice cracked with despair. "They're right, Link. All I do is train and it's not enough. We're going to lose this war and it's going to be my fault." She shook her head as her tears fell. "How can you even look at me? A-and be so kind to me still?" She covered her eyes, she didn't want to see his reaction to her questions. "How can you not despise me? I can't even wield the power to aid you against him. I would doubt me too."

I do doubt me. She could almost hear her words out loud.

His boots tapped the cobblestone pathway and ended in front of her. She felt him grasp her hands and lower them away from her tearstained face. 

"Prin... Zelda." The sound of his soft voice made more tears spring to her eyes. She didn't deserve his care or his kindness. She was a princess born to a throne of nothing. "They don't see how much passion you have for your people. For them." He sat down next to her. "You're amazing and they shouldn't talk about you any other way. You're doing everything you can. More than anyone... Please look at me."

She lifted her eyes to meet his blue ones and he continued. "You cannot disappoint or fail me... I'm... nothing but proud of you. I... I could never despise you."

Proud? 

Her hands dropped to the bench as she stared at him with wide eyes. She couldn't remember the last time someone told her that. Maybe since before her mother passed. She also couldn't believe Link said so much in one minute.

Link's eyes went wide. He cast his gaze to the ground, blush flushing his cheeks. "A-am I out of line? I apologi-" 

"No, no!" Zelda reached out to place a hand on Link's arm. He whipped his head toward her.

"Thank you. I didn't realize how much I needed to hear those words." She wiped her eyes furiously. "I-" She let out a breath. "Thank you," she repeated.

"Always," he replied quietly and gave her a smile.

Zelda smiled back and let her hand drop.

They sat in a comfortable silence, listening to the trees rustle in the light breeze.

"I don't know if this is the best time..." Link's voice never ceased to startle her, she was used to him being so silent. But she was happy about his newfound courage to speak. She thought it was silly but she hoped it was her that had something to do with it.

Her curiosity grew as he reached into one of his pouches, she leaned to the side to attempt to get a peek at what he had.

He pulled out a small screw and held it out for her to take. Zelda gasped, it was one of the guardian pieces! She carefully grasped it from his hands and stared at it in awe. Her father never let her near them, even less work with the ancient parts themselves!

"I found it at the training grounds for the guardians while walking back from patrol. No one was around to give it to so I... kept it..." His hand came up to scratch the back of his head. "You always talk about the guardians so... I thought..."

Zelda let a grin overtake her face as she stared at him.

His eyes caught hers and his hand froze, his face flushed with pink. She found it to be the cutest thing ever, the usual ever stoic knight blushing at his words.

"Link. This means everything, thank you."

"I- sure." He nodded and dropped his hand. She wanted to kiss him then and there.

"No really thank you. For everything you do. Even when you don't have to." For a silly moment, Zelda wished it wasn't because of his duty to her. But sometimes she thought any other appointed knight wouldn't do half the things Link does for her. Sure he protects her, that's a given. But even when it was his duty, she felt—hoped that deep down it was because of something more.

"I want to," he said simply with a shrug.

Zelda smiled again. Maybe everything would be okay. With the calamity, her training, the future. As long as Link was there she knew she could do it. With him by her side and hers by his.

[tadpole-apocalypse]

Fortunes

Part 2 - Home [Ao3 Link]

Summary - Chased away from his grave site before they ended up in the city jails for public lewdness, Morgan invites Astarion into her home nearby, to finish what they started. Pairing: Astarion x Morgan (female human tav) Rating: Explicit Sexual Content Chapter Tags: Astarion POV, mentions of torture and death, elf/human relationships, vampire hopped up on infernal blood, morgan is a hoarder, wild magic, cunnilingus, mind reading, inappropriate use of tadpole, shower scene, cumplay, mentions of multiple partners, PIV sex

I finished writing a thing! Please enjoy if you decide to read, but this is the second part. Part one is here.

Fortunes Part 2 - Home

Morgan’s hand is warm where it touches his, but for once, his skin burns hotter. Infernal blood swirls in his veins and pools into his limbs, hot and heavy. Pulling him forward, she guides him deeper into the room that serves as a storefront before her fingers slip out of his grasp. She stumbles against a bunch of stacked chests, sending a pile of something or other crashing with a loud clatter. 

 “Ah, shit. It’s so dark…hang on.”  

Ah, her weak little human eyes couldn’t pierce through the darkness as easily as his, which reveal a room so cluttered it’s a wonder any business at all can be conducted in such a space. He surveys the room as she peels off in another direction. 

There’s a low table with some plush chairs and a crystal ball in the center space, with rows of shelves, chests and other surfaces piled high with a variety of eye-catching objects. The walls are carved from stone, surprisingly. He supposes it makes the structure more durable, given her propensity to randomly explode. 

Heavy tapestries depicting various occult symbols decorate the walls. A streak of green catches his eye and he finds himself drawn to a series of portraits stacked against a large shelf. Her face, staring back at him with a coquettish smile in a thick oil paint. A lover’s depiction, he realizes as he goes through a stack of nearly identical paintings.  

There’s a tiny one set aside on a nearby table, painted with a very fine brush that shows a remarkable likeness, down to the pattern of freckles across her scarred nose. She seems more youthful here; this artist is different from the other paintings. He traces the texture of the dried paint with a finger. 

A flickering light floods the cluttered room, and he glances aside at Morgan with a flame in hand, lighting the small lamps scattered about. He slips the small portrait into his pocket and keeps browsing, while the room steadily grows more illuminated. 

“I’m going to put a kettle on, it’ll just be a minute!” she chirps. ”Make yourself at home.” 

Make himself at home? What a curious phrase. He doesn’t know exactly what that entails. Is he supposed to remove his boots? He leans against a nearby alchemy table and does so, continuing his perusal once more, now barefoot. 

Had he been in a home before all this? He searches his memories, blurred from decades of control, and comes up empty. His victims were not inviting him into their homes, he was dragging them to his; to their doom. 

Those dark thoughts feel unwelcome, like a stabbing dagger in his innards, so he turns towards the hoarded interior and begins rifling through tables and chests packed with her weird things. 

A carved marble statuette of an elephant, a petrified frog, a little bronze box filled with tiny wooden animals, bottles filled with feathers bright and dull, a wax hand shaped to hold a rather large cup, a hideous little clown puppet staring menacingly at him from behind a shelf of unlabeled potion bottles; the oddities seem never ending, his eyes sliding over each one and finding little to nothing of monetary value.  

Yet, there's something charming about such worthless trinkets being on display, he thinks as he picks up a large conch from a collection of pretty shells organized by color. Not the most inspired decoration, but at least it was her own. 

Cazador would never have allowed such junk in his domain. Once, back when Violet was still newly turned, she tried bringing trinkets around the manor. 

They’d all ignored her wailing from the kennels as Godey enacted the punishment Cazador had laid out for her. 

In the back of the store, Morgan coughs from layers of dust rising up from her flurry of movement around the hearth, and brings him back into the present, away from memories of torture. 

Embrace change, the cards had said. He was trying! The bastard continued intruding in on his thoughts even after he was dead and gone. It wasn’t fair. 

Here, bathed in the warm glow of the lamp light of the home he was invited into, he closes his eyes and listens to the sound of water being brought to a boil.

He can imagine slotting himself into her life here. Lurking in darkened corners, protected from the sun by the thick velvet drapes covering the windows. Dipping into the pockets of the delusional patriars that frequented this place while she performs a reading, maybe even draining the occasional fool, if he could get away with it. Her place was right by the market district; there would always be some cultural festival or other lasting late into the evenings; easy enough for him to find a drunken fool to pick off from the crowd, then return home, fattened on the blood of thinking creatures to spend his nights in bliss, in her arms.

He had told Dalyria that he’d meet them wherever they ended up, down in the Underdark once they took care of their tadpole situation. Did he really have to follow through with that promise? Their experience trudging through the Underdark on the way to Moonrise was handily the most unpleasant part of their journey thus far. 

Well, second most unpleasant…nothing could be more repulsive than the illithid colony, he decides. 

But, staying here in a little home of their own, with all the amenities of city living? That sounds much more appealing to him. 

He wanders deeper into her hoard, the smell of incense and herbal tinctures lingering heavily this far back. The hearth is just past a collection of sad, shriveled potted plants that look ready to crumble to dust. He keeps to the shadows with light steps just as she begins pouring the boiling water from a pot into an ugly little ceramic teapot shaped like a toad. 

He waits for her to finish her task, then surprises her from the shadows with the slide of his arms around her waist and a brush of lips against the back of her neck. 

The small jump when she realizes his presence gratifies him. Her pulse jumps on his tongue, tempting, but he pushes aside the want easily with his belly full of devil blood. It both sates him and stokes his lust; his body burning even hotter once she’s pressed up against him just so. He’s struck with a want to finish what was rudely interrupted at his grave site. 

His senses are heightened, and he can both smell her arousal and the blood rushing through her veins when she feels him press into the wet spot on her breeches.

“Wait,” she says. 

He stops, lifting his head from her neck. 

“We’re filthy. Let’s go wash up a bit first,” she tilts her head back to look at him, then beckons to follow her to a small room off to the side of the hearth. 

He couldn’t argue with that. They were both streaked with dirt, mud, and other bodily fluids. 

Well, it’s not so much of a room as it is a closet carved into the stone with a little drain in the center; more than a little cramped with two occupants. They discard their soiled clothing and put it in a little basket that seems to be meant for such a purpose just outside the door, while Astarion looks all around for some kind of mechanism to dispense the water. 

Instead, she pulls out a couple of scrolls meant for creating water, and creates a brief downpour that rains down upon them that washes away the grime from his grave site. The cold water is a shock against his burning hot skin, unpleasantly so. Thoroughly soaked, she uses her own magic to summon a series of blindingly bright wisps of heat that hover nearby. 

