#Privacy Tempered Glass | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

damneddamsy · 5 months ago

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second sight | cregan stark x fem!oc (bonus iii)

a/n: MDNI, rated 18+ (bottom king Cregan) :=> ding, ding, ding! another bonus feature! a special episode of the Stark-fluff, Cregan and Claere are craving some *ahem* "privacy" after the kids, they just cannot seem to get the fuck away from all this.

The halls of Winterfell were cloaked in shadow, the occasional torchlight flickering against the stone. Snow whispered against the windows, and the chill seeped into the air, though the ancient keep held strong against the heart of winter. Cregan Stark moved through the corridors with a hunter’s step, his cloak swaying behind him. It had been a day without incident—a rare blessing—but the quiet only reminded him of what had been missing.

Claere.

She was always busy—lost in her own mind or the needs of their people. If not with their children, she could be found in the godswood, among the crypts, or tending the glass gardens. She had a way of drifting, even when she was right in front of him. Chasing the solace of her own thoughts. It was part of her charm and the source of his greatest frustrations. He could never truly pin her down. Not her spirit. Not her thoughts. She was both his home and his mystery.

Cregan understood it—had always admired her depth—but tonight, he wanted her with him. No duties. No distractions. Just them.

A faint sound drew him to the solar: the unmistakable lilt of a harp. He paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame, and watched her unnoticed. Claere sat by the fire, her harp resting against her lap, fingers dancing over the strings. She wasn’t playing for anyone—only herself, violet eyes closed for the world, her lips barely parted as if the melody had carried her away. The amber of flames kissed her face, highlighting the curve of her cheek, and the line of her jaw.

After nearly sixteen years of marriage, she was still a force of nature. Her beauty had not faded; it had deepened, tempered by years and laughter, her soft edges sharpened by motherhood and the onus that was Winterfell. Yet in moments like these, she seemed untouched by time, still the ethereal girl who had walked into his life with starlight in her eyes. She belonged to Winterfell as much as the snow, the woods, the wolves.

“Have the spirits called for you again, Lady Stark?” His voice broke the silence, teasing.

Her fingers stilled on the harp. She opened her eyes and turned, a smile lighting her face. “No spirits,” she replied, setting the harp aside. “Only the cold. And my lord, it seems.”

He stepped closer, his boots heavy on the stone. “The cold I understand, but why me?”

“Why not?” She rose gracefully, her skirts brushing the floor as she crossed to him. “What brings you out tonight, Cregan? Shouldn’t you be upstairs, dreaming?”

“Dreams are quieter than my wife,” he quipped, his eyes gleaming with humour. “And far less interesting.”

She tilted her head, her gaze sweeping over him in that way of hers—sharp and thoughtful, as though she could see the bones beneath his skin. He raised an eyebrow, half amused and half wary. It'd been long since she'd looked at him like that. He almost felt like he was nineteen again, wishing this quiet, strange dragon princess would grant him the honour of sleeping by her side.

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

Claere tapped a finger to her lips. “You.”

“Have you found something worth your study?”

“Perhaps,” she mused, her eyes lingering on his chest. “You’ve grown... broad.”

He snorted. “Broad?”

“Big,” she clarified, her voice lilting with mischief.

“Big,” he repeated flatly. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

She shrugged, her expression maddeningly serene. “Wide, then. Broader than when I first met you.”

“Are you calling me fat? Is that how you talk to your lord?” His brows knit together in mock offence.

“I dare not,” she said, her lips twitching with barely concealed laughter.

Cregan took a step back, spreading his arms as if to display himself. Indeed, time had taken its toll on him—his shoulders ranging more like mountains now, his jaw sharper, his gait heavier, and the scars on his hands and knees aching in the frost. His hair, once the dark shade of wolf fur, began to slightly streak with silver, and though he still carried himself with strength, he bore up his longsword, Ice, yet the years of war and rule weighed on him.

“Big, is it? A lord of Winterfell should be big. Winter demands it.”

“Winter demands many things, my lord,” she said, her tone far too serious for her words. She stepped closer, circling him now like a wolf sizing up prey. Her eyes sparkled as she added, “I’ve no complaints. None at all.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his grin. “You’ve a strange way of flattering your husband.”

“Flattery?” she echoed, feigning innocence. “I do not flatter. I speak facts.”

He shrugged off his cloak, tossing it carelessly onto a chair, and placed his hands on his hips. “Hmm. Maybe I have grown plump,” he admitted, rubbing at the scruff on his jaw. “Too much love. It’s fattening.”

She laughed then, her shoulders shaking as she covered her mouth. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“Well, you said it yourself—I’m broad.”

She reached out, her fingers brushing his arm. “Strong,” she corrected softly, her humor fading into something gentler. “You’re strong, Cregan. You always have been.”

“Strong... and fat.”

Her laughter softened into a hum against his chest, her breath seeping through the leather of his coat, warming him in ways no fire ever could. For a fleeting moment, the room belonged to just them—the crackle of the flames and the rhythmic drumming of his heartbeat the only sounds. He held her as though anchoring himself, one hand at the small of her back, the other brushing up to the curve of her neck, fingers threading through the silver strands of her hair.

“You’ve made me mad, Claere,” he murmured, his voice gravelly, the words laced with frustration that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His thumb ghosted over her jaw, pausing just at the corner of her mouth. “Since the day you walked into these halls.”

Her hands splayed against his chest, firm yet tender, her gaze lifting to meet his, stormy grey to rich violet. Her smile widened, her teasing spirit undimmed.

“Perhaps I should try harder.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head, though his hand didn’t stray from her face. “You would. Just to see what happens.”

Her gaze dropped, lingering over the broad expanse of his chest. Her fingers traced lazy patterns across the leather, the calluses on her fingertips catching faintly. “And what would happen if you did snap?” she murmured, her voice dropping to something softer, almost daring.

His lips twitched into a smile, but his eyes burned. “You wouldn’t have to wonder long.”

The teasing faded from her face, replaced by something quieter, deeper, as though the air between them grew heavier, richer, in an instant. And without another word, he bent his head, capturing her lips in a kiss that was both fierce and tender, a reclamation of something neither of them had quite lost. Her lips parted for him, and her body softened, melting into him as though it had always been meant to.

The leather of his coat creaked beneath her grip, her hands tightening against him as his own slid to her waist, pulling her flush against him. Her sigh mingled with his, the sound filling the space between them as the firelight flickered against the stone walls.

When he pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against hers, his breathing was uneven. His voice was thick, heavy with need. “You’ve no idea how maddening you are.”

“Good,” she replied, her words carrying an edge of heat.

He growled softly in response, the sound rumbling low in his chest as he lifted her with ease, her weight nothing in his arms. Her laughter spilled out, light and musical, her legs kicking playfully as they swung over his arm.

“Cregan!” she gasped, half-giddy, half-protesting, her hands clinging to his shoulders for balance.

“Hush, love,” he teased, his voice a husky murmur near her ear as he strode toward their chambers. “Unless you’d like the whole castle to know what I intend to do to you.”

Her lips curved, a wicked gleam lighting her eyes. “What do you intend?” she challenged, though her voice was breathless, the question hanging between them like smoke.

His answer was a heated glance, dark and smouldering, as he nudged open the door with his boot. The wooden slab creaked on its hinges, revealing their private sanctum bathed in the sweet light of nighttime. He stepped inside and kicked the door shut behind him with deliberate finality.

He carried her forward, setting her on her feet with a gentleness that belied the storm in his veins. For a moment, he simply looked at her, his hands lingering on her waist as though unwilling to let go. The moonlight softened her features, glowing her flushed cheeks and tousled hair. She was breathtaking—his Claere, unchanged in some ways, yet more of herself in others. Her hips were fuller now, her body strengthened and shaped by the years and the children she had borne, but to him, she was no less the quiet, strange Targaryen princess who had first stepped into his life.

“You're a torment.” His hands smoothed over her sides, tracing the curves that he knew better than his own heartbeat. “One I wouldn't wish away for anything.”

Her hand rose, brushing his jaw where silver threaded his beard. Her touch was learned, tender. “I have missed this.”

He swore softly under his breath, his hand sliding to her jaw, tilting her face up to his. His mouth found hers, and she sighed into the kiss, her hands fisting gently in his tunic. Her coyness lingered, even now, even after all these years. He felt it in the way her movements hesitated, her touch tentative, as though she were still learning to give herself fully. And he loved her all the more for this delicate, unspoken offering of herself, not because she must, but because she chose to.

“You’ve shared my hearth and bed for nigh on half your life, what is left to hide from me?” he murmured against her lips, his tone laced with a fond teasing.

She laughed softly, a breathless sound, her head ducking against his chest as though to hide. “I can not help it.”

“And I wouldn’t want you to,” he said, his voice gentler now, his hands tracing the curve of her back as he pulled her closer. “I’ve come to love all of it.”

Her blush deepened, but she didn’t pull away, her arms slipping around his neck as he bent to kiss her again. This time, she gave a little more, her hands tangling in his hair, her lips parting beneath his with a shy eagerness that made his chest tighten. He eased her back toward the dresser, their movements slow, unhurried, as though savouring every moment.

Claere gave a quiet gasp, her fingers tightening against his shoulders, but she let him guide her. His hands slid to the laces of her gown, deftly working them loose as his kisses moved along the side of her neck, the rasp of his stubble drawing a soft, shivering sigh from her lips.

Her breath hitched as the loosened fabric slipped over her shoulders, pooling around her waist. He turned her gently, her back pressing against his chest, his rough hands sliding down to rest at her hips. His lips hovered near her ear, tongue tasting the hot skin there, his breath sending gooseflesh across her skin.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, a reverence in the words that made her shiver. His hands slipped along her sides, firm yet measured, as though he meant to memorize her at this moment. “Every time I think I’ve seen all of you, love, you undo me again.”

Her blush deepened, but she didn’t shy away, her hands lifting to brace against the dresser's edge as he pressed closer. His mouth skimmed along the curve of her neck, her shoulder, his teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, her violet eyes fluttering closed as he nudged her hair aside to kiss the nape of her neck.

Cregan’s hands roamed lower, roughened palms against soft skin, tugging the fabric of her gown further down her hips. He lifted one of her legs, guiding her knee up onto the edge of the dresser, and his hand slid between her thighs, his hardness digging into the small of her back. Claere’s breath stuttered, her fingers gripping the wood, but she let him draw her body into his as though they were one.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he growled softly, his lips brushing her ear as he spoke. “Do you feel it?”

She could only nod, her voice lost to the way his hand claimed her. The wood bit faintly into her palms as her body arched instinctively against him, dragging against his hardness, his name slipping from her lips like a prayer.

And then—just as the world narrowed to only them, the sharp, insistent knock at the door shattered the moment.

“Ma! Da!”

The sound shattered the air between them like an icy gale, and Claere stiffened. She turned her head, her breathing uneven, her cheeks flushed.

“By the gods, not again,” Cregan muttered, his head dropping to her shoulder as he fought to steady himself, his hands resting possessively at her hips.

Claere’s body shook with silent laughter, her hands resting on his shoulders. “Our little wolves are nothing if not determined.”

“Determined,” he echoed, lifting his head with a resigned sigh. “They’re fucking relentless.”

“They’re your children,” she reminded him, her smile soft as she adjusted her gown, the fabric slipping back over her shoulders.

Cregan rose, running a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on the door as though he might burn it to ash with sheer will. The insistent pounding continued unabated, accompanied now by muffled sobs. His jaw tightened.

“One day,” he said, low and grumbling, “I’ll bar this door with iron. No, steel. Or maybe Valyrian locks.”

Claere chuckled softly as she secured her laces. “Until then, duty calls.”

He sighed, stepping toward the door with all the grace of a man facing execution. Claere followed, her hand brushing his arm as though to soften his scowl before it frightened the children.

When the heavy door swung open, the scene outside was a tableau of chaos. Eddric, the youngest of their brood, stood sobbing into his hands, his tiny shoulders shaking with every gasp. Beside him, Rickon stood in staunch defiance, his arms crossed over his chest, his lips pressed into a tight pout as though daring anyone to question his role in the debacle. And peering from behind them was Brandon, his elder brother, his head poking out from the shadow of the hallway, eyes wide with curiosity but no intention of stepping into the fray.

“Ma…” Eddric choked out between sobs, his tear-streaked face lifting to hers, every inch of him trembling with the desperate misery only a child could feel. His small arms reached for her, a silent, aching plea that melted through Claere’s resolve like frost under sunlight.

“My poor lamb,” she murmured, kneeling swiftly to gather him up. He clung to her as though the world itself had turned against him, his fists twisting in her gown. His tiny, hiccuping cries buried themselves into her shoulder, and she stroked his back with soothing circles, her brow furrowing in sympathy.

Behind her, Cregan crossed his arms, his grey eyes narrowing on Rickon, who stood stiff and unrepentant, though the flicker of guilt in his glare betrayed him.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite troublemaker,” Cregan drawled, his tone dry but weighted. “What mischief have you stirred this time?”

Rickon’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t flinch, his gaze meeting his father’s with the stormy defiance of a young wolf testing the boundaries of the pack.

“He kicked me off the bed!” Eddric wailed, lifting his blotchy face just long enough to level a trembling finger at his brother. “It hurts, Ma. Look, it’s everywhere!” He twisted to display his bruises, as though bearing the marks of a battlefield defeat.

Claere gasped, her hand flying to cup his cheek. “Oh, no,” she cooed, her lips brushing the scrape on his elbow with all the care of a healer attending to a grievous wound. “There, mummy's kiss will make it better.”

Rickon groaned, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “He stole my pillow, Da!” he snapped, his frustration spilling in sharp, indignant tones. “It’s mine! He always takes it because it's bigger!”

Cregan exhaled, long and slow, dragging a hand down his face. “Rickon,” he said, his voice tempered with the deep patience of a father stretched thin, “you’re old enough to know that is no cause to toss your brother off the bed.”

“But Da—”

“Enough,” Cregan cut in, his tone firmer now. Without ceremony, he stooped and swept Rickon into his arms, the boy letting out a startled grunt. “Come on. There’s no glory in warring over bedding. Let’s see you to sleep before you declare another rebellion.”

Rickon squirmed briefly before resigning himself to his father’s grip, his head drooping against Cregan’s shoulder as his earlier indignation began to ebb. “It wasn’t fair,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its earlier bite.

“Life seldom is,” Cregan replied, his tone carrying the consequence of hard-earned wisdom. “The sooner you learn that, the better.”

In the warm glow of the hearth, Claere settled herself into a chair, cradling Eddric close. His cries had quieted to soft sniffles, his little fingers clutching her gown like a lifeline. She kissed his bruises, convincing Ed of their healing power, her lips lingering as she murmured something low and soothing, the words meant for him alone. Slowly, his breathing evened, his eyes growing heavier in her arms as sleep claimed him.

Cregan paused in the doorway, Rickon still perched on his arm, and watched her. She looked radiant there, bathed in firelight, the lines of her face softened with love and care. There was a strength to her, a steadiness that seemed to anchor the chaos around her, and he felt the familiar ache of adoration stir in his chest.

Rickon shifted, breaking the spell. “Will you tuck me in, Da?” he asked, his earlier bravado dissolving into the plaintive vulnerability of a child seeking comfort in the safety of his father’s arms.

“Aye,” Cregan said softly, his voice a promise. He gathered the boy close, his small body warm and limp with sleep. “But mind me, lad—no more skirmishes with your baby brother. You’re nearly of age to hold a blade, yet here you are, waging wars over feathers.”

Rickon’s sleepy protest was little more than a grumble, his head drooping against Cregan’s chest. Cregan smiled despite himself, the boy’s weight a familiar and comforting reminder of how fleeting these years would be.

When both boys were finally settled—Rickon snuggled under the heavy quilt with his arms wrapped around a stuffed pillow, shaped like a direwolf, heartfully stitched by his mother, and his younger brother already deep in the dreamscape—the halls of Winterfell grew quiet. Rarely did the great stone keep know such peace, and even then, it felt borrowed, as though it would be whisked away at any moment.

Cregan closed the door to the boys’ room with care, letting the latch click softly into place. The warmth of the fire from their chamber pulled him forward, a beacon after the weariness of the day.

Claere sat curled in the chair by the hearth, her head tilted back against the cushion, her eyes closed. The firelight painted her features in hues of gold and amber, dancing across her skin and catching the loose strands of her silvery braid. The faintest smile curved her lips, a soft and private peace resting there, as though she had tucked it away just for herself.

Cregan leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, a wry grin tugging at his mouth. For a moment, he said nothing, content to watch her. She was beautiful in a way that wasn’t just about her face, though gods knew that alone could set him spinning. It was the way she carried herself, even in the quiet moments. The love for their children, the unspoken strength she wielded without ever showing it. The way she simply existed in his life was steady and grounding, yet she could still surprise him.

“They’ll drive us off the edge before winter’s through,” he said, his voice breaking the silence but low enough not to startle her.

Her eyes fluttered open, those familiar violet irises finding him across the room. Her smile deepened when she saw him, softening the lines of her face. “And still, we love them.”

“Aye,” he admitted, pushing off the frame and striding toward her. “But tomorrow, I’m hammering iron bars across that bloody door.”

She laughed, soft and warm, and it lit something in him that not even the fire could match. “And what good will that do? They’ll only find another way in.”

He bent low, brushing a kiss to her temple, his hand finding her cheek. Her skin was warm from the fire, and she tilted her face into his touch like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Then perhaps we’ll run off,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a rumble. “Let Winterfell fend for itself.”

Her laugh softened into a smile, her eyes glimmering with both affection and exhaustion. “You’d miss them before the sun rose.”

“Not before I had one night alone with my wife,” he countered, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. The delicate flush that bloomed there made his chest tighten with something that felt far too big to name.

She averted her gaze, a shy smile tugging at her lips as her hands fidgeted with the folds of her gown. Even now, after everything—after children, battles, and endless winters—she could still make him feel like a boy with his first love. And gods, he loved her for it—loved the way that quiet modesty clung to her, no matter the hard times they had weathered together.

“On that one night, Claere,” he murmured, leaning closer, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. “You will not escape me.”

Her breath hitched, and when her eyes met his again, they were softer, violet raging darker. The smile she gave him then was small but certain, a silent promise that mirrored his own.

“Oh,” she whispered, her voice trembling with just a hint of laughter, “you’d better start planning your escape now, Lord Stark. Because I don’t intend to make it easy for you.”

His laughter rumbled low in his chest as he leaned down to kiss her properly, the warmth of her lips stealing the cold from his bones. In her arms, the long night ahead felt like the shortest one yet.

The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with warmth and mirth, the heavy timber beams echoing with laughter and the soft strains of a fiddle accompanied by a drum. Outside, winter’s chill pressed against the stone walls, but within, the roaring fire and the camaraderie of the evening held it at bay. Soldiers and bannermen of the Stark household, gathered at the long trestle tables and shared hearty portions of bread, cheese, and venison. Tankards clinked, and stories were exchanged in the low hum of good company.

At the high table, the Stark family gathered under the warm glow of the hearth. The fire crackled softly, adding a golden hue to the rustic stone walls of the great hall. Bran, ever the mischief-maker, had turned his fork into a trident, wielding it with dramatic flair as he jabbed at invisible foes across the table. His shoulders hunched with exaggerated ferocity, his face twisted in mock seriousness.

“Yield, foul beast!” Bran declared, his voice echoing theatrically. “You’ll not escape the mighty trident of House Stark!”

Rickon nearly fell off his bench with laughter, clutching his sides. “You’re poking the air, Bran! What are you even fighting—ghosts?”

“Ghosts of the past, brother,” Bran shot back, waving the fork like a sword. “Or perhaps the ghosts of your dignity after I trounce you at the training yard tomorrow.”

“Ha, you wish!” Rickon retorted, puffing up his chest. “I’ll be the last one standing!”

Edd, the youngest of the boys, let out a delighted giggle as he mimicked Bran’s movements, his tiny fork barely lifting a piece of bread. “I fight ghosts, too, Bran!” he announced, swinging wildly, nearly toppling his goblet.

Cregan, seated at the head of the table, watched the exchange with quiet pride. His sharp features softened as he carved another slice of cheese pie, the aroma filling the air. His lips tugged into a wry smile as he set the pie onto Edd’s plate.

“You’ve a fine sword arm there, Edd,” he said, his voice warm, steady. “But mind the goblet. No knight worth his salt spills his drink before the feast is done.”

Edd straightened in his seat, nodding gravely as if his father’s words held the weight of a king’s decree. “Yes, Da,” he said, before immediately returning to his chaotic fork-wielding.

Luce, ever the bold one, stood on her bench with a flourish, her dark ringlets shimmering in the firelight. “That's nothing!” she declared, pointing dramatically at Bran. “You might be a knight, but I’m a dragon! Watch me!”

Bran rolled his eyes but stepped back with a half-grin. “Go on then, baby dragon. Let’s see you impress.”

Luce didn’t need more encouragement. Lifting the hem of her little gown, she twirled in place, her feet tapping in rhythm to the faint music that drifted from the corner of the hall. Her arms stretched out gracefully as she spun, her movements surprisingly fluid for one so young.

Cregan leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand. “Now there’s a sight,” he mused aloud in equal parts admiration and amusement. “A dragon taking flight in Winterfell’s halls.”

Luce beamed, soaking in the attention. “See, Rickon? That’s how it’s done!”

Rickon made a face. “You’re just spinning in circles.”

“It’s a dance, you numpty,” Luce fired back, stomping her foot for emphasis. “You wouldn’t know a proper dance if it bit you on your big nose.”

“I don’t need to,” Rickon shot back, smirking. “Dancing’s for—”

“Careful now, lad,” Cregan interjected, his tone mild but his gaze sharp. “I’d choose your next words wisely. Your brother and sister both dance far better than any warrior I’ve seen wield a blade.”

Rickon muttered something under his breath, but the redness creeping up his neck gave away his embarrassment.

Before Rickon could fully retreat, Bran stepped up beside Luce. “Don’t mind him,” Bran said with a wink. “Let’s show them how dragons really dance.”

He took her hand, and together they moved into the Targaryen dance of dragons as taught by their mother, a series of sweeping, elegant steps punctuated by dramatic turns. For all their playful rivalry, the siblings moved together in harmony, drawing cheers and applause from their small audience.

Cregan leaned back in his chair, his smile broadening as he turned his gaze to Claere. She was seated beside him, her violet eyes distant as she stared into the hearth, lost in her thoughts. Her fingers absently traced the edge of her goblet, and for a moment, she seemed untouched by the revelry around her.

Cregan noticed, as he always did. Reaching out, Cregan placed a hand over hers, stilling her movements. “Claere, love,” he said softly, drawing her attention. She blinked, her eyes meeting his, and he gave her a small, knowing smile. Picking up a piece of cheese pie, he set it gently on her plate.

“Shall we dance?” he asked, his voice low and inviting, his hand lingering over hers.

“Dance?” she echoed, her tone faintly incredulous, as though the idea was something foreign at that moment.

Luce’s voice rang out, breaking the moment. “Come dance, Mummy!” she pleaded, spinning in place with her skirts fanning out.

Claere’s gaze swept over the scene—Bran and Luce moving in harmony, Rickon and Edd clapping along, the soldiers cheering—and something in her softened. Slowly, she stood, smoothing her gown as she turned to Rickon with an inviting smile.

“Come, my wolf,” she said, holding out her hand. “Would you like to dance with mummy?”

Rickon’s face lit up as he scrambled to take her hand, his earlier teasing forgotten. Together, they stepped into the centre, laughter and music enveloping them. Luce and Bran laughed, twirling around her, and even little Edd toddled after them, his hands grasping at the air.

Cregan watched from the table, his chest tightening with a feeling too vast to name. Love, pride, gratitude—it was all there, woven into the laughter of his family. Edd tugged at his sleeve, his small voice piping up. “Da, come!”

With a laugh, Cregan stood, scooping Edd into his arms and spinning him in a wide circle. The boy’s delighted giggles rang out as they joined the dance. Cregan moved easily, his large frame surprisingly agile as he passed Edd to Luce and took her tiny hands in her twin's. Around and around they went, trading partners in a joyous whirl of movement.

At last, Claere found herself in Cregan’s arms, the warmth of his hand at her waist anchoring her to him as the music swelled. He pulled her closer, just enough that she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against her own. His palm splayed over the fabric of her gown in a way that felt far too intimate for the setting. His fingers traced idle patterns, teasing at her side, each stroke sent shivers rippling across her skin, though she worked hard to keep her composure.

“Cregan,” she murmured, a quiet warning, though it lacked the conviction to be truly stern. Her voice was low enough to stay between them, a secret shared under the cover of music and candlelight. “You are playing a dangerous game.”

His lips quirked into that roguish, wolfish grin she knew far too well. “Am I?” His thumb brushed slow, maddening circles against her spine, just above the curve of her hip, each movement making her skin prickle with heat. He dipped his head slightly, his words a gravelly whisper meant only for her. “Or am I simply enjoying a dance with my wife?”

She shot him a pointed glance, though the edges of her irritation softened with amusement. “The children…”

“Are perfectly distracted.” He nodded toward the far side of the hall, where Rickon and Edd were spinning each other in clumsy circles, their laughter rising above the lively tune. Bran had taken to mimicking Luce’s dance steps with exaggerated precision, his little feet shuffling as he bowed dramatically to his giggling sister. Even the bannermen were caught up in the children’s antics, clapping along with indulgent smiles.

“They’re always watching,” Claere countered, though her tone was soft, her violet eyes flicking to his with equal parts exasperation and delight.

“Not closely enough.” His lips grazed the shell of her ear as he spoke, his voice low and teasing. “And certainly not closely enough to see what I’m thinking right now.”

Her breath caught as his hand slid just a touch lower, the heat of his palm searing through the fabric of her gown. She could feel the strength in his fingers, the deliberate way they lingered near the dip of her hip. He was maddening—utterly, delightfully maddening.

“You frustrate me,” she whispered, the faintest curve tugging at her lips despite her best efforts.

“I do?” He tilted his head, feigning offence, though the mischievous glint in his eyes betrayed him. His thumb brushed dangerously close to her ribs, just beneath the curve of her breast. “That’s a bold accusation, my love.”

Before she could respond, the hall doors groaned open, and a familiar figure entered, cutting through the haze of their quiet intimacy. The maester stepped in, his long grey robes swishing against the stone floor as he carried a scroll marked with the familiar dark imprint.

Cregan’s hand stilled against her, his attention reluctantly pulled away. He sighed, his brow furrowing as duty called to him once more.

“I'll be right back,” he murmured, his voice laced with quiet regret as he stepped back, releasing her from his hold.

Claere watched him go, the absence of his touch leaving her feeling unmoored for a fleeting moment. She turned to the children instead, scooping a squealing Edd into her arms before spinning him around in time with the lively tune. Laughter bubbled up around her, infectious and unrestrained, as the children danced circles around her.

From the corner of the hall, Cregan stood with the maester, the scroll unrolled in his hands. His jaw tightened as he scanned its contents.

Another summons to the Wall. Another month away from home, from her, from all of them.

Once, the call of duty had been a point of pride, a badge of honour he bore without question. But now… now, it felt like a curse. The thought of leaving his family—of enduring endless days without their laughter, their warmth, their very presence—made his chest ache with something akin to grief.

He glanced up from the parchment, his gaze drifting back to the scene before him. The hall was alive with light and music, the children’s laughter echoing off the stone walls. Bran twirled Luce, who curtsied dramatically before breaking into giggles. Rickon and Edd were caught in a mock swordfight, using wooden spoons as weapons, while Claere spun around with them, her hair coming loose from its braid, her smile brighter than the flames in the hearth.

It was a vision of home, of everything he cherished, and yet it was incomplete without him in it. He hated this—the thought of being an outsider to his own life, of missing the moments that made it worth living.

For a moment, he considered crumpling the scroll in his fist, tossing it into the fire, and letting the Wall fend for itself. But duty was duty, and the North would not wait for his whims.

Still, as he folded the parchment and handed it back to the maester, his gaze lingered on Claere. She glanced over at him, her eyes softening when they met his, as if she could sense his misdoubts.

“I’ll come back,” he murmured under his breath, though he wasn’t sure if he was saying it for her benefit or his own.

And gods help him, he hoped it was true.

The Glass Gardens stood on the edge of winter, its warmth still holding against the cold creeping in from the North. Frost laced the edges of the glass panels, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the last of the season’s growth. Claere knelt among the pepper stalks, her fingers working deftly as she plucked the ripe ones for the larder. Nearby, Bran huffed, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his silver curls damp with sweat as he fumbled with a stubborn stem.

He grunted as the stalk gave way, nearly tumbling back onto the stone path.

“Careful,” Claere chided, her tone warm with amusement. “You’ll crush the good ones.”

Bran frowned at the small basket at his feet, woefully emptier than hers. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, determined to work faster, but his hands weren’t as practised as his mother’s. Precision was something he’d yet to master, though he tried, keen to impress her.

“Ma?”

She glanced at him from behind a few stalks, pausing in her work.

He hesitated before speaking, his voice careful. “Is Da traveling to the Wall soon?”

Claere stilled for a fraction of a moment, but she nodded, the gladness in her face giving way to something quieter, something closer to grief. She knew this was his duty, the burden that came with his name, but it didn’t make parting from him any easier.

Bran watched her closely, saw the way her fingers tightened around the pepper in her hand. He'd heard the stories—of her voyages beyond the Wall, of the White Dread soaring through the sky where no dragon had ever flown, of how she kept silent about what she had seen. It made him wonder.

“What’s it like out there?” he asked, curiosity bright in his young eyes. “Past the Wall?”

She exhaled slowly, rolling the pepper between her fingers as if weighing the memory. “Cold,” she said at last. “Empty.”

His brows furrowed. “That’s it?”

She hummed, amused. “What were you expecting?”

Bran’s voice picked up with excitement. “Did you see those huge spiders Lord Manderly talked about? And the dead people? And—”

“Bran,” Claere cut him off gently, managing a shaky smile. “What’s all this about?”

His ears pinked slightly, but he lifted his chin, emboldened. “I want to see the Wall, Ma. And the rest of the North.”

Claere tilted her head, watching him. He had always been this way—restless, seeking. They had called him the White Wolf of the North before he had even learned to wield a blade, a name heralded upon him too young, but he had embraced it all the same. He wanted to prove himself to his people, to see the lands he would one day rule. When Ice would come into his hands and the Stark brand across his chest, he wanted to feel as though he had earned it.

There was fire in his voice, the same fire his father carried when he spoke of duty, of oaths, of the weight of the Stark name. Claere tilted her head, watching him closely.

He was growing. He was only eleven, but she already saw the man he would become. The boyhood roundness had begun to fade from his face, his features sharpening into something more severe, more Stark. He was no longer a babe at her breast, no longer the child who would curl into her side on the coldest nights. And yet, when he spoke, she heard the ache of a boy who felt caged.

"They never let me come with them," he muttered, stripping a leaf between his fingers. "Not to the hunts in the Wolfswood. Not even to sit with them in the Great Hall when Da holds judgment. He—" Bran stopped himself, pressing his lips into a thin line.

Claere understood in an instant.

Cregan loved his son—loved him fiercely, protectively. But he was the heir to the North, and his father, in his worry, kept him wrapped in furs, tucked away from the bitter winds of the world, shielding him from the lessons that should have been his to learn.

She sighed, brushing her fingers through his sweat-damp curls, a feature he had stolen from her. “What is it, Bran?”

His nose scrunched, but he didn’t pull away. "I want to know it all," he said earnestly. "The mountains, the rivers, the villages that call our name their shield. I want to know the land before I’m meant to rule it."

There was steel in his words, a quiet stubbornness she knew all too well. It was a little something he'd picked up from his father dearest.

Her fingers stilled against his hair, and something deeper stirred in her gaze. “The North is vast,” she murmured, smoothing a curl from his face. “And cruel, sometimes.”

“I can be strong,” he insisted. “Like you. Like Da.”

Claere sighed, her palm coming to rest against his cheek. She had given him life, but Cregan had given him a duty, and between the two of them, he would never be anything less than honourable. Still, honour alone could not shape him. He needed more than rules, more than lessons spoken from the mouths of men who had already lived their lives. He needed to step into his own.

He needed to be allowed to try.

"Ma?" His voice was softer now, uncertain.

"Hm?"

"Will you talk to Da?"

She tilted her head. "About?"

Bran hesitated, then squared his shoulders. "I don't need to be coddled. I'm not weak. I want to be out there—I need to be. Da's always telling me what I must be, what I should become. How can I, if I'm never given the chance?"

Claere saw it now—how this had been weighing on him, how the bitterness sat heavy on his tongue.

He wasn’t wrong. And Cregan, she knew, would never let their son feel weak, not if he understood what he was doing to him.

"I'll speak to your father," she said gently. "I am truly sorry you feel this way, Bran. I'll make it up to you."

Bran looked away, guilty. "Not your fault, Ma."

“No, love.” She cupped his face, tilting him back toward her. “Your father loves you very much, but he can't see past his own fears. I swear to you, I will fix this.”

He nodded, lips pressing together, but she could see the hope rekindling in his eyes.

"Thank you," he said, and then—without hesitation—he wrapped his arms around her, dirt-streaked sleeves and all.

Claere smiled, holding him close, her hand stroking the back of his silver head.

"Oh, my sweet boy."

And though she knew the world would try to shape him, to harden him, she prayed that some part of him—the warmth, the earnestness, the light—would never fade.

The water was still warm, steam curling lazily into the cold morning air of the chambers. Cregan sat back against the edge of the wooden tub, the heat licking away at the tension coiled in his shoulders, though it did little to soothe the storm brewing in his mind. He rested his arms on either side, droplets cascading off his skin and into the bath with quiet plinks.

The room smelled faintly of pine and ash from the hearth, the scent mingling with the lingering lavender oil she’d left behind on the table by their bed. Her touch was everywhere—on the neatly folded throw draped over the chair, on the intricate carvings of dragons and wolves in the wooden headboard she had commissioned from the artisans of White Harbor. Even the small porcelain vase near the window, filled with wildflowers, was hers.

