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messylustt · 1 year

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𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐨 (𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥) — 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠

miguel o’hara x fem!reader. 5.4k words.

fic masterlist previous part pt five next part

angst??; violence; speaking of injuries — damn y/n is in the wars; cute little worried, mad miguel; since I’m going from y/n’s perspective to miguel’s a few times it’s may seem a bit jumpy, hope that doesn’t annoy anyone — miguel gives you shocking news. and as you go to head home you end up in a different universe, meeting some spider kid, leaving miguel and the rest of them to worry and search for you.

You walk with purposeful steps. Passing by spider variants, who spare you confused glances at your almost pissed off expression. Though when one would meet your gaze you’d smile—genuinely, which made them think that a certain person was the target of your anger.

“Oi y/n— wow.” Hobie jumped down in front of you, observing your furrowed features. But yet again they would smooth out upon seeing a face you didn’t want to punch. Pavitr and Gwen were close, coming to stop beside Hobie.

“Hi.” You greet them.

“You look stressed as hell.” Hobie comments, making you forcibly chuckle.

“Not at all.” You quickly say, before veering to pass them.

“You alright, y/n?” Gwen asks.

“I appreciate the concern. I do.” You say, walking backwards. “But I’m in a bit of a rush. And annoyingly this can’t wait.”

“Careful!” Pavitr warns as you quickly skirt past a table your hip almost hit.

“Thank you!” You shout back as you rush towards a certain office that made the lines return to your forehead.

You push open the door, stalking towards the centre of the room. At the outburst Miguel looks down. He looks away knowingly, upon seeing you and your angry expression.

“Fired?!” You exclaim up at him. He doesn’t spare you a glance, continuing to tap and swipe at different screens. “I’m fired?!”

You hold up a scribbled note that said ‘You’re fired as of Tuesday’.

“You still have a day.” Miguel comments calmly.

You scoff in disbelief. “What the hell did I do?! …and can you come down here, it’s very hard yelling like this!”

Miguel sighs, but drops down in front of you. He looks bored. And that seems to piss you off more. You step closer. “You wrote me a note?” You’re still in disbelief. “You didn’t even add the reason.”

“Believe it or not that was purposeful.” Miguel monotonously says.

You narrow your eyes. “Why?” You try to lower your tone, taking deep breathes.

Miguel just tilts his head, observing your antics. You blink. “So, you’re not gonna tell me?”

He doesn’t say a thing, confirming so. You’re beyond annoyed and in all honesty what have you to lose? You’ve already lost your job, for a reason you’re dying to know and your adrenaline enduced veins seem to think that pressuring him is a smart idea.

You step closer, but realise that your “intimidating” gaze is doing nothing, his towering height making you feel like an ant. You dart your gaze around, stopping on a swivel chair, you snatch it, quickly standing on it, so that you’re somewhat of a millimetre taller than him.

“We made a deal.” You say, finally feeling a little more in control now that Miguel is looking up at you.

“And now its over.”

“That’s not how deal’s work.” You say.

“Oh.” Miguel hums. “That’s a shame.”

Your nose twitches as you hold back a snarl. Miguel is an infuriating man—it’s just that simple.

“I’m not leaving, not until you at least give me a reason.” You say, trying to appear threatening. But being in front of a man who looks it 24/7 is really dampening your confidence.

He continues to look up at you and your heaving chest, and face that’s tightened in annoyance. He sighs. “It’s better this way, y/l/n.”

“And why is that?” You try again to get the ‘reason’ out of him.

“You can go.” He turns, beginning to head back. You stare after him, mouth opening in disbelief at his complete dismissal.

You go to get off the chair, feeling your entire being deflating. But your foot seems to miss the step down as you begin to tumble forward. But before you can hit the ground a web is attaching to your hand, and yanking you into a chest.

Miguel’s breathing is displayed in that quick moving chest. One hand wrapped around your waist, while the other—that had shot the web—has ahold of your wrist.

Your eyes are wide at the fast movement of it all. “You want to know why you’re fired?” Miguel begins. “Because you’re accident prone. One trip and you could mess everything up.”

You meet his gaze. “That’s very assumptive.” You say. “You and I both know that I haven’t “fucked” anything up.”

“Yet.”

“Yet?” Your brows furrow. “You’re betting on a ‘yet’?” You step away from him, getting your wrist out of his hold. “You made a decision based on your own wrong assumptions.”

Miguel’s expression has finally changed, actually displaying an emotion—anger—but still an emotion. He grabs the bottom of your shirt, pulling you harshly back to him as his breath fans over your face.

“How do you know my “assumptions” are wrong? Huh?” He snarls.

You glare up at him. “How do you know they’re right?” His grip tightens around the material of your shirt, but you continue. “Right now, if you were to tell me that you hated my work ethic, or that I was genuinely shit at my job, I’d leave—maybe a bit upset—but I’d understand.”

Miguel’s eyes are darting everywhere they can.

“But you’re giving me nothing.” You’re blurting everything you can think to say. If not the job back, then you’re going to get your reason for it being gone. “Just say, you hate the way I work.”

You stare at him. “Please.” You’ve somewhat calmed down. Your face softening to one close to simple pleading.

Miguel gulps, his chest slowing but his heart beating on overdrive. You were so close, looking up at him with a genuine pleading look. You just wanted closure.

His hand hadn’t let up its grip on your clothes, part of him not wanting to let go.

“I thought you said you had to have a reason to fire me.” Your voice is back to your normal tone—one that always made Miguel feel comfortable, safe. Which is odd considering you wouldn’t be able to protect him or practically anyone here. Physically at least.

You sigh, realising that there’s no budging Miguel. It’s him, for crying out loud. You were stupid to think you could get anything out of him that he didn’t want you to know.

You reach your hand down, grabbing his wrist and pulling your shirt away. You back up, hands up in an almost surrender—saying ‘fine, I’ll go’.

Miguel doesn’t like the silent sentence for some reason, his expression morphing back to anger. He again swiftly shoots a web to attach to your stomach, yanking you forward again.

“Can you stop that?” You ask, once you’re directly in front of him again. “At this rate put a leash on me.” You mutter. You’d given up. And all you wanted to do was pack up and leave. Why was he dragging this out?

“Would that work?” He whispered. And now through your annoyed haze you noticed how close he was…again.

But the drop of his tone made your breath hitch, different from before. He leans closer, red eyes fully focused on you. “Would it?” He asks again.

“Would what?”

He tilts his head, licking his lips. “A leash.”

Your eyes widen, as you choke out your answer. “That was…a joke. I was kidding.”

“But would you stay out of trouble if you had something constricting you?”

Your mouth opens and closes. He had slowly been pulling you closer by the attached web, his claws dancing across the orange before they reached the material of your shirt again.

“Es eso todo lo que tengo que hacer, chaparrita?” (Is that all I have to do) He darkly whispered.