He realizes after a moment they’re evaporating the water from their skin; a remarkably efficient little trick, as the rest of the water trickles down the drain. 

“They’ll burn up in a few minutes, but try not to bump into them. They’re very hot,” she cautions, wringing a large deluge of water from her hair, before tossing it behind her shoulder. 

“Wouldn’t a basin be easier?” He grumbles, shaking his wet curls from his face and wishing there was some steaming, perfumed water for him to sink into. This method rather makes him feel like a wet cat caught in a sudden downpour. 

“The Sune Temple down the road has a public bathhouse, so it never felt necessary…” she purses her lips and takes in his grimace. “But…I could buy you one if you really want it.”

“Of course I do,” he scoffs at first, trying to hide the pleased thrill that runs through him at the promise of a gift. Then he stops, and sighs at himself. “I mean…thank you.” 

Morgan laughs, amused at his attempt to cover for his poor manners. 

“Although, I don’t think even a small tub would fit in here. It’s quite cramped isn’t it?”

She was correct. Both of them in this space were pressed right up to each other. Her breasts brush his chest, stirring the lust that has been simmering under the surface this entire night. But he’s had his needs met already, while his poor little soothsayer still burns. 

Pushing her against the stone, he leans in and buries his face in her neck before pawing at her body. Her head rolls back, granting him a low moan of approval. His cock throbs when he squeezes her flesh, overflowing in his hands. 

He wants her. The thought sparks through him like a wildfire, through the haze of devil-blooded lust. 

He had been so afraid of intimacy, after accepting the depths of his feelings. He’d grown used to feeling nothing but numbness and self loathing, falling back into the familiar pantomime of the sensual lover. He’d treated her like nothing more than a means to an end; a tool to be maneuvered to stand in between him and his master. 

He hadn’t known how to be what she wanted. What she deserved. How to perform as anything other than the trained dog Cazador had made him to be. 

He’d done horrible and monstrous things. Things he could scarcely admit to her, or even to himself. Puppeted or not, the act of carrying out his master’s will had stained his soul so black that not even the Gods would claim it. 

But now…the exalted master was just a pile of ash and broken bones dumped unceremoniously to the bottom of his crypt. 

And he was still here, whole and himself, in the home Morgan invites to share with him. 

The Talis card she’d drawn for him…Death. Change and new beginnings. A chance to try living again. 

He doesn’t feel numb now. He feels…

Dropping to his knees, Astarion nudges her thighs apart with his face. She sucks in a deep breath when he traces the shape of her with his mouth, tongue delving through the dark thatch of hair to apply pressure on that little bud of hers. He inhales her scent deeply and moans into her cunt, desperate and needy. 

Her legs widen to give him more space, allowing him to run his palms up her thighs and higher still, thumbs placed to part her folds and spread her slick little hole open to his view. He takes a moment to stare and listen to her heavy breathing, before shoving his entire tongue into her. It slides in deep until his lips are pressed tightly to the apex of her mound. 

Morgan’s cry echoes in the little bathing closet, music to his ears as her thighs tighten around his head. He doesn’t need to breathe if he chooses not to, so he just focuses on wriggling his tongue as deep as he can get it. 

She chokes and gasps, vulgar things in that weird elven dialect of hers. He glances up to enjoy the vision presented before him; her body arched against the stone for support as she rides his tongue, hips bumping his chin, breasts swaying. 

His hands move to cup her ass and help support her weight when he notices her calves trembling. He drives his tongue in deep, enjoying how her insides flutter around him. A few more deep flicks of his tongue and she’s shuddering around him and crying his name, nails scratching pleasantly on his scalp while she humps his face to completion. 

When her thighs stop shaking, the last of the superhot wisps has receded. They are mostly dry now, except for the mess he’d just made between her legs. He mouths at her for a bit longer until she weakly pushes his face back and slides bonelessly down onto the ground.  

They both lay there as a tangle of limbs for a moment, curled up awkwardly in the cramped space while he listens to her racing heart slow back to normal with her head in the crook of his neck. 

After a few moments, her living body begins to protest the cramped space. He, as well, is eager to sit down on something that isn’t dirt or hard stone. They pull themselves up to their feet, Morgan taking him by the hand to lead him back out the storefront. She pauses briefly to down a cup of whatever tea she’d brewed earlier, then shows him the ladder to the loft, kept hidden from the rest of the store by a curtain of gauzy fabric.  

This area was just as cluttered and hoarded, but kept a bit more organized than the downstairs area. There wasn’t a bed so much as many, many blankets and furs and pillows atop soft mats stuffed with feathers, all arranged around stacks of clothing chests and some curio tables (filled with even more junk) that must have been hell to haul up to the loft. 

He drops into the part of the pile that looks the softest and most used, a small cloud of dust flying up after him. She drops to her knees next to him, reaches for him, then freezes- 

The air between them shimmers, blue light spilling from her body once more. Astarion reaches to his waist for his dagger that isn’t there; it lays next to the basket of their discarded clothes at the bottom of the loft. 

A trilling flute fills the air with a pleasant melody, breaking the tension as they realized the surge would manifest as no more but a jaunty song this time around. A full accompaniment of various instruments join the flute as the two of them relax, Morgan letting out the breath she’d been holding. 

“That was the second one tonight. Why are they happening so frequently?” He wonders, running his fingers through some errant green curls on his thigh. He’s seen her go at least a tenday without a single reaction. 

Morgan glances aside with obvious embarrassment before she answers. “They happen more when I’m excited, or feeling strong emotions. Meditation is really good at helping keep them infrequent, but um…with everything going on I just haven’t been doing it since we got into the city.” 

“Hm,” he smirks knowingly. “I seem to recall Halsin was offering his expertise in meditation to you not so long ago. I suppose you two must have gotten a little… distracted from that purpose?” 

“Yeah,” she laughs with him. “We definitely weren’t meditating.” 

“And what strong emotion are you feeling now, my sweet?” he prompts her, dragging a finger alongside her ribcage to watch her shiver under his touch. 

“I’m happy,” she smiles warmly at him. “I’m happy here, with you.” 

He can almost feel a fluttering in his dead, dried up heart, but it's not quite enough. 

“Let me feel,” he begs. 

They reach for each other once more in the hivemind, their illithid monstrosities always aching for its kin. Her mind opens to him completely in a gesture of trust. 

If he chose, he could direct his tadpole to dig into her most private memories and thoughts with ease. Instead, he psychically opens himself up to her as well, allowing their emotions and physical sensations to merge and interconnect as if they were one person.

He feels her psychic exploration of his brain, mindful of opening up uncomfortable memories and thoughts. Through their connection, neither of them take, only giving freely of the other. 

He feels her joy radiate through his chest as if it were his own. 

Her excitement and anticipation for the remainder of the night, and all the nights after this one. 

He also feels the loose heat and fluttering nerves in her belly from a satisfying orgasm, the warmth of his skin against hers, and the burning throb of her core that radiates in her lower belly and thighs. 

“Oooh,” Morgan moans and licks her lips. “That devil blood…I feel it in your body.” Her fingers trail along his stomach and up his chest. ���It’s so hot…” He feels her hands on him moments before her response to the physical contact travels over their psychic connection. Goosebumps prickle across her skin, a sensation foreign to him. 

It’s addicting, feeling her this way, he thinks. When her heart rate quickens, he feels it as if it were his own. A facsimile of life. 

“I wanna ride you,” she breathes, looking at him through lowered lashes. 

“Go on, then,” he tuts, grabbing her ass and squeezing generously. She swings her legs over his hips, grabs his cock and sinks onto him without any preamble. She’s so wet, she always is, and he slides into her with a hiss through clenched teeth. 

She throws her head back and cries his name loud enough to wake the neighbors. She’s probably screamed for dozens, or hundreds of lovers in this very bed. 

None as pretty as you, though. 

She answers his unspoken statement in his mind, bringing a delighted smile to his lips. 

Is that a compliment I hear? I think I may expire from shock…

His cheeky response earns him a hearty chuckle that shakes her generous bosom, capturing his attention from her face momentarily. 

Morgan, his little harlot, knows how to ride and move her body to stimulate her lover’s appetite. He’s more than content to lay back in the soft embrace of the blankets and let her take control and work her skills on him, for a change. 

Yes, let me spoil you.

Yes, he quite likes the thought of that. He rests his hands on her thighs while she rides him at a languid pace with rolling hips, letting the tension slowly wind through them both. He feels her pleasure, she feels his, then a cascade of feedback from her feeling him feeling her, and so on. 

She comes before him, pulsing so hard on his cock that he’s right behind her with a strangled groan, fingers digging in as he grabs her by the hips and thrusts up, spilling into her with a hoarse shout. She’s arched and panting above him, her delicious blood flushing her from head to foot. 

He can remain hard if he chooses to, and so he does. Her eyes widen when he grabs her by the waist and thrusts deep. 

Sweat pours down their bodies, dampening the blankets and furs around them as he coaxes another heavy climax out of her that slams into both of them. He pulls out and watches his cum dripping out in long, thick ropes from her body. She reaches down to touch between her legs with her fingers, rubbing little circles around her bud before bringing the mess up to her lips. 

His eyes track her wet fingers disappearing into her mouth. Lip curling, he lets out an involuntary snarl as heat fills him again. 

Astarion twists, flipping Morgan onto her back. She gives a little shriek that excites his predatory instincts, and wraps her legs around his waist to hold on tight as he angles himself back into her wet hole. Her hands he pins in place above her head, fingers entwined with his. His hips slap against hers without elegance, lost in their shared pleasure. Her sweaty breasts bounce with each thrust, her long hair unfurled and flowing over the blankets. 