It was infuriating, how much he already missed a place he hadn’t yet left.

The Wall, the raven, the Wildlings—his duty, gnawing at him like a wolf to bone. For the first time in years, the honour he once carried so proudly felt more like a chain than a badge. He could feel its significance, cold and unrelenting, pressing against his chest.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back from his brow, his gaze settling on the door as it creaked open. His wife stepped in like a shadow carried on the wind, her figure cutting through the flickering light of the chamber. Claere’s riding leathers hugged her frame, dark and worn from years of use, the supple material creaking faintly as she moved. The sight was arresting—always had been.

Cregan let himself look, unashamed in his admiration. It was too early for their little rascals to storm in with their endless energy, and for once, he could simply take her in. Her hair, still loosely plaited, caught the faint light filtering through the frost-glazed windows, glinting like spun silver. Her steps were unhurried, carrying herself with that same quiet intensity that made even the most seasoned men hesitate in her presence. That had not changed one bit.

“You’re up early,” she murmured, low but clear as if the morning itself bent to her tone.

He tilted his head slightly, watching her as droplets from his arm traced rivulets down the tub’s edge.

“The same could be said of you. You reek of dragon,” he rumbled.

“Mine is expected. Yours isn't.”

Claere paused by the table, her fingers brushing over the small vase of wildflowers she’d placed there days ago. She glanced at him, her violet eyes unreadable.

“You didn’t sleep last night,” she said simply, her gaze not accusing, merely observant as if she’d caught him in the act of something far less honourable than stewing in his thoughts.

His brow furrowed, his grey eyes narrowing in faint surprise. Claere rarely commented on him—let alone noticed him enough to remark on his habits. It stirred something unexpected in his chest, though he’d sooner die than admit it.

A brazen smirk tugged at his lips as he shifted, leaning back and letting the water lap lazily at his chest. “No, I didn’t,” he admitted, his tone softer now. “Too much on my mind.”

She didn’t reply, not immediately. Instead, she began to unhook the clasps of her riding leathers softly. His gaze followed the motion of her hands, deft and practised, until she slipped the jacket free, revealing the loose linen shirt beneath. There was a calm precision to her movements, the same as when she drew a fork and knife, or mounted her dragon. Everything Claere did seemed deliberate, as though she gave thought even to the air she breathed.

“You could join me, you know. I'd appreciate the pleasure of your company,” he drawled, the hint of a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. His voice was teasing, but there was a warmth in his gaze that betrayed something deeper, something softer.

She cast him a glance, one eyebrow arching, though her expression remained otherwise unreadable. “It’s barely sunrise,” she replied, setting the jacket neatly on the chair. “And I doubt the water’s warm enough for two.”

He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “Oh, it’s warm enough. I've kept it warm for you,” he countered, his gaze dropping to her hands as she rolled up her sleeves. “You’re always complaining I keep this place too cold.”

Claere moved to the edge of the tub, folding herself onto the wooden step beside it with that same fluid grace he’d come to know so well. The firelight cast shadows along her cheekbones, softening the sharpness of her features, though her eyes never lost their edge. She rested her hands on her knees, her fingers tracing faint patterns against the fabric.

Cregan studied her, the curve of her mouth, the way her hair framed her face. He reached out, his hand dripping and warm, and cupped her cheek. She didn’t flinch, didn’t move away, even as his palm left a faint, damp imprint against her skin.

Her gaze was unyielding, quiet and searching. She knew him too well.

“The raven?”

He nodded to her, letting his hand drop back into the water with a soft splash. “I am not ready,” he said, as though it had been sitting on his chest since the letter arrived.

She said nothing, only shifted closer, her fingers beginning to trace idle circles on his forearm where it rested against the rim of the tub. Her silence was infuriating, as it always was, but it also steadied him in a way he’d never admit.

“They want me to see to the Free Folk,” he said, his voice carrying the bitterness of old grudges and honour-bound duty. “The ones you opened our gates for. They need assurances that the North hasn’t turned on them. They say there’s unrest. Whispers in the winds beyond the Wall.”

“It’s been a long while since you’ve been up there,” she murmured, her tone calm, almost detached.

“Aye.”

Claere’s fingers moved absently, tracing small geometric shapes against his arm. “Take me with you.”

Cregan huffed out a sharp breath, his frown deepening. “Pains me to refuse, but Luce and Edd need you here.”

Her gaze didn’t waver, but her lips thinned. “Then take Bran along.”

He barked a short, mirthless laugh, rubbing at his temple. He exhaled heavily, leaning back against the tub. “Bran's a boy, love.”

“One and ten,” she countered, her tone sharp enough to bite his resistance. “He’s nearly a man grown.”

Cregan stared at her, her words lingering in the heavy air like the echo of a distant horn. Claere’s violet eyes burned with an intensity that could have melted the frost clinging to Winterfell’s walls, and for a moment, he forgot the bath’s warmth as her words settled over him.

“You think I don’t know what he’s capable of?” Cregan’s voice was low, a growl beneath his breath. “He’s strong with the sword, quick on his feet, and gods know he can shoot better than I could at his age. But out there”—he gestured vaguely, his wet hand scattering droplets across the room—“it’s not just about skill. It’s about surviving, about looking into the eyes of a man who would gut you just to see how deep the blood runs, and still standing tall. You think I don’t see the boy still in him?”

Claere’s jaw tightened, her arms crossing as she leaned against the edge of the tub. Her hair glimmered in the dim firelight, a halo of silver against the shadows, but there was nothing soft in her stance. She looked like she belonged atop a dragon, unyielding and fierce.

“He won’t learn survival from sparring swords and the yards,” she said, her voice quieter now, though no less pointed. “You’re his father, the Lord of Winterfell. You’ve shown him how to swing a blade, how to aim a bow. But have you shown him the North? The real North? The Wall, the rivers, the Wolfswood? He needs more than stories and practice, Cregan. He needs to see what it is to be a Stark.”

Cregan’s fingers flexed against the rim of the tub, his calloused knuckles whitening. “You’d send him to the Wall? To see wildlings and brothers who've taken the black and a land that doesn’t care if you live or die?”

“I’d send him with you,” Claere insisted, leaning closer. Her voice softened, though the steel in it remained. “With his father. The man who survived it all, who brought the North back stronger than it was before. Show him what that strength looks like. Show him that carrying the North isn’t just his duty—it’s his legacy.”

Cregan stared at her, the firelight casting shadows over the planes of his face. His chest rose and fell with slow, measured breaths, the lines of worry etched into his brow deepening.

“And if it breaks him?” he asked quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Claere’s expression softened, her fingers reaching out to trace the line of his damp jaw. Her touch was warm, a lifeline in the sea of doubt swirling inside him. “Then we'll be there to put him back together. That’s what parents do, isn’t it? You’re not sending him alone, Cregan. You’re leading him. Let him follow.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. The room was silent but for the faint crackle of the fire and the quiet ripple of water as he shifted. Finally, he exhaled, a sound heavy with resignation and something else—acceptance, perhaps.

“You’d make a fine wolf, Claere,” he muttered, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Sharper teeth than mine, I think.”

“I've got fire, I have no need for teeth.”

Her lips curved, faint but real, and her hand lingered at his jaw for a moment longer before she stepped back, her expression turning devilish in that understated way she often employed. Her fingers moved deftly to the fastenings of the final layer of leathers, undoing the ribbons one by one, her movements intended as though she meant for him to watch. And watch he did.

Cregan’s arms tensed at the edge of the tub, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of her, each piece of leather peeled away and set aside, revealing inch after inch of smooth, pale skin kissed by the faint glow of firelight, softened by time. She didn’t rush, letting his gaze settle over her. Basking in it.

When at last she stood bare before him, becoming winter itself, he tilted his head slightly, the faintest smirk on her lips as though to say, What are you waiting for?

The water rippled as she stepped into the tub, testing, graceful and slow. Steam curled in languid tendrils around her legs as she sank in, the warmth pulling a soft sigh from her lips. Cregan reached for her, his large hands steady as they found her waist, drawing her fully onto his lap. The water surged over the edges, cascading down the wooden sides and pooling onto the stone floor, but he didn’t care. His laughter rumbled low in his chest as he pulled her close, her bare skin pressing against his. He'd found heaven for a brief moment.

“There you are,” he murmured. “Much better.”

Claere’s fingers ghosted over a scar on his collar bone, the faint line of it cutting pale against the weathered bronze of his skin. Her touch lingered, as though her fingertips could feel the memory etched there, as though it might speak its story aloud.

“This one,” she said, “I remember.” Her fingers traced the ridge again, reverently, unflinching. “A missed arrow?”

“Missed by half,” Cregan replied, his grin sharp and laced with that wolfish pride she knew so well.

He let his hand glide up her spine, warm from the water, catching at the loose braid that framed her face. With a deliberate tug, he undid it, her silver-streaked hair spilling like moonlight over her bare shoulders, the strands dampening where they kissed the surface of the bathwater.

She hummed faintly, her lips twitching at the corner. “Your pride, your stories—they weigh on you like old armour,” she said, her tone teasing but threaded with something heavier. Her hand pressed flat against his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath beneath her palm. “What happens when the wolf grows too weary to wear them?”

“A wolf never does,” he countered, but there was no edge to it, no sharpness. Only affection as his thumb brushed against her cheek, tracing the faint flush of warmth brought on by the steam. “And what of you, dragon-rider? Does your fire burn low, or will you fly until your wings fail?”

Her brow arched, her lips curving faintly upward. “I would burn the sky if it meant keeping this family safe,” she said softly, but the fire within it was unmistakable.

She let her fingers trail down his chest, tracing old scars, each mark a story only she was privy to.

Cregan’s hand lingered between them, tracing absent patterns along the damp skin of her shoulder. As he worked water through her hair with slow, deliberate motions, he drew in a steadying breath and tried his tongue at the language that still sat awkwardly on it, the words as foreign to him as the heat of Dorne in winter.

“Skorī dōron ēza... ao gevive iā.... drīvo, nyke... brōzi hen... gevivys,” he said slowly, his Northern accent thick, the flow of the words more like the creak of a winter tree than the silk of fire. If a man is shaped by stories, I burn with them.

Claere paused, her fingers lightly brushing his forearm as her lips twitched at the corners. “Brōzi? Truly?” she murmured, her voice laced with restrained amusement. She tilted her head back, looking at him with those violet eyes that always seemed to see through him, to the marrow of the man beneath. “You meant to say sīragon, didn’t you?” From.

Cregan grunted, his jaw tightening in mock frustration. “Let a man try, Claere,” he muttered, rolling his eyes skyward, though a wry grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It’s like twisting my tongue into a knot. And here you are, ready to skin me for it.”

She chuckled and leaned closer, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “It’s good to see you stumble now and again,” she teased lightly, her lips brushing his ear as she added in her mother tongue, “Ziry kesir iksis gevivys hen gevivys syt īlva tolvio.” That is what stories are for—for our struggles.

“I caught that,” Cregan shot back, his grin widening despite himself. He reached for her waist, pulling her flush against him in the water, which sloshed dangerously close to the edge of the tub. “And I’ll tell you what I’m good at regarding stories, love. Living them.”

“Oh?” she arched a brow, her tone a mockery of scepticism even as her fingers skimmed down his chest. “What tale do you think you’re writing now, my lord?”

“One where the winter's queen joins the king in the North for a bath,” he growled playfully, his voice low as he pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat. “And he doesn't misspeak.”

“Not often, anyway,” she quipped.

Her laughter faded, but the warmth of it lingered between them. She leaned into him, her forehead coming to rest against his shoulder. He felt her sigh, her body melting into his like snow against the sunlit stone. His hand moved rhythmically, pouring water, untangling her hair, each stroke of his fingers careful. But there was something about her quietness now that unnerved him. The silence between them wasn’t hollow—it was heavy, as though the air itself waited for something to break.

“Cregan,” she said finally, her voice quiet but heavy, like a snowstorm building on the horizon. “I want to fly past the Wall again.”

The words didn’t land immediately. For a moment, the fire crackled, the faint scent of woodsmoke filling the air, and her voice hung there, unacknowledged, like a raven circling a battlefield. But then, like an axe cleaving through frozen bark, the meaning struck. His hands stilled against her back, and the silence between them became brittle.

Slowly, he moved, setting the water aside. His fingers lingered on her shoulder, reluctant to let go, as if even that small gesture might allow her words to take root. She turned just enough for him to see her face, her profile illuminated by firelight. The high cheekbones he’d traced with his thumb a hundred times, the proud line of her nose, the haunting violet of her eyes—all of it was familiar. And yet, what burned behind her gaze now was something foreign. Something he didn’t want to know.

“The Wall?” His voice was calm, but the sharp undertone betrayed him. “Why?”

“I need something,” she murmured, the words nearly swallowed by the crackle of the fire. Her eyes softened, but her jaw tightened, her resolve solidifying even as her voice quavered.

Cregan stiffened. The memory of her last flight past the Wall came rushing back, vivid and unforgiving. The days of waiting, the weeks of sleepless nights after her return, when she woke gasping for air, her hands clutching at her throat as if warding off unseen terrors. The Wall hadn’t just taken from her—it had nearly swallowed her whole.

“You needed something the last time, too,” he said, his voice low and cold as iron. “And it nearly destroyed you. I will not allow this.”

“Cregan—”

“No.” His hand caught her chin, tilting her face toward him, his gray eyes meeting hers with unflinching force. “Don’t ask me this again, Claere.”

“But—”

“Please.” His voice cracked, his plea pulling it down to little more than a whisper. “Don’t.”

For a moment, she looked like she might argue, her lips parting, her breath hitching. But then, something inside her faltered. Instead, she pressed her face into his chest, her trembling fingers clutching at his sides. He wrapped his arms around her instinctively, as if by holding her tightly enough, he could keep her anchored, stop her from drifting toward whatever shadowed place she sought.

“I just…” she began, her voice muffled against his skin. “Have you ever wondered, after I’m gone, what I’ll leave behind?”

Her words were a blow, swift and unexpected. Cregan stiffened, his arms tightening around her as though she might slip through them.

“Gone?” he echoed, his voice faint, disbelieving. He tried to summon a chuckle, something to lighten the moment, but it came out jagged and hollow. “You’ll leave Luna, of course. That terror of a beast. It'll live another ten centuries. And our children—wolves with their mother’s fire, gods help us.”

She didn’t laugh. Instead, she pulled back, her hands resting on his chest, her face shadowed with an intensity he couldn’t meet without flinching. “I do not jest,” she said softly, each word carving into him like frostbite.

His smile faded entirely, replaced by a deep furrow in his brow as he searched her face for answers. “What is this about?” he asked, his voice soft, coaxing. His hand came up to brush through her damp hair, a gesture as soothing for him as it was for her. “Does something trouble you, love?”

Her gaze dropped, her teeth catching at her bottom lip—a small, vulnerable tell that cut deeper than any words could. “Cregan, we don’t have long in this realm,” she said, her voice steady but low. “None of us do. And we must do what is needed for the future.”

“And the Wall offers you a future?” His voice hardened, anger creeping in now. It wasn’t the wild, hot anger of a battlefield, but a cold, slow-burning fury. “It’s taken enough from you already.”

“I’ve seen the aftermath,” she said, her tone calm but unrelenting. She lifted her gaze to meet his, and there was something in it that chilled him to his core. “After me.”

Her words cut deeper than the sharpest blade. He understood now. She wasn’t speaking of leaving—at least, not in the sense he wanted to believe. She was speaking of her absence. Her death.

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his arms pulling her closer as though he could tether her to him, to the present, to life itself. His chest felt tight, and his breath became shallow.

“You won’t leave me behind,” he said again, the faintest crack betraying his fear. “You can’t.”

Her gaze held his, unwavering, but he saw the glint of severity there, refracting the firelight like shards of ice. He swallowed hard, trying to push down the rising tide of dread that threatened to overwhelm him. She’d seen something—he knew it. And it gnawed at him like a wolf at a bone.

The thoughts came unbidden, tumbling over each other in his mind. Had she seen it? How had it come for her? Was it a blade, sharp and sudden, cutting her life away in an instant? Was it poison, insidious and slow, stealing her breath while he was too far to help? Or a fall, her body broken on the frozen ground before he could catch her? His hands clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening as he struggled to contain the frantic thoughts spinning wildly out of control.

He didn’t want to know, not truly, but the thought of not knowing was worse. He searched her face, his heart hammering against his ribs like a storm battering at a gate.

“Death is not something we must fear,” she said softly. Her hand came up to his face, cupping his cheek with a gentleness that belied the weight of her words. “Not for Northerners. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

“And what am I without you?” he asked, his voice a mere breath. He grasped her hand where it rested against his cheek, holding it as though it might anchor him. “If you leave me, I have nothing. I am nothing. No dreams. No fight. No life. If you manage to leave me somehow, you will not go alone. I will follow.”

Her expression softened, a sorrowful smile curving her lips. She reached up to brush her thumb along his cheekbone, catching the tear he didn’t realize had fallen. “I know,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

He swallowed hard, the words clawing their way up his throat. “How... does it happen?”

For a moment, she didn’t respond. Her gaze dropped to the space between them, her fingers still lightly tracing his cheek. When she spoke, her voice was soft but resolute.

“Not for a long time,” she said.

The words struck him deeply, unraveling the tension that had gripped him like a vice. Not for a long time. He exhaled, his breath shuddering as though he had been holding it for years, his shoulders loosening from the weight of dread. It wasn’t a dismissal of the future, but a promise that there was more to come—more moments, more life, more everything.

His thoughts slowed, anchoring on the here and now. The curve of her lips, the heat of her body pressed against his, the faint lavender scent that clung to her hair—this was what mattered. This was the life they had yet to live, the future she spoke of, not just a far-off end but the fullness of days between now and then.

He tilted his head, studying her with a crooked grin that didn't quite hide the lingering edge of his earlier unease. “You’ve got a real talent for ruining a perfectly good bath,” he muttered, his voice low.

Her lips quirked, amusement flickering in her violet eyes. “Do I?”

“Aye,” he said, his hand sliding to her hip beneath the water, his touch firm but playful. “But I’m not letting you turn this into some talk of doom and death.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear as he added, “You’ve got better things to focus on.”

She arched a brow, her lips curving into that sly smile that always managed to disarm him. “Better things?”

“You, in my arms, all beautiful lips and legs,” he murmured, his other hand slipping up to cradle her jaw. “I’d say that’s better than any talk of what’s to come.”

Her blush deepened, but her smile didn’t waver. “Is this your way of distracting me?”

“It’s my way of reminding you,” he said, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth, his lips brushing against her skin with deliberate slowness, “that we’ve still got tonight. And tomorrow. And the day after that.” He kissed her fully then, a slow, lingering press of his mouth that carried everything he didn’t want to put into words.

When he pulled back, his grin had turned roguish, his grey eyes gleaming with mischief. “Besides,” he added, his hand slipping lower under the water, “I’m not done with you yet.”

She let out a soft gasp, her hands pressing against his chest as she gave him a mock glare. “Lord Stark, you are incorrigible.”

“Incorrigible, aye,” he murmured, tilting his head as if in thought. His fingers teased along her waist, drawing her closer until their bodies pressed together. “But you’ve yet to complain about it.”

“I could start now,” she quipped, her voice light despite the way her breath hitched when his hand slid lower, brushing against the bare curve of her hip.

He smirked, unrepentant, leaning back against the tub's edge as he pulled her onto his lap, water sloshing around them. “Could you, though?” His voice was a low rumble, filled with a teasing warmth. “Or would you rather stay like this, letting me remind you how much you love a Stark who doesn’t know when to quit?”

Her laughter bubbled up, soft and unguarded, and she settled against him, her legs folding to either side of his hips. “You have an awfully high opinion of yourself.”

“It’s hard not to, with you looking at me like that,” he said, his hands splaying against the small of her back. His thumbs drew slow, deliberate circles against her skin as he tilted his head to catch her gaze. “Like you’d fight the gods themselves to keep me.”

Her teasing smile faltered, something softer blooming in its place. “Don’t make me admit to such things,” she whispered, her fingers trailing over the scars on his chest. “Your ego’s insufferable enough.”

“I’ll admit it for you,” he said, lowering his voice as his fingers danced up her spine. “You’d have my heart torn from my chest if it meant keeping it beating for you. Don’t deny it.”

She didn’t. She couldn’t—not with the way her silence spoke louder than words, her hands trembling slightly as they cupped his face. She held him there, staring into the storm-grey of his eyes as though she could lose herself in them.

“Don’t think this means I’ll forget what we were talking about,” she said at last, her tone soft but resolute.

“Not tonight,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion as he cupped her face in return, his thumbs brushing over the high planes of her cheekbones. “Tonight, it’s just you and me. No ravens, no Wall, no ghosts of what’s to come. Just us.”

Her gaze softened, her lips parting as though to argue—but the words didn’t come. Instead, she leaned into him, her forehead pressing gently to his, her breath mingling with his in the quiet intimacy of the moment. “I'd like that very much,” she murmured, her voice a whisper of surrender.

For a moment, he let the world slip away. Let himself drown in the feel of her—the press of her body against his, the scent of her hair, damp and clinging to her shoulders, the contrast of her warmth against the chill curling through the room. He would not let himself dwell on the shadows of the future—not tonight. Not when she was here, flesh and fire, burning bright enough to chase away every dark thought.

His fingers found her chin, tilting her face up until her violet eyes met his, wide and searching. He kissed her slow, deep, savouring the shape of her mouth, the softness that yielded to him even as he felt the quiet strength beneath it. When he pulled back, his smile had returned—soft, but still edged with mischief.

“Enough of death and despair,” he murmured, tracing the seam of her lips with his thumb. “I’m more interested in seeing if you’ll laugh again.”

Her brow arched, though the corner of her mouth lifted in something close to amusement. “Laugh?”

“Aye.” His hand slipped beneath the water, slow, sliding up the length of her thigh. Finally, he cupped the warm space between her legs. “That sound that could warm even these stones.”

Her breath hitched—a sharp, stuttered thing as if caught between surprise and surrender. Cregan felt the way she tensed beneath his fingers, her thighs clenching around his hand, for a moment before they eased, parting wider beneath the water. The heat of her, the slickness, the way she yielded to him even after all these years—it sent fire curling through his veins, made something primal in him stir.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, slow and lingering, his lips trailing down to her cheek, her jaw, the curve of her throat. She smelled of the oils in the bath, the faintest hint of spiceflowers and winter roses, but beneath that, she was still just Claere—his Claere, the woman who had given him everything.

His fingers moved again, curling inside her, stroking, pressing in deep. She made a sound then, quiet but breathless, her nails digging into his shoulders, her head tilting back against his chest. He could feel her heartbeat against his lips, a wild, fluttering thing, the way it always was when he touched her like this—like she wasn’t a mother of his children, wasn’t the Lady of Winterfell, but just the woman who had always been his.

Her thighs shifted, parting wider beneath the water, as if trying to push his fingers deeper within her, a silent plea. He chuckled, low and dark against her ear, dragging his teeth gently over the delicate skin there.

“I wish you could see yourself now,” he murmured, nipping at her lobe before soothing the spot with his tongue. “Undoing yourself against my hand.”

A whimper slipped past her lips, her fingers tightening where they gripped his arms. He felt her shift against him, pressing back, as if seeking more from his palm, that spot beneath her belly, as if she couldn’t stand the slow, torturous rhythm of his hand.

“Cregan,” she whispered, his name a plea, a demand, a prayer.

He groaned softly, his free hand smoothing over her hips, lingering over the faint scars left behind by the life she had carried for him. Evidence of the children she had borne, of the pain she had endured, of everything she had given him—and yet, still, she was here. Still, she was his.

She turned slightly in his arms, enough for him to see the flush rising high on her cheeks. “The scars won't go. No matter how much I scrub.”

Cregan chuckled, low and deep. “Let them be,” he echoed her earlier words, dragging his nose down the slope of her neck, breathing her in, “it's like a map. To my favourite place in this realm.”

His fingers slid from between her thighs, and she whimpered softly at the loss. He didn’t tease her for it, not this time. He only gripped her hips, turning her in the water until her back was flat against his chest, straddling his lap.

Water sloshed against the edges of the bath, spilling onto the stones again, but neither of them paid it any mind. He caged her there, wrapped in the warmth of his body, his mouth ghosting along the curve of her neck. A slow, heated drag of lips and teeth, a quiet claim.

His hands wandered, splaying across her stomach before gliding lower, fingers tracing the soft curve beneath her belly button. “Do you remember the first time?” he murmured against her ear, his voice rough, teasing.

She shivered, her fingers tightening where they rested on his thighs beneath the water. “Of course I do.”

His teeth grazed her earlobe, playful, before he pressed a kiss just below it. “Do you remember how you trembled for me?”

She huffed a breath, both exasperated and breathless. “Cregan—”

He chuckled, low and deep. “Still do, I think.”

His fingers dipped lower, finding her again, teasing, stroking with lazy intent. Her head tipped back against his shoulder, a quiet moan slipping from her lips as he dragged his knuckles along her most sensitive place, slow and deliberate.

“That’s it, love,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Let me have you.”

Claere’s breath stuttered, her fingers digging into his forearm, bracing herself against him as he eased her into it, as he coaxed her open with unhurried patience. His other hand smoothed over her stomach, pressing her back more firmly into him, grounding her as she trembled, adjusting to the steady, claiming stretch of his fingers.

She burned for him. Even after all these years, after all the nights spent tangled in each other, he still made her feel this way—like he was the only thing that existed, like her body was made to welcome him and only him.

Cregan exhaled sharply against her neck when she rocked into his touch, a breathless, greedy motion, chasing more, chasing him. He let her, let her take what she needed, let her move with him until she was slick and wanting, until her body was soft and eager against his own.

Then, with a quiet groan, he withdrew his fingers, shifting beneath her. As he tasted his fingers on his tongue, he realized how he would've preferred dryer ground than this tub, to let himself simply savour the taste of her for as long as he pleased.

She gasped when he aligned them, a sharp "ah!", a shudder running through her as he pushed inside, slow, stretching her inch by inch. She clenched around him instinctively, her hands flying to his thighs beneath the water, nails pressing into his skin as she sucked in a breath, caught between pleasure and the sheer, unbearable ache of taking him entirely into her.

Cregan groaned, his own body taut with restraint, his grip on her hips firm but gentle as he gave her time.

“It's alright, love,” he soothed against her ear, his lips brushing the shell of it. “I’m here. Slow.”

She exhaled shakily, letting herself sink back against him, letting herself adjust, letting herself feel every inch of him as he seated himself fully inside her. He swore he could feel her heartbeat right there.

He stayed still for a long moment, his breath hot against her damp skin, his hands smoothing over her stomach, her hips, her thighs, feeling her, waiting.

“Cregan,” she whispered, desperate now, the stretch melting into something unbearable in a wholly different way.

His arms manacled around her. “Move for me,” he murmured, coaxing, his hands guiding her hips, helping her find the rhythm that was theirs alone.

And when she did—gods. The heavens itself. Thunder crashing. Rain falling. A fucking avalanche. None of those phenomena came close. Every time, it was as if she had never known him at all.

And then—

A sharp, unsteady breath left her as she rocked against him, slow at first, a careful slide of bodies beneath the water, the movement languid and fluid like the tide. Cregan groaned low in his throat, his grip tightening on her hips, his fingers pressing into the curve of her neck, as if to keep himself from losing all restraint. It almost slipped past him.

“Just like that, Claere, yes,” he murmured against her temple, the praise breathy and rough, setting off a shiver down her spine.

Claere inhaled sharply as she pushed down again, the stretch of him sending pleasure curling deep in her belly, sharp and intoxicating. Her hands found his arms, clutching at the thick muscle beneath damp skin, seeking something to hold onto as he guided her into the rhythm, his body meeting hers in slow, wet thrusts. Every inch of him burned to go harder, faster, make her fall apart for him, But he wouldn't rush this—not when he had her, not when he could savour every second.

She arched into him, her head falling back against his shoulder, exposing her throat. He took advantage of it immediately, his lips dragging along the delicate column of her neck, tasting the salt of her skin, nipping, soothing, marking her as his own.

“I've missed this, missed you, missing being inside you,” he whispered, voice hoarse, strained, a kiss on her shoulder for each punctuation. His hands slid up, tracing the swell of her breasts beneath the water, rolling a peaked nipple between his fingers until she gasped, her body clenching around him.

She whimpered, pressing her hands over his, guiding them lower, needing more, needing everything. He gave it to her, rolled his fingers at that very spot, his touch rough and knowing, his pace quickening just enough to make her moan, to make her toes curl against the marble beneath them.

Her name fell from his lips like a prayer, reverent, desperate. He had touched her like this a thousand times, had kissed every inch of her body, had watched her unravel in his arms more times than he could count—and yet, every time felt like the first.

And every time, he was wrecked for her. Ravaged. Devastated. Left lost in her.

She was close now, he could feel it in the way her muscles tightened around him, the way her breath grew uneven, in the way her hands trembled against his own. He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to let go, to chase his own pleasure, determined to take her there first. It was his taste of paradise, to see her explode onto him.

“There's my girl,” he rasped, his fingers slipping lower, finding the place that made her break. “Give it to me, love. All of it.”

She did.

Her body tensed, her back arching as pleasure crashed over her in a sharp, shuddering wave. She clenched around him so tight he swore he saw stars, her moan breathless, mouth falling open into a silent scream, her nails digging into his skin.

Cregan groaned, his control snapping, his grip on her tightening as he thrust into her once, twice, before he was spilling into her with a ragged sound, his entire being wrenching inside out, his head dropping against her shoulder.

For a moment, as colour flooded back into his sight, there was only the soft lap of water against their skin, the slow rise and fall of their breaths. Home, home, home, was all he could think about. She was his home.

He let out a long, satisfied sigh, his grip on her loose but lingering, hands still smoothing over the curve of her waist, as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go. Claere slumped against his chest, her body boneless, skin flushed, hair damp against his shoulder.

“Well, Claere,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, “you’ve officially fucked me out.”

Claere hummed, half-lidded and pleased, her fingers idly tracing the ridges of his forearm. “Mmm.”

He huffed a laugh, nosing into her damp hair. “Mmm?”

She grinned, stretching out in his lap like a cat, unabashed, utterly content. “I like seeing you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Spent,” she purred, tipping her head back to meet his gaze, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Sweet. A little ruined.”

Cregan groaned, leaning his head back against the rim of the tub, but he was smiling. “Give me a moment to recover, woman, before you start making me hard again.”

Claere hummed, trailing a slow finger down his chest, tracing the scars and muscles that she knew as well as her own skin. “Recover already?” she mused, tilting her head, feigning innocence. “What a shame. I thought the mighty Lord Stark had more verve than this.”

Cregan cracked an eye open, giving her a look—half amusement, half warning. “Watch yourself.”

“Oh, I am,” she whispered, shifting in his lap just enough to feel the lazy thrum of heat still there beneath the surface. She smirked. “But are you?”

Cregan exhaled sharply, hands tightening at her waist as she rolled her hips against his thigh, slow and teasing. He was already hardening again, the ache not quite gone before she threatened to stoke it back to life.

Claere leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to his jaw, then lower, trailing heat down the column of his throat. “No need to rush,” she murmured against his skin, voice silken, taunting. “We have all morning.”

Cregan growled, deep in his chest, tipping his head back, eyes fluttering shut as she moved against him. “Gods help me,” he muttered, but his hands slid lower, gripping her, guiding her.

Claere laughed, warm and wicked. Unlike anything he'd seen, once or twice.

“I think you’ll survive.”

And just like that, the hunger stirred anew.

The courtyard of Winterfell had become a storm of movement—horses stamping against the frost-bitten ground, men checking their saddles, the clink of steel and murmurs of last-minute preparations. The banners of House Stark stirred in the biting wind, a reminder of the legacy they carried Northward.

But in the midst of it all, Cregan Stark found himself shackled—not by duty, not by the weight of his furs or the steel at his hip, but by the small, determined hands of his children.

Rickon clung to his left arm, Edd had his fingers curled into the fabric of his cloak, and Luce—his wild little pup—had scaled his back like a mountain cat, arms looped around his neck in a stubborn vice. The three of them, strong and sharp, but still young enough to make their sorrow known in the way they gripped onto him, as if holding him would stop him from leaving. Their sighs and sniffles echoed in his ears, though none of them would dare cry—not properly. A Stark did not wail, but they knew how to make their sorrow known.

“You best come back fast, Da,” Edd grumbled into his father’s shoulder.

“I’ll be counting the days,” Rickon muttered, arms tightening.

Luce, face buried against his shoulder, huffed, "Then bring me redcurrants from White Harbour this time. The big, fat ones. You forgot last time, and I still haven’t forgiven you."

Cregan chuckled, shifting her weight easily, bearing all three of them as if they were nothing. "I’ll bring you all the redcurrants in the North, my love," he promised.

He crouched, easing her to the ground alongside her brothers, taking each of their faces in his hands. His thumbs brushed over their cheeks, memorizing the weight of them, the warmth. He wouldn't feel this for a long time.

"I'll come back quick as the wind," he said, pressing kisses to their brows, and their hair, one by one. "And when I do, I'll have stories for you. The kind you’ve never heard before."

"Will they be true stories?" Rickon asked, eyes narrowing.

Cregan grinned. "Aye. And the best kind of true stories—the ones that sound like lies."

The boys exchanged glances, considering, before they nodded solemnly.

Meanwhile, Bran had not let go of his mother.

He was pressed into her embrace, face tucked against her shoulder, silver curls gleaming beneath the pale light. Unlike his siblings, he was quiet in his sorrow, but Claere knew. She rubbed slow, soothing circles over his back, whispered to him in a voice only for him to hear.

"Listen and stay close to your father," she murmured, her lips against his temple. "Mind the men. Never stray too far past your people. Write to me often."