You focused on his words. You had wanted to understand Spanish before, but now you’re dying to know. And luckily, in your own time you had been studying—having stolen your phone back.

“No, O’hara.” You begin. “Todo lo que tienes que hacer es ser honesto.” (All you have to do is be honest.)

Miguel stares at you, brows furrowing for only a moment. He looks taken aback. And from his underlying impressed expression, you know your words had made sense.

“When did you learn that?”

“Why are you firing me?” You counter.

And for once, Miguel finally gives in, up to a peak with his emotions. “Because of the fucking attack!” He finally says it, or more so ‘exclaims’ it.

You pause. “The attack?”

He hisses in annoyance at himself. “I’m supposed to be helping people—the multiverse. That was the whole point of this.” He mutters out.

“I’m not following… How did I mess that up?” You ask, staring at him in confusion.

“You didn’t. Which is beyond annoying, because I’d much rather a reason where you were the problem.”

“That’s…very flattering.” You mutter, as he continues.

“But the reason why I’m firing you is because…” he clenched his jaw, closing his eyes for a moment, seeming annoyed to even think of saying it.

“Because you got…hurt.”

And of course it goes in one ear and out the other. Because in what universe does that make sense. You stare at him, blinking too many times.

“What?”

“I’m not saying it again.” He says, stepping away from you.

“No, no. What?”

Miguel is turned away and cursing at himself. Why did he admit that? He should have just said you were shit at your job.

You finally assess his words, maybe not the underlying meaning, but his general words at least. “I’ll be honest…” you begin. “I thought that was in the job description.”

Miguel turns. “What?”

“Getting hurt.” You say. “I mean maybe not that extreme considering I’m behind a desk, but I knew the risk.”

“You knew you might get hurt if you took this job?” He reiterates.

“Yeah.” You breathe. “But you’d understand. I mean you are spider-man.”

“Yeah…” he drifts off. “But you’re…”

“A weak human?” You ask.

He looks away, frowning. “I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s fine.” You say. “I can’t lie and say it isn’t the truth.”

“It’s not—“ he says extremely quickly before he extremely quickly follows with: “—entirely true. You’re also annoying.”

You raise your brows. “So, I’m an annoying, weak human who just got fired?” You slowly ask.

Miguel presses his lips together. “It’s bet—“

“Better this way.” You cut in. “Yeah, I heard you.” You sigh. “Thanks for telling me the reason.” Your tone has shifted to one Miguel really doesn’t like. You sound…disappointed…distant. And why wouldn’t you be? Of course Miguel expected this but for some reason it just didn’t settle right in his stomach.

But before he knows it you’re opening the exit door, giving him a small smile and a nod, saying: “Sorry for the…outburst.” Before you’re shutting the door and leaving.

;;

“Where is she?” Miguel is asking Peter, thankful for once that he didn’t bring Mayday.

Peter scratches the back of his head, pretending to look busy. Miguel begrudgingly turns to Hobie, raising a brow. Hobie looks him up and down before scoffing. “You’re the one who ‘fired’ her, remember mate?” He sounds annoyed.

Miguel swiftly shifts his gaze to Gwen. “She still has a day. Where is she?”

“She decided it was best to leave today.” Gwen says.

“How’d she get a wristband?” Miguel asks, narrowing his eyes. He slowly shifts his gaze back to Hobie, who is sitting, legs up on a table.

“Hobie.”

“Yes, boss?” Hobie asks, praying innocence.

“Why?” Miguel asks, gritting his teeth.

Hobie stands, walking up to him. “Why do you care? Ya clearly seem to think she’s an annoyin’, weak human.”

Miguel holds the bridge of his nose. “Did she tell everyone that?” He mutters out in question, more so to himself.

“No, she didn’t. I ‘appened to hear it.” Hobie says, making Miguel look back up.

“So she just left?” He asks, his uninterested expression cracking a fraction—only a fraction.

“That is what you wanted.” Pavitr chimes in, twisting one of his gold bands.

;;

Miguel breathes, heading back to his office. Once inside he taps his wristband, opening up a portal. He pauses. Why was he even going? You’re gone, home, safe. Just like he wanted. Why is he messing that up by seeing you?

But he’s already through the portal arriving outside your door. You lived alone so he didn’t have to worry about scaring your family. He knocks on your bedroom door, and waits. And waits. And waits.

Look, patience isn’t something Miguel is very good at, so he twists the handle, opening the door to your room. He narrows his eyes, seeing you not inside. Sure, you could have easily gone out, but as he scouted the room, he began to realise that you hadn’t been in here for a while. Dust had formed on your desk, while your bed stayed untouched and made.

“Lyla.” He calls, her appearing quickly by his shoulder. “Was y/n here?”

Lyla computes the room, scanning for footprints or any of your fresh DNA. “No. She hasn’t been here for a while.”

Miguel goes to turn back to his portal, when he steps on something. Looking down, he sees a bracelet by the very edge of the door. Picking it up, he asks Lyla again.

“Ah, she was here, recently. Only in the doorway, it seems.” She answers.

Miguel goes to pocket the bracelet but realises that he technically doesn’t have any, so he instead puts the bracelet around his wrist, walking back through the portal.

;;

“What?” Peter voices his surprise. “But she was just heading home. She’s not there? And hold up, why did you go—“

“Hobie what wristband did you give her?” Miguel interrupts, turning to Hobie. “One of your faulty ones?”

Hobie rolls his eyes, swinging his guitar strap around his body. “It was a normal one, a spare I found.”

“And you’re sure she’s not just out?” Gwen checks.

“No, I’m not, Gwen.” Miguel sarcastically states. “You really think I didn’t check?”

“Do you think she could have gone to another universe?” Pavitr asks.

“Why would she do that?” Peter asks, brows furrowed.

“Dunno, maybe she wanted to rebele.” Hobie comments. “Wouldn’t blame her.” He shoots this at Miguel, who narrows his eyes.

“I called you all here to find her.” Miguel says. “You seem to have been around her a lot. You’d have more of an idea then any other spiders.”

;;

While the spider-men and woman were all wondering where you had went, you were wondering the exact same thing.

You had been walking down the street, trying to face any form of familiarity. But nothing stands out. This wasn’t your home. This wasn’t your universe.

You keep touching your wrist in hopes to magically find the wristband there, but no, it’s still gone. Where? You wanted to know that too.

You watched as people chatted and ate, many at the city’s cafes and restaurants. It was growing darker and as you looked up you felt a single drop of water land on your cheek.

You manage to reach a bus shelter, taking a seat. Where the hell were you?

“Miles!” A man’s voice calls.

“I’ll be back, dad! I just…forgot something…at school!” Miles answers.

You shift your gaze from the falling sky to a cop and his assumable son, who is rushing down the street. You go to shift your gaze away again when you catch sight of something falling out of the kid’s bag. Narrowing your eyes you just catch what looks to be a spider-man mask, before Miles is quickly shoving it back in.