He fucks her into the furs, the wet squelch of their coupling loud and obscene. He brings them both to another peak, spending himself once more with a strangled gasp. 

He could keep going, but she is starting to look weary, and he can feel the heaviness of the late hour starting to take hold of her mind. Eyes half closed while she catches her breath, chest heaving. Another gush of white flows out of her when he pulls out, so he finds a stack of linens nearby, and gently wipes at her and the mess underneath. Her hips shudder and flinch when he brushes sensitive flesh. 

“You should get a little bit of sleep, before we head back,” he says once he’s finished, smiling at her fondly. 

“Mmm,” she agrees, leaning into his hand when he cups her cheek, thumb stroking her bottom lip. She bites it gently, then releases it with a small imprint of her teeth. “Gale is being pushy about getting to Sorcerous Sundries, so I guess we should head there next. Wake me up in a few hours?” 

“Of course, darling,” he agrees happily, feeling her mind fall away as her tiredness breaks the psychic link between them.

“I’m so glad we’re finally home, in my own bed again. I hated sleeping in tents on the ground,” she mumbles before drifting off into the land of dreams. He doesn’t know anything about how humans experience dreaming, but he hopes it will be pleasant enough. 

We’re home, she had said. The words stick with him as he lays with her, holding her sleeping form as her soft snores fill the room. 

Fin

[jedipoodoo]

Ruthlessness (Sergeant Hunter x fem!Reader)

"After everything you've done...how will you sleep at night?"

"Next to my wife."

Notes: Feral Hunter, above-average bloodshed and violence. Reader is implied to be a Jedi but it's never explicitly stated, inspired by that line from Epic: The Vengeance Saga.

Hunter tore through the base. He could smell your fear and terror, and he knew you were nearby. He didn't even need Tech's directions.

This is what he was made for.

He hadn't slept since he'd heard you'd been captured, and he wouldn't rest until you were safe in his arms.

He quickly dispatched the two TK Troopers at the door with blaster and knife. Before the first body could hit the floor, he snatched the key card from their belt. He could hear your heartbeat just beyond the door, sluggish and slow, along with one other heartbeat and the deadly hum of an interrogation droid.

The moment the door opened, Hunter found his target, launching his vibroblade at the droid.

The blaster shot took him by surprise. Hunter managed to dodge so that it grazed him just below the ribs, but it burned. Every nerve in his body screamed out in pain,but he had to keep moving forward Hunter dropped to his knee, holding his wound, and looked up at the blaster pointed at his face.

"Doctor Hemlock warned me you'd come after her," the Imperial officer said, his voice low and lethal. He sounded just like Hemlock and Rampart, a controlled calm with a storm seething beneath the surface.

Hunter had no use for control. Not when he saw you hanging limp in the officer's arm like the damsel in distress in some cheap holo novel.

"Let her go, and I might let you live." Hunter growled, pushing himself to his feet.

The blaster followed his every move, and the officer chuckled as if he hadn't just been threatened.

"That's not an option here. She's a traitor, as are you."

Hunter took a step forward, only to stumble against a table littered with surgical tools. The officer kept the blaster trained on him, smart man.

But not smart enough.

"You're a stubborn one, aren't you?" The officer chuckled, "You clones just don't know when to quit."

"Hun'red percent success rate," Hunter bragged through gritted teeth, forcing his legs to support him.

"And vain too," the officer scoffed.

Hunter turned his body just enough that the officer couldn't see him grab the scalpel, still trying to make his way to you. Your heartbeat was growing slower with each passing second. He had to get you out of here.

"And what do you call your Emperor, then? An empire that'll last a thousand years? The Republic's been around longer than that."

"The Republic is gone!" The officer snapped, "That is the difference between the Galactic Empire and your precious Republic!" He jabbed the barrel of his blaster against Hunter's chestplate, sealing his doom.

Hunter moved too fast for anyone but Crosshair to have really noticed. The scalpel met its target in the vein of the officer's wrist, and he dropped the blaster with a scream. Hunter grabbed the wound and twisted it, forcing the officer to drop your body. Hunter only took his eyes off the officer to make sure you were safe, but he recovered quickly. He reached for the blaster with his non-dominant hand, and Hunter kicked it out of reach. The officer went for Hunter's wound, digging his hand into the wound. The air was ripped from Hunter's lungs as he tried to focus his vision. He couldn't let you die here, not as a trophy for some fanatic Imperial sycophant.

He still gripped the scalpel in his hand, and as the officer grinned sadistically Hunter drew it across his face. Blood splattered everywhere, and the officer reeled back with his face in his hands. Hunter didn't let him recover. He stomped his booted foot on the officer's shin, shattering his bones. The officer writhed on the floor as he tried to crawl away, dark blood from his face and wrist staining his gray uniform and slicking the tile floor.

Hunter held his side and adjusted his hold on the scalpel for a firmer grip, standing above the insignificant worm of a sentient that had dared to lay a hand on his Cyare.

"You clones-" the officer spat, coughing on his own blood.

"Scraping by, betraying the glory of the Empire just to live hand to mouth..."

"How how do you live with yourself?

"How do you sleep at night?"

Hunter grabbed onto the officers hair, yanking his head back so that the last thing he ever saw was the clone who would kill him.

"Next to my wife."

He drove the scalpel into the monster's chest, over, and over, and over again, until he heard the silence of its heart.

Hunter heaved a deep breath, tasting the coppery tang of blood at the back of his throat. It took a moment, but Hunter knew it wasn't his own.

A shuddering breath echoed through the room, and Hunter turned to you, crouching in between you and the officer so that you wouldn't have to see him as you woke up.

"Cyare? Cyare, can you hear me?" He called your name, cradling your head in his lap.

You mumbled something unintelligible, eyelids twitching.

"Hun'er?"

"Easy, easy Cyare, you're safe. It's over," He said. He gently pressed his fingers to the spot below your jaw where he could feel your heartbeat. It was delicate, like the flutter of a bird's wing, but it was there all the same. He needed to get you to the ship.

Hunter lifted you into his arms and though you raised your arms to hang onto his neck, they weighed as much as a starcruiser.

"I've got you," He whispered, "You're gonna be alright."

Your knee hit the blaster wound in his side, and he winced.

"You're hurt," You gasped, still drugged but now worried about him.

He shook his head and straightened his shoulders, "Don't worry about me. You're safe now. That's all that matters."

@photogirl894 @meadow-of-daisies-and-lavender @emperor-palpaminty @clonethirstingisreal (I just thought y'all would enjoy ✌️)

[voraciousvore]

Giganterra (Chapter 43)

Prologue/ TOC | Previous (42) | Next (44)

Content Warning: Injury/ blood

Word Count: 2.9k

------ Chapter 43: Race to Escape ------

When Millie saw Ajax’s boots shift from under the door, she knew Candy was done for. A squeal of terror flying up into the air, which was quickly muffled, confirmed her worst fears. The doorknob squeaked as it rotated, and Millie only had a second to react before the gigantic door creaked open and the monstrous behemoth clomped inside. 

She resisted the urge to flee in the opposite direction and instead dove forward, concealing herself under the base of the door as it opened. She kept pace with it as it moved above her, her heart hammering hard against the cold, rough stone floor. The giant’s footsteps caused earthquakes that thudded through her flesh. When the footsteps faded, she clambered out so she was no longer in the king’s chambers and careened towards the staircase. 

She halted at the top step, her guts clenching with a disorganized flurry of violent emotions. She was loath to leave poor Candy behind, but she feared there was nothing she could do to help her, with her diminutive stature. No subterfuge would work, and physical force was of course impossible. Candy’s words echoed in her mind, urging her forward: If I get caught, I want you to promise me that you’ll keep going, and strive with every fiber of your being to escape unscathed. She had promised Candy to continue; she couldn’t allow her selfless sacrifice to be in vain. 

Moving forward, however, seemed just as difficult. The stairs descended from a dizzying height in an infinite spiral that seemed to twist miles down. Each individual stair exceeded her height several times over: If her predicament had required climbing up stairs, she’d be doomed—doomed like Candy. Millie grimaced at the painful reminder. To stop now would spit on her promise and disrespect the bravery of her confidant. She had to go on. 

She didn’t know when the giant would come searching for her, so she needed to act swiftly. Millie lowered herself down the first ledge, as far down as she could, before releasing her hold in a controlled fall to the next step. The distance was more than she was comfortable with, and she could feel the impact in her legs, but she remained unharmed. Encouraged by her initial success, she dashed over to the next step. 

The giant stairs seemed to stretch on forever as Millie hopped from step to step. She expected, at any moment, for the ground to start rumbling from giant footfalls, or for King Richard’s sleazy voice to chase her down the stairwell in a chilling echo. Her hands grew slick with sweat from the tension and the exertion. However, to her surprise, nobody came looking for her. No massive shifts in the ground or air disrupted the serenity of the evening, with the quiet stillness of the pale moonlight filtering through the windows high above her head. 

She couldn’t allow herself a moment of rest, though, with the dangers she faced and the catastrophic consequences of failure. She was racing against the clock. She thought about Candy obsessively, worrying over her undecided fate. Would the king slaughter her in cold blood? Torture her? Take out his anger on her, or the other humans in captivity? She forced down her nausea at the horrific imagery that flashed through her head and focused on the task at hand. One step at a time. 

She felt like she’d never reach the end. After a while, she lost count of how many stairs she’d conquered. Her legs began to hurt with the constant shock absorption, particularly her knees and ankles. Landing on hard stone over and over pounded her legs into mush. Her hands turned raw from scraping on the gritty rock. She was increasingly unsteady as she walked. 