His arms tightened around her waist. "I know, Ma."

Cregan reached out, and rested a hand on his son's shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. "Say your goodbyes to your brothers and sister, lad," he said. "They'll be missing you, too."

Bran nodded, swallowing hard.

Cregan's gaze lifted to Claere's, and the sight of her nearly undid him. She was holding herself still, the grief of parting written in the tight set of her mouth, the sheen in her violet eyes. Gods, he hated leaving her. Especially her.

But before she could speak, he grinned, and in one swift motion, he pulled her into his arms, his grip firm around her waist. The strength of it startled a soft laugh from her lips, though her hands instantly found his chest, holding on.

“You’ll not let me go without a proper farewell, will you?” he murmured against her mouth.

She huffed, exhaling sharply as his lips found hers—soft at first, then lingering, warm and slow. He kissed her once, twice, savouring the taste of her, the press of her body against his. She made a quiet noise against his lips, and he swallowed it down, trying to burn the memory of her into his bones.

And then, between kisses, his voice dipped into something smug, something playful.

“We may have made a babe last night.”

She let out a startled little laugh against his mouth, her fingers tightening in his cloak. “And how would you know that?”

He tilted his head, brushing his lips along the shell of her ear, letting his teeth graze just enough to make her shiver.

“Because I’m sore all over,” he murmured, amused. “And the last time I felt this way was when we had Luce. And I vaguely remember a warm bath, too.”

A sharp breath left her, and she buried her face into his neck, laughing despite herself. Her hands clutched at him as if she could hold onto him for just a moment longer.

"Seven hells, Cregan," she whispered, voice unsteady.

His arms tightened, and for a breath, for a single moment, he allowed himself the weakness of wishing he didn’t have to go at all.

A sniffle interrupted them.

Both of them turned just in time to see Luce dramatically rubbing at her nose with the edge of her sleeve, her expression twisted into one of exaggerated disgust. "Ew."

Rickon made a retching sound. "Could you not, Da? Please?"

"Spare us," Edd groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Bran only flushed, shifting awkwardly. He was still young enough to find it embarrassing but not young enough to pretend he didn’t understand.

Cregan threw his head back, laughing deep and loud, the sound echoing through the courtyard. "Little shits, the lot of you," he rumbled, pulling away from Claere just enough to face them. "You'll understand one day when you have husbands and wives of your own."

Luce wrinkled her nose. "Not if I can help it."

Rickon nudged her. "You’d be the worst wife, Lucy."

"And you'd be the worst husband, cretin," she shot back.

Bran cleared his throat, mounting his horse with a smirk. “You’re both the worst.”

Cregan clenched the reins in his hands, the leather biting into his palm. It was a hard thing, being a father, harder than war, harder than ruling. He had spent years keeping his children safe, but now, as he watched his children watch him, he wondered if he had been holding him back instead.

"Goodbye, Da!"

"Bye, Bran! Tell me if you catch any white-walkers!"

"We'll miss you, Bran!"

The North called. Duty answered.

But love… love hesitated.

With a final breath, he turned his horse, Bran following suit. The moment he did, something inside him clenched—an ache deep in his ribs, in his very bones. He felt the pull of them all, the invisible tether tying him to this place, to these people, and it took everything in him not to turn back, not to look one last time.

Because he knew himself.

If he looked, if he caught another glimpse of his wife’s sorrow, of his children standing there, waiting for him to return—

He would not go at all.

So he rode forward, his men falling in beside him, their horses’ hooves muffled against the frost-covered earth. The great gates of Winterfell groaned as they shut behind them, sealing him away from the warmth of home, from the touch of his wife, from the laughter of his children.

The road stretched long and endless before him. The Wall loomed in the distance, a cold and unfeeling thing. And though he did not turn back, though he did not let himself break—Gods help him, he had never longed for home more than he did now.

Bran had always known his father was a great man. Lord Cregan Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell, the Warden of the North, the man who held the cold in his hands and never let it break him. He had grown up listening to the stories, the songs, the whispered words of men who spoke his name like a legend, like something larger than life.

But it was different to see it.

Riding south, he had always known the reach of their name, but now, as they travelled north to the Wall, he saw the weight his father carried.

At every holdfast they passed, at every village, people stood straighter when Cregan rode through, their voices full of deference, their eyes filled with something between admiration and fear.

At the inns where they stopped for the night, men lifted their cups in salute. They asked after Winterfell, after the family, after the North itself as if his father carried the realm itself on his back.

But none of them asked about Bran. They called him the White Wolf, they spoke of the name that had been given to him since birth, but it was just that—a name. A heavy, hopeless name.

Cregan Stark was not just a name. He was a man. A man that people followed, a man that people obeyed, a man that Bran had to become. To live up to that man felt impossible.

That night, he could not sleep.

The inn was warm, the furs thick, but rest did not come. His body ached from the ride, from the stiffness in his limbs, but his mind whirled too fast. His father’s shadow loomed over him, over everything he was meant to be, and pressed down like a mountain.

He rose quietly, careful not to wake the others, and slipped outside.

The night air was crisp, the scent of pine and smoke lingering as he stepped into the clearing beyond the inn’s outer walls. His fingers itched, restless, so he grabbed his sword from where it rested by his belt and gave it a few testing swings.

The blade felt foreign in his hands, unfamiliar despite the years of training. He tried to remember what the master-at-arms had told him—balance, precision, patience. He went through the motions, cutting at the air, but it all felt wrong.

“You’re holding your wrist too stiff,” came a voice behind him.

Bran was startled, turning to find his father standing there, leaning lazily against one of the wooden posts, watching him with something close to amusement, head tilted.

“You should be asleep,” Bran muttered, lowering his blade.

Cregan smirked, stepping forward. “Sleep comes slow without your mother by my side.”

Bran huffed a quiet laugh. “Ma barely sleeps at all.”

His father chuckled, shaking his head. “Aye, that she doesn’t. It’s a wonder I’ve ever had a peaceful night’s rest.”

Bran knew that was true. His mother’s sleepwalks, her quiet steps in the hallways, the distant sound of her harp intoning at odd hours—she was never still. Sometimes, when he was younger, he would wake and hear her voice in the dark, murmuring songs under her breath, half-lost to sleep. He had never found himself unsettled, it felt wrong only when she did not do such things.

And his father had never seemed to mind. Cregan never seemed to mind anything about her. How she didn't speak unless it was her family around her. How she spoke in riddles, sometimes communing far beyond this realm.

They stood there a moment, father and son, the night quiet around them, the stars distant and bright. Then Cregan reached for his own blade from his side. Not Ice, but a smaller sword he must’ve borrowed from the men.

“Come,” he said, gesturing. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

Bran hesitated. “You’ll only beat me.”

“Probably,” Cregan agreed, grinning.

Bran narrowed his eyes, then lunged.

His swing was quick, sharp, aimed for his father’s side, but Cregan merely shifted, barely moving before steel met steel. The impact jarred up Bran’s arm, and his strike knocked him aside as if it were nothing at all.

Bran clenched his teeth, adjusting his footing, and struck again. Faster. Harder. His father met him just the same, fluid, smooth as if he were dancing.

Bran was breathing hard, his muscles tightening with every deflection, every parry that sent him stumbling back. Cregan wasn’t even trying. He could tell.

“Again,” his father said, voice low, patient.

Bran’s frustration snapped like a bowstring. He stepped in, aiming high, but his father pivoted easily, meeting him before he could complete the strike, catching Bran’s wrist in a swift motion that sent his sword spinning from his fingers.

The blade clattered onto the dirt.

Bran stared at it, chest heaving, fists curling at his sides.

Cregan rested the flat of his sword against Bran’s shoulder, light, teasing. “Dead.”

Bran swatted it away, scowling.

His father only laughed, ruffling his curls like he was still a boy in the training yard. “You’re not bad, boy,” he admitted. “But you’re forcing it. You need to stop thinking so much.”

Bran let out a breath, his jaw tight. “I am feeling it.”

Cregan’s grin widened. “Then why do you keep losing?”

Bran released a sharp, frustrated noise, stepping away to retrieve his fallen weapon. The truth was, it wasn’t just the fight weighing on him tonight. The unease had been growing inside him since they’d left Winterfell, a slow, creeping thing that settled deep in his bones.

He bent down, fingers brushing the hilt.

“It will be hard,” he muttered, half to himself.

Cregan cocked his head. “What will?”

Bran swallowed, fingers tightening around the sword. Then, quietly, he said, “Living up to you.”

He exhaled, standing straight. “Taking care of the keep. My brothers, Luce. You, Ma. Holding Winterfell. Fighting battles. The Wall. The Iron Throne. Protecting the North.” His voice was quiet, but steady. “It all seems… larger than me.”

A silence stretched between them.

Then, instead of speaking, Cregan raised his sword.

“Pick it up,” he said again.

Bran hesitated only a moment before stepping back into position, blade in hand.

Cregan took a stance. “Come at me again.”

Bran exhaled, adjusted his grip, and lunged.

Their blades met with a sharp clang, but this time, Cregan let the fight last longer. He let Bran push forward, let him move, let him feel the rhythm of it. Not just swinging wildly, but measuring his steps, learning the weight of steel in his hands.

“Hard?” Cregan said between swings. “Aye. It is.”

Bran pivoted, stepping quickly, but his father was already there, blocking him before he could complete the strike. His father fought like the wind, fast and untouchable. But this time, Bran did not let himself falter.

“You will learn,” Cregan said.

Another strike, another deflection, but Bran kept moving.

“You will grow.”

He was sweating, his arms ached, but he wasn’t stopping.

“You will be strong.”

Bran gritted his teeth, his next swing sharper, and more measured, and his father grinning.

“And gods help the poor fucker who stands against you.”

Bran’s breathing steadied. He wasn’t there yet. He wasn’t his father yet. But maybe, one day, he could be.

He grinned, lifting his sword again. “Again?”

Cregan barked a laugh, stepping forward to meet him. “Again.”

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurll , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

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kinkyniragi · 4 months ago

Text

His whore – Chapter 1

When Thomas Shelby says you’re a whore, then you are one.

***

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader Genre: Smut 18+ Word count: 1k Summary: You have just started your job as a receptionist in a gentlemen's establishment when Thomas Shelby walks in and wants to use your services… CN: Power play, degradation. Please note that this is all just fantasy. Things that happen in my stories should always be consensual. Take care. Author’s note: After writing a lot of smut for Niragi from Alice in Borderland, I’m now diving into the world of Cillian Murphy. Feel free to leave comments and share my story if you enjoy it—I truly appreciate every bit of motivation to keep writing. Also, I’m not a native speaker, so if you spot any creative grammar choices…call them artistic liberties, ok?

***

The place is nearly empty when he walks in.

At the bar, only you and Lily—one of the house girls in this so-called ‘gentlemen’s establishment’—remain.

In the doorway stands the bouncer, Harry—a stocky man in his mid-fifties, perpetually bad-tempered, with an aura of quiet menace that was likely the reason he was hired in the first place. The cheerful dance music crackling from the phonograph feels oddly out of place in the empty bar. Still, you let it play—it grants you and Lily a sliver of privacy, shielding your conversation from Harry’s ever-listening ears.

As you dry the last of the glasses, you chat idly with her. She tells you about her shift, and you find yourself alternating between shock and amusement at the perverse desires of the customers.

You pour both of you a small nightcap—on the house.

Honestly, your new job isn’t all that bad, you think. When you first saw the ad in the paper, it didn’t sound half bad either.

“Receptionist wanted. Good pay.”

It wasn’t until you stepped into the establishment for your interview that it truly dawned on you where you had ended up—a brothel.

You had no intention of working in a place like this. But your finances were in shambles, the madam seemed genuinely kind, and the girls were friendly and easygoing. And most importantly, your role was clearly separate from theirs: greet the customers, sell them as much alcohol as possible, and connect them with the girls.

All for an almost obscene salary.

So, you said yes. And so far, you haven’t regretted it.

Especially not the late-night chats with Lily, which had quickly become your favorite part of the job.

You’re both giggling, deep in your gossip about the depraved customers, when the door swings open with a bang.

You glance up from behind the bar, expecting just another straggler looking for some comfort before closing.

But then you see him.

He doesn’t move like a customer. He moves like he owns the place. The air shifts around him, thick with something you can’t name but instinctively recognize.

Power.

You don’t know his name, but the way Harry straightens—then quickly looks away—tells you enough. Whoever he is, he’s important. Dangerous.

Lily suddenly falls silent, her posture shifting. She looks apparently... intimidated. As if she’s already had the misfortune of encountering this particular customer—and his dark appetites. Her body language makes one thing clear: she deeply regrets not leaving earlier.

Slowly, he approaches the bar, removing his hat with practiced ease before settling onto one of the barstools, without paying any further attention to Lily.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just watches you, a slow, deliberate assessment that makes the silence stretch too long.

Like a wolf sizing up a deer, you think.

“You,” he says finally, gesturing lazily with two fingers. “Come here.”

You hesitate. “I’m just the—”

“The what?” His lips curve, but there’s no real amusement there.

“You work here,” he corrects, tilting his head. “That’s all that matters.”

Lily looks away, as if she’s already seen this play out before. You glance toward the door, where you expect Harry to be. He’s still there, but he doesn’t move—doesn’t so much as lift his gaze from the cigarette between his fingers.

Your pulse quickens.

“You should listen to Mr. Thomas Shelby,” Harry finally says, voice dry, uninterested. “He doesn’t like repeating himself.”

Lily whispers, her voice barely audible, "Come on, pour him an Irish whiskey."

You do as you're told.

The man leans an elbow on the bar, watching your reaction. His patience is an illusion—you can see it in his eyes, the way he’s already decided how this will go.

“Look, I’m not—” you start again, but he tilts his head, almost amused.

“A whore?” he finishes for you.

His hand moves, unhurried and purposeful, reaching past you to set something on the bar.

A gun.

“Well, love, you are a whore when Thomas Shelby says you are. Got it?”

Your throat goes dry.

In front of you, Lily shifts uncomfortably, her unease palpable in his presence. “Do what he says,” she whispers. “It’s better that way.”

Your chest tightens.

He watches the exchange, smiling slightly. “Smart girl,” he murmurs. “You should trust her.”

With a dismissive tilt of his head, he silently instructs Lily to leave. Relief flickers across her face, but her eyes betray something else—a quiet regret that she can’t do anything to help you.

Then, he rises and strolls toward Harry with the same unhurried ease.

“Go home.”

You stare in Harry’s direction, willing him to meet your gaze.

But Harry just hesitates for half a second before nodding. As he turns around to leave, Thomas slips a bundle of cash into his hand, smooth and practiced. The kind of transaction that doesn’t need words.

Your stomach twists. He’s been paid off.

You’re alone now. No one’s coming to help.

The realization must show on your face because Mr. Shelby smirks, tapping a cigarette against his palm.

“Lock the door,” he says without looking up, as he lights his cigarette.

You don’t move.

Something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe. But it’s thin, layered over something much more dangerous.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “Before someone gets the wrong idea and interrupts us.”

Your fingers curl around the key. You know it would be useless to refuse or even to run. The mix of fear and desire pulses through you, keeping you rooted in place.

So you turn the key. The lock clicks into place.

Then, his eyes meet yours—intensely, as if he’s already imagining how this will all end.

Chapter 2>>

***

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#thomas shelby smut #tommy shelby smut #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby #peaky blinders smut #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #cillian murphy smut #cillian x reader #cillian fic #cillian murphy #cillian fanfic #cillian x fem!reader

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seraphdreams · 2 years ago

Text

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

"TO SEE WHAT YOUR INSIDES LOOK LIKE." | GHOSTFACE!ARMIN ARLERT.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — word count. 4.6k

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — cw. fem!reader, smut, modern au, mentions of murder / death / blood, fingering, armin’s a creep, symbolism, noncon/dubcon, insanity, manipulation, monomania, creampie, knives, stalking. mdni <3.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — synopsis. armin’s worked hard to build up his perfect life, and he certainly wasn’t expecting for someone to rip that from under him. he’s obsessed — with a life that isn’t his.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — dolled up! we are sooo back n in full swing for kinktober this year !! i’ll drop my masterlist here for all the prettie dolls to check out … please show this some love by reblogging / sharing, it’ll mean the absolute world 2 me !! kk, luv ya, bye ♡

Armin Arlert. Age 23. Graduated from Shiganshina University.

Armin Arlert, starting his new life under a freshly installed roof that rivaled his dorm of the past four years and provided him with much needed privacy. Armin Arlert, with a degree in humanitarian affairs accompanied with a promising future ahead, it’s the life he deserved after the turbulent destruction that was his tragic past. He could start over now in high hopes of making a name for himself in this unfamiliar city. Nothing could stop him, or the unperturbed spout of elation percolating within.

Aside from optimism, though, he remained undoubtedly sure that the life he had curated for himself was one that no other could outclass. He was smart — spent his days in libraries, in his study room, reading about anything that satiated his appetite for enlightenment, and be that as it may, he wasn’t looking for a lover. His solace brought him far better pleasure than any person could possibly imagine.

He’d work, research, and then work some more, day in and day out. And the day of your meeting was no different.

He had decided to utilize the time he carved out of his restless schedule for a much needed re-read of his favorite book. Moments like these were significant to Armin; the pungent aroma of freshly brewed tea in his mug, luminescence dim in the apartment, and a faint timbre of violins that spilled from his speaker.

Moments like these were when he couldn’t keep track of how many hours had passed him by as he flipped page by page into whatever universe his books had drawn him into.

Rested against the kitchen counter with his novel in one hand and retrieving a sip from his beverage in the other, his eyes scanned the piece of literature. Every once and awhile, he’d shift his weight from his left hip to the right, or opt to sit on the cozy loveseat in his study. All without withdrawing his attention from his book.

Glasses low on the bridge of his nose, he gently pushed them up — Then it came. The sonority of his doorbell, jostling him out of his serene thoughts and the inquisitiveness that flowed through his veins soon after, urged his body to tread to the front door in search of the cause.

As his footfall led him closer to the handle of the door, he could make out a silhouette, seemingly of a woman. All inquisitions of who could be at his doorstep were fulfilled once he opened it and you stood, with a bright smile on your face.

Armin’s angelic features hidden underneath a veil of golden blond tresses accentuated his soft, azure-hued eyes. His face was one of few that aided you in comfort just upon first glance, which chased away the unease of the possibility that he could’ve been ill-tempered.

“Hi, I’m Y/N! I moved in next door,” You pointed your thumb in the direction beside you as if to signal which side of the building you’d be occupying. “I just thought I'd introduce myself,”

He matched your syrupy sweet beam with one of his own, the corners of his eyes turning upward in tandem as if they were smiling too. He held the door open slightly wider to catch a better glimpse of you. From your attire, he could discern that you weren’t much of a modest girl, but it’d be wrong of him to idly make assumptions. Especially when his choice of dress during the lax hours of the day were a white button-up, cashmere cardigan thrown atop, with a pair of tan slacks.

“Y/N?” He repeated, in a manner to affirm that he had heard correctly. “I’m Armin. It’s nice to meet you,”

He would’ve held his hand out for yours had it not been engaged by his book. You weren’t trying to pry, yet the cover of the story was lucid in your mind once you took notice. “Berenice? The Edgar Allan Poe novel?”

His eyes trailed to where your manicured nail was pointed. The rosy flush of his cheeks deepened while he rubbed away the discomfiture stirring at the back of his neck. Once again, he had mindlessly brought his book with him wherever he strode.

“Y-Yeah, It’s my favorite. Have you read it?”

“A few times,” You hummed, meeting his sheepish gaze. “It’s so jarring, right?”

Armin skimmed over your face before allowing himself to speak. “But there’s beauty in the madness,” His words trolled over in a more weighty tone than he had intended, an apologetic smile on his face once he caught wind.

“Or at least that’s how i interpret it,”

His outward timidity roused an endearing chuckle from you. “I truly don’t mean to bother you, though. If you need anything I'm on your right!” You retort with a vague inclination of haste.

Truth be told, Armin’s interest in you piqued with the mention of the Poe story. “Oh, you’re not a bother-”

His vocables fell short against your own when you waved him goodbye, and he mirrored your actions with cordiality in his eyes.

Maybe she’s just busy.

—

Ever since Armin’s first encounter with you, he had found himself taking a rather atypical interest in the relations of you. The first bout of instances being regular events of curiosity where he’d watch as the moving company aided you in getting your belongings settled; hauling in furniture and appliances, all while Armin remained under the guise of checking his mailbox. Over a short span of time, though, he found himself increasingly knowledgeable in the subject that was you.

You showered at 8:00pm. You ate dinner at 7:00pm. The alarm settled on your desk, a few feet beyond your bed would go off at 6:00am sharp, and he’d be up at that same dawning hour to anticipate your departure to work.

He knew these things. Of course, he did.

He memorized all of your schedules to calculate what you’d be doing throughout the day, and where.

His own work was slow for him during those days, and books didn’t seem to capture that spark of exhilaration like you did. For once, he felt enthralled by each day granting him an opportunity to analyze you further.

On another day, he’d built up enough confidence to observe you as you came home from work, once more, under the false assumption that he’d been checking his mail.

“Good afternoon.”

Armin’s voice registered within your being quickly, startling you out of your fast-paced strut to your door. “Oh, good afternoon!” Your footfall faltered until you reached a close. “Armin, was it?”

Over Armin’s time of stalking- no, studying you, he’d come to realize just how ethereal you were. It was as if the deities above handmade every feature on your face, curve of your body, lilt in your voice with the intention of making you one of their own — an angel.

He found you charming.

With a nod of his head, he braced himself to inch toward you. Not proximal enough to cause you discomfort, he wouldn’t want that, yet enough to signal his unwavering immersion. “Did you just come from work?”

It was otiose of him to ask the question seeing as he undeniably knew the answer. Judging from your business attire and pencil skirt just a little too short for any other establishment’s dress standards, he had assumed you worked a kushy job at an office firm. You evidently earned a heap of money, with him recalling the numerous occasions you’d come home with luxury shopping bags hanging off your arms, tied in with the fact that the suites he inhabited weren't exactly affordable for the average person.

You responded hospitably to his question, that same lovely smile poured over your features and seeping into his personage. “Mhm, and what about you? Your work?”

He was surprised at your need to pull the conversation along further, it was as if you were succoring to curate his plans, as if you could read his mind and pick out from a haystack that you were his only interest, you were his source of bliss. A serendipitous moment, indeed. He straightened himself up, clearing his throat. “Me? Oh, well I just help out at charities and organizations from time to time,”

He’d be a fool to deny the set of wide eyes that were fixated upon his figure.

“For real? You must be a really good person then.” You responded with your hands clasped together and held against your chest, pupils of your eyes glittered in a sense of unshakable admiration.

As the conversation went on, you had begun to synonimize your neighbor with the fresh, and comforting feeling of congeniality. It helped that he was easy to converse with, seeming as he’d always been listening while keeping eye contact and rewiring his queries in a way that deemed you the main focus, and he, a vessel for your words to absorb within.

For Armin, he enjoyed getting to know you. You were perfect, in all the best ways.

And soon enough, through an exhausting series of prying inquiries, he’d piece together that your perfection wasn’t hulled along by determination or strong will, but by God’s good grace. He’d come to register that you didn’t have to struggle like he did to reach the triumphant point in life for which he stood. You were born that way, born with a silver spoon in your mouth and just the right kiss-ass people in your life to keep you that way. A spoiled fucking brat.

What had been the rationale behind his suffering? The years in which he’d been bullied repeatedly in public schools, had acquaintances that had only cared about him for their personal gain, and parents so utterly vapid that they’d give up their only child if it meant they could continue working towards an unattainable goal?

Fueled by a sense of jealousy, he waned your nepotism a hindrance. You were merely a telescope that he wanted so badly to see into.

For Armin was obsessed with a life that wasn’t his.

Meticulously, he had spent his time after that hidden away within his flat. Armin didn’t care to know anything more about you, he didn’t care to see your face, and he surely didn’t care for you.

When he stumbled across an unkempt, unpacked box in his room with the label of “Uni 2019,” written on the side in thick, inky letters, his concern led him to relive those memories upon removing the cardboard lid.

In it, there were polaroid photos, compact trophies he’d won from participating in school events, courtesy of his STEM minor, and a dark piece of fabric that caught his eye more than anything.

He recalled his first year of college where his two closest friends, Eren and Mikasa, dragged him out of their stuffy shared dorm and onto one of the first parties held by the school’s fraternity house during the fall semester.

“Armin, you look ridiculous,”

Mikasa said as she stomped away in her leather boots, leading the way for the two men accompanying her to follow her off-campus.

She was dressed in homage to Misa Amane from her favorite anime, although the style of dress aided no significance since it was hauntingly similar to her everyday wardrobe.

Eren was intended to show up as “Light” but he insisted on wearing something he deemed appealing, his plan was to get initiated by the end of the night, anyhow. He wore a deep black cloak, dark ripped jeans and had his hair tied aimlessly into his warped perception of a bun, with the mask of a ghost facing sideways on his head to allow for him to see.

Ghostface. Scream (1996).

Armin allowed himself to be pulled away by the Ackerman, his rebuttal falling on deaf ears. “You didn’t give me enough time, Mika. This is all I could come up with.” Armin’s poor excuse for a costume was tissue paper wrapped around his frame in stereotypical mummy fashion, a classic of all classics.

Though, that night had concluded like any other gathering involving college-aged students, the trio having woken up to hangovers and bad decisions.

Armin stared at the contents of the box a while longer before taking the cloak out and trying it on for size. Obviously, it was meant for a taller person, but regardless, the wheels in his head gradually spun.

He took it off after careful observation when the sensation of juvenility filled his veins. He wasn’t fond of the costume rousing the impression that he was an illegitimate killer — He knew more than he let on, and his passion for the grotesqueries scribed in his books further proved that.

Concurrently, you had been pondering the reason for Armin’s disappearance. After your last conversation with him, he’d stopped formulating ways to talk to you and seemed to never leave his suite, and your heart yearned for his presence once the feeling truly settled in.

You had been swayed by his charm.

His dulcet tone of voice, the intriguing quirks that seemed to hang off of him like leaves to a tree; You missed the way he cared for you, through mundane matters and the like.

Night had fallen, the warm, ochre hues of the day meshing in perfect balance with deep purple tones that signified time’s passing. You were settling into bed, just about ready to fall into slumber when you heard light tapping at your door.

Only for a second did the thought of who could possibly be up this late float through your mind.

Your soles kissed the floor when you made your way to the front door. And once you finally opened it, the sight of your worst fear was drawn to life — The deviant sight of the unknown, with what seemed to look like a kitchen knife in its right hand.

Quickly, without time to react, you attempted to slam the door shut with the force of your shoulder but the action proved futile when the aggressor’s strength pushed back against the wood, sending you stumbling backwards and vulnerable to any attack.

Heavy footsteps creeped eerily towards you out of something from a horror film. Your worst mistake was turning your back, scrambling for a way to retrieve your phone, or even a weapon.

“Help! He-”

The stranger was more agile than you had assumed, easily capturing you with one arm around your waist and its hand cupped against your mouth. You couldn’t shake the terror growing within you as hot tears seemed to spill down your cheeks and your heartbeat so intense, you were sure that it’d had been noticeable.

Your body soft in the assaulter’s touch, they embraced your body taut. The sensation was suffocating, your eyes squeezed shut to further distance yourself from the situation at hand, even if it was only a mental trick.

You resided in a relatively safe area, so why were you in this situation? What cruel joke were you the target of?

The grip on your body loosened ever so slightly, yet you were still fixed in place by the attacker’s opposite hand. While your body was immobilized, you felt the lingering of metal lightly drag against your abdomen to find itself settled just underneath the band of your lace pajamas.

Just moments prior, you had completed your elaborate nightly routine consisting of a glass of wine, face mask, and a warm bath. You also found it fitting to change into one of your newer pajama sets — Thin, baby pink, lace bralette with matching shorts that called for forgoing the need for panties.

All you wanted was to wake up from this nightmare.

“It’d be so beautiful if you died right here in my arms,” Your assailant spoke.

Through your ears, his voice was familiar. A tone so soft, you refused to believe the possibility of who it’s owner could be.

His hand over your mouth was hesitant to situate itself elsewhere in wariness of how you’d react. He was aware of the power behind a blood-curdling scream. The neighbors in this area were nosy. He would know.

He let out a sigh. “But you look really pretty tonight. I wouldn’t want to get blood on you,” His knife trailed further into your shorts, the edge cutting out a hole in the fabric at the seat of the garment.

“Did you do all this for me?”

You winced when the sonority of cloth ripping resonated through your ears. The blade felt dangerously close, running along your body as if to taunt you. That had to be the case; You were in the perfect position to be harmed, so why hadn’t your attacker done so? With your body stricken from fear, his job was easy. Was it not?

The hand over your mouth moved to caress your face and you gasped heavily for the air you were denied.

“W-What do you want?” Your voice echoed shakily throughout the room, barely audible enough for the two of you to hear. His knife inched upward to your sternum, and slowly dragged itself back down to your abdomen as he spoke.

“To see what your insides look like.”

For a split second, his hold on you seemed to diminish, granting you the perfect opportunity to run. Yet, your legs felt frail as if there were weights tied to your ankles. The assailant quickly repositioned himself in front of you, his head tilting slightly while he continued his up and down ministrations with the edge of the blade gingerly pressed against your flesh. Not forceful enough to draw blood.

“But maybe now, I want to feel your insides,” His steps crept closer, and instinctively you tried to create as much distance as possible by stepping back. It proved useless when your back hit the cold surface of the door, his face mere centimeters from yours.

Your breath hitched as you found comfort in the presence of the door, leaning against it as if it’d keep you from harm’s reach. You fidgeted, fumbling to grasp at the handle that’d grant you escape. The masked man took notice, hovering over your frame to keep you from trying anything.

“Please- -” Your plea fell in the form of a choked up whimper, just the sound he wanted to hear.

More uncomfortable ripping was sounded when his blade etched a perfect cut in your shorts, leaving your bare cunt out on display for his eyes to see. “Don’t be shy, pretty. I’m sure lots of guys have seen you like this. Am I right?”

Crudeness started to sink in as your face morphed into a contradictory pout. He took your expression for a no and chuckled genuinely, albeit louder than his previous tone. “No? Does this make me the first?” His eyes scanned your lower half once more, then flit back to meet your fear-blown orbs.

“I’d really love to be your first,”

Having grown confident enough to be sure that you wouldn’t try to break free, he dropped the knife to the side, metal clamorously clinking against hardwood flooring while he used his free hand to lift your right leg over the juncture of his elbow. He carefully slotted his middle and ring fingers into your hole, shallowly pumping. Your legs threatened to close with what you couldn’t make of embarrassment or denial.

Your mind felt cloudy once your body gave up its immobility and allowed pleasure to course through your veins, heat rushing to your core with every pump of his fingers. He took notice of the way your expression hastily contorted into one of pure pleasure, eyebrows knit together and your mouth slightly agape, eliciting quiet moans to tumble past.

It was a whorish sight, indeed. A circumstance you couldn’t control with your death at the forefront, yet it was terrifyingly easy to succumb to the euphoric sensation building up within you. The pad of his thumb found its way to your aching clit, and from just the light circling motions in tandem with his fingers, you felt yourself floating to the cusp of release.

“F-Fuck- -“ you rasped. Your hand reached out for his wrist to push him away but the attempt was futile and in turn, he sped up his ministrations.

“Didn’t know you had such a dirty mouth. You’re making me lose interest.” He coyly teased.

He was thankful you couldn’t see how flushed his face appeared under the mask. The sight of you spread open for him was too much to bear, he could cum in that moment without ever feeling your gummy walls wrapped around his painstakingly hard cock.

Just before you were about to hit your orgasm, he pulled his fingers away. An agitated groan rumbled from your throat, eyes finally opening to the sight of the man before you, removing his mask and unveiling his true identity.

Something within you didn’t want to admit what you had seen.

From the golden strands of hair that shimmered against the moonlight to his cyan-hued orbs tinted dark with madness. It was Armin, but it wasn’t Armin.

“M-Min.. You —“ The words failed to leave your mouth in a coherent string of sentences. It couldn’t have been your neighbor, not Armin. He was far too delicate, too feeble to carry out a task like this.

He kept unwavering eye contact with you, your pupils shaking from shock. “Hm? Couldn’t see a thing with this mask on,” His response was that of nonchalance, his hand coming to caress your tear-stained cheeks.

“You’re much prettier behind the mesh.”

He pulled down the zipper of his slacks along with the garment itself and his briefs, just enough so that his cock was freed. You didn’t want to look, but you did. You notice how bulbous the head was, glowing a bright pink while the rest of it was pretty girthy as well. It bobbed under its weight, the strings of precum leaking onto your inner thighs as he lined it up with your entrance.

“Why would y—“

Just before you could get the vocables out, he pushed his entire length inside of you, head tilted back and adam’s apple bouncing with each groan he let out. You felt as though you were being split open by how fat his cock was, how it glided effortlessly in and out of your heat.

His pace was tauntingly slow as if he’d shoot his load prematurely. Once he gradually thrusted more vigorously though, you found it hard to keep whimpers at bay. Each push in felt deeper than the last, the wind within your system struggling to keep you afloat. You reached for something to hold onto, scrambling for Armin’s shoulders in the end. Your nails dug deep at the lean muscles of his back, creating raw, catlike scratches on the flesh.

The pain was enough to make him smile. Or maybe it wasn’t the pain, but the sight of you so desperate for him — So desperate for your killer.

How pathetic.

He leaned himself upward to meet your gaze again, that of something from a horror movie, his gaze was darker than before, strung together by a serious expression. “Kiss me.”

You almost didn’t hear him as your impending orgasm was your only focus. When you took too long to respond, he glanced back at the knife settled just underneath his foot, in a manner to remind you of the real dangers he was capable of.