You then hear a ruckus some way down the street. A shop…being robbed. Then it clicked. This ‘Miles’ was running to the scene, because he was this universe’s spider-man.

You quickly stood, covering your head with your hands, preventing some of the rain from soaking your hair as you rushed to follow. Maybe this spider-man was apart of the spider society, and had a wristband. Whatever the outcome, you felt better that you had somewhat of a plan.

;;

When you reached the shop you chose to wait outside, knowing it not smart to just run into danger.

The fight is finished rather quickly, with a few broken windows and thrown food, but no one from the looks of it got hurt.

And as you began to follow Miles—having spotted him heading to an alleyway—you realise how creepy you would seem just following this kid who doesn’t know who the hell you are. But it’s too late to backtrack because he’s swiftly turning and shooting a web to attach your hand to the concrete wall.

You gasp in shock as the kid quickly runs up. “I’m sorry, I thought you were—“

“An evil dude, yeah don’t worry I started to think so too.” You chuckle, slowing your breathing. Your hand had smacked pretty hard against the wall, and as Miles cuts the web you realise that your hand is partially red and bruised.

“Sh— I am so sorry.” He said, spotting the slight injury too.

You wave him off. “That’s alright. I…uh needed to ask you something.”

Miles stands straighter, probably expecting you to point him in the direction of more danger. “You are the spider-man of this universe, right?”

Miles pauses. “Wait, you know—“ he shuffled closer, whispering. “You know about the other universes?”

You nod. “I was wondering if you had a wristband.”

“A wristband?” Miles’ confusion makes you deflate.

“So you don’t know about that…” you sigh, your plan dissolving away.

“Know about what?”

You smile. “That’s alright.”

You begin to step back out of the alleyway, placing your hands in your jacket pocket. “Nice job, by the way.” you gesture to the hung up robber.

“Thanks.” Miles shrugs, still looking thoughtful.

But as you near the street, you suddenly glitch, hitting against the wall, hissing in pain. Shit, or course. You were in a different universe…without a wristband.

Miles quickly reaches your side. “You’re not from here.” He mutters. He then loops his arm around your midriff, your body continuing to slightly glitch. “Jeez, I didn’t think that would hurt as much.” You mutter.

Miles brings you back into the alleyway, resting you against the wall. “What universe are you from?”

“Earth 1–“ you glitch. Then finally you stop, resting your head against the wall.

Miles kneels by you, still deep in thought. “Would you know a girl named Gwen Stacy?” He suddenly asks. Almost as if he had been waiting to ask someone this exact question.

You quickly meet his gaze—through the mask, of course. “You know Gwen?” You ask

“You know Gwen?” He repeats back.

“Yeah, she’s apart of the spider society.”

“The spider what?” Miles asks.

But you continue. “How do you know her? Wait.” You pause. “You’re Miles right?” You double check, not wanting to seem creepy and stalker-like.

“Yeah…” he drifts off.

“She spoke about you.” You smile. “A lot, actually.”

Miles decided on taking his mask off, either deciding on it being fine for you to see, or knowing that you must know what he looks like already. You can spot a faint blush on his cheeks at the mention of Gwen mentioning him.

“How did you get here?” He asks.

“It had to have been from the wristband.” You mutter. Before speaking louder for Miles. “There’s these wristbands that can transport you to different universes without all this glitchy mess.”

“Wow. Do you have one now?” He asks, looking to your wrist.

You shake your head. “Somehow I lost mine. And to be honest, I didn’t plan on coming here. I meant to go home.” You then get reminded of the fact that you got fired, and you mentally narrow your gaze at a non existent Miguel.

His reason still didn’t make sense to you. But you did get one. And you weren’t one to backtrack on your word, leaving like you had said.

“I’ve helped send a few spider…people back to their universes.” Miles begins. “But that was using something kingpin—this villain, created.”

You rest your head back against the concrete wall, the rain growing louder and louder, and heavier and heavier. “How are you gonna get home?” Miles asks.

You sigh. “I’m really not sure.”

;;

Miguel has gotten Lyla to try and retrace your steps through the different universes. But there’s a lot. So, even though it’s been a few hours she’s found nothing as of yet.

Miguel didn’t know how to feel about the two different options of your disappearance. You could have either gone on your own—chosen to, like Hobie had said. Why you would ever do that, Miguel would love to know. But would that make it his fault if something happened?

He knew you loved your job. And he had fired you, for selfish reasons that he covered up with, it being ‘in your best interest’. To Miguel it was, but you wouldn’t see it that way. He’s sure you don’t.

But then there’s the alternative that you had gotten taken. Miguel barely dove into that theory, his hands turning to fists so tight that he cut the skin of his palms through his suit, his claws tainted with his own blood. He almost felt bad for whoever had the terrible idea to take you.

If you thought what happened to those masked men in the office was bad, then you’d be horrified to see what he’d do to this supposed captor.

But right now it seemed to be worse—the not knowing. He didn’t know if you were happy, scared, living your best life, or…dead.

“Lyla!” He exclaimed turning to her and her tiny computers.

“No matter how many times you yell my name, it’s not gonna make me find her any quicker.” She sing songs.

He groans, going back to pacing. Then he hears the arrival of Gwen, Hobie, Peter and Pavitr. Turning, he doesn’t like the looks on their faces. “What is it?” He asks, crossing his arms.

Gwen looks down. “We found out that…she didn’t go voluntarily.”

There’s silence besides the almost ‘loud’ gaze of Miguel. “What was that?”

“There’s been talk through majority of the universes, about these…guys.” Peter begins.

“And when one showed us a left behind mask, it was the exact same as what those men that infiltrated HQ wore.”

“What do you mean by ‘didn’t go voluntarily’?” Miguel asks, stepping closer to them all. “How do you know that?”

“It’s more ov’ a guess.” Hobie says. “From what people were sayin’, those “guys” never let someone get away alive.”

“Y/n did.” Gwen adds, looking solemn.

“So, you lot came here, with one piece of information saying that she’s either gonna get killed or is already dead?” Miguel calmly asks.

But his ‘calm’ tone isn’t necessarily…calm. It’s more like the calm before the storm.

“It’s information that could help us.” Gwen tries to stay positive. “We can try and track these masked guys. Maybe there’s a base in a universe. That’s where she could be.”

“All I’m hearing is ‘could’ and ‘maybe’, Gwen.” Miguel says. “I’m gonna need something a little more definite than that.”

All the spider-people seem to notice the way Miguel’s expression shifted the moment the ‘masked men�� were brought up. He knows something they don’t. And that seems to irritate Hobie the most.

“Well, what do you ‘ave?” He asks Miguel. “We’ve at least found some’ing. What ‘ave you found?”

Miguel’s gaze is narrowed, his face solemn as he stares at Hobie. Hobie steps closer, his boots the second loudest thing in the room.