The end of the stairs was finally in sight. Millie was heartened, yet anxious as she observed the velvety black of the night sky lighten with tints of blue and gray heralding an impending sunrise. Her arms and legs rattled from exhaustion, yet she persevered. Just a few more stairs to go… she only had to endure so many more falls… 

One final stair. She dragged herself over to the edge, the ache in her legs sharpening to an acute pain. With fatigue shaking her limbs, she got on her knees, gripped the edge, and eased herself over the side. Her tired muscles failed her and she clumsily toppled over, cutting her knee on the unforgiving rock. Her arms jerked hard and she lost her hold on the top of the stair, collapsing to the ground.   

Crack. 

Pure agony rocketed up her leg as she crumbled to the floor, unable to sustain her footing. She cried out as she kneeled in a smear of blood from her sliced knee. With a laborious effort, she gingerly rolled over on her back, not placing any weight on her injured leg, and sat up to examine the wounds. 

Her stomach dropped in horror. Her knee would be okay, despite being all banged up, bruised, and bloody. But her ankle... it was livid and swollen, and twisted at an unnatural angle. Broken, without a doubt. Tears welled up in her eyes. There was no way she’d be able to escape the castle now, much less survive on her own once she was outside. She wouldn’t be able to even put her weight on her ankle or walk properly. Her situation had been grim before, but now it was completely hopeless. She’d failed Candy and failed herself.  

With the reminder of Candy, Millie realized she had to try, even if her senseless striving was futile. She hauled herself up on her good leg, with the mangled knee, and hopped forward, hugging the wall for support. A drop of blood trickled down her leg to her foot. Her anxiety spiked as the light from the windows waxed brighter, muted by a veil of gloomy clouds, and the morning approached. Soon, the king would be brought his breakfast, along with Chester. There was no way for her to hide her scent from him, if she was in his path of travel. 

Yet, she crawled forward at a snail’s pace, unable to move any faster with her broken ankle. The corridor, built for giants, was as boundless and infinite as the stairs. Millie started to panic. She struggled to move faster, muscling through the biting pain. Whenever she tripped or collapsed, she strained to get back to her feet and keep moving. The pain she was experiencing now was trivial compared to the tortures that awaited her at the hands of King Richard if she was caught. He loomed over her in her imagination, leering down at her with perverse hunger. She couldn’t go back, at any cost. She’d rather die. 

Millie had a vague idea of the castle’s layout, but she was accustomed to riding inside the king’s shirt where she couldn’t see much, so she wasn’t sure where she was going. Everything looked warped and distorted from the ground, when the walls rose miles above her and the floor stretched out like an endless desert of stone bricks and rugs. She hastened forward blindly, seeking to get as far away from the king’s quarters as possible. 

The quiet castle began to awaken as morning arrived, echoing with the sounds of the servants preparing for another day. Millie’s fear reached a fever pitch as she wandered, lost, in the endless halls. She was more helpless than ever, unable to run and hide if a giant spotted her. She couldn’t go on much longer, as her whole body convulsed from suffering and exhaustion. She knew her leg would fail beneath her at any moment. 

She experienced a jolt when she saw a maid clomping towards her at the end of a long hall. She ducked into the nearest room and hid as the giantess passed. She recognized her surroundings as the classroom where Ronny and Bianca received instruction from Milton. Her heart felt like it would burst out of her chest as her leg spasmed and she slid down the wall, unable to stand any longer. She was done. 

Millie didn’t know what to do. Her body, despite her petite stature, felt like it weighed a million pounds. Her head was spinning; her weakness was inhibiting her faculties to the point where she might pass out. She recognized the horrible danger, of course. She needed to conceal herself and pray for a miracle. As she surveyed the giant room around her, her eyes landed on the tutor’s satchel, propped up against his desk on the floor.   

She stared at it. She wasn’t getting out of the castle on her own. An opportunity had just presented itself, but the risk was incalculable. She could stash herself inside the bag. If everything worked in her favor, the giant teacher would carry her out of the castle unaware, before Chester could track her down. She could sneak out when he wasn‘t looking and escape. On the other hand, if Milton found her in his bag, she had no way of knowing how he would respond. He might return her to the king, or keep her for himself and torture her in even worse ways. Or, he might just exterminate her like a pest. Millie didn’t trust any giants to have her best interests at heart. 

However, as bad as the option appeared, Millie couldn’t see any other way out. She couldn’t stay and hide in the castle, because Chester would sniff her out. Even if she was caught by Milton, any fate was preferable to being returned to Hardon, even death. With the determination of a survivor with nothing left to lose, she crawled across the long distance from the wall to the desk, puffing hard for breath. She climbed up, wincing at the gruesome agony, until she finally slipped into the darkness of the satchel’s interior. She tumbled down the hard cover of a giant book until she settled into the bottom of the bag. Despite her discomfort, and her all-consuming fear, exhaustion overcame her. She promptly passed out, unable to stay conscious any longer. 

She lost awareness of the outer world for several hours. Milton returned to the classroom to tutor the royal siblings. He’d stayed in the library overnight to do research, losing track of time as he became absorbed in all the fascinating lore. He dug into the historical documents to learn more about Minimaterra. He read all about magic, about the lineages of giants capable of practicing magic, disappointed that he would never be able to cast spells himself. He knew he was playing with fire, after Leon warned him to tread carefully, but he couldn’t resist the allure of secret knowledge. He thirsted for more. 

Once the daily lesson was done, Milton picked up his bag to collect his stuff and leave, since he was tired after his unintentional all-nighter. Millie was jostled back into lucidity as the fabric container around her shifted and flew into the air. She didn’t have any time to think or prepare herself before the bag was opened, exposing her to the bright light. She froze, eyes wide, unable to process anything as her field of vision was filled with the giant tutor’s face. 

Milton opened his bag to stick in a book and stopped. At first, he thought he was gazing upon a toy, or a doll, a thing that certainly didn’t belong among his possessions. As he stared at the mysterious object, confused, he saw the blue marble eyes blink, and he realized the perfectly proportioned person was a human—a live human! And not just any human: the king’s favorite! He recalled seeing her chained around Hardon’s neck like a trinket, kissed and fawned over and threatened by his malevolent streak. Milton dropped his book to the side, spellbound by the unearthing of a priceless treasure. 

His jaw slackened with amazement as he drank in all the intricate details of her delicate form. He couldn’t fathom how she somehow made it into his bag. He frowned, though, when he noticed how pale and frightened she looked. Her leg was smothered in blood and something was wrong with her foot, although with how diminutive she was Milton had difficulty telling exactly what. Either way, she wasn’t in good shape. She must be desperate—desperate to escape. 

Milton started to sweat as the full implications of his discovery sank in. She wasn’t merely the property of the king: She was one of his prized possessions. He would be furious if he found her missing, and caught Milton with her. As the compassionate giant contemplated his options, however, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he must help her. He couldn’t cast her back into the hands of that monster of a man, who inspired fear even in giants his own size. He couldn’t imagine the horrors she had been subjected to, and he couldn’t in good conscience abandon her. He must save her. 

He didn’t dawdle any longer. Without speaking to her, so as not to draw any unwanted attention, he closed his bag and hurried out. He didn’t want to raise any suspicions by walking too fast, so he marched at a brisk pace, making a beeline for the exit. The ominous rumble of distant thunder indicated a storm was approaching. As was his regular habit when he became nervous, Milton fiddled with the wedding ring on his finger, trying not to be too conspicuous. He just had to act casual, despite his racing heart; nobody would know. 

The door to the courtyard materialized in front of him, beckoning him forward with a halo of glorious light like a beacon to heaven. Milton nearly teared up with how relieved he was—that is, until a big hand slammed down on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. Hot breath hit the back of his neck, accompanied by loud, heavy respiration in his ear. He snapped his head around to behold Chester, who was fixated on his bag and snuffling excitedly. 

“Whatcha got in your bag, friend?” the giant inquired, slobbering hungrily. He reached for it, causing Milton to clamp his hand over the top flap. He hugged the satchel to his side defensively. 

“Nothing, why?” he responded, laboring to keep his voice calm. 

Chester lunged for the bag like a tiger tackling a boar. Milton, caught off guard by his sudden aggression, lost his hold on the satchel. Chester snapped it up with his hands and pulled it open, revealing the prize inside. Millie screamed as his colossal hand reached in and blocked out the light above, poised to snatch her up. 

“No!” Milton protested. He grabbed Chester’s wrist and forced him back, pushing him away. He clutched the bag to his chest with both arms. “Don’t you dare!” 

Chester raised a brow. “You can’t fight me, Milton,” he proclaimed. “I’m carrying out the will of the king.” 

Milton blanched. He glanced down at Millie, so small and scared and powerless as she huddled at the base of his bag. He glared back up at Chester, eyes blazing. “I don’t care if you’re an emissary of God himself, you’re not getting her.” His fingernails dug into the fabric. He took a step back, towards the exit, not turning away from his opponent. 

Chester prowled forward, closing the gap between them. His hungry eyes roved over the tutor like a predator salivating over a fresh cut of meat. Milton bristled as the other man’s hands raised, prepared for violence. Even so, Chester hesitated. He glanced around to ensure their scuffle wasn’t being observed. Providentially, they seemed to be alone. 

“What would you give me? To let her go?” Chester murmured. 

“Huh?” Milton didn’t anticipate the negotiation of a bribe. He had nothing of value. 

Chester stared down at the teacher’s hand, clenched so hard that his knuckles whitened. “How about that ring?” 

“My wedding ring?” Milton paused. He rotated the ring around his finger, weighing the options in his mind. The object had tremendous sentimental value to him, as a cherished memento of his late wife. Losing it would sadden him greatly, but he understood that it would be worth it to save Millie. “Deal.” 

Chester gleefully received the treasure once Milton reluctantly removed it from his finger and handed it over. As heavy as his heart felt, relinquishing the special ring, he was relieved that he was able to come to an agreement with Chester. He left the castle in a rush, his heart beating hard as he held his satchel like his life depended on it. 