With the slightest inclination of hesitancy, your lips met his. Contrary to his actions, his kisses were soft, sloppy, and hungry, as if he were craving you. He hooked his arms beneath your knees to hoist you up and against him.

Deeper. You whimpered into his kisses wondering how his cock fucked into you deeper. He slammed your body down onto his length, using your body like it was a toy. You pulled away from the kiss, heaving for air as your head fell upon his shoulder. “Gonna cum, ‘m so close!” Your words slurred, and before you knew it, your essence came in waves, each aftershock more jolting than the last.

He continued pounding into you, shifting his position to hold you up against the wall. Your pleasure reverberated in the form of an inaudible cry while you allowed for the bullying of his cock in your cunt. It was evident to you that he was close from the way his features were etched in pure ecstasy.

Armin looked pretty like that — Wisps of tawny bangs messily splayed across his forehead from perspiration and a light tinge of scarlet dusted across his nose and cheeks, up to the tips of his ears. His soft, rosy lips were slickened with the mixture of your wet kiss and his.

“Oh, God-”

The guttural groan he let out had your walls clamping down taut around him. “Cum for me again—Shit! Say my name,”

The stamina he retained came as unexpected to you, your overstimulated heat trying to find pleasure in the way it’s being battered up. He spoke again, this time with a docile lilt in his tone.

“Tell me you’re mine, Y/N. I wanna be yours.”

You didn’t want to. You were beyond opposed to feeding into his hedonistic delusions, especially in the impuissant state that you were in. Yet, you couldn’t stop the affirmations from flowing once another orgasmic high coiled up in your core.

“Armin! ‘M yours! All yours,”

Just as soon as your words circulated through his mind, he felt his balls tighten, his thrusts faltering in potency as he reached closer to his high.

In his mind, it was profoundly amorous that you both had hit euphoria simultaneously, warm ropes of his sticky seed painting your walls while he shallowly jettisoned every last drop. Your womb was the goal, and he had scored.

He was tentative to pull out, wanting to relish in the warmth of your core for as long as he possibly could but he knew the idea wouldn’t be feasible. “You’re so good. I mean, you listen so well,”

He delicately placed you back on your feet, your body lax in his hold. “Thank you!” He beamed, tilting your head upwards to meet his gaze.

“Thank you for what?” You responded, your eyes searching for anything else to focus on as you gained enough strength to separate yourself from him, even if it was just a few inches.

“You helped me,”

You couldn’t make sense of the nonsense coming out of his mouth nor his need to be a hair's breadth away from you at all times.

“You helped me realize I never wanted to hurt you,” His hands found their place at your waist, softly running along the curve. “I just wanted to be inside you.”

“No, you wanted to kill me.” You spoke in a more conflicted tone, wondering if the gears in his head were turning at all. He chuckled, creating a few inches of distance between the two of you.

“I mean, I did at first. I was jealous, Y/N,” His voice sounded like that of a beg. “You have such a perfect life and I want it — I want to be in it.”

You couldn’t bear to listen to anymore of his twisted thoughts, feeling the heavy coat of uncomfortability weighing your shoulders down. “Armin, you’re crazy.”

“I love you, Y/N. Let me into your life, please?”

He pulled you into a tight embrace, his hands furthering south until they halted at the small of your back.

“I won’t hurt you,”

“I love you.”

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — @valentinevampyr @oneofthesevensins @iamtrashgod @iconicbabii @inusdoll @kloesklarity @bakuhoe-3 @antistellxr

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sunsets-and-crows · 3 months ago

Text

I Wanna Be Yours - Chapter 8

Pairing: Sylus X Reader

Words: 4.4K

- - -

Tasked with infiltrating the life of Sylus, the most wanted man in the N109 zone, you're torn between what is right and feels right, blurring the line between duty and desire. As danger escalates, you must decide whether to carry out your mission or succumb to the magnetic pull of the man you're meant to destroy. In this game of power and obsession, betrayal could cost you everything.

Content warnings ⚠️

Dark Themes, Yandere! Reader and Yandere! Sylus! Power play. Violence and Gore. Smut: mutual masturbation. Stalking/surveillance. Reader slowly losing her mind. Sylus being hot and a menace. OOC Sylus (probably) TRIGGER WARNING: stalking and dubious consent. Graphic deptictions of violence.

If you feel there’s any other warnings I need to add then please reach out and let me know!

The rhythmic clicking of keys filled the air, a steady, relentless cadence that you could not afford to let falter. The edges of the screen in front of you, holographic and pulsing with a cold light, blurred slightly at the edges as you processed the words faster than your mind could consciously register. Your hands flew over the keyboard, skimming through reports, signing off on routine assignments and clearing out the back-log of paperwork you had been tasked with with a speed that felt almost mechanical.

It was easy - in comparison to sleuthing around in the N109 zone - monotonous, dull. The kind of work that would usually take an entire team the better part of a day, you finished in two hours. This wasn’t even a challenge for your level of focus.

Your office was as cold and sterile as the rest of the Hunter’s Association, designed for efficiency rather than for comfort. A sleek curved desk sat in the centre, illuminated by the soft light of the systems interface. The tempered glass walls granted a reprieve from the stares at least, a sense of privacy, lined with frosted panels to dull the view of the ever-bustling headquarters outside. Even with your focussed mind, you could hear the faint buzz of activity beyond the door - hunters passing by, comms channels flickering to life, reports being exchanged. None of it interested you now.

The only reprieve from the cold, artificial setting that had once been your daily comfort, was the window. A real one, overlooking a perfectly manicured courtyard with trees that stood defiant among the steel and glass. A rare piece of nature in an otherwise mechanical world. You hadn’t noticed it much before, but recently, you found it drawing your gaze more often than you liked to admit.

The clock on the wall broke you from your extremely brief reprieve with a tick tick tick. You refused to look at the damned thing, already far too aware of every agonising second that crawled by.

Seventeen days. Seventeen long, maddening days since you’d last seen him. Since you’d felt that pull, that raw need. Even the memories of him weren’t satisfying you like they had before. You’d almost forgotten the warmth of his skin as his hand brushed yours. The longing sat heavy in your chest, but again you shoved it down, channeling everything you had into the task at hand.

The way you were driving yourself, your forced efficiency, had not gone unnoticed. Your fellow hunters - seasoned professionals, hardened trackers and fighters - cast sideways glances at you, their faces almost… afraid? It wasn’t unheard of to have reports and sign-offs completed ahead of schedule, but blazing through them like a machine? That was another matter entirely.

“Has she always been so…fast?” you heard someone murmur near the break station.

“No way! No one is that on it for no reason! She’s pissed about getting pulled.” another speculated.

“I would be too, that case was the kind that could make your career.”

They weren’t exactly wrong with their hypothesis. But they weren’t entirely right either. Not that you cared. You had too much else on your mind to let yourself be distracted by petty gossip.

A shadow loomed at your office door. A hesitant tap tap tap followed by an unwelcome and concerned voice.

“Hey!” Xavier’s usual calm tone carried a hint of concern. “You look��busy.”

You flicked your gaze up for barely a second, just long enough to confirm, yes, of course you were busy. “Yep! Very busy. You know what the paperwork is like here,” you said with a noncommittal shrug, as if it hadn’t been the very reason you got kicked off your case.

“Right,” he replied, almost hesitantly. “You need anything? Coffee? A break?” He checked the time on his watch and looked at you with hopeful eyes. “Lunch?”

You sighed, dragging out the breath. “Nope!” You bit off the final p, sharp and dismissive, watching as he flinched. You felt a twinge of guilt, but not enough to stop. And, as expected, it didn’t deter him.

“You’ve done so much work that the rest of us have barely anything to do. Come on, take a break. It’s hard to watch you like this.” His kindness used to sway you. The softness in his voice, the pleading look in his eye - in the past, it would’ve convinced you to pause. But not anymore.

“Xavier, I appreciate the concern but really I’m fine.” ‘Fine’ was definitely not the word to describe you but you needed to assuage him. “Unless it’s really important, please, I have a lot to get through.”

He nodded, sighed softly at your clear dismissal and turned to leave but he paused. “You know, that new hunter has had no luck with him. The elusive Sylus.”

Your eyes flitted up to meet his, feigning surprise as you tilted your head. “Oh, really? But he’s such a seasoned hunter.” You let the words linger, just a touch too sweet. “I thought he had so many undercover operations in his file that this would be easy for him, right?”

His lips twitched, his smirk beginning to deepen. “You don’t seem surprised in the least.”

Your head righted itself and a small, self-satisfied smirk grew on your own lips. “Why would I be? I worked my fucking ass off for months and I barely got close enough to speak to him never mind the rest.”

His expression darkened just a fraction, a subtle raise of his brow. “So you knew it would be a dead end?”

You sighed through your nose, realising you’d said too much. “I knew it wouldn’t be easy.”

He studied you like he was searching for something - cracks in your composure, some hidden tell beneath your indifference. If only he knew how much effort it took to keep your mind from straying exactly where you didn’t want it to go.

“Right,” Xavier said after a beat, pushing off your desk. “Just… don’t lose yourself in all this, yeah?”

You didn’t bother responding. As soon as he walked away, you resumed typing, your focus snapping back into place.

The brief moments you allowed yourself to pause always led your gaze to the window. Out there, beyond the cold sterility of the Association, the trees stood unwavering, branches weighed down with dark-feathered bodies. A small murder of crows you’d come to recognise, their sharp eyes scanning the world below. They were a rare constant in your routine, a tether to something beyond reports and directives, beyond the ceaseless hum of the headquarters around you.

One of them was watching you.

Perched among the branches, its sleek frame blending seamlessly with the others, a certain mechanical crow adjusted its focus. Mephisto’s tiny cameras whirred softly, his gaze fixed on you through the tempered glass. Silent. Unnoticed. The perfect spy.

You remained oblivious, exhaling sharply as you leaned back in your chair. Your work was done - cleared with ruthless efficiency, every report signed off, every task completed. And yet, the satisfaction was hollow. A poor substitute for what you were meant to do.

This wasn’t the pulse of the hunt. It wasn’t the intoxicating thrill of tailing someone untouchable, someone even the most hardened hunters hesitated to approach. It wasn’t him.

And for 17 days, you’d felt the absence like a phantom pain.

A new file blinked onto your screen, ruining your perfect record of completed assignments. Your fingers hesitated over the interface, eyes drawn to the name stamped across it. The new hunter, assigned to the N109 zone. Your replacement.

A small satisfied grin curled onto your face, amusement. Thanks to Xavier, you already knew what the report was going to say before you opened it. But that didn't stop the thrill that ran through you when you read the contents. No progress. Your replacement had made no progress. None. He hadn’t been able to track Sylus, hadn’t been able to find even a whisper of him. He might as well have been hunting a ghost.

A small part of you was disappointed. Maybe even seeing his name on the report would have dulled the ever-present ache in your chest, quieted the screaming voice that whispered, find him. Take him. Make him yours.

No progress was good progress. No progress meant you had time. No progress meant that he was still yours.

A slow, satisfied smirk pulled at your lips. No progress meant one could be as close to him as you.

You dismissed the report with a flick of your wrist, the blue light of the screen flickering as it vanished. The data didn’t matter. The damned association’s mission didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting through the next few hours, maintaining the illusion of compliance.

You plugged in your personal hard drive, and pulled up your notes. Tonight, you had a plan.

The auction.

There was a high stakes auction happening in the middle of the N109 zone and you were absolutely going to be there. Conveniently, your replacement would be off work tonight at his son’s cello recital of all things. The thought of anyone putting anything above Sylus grated on you slightly but it served you more than anything so you were grateful for his loyalty to his family.

You didn’t know if Sylus would be there. But if he was, you wouldn’t waste the chance to see him. To be close. He had attended in the past though, and being that he was a creature of habit, you made an educated guess that he would attend again.

You had your reasons, the tracker. You planned to slip into his car. The truth was simpler, more raw.

You just needed to see him.

To remind yourself that he was still yours. That no matter how much distance they tried to put between you, he was still within reach.

Mephisto’s camera eye flickered, capturing the image in sharp detail. The file transferred in an instant, delivered straight to the only person who mattered. His master would see. And, inevitably, he would act.

You were as bad as each other, and if the poor bird had the programming to do so, he would roll his eyes. Alas his orders were to keep them focused on you at all times, his master would have it no other way.

You weren’t the only one who was suffering though. In the chaos of the N109, Sylus had slowly been unravelling as well.

Seventeen days.

That was how long it had been since Sylus last saw you, since the last auction. Since the moment he finally allowed himself to indulge, to bask in your presence, to approach you.

The days since had been maddening to say the least. An endless loop of greyer mornings and darker nights. It was as though the light had been stolen from the N109 zone altogether. The days had been pointless, feeling nearly identical and repetitive. The same darkened rooms, the same figures moving in and out of his space, the same business, the same blood. His life had become a precise, mechanical thing, fine-tuned and predictable.

You had been the anomaly. The spark in the dull machinery of his days, surprising him with your tenacity, your unwavering fixation on him.

And now, you’d been ripped away.

Not taken, not exactly, but it felt that way. He had half a mind to march into the Hunter’s Association and slaughter whoever was responsible for removing you from his case.

At least he could watch you.

Mephisto made sure of that.

He knew your routine now. Knew that you’d been working yourself ragged, clearing your desk to focus only on him. It pleased him in a way that was almost soothing. You were just as devoted as before at least. Forced separation hadn’t made you forget him. You hadn’t looked elsewhere. And for that, he was grateful. Because he didn’t want to consider what he would’ve done if you had.

So he watched, just as you had watched him. It was only fair wasn’t it? After all the hours you had spent studying him, observing him, pulling him apart piece by piece like your own little art project. He didn’t mind. He would be whatever you wished him to be.

Still, it wasn’t quite enough to calm his restlessness. A few stolen glimpses through a mechanical crow’s eyes? Pathetic.

He needed you in front of him, preferably bare, spread open and trembling, impaled on him and begging for more. But that would have to wait. His rapidly increasing desires would have to be squashed, for now. He was nothing if not patient.

Lately though, patience had become harder and harder to maintain. Moments of weakness crept in, his mind spiralling to thoughts of you, more often than they should and throwing him off his game. He had to pinch himself at times, drag his focus back to business, remind himself to just focus.

Sylus adjusted his cufflinks, steady fingers betraying none of the turmoil beneath his skin. In the mirror’s dim reflection, he was composure itself. Refined, unreadable, his hunger coiled beneath the surface, wound tight like a spring.

The simplicity of his outfit was intentional. Black slacks, black shirt, black jacket. A shadow in a den of predators. But the fit? The fit was a weapon, meticulously chosen. Every stitch, every inch tailored to ensure your gaze would linger on your favourite parts of him. The broad lines of his shoulders, the sharp taper of his waist, the way the fabric strained just slightly over his arms when he moved.

His lips curved as he slid on the fourth of his rings, the silver and stones catching in the low light. You had given yourself away so easily last time. The way your gaze had caught on his fingers, flickering down to watch them move, not to mention your at home shrine dedicated to them.

You probably thought you’d been discreet. You hadn’t.

Sylus had never been one for rings before. But now? Now he wore them with purpose, he wore them for you. He liked the way they looked when he curled his fingers into a fist, liked the way they felt as they tapped against glass. Liked knowing they’d capture your attention. He’d even been brazen enough to buy a matching one for you.

You just didn’t know it yet.

He reached for the final piece, a sleek black mask covering the top half of his face.

And just like that,his mind was wandering again. Seventeen days ago.

The last auction.

The moment had been inevitable. The moment he entered the space and saw you there, bathed in golden light and looking absolutely exquisite in a simple uniform, he was done for.

He would never admit to the nerves that twisted low in his gut as he approached you, walking slowly, methodically in an attempt to remain as calm as possible. Would never voice the irrational jealousy curling in his chest as he watched you polish the glass in your delicate, steady hands. He refused to acknowledge the sheer insanity of feeling envious of a glass, it was so beneath him.

And when he finally stepped forward and made his way over to you, you noticed. Your eyes met his and in that second Sylus had the absurd urge to make you keep your eyes on him, to trap you in his orbit right then and there.

You made him a drink.

A simple thing. A small thing. And yet, he had taken a slow sip, watching her the entire time. He praised you and your pupils dilated. Just like that he was fucking addicted, his heart racing with the desire to get that reaction from you again.

His jaw clenched now, fingers flexing against his palm.

Yes. That was what he wanted again. What he craved. And tonight, he would have it.

This new hunter was clearly a fucking amateur, no matter what his record said about him. He didn’t have your understanding of his world, his movements- of Sylus. Granted part of that was due to Sylus’ own actions. The poor fucker couldn’t very well get to know Sylus after the way he’d been iced out of the N109 zone. But seriously? To miss such an important event like this, was more than sloppy work.

The auction hall had been beautifully decorated, even for Sylus’ standards, he was nearly impressed. It was a cathedral of decadence, gilded chandeliers spilling golden light over exquisitely dressed patrons. Art worth small fortunes lined the walls, and the hush of wealth draped over the room like a perfumed veil. It shimmered off crystal glasses and polished marble bathing everything in a soft honeyed glow.

Whispers and false laughter rippled through the air, thick with masked intentions and velvet-coated threats, the lifeblood of these gatherings.

The masquerade theme was just another layer of excess, a pretense that any of them had secrets that could be peeled back. It was amusing, the idea that something as simple as a mask could hide who or what someone was.

Sylus stood off to the side of it all. Watching and waiting for his prize, the reward for his patience. Patience that was dwindling by the second and kicking up a storm within the man. Nothing about the softness of the light or the comfort of anticipated danger could soften the razor’s edge of his rapidly souring mood.

His crimson eyes scanned the room, seeking out every corner, every shadow, anywhere that might be your hiding place. The bar, again? The balcony? The clusters of masked figures swathed in silk and tailored suits?

Nothing. You were nowhere to be seen.

He released a slow exhale, willing his irritation to stay beneath the surface. A quiet tightening of his jaw and the press of his tongue against the inside of his cheek. No one here was sharp enough to notice, but Luke and Kieran flanking him? Of course, they did.

Luke tilted his head slightly, a hint of a smile visible beneath his own mask. “Boss looks like he’s about to commit a massacre.”

Kieran snorted. “Someone should tell him that glaring at the crowd won't make a certain Miss Hunter appear. Maybe she’s not coming?”

The boys were clearly far too comfortable with playfully ribbing him like this. Perhaps the fact that everyone was masked as they usually were was enough to peak their confidence. Whatever it was, it grated on Sylus’ nerves.

He turned his head slightly. The weight of his gaze was enough warning to have them standing a little straighter and their lips closing around whatever quip was going to come next. “Hush.”

They knew better than to push. Sylus was a dangerous man after all and he was particularly touchy around the subject of you. Still their quiet amusement resonated between them.

He was irritated. Not with you of course, god he could never be angry with you. With himself.

He’d wasted time, time that he have, on getting ready for this, for you. Everything, exactly to your taste, down to the way the open collar of his shirt exposed just enough skin to draw eyes, though none of them belonged to the one person he wanted looking at him.

And for what? To among the same people he saw at every one of these damned things, waiting for someone who should know better to test his patience? Mephisto had no clue the trouble he was going to be in if you didn’t show up.

His fingers curled into a fist against his knee before he forced them to relax.

You should be here.

Where the fuck were you?

A call of the auctioneer came loudly through the opulent hall, breaking through Sylus’ silent fuming. He exhaled sharply, and walked through the double doors to the auction room, sinking into his seat with a practiced ease, the deliberate weight of a man who regretted coming.

The auction hall was just as opulent, gilded walls, more glittering chandeliers, more of that soft, golden glow that radiated warmth and wealth. All of it was giving Sylus a migraine, he couldn’t stand the sight of it. He pinched the bridge of his nose and rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, jaw tight. His fingers danced a steady beat, drumming once, twice, against the armrest before he forced himself to regain his composure, to still.

You weren’t a tardy person, you should’ve been here by now. You weren’t coming.

The twins took their seats to the side of Sylus, making low conversation with each other. A hint of a smirk visible beneath their masks. Kieran cleared his throat and schooled his features, trying desperately to look less entertained than he was by his boss’ palpable irritation. His gaze flickered towards sylus.

“Are you sure your date hasn’t stood you up?” Kieran mused. “That would be a shame since you dressed up so pretty for her. Did she know this was a date?”

Sylus shot him a glance, sharp enough to cut glass, which just made Kieran grin more.

“It's not a date,” Sylus stated calmly. “And I didn’t dress up for anyone. Unlike other people, I always try to look my best, it’s better for… business.” That was a lie.

He had dressed up.

And now, it was wasted.

The chair beneath him felt hard and stiff. Uncomfortable. The noise of the room was grating against his nerves, worsening his already terrible mood. He didn’t need to be here. He could leave. He should leave. The muscle in his jaw twitched.

A particularly loud gaggle of women passed by, giggling shrilly about some heirloom or bag or something. Whatever it was, it was the last straw for Sylus.

He turned to the twins. “We're leaving.”

Both boys broke out into small grins, already mentally preparing for the way they would tease their boss on the way home.

He sighed again and prepared to leave when-

Bang!

The heavy double doors flew open and the noise in the room quietened instantly.

Sylus’ vision tunneled to the open double doors.

There you were, a vision of pure indulgence.

A goddess draped in swaithes of molten gold, wrapped in wealth that made people desperate. His breath caught in his throat, almost choking him. The soft waves of your hair shimmered under the low gilded lights. Every movement of yours was intentional, unhurried. Like you had all the time in the world to destroy him.

And you were destroying him. Completely and utterly undoing the very fabric of his very being.

Sylus swallowed, but his throat had gone dry.

You’d managed to throw him off, to surprise him in a way that no one else had managed to do and god was it delicious. He expected you to be incognito, to hide in the shadows as you always did. But this? This was completely unexpected.

That dress. That fucking dress. It was like an extension of you, satin clinging to curves he wanted to trace and memorise with his hands, his mouth, anything you would let him. It pooled around your feet, whispering against the marble floor as you walked. The slit at your thigh flashing enough skin to make him grip the armrest of his chair hard enough to ache. To leave him breathless and yearning to reach out to you. But you didn’t even look his way.

He should be furious.

Not only had you made him wait, smouldering in his own anticipation, but now you were gracing everyone except him with your attention. Allowing your eyes to linger on even Luke and Kieran by his side. Not once did you allow him the relief of meeting your eyes.

He couldn’t be mad though, not when he was finally seeing you after so long. You were an oasis after being in the desert, a breeze kissing his skin.

Fuck, he couldn’t stop looking at you.

So this was Seraphina. He’d known it was only a matter of time before he met this version of you, your second alias, woven from deception and luxury. And damn, had you outdone yourself. He would have to thank Axel for crafting the persona so well, for shaping an alias that fit you like it had always been yours. A background that set you apart. Made you untouchable.

Wealth clung to you, draped over your skin like it had always belonged there. Like he had always belonged there. Gold suited you. Power suited you. And Sylus would make it his mission to ensure you kept them both.

The curve of your neck as you lifted your chin, playing the socialite so well. The slight part of your lips as you took in the room, your gaze flitting across the crowd, assessing them, weighing them and deciding who was worth your attention. God he hoped it would be him.

But it wasn’t. Not yet.

Heat blazed across his skin, settling low in his stomach. Dark and restless. Something curling its fingers into his ribcage, his heart squeezing. His pulse beat so frantically that he could feel it in his teeth. A slow, agonising thud, thud, thud, setting every nerve ending alight.

Kieran exhaled sharply. “Wow.”

Luke let out a low chuckle. “Boss man looks wrecked.”

Sylus couldn’t even hear them.

Because you were walking right past him.

Close enough that the soft scent of your perfume curled around him, something intoxicating, designed to ruin, pulling him in closer and closer. He wanted to reach out, to touch your skin as you walked past and feel the way your pulse danced beneath your wrist.

You didn’t falter in your step, your strides remaining composed and unhurried. And you never, not once, turned to meet his eyes. Fucking temptress.

Instead, you descended gracefully into the front row, your back to him, your hands smoothing over the delicate folds of your gown.

Sylus could do nothing else but return to his chair. Composing himself after nearly coming undone at the mere sight of you. He exhaled slowly, releasing the tightness from his jaw and muscles as he rolled his shoulders back and his neck side to side. He was on edge, chest rising and falling in a way that felt too obvious. You had come. You had made him wait. And now, you were making him suffer.

➽──────────────────────────────────❥

I know you all said you didn't want a cliffhanger but it had to be done right here! The good news is that I'm already working on chapter 9 so hopefully it shouldn't take a month for me to get that one to you! Thank you for waiting so patiently!

❥ Like, reblog, comment, message me, ask me something, literally anything - I live for your feedback on this ❥

#love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus #sylus x reader #lnds sylus #love and deepspace #l&ds sylus #sylus qin #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x you #sylus x mc #sylus lads #qin che #yandere sylus #yandere reader #yandere #obsessed Sylus

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darkseidex · 7 months ago

Text

How Austin Met His Girl

LA, the land of hopes, dreams, and ridiculously overpriced coffee, was a place Luella had grown to love; or at least that was what she kept telling herself right now. The scent of motor oil and gasoline filled her senses, the red light seemed to taunt her, and the drivers at the back tailing her did nothing to ease her temper. She got this for driving at five p.m., otherwise known as hell hour. Her hand remained on the steering wheel of her Dodge Challenger, the privacy glass doing a remarkable job at keeping her concealed.

She groaned as she fought the urge to hit a U and return to her home. She sighed as she dialled Callum's number, letting the Brit know she'd be a bit late, hoping he wouldn't chew her out because he did tell her about the traffic beforehand. However, her being her, she thought she could outsmart it ( she couldn't).

The familiar dial tone sounded before resting him on her empty passenger seat as she lightly pressed on the acceleration to move forward.

"You're late, Lu," Callum's clipped British accent came through the speaker. She rolled her eyes, muttering, "No kidding."

"You know, the point of telling you about traffic was so you'd avoid it, not dive in headfirst," he quipped.

"Look, I've got it handled, okay?" she shot back, her tone sharper than intended. The red light finally flickered to green, and she eased the car forward, the rumble of the Challenger's engine almost soothing.

"Handled," Callum repeated with a snort. "The same way you handled that detour last month and ended up halfway to San Diego?"

"That was one time," she grumbled, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

The faint sound of mumbling came from Callum's end, followed by the rustling of what sounded like papers. She sighed, the faint feeling of guilt etching at her soul. The Boys in the Boat—his latest project.

Callum had poured his blood, sweat, and tears into it, meticulously crafting every detail. She'd promised to go see it with him, swearing she wouldn't flake this time. But here she was, stuck in traffic with the clock ticking and a shadowy SUV breathing down her bumper.

"Lu?" Callum's voice brought her back, sharper now, cutting through her spiralling thoughts.

"I'm still here," she said quickly.

"Good. Just focus on getting here in one piece, yeah? We'll deal with the rest when you arrive."

Her grip tightened on the wheel. The SUV behind her wasn't letting up, inching closer each time she tapped her brakes. She tried to shake the thought of what Callum would say if she told him she was ditching him again. Worse than that, she hated the thought of him sitting in an empty theatre seat, watching the dream he worked so hard for come to life without her.

"Dinner on me?" she offered, hoping to soothe both her guilt and her nerves.

There was a pause, then a soft laugh from Callum. "Bribery now, is it?"

"Call it an apology in advance," she replied, easing her grip on the wheel as the SUV pulled ahead and merged into another lane. For a moment, she felt relief, though her eyes lingered on it disappearing into the distance. "I owe you for dragging me out of my cave anyway." Callum snorted, "I'd argue you need to spend more time there; you're never home for more than a month."

Luella shrugged; it was true, ever since interstellar she'd been booked and busy for as long as she could remember, and truthfully ever since she'd graduated she'd felt like she'd been able to get more time at home, more time to enjoy the home she'd bought and fill it with flowers, charms and trinkets; to make it her own. They'd just wrapped Barbie and the second season of House of The Dragon; it was roughly a year of back-to-back filming with very little time off, but it'd pay off; it always did.

"You owe me more than dinner, Lu," he said, though his tone had lightened. "But I'll take it. I'll even let you pick the place this time, as long as it's not that dodgy taco truck you keep swearing by."

"Hey, those tacos are life-changing," she retorted, her smile returning despite herself.

"Life-ending, more like," he countered, and she could practically see the smirk tugging at his lips. Her pulse quickened as she caught the glint of the SUV's tinted windows in her side mirror. "Maybe you just have a weak stomach," she said, forcing a casual tone. "Can't blame you; you're used to British food, I guess."

Callum's laughter died down at her quip, and she could feel him roll his eyes. "Touché," he said dryly, though there was still a trace of amusement in his voice. "But you're dodging the fact that you've got shitty taste when it comes to street food."

"Please," Luella shot back, navigating past a merging car. "My taste is impeccable; thank you very much. I'll have you know I've never gotten sick from those tacos."

"Yet," he emphasised, drawing out the word. "Give it time."

"So," she started, trying to redirect her thoughts, "have you gotten the script for Masters of the Air yet?"

There was a beat of silence, and then Callum replied, his tone carrying a hint of excitement, "I have. Just came in last week."

Her grip on the wheel loosened slightly, her smile widening. "Finally! It's been sitting on my desk for days, and I've been dying to dive in, but I've barely had the time. You've read it, right?"

Callum continued, his tone now laced with playful intrigue, "I invited a castmate to the screening tonight Austin Butler, you know, from Elvis?"

"Elvis, as in the biopic? The one that gained all that traction?" She asked him, and he heard his hum of confirmation.

Luella wracked her brain for the familiar film; it'd been on her watch list for way too long, gathering digital dust as its number one place changed to seventh within the next month. She'd meant to watch it; truly she had, but she'd gotten another script dropped into her lap, which soon consumed her life and became her bread and butter. When that'd ended, Murphy, her Daschund, had gotten a minor cold that'd worried her sick, and that took up a solid week of her time and bonus to ensure he was alright.

Looking through her rearview window, she noted the black SUV still hot on her tail; unease flowed through her veins as she turned off the road and opted for the longer route, adding fifteen minutes to her journey, but she didn't mind; there was less traffic this way, and she'd gotten rid of the heebie-jeebies that'd crept up her spine at the sight of the blacked-out vehicle with no number plates

"Austin Butler, huh?" she said flatly, her mind already shifting back to the SUV as she moved further away from it. Another star in the endless revolving door of Hollywood's elite. It wasn't that she didn't respect his craft—she did—but the novelty of meeting 'big names' had worn off years ago. If anything, she'd rather be home with Murphy right now, pulling his small body into her bed and forcing the disgruntled dog into her embrace.

"Yeah," Callum replied, the amusement in his voice clear. "He's a great guy, easy to talk to. He's really into the project, and he was in town, so I figured, why not?"

Luella hummed and grinned, "And here I thought I was your only American friend."

Callum laughed, the sound light and teasing. "You are my favorite American, don't worry. But Austin's a good guy. We got along pretty well when we first met, and, well, I thought it'd be nice to have him there tonight. Plus, he might be interested in some of the upcoming projects we're working on... and he's single."

Luella groaned as she made a left turn and got closer to her destination; sure, she'd broken a few speed limits, but she'd pay for those later. "You're not pimping me out to this man, and vice versa. What happened to me embracing my single era? Y'know, being happily unattached?" She glanced at the empty passenger seat. "I thought you supported that."

"Oh, I do, believe me, however, your counterparts are a bit concerned that your commitment issues are-"

"Commitment issues?"

Callum sighed. Oh, here they go.

"Yes, Luella, commitment issues," Callum said, his voice laced with the kind of patience that always felt condescending. "You've had, what, three dates in the last year? And you ghosted two of them before dessert."

"First of all," Luella shot back, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter, "that second one was an accident. He talked about his crypto portfolio for thirty minutes. Thirty minutes, Cal. I had to fake a phone call just to escape."

Callum chuckled. "And the first one?"

"That was..." She trailed off, searching for a reasonable excuse. "Okay, fine, maybe I wasn't feeling it. But that doesn't mean I have issues. It just means I have standards."

"Standards so high even Everest looks up at them," Callum teased.

Luella rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at her lips. She navigated through a roundabout, her thoughts briefly flickering to the SUV that had been tailing her. Even though it was gone, she couldn't shake the unease it had left behind.

"Look, I'm fine on my own. I've got Murphy, a solid Netflix queue, a rose, and enough wine to survive a minor apocalypse. What more could a girl want?"

"Oh, I don't know," Callum said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe companionship? Someone to share those tacos with before they kill you?"

"You're so funny, Callum," she deadpanned, pulling into the venue's parking lot at last. Her Challenger growled as she shifted into park. "Anyway, I'm here. You can stop playing Dr. Phil now."

"You brought it up," he countered. "But fine, I'll drop it. For now. Just be nice to Austin, alright? He's a good guy. Not everyone in this business is an egotistical nightmare."

"I'm always nice," Luella said, grabbing her bag from the passenger seat.

"Debatable," Callum replied.

Looking into the mirror, she reapplied an even coat of her gloss before checking her hair and giving herself a once over before picking up the phone, ending the call and switching off her phone. Finally, the black SUV that'd been tailing her pulled up, and on sync, their cameras rolled down, and the familiar shuttering of cameras was heard. With a roll of her eyes, she met the eyes of the cinema attendant and gave her a gentle smile as she guided her out of the public eye and into the warmth of the cinema.

With a gentle smile, she accepted their hand and walked into the space, the smooth sound of jazz filling her senses as she grabbed a glass of wine off one of the servers trays, sooting him a small 'thank you as she was walked into the cinema, thankfully she wasn't too late, but the pitch blackness would prove to be a challenge, she took the hand of the server as they guided her to one of the top boxes where Callum would be waiting.

She adjusted her baggy jeans with her free hand as she made her way to them, finally, her eyes caught those of the dark-haired Brit.

...

Austin Butler was just a man. Don't get him wrong, but he was still just a man. After his breakup, he never truly shied away from his meaningless hookup now and again, eachrve a purpose to blow off steam get into character and get out of character. He'd never truly thought of entertaining someone for longer than that.