“Another thing,” Hobie adds. “While I’m talking…” He taps at his jeans to a beat only he can seem to hear. “I’ve never seen you act—I’m surprised to say—worried. Especially with y/n. I thought you hated her.”

“Mind your business.” Miguel turns, preparing to web up to the screens.

“My bad, boss.” Hobie backs up, a small smirk on his face.

“I thought you two were friends?” Why Miguel was suddenly having this conversation with Hobie he wasn’t sure, he just felt angry, because Hobie sounded so entitled to you. Like Miguel should stay “hating” you and that’s it.

Of course Hobie was just being his normal self, but with Miguel’s gaze glazed over with too many emotions he’s barely felt before, he sees red.

“So, why don’t you seem more worried about her?” Miguel continues.

Hobie chuckles. “You are worried.” He mutters to himself, shaking his head.

Miguel grits his teeth. “Ever heard of guilt?” He asks. “I don’t particularly want her to die. Having that on my back is gonna be extremely annoying.” Lies, lies, lies.

“Sure, Miguel.” Hobie hasn’t wiped his smirk off yet, and Miguel’s temper is rising.

“Alright, this is not helping.” Gwen quickly chimes in. “Y/n’s helped us, and we’re gonna help her…let’s just leave it at that.”

Miguel heard her. But all he can seem to focus on is Hobie’s smug face, as if he knows something no one else does. Something not even Miguel has really admitted to yet.

;;

You and Miles have talked, about a lot of different things actually. You had originally been trying to come up with a plan to get you home, but it soon evolved into telling each other’s life stories.

“Please tell me that is not how Gwen got her hair like that?” You’re laughing.

“I hadn’t known what to do.” Miles groans, slightly embarrassed at the memory of his first day as spider-man. His hand—being extremely sticky—not leaving Gwen’s hair.

“Wait.” Miles suddenly stands, gazing around. “Somethings wrong.”

You quickly join him, darting your gaze around the alleyway. The rain had ceased, so the sound of heavy footsteps were growing much clearer.

You stiffen, as you carefully follow Miles to edge of the alleyway, right before you walk onto the street. But that’s when your heart stops.

A small group of masked men stand, much more intimidating in the clearer light—the rush of the explosion and fear before having clouded your vision. What were they doing here?

“You were supposed to watch her!” One is exclaiming to another. “Now she’s run off somewhere. Did you at least take her wristband?”

Your eyes widen. They’re the reason you’re here? You press further into the wall, listening hard. Why? You desperately wanted that answer.

“Of course I took—“ but he stops, quickly snapping his head in the direction of you and Miles. You quickly hit back against the concrete, Miles doing the same as both your chests heave.

Miles begins to pull down his mask, preparing to face them. But you grab his arm. It wasn’t a coincidence that these same men infiltrated HQ and are now here, assumably having sent you here as well. Something didn’t feel right, and something seemed to tell you that they upgraded in some way since their last attack.

These guy’s suits are bigger, more armoured, with neater woven green stitching. This was obviously some sort of ‘crew’. Most crews are based on a cause. Like the spider society, for example. They’re there to protect the multiverse from inter-dimensional anomalies.

What are these guys fighting for? Could they possibly be fighting against something?

You had too many unanswered questions to let this kid get involved. “Just hold on.” You say to Miles, staying pressed to the cold wall. He pauses, shifting his gaze who you, in question.

“I’ve seen them before.” You begin. “I think they might be the reason I’m here…”

“Then we should talk to them. Capture them and get them to talk.” Miles eagerly says.

You chuckles. “I appreciate that. But I don’t think it’s wise. Not with them.”

Miles goes to say more, when the sound of footsteps near. You immediately pull Miles farther out of view. Then Miles feels it. Instead of the ‘tingle’ he gets when danger is near, it’s more like a foreboding that travels though his entire being. And now he can understand your cautiousness, because for the first time in a while he feels genuinely scared—powerless.

The only thing you can think to do is begin to head down the alleyway, picking up speed. Then you’re both running. “Hey! I think I found her!” A voice shouts, and that’s when you run. The type of run that makes you feel lightheaded, and sick in your stomach.

Miles grabs you, web slinging across a building. “I should be fighting them!” He exclaims through the wind. “Why am I running away!?”

“It’s probably a survival instinct!” You exclaim, as he continues to swing. “Which is concerning since your spider-man.” You mutter this more to yourself. If spider-man’s first instinct was to run then what could this mean for the rest of society?

Then suddenly Miles is getting yanked back, his web snapping, resulting in you both falling to the hard ground. You hit the concrete with a harsh slam, making your eyes blur and your ankle scream.

“Shit.” You mutter. You’re praying it’s not twisted. Please don’t be sprained—you chant in your head, as you scramble to your feet, spotting a nearing masked man, claws out and ready.

You couldn’t see Miles, but to be fair you couldn’t see much. So you ran, or more painfully hobbled away. You had to put pressure on your ankle so that you would move. The man is nearing, his heavy breathing sounding louder than it should be.

But then you feel a hand wrap around your waist, pulling you somewhere dark and desolate. You go to scream, eyes wide, when a hand gets placed over your mouth, quieting any forming sounds that were about to fall.

You can’t see who it is, your blurry gaze and the dark atmosphere making it difficult. You squint, only knowing that someone is pushing you up against a wall, one hand wrapped around your waist, as the other keeps you quiet.

Then you feel a breath by your ear. “Don’t move.” He breathes. And finally the slight accent and familiar tone makes your entire body slump.

Miguel.

You never thought you’d feel so relieved to know it’s him, but once he had spoken, Miguel could feel your entire body relax, nearly sliding to the floor, the pressure you were placing on your injured ankle now faltering.

Miguel keeps you upright, tightening his grip on your waist, as he keeps his mouth by your ear. “Would now be a bad time to ask why you left a day early?”

And you actually laugh, half heartedly and mixed in with a groan of pain, but still a laugh nonetheless.

Then Miguel is moving his hand to hold your chin, as he tries to focus your gaze. “Can you see?”

Your eyes had begun to droop, the exhaustion gradually catching up to you. But then you grab Miguel’s arm tightly. “Miles.” You say, remembering the kid.

“Miles?” Miguel questions.

“The kid. I was with a kid. Another spider-man. Is he okay?” You rush this out, forcing Miguel to place his hand back over your mouth.

“Shh. You’ll get us caught.” He whispers.

You protest, needing an answer, because you could feel yourself slipping from consciousness.

“He’ll be fine. Gwen is with him.” Miguel consoles, seeing your stress. Your shoulders slump in relief, and finally the exhaustion catches up, grabbing a hold of you, as your eyes begin to flutter.

“Wow, wow.” Miguel mutters, catching your dropping body. “Don’t close your eyes.” He all but demands, but it’s too late. Your eyes roll closed, as darkness gives you a hug.