Chester grinned as he twirled the ring in his fingers, assessing the value of the precious metal. His mouth started to water as he thought of Jackie again. If he threw in some other baubles, perhaps Bucky would let him spend more time with his beloved. His stomach grumbled eagerly at the thought. 

He looked out the window at the thick, brooding mass of storm clouds brewing overhead. His smile widened as the clouds wept, pouring their sorrows over the courtyard. What a shame. He couldn’t track an escaped human with his nose, after all, if the rain washed away the scent. 

Chapter 44

Tag List: @maybeiamdownbad @yummynomms @tinycoded360

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

The Heart of Your Home pt 4

Summary: Arthur comes across a woman in need. What he thought was a simple good deed would take him down a much further path than anticipated.

Warnings: Cursing, there is mention of canon-typical violence, bodily injury, and brief smut in this chapter.

Word Count: 8,072

A/N: This chapter was a blast to write...things are coming along nicely!

It seemed to be warmer than usual today. The sun beamed down on the shawl on your back as you quietly trotted down the beaten path toward Valentine. It was beautiful out, and you decided not to waste the day inside. 

You’d told Frederick your plan; restocking simple ingredients in town. The reality was though you just wanted to enjoy being out and about for a little while. Another cold rainstorm swept through New Hanover over the previous days, once again drenching the land in dreary cold wetness. Mud was fresh and splattered against your mare’s hooves and the bottom of your boots, though you hardly minded. 

It was smart to stay inside while Frederick handled business, you knew that well enough. He’d arrived back home just yesterday. After a warm welcome and a desperately needed night spent together, you were itching to be free from the confines of your homestead. Funny, it almost seemed as if you were switching places.

The thought made you snort; you couldn't handle business like him, and you knew he couldn't cook or perform any sort of housekeeping to save his life. Switching places would surely doom the both of you to return to your original home. 

But as he kept assuring you, soon he wouldn't have to travel as much. Soon you would be wealthy enough to acquire household help. Soon, soon, soon. 

You sighed at the thought, reflecting the very same images that danced in your mind just days before. Bright-faced children running amuck in the yard, while you and Frederick watched on fondly from a spacious porch. When he was home, his optimism drove those dreams a bit closer to reality. He’d return from his trips with a few more stacks of money, as well as a gift to adorn you with. This time it was a ruby necklace that sat against your collarbone, the stone heavy against the hollow of your throat. You idly touched it on occasion, not used to having something that large and expensive. It may be worth more than your wedding ring. 

Thundering hooves nearby ripped you from your thoughts. You looked up, expecting to see someone ride past you in a hurry, only to spot a riderless horse. It appeared in the right side of your vision to cross your path just a few yards ahead. Its gray coat shone slick in the sunlight, stirrups flying free against its flank as the beast streaked by, head high in fright and ears forward. 

You blinked in surprise, and then gasped in surprise. It only took you a second to recognize which horse that was. 

Whose horse that was. 

The poor stallion seemed frightened, disappearing into the brush off to your left just as the crack of a gunshot fired somewhere nearby, followed by many more. You flinched, and your mare scooted beneath you in her own sheer anxiety. A shrill cry escaped your mouth as you clung on to the saddle, willing yourself not to slide off into the mud below. She quieted a moment later, although your body was still tense and your heart raced. Gunfire could mean anything... 

There hadn’t been any more commotion following, but sheer concern is what kept you rooted in the spot. Glancing toward where the stallion ran and back to where the gunshot originated, you quickly decided the next move. Whatever caused that gunshot signified danger, and you'd best avoid it for now, even when your growing anxiety for who might be involved gnawed at your insides. 

Steering your mare off the path, you dismounted just before the thicket of bushes and trees, standing on your toes to peer through the leaves and branches in hopes of spotting the runaway horse. Unfortunately it was too thick to see, and you sighed and forged ahead, pushing aside the greenery while half stumbling on roots. It wasn't long until the snowcapped Ambarino mountains loomed in the distance. A sheer cliff dropped into the ravine below. Movement caught your attention, and the stallion appeared in your view, pacing anxiously along the edge. You were thankful he was smart enough to stop before toppling over to certain death. 

“Hey,” you say, gentle but loud enough to catch the beast’s attention. His ears pricked and his head raised, a loud snort expelling from his nostrils. 

You reached toward him slowly. “It's okay, you know who I am,” you kept your voice low and soothing, as if he could understand you and knowing full well he didn't. But to your surprise and relief, the stallion visibly calmed. His head lowered as he approached you, sniffing your hand. You smiled and rubbed his nose before reaching for the reins, tugging him forward. “Let's get you away from here.” 

The way out was more of a struggle than it was going in, perhaps it was because you had trouble balancing while simultaneously guiding Arthur’s horse. You stumbled and stomped, yanking your skirt free of sharp twigs and thorns awkwardly with one hand, while ensuring you didn’t accidentally rip on the bit in the stallion’s mouth. Soon enough you emerged where your mare stood waiting, her blue eyes brightening at the sight of the two of you. She nickered, stepping forward to greet the stallion as soon as he stepped into the open. He reciprocated the gesture, the fear from earlier had all but vanished. 

But then your heart skipped a beat remembering the gunshots, your own anxiety blooming again. Arthur was proficient with a gun, that much you knew, and you hoped it was from his own weapon that discharged the fire. There was that chance it wasn't, and worry roiled in your guts at the mere thought of him laying lifeless on the ground... 

No, stop that right now, you mentally scolded yourself. Arthur would be just fine, he had to be, this was the man that killed a pack of wolves without hesitation and faced a Grizzly without so much as a scratch. You mounted your horse with determination, gripping the reins of the stallion in one hand as you steered them both in the direction of the gunfire. 

You kept moving at a quick trot, soon finding the stallion had a longer stride than your horse. He of course was larger than your compact mare, and any faster gait would guarantee you being left behind as he surged forward. He thankfully seemed to realize this and kept side by side with you, his head high as if just as anxious to find Arthur as much as you. 

The bridge up ahead signaled how close you were to Valentine, although the sight that soon loomed into view was what stopped you in your tracks. 

Carnage. Pure, raw carnage. Bodies littered haphazardly throughout the bridge and on both sides, pools of blood staining the earth. A disheveled wagon was off to the side, indicating whatever animal pulled it was now long gone. A lump in your throat formed and your stomach churned. You’ve only seen a dead body once in your life; a dead grandparent, but in a coffin and appeared as if they were sleeping. Not this trauma... 

You swallowed the bile that rose in your throat as a myriad of thoughts rushed through your head. What happened to these people? Why did they die like this? Who murdered them? And worst of all, was Arthur among them? 

A sound off to the side was enough to rip your attention away. Just beyond the bridge, someone stumbled wildly into the road. A survivor, you hoped, or a killer... 

Whoever it was seemed to have spotted you, as they made a beeline hurriedly across the bridge, skirting around the victims as if they were nothing but rocks in their wake. A spike of fear coursed through you, but the stallion nickered. 

And then your name was shouted through the still air. Relief flooded through you instantly with the recognition, your breath rushing out in a swoosh when you realized you’d been holding it. As Arthur drew closer, you could see he wasn’t unscathed. His hat was off, exposing bloody and bruised streaks across his cheeks. His crimson shirt was stained with mud and what appeared to be a darker red substance, blood. He had a slight limp to his gait, though that didn’t stop him in his haste. 

He stopped just before you, his face full of surprise. 

“What happened?” You demanded, observing him before flicking your eyes back to the battlefield behind him. “Who are these people?” 

“O’Driscolls,” he growled, hands clenching into fists. “They…they ain’t the friendliest of folk.” 

You nodded in understanding. While you thankfully hadn’t had a personal experience of the O’Driscoll gang, you've heard they liked to peruse Valentine and the surrounding areas for unsuspecting victims. You'd once arrived in town to witness a hanging of one of the nefarious members, but you steered away, too squeamish to follow the event through. “Did they kill all these people?” You asked, although you weren't sure if you wanted to hear the answer. 

“No,” Arthur answered. “All them bodies ARE the damn bastards,” he spat on the ground, saliva tinted red with fresh blood. 

You hadn’t expected that answer at all. Your gaze snapped to the carnage again, and the sickly feeling in your stomach returned. It occurred to you now that the lifeless bodies were that of men, their revolvers either in their still hands or resting on the ground next to them, glistening silver and red in the sunlight. It was a bloody battle, but truly, how many of them were victims? How many of them were there in total? At least a dozen, maybe more. Surely they couldn’t all be part of that gang? Taking a shaky breath, you looked to Arthur again. “How...?”  

Arthur didn't answer. He instead approached his horse, reaching to tug the reins from your hand. You let go and watched as he patted the stallion with a smile, as if he weren’t covered head to toe in injuries. He mounted the horse with ease, but you caught the wince as he settled into the saddle. “Thank you for bringin’ him back to me,” he said finally, giving you a quick glance before rubbing the horse’s neck. 

You gave him a weak smile in return, though it vanished when you got a better view of his wounds. The cuts on his face were deep and the skin around them was bruised a dark purple. Streaks of blood meshed with the stubble along his jawline. He looked as if he fought ten people at once. Your heart sank, the concern for him growing. It troubled you to see him in such a state. 

“You should head back home,” he said. “No tellin’ how many more of them are around.” 

You nodded as he began to urge his horse forward, and you couldn’t help but to ask, “Are you going to get looked at?” 

He paused, and then shook his head. “Nah, I’ll be fine.” 

This didn’t sit right with you at all. No one in their right mind would even say that when there was more blood than skin showing. You worried he was worse than he appeared and wouldn’t realize until it was too late. A pit formed in your stomach at the thought. As he tapped his horse into a walk again, your mouth spoke faster than your mind could comprehend. “Wait.” 