His three-month-long friend, Callum, had invited him to his newer movie showing and he was in town, so he figured, why not? A quiet evening at the cinema beat spending another night scrolling through scripts and nursing a half-empty whiskey glass. He wasn't expecting much—just a chance to unwind and offer Callum some support. What he didn't expect, however, was her.

Austin leaned back in his seat, the quiet hum of conversation around him doing little to break through his thoughts. He wasn't expecting much tonight—Callum's movie was sure to be good, but these industry events were more obligation than excitement. He scanned the darkened theater, his gaze briefly flickering to the other attendees. Familiar faces, polished smiles, the usual.

Then she walked in.

At first, it was just the faint click of her heels on the carpeted floor, barely audible over the smooth jazz playing in the background. He turned his head casually, expecting yet another well-dressed figure blending into the crowd. Instead, his gaze landed on a woman who somehow seemed completely out of place and yet utterly commanding.

Luella.

Callum had mentioned her once or twice, but always in passing, like a footnote in his usually animated stories. A force to be reckoned with, he'd said. Austin hadn't thought much of it at the time.

Now, seeing her, he understood.

She moved with a kind of quiet determination, her bag slung over one shoulder, her other hand tugging at the hem of her baggy jeans as if she didn't care to fit into the glamorized mold everyone else seemed so eager to embody. Her hair caught the faint glow of the overhead lights as she followed the attendant to the upper-level seating. There was no effort to put on airs, no false pretense. Just... her.

And then she stumbled.

It wasn't dramatic—just a slight misstep as she climbed the last stair. Austin didn't even think. He stood, steadying her with a light touch on her elbow before the moment could tip into embarrassment.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice low enough not to draw attention.

She looked up at him then, her gaze locking with his for the first time.

"Yeah," she murmured, brushing abraid out of her face. "Thanks."

Her voice was soft but carried an undertone of something unspoken—like she wasn't used to needing help but appreciated it nonetheless.

"Austin," he said, introducing himself as he released her arm.

"Luella," she replied, a polite but distant smile tugging at her lips.

He offered his hand, and for a moment, she hesitated, her gaze flickering down to it before slipping hers into his. Her grip was firm, her skin warm against his.

"Callum's been hyping you up," he said as they made their way to the seats.

Her laugh was quiet but genuine. "That sounds like him. I'm not sure what there is to hype, though."

He arched an eyebrow as they settled into their seats. "Maybe he just knows good company when he sees it."

Luella didn't respond immediately, her attention seemingly caught by the faint flicker of the movie starting on the screen. But there was a small smile playing on her lips, one she didn't bother hiding.

Austin leaned back, his focus shifting between the film and the woman sitting beside him. She didn't make small talk, didn't force conversation to fill the silence. Instead, she seemed content to simply be, her presence quietly magnetic in a way he hadn't expected

#austin butler x black!reader #austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler x reader #renaissance

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glassaround · 6 months ago

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Glass door

A glass door is a versatile, stylish feature widely used in residential, commercial, and industrial spaces. It primarily consists of glass panels, providing transparency, modern aesthetics, and the benefit of natural light. Glass doors can be tailored to suit various functional and design needs.

Types of Glass Doors

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Glass Options

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Applications

Residential: Patio doors, shower enclosures, room partitions.

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Considerations

Privacy: Opt for frosted, tinted, or patterned glass if privacy is a concern.

Energy Efficiency: Choose insulated or low-E glass for better thermal performance.

Safety: Always use tempered or laminated glass for safety in high-traffic or exterior areas.

Maintenance: Regular cleaning is required to keep the glass clear and streak-free.

#door #doors #glass #glass door

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iwishkart · 1 year ago

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Protecting Your Privacy with Tempered Glass Screen Protectors

In an era where digital privacy is becoming increasingly important, safeguarding personal information has never been more critical. With the widespread use of smartphones, tablets, and laptops, our devices contain a treasure trove of sensitive data, from personal photos and messages to financial information and passwords. As such, protecting the privacy of our screens from prying eyes has become a paramount concern. This is where Privacy Tempered Glass screen protectors come into play, offering a simple yet effective solution to keep your information safe from unwanted onlookers.

What is Privacy Tempered Glass?

Privacy tempered glass is a specialized type of screen protector designed to prevent visual hacking, also known as "shoulder surfing," where individuals attempt to view your screen from over your shoulder or from the side. Unlike traditional screen protectors that offer only scratch and impact protection, privacy tempered glass features a built-in privacy filter that limits the viewing angle of the screen. This means that the screen appears dark and unreadable to anyone viewing it from an angle, effectively shielding your confidential information from prying eyes.

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Privacy tempered glass employs micro-louver technology, which consists of tiny vertical blinds embedded within the glass material. These blinds have a specific orientation that allows light to pass through when viewed directly from the front, rendering the screen visible to the user. However, when viewed from an angle, the blinds scatter the light, making the screen appear dark and distorted to observers. This ensures that only the person directly in front of the screen can see the content clearly, while others around them see nothing but a blank or distorted display.

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Privacy Protection: The primary benefit of privacy tempered glass is its ability to protect sensitive information from unauthorized viewing. Whether you're checking emails, conducting online banking, or viewing private documents, you can rest assured that your screen remains confidential, even in crowded or public settings.

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Enhanced Clarity: Despite its privacy filter, tempered glass maintains excellent clarity when viewed head-on, preserving the brightness, color accuracy, and sharpness of the screen. This ensures an optimal viewing experience for the device user while maintaining privacy from others.

Easy Installation: Privacy tempered glass screen protectors are typically easy to install and can be applied directly onto the device's screen without the need for special tools or expertise. Most screen protectors come with installation kits that include cleaning wipes, dust removal stickers, and alignment guides to ensure a bubble-free application.

Compatibility: Privacy tempered glass screen protectors are available for a wide range of devices, including smartphones, tablets, laptops, and monitors. Whether you own an iPhone, Samsung Galaxy, iPad, or MacBook, you can find a compatible screen protector to fit your device perfectly.

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In an age where digital privacy is of utmost importance, privacy tempered glass screen protectors offer a simple yet effective solution to protect your sensitive information from prying eyes. By limiting the viewing angle of your screen and preventing visual hacking, these innovative accessories provide peace of mind in an increasingly connected world. Whether you're a business professional, student, or everyday user, investing in a privacy tempered glass screen protector is an essential step in safeguarding your privacy and maintaining control over your personal data.

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#iPhone Tempered Glass #Honor 90 Tempered Glass #Privacy Tempered Glass #Best Tempered Glass #Uv Tempered Glass

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mrs-elsie-barnes · 9 months ago

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The Old Gods and The New - Chapter 20

God In Distress | Loki x Reader

Loki wakes up in an unexpected place while the court of New Asgard plans an attack.

Warnings: Kidnapping, angst, a touch of whump and reader being both scared and embracing her new position. A for angst.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics & @reveriesources

Series Masterlist | Loki Masterlist | Masterlist

Loki woke to a pounding headache thrumming behind his eyes. He cracked one lid open and promptly closed it again against the bright overhead lights. With a groan he rolled over, placing pressure on his right side and forcing the air out of his lungs from the pain. There was a smear of blood below him, but whatever injury he’d sustained had clearly been patched despite his lack of access to his healing powers.

He could barely remember what happened, he knew he’d been enjoying a night at The Dog and Bilgesnipe, ever protected from the increasing tourists with a simple illusion that caused Loki no end of joy to have been able to enact.

You had been there, his Asynja, effervescent as always in the company of his friends, old and new, chatting away with Jane and Val, drinking probably a little too much. He had been playing cards with friends, carried away by the easy camaraderie of the village as everyone settled into their routines and the easing of pressures over the holidays. He certainly did not remember starting any bar fights, that was more his brother’s realm of entertainment.

Loki cracked his eyes again, where were you? He reached a hand out but, instead of feeling the soft cotton of his master bedroom sheets, warm with your presence, he felt cold glass and metal. Stunned he opened his eyes, shielding them from the bright light with one hand on his forehead, and surveyed his surroundings.

Perhaps he should be thankful that you were not here, wherever here happened to be. A mostly circular room, more octagonal where the angles of the huge glass windows met wide bars of metal that supported a complicated ceiling structure.

Beyond the glass walls were a series of odd looking machines, blinking, making irritating buzzing noises. So crude, their electricity. And there, stamped on the side of the closest one was a huge A.

Loki swore, sagging back on his small cot bed on the floor. Not this again. The gods damned Avengers, always ruining his fun.

You had left before him at least, so he hoped you’d managed to evade whatever luck the Avengers had managed to rustle up in order to catch him inebriated and unaware. But his anger built nonetheless at the risk that you may be here too, trapped and frightened again like a spider under a glass. He would not be able to control his temper if he found out that they had ensnared you, regardless of whether you were hurt or not.

Loki reached out, sending his sedir as far as he could towards you, feeling for that playful touch of your own magic in response. But there was nothing, it recoiled as if burnt, returning to him bringing with it the agitated pacing of a caged tiger.

He tried to manifest a cleaner outfit, one not salt stained from walking through the snow. He peered down at himself, mud along his right side suggested he’d been tackled in some way and he was most displeased at being unable to clean the caking soil from his sweater. You liked this sweater and he was sure you’d be upset to see it ruined.

No matter how hard he tried to delve into that well of magic, nothing appeared in return, only a smattering of fireworks that dimmed quickly. Sighing once more, he closed his eyes and waited for the Avengers to send their first interrogator, hoping that sleep might show him your face at least.

Across the ocean you were thinking of Loki too, honing your skills with Valkyrie as she trained, sharpening her weapons and making plans in the privacy of her home.

Thor had taken it upon himself to rally as much support as he could find, returning with a huge friend called Korg who introduced himself as, “not a man, a pile of rocks, but not normal rocks, rocks that are like a man.”

You’d shaken the not rock, not man’s hand and thanked him for coming, but all the same you’d had to take a stiff drink from the secret whisky collection in Brunnhilde’s coat cupboard before you could rejoin the small group Thor had managed to gather in the King’s living room.

“Okay, that’s enough, stop raiding my supplies,” she called, once everyone had found a place in the living room. Despite her general tone it was only really Korg who was still opening and closing the doors, everyone else was settled with either a cup of some sort of tea or a large measure of liquor, smiling tightly at the room as if it was a funeral of a distant relative.

Korg squeezed himself into his seat and gave you a smile. “Sorry, I just get hungry, and there are these snacks here on Midgard that -”

“Korg!” Brunnhilde snapped again and Thor, sat closest to him, elbowed him in a way that made you think it hurt the god more.

“Thank you all for coming,” Brunnhilde took centre stage, ever the King, regardless of whether her throne was intricately carved wood or an overstuffed seersucker armchair she’d squeezed into her cosy living room.

On the sofa, Jane turned to look at you and held out her hand for you to squeeze. Her own fingers felt soft in yours, lovely and delicate but too small, and although your friends were trying their best to support you, you missed the reassuring feel of Loki’s long fingers tangled with your own.

“Last night,” Brunnhilde’s voice commanded the room, no longer just their friend, but the King. Everyone fell silent at once. “Last night, Loki was kidnapped from the harbour by Stark and his men. Thor has told me this is because the Avengers still believe Loki has to serve his time here on Midgard, in a Midgardian prison and, as you all already know, I think that’s fucking stupid. I’ve asked you all here to help Estrid, Thor and myself get him back so,” she clapped her hands together, “let’s plan.”

Jane spoke up first, bouncing forwards in her seat, “I can ask Darcy to find out where he’s being kept!”

Thor looked incredulous, “Darcy works for Stark, she is hardly likely to risk that.”

“She works for Stark, but she’s my best friend, don’t you work for Stark as well?” She turned on him, lifting a brow.

“I do not!” The god huffed.

You’d wondered why the pair had ended their relationship, but it was clear they did nothing but bicker so perhaps it was for the best.

“How about,” Thor paused, wondering if there was still space in their relationship for him to suggest things to Jane.

“- Jane will speak with Darcy, she can find out if she’s willing to help and Thor will see how far the Avengers still trust him?” Brunnhilde suggested and both parties nodded.

“I could print some pamphlets, to let the people of Asgard know their prince has been taken?” Korg offered and Thor clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good idea my friend, we should tell all of Asgard that Loki was kidnapped, for it will embarrass him greatly when he returns!” Thor laughed.

“Thor!” You snapped, it was all too much, these plans, the arguing. Your Loki was trapped in some awful prison and his own brother wasn’t even taking it seriously. “Loki could be hurt, who knows what they’re doing to him. You said yourself that Stark hates him and wants him imprisoned.” Your words caught in your throat, making them sound odd and strained.

“My apologies,” Thor looked more sombre than you’d ever seen him, “I jest only because I’m worried too. Loki may be a handful -” Brunnhilde rolled her eyes, “but he is my little brother, a Prince of Asgard and your beloved.” Thor reached a hand out and cupped your cheek, surprisingly delicate compared to the usual rough pats on the back. “We will see him returned.”

As you looked around the room at your new friends you truly believed it, Jane was sure she could secure the support of her friend Darcy, Thor and Val were fierce warriors and even Korg, who you were still getting used to, had prior experience of defending Asgard. The thrum of anxiety that had beat alongside your heart was dimming, this was not going to be like last time. Your magic was strong, powerful, and you were not alone.

“Let’s plan then.”

You talked well into the night, missing most of the Solstice celebrations, though a few villagers came by with food and drinks from the Long Hall, full of delicious spices. Your first Solstice and Loki wasn’t even here to celebrate it with you. Every now and again you snuck off to the little bathroom to cry and wipe your tears, careful to use your illusions to conjur your makeup again so no one would suspect. After all, you were a Warrior of Asgard now and should therefore not cry. You told yourself again, teeth gritted together, staring into the mirror over the sink.

Every time you returned your drink was full to the brim again, but no one mentioned your absences.

When the darkness had truly arrived and the cold started to seep through the stone walls Brunnhilde declared it was time to make her Solstice speech. She pulled out a small set of note cards and chucked them unceremoniously into the dying fire.

“I guess I won’t be needing that ‘happily ever after’ Solstice speech after all.” She huffed, shucking on her coat in the narrow hall, “I’ll improv it.”

“I look forward to it very much!” Thor smiled, tucking you under his broad arms, “come, Trouble, we will see the people and take our plans forward, my little brother will be back to torment us before we know it.”

Unsurprisingly the hall was still bustling when you arrived, the village had continued its Solstice celebrations without Loki and Thor to complete their ceremonial fighting it seemed. A lead weight of regret settled in your stomach, if you’d stayed at the pub, could you have stopped them from taking Loki? Could you have fought them off on his behalf if they really had controlled him with the rune magic?

And if you had.

If he was with you now.

Would you have appreciated his presence, his smile, the way he tucked your hand into his elbow and held you close? You’d never take his presence for granted again. You’d tell him when you saw him.

It occurred to you that this must have been how Loki had felt while you were gone and though you didn’t want him to ever suffer, you hoped that he’d felt your loss as keenly, because his absence was worse than anything you’d even had to endure, but it had also clarified your feelings so clearly. Loki really was everything to you now, there was nothing but your mischievous trickster. As you thought of him your magic roiled inside, delving into a well of power you had no idea existed.

“Are you alright?” Thor whispered while the King opened the double doors of the hall and silenced the revelry within.

“As I can be just - missing him, that’s all.” You gave Thor a tight, awkward smile.

“I know.” He dropped his arm from around your shoulders and nudged you forwards, through the path your King cut in the bustling hall, towards her throne and the centre of the court.

A day had passed since Loki had woken up. He knew only because of the changing guard and the meals that were presented to him. This was, after all, not his first time in imprisonment. Although the conditions on Asgard were considerably better.

Coffee, toast and what was apparently supposed to be porridge arrived remotely through a hatch in the plexi-glass wall that was protected by an airlock system, as if he might turn to dust and simply float away if given half a chance. The thought had occurred to him, but since he couldn’t teleport he didn’t wish to risk being sucked into a vent as a fine mist or separated from something important should Stark decide to turn a fan on.

Loki surmised that it must be sometime in the morning if there was toast and that, given the guard had changed recently, for the fourth time, it was probably around twenty-four hours since he’d arrived, or since he’d woken up at least. The Norns knew how long he’d been out from Stark’s attempt at forging magic. The man had built a crazed robot before, so he wasn't going to underestimate his ability to cause his own kind of Midgardian chaos. It was a shame, really, that the inventor was so intent on making him an enemy, when Loki could foresee a future where they'd be fine friends, creating mischief and carnage.

Loki spent most of the day plotting, his eyes closed and hands crossed behind his head, trying to remember every detail of the compound, the weakest spots, the places to hide, on the rare chance he might be granted an opportunity to escape.

He knew the outside of the glass prison was surrounded by the same runes he’d found during your own rescue, runes that controlled and suppressed magic. In themselves a strong force, channelling aeons old knowledge, but not unshakeable. Not unbreakable.

Using your shared well of natural, elemental, magic, as well as the sorcery that Frigga had so diligently taught him, you had been able to break them before and he had no doubt he’d be able to break them again. Especially if he had your help.

As he lay there he wondered if you would come for him and, though it hurt him to dwell on it, he wondered if you’d had the same sad thoughts when you’d been kidnapped. Did you wonder if he’d rescue you? Did you doubt him?

Loki brushed the thought away, you had willingly stayed with him many times now, had followed him back to Asgard, you lived together. He wouldn’t allow his fears to take him over, not when keeping a lid on his control was so important.

Perhaps that was the key, a controlled push of his magic in the right weak spot could spell freedom. But where?

Slowly Loki paced the perimeter of the prison. All the sides were an even length, eight in total, but with angles so wide the room was essentially circular inside. On one side was a door with no hinges, he presumed it must rise into the dark ceiling cavity above the prison instead or, knowing Stark, go into the ground for some ridiculous, style induced reason.

In the panel beside it was the hatch for his food, the air lock system seemed simple enough, but there was no warning of the food appearing, no clock to notice the changes in time and no noise or presence. That too appeared from either the ceiling or the floor.

His bed was an insult to both comfort and design, more of a perspex box than an item of furniture, the blacket thin and pillow almost non-existent. Try as he might, Loki was unable to conjure any finer items, more befitting of his station or his taste, and it was perhaps the greatest insult that they’d keep a Prince in such an ugly, ill furnished prison cell. At least on Asgard he’d been allowed the dignity of a few items of furniture and apparel.

Sighing in frustration, Loki turned and paced in the opposite direction, hoping that the change of scenery might prove to give him a new perspective on his predicament. But he had no such luck. Instead he sat again on his bed and allowed his mind to drift to you, to the starlit nights you’d spent together of late and the memories that resurfaced in his dreams, of a young Prince and Princess, laughing and smiling in the golden sunshine of Asgard.

“Prince Loki was taken last night.” Brunnhilde’s voice rang clearly through the silent hall, each Asgardian turned to face her, quiet, reverent. You’d never seen everyone so serious before and it took a moment for you to remember that they had once been a skilled and fierce warrior race, all quietly surveying their King now, waiting for orders. “He was taken as he left The Dog and Bilgesnipe while the rest of us slept and celebrated. A sneaky and dishonourable attack made worse by its location on the harbour at the heart of our village.” The King paused, allowing her words to filter through the crowd, ripples of murmurs drifting past as everyone processed her words.

“ - we believe he was taken by the Avengers, Tony Stark, in particular, using runic magic that he learnt during the rescue of Princess Estrid, Warrior of the Asgardian Court.” You’d never heard her be so formal either and her low tone echoed through your bones, the feeling of anger, of the might of Asgard, building like a wave. “Loki has served his time following Asgardian laws and remains under our jurisdiction as a Prince and a member of my appointed council, Stark has no right to arrest him or imprison him. We are a sovereign nation and abide by our own laws, he has taken our Prince unlawfully and we see this as tantamount to war.”

The hall roared into life, every citizen enraged by this insult. Shouts and angry declarations echoed in the small space, feet beat against the floorboards and hands waved in the air.

Brunnhilde coaxed you forwards and, with a firm hand on your back, Thor followed. Jane and Korg flanked you on either side to form a guard around the King. Her council, strong and capable before the court.

“Crown Prince Thor, Princess Estrid, The Lady Jane and Korg will continue to protect you. To protect our Midgardian neighbours we will not allow any further tourists or visitors until Prince Loki is restored to his home. And then he will once more take his place on this council.”

The hall was still a cacophony of noise, talking, shouting and the banging of fists on the long tables almost drowned her next statement.

“Though we have built ourselves a new home here, a village known for peace across the realms, this insult will not be borne and we will not be deterred from our path of sanctuary by this act of aggression. We will stand strong, together.” She raised her sword above her head and the noise rose again. You turned away, you were full of rage, uncontained and unbound, flames flickered between your fingers and you knew that you were moments away from your casual clothes being replaced by battle ready metal.

“All will be well, Trouble.” Thor’s voice was deep, cutting through the high pitched shouting. “Our King is a Valkyrie, a noble and revered warrior, I would trust no one else with my people. We will return him to you and to this court.”

Brunnhilde motioned for you to follow her, taking the emergency exit at the back of the hall rather than attempting to wade through the somehow increasing mass of people inside.

Outside the air was startlingly cold, it was rare for you to be out without Loki and his familiar presence at your side always made you feel warmer. Despite the new friends surrounding you, you felt so alone. Loki’s absence loomed larger than you’d expected, every facet of your life different without him.

There had been no warm body to snuggle closer to this morning, no kind hand to pass you breakfast, no gentlemanly arm in yours while you took a walk around the village. Even your magic missed him, it coiled and sort for his sedir, homesick for his touch and languished in the pit of your stomach a heavy weight that made you feel nauseous.

The ache of it was too much, bursting from you, it roiled in your stomach and you were sure you’d been seeing your breakfast again. There was a deep tugging sensation somewhere between your stomach and your throat, you turned, ready to be sick into the gutter. Then, it was as if you’d sneezed and the pressure was gone.

“What is that?” Brunnhilde looked at your feet, the round shaggy body of a calf looked up at her, its round eyes blinking. The calf danced to its feet, its flames melting the snow around you into puddles that leaked and settled between the cobbles. On silent feet it danced off down the street, heading for the open sea.

“Be careful!” You called on instinct, your stomach dropping as it leapt from the end of the harbour. But it didn’t fall, there was no splash, instead a ripple of silver floated off into the sky.

Loki stared blankly at the ceiling of the cell. Every moment that passed he thought of new and more complicated ways to punish the Avengers, to bring his wrath upon them. And every time he thought he’d peaked he felt your soft hands on his cheeks, your lips, the warmth of your body as it settled on his and your voice telling him to forget the wrongs of the past, to focus only on the future.

He huffed, placing his hands behind his head, if he wanted a future he needed a way out of here. He was angry beyond measure, that was true, he was not a God to be trifled with. But his anger was stoked by concern, worry for you and, for the first time in many years, true loneliness.

Loki missed the way you settled into his side every morning, the lingering kisses you gave him throughout the day and the calm that settled inside of him whenever you were around. He missed his magic, especially caked as he still was in mud and melted snow, but more than that he missed the sensation of your magic meeting his, warming him deep into the icy home of his own sedir. He knew that his frost giant form loved you too, more than the tryst you’d shared at the Golden Palace. There was a coldness to him that delighted in being warmed by you and now, without it, he felt the same sensation of isolation that he’d become accustomed to.

The lights flickered and he cracked an eye open. There, on the other side of the glass, was a calf, made entirely of flame. It looked tired, sat down with its legs splayed around it awkwardly, but happy. It’s head was cocked to the side and its short tail stuck out, thumping on the floor like a dog.

A noise on the other side of the doors made its head whip round, trailing flame behind it, and then it bounced further around the glass to sit next to Loki, its head pressed to the glass. Loki lifted a hand, his long fingers as large as the calf’s head, and it nuzzled forwards as if the glass was a simple barrier to being petted.

The noise continued and the door burst open, various agents hustling inside before Tony Stark stepped over the threshold.

When Loki looked down the calf was gone, but a trail of silver shimmered where it had been sat. He closed his eyes again, he didn’t care what Stark had to say, he knew now that you hadn’t forsaken him. He knew that you cared and that all he had to do was wait.

<<Chapter 19

Chapter 21>>

#Loki #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #loki/reader #Loki x Reader #Loki fanfic #Loki series #loki marvel #Loki x you #Loki/You #loki fanfiction #Loki smut #The Old Gods and the New #loki fic #loki god of mischief #loki laufesyon x reader #loki of asgard #loki of jotunheim

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accidentally-in-fictional-love · 11 months ago

Note

Since we’re all on the topic of James Lewis….. I was wondering if I could make a different request for him like maybe something smutty but James being a total sub ( I beg of u pls) just being pathetic and needy 🫡

When One Restaurant Door Closes - James Lewis/Reader

Warnings: No use of Y/N, gender-neutral reader, reader is a bit of a dom, self-deprecating talk, dirty talk, bit of voyeurism, masturbation, handjobs, hair pulling, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, eating out, sex.

Wordcount: 4640

Summary: Your handsome regular just failed his 10th date since he started visiting your place of work. That should be all the proof you need to agree with him when he then claims that he's unlovable, but there's something about him that makes you want to be his 11th despite it all.

Notes: Did someone say Pathetic Needy Sub? 😏 I hope this turned out close to what you wanted, I think this is the first time I wrote any of his characters as super subby and it nearly made me lose my mind /)w(\ 💗💗💗

Friday night shifts had a tendency to either yield good entertainment or bad guests and even worse tips. It was a 50/50 split for you since this place wasn't exactly Olive Garden, all the good guests preferring the big name chains and restaurants with five stars, of which you worked for neither. It was good money regardless, and the entertainment was worth its weight in gold since it seemed everyone wanted to air out their drama over the appetizers, and you'd prefer that to any unlimited breadsticks any day.

You knew it was going to be a good night when you saw him walk in, the handsome man with the glasses who brought all his dates here for you to witness, each one always ending in flames; it wasn't his fault, from your eavesdropping you'd learned that he was a recovering alcoholic with a bit of a temper, and even though being off the juice had given him back his control it didn't help that he tended to constantly say the wrong thing. He overshared more than anyone you'd ever met, his jokes were cute and funny but also tended to be self-deprecating, and when he got on a topic he was passionate about, sometimes for all the wrong reasons, he found it very hard to stop talking even when his dates looked uncomfortable. He was a trainwreck, but a beautiful one, and every time he came in with someone new it made you selfishly happy that he was still on the market.

These people he brought out, they didn't know how to handle someone like him, but you were sure that you could, your practice with your old bad partners giving you more than enough experience. He wasn't a bad guy, far from it, and you knew that now that he was recovering he'd never hurt you, but no one else seemed to get that or him as tonight's contestant, a pretty cute blonde with his long hair pulled into a ponytail to be a little fancy for the date, finally tossed in the towel and walked out. You watched as he hid his face in his hands, another one down, it was clear he couldn't keep handling the heartbreak for much longer.

‘Rough crowd tonight?’ you asked before you could stop yourself, your voice carrying from the bar to his table since his chosen section of the restaurant was emptier for the privacy of his date.

He looked up at you, eyes miserable as he briefly glanced behind you at the bottles decorating the wall. ‘Yeah, you could say that,’ he answered instead of asking for his favourite, and you felt a bit of pride at him pulling through despite the metaphorical flames currently surrounding him and the empty chair across from him.

‘At least he seemed to take it better than the one from last month, that one was a little firecracker, wasn't he?’ you joked in order to lighten the mood, and he grinned sadly at the memory of that failed date as well.

‘He didn't appreciate my comments about Detroit, I was only being a little critical,’ he confessed, and you leaned your elbows against the bar counter.

‘What did it this time?’

‘Too different views about family,’ he told you, and when you didn't hide your curiosity he turned even further in his chair to face you. ‘I guess growing up in a house like mine doesn't leave you much room for wanting to meet someone's parents… or sister, or hometown, or anything else. He wasn't raised like I was but you never know, one bad day and a little too much to drink and it all goes to hell.’ There was the oversharing again, his bad childhood a recurring topic for him, although this time he seemed to have a bit of clarity now that the date had already failed. ‘Sorry, I know not everyone wants to hear about that.’

‘It's fine, I've heard worse working here.’ He perked up at that, someone not flinching or cringing at his trauma for once actually lifting his mood. ‘In fact, why don't you move your plate over here, share a drink with me over it until you're all done?’

‘I don't drink,’ he was in the middle of saying before you filled up two glasses with water, his thoughts only on himself and not the obvious fact that you couldn't consume the inventory while on the clock. He smiled in relief and took your offer when you pushed his glass a little towards him, your entertainment for tonight now purely him as he set down his plate and started venting with a smile.

He didn't leave when he was done, eventually ordering a nonalcoholic beverage just so you'd have something to mix while you listened, and you noticed when you left him to bus some tables or run some orders that he never once looked back at the bottles in your absence. He stuck to sipping his drink or watching the TV mounted over the bar, and when you returned again he'd give you the biggest smile and start talking about something else no matter how personal.

You found out this way that his name was James and that he used to be a teacher in another town, but he'd lost his tenure right before earning it and was unfairly fired after a bunch of unfortunate mishaps involving two of his students being bullied. He'd basically been bullied himself right out of town, the father of another of his students making sure he wouldn't be welcome after he'd tried to take matters into his own hands, and while the bullying had ended so had his career despite his good deeds.

It was a rather miserable end to that chapter of his life, but he'd needed a fresh start anyway, and moving here had been exactly what he'd needed in the end. He'd even gotten himself a new job a couple months in, and while he was doing great in that regard, it was finding himself a new partner that was giving him trouble still.

‘Ever since the divorce I've been thinking that maybe I'm just not cut out for this, like she was my one chance and I blew it,’ he admitted as you mixed him another sweet drink, a plate of fries ordered and slowly nibbled away at thanks to the both of you. ‘I've been trying, first Arabella back home and then all these people here- you've seen them, you're always working when I bring my dates, it seems, and… I don't know, maybe I'm just unlovable.’ You weren't sure if he was leading you on just to boost his self-esteem or if he genuinely believed it, although you were starting to trust in the latter with his depressive record, and even if he was manipulating you to high hell you thought his attempt was cute after you'd just seen him crash and burn for the tenth time.

‘I think you just need to pick your dates better before you start down that road; tell you what, how about you meet me back here tomorrow, I get off early, and we can go to dinner somewhere I don't work?’ you suggested, and to your surprise he didn't flush and maybe decline a time or two as he actually met your eye and suggested something you didn't expect.

‘I'm free tonight, tomorrow is Saturday after all,’ was all he said, and you couldn't argue with that as you called it a date and went on with your shift.

True to his word he stuck around the entire time, just watching TV or sipping his drink, no phone coming out to help distract him as you finished your final hours. He didn't complain or even yawn, perhaps he was used to being up late with grading homework and all those other time-consuming teachery demands, so this was nothing to him, or maybe he was just that excited to hang out with you some more considering you hadn't thrown him away yet. Either way, when you finally clocked out he was ready to go, his back straight and smile nervous but wide as he followed you to the parking lot. After a quick discussion of him taking his own car after you, you led the way back to your apartment and brought him up without a care. You could hear his breathing quicken when you approached your door, your keys jangling together as you turned the correct one in the lock, and when you both stepped inside and you reached for the lights he actually stopped you.

‘Don't, I'm sorry, I should've been more clear,’ he began as he let you go, and you expected him to box you in, start kissing you with all the pent up desires of a man who probably hadn't been laid in years if your theories were correct, but he just surprised you again when he dropped to his knees and let his hands hover over your thighs without making contact. ‘Please, it's been so long, you're the only one who hasn't-’

He came to his senses then, realized he was a grown man on his knees in front of a perfect stranger, and he couldn't see in the dark how red your face had become, how wide and very interested your eyes now were as you stared down at him.

‘I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me, all the sparkling water must've gone to my head,’ he tried to joke, desperately backtracking as his hands lowered and he made to stand. ‘You didn't bring me here for this, I should go-’

You didn't let him, your hand threading through his hair before you easily guided him to your crotch; he moaned at the warmth behind your pants, his mouth pressing open kisses to the material as he instantly folded, and even in the dim light of your hallway you could still see that his glasses were starting to fog when he looked up at you. ‘Be a gentleman and take off your shoes, I just vacuumed this afternoon,’ you tested him, and he didn't even get up as he took them off and went back to kneeling. ‘It's been a long day, if you really want to apologize to me then you can make it up to me in the living room,’ you suggested quietly, and he nodded before standing again, only this time when he towered over you you felt entirely in control, James only proving that as he walked further into your home and waited for you on the couch.

You smiled at him, impressed because, despite his stories about going behind his boss' back and taking matters into his own hands in his old town, he was very good at following orders, or maybe he just was good at doing what he wanted to be told to do as he looked back to find you. You didn't keep him waiting, your things put away for the night before grabbing the seat next to him, and even though he looked like he wanted to touch you so badly that it was making him hurt, he still waited for you to give him his next order, tell him how to make it up.

‘You looked good before, between my thighs like that, why don't you let me see it again in this better lighting while I think up a way for you to apologize to me.’ He did just so, no questions asked, the apartment quiet save for his loud breathing as you spread your legs and let him get comfortable. You both knew where this was heading, the way he licked his lips and sat ever so patiently for you only made your heart race more as you held his entire sex life in your hand. Depending on what your next move was you'd either be the first to touch him in what had to be a year and a half, or send him home with the very real end result of him getting himself off while imagining you.

Now there was an idea.

‘How much do you want it?’ you asked him then, his cheeks flushing in slight embarrassment like you didn't already know the answer.

‘I need it, you don't know how hard it's been…’

‘When was the last time?’

He swallowed, looking away from you. ‘Back when I was still married, so over two years ago,’ he admitted, and you ran your fingers through his hair again as consolation.