Miguel slips to the ground with you, holding the back of your head from hitting back. He prays that it’s just exhaustion, and nothing more…permanent.

His chest is heaving, his eyes trained on you, while his ears stayed focused, in case the sound of heavy boots broke the city noise.

But he hears nothing of concern, his finger—at first without permission—dragging along your jaw.

Your lips were slightly parted, your body so limp in his hold. “I’m sorry.” He mutters quietly, his dragging finger drifting up to your face, to brush a stray hair, still slightly damp from the rain.

His finger pauses by your lips, not quite touching, just hovering. He’d been in denial. Big denial. And maybe you wouldn’t feel the same, maybe you hated him. But right now Miguel couldn’t find it in himself to care, all the loud voices in his head zoning out to one single voice saying ‘I like her’ … ‘I like her a lot’.

sorry, this one kinda goes everywhere. i needed to add my guy miles <3 i don’t know if I like this one *crying* it feels too random. I’ll hopefully get back on track next chapter

part six is on its way! — thanks so much for all your guys support on this series, you guys are truly incredible

taglist: @dangerousdreamkitty @ale-maral @inosukesweirdwife @flooftoof @cynicallyaestetic @silassinclair @mariiyoushi @ilovedilfjake @toastlover21 @wlellsl @k1rbbo @bitchotine @guacam011y @blnk338 @wolfiepirate @kurxxmi @corpsebridenightamare @ohantonia @yunonaneko @irenered-20 @z3r0art @sunflowercandie @perilous-pasta @gloriouskryptonitecrown @whyamistillhere78 @ritzzzsblog @mm1sta @tealcoloured-murder @aweebsimp101 @livelaughlaurv @s0dium @roguepancake @sunshiines-stuff @internal-soundtrack @oscarisdaddy69 @clairacassidy @captainquake42 @nanaloverz @ilyless @sindulgent666 @shine101 @thebadasssass @hibeejibees @nirishin @ily2lia @lillunna @cinnamoncattie @futuristicpandakid @maroonobserver @thatsopanu @edgyficuselastica @kittekat420 @stararctic @maxi-ride @renn-pumkin-head @scaraza @justanotherkpopstanlol @fauxizs @cloudsandrenoswife @ilmovor @larissa-lolll @elliemm @httpkiyoomi @j2warren @arquiiva @ilovemiguelohara @a-monster-can-filled-with-cum @fandom-gal44 @elwyn7 @albiebright

taglist #2 taglist #3 taglist #4 taglist #5

#the miguel effect #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel fucking o’hara #miguel o’hara smut #miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara fic #miguel o’hara one shot #miguel o’hara x y/n #atsv miguel #miguel o’hara x you #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara across the spider verse #atsv #atsv x reader #spiderman atsv #spider man 2099 #across the spider verse #across the spiderverse

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rainydaydreamsideblog · 1 month

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(The Maze Runner) Imagine: He Protects You

It can be dangerous, especially for the only girl in the Glade.

Warnings: Guys being creeps in the Glade (nothing graphic), bullying, the Maze, danger.

. . .Thomas. . .

It’s a beautiful evening in the Glade. You’re walking straight along the treeline on your way to run a final errand for Alby at the end of the day. The sun is no longer visible, as it already descended far enough to be blocked by the walls.

Suddenly, you get the creeps. It was hard to explain, but you feel goosebumps bloom along your skin, and you get the distinct feeling that you’re not alone. The lovely glow of the bonfire is in your field of vision, but it’s so far away. It’s where most of the guys are gathered. You can hear their distant whoops and hollers, reminding you that help is far away too.

A twig snaps, and your suspicions are confirmed. There’s a figure following several feet behind you, lurking in the shadows cast from the trees above.

So, you veer off your original path to draw closer to the homestead where there would hopefully be someone who hadn’t made it to the bonfire yet. Whoever it was must have caught on to what you were doing because they instantly pick up their pace. You begin to hurry, increasing your speed so that they can’t catch you before you make it to what you hope will be a haven of safety.

Your heart is pounding, and your chest heaving with panicked breaths as you finally make it to the homestead.

“Hello?” you call frantically.

Suddenly, Thomas appears. He sees your nervous state immediately, his hand taking yours. But then his eyes lock onto something behind you, and he moves right past you to intercept your pursuer, effectively blocking them from you.

“What’s going on?” he demands. Your follower is frozen to the spot, stuttering, failing miserably to offer up some sort of explanation. Thomas steps forward, towering over the guy. It’s plain to see that he is furious. His forearms flex and his jaw is clenched. You can hear his angry breaths as he speaks again. “That’s what I thought. Now, get out of here.”

As soon as the guy is gone, Thomas turns around to face you. His close presence eases your fearful state when he steps into your space, filling your nose with his scent. “You okay?” he asks gently.

You manage a nod.

“We’re going to tell Alby right away. This isn’t going to happen to you again. Come here…” He carefully pulls you into his arms for an embrace, as if you’ll break apart if he’s too sudden. You bury your face in his chest, breathing a sigh of relief. His heartbeat is close to your ears, like a lullaby.

“Thank you…” you whispered.

. . . Newt . . .

You couldn’t take it anymore.

The teasing, the taunts… The inability of certain individuals to just leave you alone. Ever since you’d rejected him, Allan had made it his life’s mission to make your existence in the Glade all the more difficult.

Most recently, he had purposely bumped into you at lunchtime so that your meal was spilled all over your clothes and onto the ground. Resources were limited in the Glade. It was understood that wastefulness wouldn’t be tolerated. You couldn’t afford to lose food or have clothing ruined. Fortunately, your clothes would be fine after a wash, but the discarded food was a different story.

You dab at your tank top with a washcloth and pause to look at your reflection in the mirror. It was all too easy to recall how quickly you’d reached your limit after Allan’s ridiculous ploy. Your face is still wet from crying, eyes puffy, and lips parted as you took deep breaths.

There’s no use crying over spilled milk, you thought. Or in my case, spilled lunch.

After composing yourself, you decide it’s time to go back out there and face the music. You toss the damp rag aside and march determinedly out of the empty washroom. To your surprise, you smack right into another individual coming in. You instantly recognize the blonde hair and grumbles of complaint as he reels from the collision.

“Oi, shank, watch where you’re going-” Newt quickly realizes it’s you and clamps his mouth shut, extending his hands to each of your shoulders to steady you gently. He takes in the sight of your tear-stained face with his eyes showing clear concern. “Hey, what’s gotten into you?”

“Oh, just… Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Newt looks far from convinced, and you lower your gaze. He’s about to inquire further, but a familiar voice sounds from outside the washroom.

“Hey, _______!” Allan calls tauntingly, making you freeze up. “How’s it going in there?”

Newt’s eyes instantly flash, and his face scrunches up anger. You can hardly believe it when Allan continues.