He stopped again, looking back at you curiously. 

You should suggest that he at least have himself looked at by the doctor in Valentine, but the following words set a different intention. “Come back home with me,” you offered. When he opened his mouth to answer, you added, “You're a mess, and you need to be patched up.” 

The curious look turned to bewilderment. “It ain’t that bad,” he said dismissively with a shake of his head. 

“You can’t see yourself,” you pointed out. “But you look pretty rough.” 

He mumbled something under his breath. You weren’t quite sure what he said, but it sounded like, “I’ve had worse.” 

“Arthur,” you said sternly. “You just said you weren’t sure if there were more out here...you’re in no shape if they are, they’d be all over you. So if you please, follow me back, and I will tend to your wounds.” You were neither doctor nor a surgeon, only proficient at handling minor injuries. But it would make you feel better to ensure he wouldn’t die from his wounds later. And if they were worse than you could handle, maybe your intervention would persuade him to seek a professional.  

Arthur studied you, as if trying to find a way to deny you. A long moment passed before he finally sighed and relented. “Alright.” 

You flashed him a genuine and grateful smile this time, your uneasiness settling just a bit. Without another glance toward the bridge, you turned and pushed your mare into a lope, leaving the scene behind. Arthur was close behind. 

It didn't take long for you to reach your home; the travel time being cut in half in the urgency to leave the sight of death, as well as your growing concern over Arthur. After depositing the two horses into the barn, you ushered Arthur inside, setting him down at the table. As you bustled about grabbing clean cloth, a bowl of fresh water, and plucking from the meager medicine store you had, you’d only vaguely realized Frederick was not in the house. 

You didn’t take time to ponder this, as you placed everything on the table and turned to assess Arthur. The man sat before you in a slouched position, arms resting on his thighs, eyes turned toward the floor. He almost looked ashamed. 

“Look at me,” 

He did, slowly straightening to meet your gaze. The wounded side of his face seemed to become more swollen in the short time it took you to get back here. Your heart fell at the mere sight, wondering who was wicked enough to even attempt to mar his face. You dipped the cloth in the water and bent down, carefully pressing it to his bruised skin. He flinched slightly, his eyes narrowing in pain. 

“Sorry,” you apologized, slowly erasing the now dried blood from his skin. As you worked, your gaze slowly shifted from the wounds to meet his. You were faintly surprised that he was staring, but you were so close to him, you figured it was hard not to, especially when working in such a delicate area. This was the closest you'd been since the day he rescued you from the wolves, and you never noticed how beautiful his eyes were. Pools of light blue with hints of jade green, like the depths of the clearest pools of water you'd ever seen. Your heart stuttered slightly, and you shifted quickly back to caring for his marred cheek, slightly embarrassed having stared that long. 

He let out a slow breath, the tension slightly releasing from his body. “You a doctor?” he asked quietly. 

You smiled and shook your head, grateful that he didn't question your prolonged stare. “No, but my mother taught me a thing or two,” you explained. As the remaining blood cleared from his face, you were able to properly assess how deep those wounds are. Thankfully, they looked superficial; no stitches needed. Thank goodness, that would’ve been a terrible spot to work on. 

What would work was a salve. Swapping the cloth for a tin, you popped the lid open and ran your finger through the greasy substance before dabbing it along his skin with just as little pressure as you did while wiping. Arthur offered a slightly sharp intake of breath, but otherwise made no other noise or movement. 

“I know it stings,” you say soothingly. “But it helps.” 

He nodded once with the slightest of movement to not mess up your handiwork. Once the angry exposed flesh had a layer of salve, you stepped back to look for any other wounds. It didn’t take long for you to spot the clean rip of his shirt along his bicep, the frayed edges stained dark with blood. 

There were other stains too, although no other rips or tears in the fabric. You just hoped most of the blood wasn’t his. “You’ll, uh, have to remove your shirt,” you pointed out, slightly sheepishly. “That gash on your arm doesn’t look good.” 

Arthur seemed to hesitate for a split second, then did so without question, unbuttoning the shirt to reveal a union suit beneath. The second set of buttons followed, exposing his torso. A glimpse of his paler skin allowed you to realize how clean he was, and as he shifted to gingerly remove his arm from the sleeves, it seemed as if he'd gotten away with much less than it appeared. 

You scooted the chair closer to his side with the cloth in your hand, your other hand braced against the uninjured part of his arm to keep steady. His skin felt warm beneath your palm, and the muscles were taut as you drew the rag across. As more of the wound was revealed, it was plain that this was deeper than you'd like. 

A sigh escaped your lips, and you stood up to retrieve the suture kit. 

“That don’t sound good,” you heard Arthur comment. 

You rounded to face him, a needle and thread in your hands. To emphasize, you held them up to eye level. “Not quite.” 

Arthur grimaced a little but said nothing. Instead, he reached around to the satchel he’d draped across the back of the chair and dug out a bottle of an amber substance. You couldn’t help but notice the way his muscles flexed when he uncorked it, bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a swig. Strong and resilient, you thought, as a flush of heat crowded your cheeks. 

He set the bottle onto the table, and you took your place again, banishing that thought from your mind. Carefully, you threaded the suture material through the needle, your unoccupied hand once again returning to its spot on his arm. Before piercing his skin, you paused, thinking back to the day your mother taught you. How long had it been since you were just a teenager, in the kitchen of your parents’ home? A young stable boy had gotten dragged by a neighbor's energetic stallion and sliced his leg on a broken piece of wood. You watched in awe as your mother made quick work of the nasty gash, closing the skin up expertly. She then passed it on to you with a smaller wound, which even with her guidance, did not look as neat and tidy as hers. 

“You ever do this before?” Arthur’s question snapped you from your thoughts. 

You blinked and took a breath. “Once,” you admitted. “But I remember how.” 

Arthur said nothing, giving you a lingering stare before taking another swig of his drink. The earthy, bitter smell of whiskey hit your nose, and you contemplated taking a drink for yourself to ease the sudden anxiety that welled in your chest. Instead, you sat up straight and delicately pinched the skin between your fingers and made the first pierce. 

He made a small noise at the back of his throat as your slightly trembling fingers made the first knot, though sat as still as a statue as you continued. You were slow, ensuring no mistakes were made. His skin bled slightly from your ministrations, and you were careful to wipe away without disturbing or unraveling your work. 

You took a momentary break halfway through, flexing your fingers for a moment while your other hand simply rested on his arm. Even as Arthur seemed to relax, most likely from the alcohol, you could still feel the hard muscle beneath. Your eyes swept over his arm, noting the defined curves and planes. He was built with the thickness of a tree, a sense of strength and power radiating through his person. It was a result of hard labor, his torso decorated with tan lines and old scars. Your gaze then shifted down slowly to his hands, now resting in his lap. His fingers were dotted with blood, trailing up to the leather of his fingerless gloves. 

The obvious signs of a fight. 

“Arthur?” you spoke his name quietly, wondering if you should be even asking this at all. 

“Hmm?” 

“Did you...kill those men?” you breathed out, though your heart started to race with anticipation. The question had been lingering for a little while. 

He looked at you then, his beautiful eyes searching yours for what seemed like an endless second, the corners of his mouth downturned in a slight frown. Finally, he sighed and looked away, “Yes,” he answered gruffly. 

You knew it. Hell, you had the feeling when you found him back there. You couldn’t exactly count how many of them laid slain in the road. You remember that day with the wolves. A whole pack it seemed, and Arthur took them out effortlessly. Humans were different, but still...one man against many... 

He must’ve taken your silence wrong, because he then said, “It was either me or them. And the world’s better off without them in it.” 

“How?” you asked. “I mean...you took all of them on at once?” you amended when he gave you a look of concern. 

Arthur took a deep breath, taking another swig of his whiskey before looking at you again. “I was ambushed at the bridge. One o’ them snuck up behind me and yanked me off my horse. It weren’t an easy fight, but I managed,” he shrugged as if it were a daily occurrence for him. 

Your stomach twisted. “You’re lucky you’re not dead,” you murmur, turning your attention back to the sutures. 

Arthur didn’t wince when you pierced through his skin again. Instead, he shrugged a second time. “I ain’t that easy to kill,” he answered a-matter-of-factly. 

“You speak from experience?” you countered, peering at him again. 

He hesitated for a second before sighing heavily, “More than I’d like,” he mumbled, his helping of whiskey lasting a beat longer than before. 

You wanted to ask more, your mind sifting through the stories he’s shared with you. The states he’d traveled between, the jobs he’d gone on, the people he’d met. It only made sense that the downsides of those jobs meant...facing potential death. You felt as if you were only scratching the surface of this familiar, yet mysterious man. 

Silence fell. Arthur continued to sit still while you finished the sutures, your thoughts spinning like a tornado. The deeper you went the more the curiosity and a strange sense of admiration welled within you, and while you hated to admit it, there was a small twinge of fear. This was a man that faced dangerous predators and spoke of it so nonchalantly, and now learning he was perfectly capable of taking down a dozen men without any fatal wounds? 

You finished the last suture, and you wiped the last of the excess blood away to admire your handiwork. Fingers traced over the unaffected skin, feeling for any residual issues. Nothing felt taut or uneven. “Anything feel off?” You asked quietly, your fingers lingering, and you realized you'd been tracing the dip of his muscle, where it connected to the swell of his shoulder. So well built... 

You stopped abruptly, hoping he hadn't noticed. 

What you hadn't realized is that he did notice, his eyes first on your hand, then he met your gaze. You froze, heat striking through your cheeks. 

“No,” he answered. “Feels okay.” 

You nodded, promptly standing up to clear the supplies, but to also hide your flushed face. Just as you placed the suture kit back to its home, the opening of the door startled you. 