‘No hookups in all this time?’ He shook his head, leaning into your touch as he all but admitted that it was the first in years, and when you scraped your nails against his scalp and gave him a little tug he let out such a surprising sound it could only be pure, genuine want. ‘You waited so long for me, so good, you've done so well, James,’ you purred, encouraging him to tell you more, want you more, and it worked as he shifted even closer, rested his cheek against your thigh and kissed you again.

‘Thank you, I want it from you, you're the only one who sees me,’ he sighed against your leg, his hands coming up to hold and rub you as well, like if he tried hard enough you'd finally take pity on him and give him what he wanted, but you wanted him to earn it, you needed him to be yours.

‘You can have it, if you show me how much you want it, first,’ you told him, your voice just above a whisper, and when he looked up at you you could've sworn you felt his Adam's apple bob against your clothed skin he swallowed so hard.

‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked, his voice also low, this wasn't how a recently re-respected teacher should act, and you sat back and gazed down at him while you undid your pants to give yourself a little more room to breathe with how heavy the air was getting.

‘Touch yourself.’

You knew he was yours the moment the words left your mouth and he didn't run, too blinded by his lust to do anything other than oblige your every whim it seemed as he reached for his belt out of sight. You heard the sound of his zipper just moments before he let out a sigh, his eyes closing tight as he started off slow, getting used to the idea that you actually wanted him here doing this before speeding up a little. You could only see the way his arm moved from this angle, everything else hidden from your sight, and you resisted the urge to lean forward because he was the one who was listening tonight, if he wanted you then he was going to do everything until he could have you.

‘Sit back, I can't see,’ you breathed, James cracking open an eye before letting go of you to lean backwards, and when that still didn't help he stopped for just a moment to move to your ottoman. His legs were equally spread as he reached back down his pants, too shy to take himself out as he went back to stroking himself for you, showing you exactly what he'd been doing the past two years without anyone else to touch him. He didn't hide any sounds from you, and you had to wonder if he was actually playing it up as he rested his chin against his chest and arched his back, his hand moving a little faster still out of your sight. It was good but it wasn't what you wanted, and you waited until his head lolled to the side before letting out a short whistle to get his attention. You patted your lap without a word, inviting him over, and when he straddled you he never once removed his hand, it still moving as he closed the distance between furniture.

‘Do you want me?’ you asked as he stroked himself a little faster, just being this close to you driving him wild.

‘Yes…’ He moaned it into your ear, hunched over and letting his forehead fall against your shoulder; his hips began to move as he fucked his fist, you knew this wasn't enough, and you didn't ask permission before reaching down and sliding his neatly pressed pants down his hips. He choked out a gasp as he finally took himself out, his hand moving properly and so much better over his length, and you looked down and watched as your own need built. You could tell he was getting close by the way his panting was starting to break, he could barely keep it up and it showed in his movements, and when you kissed his neck and took him in hand he thanked you repeatedly before spilling over you. You rode him through it, draining him of every last drop as his reward, and when he sat up you saw that he'd actually cried as he came.

‘So good, you were so good for me,’ you praised him, your hand still moving over him gently even as he whined from the overstimulation, ‘but we're not done yet, you still haven't apologized to me.’ You expected him to ask you for a moment to catch his breath, maybe even decline now that he'd gotten what he wanted, but he wasted no time in sliding off of you and getting ready to kneel again. Your hand on his tie made him stop, his eyes confused before you guided him back to the couch and got him to lay down, his chest heaving and dick hardening again over his stomach as you crawled up and over him.

Your knees hit the arm of the couch as you braced yourself on the back, James breathing heavily before taking off his glasses, lining you up, and kissing you much more intimately this time. You rode his mouth, letting him eat you out as you touched yourself, his hands on your hips to help you keep your balance as you rolled them. Even out of practice he was good, telling you that despite being needy for your touch he was more a giver than a receiver, and he confirmed it when you bit back a moan and felt his hand leave you.

You glanced over your shoulder to see him jerking off so slowly it was obviously just to get himself fully hard again, or maybe he just liked the sounds of you using him to get off that much, either way you grinned and moaned again a little louder, just for him. He hummed against you, his eager tongue licking and probing and fucking into you until you felt your orgasm start to build, but when you went to get up so you could come in a much better way he actually let go of himself to hold you in place. ‘No…’ he murmured against you, needing to finish you off like this is what he wanted more than what you were planning, and you reached between your legs to grab him by the hair and pull him off.

‘Bad boy, don't get greedy,’ you warned him, your words making him squirm as he stared up at you from between your quivering thighs. ‘And here I thought you wanted me.’

‘I do, please, please don't stop,’ he begged, his hands finding purchase on you again as you felt him start to find pressure against his pants.

‘I won't,’ you promised as you let go of him, easily moving his hands away before crawling down to his waist; you sat on his thighs and trapped his dick under you as you undressed him, wanting to see more of him but also wanting him to feel more of you at the same time. He tried to help, loosening his tie and taking it off before you grabbed it and slipped his hands through the hole, the knot holding firm against his wrists as he keened at the sight. He knew not to touch as you finished undoing every button, your hips occasionally swaying as you worked and making him groan as he resisted the urge to grind against you.

It was torture of the best kind to draw it out, your orgasm backed off as you bared his chest and started kissing everywhere you could reach just to hear more of those sounds, your teeth gently biting a nipple before his hands were clasped behind your neck. ‘I'm sorry, just a little more-’ he begged again, you were unaware of how close he'd become thanks to your teasing, and you lifted yourself to your hands and knees to ward it off again now that you knew; this time he whimpered at the loss, his dick twitching pitifully against his stomach as he steadily leaked precome onto himself, it all too much for him after such a long time.

‘Show me how much you want it,’ you panted against his neck, James not knowing what to do until you lowered yourself onto him at long last, his head falling back with a broken whine. ‘Fuck me until I come, don't you dare stop until then.’

His hands remained behind your neck as he began to thrust, your left hand gripping the couch while the other splayed across his chest. You tried not to ride him, wanting him to do all the work and prove to you that he wanted you so desperately that he'd keep doing it until you were satisfied, but eventually you did give in, your hips crashing down on him as you met each thrust with equal desire. You doing that didn't let him last long, James coming inside you as he threw back his head and swore a string of curses about how good it felt, but even as he rested you didn't let him stop, the heat in your belly growing hotter as he looked up at you and licked his lips.

He needed only a moment while you bounced on his still hard cock, his libido holding strong as he pulled you to his chest, braced himself on the couch and floor, and fully fucked you in earnest. There it was, his desire, his greed, his lust as he pleaded into your shoulder for just one more, he needed this so badly that he couldn't take it, everything becoming almost addicting to you as you gave him everything he wanted.

Eventually his pleas turned into an endless string of fucks, no other word left in his English teacher vocabulary as he dug his nails into your back in a desperate attempt to hold on, and when even that word became senseless babbling you finally came. You squeezed hard around him, bringing out his third shortly after as his energy gave out and made him collapse, one final, very hard thrust into you as you fell on top of him making your resulting cry out just as senseless as the words died in your throat.

You could feel his come leaking down your thighs as you laid on top of him, the both of you taking all the time you needed to catch your breath, the afterglow of what was probably the best orgasm you'd had in years still lingering with each small shift until you decided it was time to get up. ‘No, don't,’ he was quick to say, his eyes half-lidded as he turned his head to look at you, ‘stay with me, please.’

Again you couldn't argue with that, getting comfortable against the back cushions so you wouldn't fall off, James still inside you as you found his glasses before they disappeared into the couch forever. ‘Sorry for getting a little rough, I don't know what got into me,’ you apologized as you pet his hair again, careful to massage the places you thought you'd hurt him, and he grinned as he stared blurrily up at the ceiling fan.

‘Probably the same thing that got into me,’ he agreed lightly, and when you both laughed you bounced slightly on his chest. ‘Thank you, for tonight. I know I'm not the most eligible bachelor in town, but… I'd like to see you again, if that's alright with you? Not just to… y'know, hookup or anything, despite all the failures I really am trying to meet someone.’

‘I know, no one would try that hard if they were just looking to get laid,’ you said as you attempted to stretch without letting him slide out of you. ‘But, I gotta know, why haven't you been able to land anyone yet? You've got your flaws, everyone in this town does, but somehow you seem to have all the bad luck when it comes to romance and I honestly don't get it.’

‘Well, to tell you the truth-’ He cut himself off, looking now towards the wall as he turned his head away from you.

‘Oh no, you can't start with that and then not finish,’ you teased him curiously, rolling your hips just long enough to get him to beg you to stop with a weak moan, a very real threat that he could very well go again.

‘To tell you the truth, I haven't been all that interested in my current dates,’ he confessed, your eyes shining with an even stronger curiosity since it always seemed like he was interested when he brought them in. ‘I actually… just wanted to go there because… that's where you work.’ Again he surprised you, your heart skipping a beat as he held you a little tighter. ‘I've liked you since the first time I walked in and saw you, but I've never been good at asking anyone out; I was only able to find those dates through co-workers and their friends, they all put in good words for me, I never did any of the actual asking. I guess that’s why they all failed, I might’ve been subconsciously sabotaging myself because they weren’t you.’

He looked embarrassed as he told you all of this, like you would reject him for having a crush on you despite the mindblowing sex, and you just chuckled and kissed his jaw until he finally looked at you. ‘I guess you did wait til I invited you back here, didn't you?’ you realized then, and when he looked hopeful you gave him a proper kiss; he sighed into your mouth before he remembered where his own had been, his eyes wide in the scandal of it all, but you just laughed and tried again until he had no choice but to kiss you back. ‘Has anyone told you recently how handsome you are? Because to tell you the truth I've been happy to see you every time you walk in,’ you confessed right back, his smile wide as you trailed your fingers from his cheek down to his chest. He shook his head, none of his dates liking him even that much, which you felt was an honest to God crime; oh well, their loss, he was yours now. ‘I have tomorrow off until noon, if you still wanna go out again for dinner tomorrow?’

‘Can I stay the night in the meantime?’ he asked softly, and you kissed him again before finally moving to stand, his still-bound hands raising up to allow you to this time.

‘Of course, the bed has more room to stretch out on, if you don't mind the risk of me cuddling you in the night?’ you warned, but something told you that that was exactly what he wanted as you both stood on shaky legs and made the long trek to your bedroom, his hand clasped in yours.

#Ray's Readers #Ray's Requests #david dastmalchian #James Lewis #james lewis x reader #writing some of these scenes nearly made me go bucknutty I love this man so much

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surrogate-fawn · 2 years ago

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Im a fan of #7.

Nesting (Werewolf AU)

Prompt: "The baby feels so low" [Also inspired by @hush-writes-preg's "Spooky Season Day #3" prompt. He can consider this an early birthday gift as well!]

Characters: Fawn, Newt/Asher - Pre-Polly Relationship ((Newt is owned by @mittysins, and Asher is owned by @killer-orca-cosplay.))

Context: This takes place in a modern world where werewolves are common amidst human society. Fawn is a packless Beta who is about to give birth to her ex-mate's pup. Newt, an Omega, and Asher, an Alpha, are a mated pair who took Fawn into their home -- despite the fact they're expecting a pup of their own in a few months. The three have formed a close friendship, though Fawn still feels like an outsider. After all, she was human only a year ago.

Disclaimer: This fic contains lore for my, Mitty's, and Orca's werewolf AU -- be forewarned there will be worldbuilding mixed in with the kink stuff. If story-heavy kink is your kind of thing -- like it is for us three -- enjoy!

TW: A/B/O dynamics, but within the context of a werewolf society; mentions of past abuse, werewolf-related birth troubles.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Smoky whisps of incense scented the room with lavender. The shades were drawn over the windows to block the fading sun. Golden fairy lights twinkled in the gossamer curtains woven through the support beams of the nesting tent, the only dots of light in the dark room.

The nylon pop-up tent was specially designed for those who were nesting. It clung to the baseboard and covered the entire bed in a snug, arched shelter. It could be zipped or unzipped in sections to create windows and doors as needed, or it could be shut tight for total privacy. The interior of the tent was stuffed full of jumbo-sized Squishmallow plushies, three oversized duvet covers, and one very pregnant werewolf.

"How you doing, Mama?" the mop-haired Alpha sitting bedside asked.

Fawn's pointed ear flicked in the direction of his voice in acknowledgement before she opened her eyes. She lay curled around a giant fox pillow, the soft material supporting her belly as she lay dozing in the tent. She had opened a section of the tent by the headboard so she could leave the nest if she wanted, but at the moment she didn't feel safe anywhere else.

"I've been better," she said, her voice lagging with fatigue.

A dewy layer of sweat clung to her whole body. Her clothing was shed to the bedroom floor, save for a black tank top and pair of boyshorts. The air around her was temperate, but her body burned with a mild fever. Her muscles felt heavy and useless, tired from months of carrying her pregnancy whilst fighting the tremors of rejection sickness. The worst of it had passed over time; but here she was, still feeling the effects of breaking her pair bond almost ten months later.

Oh, and being in labor for the last nine hours was not helping the situation.

The soft click of the door handle caught their attention. The pair of cryptids lifted their heads to look as it opened, the hallway light reflecting green in the mirrors of their eyes.

Newt's familiar scent -- much stronger than his mate's -- overpowered the lavender as he entered the room. Fawn's sinuses tingled with the spicy-sweet aroma of his smell, comparable to sassafras, that indicated his pregnancy as much as the grapefruit-sized swell of his lower belly. Fawn still struggled to describe the scents that were new to her.

The Omega approached her nest and held out the glass of tap water he'd been sent to fetch. Fawn craned her neck and lapped from it, her mouth too parched to obey her command. Her tongue was longer than it had once been, able to bring water to her throat as easily as any straw. She didn't pause to wrap her lips around the edge of the glass until her thirst was mostly quenched.

"Jeez, don't drown," Newt chuckled as Fawn took the drink from his hand.

Asher, the Alpha, got up from his seat and offered it to his mate with a nod of his head.

Fawn gulped down the last of the water and came up panting for air. "Don't tell me what to do," she retorted with a tired, playful grin.

"Don't tell her what to do, babe," Asher said, unable to disguise the smirk on his face as he set the empty glass on the bedside table.

The three shared a brief, quiet laugh.

Fawn's eyelids drifted closed as the room settled back into silence. She shimmied herself deeper into her pile of softness, falling easily into a twilight sleep; at least, for a few more minutes.

A huff of air left Fawn's nose a split second before her brow creased in discomfort. "Ash, start it," she said, curling tighter around her pillow.

"Yes, ma'am." Asher fumbled to unlock his phone and started the timer on his stopwatch app. "Started."

Fawn filled her lungs with air with one long breath and released it as a drawn-out exhale. The contraction coiled itself around her hips and squeezed, growing tighter by the second. The pain grew like a stinging vine around her belly, her ribs, her back, even wrapping around her upper thighs.

With a low groan, Fawn rolled herself onto her back. Her legs fell open at a wider angle than normal -- a sign her hips were loosening in preparation for her large pup to come through. She continued her ritual of slow, deliberate breathing as the contraction continued to climb to its dreaded peak.

Newt leaned into the opening in the tent, enough for him to run a gentle hand over the clammy skin of Fawn's arm. He didn't say anything, but his touch brought her a sense of ease. Even knowing that Asher was in the room, even if she couldn't see him, made her feel better. They'd only known each other a month, but she couldn't imagine surviving labor without them.

Fawn flashed her fangs in a snarl as the contraction reached its apex, the part she dreaded each time. "Ugh!" she growled through her teeth, her head pressed back into the pillow.

Newt's eyes widened when Fawn hooked her hands beneath her knees, drawing her legs up on either side of her belly. "Are you pushing already?"

"She's what?!" Asher gasped in alarm, his face appearing over his mate's shoulder.

"No!" Fawn growled, hardly able to breathe enough to speak. "My legs are about to fuckin' dislocate!"

She could feel the pup pressing its way out, prying open the flesh of her cervix as her womb squeezed it down. The pressure sent stabbing waves of agony between her legs. Her birth canal opened a little more with each millimeter the pup dropped, and now it was putting unbearable pressure on the ball-socket joints of her pelvis.

Fawn grunted in relief as the contraction ebbed. She released her legs, draping them wide apart over her plushies. Thankfully, Newt and Asher's guest bed was queen-sized and allowed her plenty of space to spread out.

"It's done," she announced, so Asher could stop the timer.

"Ooh, getting close," Asher said. "That one was thirty-eight seconds."

Even that short burst of work sent drops of sweat rolling down Fawn's sides. She pulled her tank top over the curve of her belly and tucked the fabric under her swollen breasts. She caressed the sore underside of her bump in long, soothing circles. The skin around her womb was pulled smooth as glass from the weight of the pup inside. She could feel where its surface was gouged by deep, purple stretch marks. Her pup wriggled impatiently beneath her hands, as if able to sense her touch through the thinness of the skin.

"Call me crazy," she said, "but I'm hoping this baby takes its time. It might rip me apart if it tries to break the speed record."

Asher checked the recorded times in his phone. "You'll be fine, it doesn't look like they're in a hurry," he said. "Just stay relaxed and the pup will keep working its way down."

Fawn gave a thumbs-up. "Copy that, Sarge."

"So, guys, are we taking bets?" Newt asked, resting his upper torso inside the tent.

Fawn tilted her head to peer up at him from inside the canyon of her pillow plushie. "On what?"

"Boy or girl," Newt grinned. He propped his chin up on his hand and beamed down at the redheaded wolf woman. "Should we take bets?"

"You boys can if you want," Fawn said.

"Just you versus me, babe," Asher chuckled from somewhere else in the room. "Fawn already knows, that would be cheating."

"No, I don't," Fawn said, quiet and matter-of-fact. She turned her eyes to the little golden lights twinkling over her head. "I didn't know if a doctor would make me contact my mate, so I never went to one."

At the mention of him, the mating scar at the nape of Fawn's neck became hot. She grimaced, able to feel each small wound his teeth had left when he'd inflicted her with the curse of the wolves. It wasn't as strong of a reaction anymore; the pain had at one point been overwhelming.

When she'd taken that first step out of the apartment with the intention to never come back, the mark had burned so intensely she thought she could smell her flesh searing. She was lucky Todd hadn't been home, because he'd no doubt felt the same sensation on the back of his neck -- where he had forced her to mark him as her mate as well. Had he been home, Fawn wouldn't have made it out of the building before he'd realized what she was doing.

"Besides," Fawn added, "I have no idea if I should go to a doctor or a vet now." Her freckled face paled, and she looked back up at Newt. "Shit, is that offensive?"

Newt laughed and leaned in to rub his cheek against her forehead. "Nah."

Fawn smiled as he brushed against her, leaving a bit of his spicy-sweet scent on her skin. She was still adjusting to perceiving the world through scent as much as sight and touch, but she grew more comfortable with it each time the pair scented her. Scent was transforming into language the more she utilized it. Maybe she wasn't sure how to communicate with it, yet; but there was something about it she was starting to understand.

"We'll show you the ropes once you're over the rejection sickness," Asher said, leaning against the nightstand so he could peer into the nest. "So . . . this guy didn't explain any of our lifestyle to you?"

Fawn shook her head. "Not anything us hum-," she paused, pressing her lips into a thin line. "Not anything humans don't already know. Transformation and full moon stuff, basically. He had me sell my silver jewelry before he'd even kiss me. I didn't know werewolves were that sensitive to it."

The boys shared a concerned look.

"Um," Asher cleared his throat, "we aren't. Silver allergies are rare as hell. A few poor bastards had a fatal reaction hundreds of years ago, and humans assumed it was a rule for all of us."

"Good old stereotyping," Newt said.

The lines in Fawn's brow deepened. "That piece of dogshit," she muttered under her breath. "I sold my grandma's pendant for him!"

Goddammit! Why hadn't she thought twice about Todd suddenly needing to "borrow" that money?! Her mating scar throbbed, seeping heat like an open wound where their pair bond had once been. A fresh sweat dampened her brow.

Newt brushed a few stray curls from Fawn's eyes and tucked them behind the point of her ear. "Fuck him. He's a dick."

"Yeah, fuck him," Asher agreed with a frown. His ear twitched as his scowl deepened, knocking his glasses askew. "Alphas are supposed to protect our mates, not take advantage of them."

There was a brief pause. Asher took off his glasses, cleaned them on his shirt, and added: "For what it's worth, Fawn . . . I'm sorry on his behalf."

"Me, too," Newt nodded. "Not as an Alpha, but as a wolf."

Fawn sighed and draped an arm over her eyes. "Thank you for that, boys. It helps . . . at least a little."

She felt like the world's biggest idiot.

When they'd met, she'd been seduced by Todd's hyper-masculine physique and charmed by his overly protective "doting". How special she'd felt, having an Alpha werewolf want her -- an average human woman -- as his mate. In hindsight, being an average human woman was exactly what made him want her. Easy prey.

How quickly she'd regretted her decision to let Todd put her in a mating press. After she'd endured the weeks it took for her anatomy to shift into that of his kind, Todd had convinced her they needed to breed as soon as possible. He wanted a large pack, as many pups as she could give him. It didn't take her long to realize they were the only reason he'd claimed her. Days after leaving him, she'd detected the strange smell of sassafras on her skin -- though she wouldn't know what that meant for two months.

The rejection sickness had masked any symptoms of a pregnancy. The effects were like that of withdrawal: fevers high enough to cause delirium, tremors, nausea, and full-body aches. She'd spent endless days and nights confined to the bed of a sleazy motel room. What carried her through was the knowledge that Todd was feeling just as shitty as she was. Yet, in her darkest moments, Fawn considered going back to him just to make it stop.

Then, her world changed when a fellow wolf woman at the drugstore offered congratulations based on her scent. This prompted her to buy a pregnancy test, and the thought of going back never crossed her mind again.

"Fellas?" Fawn asked, still blindfolding herself with her forearm. "Is a large pack, like . . . a status symbol for y'all or something?"

Asher shrugged. "Not as much as it used to be," he said. "It used to be a big deal in the past, like before we had the treaty with humans. That was because our packs needed the numbers for defense. But now? Not as much."

"Except maybe for those freakishly traditional families," Newt chimed in.

"Mmm," Fawn hummed in acknowledgement. She placed her other hand on the upper swell of her belly and gave it a thoughtful rub. "Well, this baby is mine. I'm not giving birth for the sake of some insecure asshole. This is my baby."

"Damn right it is," Newt grinned, his blue eyes glittering in the low light.

After a few seconds of silence, Fawn's limp-hanging hand curled into a fist. "Mmm, Ash . . . " Her voice trailed off into a chesty groan.

Newt looked over at his mate. "Ash, start it."

Asher pulled out his phone with a nod. "Starting."

Newt massaged Fawn's shoulder as she once again pulled back her legs. The pressure in her hips was immense, and the contraction was heaving the baby down with unholy force. Fawn pulled harder on her knees until she felt her pelvis widen, the bones drifting apart like tectonic plates.

"Breathe, Fawn," Newt gently reminded. "You're holding it."

Fawn hissed out her breath like a deflating tire. "God, it's coming down," she groaned. She shut her eyes and whined as the pup pressed harder against her cervix.

"Change position," Asher offered, bending down to see inside the nest. "Let gravity help you out."

Fawn released a high-pitched whimper. "My hips . . . my hips hurt."

"Here, hold on." Newt reached around Fawn and pulled out another of her oversized Squishmallows from the pile. He left his chair and climbed onto the bed, crawling through the opening of the tent with the plushie in-hand. "Sit up, love."

Fawn reluctantly let her legs fall. Her bones were lead. With Newt's help, she got to her knees and straddled herself atop the large pillow plushie so her hips could remain open.

"There, that's better!" Asher said, sitting on the edge of the mattress. His phone screen reflected in his lenses, revealing the contraction had lasted twenty seconds already.

Fawn bent forward onto all-fours, rhythmically dipping her hips into the pillow as the pain climbed higher than it had before. The Omega at her side dug the heel of his hand into her lower back, allowing Fawn to rock back against the counter-pressure. Her deep breathing wavered, each inhale growing shallower until the wolf woman was full-on panting.

"Calm down, you're doing fine," Newt lulled, ghosting his claws over her spine. "Deep breaths, like you were doing."

Sweat appeared in shining beads on Fawn's reddened face, dampening the frizzy curls around her temples. "I can't," she gasped. All four limbs trembled, fatigued muscles giving up the last of their strength. "I can't . . . I need to lie down."

Fawn sank chest-first into the fox plushie, arms unable to support her weight. Her tongue dipped in and out of her mouth as she failed to control of her breathing. Her fingers sank into the duvet, claws tearing holes in the fabric.

The end of the tent unzipped, creating an arch-shaped door that Asher climbed in through. While Newt continued to knead Fawn's back, Asher laid himself beside her.

"Hey, Mama, look at me," he crooned, his face appearing in the corner of her vision. When her hazel eyes met his, he said: "You are owning this! There's no need to get freaked out. You're too tough for labor to beat. Take a deep breath for us, alright?"

Fawn wet her lips and maintained eye contact with the Alpha while she drew in a big breath.

"Good!" Asher smiled, patting her shoulder. "Now let it out and make the next one even deeper. Show that pain who's boss!"

She obeyed, but mid-inhale she choked on air. With a canid yowl, Fawn pressed herself against the Alpha's body. Her hips ground against the pillow, as if it would cushion the force of her pelvis being forced apart.

"Ugh, gravity's helping too much!" Fawn moaned into Asher's shirt. "This pup is about to fall outta me!"

"That's a good thing!" Asher encouraged, draping his arm over her and motioning for his mate to lie down beside them. "You're making progress. The pup will be here before you know it!"

Fawn's hips finally settled as the contraction eased off, but she still felt unable to move. Her pelvis sat wide open, and the hefty weight of the pup was sinking deep inside it -- even without the contraction.

“Augh, fuck,” she moaned, the sound rumbling in her chest. “Fuck . . . the baby feels low. It feels so fucking low!"

"Ash?" Newt asked as he rearranged the pillows to better support the three of them. "Are you still timing?"

Asher caressed Fawn's thigh as she shifted to support her upper body against the mountain of Squishmallows Newt had piled up. Newt reclined on his side beside her, flashing her a bright smile -- his fangs always hung over his lower lip when he smiled.

"No, I think we're just feeling it out now," Asher said. He'd left his phone charging on the nightstand, just in case they needed it. "I think we're 'reaching a checkpoint' as it were."

Newt rolled his eyes. "Gamers."

Fawn snuggled into the pillow mountain, trying in vain to get comfortable. It wasn't as dramatic as what they showed on television, but Fawn knew exactly what the hot rush of fluid was as it soaked the pillow between her legs.

"Umm, hey . . ." She nudged the pillow aside, revealing ribbons of cloudy water running down her inner thighs. "I think it's time to lose the shorts."

Asher pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "And checkpoint reached!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For five hours, no one left that tent. The room grew darker as the evening gave way to the early morning hours of pre-dawn. The boys stayed at either side of the laboring wolf woman, holding her steady in positions that allowed her pup to ease down with gravity.

Between contractions, the three werewolves lay side-by-side in tranquil silence. The sweat on Fawn's brow would dry, her feverish body would cool, but the warmth of two other bodies prevented the chills from returning. That quiet peace would be broken when Fawn vocalized during a new contraction, signaling the boys to sit her up and widen her stance.

Fawn was growing restless, wanting to switch positions several times during every contraction: squatting against the headboard, kneeling against one guy or the other, or falling into a half-squat in a pile of her plush pillows. The longer the night wore on, the more fidgety the laboring mother became.

At around four in the morning, as the trio rested together beneath the fairy lights, Fawn suddenly spoke:

"Is the cradle ready?"

"Hmm?" Asher sat up and readjusted his glasses.

"Is the cradle ready?" Fawn repeated. There was a glint of urgency in her eyes, although her tone was soft and even.

The fold-out mesh bassinet was visible from inside the nest, placed against the opposite wall. The pup's first outfit was already laid out atop the blanket lining the mattress -- a cotton quilt with embroidered rubber duckies that Newt had donated from the stash he was buying for his own pup.

After a quick glance, Asher responded: "Yep, it's ready and waiting."

"Can you grab some extra blankets or something?" Fawn pleaded. She gradually drew her legs up until her heels touched the underside of her thighs. "Just anything that's soft."

Newt sat himself up and gave his mate a knowing look. "Babe? You think this is that 'final nesting' the baby books talked about?"

Asher's eyes widened. "Oh, crap. It might be."

"What?" Fawn asked. She suddenly realized she couldn't remember what either of the boys had just said -- she wasn't fully aware of what was going on around her. It was so, so hard to focus on anything other than the pounding pressure that had come to rest in the curve of her tailbone.

The mated pair gave each other a nod.

"Ash and I have been reading books about pups like crazy this month," Newt explained in a lighthearted tone. "'Final nesting' is just what your brain does right before the pup is ready to come out."

Asher grabbed the corner of the topmost duvet and rolled it towards them until it became a padded cushion. He carefully slid it beneath Fawn and said: "Yep, it's an instinct. Got to make sure the pup has a safe place to land, you know."

Now it was Fawn's turn to go wide-eyed. "Wait . . . wait, is it happening?" she gasped, her head shooting up off the pillows.

"Maybe," Newt said. "You'll know if it is." He placed a pillow over his torso to protect his belly and scooted behind Fawn to support her into a squat.

"And if it isn't, then we'll just wait some more," Asher concluded. "Don't try to bear down if you don't need to."

Fawn nodded, gulping down the dryness in her throat. She had no idea what to expect with the next contraction. If the monstrous pressure she was feeling hadn't triggered her body to push by then . . . oh, God above, what was about to happen to her?

"I don't . . . don't know if I'm ready for this," she muttered.

Newt leaned in and rubbed his cheek against the side of her neck. "You're as ready as you'll ever be," he said. He intertwined his clawed fingers with her own.

Fawn didn't feel the next contraction as pain, only as a familiar tightness wrapping around her womb. All other sensation was snuffed out . . . massacred . . . left bleeding in the streets! . . . by the wicked downward thrust of her pup moving through her effaced cervix. There was nothing holding that baby in her womb any longer, and it was not waiting another minute to leave.

"Oh, my God!" she screamed -- out of fear more so than pain. Her hips jerked back, trying to escape the demonic pressure burning inside.

Newt squeezed her hands -- his claws never marking her skin. "You feel it?"

"Yes!" Fawn cried, her body shuddering under the hellish urge to push.

"Go with it," Asher encouraged, placing his hand on her knee. "Let's meet your pup."

Fawn held her breath and gave a shallow, hesitant first push. She wasn't sure if she was using the correct muscles, but it felt . . . how could she describe it? . . . it felt like she was doing something. A few seconds of strain later, she let up with a sharp yelp. Yes, she'd been doing it right. That slight nudge had sent the pup rushing forward.

"It's moving . . ." was all she had time to say before her body demanded she continue her efforts -- and double them!

Those few millimeters of progress kicked her urge to push into overdrive. Fawn braced her weight against Newt, put chin to chest, and bore down with every ounce of force she could. The crown of the head pressed deeper against her innermost walls with a fiery, thorny tug. The sensation of her baby moving through her after so many passive hours of labor was startling -- yet beyond rewarding.

Had her eyes been open to see, Fawn would have observed Asher's tender smile as he watched primal focus harden her features.

"Just like that, Mama," Asher praised, again stroking her thigh. "Don't hold back, give it your all!"

Sweat trailed down her flushed skin. Unable to hold the push any longer, Fawn emptied her lungs with a harsh grunt.

"It's already hurting me," she growled through closed fangs. Her voice strained as, for just a few horrible seconds, she resisted the urge to push. "Goddamn, this is gonna suck!"

Newt laid his chin on Fawn's shoulder as she sank into another deep push. "Whatever you feel, don't fight it," he offered evenly. "Your body knows what it's doing, Fawn. Listen to what it's telling you to do."

Fawn's ears pressed back against her head as her hips dipped lower to the duvet. She felt a small trickle of fluid drip from her labia, but the flow stopped as soon as she stopped pushing. A groan escaped the back of her throat as the contraction eased off and she was able to relax.

"That was great," Newt praised, unlacing their fingers and letting Fawn have her hands back. "You got the hang of it right off the bat."

Fawn sighed and balled the duvet beneath them in her claws. Her chest rose and fell quickly, and her pulse hammered in her neck. Any sense of physical comfort was gone now, even between contractions. She knew there would be no peace for her until this pup was out and in her arms . . . but God only knew when that would happen. God only knew if that would happen! The pup was barely inside her birth canal and Fawn was already terrified that it was going to get stuck.

"What if . . . what if I can't get it out?" she panted. Her lower back was screaming, so she shifted her hips forward. It didn't help. "What do we do if I can't get it out?!"

"Hey, hey, don't think like that," Newt helped Fawn recline a bit further against him. He steadied her in his arms, his hands gently massaging the curves where her belly met her ribcage. "There's no doubt in our minds that you can do this!"

"And I'm down here if you need a little extra help," Asher said. He carefully took Fawn's leg and draped it over his lap, helping to open her hips now that she was in a more reclined position. "We won't let anything happen to you or your pup, Fawn. That's a promise."

"You're safe here," Newt said in a low, soothing tone. He continued to apply soft pressure to her sides and back, kneading over her sore body as if smoothing out a delicate fabric.

Fawn never doubted for a second that she was in loving hands. She dreaded to think where she would be right now if the pair hadn't opened their home to her. Without their kindness, chances were that she'd be delivering her baby in a motel bathroom or on top of a cot in a homeless shelter. These two had given her the ultimate gift: a warm, safe place to give birth. She owed her pup's life to them.

"I know," Fawn said, snuggling down further into the nest. "I don't want to be anywhere else right now."

Newt bent down and pressed a kiss to Fawn's hairline. "Keep listening to your body. Don't rush what it's trying to do."

Fawn nodded, puffing out a breath as she felt the next contraction roll up from her back to her belly. "Okay . . . let's go."

She took in a slow lungful of air, waited for the contraction to build in strength, and pushed.