“Sorry about my clumsiness earlier. Maybe I can make it up to you. Come on out before I go in there!”

Newt can’t contain himself anymore. He turns on his heel and heads out of the washroom, and you follow behind just to see the look on Allan’s face when he realizes he’s been caught.

It is so worth it. Allan’s stupid grin falls hard into a look of horror as the Second-in-Command approaches him furiously. He doesn’t lay a hand on him, but he looks like he’s awfully close when he jabs a pointer finger in his direction.

“If I ever catch you bothering her, or even breathing in her general direction again, you’ll be a permanent Slopper for the rest of your time here in the Glade. Do you understand, shank?”

Allan nods quickly, and doesn’t even wait to be dismissed. He just hurries away, leaving you and Newt both standing there watching him flee.

“Coward,” he mumbles. Then, Newt turns to you, resting a hand on your arm in a comforting gesture. “I mean it, you know. He’ll never bother you again.”

. . . Minho . . .

It’s hard not to panic when you glance up and can no longer see the sun above you. It’s the end of the day, and you’re nearly out of time. The lightning pain that shoots through your ankle suddenly just becomes too much. You lean against one of the ivy-covered walls and exhale.

“I don’t think I’m going to make it,” you say aloud, and the words weigh heavily on you. You mentally scold yourself. You can’t afford to think that way. A Runner knows better. With a wince, you continue limping on your way. It’s not that the exit from the Maze isn’t close. If memory serves you right (which it did), it wasn’t too far at all… but at your pace, it would take a lot of effort and some good luck to get you back in time.

Just when you are about to give up again, you hear footsteps rapidly approaching. Your first thought is that perhaps your cowardly companion had a change of heart, but the footsteps didn’t match.

“Hello?” you call.

“_________!” Minho’s voice responds, and your heart swells with hope. You aren’t out of the woods just yet, but your chances were much better with help. Minho nearly slides to a stop in front of you, instantly taking your arm and putting it around his broad shoulders to help you up. There is no time to stop and compare notes, so you update him as he begins helping you back along the path.

“I sprained my ankle.” You hold onto Minho like he’s your lifeline as you push through the pain to keep up with his pace. He’s right to go so fast. Time is running out.

“Where’s Derek?” he asks with a grunt.

“He…he left me,” you gasp in pain. “I think he was worried he wouldn’t make it out in time if he helped me.”

Minho goes quiet for a moment, and you can practically feel the anger rolling off him in waves. His eyes are focused straight ahead at the path, and he huffs. Finally, he bites out a sarcastic comment. “I think it’s safe to say that he’s getting demoted from being a Runner.”

You keep talking, trying to distract the both of you from the familiar groan of the Maze walls shifting. “Why did you come out here?”

“Because it was getting late in the day, and no one had seen you,” he pants. “Usually, you check in with me right away. I knew something had to be wrong.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

You continue limping with all your might toward the gate, feeling your heart jump, as the walls on either side begin their agonizingly slow crawl to a close. There’s a small group standing on the other side, ushering you both out anxiously. It was mostly Keepers, a select few who had been informed of the problem by Minho.

The two of you fell onto the green grass, gasping for breath, while the others surrounded you. Alby knelt down beside you, resting a hand on your shoulder. You just let yourself breathe, tears welling up in your eyes from relief.

“So it’s true?” Gally questioned, brows raised. “Derek left her in there.” “Yes,” Minho replied, sitting up. “And he will face the consequences.” He looked over at you, finally catching his breath. “You’re safe now.”

. . . Gally . . .

James had been haunting your steps for far too long. He was always there, always hanging around, and sometimes showing up at the most alarming of instances. What could be done about it? It wasn’t as if he’d taken severe enough action to warrant disciplinary measures, you thought. He was only ever seen staring at you, smirking, and just being an all-around jerk at times.

This time, he’d snatched your tools away from your working station while your back was turned. After uncovering a particularly tough old root, you turned around to get a spade to chop it up, only to see that your things were gone.

A few laughs caught your attention, and you glanced over to see James and one of his shadows standing there, staring at you from several feet away. You couldn’t say for certain, but it seemed like they had something to do with your missing tools.

So, now you’re debating with yourself on the best course of action. Do you ignore him and try to rustle up some extra tools from Newt or Zart? Or do you bother to give this shank the attention he’s so desperately seeking to get your stuff back?

You don’t really like the latter option. Frankly, James gives you the creeps. The last thing you want is to play his little game… But every minute that you spend deliberating is wasted time that could be put towards helping the Glade.

As much as you despise indulging him, you find yourself marching right over to his work area. Both James and his minion are laughing in amusement, shoving each other at the sight of you approaching.

“Do you know where my tools went?” you ask, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“I might,” James replies cryptically. “And I might be willing to strike up a bargain for that information.”

You fold your arms across your chest. “What could you possibly want?”

“Ohh, I don’t know…Perhaps a kiss will do.”

You make a face as the disgust hits you. “Seriously?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“Yeah, that’s going to be a ‘no’ for me.” You wave off the concept, turning around. You decided that your best bet is to find some spare tools. This just wasn’t worth all the trouble. Just as you start to leave, James comes running around to block you.

“Hey now, I didn’t say you could go.”

“Yeah, you might want to think about his offer,” James’ lackey said from behind you. The two of them close in, and you clench your fists in preparation to fight. If you make enough commotion, you’re sure that someone will notice and come to your aid.

You give him one last chance. “Let me pass.”

“Come on, just one kiss. Unless you want more than one after that-” to your relief, James is cut off by a new voice interjecting.

“What’s going on here?” The three of you turn to see Gally standing there, sweating from whatever project he was working on,with dirt and wood shavings on his clothes. His expression looks expectant as he waits for an explanation, though his tall and bulky form makes him appear positively dangerous as he stares the two guys down with his hands resting on his hips.

“I, uh.. We…” They break off in stutters and fumbled words.

“I’m fairly certain they have my tools,” you say, and Gally’s famous arched brows raise at the two guys in disbelief.

“Is that so?” As Gally walks forward, he plants his palms harshly on James’ shoulder, shoving him clear out of the way. James stumbles unceremoniously, almost falling straight into the grass. Gally walks over to the bench and pauses. He picks up a bundle of leather and tosses it to you, the tools rattling inside. “Are those yours?”

You recognize it immediately. “Yes, these are the ones.”

“You shanks had better never even speak to her again. Understand?” He stares at each of them pointedly with all the authority of a Keeper, and they both nod. With that, Gally walks up to you and ushers you away with a warm, gentle hand on your back protectively.

“Your timing was impeccable,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

“They won’t bother you again. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I think you already have,” you chuckle.