Whirling around, you were half surprised and half relieved to find Frederick strolling in. The thumping of your heart slowed just a fraction, until you saw your husband’s eyes land on Arthur, who was already half out the chair. Arthur froze immediately. 

Frederick’s gaze snapped to yours, confusion and alarm clear on his face. 

“Frederick!” you exclaimed after the uncomfortably long moment of silence. “Uh...where were you?” 

“l heard those gunshots, and knowing you were out there, I got worried and went to find you,” he explained, his eyes constantly shifting back to Arthur. “Who might this be?” 

You looked to Arthur who met your gaze. The man looked quite uncomfortable and sheepish, as if he was caught doing something he shouldn't have. You took a breath and looked back to your husband. “This is Arthur,” you started. “He...well, he got caught up in that fight. I came across him and offered to bring him back here to fix him up.” 

You watched as the two men now stared at one another, Frederick’s scrutinizing gaze studying. Arthur hadn't adjusted his clothes, and his half-bare torso and newly stitched arm was out, solidifying your story. 

“They were O’Driscolls, the ones who caused those gunshots,” you added in the tense air, purposely keeping out the detail about Arthur killing them all. “Arthur was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.” 

Frederick frowned, and his body seemed to relax a touch. “O’Driscolls,” he repeated, shaking his head. “I've heard they're nasty work. You're quite lucky you escaped with just a few wounds, even luckier that my wife came across you.” 

“Yeah,” Arthur mumbled in agreement, adjusting his clothes to cover himself back up. He flinched ever so slightly when the fabric grazed over his angry skin. With his shirt back in place, he began to stand up. “She's quite somethin’ with them stitches.” 

The two men standing side by side caught your full attention, and your gaze flicked between them in curiosity. Frederick was not petite by any means, but Arthur had a few inches on him, and harnessed a thicker build. Broad shoulders and toned arms, clothes that were generous in outlining his strength. Your husband’s clothes, while kept neat and tidy, sagged in a few places. He’d also put on a few pounds since moving out here, indicated by the slight strain in the buttons of his shirt. Complete opposites. 

“Say, you look quite familiar,” Frederick said thoughtfully, peering at Arthur. 

You could have sworn you saw Arthur tense, but you said, “He’s the one who fixed our roof.” 

“Ah!” Frederick’s face lit up with a smile. “Well, no complaints here. You did some fine work!” He clapped his hand on Arthur’s better shoulder. “Why don't you stay for dinner? My wife’s cooking is simply divine!” 

You hadn't expected Frederick to invite what was, to him, a complete stranger. Regardless, his offer was a pleasant surprise. You hid a smile, knowing Arthur was very aware of your cooking skills. When you glanced over, you observed a slight frown on Arthur‘s lips. 

“I wouldn't wanna intrude any more than I have been,” Arthur awkwardly explained. 

“You're not,” you said quickly, and when Arthur turned to look at you, you added, “You went through a lot today, at least rest up for a bit before heading back out.” 

Arthur stared at you for a moment, and then offered a half shrug. “Sure.” 

You set to work after that, immediately diving into dinner prep while Frederick and Arthur spoke to another at the table. Your husband was chattier and more enthusiastic, countering Arthur’s quiet responses. He wasn't uncomfortable, you could tell, but it was evident the previous fight took much more out of him than he was letting on. As you bustled around the kitchen, Arthur’s tired frame would linger in the corner of your eye. He didn't seem to be uncomfortable, which you were thankful for. 

A pot of stew was simmering on the stove, the aroma slowly filling the air of your home. You stirred, occasionally adding a pinch of the last of your herb stash, realizing you'd completely forgotten about your shopping trip to Valentine in favor of coming to Arthur’s aid. How ironic was it that you came to his rescue like he did that day when you met? You even brought his horse back to him. The roles had been reversed, you realized, and you giggled quietly to yourself. Although you hoped it wouldn’t become a common occurrence between the two of you. 

A few more moments passed before you retrieved three bowls from the cabinet, ladling generous portions in each. You carried them carefully to the table and set them down before sitting at your usual spot. Arthur went to move, obviously thinking he was in the wrong spot, but Frederick grabbed the chair you were in earlier to sit on one end. It left Arthur sitting across from you just like every other visit, even though it was Frederick’s normal spot. 

“Eat up, now! You won't find anything better for a hundred miles!” Frederick encouraged as he began to help himself. 

Arthur briefly met your gaze, a small smile touching his lips as he spooned in a mouthful. It was the same stew you'd served him the first time he visited your home, and you hoped he recognized that. 

As he swallowed, Arthur sat up straight with a grin on his face. “You're right, this ain't half bad!” He exclaimed. 

His enthusiasm made you smile, and it was obvious he was putting on a show to appease you in front of your otherwise unknowing husband. Frederick then added, “As I said, you will find nothing else like it!” 

The remainder of the meal was quiet after that, save for the spoons scraping the tin bowls. Arthur was the slowest to finish his meal, which you couldn't help noticing. Normally he would scarf it down in a heartbeat, but his eyes were heavily lidded, and often times he’d pause to yawn. You could hardly blame him after today. 

He sat back from his now empty bowl, stifling another yawn. “Thank you,” he groaned, stretching and rolling his bad shoulder with a slight wince. “That hit the spot.” 

You inclined your head in response, your eyes flicking to the window next. It had significantly darkened since you'd arrived back home, and you wondered exactly how much time had passed since. Something twinged in the back of your mind, almost like a silent warning. You weren't sure exactly why, but the thought of Arthur venturing out there so fresh after his injuries didn't sit right with you, even though you were well aware he had every capability to take care of himself. 

“Arthur, why don't you spend the night?” You offered. “Rest a bit more.” 

Arthur stared at you, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “I—” 

“We do have a guest bedroom,” Frederick interrupted, gesturing to the closed door next to your bedroom. “You ought to, I can see you're in need of a good rest.” 

Arthur was shaking his head. “It ain't necessary.” 

“I insist,” you said gently. “Please, you're practically dead on your feet.” 

Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but whatever argument he had was interrupted with a deep yawn. He rubbed his palm along his face and sighed heavily. You knew he couldn't deny that, from the look of plain exhaustion and reluctance to debate even further. He didn't even have to say anything, just nodded. 

You smiled inwardly in relief, and then bustled toward the guest room. Upon opening the door, you were greeted with a slightly musty smell from the disuse, but not overpowering enough for the need to open the windows. You stepped in further and reached for the silhouette of the oil lamp on the nearby nightstand. A few seconds passed before the darkened room was bathed in amber light. The wash basin was full of water and had a clean rag next to it. The bed was neatly made with sheets that were hardly used. As you were finishing your brief survey to ensure everything was in order, you felt a presence hover in the doorway. 

You turned to see Arthur standing there, waiting patiently as he leaned slightly on the frame. His entire body sagged despite what you guessed to be his best efforts at hiding it. Your heart lurched at the thought of him denying your offer instead, heading out in the darkness like this. 

“The bed’s ready for you,” you gestured. “And the basin...” you nodded toward the porcelain piece. “Please make yourself comfortable.” 

Arthur nodded again, silently. He stepped in further, closing the already small distance between the two of you. He stopped, staring down at you with an expression of mild concern. “Y’ really don't have to do this,” he muttered. “You've already done so much.” 

You peered up at him, staring into those gorgeous, steady eyes. They were almost hypnotizing. “I don't have to, I want to,” you said with a warm smile. “I don't mind.” 

Arthur let out a small, humorless chuckle. “You're too sweet for your own good.” 

Sweet. You were thankful for the dim light, because your face flushed. You broke his gaze, eyes drifting to the bed again. “Sometimes people forget to be kind,” you explained. “It never hurts to remind the world.” 

He hummed shortly in response, and your eyes locked to him again. His face displayed thoughtfulness. 

You wondered what he was thinking, but your curiosity was staunched by the greater need for his recovery. Instead, you took a breath and said, “Goodnight, Arthur. Frederick and I will be just next door if you need anything.” 

As you turned, you caught his nod in your peripheral. You headed out of the room and closed the door behind you, although you could feel his lingering stare just before the knob clicked into place. 

—- 

Arthur awoke as something shifted around him, a gentle movement that didn’t rouse him until there was a sudden weight upon him. His eyes fluttered open, facing the room swathed in a dim glow of the oil lamp on the nightstand. Something on his thighs felt heavy, and his gaze fell upon a pair of legs straddling his. Panic struck him as his eyes blinked rapidly in the desperate attempt to see who was trapping him. 

His vision adjusted, and your name slid from his mouth in surprise. “What’re you doin’?” He gasped; voice still rough with sleep. His brain seemed sluggish as he scrambled to comprehend what was going on. 

You smiled down at him, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “You seemed kind of lonely, Arthur. I thought I might give you some company,” you explained softly. 

He opened his mouth to reply, confusion only growing. Instead, he seemed to focus on what you were wearing. The thin white material of your nightgown was bunched around your waist, exposing your thighs. Your figure was silhouetted in the light, accentuating your shape. 

You knew he ought to look away, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. 

You might have taken his silence for acceptance, because you leaned down until your face was only inches from his with a whisper of his name on your lips, a hand rested on his shoulder slowly descended to his chest, where his still hammering heart thudded against your soft palm. Your mouth hovered over his neck, dangerously close to his pulse point. The sweet scent of perfume surrounded him like a silk scarf. He inhaled quietly, breathing in the delicious aroma— 

His hands at his sides balled into fists. What were you doing? What was he doing?! You are a married woman, and him? How was he allowing this? His mind screamed at him to stop, to push you off, to rush out of that house and never darken your doorstep again. 

But he couldn’t find it in himself. “Wh-what about your husband?” He managed to say, hoping his last saving grace would be for you to realize your infidelity. 