Her loosened joints spread easily for the pup's skull as it squeezed its way down her passage. It became an endless pattern: Fawn would push, the head would squeeze down, and her pelvic bones would spread over its shape as it passed beneath them. She could feel the rhythm of the changes.

Push. Squeeze. Spread.

Rest.

Push. Squeeze. Spread. Spread.

Rest.

Push. Squeeze. Spread. Spread. Spre-OW!

OW! OW! Oh, fuck! Now it was so too big! Her hips were filled to the maximum, her canal stretched wide around a huge pair of shoulders as they slipped from her womb. She could feel her labia bulging from between her legs -- and oh, God, they ached! There was nothing but a layer of her skin holding the pup in, and it felt like a bubble of gum about to burst!

But she couldn't stop pushing. Not now, not when everything was raw and stretched and open and hurting so goddamn bad! Fawn curled her toes into the mattress and wailed as she threw herself harder into pushing. Her voice grew louder as she felt the inflamed skin between her legs starting to open.

"Good job, Mama! Here it comes!" Asher cried, his voice raised to be heard over Fawn's roar of effort.

Asher had his eyes glued to the pale, wet sac pressing out of Fawn each time her body strained. He'd read in their books that it was common for werewolf pups to be born with their membranes wrapped around them. That was fine, he just had to be prepared to remove it.

A tiny spurt of fluid leaked out from around the sac as the head began to stretch the skin of the perineum. The pup's size seemed to be keeping most of its sac unruptured, the fluid too pressurized to leave the birth canal. Asher furrowed his brow but said nothing.

Of course, Newt took notice of his mate's unease. He swallowed the unease in his chest, and scented Fawn's hair with his cheek again in the hopes it would distract her.

"Ash sees the head," he crooned. "Keep going, you're pushing like a pro!"

With renewed vigor, Fawn gave into her body's needs. Asher waited until a few centimeters of the solid white membrane stretched open Fawn's lips, then he placed his index finger against the bulging sac to gauge how much fluid was inside. He felt the semi-solid squish of the pup's head just beneath the film, but his finger pad felt the swish of water when he pressed down. That wasn't a very good sign, but Asher still felt confident that he could handle it.

"I'm going to help you out a little, okay?" Asher told Fawn, cupping his hand over the crowning pup. "Focus on pushing, and I'll help you open up. I'll go slow."

Newt once again sensed Asher's unease and made it his mission to protect Fawn from sensing it, too. "Pup's almost out, Fawn," he said as he gave her shoulders a brief hug. "It'll be out quicker with Ash helping you. Just take a deep breath and let yourself stretch."

"I'm trying," Fawn whimpered. "I'm trying."

As Fawn bore down against the pup, Asher ran his fingers against the sides of her lips. He nudged her skin open bit by bit around the sac, watching as it stretched from a small oval to a wide circle over the course of several minutes. Asher cringed as he saw the skin of her labia discolor from a raw red to an almost beet purple with the width of the head.

Fawn, meanwhile, had fallen completely taciturn. Aside from wolfish growls and whimpers, she made no efforts to express her pain verbally. Her focus had shifted solely to bearing through the ordeal, working with her body to bring it to a swift end.

"Keep going, we're almost there!" Asher cheered. He had his hands positioned at the apex of her inner thighs, supporting the tight skin as Fawn pushed the head to its widest point.

Fawn shuddered and let her head fall back on Newt's chest. Her mind was a mess of black static as the pup's shoulders ground against her pubic bone. She arched her spine as the pup ceased to move for one heart-stopping moment. Then, in a sudden lurch, the sac-covered head popped free into Asher's waiting hands.

"Awesome! Awesome, Fawn!" Newt cheered, peering over her shoulder as much as he could. He could see the white membrane resting in his mate's palm. "Babe, you got it?"

Asher nodded. "I've got it, don't worry."

Without drawing attention to it, Asher took the claw of his thumb and carefully -- oh-so-carefully -- punctured the membrane at the base of where he felt the pup's neck should be. A quiet sploosh filled the nesting tent as amniotic fluid rushed over Asher's hands. He hooked his claw inside the tear and slowly peeled the sac over the pup's head.

There wasn't much hair on the pup's head -- unusual, though not uncommon -- but that wasn't what Asher was looking for. He craned his neck at a painful angle until he could catch a glimpse of the pup's face. When he saw it, he paled. The features were predictably swollen, but the puffy lips were hanging open and dripping a thick yellowish mucus. Asher thanked the stars above that he and his partner had read up about whelping -- for he was able to recognize the tell-tale symptom of waterlogged lungs.

The mates locked eyes with each other and nothing else needed to be said or done. They both understood.

"This is it, love," Newt said, leaning in to help Fawn hold her legs apart. "This next contraction is going to be the one."

Fawn's jaw gaped like a suffocating fish, but finally her voice obeyed her command: "Is my baby okay?"

Oh, hell. She must've smelled the pheromones of their stress. Newt had been hoping she wouldn't understood what the scent of fear was, yet.

Newt smiled at her and brushed her sweat-plastered hair away from her eyes. "They're fine, they just need some extra help."

"When you push, I'll give them a little tug," Asher said. "It's going to hurt, but it'll be over before you know it."

Fawn squeezed her eyes shut. "Can't hurt any worse than this," she mumbled. "Just do it."

The boys were expecting the horrific scream Fawn released when Asher began guiding out the first shoulder, but it still made their sensitive ears ring.

"You're so strong, Fawn!" Newt said into her ear. He felt her legs trying to close against the pain, and he had to pause to pull them back apart. "I know it hurts, but you're handling it so well! We're so proud of you!"

Asher kept his focus locked on delivering the pup as fast and as safe as possible. One hand supported the pup's body while the other pulled down on the emerging shoulder.

"Come on, little guy," Asher muttered under his breath. "Come on, you can do it."

With an audible pop of Fawn's hip joints -- and another yowl from the wolf woman herself -- the pup's first shoulder slipped free. Asher wasted zero time in hooking his thumb under the tiny arm and continuing his steady, gentle tug.

A rather disgusting squelch accompanied the pup as it slid onto the duvet. The remains of the membrane bunched around its feet as Asher scooped it into his hands. The body was grey and limp, and all three heartbeats stalled.

"What's wrong?!" Fawn cried. "What's wrong with it?!" She reached for her baby on instinct, but Newt held her back.

"It's okay!" he said, adjusting himself to block her veiw of Asher and the baby. "It's okay, I swear! Asher's taking care of it."

Newt stroked her sweaty face with the back of his hand, doing anything he could think of to soothe her. It didn't stop the tears from flooding the exhausted mother's eyes.

Behind his mate's back, Asher brought the pup's face to his lips. His mouth easily covered the nose and mouth of the newborn, and he gently sucked the sour-tasting fluid out of its airway. Asher spit the gunk into his sleeve and repeated the action, rubbing his thumb against the baby's chest as he did.

It was a process that lasted less than twenty seconds, but to all three werewolves it felt like eternity. But eternity ended when the pup sucked in a deep, squeaking breath. The sound of its first cry was shrill, but to the trio it sounded like singing.

Asher couldn't help but start crying as the little body he'd resurrected wiggled to life in his hands. "Here he is!" he said, voice wavering with joyful tears.

Newt sat back immediately, allowing Fawn to see the baby alive and well in Asher's arms.

"Here's our boy!" Asher announced, laying the crying baby over his mother's heart.

Through the haze of her tears, Fawn looked over every detail of her little boy. She saw the layer of damp fuzz covering his skin, the points on his pink, folded-over ears, and the coating of protective skin over his miniscule claws. She thanked whatever power was out there for that last detail, because such tiny needles would've been horrible to feel coming out.

"Sweetheart," she told the baby, wrapping her arms around him, "don't make a habit outta scaring me like that."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Is he already nursing again?" Newt asked as he placed the glass of water on the nightstand.

"He eats like a horse," Fawn chuckled, adjusting the nursing pillow under her baby. Jacob was the name she had settled on.

The sun was coming up now, filling her bedroom with a soft white light. Asher was on the floor, disassembling the nesting tent. It would be taken out again in a few months for Newt to use, but the Alpha was determined to Tetris the pieces correctly into their box.

Jacob was an aggressive nurser. Three hours old and this was his third time demanding his mother's milk. Newt and Asher insisted such an appetite was normal for a larger werewolf pup, but Fawn wasn't too thrilled to learn she was going to get even less sleep than she anticipated with a new baby.

Fawn quickly drained the glass of water. She wasn't sure if she would ever feel not-thirsty again. "So, Newt," she said, "I didn't scare you into wanting a C-section, did I?"

"Nah, not at all." Newt laid down on the bed beside Fawn, propping himself against the Squishmallow pile. "If you could get him out, I'm pretty sure I'll be okay."

Newt pet the thin strands of hair on Jacob's head. The newborn swiped a clumsy, mitten-covered fist over his head with a teeny-tiny growl. All three adults stopped and stared.

"Was that him?!" Asher asked from the floor.

"Yeah . . ." Newt said, withdrawing his hand. "He's very protective of his food."

Asher almost fell over laughing. "That's Alpha behavior if I've ever seen it!"

"How do you guys even determine that stuff?" Fawn asked. "Is it a sex thing?"

"Eh, a bit," Newt shrugged, "but it's also a personality thing." He tickled the folded tip of Jacob's soft ear, and got the same response as before.

"Ow!" Fawn jerked as her son bit down on her breast. "Stop annoying him, or I'm biting you, too!"

"Sorry," Newt chuckled.

"I can't thank you boys enough for this," Fawn said. "This werewolf shit is all sorts of weird for me, and . . . now I know for certain that Jacob wouldn't have been alright if you weren't with me."

"That's what packs do," Asher said, re-folding a segment of nylon tarp. "We look out for each other."

"Do we even . . . " Fawn stopped herself mid-sentence and looked away.

Newt grinned and touched his forehead to Fawn's temple. "I don't know. What do you think?"

Fawn grinned in return and rubbed her cheek against his hair, leaving her scent on his skin.

#fawn drabbles #mittysins #killer-orca-cosplay #Fawn/Newt/Asher #fpreg labor and birth #labor kink #birth kink #borrowed ocs #fpreg

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sunlightgalaxy · 1 year ago

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Aaron

my gif | read on AO3

Aaron Hotchner x Emily Prentiss

summary: following a surprisingly emotional case for the usually well-tempered boss, hotch seeks out comfort in his favorite dark-haired agent, which obviously leads to a confession or two.

wc: 2335

warnings: none (?)

a/n: alternate ending to 7x10 the bittersweet science (the bloodlusting boxer). first fic i have written in two years pls be nice feedback is so appreciated xox enjoy!!

Any case involving kids is tough on the team, especially those who have one of their own. Factor in a young boy dying, however, and that’s enough to make move the usually stoic Aaron Hotchner to tears.

Which is exactly what was happening in that hospital room, Hotch having brought unsub Jimmy Hall to spend his last moments with his son. Standing far back enough to give the family some privacy, but still keeping an eye on the suspect of course, Hotch did his best to ignore the heartbreaking scene in front of him.

“You fought a hell of a fight, Ryan,” Hall spoke through sobs, his ex-wife a mess on the opposite side of the bed. Hotch felt it then, a salty droplet staining his face, and another one trickling to the floor. His expression never changed, however, doing as much as he could to maintain his professional look.

Emily and Rossi had met Hotch and Spencer at the hospital after learning of the outcome of Hall’s match, citing their presence as a second duo to help escort the unsub back to the precinct. In reality, Emily’s brain had gone on autopilot, creating such an excuse to mask her real reason for coming. She knew what Hotch would be feeling in those moments in that room, and she couldn’t bear for him to deal with it alone, if he even did at all.

Rossi didn’t mind this, of course. He always sensed the romantic tension between the two since his first day back in the unit, him and the other 5 team members having a bet going on how long it would take for the spark to finally be ignited. So, when he and Emily reached Spencer in the hallway outside of the Hall room, the three agents lined up against the wall.

Spencer made a bit of small talk about the case that had now begun the closing process, but in all honesty, Emily didn’t hear a word that was said. Her eyes were fixated on the man opposite the small pane of glass, his emotionless expression unwavering.

The three of them heard the unwelcome tone of the monitor flatlining, looking amongst each other solemnly. Minutes later, the door was opening as Hotch wheeled the unsub out of the room. Wordlessly, Rossi took the chair from the other man and begun leading him towards his own room, while Spencer brought his ex-wife in the opposite direction to console here. Aaron replaced Spencer’s position next to Emily on the wall, his eyes fixating on a painting across from the two of them.

“Rossi said he would take care of all the paperwork at the precinct and close up,” Emily spoke, turning to look at the man next to her. If she looked close enough, she could see the faint tear stain on his left cheek. “Let’s go back to the hotel, I’ll drive.”

Aaron nodded, wordlessly beginning to walk with Emily towards where she had left the car just hours before. Their hands found each other as soon as the hospital door closed, making both of their heart rates jump ever so slightly, though both would just chalk it up to the events of the night.

Aaron, ever the gentleman, opened the driver’s side door for Emily before slipping into the seat beside her. He wasn’t surprised by the blush creeping up her cheeks, he noticed it the first time he made the same gesture all those years ago. She turned on the car and begun the short drive back to their hotel. Classical music quietly played through the car radio, and Emily often turned to look at Hotch. She would see him staring out the window each time, but that’s because she was focused on the road each time he would steal a glance.

Soon enough, the pair arrived at the hotel, making their way to the elevator. The ride to the 12th floor was short, but felt like eternity for the two of them. Both lost in their own thoughts about love and life and death, neither noticed how close the other was until their arms brushed against each other. Aaron turned to Emily and looked down at her, a ghost of a smile on his face. A sad smile, but one nonetheless. She looked up, and he could sense the concern in her eyes.

“Thank you for the ride back, Prentiss,” he said softly, his brain itching to brush the fallen piece of hair behind her ear.

“You don’t have to thank me, Hotch,” Emily laughed quietly. “That’s what teammates are for.” She immediately had to hold back a wince at her word choice, knowing damn well she just friendzoned her boss. Then again, she didn’t feel as if this was the time or place to confess to feelings she’d been harboring for nearly five years. “Will you be alright tonight?” She asked to change the subject, out of concern for both her dignity and her boss’ mental state.

“I always am, Prentiss,” Hotch spoke as the elevator came to a stop. The two walked down the same hallway, Emily stopping at her door first. “Goodnight, Emily. Get some rest,” Aaron said softly, his hand brushing against Emily’s back in a way that toed the line of professionalism.

Emily did her best to not freeze at the touch of her boss in what some would consider to be quite a sensual spot. “Thank you, you too,” she managed to get out in a relatively normal tone. “Goodnight, Aaron.” Hotch gave Emily a nod before retreating to his own room, just a few doors down.

The first thing Emily did when entering her room for the night was turn the shower on and dig through her go-bag for the most comfortable clothing she could find. Hopping into the shower, she let the near-boiling water run over her skin as if she was trying to cook away the details of this case. After standing in the shower for what very well could’ve been over an hour, she stepped out and put on her clothes. She was just about to get into bed when there was a knock at her door. Assuming it would be JJ, she didn’t bother throwing on a hoodie before opening the door.

That felt like a mistake to her when she found Aaron opposite the door frame. It felt even worse when she became painfully aware that his eyes were briefly on her low cut, extremely cropped red tank top, which left hardly anything to imagination. And then she watched his eyes make their way to her low-rise sweatpants. Truly she could never feel more embarrassed than in that moment.

“Is everything alright?” Emily asked as she brought her arms up to her chest, itching to draw attention away from her. “Do we have another case?”

“No, no new case,” Hotch spoke quietly, meeting Emily’s gaze. “Do you mind if I just come in for a bit?” He looked away, almost embarrassed to be seeking out company from his subordinate at such an hour. Emily didn’t see it that way, of course, mainly because she could feel the emotions radiating off of Aaron.

“Of course you can,” she smiled and moved out of the way to let the older man in. Shutting the door, they both moved to sit on the edge of the king-sized bed. The pair sat in silence, but it was comfortable - neither felt any pressure to speak like they would if they were in the presence of anyone else. After a while, however, Emily wanted to say something, she just didn’t know what. She turned to look at the man next to her, who she found staring at the wall as tears slowly fell. “Oh, Aaron,” she sighed, putting her hand to his face and turning him to look at her. Her heart damn near broke at seeing him in such pain, the feeling reminiscent of when she had been there for him after he had lost Haley. She pulled him into a hug instinctively, his head seeking solace on her chest as she rubbed soothing circles into his skin. Neither were aware of the eroticism behind the position in that moment, both focused on the hurt and comforting in the present.

“I have no idea why this is affecting me so deeply,” Aaron laughed. “It’s not funny,” he added after seeing the woman’s puzzled look at his chuckle. “I usually have no true emotional reaction when cases involve kids, or the kids of unsubs, but this time I did and I can’t figure out why.”

His hands felt around until it found hers once again, the two of them grasping at each other like it was a lifeline.

“I think it’s because you saw that boy dying and it triggered you to think about what could’ve happened that day,” Emily said, looking at Aaron as he wiped a tear from his face. She didn’t have to specify what day or who could’ve died, they both knew what she meant.

“Doesn’t help that Dave’s been up my ass about dating too,” Aaron added, grabbing Emily’s attention even more. She couldn’t possibly figure out how that had to do with the idea of Jack dying. “He’s been pushing me to date since it’s been almost two years since Haley died, and I think you’re right, the details of this case must have triggered something in me.”

”Grief hits us in the least expecting places,” Emily commented.

“That it does,” Aaron agreed, turning his gaze back to the way. Emily did the same, and the two were silent again for a while.

“Rossi’s right though,” Emily said after a while, eyes staring at the same spot on the wall as the man next to her. “You probably should start dating again.”

“I’ve already had my eye on someone for a while,” Aaron said softly. This time it was him turning to look at the younger woman, using his hand to bring her head towards him before she even had a chance to react to his words. “And I know she’s been doing the same.”

“Really?” Emily asked, feigning innocence. “How do you know she’s into you?”

”There’s a reason they made me the leader of this team,” Aaron said, the insinuation that Emily doubted his ever so present profiling skills making her blush. “But in all honesty, she’s always there when I need her most, even if I don’t realize it myself at the time.” Emily smiled softly at that moment, her cheeks nearly burning as she used her free hand to fiddle with the waistband of her pants. “Plus, she loves to wear a certain red tank top on days when I have a perfect view,” Aaron added, making Emily laugh. His face moved closer to hers, as if asking for permission. Emily nodded and not a moment later, his lips were on hers, encapsulating them in a soft yet passionate kiss.

They broke apart after a while, when it got to the point when air became necessary. “Thank you,” Aaron smiled at her, wrapping his arms around Emily.

“For kissing you?” Emily joked softly. “I’m kidding, I know what you meant,” she added, pulling him into a hug. “I will always be there for you, no matter what.” Her hands ran through his hair, his making their way to the small of her back. “Would you like to stay the night?” She asked. Realizing how suggestive that sounded, especially after the past few minutes, she added quickly, “That way you don’t have to be alone tonight.”

“I’d like that, thank you, Em,” Aaron smiled. The two broke away, climbing under the covers. Their bodies drew to each other like magnets do to metals, reaching for each other until it was impossible to move any further.

“Is that really what gave it away?” Emily asked, moving her head into his chest as the two settled down for the night. “The red tank top?”

”Sort of, but it’s not what really confirmed my thoughts.”

“Well, what was it then?” Emily asked, wanting to know her tell.

”You called me Aaron today,” he said, planting a kiss to her temple. “Twice actually. You hadn’t done that since you found me in the hospital after Foyet got to me, and then again after Haley. And it slips out sometimes when we’re in private.”

”Oh,” Emily said sheepishly, a smile creeping up her face. “I guess I didn’t really try too hard to keep it professional.”

”Oh I didn’t mind one bit,” Aaron laughed, putting his arm around his girl, feeling her breathing even out as they both drifted to sleep.

***

”So, have you taken my advice?” Rossi asked, sitting across from Hotch on the jet. With the case closed and nothing but paperwork to look forward to at the office, the team resorted to their favorite pastime of gossiping. Today’s topic of conversation seemed to have focused itself on the boss man’s dating life, as it so happened to be recently.

“You’ll be happy to know I have a date on Friday,” Aaron said simply, his attention not leaving his paperwork. Emily’s attention was piqued, however, her eyes raising up from her book.

“Atta boy Hotch!” Morgan said excitedly, clapping Aaron’s back from the next seat over. ��Who’s the lucky lady?”

“You hardly know her,” Aaron commented, eliciting a scoff from a certain blonde across the table.

“I saw what room you went into last night,” JJ said, causing eyes to fall on the only other woman on the jet.

“That was for work business only!” Emily exclaimed. It technically wasn’t a lie, he had come in to discuss the feelings regarding the case.

“Em, I saw him leave your room late this morning when I came back from the gym,” JJ said, eliciting a blush from the raven haired woman as she nudged her.

“Aw man!” Morgan yelled, drawing the attention to himself. “Penelope owes me 50 bucks!”

#criminal minds #cm #cm fic #criminal minds fanfiction #hotchniss fanfiction #Aaron Hotchner #emily prentiss #hotchniss #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss #emily prentiss x Aaron hotchner #mine*#fic*#cm*#hotchniss*#spencer reid

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hothotpot · 1 year ago

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I was digging through my notes app the other day and came upon this little snippet of a thing I wrote. Like the other little bit, it was meant for a Disco Elysium fic that I'm not sure I'll ever properly write, but I like it so much it feels unfair to keep it all to myself.

The fic had no real plot, and was really just a series of scenes of Harry and Kim flirting and eventually getting together, because I am a soft idiot. This would have been the end of the fic, so uh, spoilers I guess lol

Anyway, stupid Harry/Kim fluff below the cut!

"So are you my boyfriend now?"

Kim can't quite bite back the laugh that huffs out. "We're not teenagers, detective."

"But I don't think I've ever had a boyfriend before, Kim. I want you to be mine."

His plea is so plaintive and genuine, Kim can't help but be moved, however slightly. "Fine," sarcasm laces his tone as he answers, "we can be boyfriends. You can pass me notes between Civics and Maths, hm?"

The grin that breaks out across Harry's face sends an altogether unreasonable surge of warmth thrumming through Kim's chest. "Will you write back?"

"No, I will not. Unlike you, I take my studies very seriously."

But I will keep every single note you give me in a box beneath my bed, safe where only I can find them, and take them out and read and read and read them again and again, as often as I like - the thought runs through Kim's head completely of its own accord, accompanied by a mortifying burst of sentimentality, and he feels an insane sense of relief that it is only the tips of his ears glowing and not his lungs.

The relief evaporates, though, as Harry fixes his intense green eyes on his own, and the absurd thought that Harry has heard the thought occurs to him. It's impossible, of course, but then Harry raises his hand and cups Kim's jaw with a reverence that sets his pulse hammering in his ears, and Kim is certain that it's true.

"I think I love you, Kim." A breathless exhalation, wondering and amazed.

Kim laughs, and thank the Innocence Harry doesn't flinch.

"Shut up, Harry." The words are amused and fond, tempered with what, even in the privacy of his own thoughts, Kim does not dare admit the truth of.

But Harry just grins and pulls him into a kiss, lips soft and warm, mustache tickling his nose. Kim lets him, but only briefly, then pulls away and bats gently at the detective's shoulder.

"Go to sleep, lieutenant, it's late."

Harry lets Kim move away just long enough to set his glasses carefully in their place on the nightstand and switch off the light, before dragging him back to him with a strength that leaves Kim a little breathless, thick arms encircling slim waist and holding close. Warmth breathed against sensitive skin as Harry nuzzles into Kim's neck, lips grazing, and then a murmured "Good night, Kim."

"Good night, Harry."

#disco elysium #kim/harry #kim kitsuragi #harry du bois #my writing #unfinished fic #wip #ostensibly anyway I probably won't ever finish this so #fan fiction #disco elysium fanfiction

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romancingromanoff · 2 years ago

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Secrets & Sketches

Andromache the Scythian x f!reader

I decided to create a series of loosely related one shots for Andromache (my beloved). Here’s part 1 and part 2

Summary: You were always staring at her, not knowing she was staring back.

TW: None?

Word count: +5,100

Author's Note: Hi y'all. Here's some slightly domestic fluff before the action happens and the stakes skyrocket through the roof.

Despite never having lived with four strangers before, it turned out that your new situation offered you far more privacy than you had ever experienced while living with your mother.

The woman had a compulsive need to control every aspect of your life, from what you wore to what you ate. You were barely even safe in the bathroom. The years had taught you to lie with your words and carefully crafted smiles. Knowing what she wanted to hear from you and how you could appease her temper was like mastering a second language. Your skills in the craft became more and more refined throughout the years and your confidence ultimately grew. But you underestimated your mother and made the greatest mistake of them all.

“I know you’re lying to me! What are you trying to hide from me, you ungrateful whore?”

A picture frame nearly collided with your head, chipping the door frame instead of scratching your face. The glass shattered on the floor and your body jumped twice, once at the sound and another time when your eyes settled on the damage and found that your favorite childhood photo with your grandmother was destroyed.

“Whatever you did, I will find out! You cannot lie to me, I am your mother!”

It was one afternoon you had wanted all to yourself to go see the movie Roman Holiday after school. The charismatic Audrey Hepburn, riding on a Vespa with the largest smile you had ever seen, caused strange feelings to stir in your stomach when you had first watched the trailer. She was a princess masquerading as a commoner in order to freely experience the wonders of the Eternal City. Oh, how you envied her character. Your mother, however, could only focus on how short her hair was. The shortest your hair had ever been was when you were a fresh newborn. Once it grew past your upper back, you were never allowed to cut it, despite all the other girls you knew being able to short styles.

“How disappointing.” She scoffed when a clip of her getting her haircut played. “Such a beautiful young woman and she wants to make herself look like a man? I really don’t understand your generation, you’re all confused.”

When you arrived home late that evening, she refused to believe the lie you had produced about giving some tutoring lessons after school. It was only two days later that she found the proof she wanted. While snooping through your journal she came across the movie ticket you had pasted next to your latest entry. She burned the entire thing as only one portion of your punishment.

How your mother could predict your actions, anticipate your every move, and see through every single one of your lies you did not know. It was like she knew you and how your mind functioned but could never truly understand how suffocated you felt by the twisted ways she expressed her “love” for you. She was your mother, the closest kin you had left after your grandmother’s passing and the woman that had known you for your entire existence. The fact that she birthed you was one she’d never let you forget, yet you knew she would spend your entire life trying to mold you into something you weren’t if she could. If she could never accept you then how could anybody else?

Then you met Andy, who always seemed to be in tune with whatever you were thinking. Hell, she could practically guess your thoughts word for word without even really trying, yet not once did it ever feel like she was violating your mind as your mother had. You were almost completely certain that she was fully aware of the times when you were drawing her. It was impossible not to see the art in her movements. She’d be doing something mundane yet slightly active such as washing the dishes and you’d pull your sketchbook out. The moment you put pencil to paper she would slow down ever-so-slightly. A plate that needed maybe two wipes suddenly took four or more to clean. She must have known what she was doing to you, softly smirking as she folded laundry

But did she know what it was doing to you? How intensely you felt about her and as more than just an art subject, more than someone you merely admired. Pages full of sketches, varying in detail and design, became dedicated to capturing the alluring domestic side of the ancient warrior. Every angle, every shadow was carefully reconstructed (to the best of your ability anyway) as if to preserve each moment and time so that your eyes may never forget what she looked like chopping onions on a rainy Tuesday evening. A brief moment that might be incredibly insignificant for a being that has walked the earth for thousands of years, but one that was still so precious to you. The time you spent together, even the moments everyone else might consider to be dull, were filled with color all because of her.

Why she allowed you to draw her so frequently was something you couldn’t quite figure out. This rather untraditional dance the two of you engaged in was never spoken about in words. There was no doubt that Andy would have said something much earlier had she been uncomfortable being drawn by you. A part of you enjoyed entertaining the idea that, perhaps in some small way, Andy might actually return your feelings. But at the same time, you didn’t want to be wrong and come off as an artistic creep trying to invade her privacy.

The good thing was you never had to worry about any of the others looking through your sketchbook. The one time Joe had asked if he could take a peek it hadn’t even crossed your mind that you could have said ‘no’ to him. But the smallest bit of hesitance that he had seen in your eyes as you prepared to hand over your most personal and sacred treasure immediately stopped him.

“Y/N, you don’t actually have to show me anything if you don’t want to. I was merely curious but no part of me would be offended if you want to keep your art to yourself. I will always respect your privacy first.”

His words were almost foreign to you, like ones you had only ever read on pages and later discovered were pronounced completely differently when you finally heard them spoken out loud. Still, you knew Joe meant everything he said. Though all of your new companions were certainly capable of it, none of them had ever once tried to deceive you or keep you hidden from the truth. Previously living with a pathological liar had taught you all the signs you needed to know and not once had you found a single one since joining the old guard.

It was a bit startling how safe you already felt with these few strangers you had only met a few short weeks ago. You could talk to all of them about (almost) anything, although you did worry that your endless amount of questions might annoy any one of the unnaturally older beings. Sometimes you nearly cringed at the thought of how ignorant and stupid you must have appeared in their eyes. It mostly motivated you to contribute where you could. Cooking and cleaning were not tasks you necessarily enjoyed, but it felt nice to make some type of contribution to the team. Still, you longed to prove yourself as something more, to help save lives and make Andy, Booker, Joe, and Nico proud. And maybe, just maybe, if you became worthy enough of someone like your rescuer, she might look at you differently.

┊ ┊┊

It was nearing morning hours and your endless thoughts hadn’t allowed you to sleep yet. There was a buzzing in your body, making it impossible to fully relax, even though you knew you had a busy day of training ahead of you and you needed the rest. You tried to conjure up the comforting sound of Andy’s steady heartbeat as you imagined her lying next to you, only to grow even more anxious when you began feeling guilty for indulging in such thoughts.

Did she even like women the way you did? You certainly had your suspicions and noticed the way her heart seemed to break anytime there was a mention of Quynh. The necklace that never left her neck also appeared to hold a great amount of pain and significance to her. But even if you were right, Andy had never brought up any details regarding her love life and you were determined to respect that undiscussed boundary. The tossing and turning was just an unfortunate side effect that eventually had you cave in and get up to grab a drink from the kitchen.

“Can’t sleep?” The voice of the very person you had been thinking of came from behind you as soon as you had turned on a small lamp. You let out a nervous laugh and kept a steady hand on your chest when you caught her smiling directly at you. It made you take some extra time while getting your glass of water so that your heartbeat had a chance to settle.

Andy sat at the bar sipping on a mug of coffee. Even with the light being so dim, you didn’t need it to tell her beverage was completely black.

“I still don’t know how you’re able to drink that. Every time I try it it’s like trying to swallow hot liquid dirt.”

“Really?” The Scythian chuckled and you prayed the darkness would hide your melted expression. “That’s surprising considering how you drown yours in milk and sugar.”

“Hey, we can’t all be as tough as you.”

“No one said you had to be. No one said you weren’t already.” You supposed you were tough in the context of being able to override death itself, but besides that, it wasn’t a character trait you ever considered yourself to have. Even the immortality thing was basically a fluke.

The dark haired woman gestured for you to sit down and you awkwardly lowered yourself into the chair across from her. Your glass of water looked silly standing next to her more refined drink. “Yeah, that’s me. I got tough hands covered in paper cuts and callouses from drawing.”

“Art is tough for a lot of people. It’s tough for me. I could never quite get the emotional vulnerability part down and I feel like all the best art pulls from that. I would say you could probably teach me a thing or two about drawing but you have something more inborn than that. It can’t be taught.”

“But you’ve never seen my work?” Had she? You didn’t think she’d go through your things without your permission but there was definiteness in her tone that told you her words were true.

“No,” she shrugged. Nothing in her seemed to waver. “I don’t need to. There’s this look you get in your eyes when you’re completely focused on drawing that seems to transport you to this different world. I always wonder where you go but don’t want to tear you away when you’re clearly inspired.”

You had been staring at her for so long believing that she was merely tolerating your strange behavior. You assumed she simply felt unbothered. The idea that she might have been secretly staring back never once crossed your mind.

“You… You watch me?” A beat passed and your brain short circuited, unsure of what kind of answer you even hoped to hear. If she did then was it with the same unspoken desire you held in your heart that you could be worthy of her one day? No, it had to be something far from that. Your awkward, uncoordinated behavior could only be considered entertaining at best if Andy didn’t find you pitiable. You imagined it was like watching your neighbor’s beagle after they arrived home from a medical procedure at the vet. The poor thing was so loopy yet unaware that he couldn’t walk in a straight line. Every few steps he took he’d also crumble to the floor before eagerly trying to get back up and making another attempt with the same results. That’s what she must see whenever she saw you trip over your own feet. Or how silly you looked the other day when Booker tried to show you how to hold a pistol and you shook so hard that it fumbled out of your hands.

Even with all the time in the world, it was a struggle to see yourself ever truly earning your place among the rest of the guard one day. You not only lacked combat experience but had been thoroughly sheltered from the world by your mother. She hadn’t allowed you to participate in any sports, not even the more feminine ones like dance or golf. The result was barely being able to do a push-up and having the wind knocked out of your lungs after only a brief jog.

The others had started you off with some basic self defense techniques, which caused you to wake up with sore muscles you hadn’t even known existed. Everyone was extremely patient with you, stressing the importance of slowly building up your strength and reminding you that there was no rush to suddenly reach their skill level when they’d been fighting for longer than some of the strongest empires had lasted. But then you’d watch them training together or listen to one of them recount several of the missions they completed while you were stuck waiting in the safe house. They were out there saving lives, as well as literally sacrificing their own, while you could only hope to one day do the same.

In the back of your head you could hear your mother berating you for having such ridiculous dreams. If she could see you struggling to learn a pull up she would certainly laugh at your miserable attempts. But Andy didn’t look at you like you were “perfectly pathetic” as your mother often described. No, she seemed to stare at you softly, which made you feel like you were the only person she was thinking about.