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lizthewriter · 4 months

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mattheo riddle as different romance tropes

〉forbidden love yep, you saw it! he's the dark lord's son and most likely a forced death eater. whether your muggleborn or a blood traitor or just someone who could be put in danger by his family, then you can't be together. it's hard for him not to fall in love with you, especially when you're making it so effortlessly easy. he hates it and he hates himself and he hates his stupid family but god, does he love you. he tries so hard to keep himself straight, to not veer off the path his family is so desperately trying to steer him on, but he confesses his love to you either in a hot, steamy, passionate kiss filled with pent up emotion or a calm, peaceful night spent in the astronomy tower, explaining to you how he feels but why you could never be together. either way, you don't care and make it work. your love is secretive, spontaneous, sweet, but tense at times. you two are so kind and loving towards each other but tend to argue about how to behave around each other in public. in the end, of course, the dark lord does not persevere and your relationship can survive out in the open, but know that the beginning of your relationship might be a bit tumultuous at first.

〉enemies to lovers / forced proximity if anyone exemplifies this trope, it's mattheo. the hatred you two bare for each other is so angry and passionate it that it falls along the line of "i hate you so much i almost love you," and your friends can definitely see that. most likely the two of you would be complete opposites yet exactly the same all at once. you hate the parts of him that differ from you yet hate the parts that are similar even more, because you're supposed to be enemies, right? constant bickering, arguing, and glaring. this is where the forced proximity comes into play - i don't see forced proximity being a way you two fall in love without being enemies first. either your friends shove you in a closet together to hash those unresolved feelings towards one another, or it could be a seven minutes in heaven / spin the bottle scenario, detention, or you're forced to work on a school project together. either way, your love confession is either a passionate, angry, almost hateful kiss or something that's wholesome, pure, and totally unexpected. your love would be fiery and serious and the two of you often find solitude in spending time alone together late at night or early in the morning, when you can let bygones be bygones and simply let go.

〉fwb to lovers / pure and promiscuous what else did you think this would be? mattheo is a fuckboy and there's no denying it. he finds solace in sleeping around and smoking (not exactly healthy habits - don't try this at home kiddos!) you could be best friends and find that the two of you find release with each other or more of acquaintances, which would tie in with the "pure and promiscuous" love trope. with the later, i see you approaching mattheo in hopes that he might teach you how to - well, you know. whatever your motives are, he doesn't care, because you're beautiful (and he might have a corruption kink but we won't talk about that). i would think the love confession happens when you're sitting in bed - i don't think mattheo would be the one to bring it up, probably you. your love would be delicate, heart-warming, and wholesome. it may start out with benefits, but it grows to be something a lot more then just that.

[movie rec: 10 things i hate about you]

#— [ glizzy posts ☆ ]#mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle headcanons #mattheo riddle headcanon #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #my writing #my fanfiction #fanfiction #my fic #writing #fanfic #harry potter #slytherin boys

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rabbitcruiser · 5 months

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Waldorf Astoria Las Vegas

The Waldorf Astoria Las Vegas, formerly the Mandarin Oriental, Las Vegas, is a 47-story luxury hotel and condominium building in the CityCenter complex on the Las Vegas Strip in Paradise, Nevada. It is managed by Hilton Worldwide as part of the Waldorf Astoria Hotels & Resorts brand. It is owned by Tiffany Lam and Andrew and Peggy Cherng.

The hotel was originally owned by MGM Mirage and Dubai World, and operated by Mandarin Oriental Hotel Group as part of its luxury chain. It opened on December 4, 2009, occupying the former site of the Boardwalk hotel-casino. It was rebranded under the Waldorf Astoria name in 2018, following a $214 million purchase by Lam and the Cherngs. The hotel has 389 rooms leading up to the lobby on the 23rd floor. The upper floors contain 225 condominium residences.

Source: Wikipedia

Aria Resort and Casino

Aria Resort and Casino is a luxury resort and casino, and the primary property at the CityCenter complex, located on the Las Vegas Strip in Paradise, Nevada. It is owned by The Blackstone Group and operated by MGM Resorts International.

Construction began on June 25, 2006, with a design by Pelli Clarke Pelli Architects. Aria received LEED Gold certification for its environmentally friendly design, and is the largest hotel in the world to achieve such a feat. It was also among the most technologically advanced hotels in the world at the time of its opening on December 16, 2009. It was developed as a joint venture between MGM and Dubai World, before being sold to Blackstone in 2021.

Aria's hotel includes two curvilinear glass towers, rising up to 50 stories. The hotel has 4,004 rooms and suites, and is a recipient of the AAA Five Diamond Award and a five-star rating from Forbes Travel Guide. The resort also includes the only casino at CityCenter, with 150,000 sq ft (14,000 m2) of gaming space. Other features include an 80,000 sq ft (7,400 m2) salon and spa, 500,000 sq ft (46,000 m2) of convention space, and numerous restaurants, as well as artwork and water attractions.

Source: Wikipedia

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blurredcolour · 3 months

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III. "Trust Me, He's In Good Hands."

"Trust" Series Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader

As the calendar flips to September, so arrives Autumn, the season of change. And change will always come, whether it is welcome or not.

Warnings: Language, Grief, Minor Bucky Injury, Mention of Medical Treatments/Devices, Angst, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [fingering, handjob, semi-public play] - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: In case you missed it, there was a head cannon produced as a semi-interlude for just how Bucky 'took care of himself' after their moment on the bench. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 6486

-------------------------

“Think you took a wrong turn back there, Bucky…” You raised an eyebrow, glancing over your shoulder as he continued driving further and further away from your quarters, navigating the jeep, instead, towards the control tower.

After nearly a week of chauffeuring you and your rapidly healing leg around Thorpe Abbotts, you were more than confident that he knew his way from your quarters to the mess to the control tower and back. This was most certainly a detour from the normal route.

When your comment was met with silence, you turned to look at him curiously, only to see the profile of his mischievous grin as he worked a fresh stick of gum between his molars, a pair of aviator sunglasses concealing his eyes even in the rapidly darkening twilight.

A plethora of fresh cuts and abrasions adorned his face from that day’s mission to Stuttgart – nearly 1,300 miles round trip. Flying in the second group of the day, the Luftwaffe and ground forces had been more than ready for them. Resistance had been heavy, though their drop was still considered a success, the first group’s had been a disaster. Bucky had been putting on his usual good humor since his return to the Operations Room, though his kisses in the custodial closet had been a little more frenetic than usual. His hold on you a little tighter than after previous missions.

For your part, you had wound yourself around him as tightly as a vine of ivy, the loss of your brother still terribly fresh and barely scabbed over. A scab that you had to fight the urge to pick at in the darkest hours of the night while your hut mates slept the sleep of the ungrieved. It was easier to set your hurts aside in the daylight, or in Bucky’s presence, as the man himself might as well have been the sun personified. Yet there was something changed about him today.

“Bucky?” You prompted softly as he reached the control tower and hung a right to begin driving out along the runway.