Your body straightened up, and your smile turned impish. “What about him?” You asked in an innocent voice, your finger tracing the opening of his union suit. Even with just a few inches of exposed skin, your touch felt like fire, just as much as it had before when stitching him up. 

Something pooled deep in his belly. An old, yet familiar rush of excitement and arousal. He gritted his teeth, guilt seeping into his mind. 

“Don’t think he’d appreciate this,” Arthur pointed out, his eyes immediately falling to your hand. Why couldn’t he just reach up and grab your wrist? 

You giggled softly, your hand dragging along his abdomen. “What he doesn’t know,” you began, stopping where the blankets covered him, just above his navel, to peel them away. Arthur tensed, realizing now there wasn’t much else between the two of you. Your palm continued its journey down his body until resting on his now obvious, traitorous, erection. “Won’t hurt him.” 

The weight of your hand against him, even when only blocked by the fabric of his union suit, felt wonderful. He couldn’t help the groan that rumbled from his throat, his thoughts melting away. 

It didn’t stop there. Your other hand began to unbutton the line down his suit, slowly exposing more and more before his length sprung free from the constriction, upright and ready. His body pulsed with want, the burning need to feel your skin against his. 

You granted his unspoken wish, wrapping your fingers at the base. You pumped once, experimentally, before picking up a smooth rhythm. Another moan bubbled from his mouth, quiet, desperate. Your touch felt like pure heaven, soft and warm and just right. 

“Fuck,” he sighed out, tilting his head back. Any lingering resistance faded with his resolve. 

“I’ve wanted you, Arthur…” you murmured breathlessly, your hand still working him from root to tip. “I know you want me too.” 

His breath came in a shudder. “I…” he trailed off, unable to muster up even a denial. His better senses told him to refuse, to stop you, to leave. But how could he with you here, exploring him so freely, so intimately? 

His thought became clouded with the slow build of his pleasure. A carnal urge awakened within him, a desire to claim you in a way he hadn’t done with anyone in so long. Another groan escaped, low and quiet. His hand reached for you, resting on the warm skin of your thigh. It took every inch of restraint to not flip you over and bury himself within you at that second. 

“I told you,” you cooed, the smile remaining on your face. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.” 

Any following words failed to leave his tongue. All he could think about was your soft touch, your warm body, how good it felt to be… 

His eyes snapped open. What faced him was the same room, although your absence was more than obvious. The oil lamp was off, and the room was almost pitch black, save from the beginning rays of dawn turning the sky a cobalt tinge before the sunrise. 

It was a dream. A silly, stupid dream, he thought to himself. Though the ghost of your body on his seemed to linger, too tangible for it to be just a figment of his imagination. The uncomfortable strain in his pants brought him further into reality, as he shifted and winced from the acute onset of pain that reminded him why he was here in the first place. 

His entire body ached, his muscles stiff. He groaned and slowly sat up, trying his best to ignore his hard length and the simultaneous pain plaguing his limbs. His head was swimming, both from the recent dream and the memories of yesterday flooding in. It'd been such a busy day, Arthur had been hunting when those damned O’Driscolls ambushed him at the bridge west of Valentine. He’d fought multiple men before, but not without a toll on himself. The pain was familiar, the scars baring more stories than any normal man could holster. Health cures usually took the edge off, along with a bottle of whiskey and a good night’s rest. 

He wouldn't have even given his injuries a second thought if you hadn't shown up. 

He rubbed his sore face with his hand, groaning deeply again. Shame welled in his chest for even having that dream, the way it felt so real, the way his body responded to you... 

Arthur had to get out of there. 

He jumped up at an instant, ignoring the protests in his body as he grabbed his hat and gun belt which were resting on the bedposts. He adjusted himself, although he doubted anyone would be awake at this hour to even notice. The floorboards creaked and the hinges moaned as he moved to open the door, slowly pulling it open to face the kitchen. 

To his surprise, a soft glow painted the room, just barely illuminating the furniture. It emanated from the fireplace, he realized, and saw a figure sitting in front of it. He blinked as his vision adjusted, and his heart skipped a beat. It was you. 

Your figure bathed in the glow of the dying fire, swathed in a nightgown. Upon his entry, you turned to look at him. 

Arthur froze under your gaze, suddenly feeling guilty. The memory of the dream still too fresh, he looked away. “Uh, I’m headin’ out,” he announced quietly. 

“Oh, alright,” 

Your voice caught his attention. It sounded thick and raspy. He looked at you again, this time noticing the glazed appearance in your eyes. Your cheeks shone wet. You’d been crying. His stomach churned at the sight, although he couldn’t exactly place why. “You okay?” he asked against his better judgment. 

You took a deep, shuddering sigh, looking down at your lap. In your hands was a small piece of paper. “No, not really,” you mumbled with a sniff. 

Arthur frowned. He wanted to inquire more, but his other thoughts urged him to just leave. However, he stayed rooted in the spot. “I’m...sorry to hear that,” he awkwardly replied, unsure what else to even say. 

You wiped your palm across your face, a pained smile crossing your lips. “It’s my husband. He left for another business venture.” 

Of course, that was usually the story. It was so often that Arthur sometimes forgot you were even married. Regardless, you seemed to be so cheery even without Frederick’s presence. Why was now any different? 

“You’d think I’d be used to this by now,” you continued. “But it doesn’t get any easier. I just...miss him,” your voice broke slightly. “Seems like he spends more time out there than he does with me.” 

A swell of sympathy gathered in his chest, along with annoyance. Your husband left you alone too frequently, without protection, and the run-in with the O’Driscolls solidified your potential danger. If you’d arrived just a few minutes earlier at the bridge yesterday, then you would have been unknowingly caught in a massacre that you wouldn’t have survived. Hell, it was a miracle you’d been out here this long and only had that one encounter with the wolves, as far as he knew. How long would that dumb luck last? 

A lump formed in the back of Arthur’s throat. He swallowed it silently, pondering where this spike of anxiety came from. He cared about you, he realized, a little too much. “How long ‘til he’s back?” he asked. 

“I don’t know,” you answered sadly. “After you went to bed, a colleague of his stopped by. They were speaking amongst themselves, I didn’t really listen. He told me not to worry about it but then I woke up to this...” you held up the piece of paper. 

Arthur reached for it and plucked it from your fingers, leaning in to read in the fire light. 

My dearest, 

I deeply apologize for having to inform you like this. I will be traveling to New York this morning for an opportunity that I could not refuse. If all goes well, this may be the biggest financial success I’ve achieved since first arriving here. We will be one step closer to the life we are destined to live. 

I’m not sure how long this will take, but I promise to write frequently with updates if this lasts longer than a week. 

With all my love, 

Frederick 

A pit of frustration grew in his stomach. The persuasion of money was an all too familiar tale he'd acquainted himself with many times, often with another price to pay. That being said, Arthur was careful when it came to plotting heists, whether it was by himself or with others. 

You and Frederick were far from the outlaw life, but leaving you here on the promise of money for the unforeseen future, in the wake of a large O’Driscoll attack so close to your home, was beyond reckless. 

A curse bubbled in the back of his throat, but he kept it down. As much as he’d like to curse the bastard out, he knew it’d make you more upset. Instead, he said, “At least he let you know where he was goin’, but I know it ain't easy for you right now.” 

You nodded slightly in agreement. “I'm sorry you found me like this,” you laughed humorlessly, wiping your face again. Your other hand settled on your neck, which he realized held a ruby necklace, your fingers toying with the pendant that seemed to almost harness its own fire within the facets. He hadn’t noticed it before. 

Was that the kind of man Frederick was? Adorn you with gifts in the wake of his absence? Arthur bit back a sigh, the sympathy only growing beneath his ribs. “No need,” he said quietly. “I get it.” 

You met his gaze again, the silence other than the faint crackle of the fire encompassing the room. It held for a beat too long, and you stood up and closed the distance, wrapping your arms around his torso in a tight embrace. Arthur tensed from the unexpected contact and readied the automatic response to back away. 

But...he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He allowed strangers to hug him for reasons beyond his understanding, and he could barely reciprocate when they were too lost in their own emotions. This however, was different. The tension eased from his body, but keeping himself neutral he didn’t return the hug, instead raised his hand and placed it on your upper back. 

The warmth of your body seeped to his. Your scent wafted to him, still smelling like the floral perfume he detected earlier when you were tending to your wounds. A flood of memories suddenly came rushing back, from those quiet moments in the same room, to the damning dream he had. 

Suddenly, you stepped back, eyes snapping to the ground as you tucked your hair behind your ear sheepishly. “I’m sorry, how silly of me,” you spoke with a flustered tone.  

Arthur couldn’t find a response, finding himself empty when devoid of your touch. He breathed out, fingers flexing at his sides. “It ain’t silly,” he murmured finally. 

You offered a watery smile to him, the sadness etched deep in your face. “I appreciate it, but I’ve held you up long enough,” you admitted. “Don’t linger on account of me.” 

He’d almost forgotten that he was in a hurry to leave, a hurry to get nowhere other than to avoid his own embarrassment. In the past five minutes, the energy shifted so drastically it was almost surreal. That rush to leave stretched further and further away, and the urge to stay for your comfort was beginning to overwhelm him. 

But he knew he couldn’t. What else could he do than to just sit and watch you cry? He had no advice to offer, no other words of encouragement. It wasn’t his responsibility. 

Arthur finally nodded. “’M sorry,” he simply said, reaching out once again to place his hand on your shoulder. Another sentence hung heavy in the back of his throat, but he kept it to himself. You deserve better than him. 

Your face turned to glance at his hand, and then back to him, a flicker reflecting in your eyes. No more words were exchanged before his hand slid away, and he turned to leave. 

Maybe he should stake the immediate area out for the next day or two, just in case.