“I find you interesting. More specifically, it’s been a pleasure to watch you grow into yourself these past few weeks. You look much more relaxed.”

You were fairly relaxed, aside from the fact that your heart was currently threatening to jump out of your chest. Or if physicists could somehow harness its energy then it could power the entire world. She had just admitted to finding you interesting and you were supposed to answer back in words. You took a painfully slow drink.

“Well, it has been nice being able to make my own decisions and not have someone constantly looking over my shoulder.” You think back to an instance where you were recently baking a lemon glaze cake for the team and some icing stuck to your fingers. Immediately, you went to wash your hands as your mother would have insisted upon when it occurred to you that she no longer had control over you. Licking your fingers after that had never felt so satisfying. “Even the little choices I’m able to make now are kind of exciting. Is that strange to say?”

“Not at all.” Andy shook her head. “It’s a beautiful thing, seeing how far you’ve come in such a short amount of time. Not to mention how glad I am that you feel safe enough around us to be yourself.”

A pang of guilt ran through you. What must she think of you if you were keeping cryptic drawings of her a secret? “I really do, which is why I don’t want you to believe I’m trying to hide things from you! Not forever, at least. I trust you, and perhaps it’s more than I’ve ever trusted anyone else. But with my drawings… I suppose it’s rather complicated and I’ve never willingly shown them to anyone before. They’re nothing inappropriate, though! I would never do anything like that.”

Before you could completely melt into a puddle of despair, Andy reached for your forearm, anchoring the two of you together while helping to calm you down. Her hand was warmed from holding her hot mug.

“Hey, it’s alright, I trust you too. You don’t need to explain yourself to me. I’m flattered about the drawings and it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I can wait until you’re ready to show them to me when you feel comfortable doing so.”

It was completely vexatious how patient Andy could be with you, or how she always seemed to know the right thing to say to make you feel better. She possessed the ability to soothe the fears you understood intimately along with the others which you had tried to suppress and nearly forgotten about. You simply weren’t used to being treated in such a way.

“How are you so patient with me all the time?” Your question came off more irritated than you intended, making you cringe inwardly. You weren’t even sure what you were really asking about.

In the few moments it took Andy to start processing the question, your thoughts finally began to come together and spill out all at once.

“I’m deeply appreciative of how understanding you’ve been, don’t get me wrong, but when I imagine myself in your position, it must be frustrating. You do so much for me, all four of you do, but you especially. I’m always needing your help with countless things even though I have nothing of use to offer in return. You’re all incredibly worldly people, capable of doing more than I ever have even before your first deaths. I’ve been kept sheltered my entire life and probably wouldn’t last a day on my own. Having me join the team probably feels a lot more like babysitting than anything else, yet you never complain about it.”

Even though you knew it wasn’t in her nature, sometimes you wished she would allow herself to be angry with you. Or if she even expressed the slightest bit of irritation then that might make you feel better somehow. You waited for Andy to tell you that you sounded ridiculous, or to make another comment about your tendency to overthink things. Nothing like that ever came.

In one swift, breathtaking movement, her hand carefully tilted your chin up towards her face so that you were caught in her stare. The skin of her thumb was rough and her green-blue eyes bore into your own, tender yet determined as they searched for something deep in your soul. Though her touch was completely innocent, it was also intensely intimate from your perspective at least. You wanted to bear your entire being to her, consciously preparing your mind and body to take in whatever words she was about to say.

“Y/N, listen to me. There is nothing you owe me. Relationships aren’t transactional and I enjoy being able to help you. You also didn’t choose this life and I can’t hold what you don’t know against you. I won’t lie and say patience comes to me easily. Truthfully, when you get to my age everything is frustrating. I’ve seen… far too much in my life aside from any type of explanation for it all and it has made me bitter. But you don’t deserve any of that and I don’t want to be that type of person anymore. I don’t ever want to turn my back on people I care about again.”

Her eyes glossed over with the hue of a haunting memory, something from her past clearly bothering her. She let go of you in the crest of the emotion and you nearly whimpered when you lost her touch, but found the rare opportunity to offer Andy the comfort she needed.

“I may not know much in the grand scheme of things, but I know you’re not bitter. Truly bitter people try to tear down everyone around them because there’s nothing misery loves more than company. You’re nothing like my mother, she wanted to control me and keep me trapped in a life where I could never have my own happiness. You set me free. Anyway, it would be hard to live as long as you have, see the things that you’ve seen, and not become discouraged with all of the wickedness that has happened throughout history. What matters is that you’ve continued to fight for others that wouldn’t normally stand a chance on their own. If you were actually as bitter as you think, you could turn your back on everyone without a single care in the world. I see how much you care for others, Andy. Bitter people only care about themselves and I don’t see how you can believe you’re one of them.”

The fact that you were so young was partially why Andy felt the need to hold herself back and take things slow with you. Although your life would never be normal, she wanted to give you the chance to choose your own path and chase whatever dreams you fancied. Right now, it was crucial to prepare you for the world and to teach you how to keep your shared secret safe. But she knew you’d want to adventure out on your own at some point, and that you’d probably want to experiment with other partners closer to your age. Andy was aware of the baggage she carried, as well as the fact that the nature of your relationship meant she held a type of influence over you. She would never allow herself to take advantage of you like that.

But one thing she couldn’t let you do was downplay yourself, not when your words touched her in ways she hadn’t felt in thousands of years.

“Do you really believe you’re of no use at all and have nothing to offer? Y/N, I’ve traveled to every corner of the world and met the wisest individuals that still led directionless and unfulfilled lives. They thought of themselves too highly, pushed others away, and in the end their knowledge meant nothing when they were unable to make meaningful connections. You have all the time you need to perfect your knowledge and learn every skill that exists or will develop in the future.”

Your head tilted in perplexity.

“What? You think we had phones or electricity back when I was growing up? I didn’t learn how to drive a car until late last century. It was really like the blind leading the blind in those early days.”

Imagining a Victorian era Andy accidentally crashing a motorized carriage or angrily shaking her fist at experimental drivers from atop of her horse was certainly entertaining. You wondered if the two of you would ever share a similar experience together.

Temporarily distracted by your smile, Andy nearly forgot the importance of the message she was trying to convey to you.

“Y/N, you’re right that you’ve never really been given the chance to grow before all of this. None of that was your fault. The wonderful thing now is that you’re on your way to becoming smarter, like anybody else can when given the right tools. What you already have, your emotional strength and intelligence, is far more rare and valuable in my eyes. You teach me to look at things from a different perspective even when I’ve felt stuck in my ways for hundreds of years. Don’t overlook how much of an impact you can make or how much we all appreciate you.”

“Andy… I… Thank you.” You try not to cry, though you know she wouldn’t judge you if you did. Viewing your emotions as a strength is something that you never considered before. They were always a weakness back when you experienced nothing but misery, and now everything couldn’t be more different. Your new life was full of evenings spent getting tipsy and laughing at the stories your friends told you of places and times that sounded unreal. It was wanting the taste of more, the promise of the adventures that lay before you and the people you would get to share them with. It was a life you could hardly believe was real and you got to spend every single day with a woman that made your heart race with a single smile. Even if she never felt the same way about you, there was no chance that you’d trade your time with Andy for anything or anyone else. “Thank you for everything. I’m glad I get to experience all of this with you.”

She almost let her resolve crumble upon hearing your words. The grip around her drink tightened, heating up her flesh to a tender sting but she persevered through it. She knew that if she touched you again then it would all be over. There would be no way she could let go.

“As exciting as everything can be, I can’t help but feel nervous for what’s to come. I worry that no matter how hard I train I won’t be prepared. No matter how much I learn, there is bound to be something I overlook.”

How right you were.

“One thing I can tell you is that there are some things you’re never ready for, even if you spend centuries preparing. People, history, and almost everything I’ve encountered follow some type of pattern maybe 99% of the time. But all it takes is that 1% chance of randomness to make life unpredictable. Even the most meticulous of plans can end up going sideways. At the end of the day, I always ask myself why I’m here or why certain things happen and I’ve never been very close to an answer. There are questions I’ve carried with me for even longer than I can remember.”

It would have been quite terrifying to hear those words from anyone else besides Andy. If she still struggled to figure things out then you were practically cursed to be clueless for the rest of your existence. Although strangely enough, it was actually comforting to hear that she shared a similar sense of existential questioning. Both of you were human even if your lifespans or biology no longer were.

“Okay, but you must have a guess for when we’ll see flying cars at least. Or do you believe people will really be able to walk on Mars one day?”

A smooth attempt to cover up her broadening smile by lifting her coffee up to her mouth might have gone unnoticed if you hadn’t been so enamored by each one of Andy’s actions. She had a harder time hiding her eyes, which playfully rolled at your question.

“Sure, I suppose it’s possible. Hey, maybe you’ll be the first one and you can tell us all about it.”

“While the prospect of accomplishing something you’ve never done is intriguing, I wouldn’t want to do it without you.”

The words left your mouth, leaving only your pair of eyes holding hers throughout a deep silence. It wasn’t often that Andy looked like she was at a loss for words but this was definitely one of those times.

Quickly, you tried to cover up your confession with a stupid excuse. “I mean if there really are man-eating martians up there they’ll want to eat you first. You have way more muscle.”

“Right,” Andy laughed in agreement. “I guess that’s all I’m good for besides being a model for your artwork. Are you fast enough to draw me up there in time before I get turned into alien food?”

“Maybe.” You blushed and tried to go for Andy’s move to cover your face with your cup, only to realize that it was practically useless when it was made of glass.

“I, uh, really wanted to get some sleep tonight before waking up for early training but I guess I’m not doing a very good job at that.”

“Sleep in, you deserve the break. You’ve been pushing yourself really hard and should get to sleep in for once. There’s no need to overexert yourself.”

“Wait, aren’t you leaving for your mission around sunrise?” Andy was planning to look for some intel in the city and you knew she might be gone for up to a few days. “Wake me up before you go so I can say goodbye.”

For a moment, all the Scythian can do is try to memorize the look on your face, wishing that she could permanently sketch the vision on paper like you could. You gazed up at her with such innocence and devotion in your eyes, as if she was simply running to get milk from the grocery store the next morning. The team had actually glossed over the more important details about Andy’s assignment and what it would entail. It wasn’t that you were unaware of Andy’s brutal past and countless killings, but you still had yet to witness such violence. She couldn’t help but worry that witnessing that side of her would not only change how you saw her, but also influence your own self perception when the time came to take another life yourself. It was painful to imagine the countless amount of years you might spend plagued by inner turmoil, hating the person you would become even if it was inevitable. She’d die in a million more excruciating ways if it would shield you from such a curse.

“Andy, are you alright?” Your voice of concern brought her back to the present. There was a slight look of worry between your furrowed eyebrows that she wished to smooth out herself, but she practiced self restraint.

“Sorry, I guess I’m a little tired too. If you want me to wake you before I leave then I will.”

With a satisfied smile on your face, you nodded and rose from your seat. The urge to ask Andy if she might join you tugged at your heart. You always slept more soundly when it was in her arms. Your nightmares were much more infrequent by now and it had been some time since you had been able to fall asleep while breathing in her scent, snuggling deep into her chest. The temptation to voice your request was almost impossible to resist, save for the fear of jeopardizing your friendship and making her uncomfortable by revealing your feelings.

Eventually, you found yourself back in bed alone and replaying your conversation. One specific realization you couldn’t get over was that Andy had undoubtedly expressed some type of interest in the art you made of her. Sure, it’s possible that it might have been in a completely platonic sense, but you held onto the fantasy of it meaning something more and decided you’d keep it to yourself, for now.

#Andromache the Scythian x reader #andromache x reader #Andromache the scythian #the old guard #joe x nicky #booker #yusuf x nicolo #nicolo di genova #yusuf al kaysani #sebastien le livre #andy the scythian x reader #andromache the scythian x reader #immortal lesbians #Charlize Theron character

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andurasomehow · 2 months ago

Text

If It Helps Them

Rating: NC-17 Genre: bandfic, pwp, slash, violence, anger management Length: 1/1 -> one-shot Summary: Kaoru and Die have their own way settling disputes; but suddenly they find another. Status: Finished (05/2008)

If It Helps Them…

Anger management for spitfires.

Kaoru and Die had always had a weird way of getting along with each other. At first it wouldn't work out at all but then, they quickly grew to enjoy one another's company to a level of constantly hanging out together. Until the day they both realized out of the blue that they annoyed each other as well, one easily pissed the other man off, both quickly falling for just yelling that the other one should shut the fuck up.

Basically, it was a wonder that they simply worked as a team, and at that they were winners. Wherever they appeared together, everything went smoothly the way it was supposed to, and whenever one of them agonized, trying to figure out something, he could be sure that his partner in crime knew a way. So logically, they succeeded doing their job.

But as soon as they curtains were drawn, the shows over, recordings done, songs finished, when guitarists turned into mere people, humans with habits who had antics and different ways of handling things, then Kaoru and Die loathed each other's guts sometimes. In the process they had begun to avoid each other. But their attempts were in vain since they had no choice but to live more or less together during three quarters of each year. In the end their lack of privacy from one another made them both snap.

That's when they had started to fight. No plain arguments would’ve helped anymore, running from each other no option but just evidence of cowardice, and the last thing they needed was someone who would try to butt in and help them with talks. They didn't need to talk. They needed simple but good fights.

Anything was allowed; anything but using items. Not that they had ever talked about it but it was a silent agreement, not spoken about as a matter of honor.

None of them ever knew who would kick off the fight first, that was hard to decide even afterwards, but once it was over, they were both exhausted enough to survive another three weeks without hating each other too much. Bruised, with swollen parts of their faces, black eyes or just massive headaches, they were oddly happy and satisfied, their thrive stilled and their temper settled.

Their bandmates had learned to ignore them and to let them do whatever they wanted to as long as they wouldn't kill each other or someone else on the way. But still, whenever Kaoru and Die had come to the point of fighting again, dull feelings wracked the rest of the bunch's minds.

The sound of broken glass could even be heard through the otherwise thick walls of their hotel.

"I just hope they won't kill each other one day," Toshiya said and looked to and fro between Shinya and Kyo.

"Don't say something like that," the small singer advised, nervously biting the nail on his thump.

"Why? I'm just worried about them. How long do you think will they be able to keep this going without anybody knowing? You know, there will be times when smaller shades come back in fashion." There was a deep frown attached to the bassist's face, hardly ever appearing but when it did, it was evidence enough of how much he truly cared.

"But they're grown-ups and supposed to know what they're doing," Kyo tried to reason.

"What if they kill each other, in effect you know?" A sigh fell from Toshiya's lips.

"They wouldn't. Won't! And now stop saying it. We all have those thoughts but I just can't take it anymore. If they wanna rip each other's heads off, fine. I for one can't help them and it makes me sick." The singer got up and walked off to his room, leaving the other two stunned.

Toshiya hung his head low.

"Trust them," Shinya suddenly spoke up. "Just trust them. What they do is stupid but they're unique as a team, divine in an odd way, and if it's what they need to get along, let them. Just think positive."

For a moment Toshiya smiled since the words did brighten his mood, but then he frowned. "You've done those herbals again, did you?"

"Yeah." Shinya shrugged.

He had been fed up! Die couldn't take this shit anymore, that when he complained, he got ignored and received the silent treatment. Obviously, Kaoru had a problem with him but he wouldn't tell him, no, he would just give him the looks that said 'Get out of my way, loser!'. And that smirk of his, it pissed Die off, he really would just love to slice that tattooed neck with a blunt knife.

Kaoru stood opposite Die on the other side of the room and his eyes spoke of pure agitation. One more word from that son of a bitch and he was finished. But Kaoru wouldn't say anything, he would not give the other man what he wanted, no, he'd keep his mouth shut, and grin all along.

The grin had been the final straw. Die hung his head, feeling that funny sensation creeping up inside of him. He turned slightly, grasped the bottle of beer tighter within his hand, looking as if he was to flee from the room. But instead, he slowly began to laugh before he threw the bottle of beer right at his bandmate within the split of a second.

The glass shattered loudly on the wall behind Kaoru but he hardly flinched, just closed his eyes for a moment to take a breath, before he jumped. There was no other way to describe what he did, he moved in the blink of an eye, and then he had already dealt out the first blow square across Die's face.

It was just what Die had been expecting, not that he could dodge, would gladly take the blow anyway, just in order to deal out the next one. As hard as possible his fist met the bandleader's ribcage, pounding into it as if it were nothing but a lifeless sandbag, just that it released an audible 'oomph' every time he hit it. Full force an elbow punched Die then, he got shoved backwards against the wall, and his head collided with the hard surface, so that for the glimpse of a moment he could see stars dancing. But all it truly did was to trigger his thrive for revenge, he rammed his arms down on Kaoru and kneed him in the pit of his stomach. Precisely he placed another set of blows until the lead-guitarist was tumbling and visibly out of any focus for some time.

Breathing heavily, Kaoru coughed as he steadied his body. "You've become better," he hissed out and grinned up at Die. "But you're still too slow."

And despite what Kaoru looked like, it was true, he was damn quick. In a matter of nano-seconds he had left his spot and struck Die's kidneys so hard with his fists that all air had temporarily vanished from out of Die's lungs. But Kaoru used the opportunity, lifted the in agony down-bent head by its hair and smacked his fist right into the face. Only then he paused for a moment to admire his handiwork.

"Fuck! You asshole!", Die panted out and wiped across his face with the back of his hand. "You've cut my lip."

"Want me to call your mom, so she picks you up?" Kaoru shot back grinning although he had a hard time looking out of his left eye.

"Don't go there!" Die warned.

"Where? To your mom? I don't need to. She's coming after me, dipshit." The smaller man knew what he did when bringing their mothers into that kind of thing but it was necessary. Only then a man could forget about his pain, go numb and fight even harder.

No scratch on his honor, Die did just that. With one loud growl he launched himself at Kaoru and brought them both down. And surely it would've taken all air out of the smaller guy underneath if the bed hadn't been behind him. Falling all too soft, Kaoru used his legs to push Die off him but hadn't expected the taller man to grasped him and take him along.

For some time, Kaoru couldn't even tell where he was, where he began or ended, since he was just entangled within a heap of limbs. Only then, when Die's fist almost knocked him out, Kaoru remembered where to direct his attention. Pain was seeping through his body, his whole face felt like throbbing but numb at the same time as if his jaw was broken, but he knew that the more he took, the less he suffered once overcome the stage of actually feeling it.

And so he grinned up at Die, twisted them and beat him up for what he was worth. But the taller man set a blow right into Kaoru's guts and threw him off.

"Want me to help you lose some teeth again, huh?" Die mumbled, not really able to hiss because his lip and cheekbone were aching badly and he was busy to catch his breath.

"Fucker!", was all Kaoru spat before he marched up to strike his fellow bandmate again, hitting him full force until he stumbled and fell. But Die wouldn't give in, even if his legs gave way. He grasped the sheets reachable, pulled himself at least up on the bed and simply threw the bedside lamp at Kaoru.

Who laughed, of course. "Throwing things at me reminds me of my ex-wife, just that she scored – other than you!"

"At least I scored with her," Die maliciously giggled and forced a grin, "other than you."

"You're gonna pay for that, minger!" It wasn't that Kaoru hadn't known about that until now but just in this very moment it served its purpose and he didn't hesitate to throw himself at Die again, trying to hit him with all remaining force.

"If I were the minger, she wouldn't have begged me to fuck her, you bimbo!" Die hissed out while trying to fight off the arm that had snaked around his neck, in the process, while using hands and feet, turning both of them over, across their backs, bones just cracking a bit until Die suddenly realized that he was atop of Kaoru. Which was good because otherwise he couldn't tell south from north anymore.

Apparently, he had the upper hand, having more or less straddled Kaoru and pinning him down by his shoulders. How good he was, he thought and curled his lips into a spiteful smirk. The smaller man on the other hand would never give up, that was for sure, and even if he couldn't move one single branch of his body, he would never surrender beneath Daisuke Andou. So Kaoru glowered up at him with eyes burning wildly, before he just sniffed, raised his head as much as he could and spat into Die's face.

"You son of a bitch!" Die hissed and added more pressure to the grip he had on the other man. But actually, he didn't know what to do and just glared down at him, right into his deep and dark eyes, glazing wildly and untamed. The metallic taste of blood mingled with the salty taste of sweat as Die unconsciously licked across his lips, the tip of his tongue poking at the bruised flesh, like an animal tending to a wound.

Kaoru swallowed hard and got lost staring at Die. It was a matter of seconds but it felt like eternity. Their gazes were locked and the trigger had already been pulled although there was no shot, just silence while time seemed to have stopped.

How Kaoru had been able to free one of his arms, Die couldn't even tell and strangely it didn't matter to him. For reasons not even contemplated, the lead-guitarist's fingers entangled within Die's long hair and grasped it tightly, before Kaoru used the grip he had on Die to pull his head down and crash their mouths together for a bruising kiss.

There wasn't any shock to overcome when the taller man instantly began to explore the other mouth with such hunger that describing it with passion would've been the understatement of the century. Their fight wasn't over but had reached a completely new level on which they were to prove the stronger guy. Their mouths were unyielding against one another, tongues battling for dominance, while harsh grunts fell from their lips once in a while.

All the gathered adrenaline from their fist-fight was now flowing directly to their libido and made them grope each other in anything but a loving way. Impatiently hands wandered, gripped hair to tilt a head in order to gain more access, tugging at clothes and sneaking up underneath to feel hot skin. Kaoru rolled them over and grunted into their kiss that was painful due to his bruised face. But truth be told, he had never experienced such a huge wave of horniness overcome him. He would do anything, wanted to touch every inch of Die's body, taste his skin, his blood, his sweat, everything of him.

Thanks to being atop, Kaoru's shirt soon got lost somewhere across the room when Die had finally managed to get that tattooed torso out of it, nearly ripping the black shirt apart in the process. Urgently his hands grabbed all the exposed flesh reachable and pulled the smaller guy down, needing to feel his lips on his again. As soon as the body came down on him, Die's hips bucked up into the touch, he groaned out and twisted them around again. That shirt of his had to get lost and that quickly!

Purposefully Kaoru bucked up his hips once the other man was straddling him, his crotch shamelessly seeking for pressure. But he couldn't lie there and wait for Die to undress, it would've been a waste of time, and he rather sat up, enclosed his arms around the tall guitarist and darted his tongue out to lick across his chest. A shiver ran down his spine as if he had tasted a drug of which he needed more in order to keep living.

Die hissed out a breath when Kaoru began to suck one of his nipples into his mouth, squirming slightly in his suddenly odd position where he couldn't do much but to grind their groins together. Only after some time he couldn't take it anymore, pushed the other man off and rather sucked that talented tongue into his own mouth. They rolled around atop of the bed, constantly changing their positions, demanding more and more from each other, and unmistakably it went on till the both of them even fell off the bed. Yet, it didn't matter to them, didn't even reach their brains, and without any realization they kept on kissing and touching each other.

They had quickly managed to find each other's belts, pants opened in no time as a matter of course. Die had a tough grip on Kaoru's already eager dick, stroking all the length with his large hand while his lips explored the heaving chest underneath. He had never given a hand-job before, without to mention that he wasn't even into guys - usually - but having such an unfamiliar way of power over Kaoru, was making Die feel good; really damn good.

In vigor he pumped Kaoru who had bitten down on his bottom lip, nearly drawing blood in order not to emit the loudest of moans. He had almost struggled out of his pants, feeling incredibly hot within his own skin. His hips couldn't rest, bucked into Die's hand and it drove the older man insane. He wanted to do something, not just surrender.

Pulling at Die's shoulders, Kaoru brought the other man on his back, gathered the top position and slid down that well-built slender frame. The bandleader didn't even take notice of Die's trousers still dangling around his ankles when he gave his band-mate's erection some firm strokes before he just leaned down and enclosed his mouth around its tip.

For a moment Die's breath got stuck in his throat and he swallowed hard before a long mewl forced its way out of him. He shut his eyes tightly as Kaoru sucked him mercilessly, with such eagerness that Die couldn't do anything but to give into temptation and fuck his friend's mouth from underneath.

Trying to hold down Die's hips was in vain as Kaoru had to realize soon, and if he didn't want to choke and lose the battle, then he better stopped sucking him off.

With the predatory look of an animal Kaoru had finally tossed Die's remaining clothes aside and climbed back on top of his friend, who was already waiting for him and desperately pulled the smaller man down for another kiss. Both their moans were drowned out. Left were their low grunts as they grinded their hips together, their erect members rubbing against one another.

Madness. It drove a guy insane doing this humping kind of thing when there was so much more their instinct demanded. It was finally Kaoru who was bold enough to stick his finger up Die's butt. He had secretly found its way there and yet, the younger man had expected it, mentally approved and even arched against the intruder.

No, this wasn't about surrendering but enduring and giving the best. So, didn't Kaoru surrender when wanting to be inside of Die that urgently? Or was it Die who surrendered when he would allow himself being fucked? Or maybe, he just enjoyed the power he had, knowing that Kaoru was all that horny and demanding because of him?

No, this surely wasn't about surrendering. Whichever position they played, they had to make sure they didn't just beg for anything but made their own goals. And Die for one knew his goal and he smiled into their kiss while his hand was slowly runing up and down Kaoru's hard length.

The digit moving in and out of his friend, Kaoru found himself perplexed for a moment, unable to believe that he could do such thing to Die, who in return obviously enjoyed it. Not wasting any more thoughts on the matter though, the older one pulled his hands off all of a sudden.

"Get on the bed," he rasped with a voice that sent shivers down Die's spine, having never heard Kaoru speak like that ever before. Die shuddered in anticipation. It was a wish, not an order, and he was willing to grant the other man his request, clearly said in a stupor Die had caused.

He took in the sight of the other man for a moment, how his chest was rising and falling with each heavy breath, lips slightly open, and only when Kaoru put his own hand on his hard dick, Die unconsciously licked his lips and crawled up on the bed. On all fours he glanced backwards across his shoulder, provoking, and stuck out his butt in a silent invitation.

Instead of leading Kaoru was following and he gladly did so, convinced and determined to show his counterpart that he could only reach his peak if the older one allowed him to. He held the strings in his hands, and yet both of them did. He placed a hand on one of his friend's buttocks and ran his thump along the puckered skin of his entrance, rubbing and teasing until Die impatiently moved against it. Kaoru inwardly smiled and brought his finger to his mouth, coating two of them inside of it, before he unceremoniously spit on them and smeared the salvia between those two milky butt cheeks.

Meanwhile he had already used his other hand to spread the pre-cum oozing out of his erection along his length. It wasn't that he cared much about whether he would hurt Die or not, but he cared about this simply working and the better he could slide, the more he could gain. He didn't waste much time with preparation though before he just pushed himself into the other man.

Eyes tightly shut, Die suppressed the urge to give away any evidence of pain. Not even a hiss left his mouth while his fingers were grasping the sheets firmly, knuckles already turning white. Every muscle of his body tensed, clenched and he forced himself to relax by pure willpower. He wouldn't give in and wait for Kaoru to make the next move but pushed himself backwards against the intruding member.

It was everything Kaoru needed, one last red light turning off, and he gripped Die's hips in his hands as if to keep him steady when Kaoru began to thrust into him not too gently. But even if he wanted to, he couldn't have gone much faster or harder, when Die was just being this tight. Yet, each thrust made Kaoru grunt out and seemed to make him even harder than he had already been before, and so he buried himself as deeply as he was able to within that willing body. Thrusting inside, pulling almost out, and doing the same thing all over again, stopping not an option, even if he was beginning to pant harshly.

It was a weird thought that crossed Die's mind but the plain knowledge of Kaoru fucking him with eagerness sent the younger man on an even higher level. The pain caused didn't matter as slowly pleasure kicked in and the more Die moved in unison with Kaoru, arching against him and urging him with impatience speaking from his actions, the more pleasure he seemed to gain from it.

More. Even more. It was the only thing going on in his mind as unknown sensations cursed through his body caused by the other man's dick inside of him.

Die growled. He wouldn't want to moan out loudly. But he couldn't hold himself back from voicing out his thoughts.

"Fuck!" He cursed under his breath before he could steady his voice somewhat and hiss, "do me harder!"

Challenged, Kaoru found himself unable to turn Die's command down, thrusting into his body with even more force. And once it elicited a hissed but yet pleased "Yes!" from the other guy, Kaoru couldn't stop himself from quickening his pace.

His eyes were burning, either from the blow he had taken earlier on or from the thin layers of sweat building all over his skin, Kaoru couldn't quite tell. But although his vision was blurry, he could still see enough to almost go mad. Die's hair was falling wildly across his broad shoulders, spine curving deliciously down to his narrow hips and small butt, which was willingly receiving. Was it possible that you became sexually so hungry for someone that you wanted to eat him up? Kaoru didn't know, while he leaned above this spine and bit down on the pale flesh of Die's shoulder, tasting the salty sweetness of the flavor that was his bandmate. Kaoru left a mark behind and he licked across same one with satisfaction.

Within the next wave of pleasure Die couldn't contain his feelings anymore and groaned out in ecstasy. He felt like having gone in another world, even something above Heaven, something more thrilling than one could ever imagine. And this was it, so utterly and finally the best thing ever, that he just felt like bursting. He wanted to grasp his member and just jerk off viciously. But he couldn't! If he wouldn't use both of his arms in order to steady himself, he would just fall flat on his face and that was feeling a bit like losing to Kaoru. So Die had to endure the ordeal, silently dependent on the bandleader.

Still, that was something Kaoru knew and he would've let Die suffer if only he hadn't cared about his reputation. Come to think of it, there was no way he could just get off and not bring the other man along. No, Kaoru was good at what he did, thriving for perfection even, and if he didn't get the other guitarist to beg for him, he would still make him come first and lose it before Kaoru. That's why he didn't need to be told but just laced his fingers around Die's hard dick and began pumping him in time with his thrusts.

One vigorous shiver ran down the taller man's spine and he instantly knew that it wouldn't take him long anymore, too close to hitting climax already. But still he would gather all remaining strength within his body and just move back against Kaoru and forth into his hand. Constantly moving until there were suddenly all too many shivers, he tensed and felt his orgasm wash over him. The moment he released himself into Kaoru's hand, there was a low groan spilling from Die's lips, and it was an odd sensation, all muscles clenched but still something within him relaxed while still being fucked. Like blissful numbness.

Kaoru hadn't thought that it was possible but the tightness engulfing him was so unexpected and tough that within his fervor of thrusts he came without the tiniest hint of warning. He would've pulled out before for sure, but suddenly it was all too late and Kaoru just felt himself spurting his load all inside of the other man. And he couldn't have stopped it even if he had wanted to.

Only after a while he had stilled all movement and just tried not to fall forward all over Die, being not only exhausted but entirely content. He was anything but mad at Die anymore, all thoughts of fighting and dominance had suddenly vanished and Kaoru was just happy, even though in a very strange way.

And so was Die when he couldn't keep his body up anymore and just sank into the sheets of the bed, heavily breathing, lungs burning for air. He closed his eyes and his mind swam. But he couldn't think of even one thing, too much and yet nothing present in his mind, and he felt so contently drained that he wanted to smile.

Needing some sort of rest, Kaoru granted his body to lay down next to Die, staring at the ceiling once he had done and his body slowly seemed to cool down again. What just had happened wasn't even of any serious interest since it had filled him with such delight that he couldn't help but to consider that having sex would maybe be wiser for the future than to punch your bandmate's lights out.

Minutes had passed when Die opened one eye again and looked at Kaoru. As much as he loathed him at times, he loved him, too. Maybe that was why living with each other proved to be so complicated and fucked up. It was always extreme.

"I think I gave you a black eye," Die hoarsely said with evident amusement in his voice.

It just made Kaoru smile. "That's why I have my shades for," he uttered chuckling, "and besides, I think I gave you one hell of a cut on your lip."

"Does it look bad? I mean, really bad?" Because hiding his lips was one thing Die really wasn't capable of.

Finally Kaoru turned to look at the other man and grimaced slightly. "Well, let's just say it doesn't look too pretty."

"Damn," Die said in deadpan voice. "What would you say if we cut down on the fighting in the future, and maybe have more sex or something?"

"Or something?" Kaoru chuckled again.

"Just sex. Strike the something. That way we’d both make sure to stay as sexy as we are." The suggestion was dripping with a compliment and Die knew it damn well.

"Yeah, let's settle on that." Kaoru smiled and carefully brought up his hand to touch his eye. "Yeah. Yeah, we should seriously agree on that."

Just smiling and not saying anything else Die edged a little closer and drew an arm across Kaoru's chest before he yawned and closed his eyes, ready to fall asleep in an instant.

Yes, the idea sounded really good to Kaoru and pleased he covered Die's hand with his own before he allowed sleep to claim his body as well.

It was the next morning when Toshiya couldn't hold back anymore and wondered if Kaoru and Die had finally succeeded in killing each other because it was oddly quiet inside of their room. Neither Die nor Kaoru had showed up so far, which was why he couldn't help but march to their room despite Kyo's warnings of better not risking to see the mess they had probably left.

He gathered all courage and carefully opened their door to peek inside. The gasp that left his mouth made Kyo raise one eyebrow, curiosity getting the better of him.

"What?" he just asked and got a little closer as well.

Toshiya had his mouth covered with one hand and his eyes spoke of visible shock.

"That bad?" Kyo asked and passed the bassist by, risking a glance as well. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Kaoru and Die clinging to each other's naked bodies while being fast asleep still. After a moment he scratched his head though, turned and shrugged. "Well, if it helps them."

In the meantime Shinya had moved his bones to take a glimpse as well but when he faced Toshiya, the two of them nothing but shrugged, just like Kyo, saying in unison: "If it helps them."

The end.

#direngrey fanfiction #bandfic #dir en grey #andura #fanfic #rating: nc-17 #one-shot #if it helps them

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