“Wanna show you the stars, doll.” He murmured quietly, sliding his sunglasses to the top of his head, his cap tossed carelessly on the seat between you, as darkness finally conquered the sky.

“Alright.” You whispered, setting your hand on his knee slowly while he drove to the very end of the asphalt before veering off into the tall vegetation that brushed against the sides of the vehicle.

As he cut the engine, the silence of the field settled in around the pair of you, so far removed from the crews diligently working on planes parked on their hardstands – there was another mission tomorrow, they would do their very best to get as many as possible back into service by dawn. But this far out, it felt like it you were perhaps the only two people in the entire world just then. Tilting your head back to look up at the sky, you pulled your cap from your head to watch the stars begin to wink into light against the deep blue velvet night, a smile tugging at your lips.

“They are beautiful.” You breathed reverently, rolling your head to the side to look at him fondly.

“Yeah.” He murmured in agreement, though your heart clenched as you found his eyes focused squarely on you rather than the constellations above.

His hand settled over yours where it still rested on his leg, fingers threading between yours, squeezing tightly, and you leaned in with the intention of pressing your lips to his. Bucky met you halfway, tilting his head to the left to slot his lips against yours firmly. The taste of spearmint flooded your mouth and your tongue darted forward the pilfer the still-supple piece of gum from its hiding place against his cheek, tucking it against your own as his body shook with laughter. Your responding grin made it difficult for either of you to continue the kiss and so Bucky dropped his mouth to your neck, fingers abandoning yours to begin tugging at your necktie and the buttons of your collar to reveal more of your skin to his greedy lips.

“Bucky…” You sighed, sliding your liberated hands into his hair, wantonly holding him to your throat.

Your eyes fell shut as you shivered eagerly, each exhale shaking as it left your mouth in response to the damp, open-mouthed kisses he painted across your skin. The brush of his moustache provided a wicked contrast in sensations. He hummed approvingly against you, arms snaking around your hips as he shuffled the pair of you further onto the passenger’s side of the bench seat, farther away from the interference of the steering wheel.

Bucky’s fingers tugged at the buttons on your uniform jacket, parting the offending fabric so his broad hand could slide beneath to cup one of your breasts, kneading at the tender flesh over the thinner fabric of your shirt. Arching with a needy whimper, you pulled gently on his dark locks until he tipped his head back, lips kiss-stung as he looked up at you, eyes barely focused. Lunging forward, you kissed him thoroughly as he continued his sweet torment, making your hips undulate against the seat needily, desperate for any friction you might find.

You mewled in protest when his hand left your chest, pressing your face against his cheek as he tutted teasingly.

“Easy doll, I won’t leave you hanging.”

His hand slid to your left knee, fingers cupping the back of it as he gently guided your leg to hook over his right, spreading your legs open to the rush of cool night air. Instinctively, you rolled your right leg inward to close the gap, but his hand slid between your inner thighs, keeping them apart.

“Wait.” He whispered, stroking his slightly calloused fingers against the soft skin he had found there, knuckles rasping against the opposite thigh. “Let me make you feel good.”

Sinking your teeth into your lower lip, you shuddered slightly before relaxing your right leg, letting your knee fall against the frame of the jeep as you shuffled your hips forward consentingly.

Sweeping ever higher along your inner thigh in slow, smooth circles, you still jumped slightly as Bucky’s palm came to rest over your underwear, breath hitching in your throat to feel the heat of his skin seeping through the thin material.

“Damn, you’re so warm.” His breath fanned across your cheek as he spoke, heel of his palm applying just the right amount of pressure to the place that had you seeing constellations of your own behind your eyelids.

“Bu…cky…” You keened his name, pronunciation disjointed and clumsy as his fingers worked at tracing your folds across the rapidly dampening fabric.

“I know, I know.” He rasped, sounding almost pained as he shifted his hips.

Forcing your eyes open, you recognized the same need in his movements that had, just moments before, laced your own. You swallowed roughly to gather your courage before allowing your hand to drop to his lap. The gasp that escaped you at the sheer pressure of him against his fly was drowned out by his harsh, half-swallowed moan. Pressed temple-to-temple, you inhaled sharply as his eyes flicked to yours, boring into them at close range as you began to work your palm along the shape of him through his trousers, applying what you could only hope was the right amount of friction.

“Goddamn you’re not going to be satisfied unless I cum, are you?” He huffed and tilted his jaw forward to nip at your lower lip.

Your brow furrowed in thought as the verbiage of that sentence did not quite compute, though it very well could have been as a result of his diligent attentions between your thighs.

As if sensing your confusion, Bucky began throwing out alternative words like a thesaurus while he gradually began to ease your underwear to one side. “Finish, climax, release, orgasm…what you did so prettily all over my thigh and what I’m going to make you do again right–”

“Fuck…” You squeaked as his fingers found the bare skin of your folds, hips jerking both towards his touch and away from the intensity of it all at once.

“Here.” He finished his thought, temple pressing against yours once more, fingertips rapidly growing slick with your desire before they delved to find your sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Jesus Christ, Bucky!” You gasped out, bucking sharply and most definitely toward his hand this time.

“You talk to your Captain with that mouth, doll?” He teased with a broad grin, teeth flashing white in the darkness.

“Mmm fuck…” You whimpered, nearly incoherent as he expertly worked your body like he had known it longer than you.

“Spending far too much time around soldiers, doll.” He continued to tease you, making your nostrils flare stubbornly as you summoned the very last of your wits to attack his fly, wanting him to suffer equally under the exquisite torture of pleasure he was inflicting upon you. “Whoa there what a–” His words died on his lips as your persistent, delving hand worked its way into his trousers and then past the waistband of his boxers to wrap around the steely length of him.

A ragged groan cut through the night air before his mouth crashed into yours, a slight clacking of teeth before he recovered his usual finesse. There was a beguiling slickness gathered at the tip but otherwise the skin covering the swollen hardness of him was the softest you had ever felt. However, now that you had seized your prize, you were not entirely certain what to do with it. Bucky’s large left hand wrapped itself around yours, beginning to guide you through a pumping motion up and down the length of him that filled your mouth with his moans and sped the pace of his right hand against you.

Wrenching your lips back from his to gasp for breath, you pressed your forehead against his once more, your exhales becoming his inhales. Tugging the gusset of your underwear further from your body, he made more space for his hand, settling the heel of his palm against the apex of your pleasure as his index finger began to circle your entrance.

“Fuck you’re so wet…” He huffed, dipping the pad of his finger into your slick.

“Mnnph!” You vocalized nonsensically, swiping your thumb across the source of his own slickness, collecting fresh beads of moisture to ease the motion of your fist around him. “You, too.” You panted.

Hot breath cascading down the gaping collar of your shirt was his only response, and being a quick study, you were certain to repeat that motion at the top of each pull, despite how difficult it was becoming to think straight. Particularly as he sank his index finger into your eager body, the feeling foreign yet not unwelcome, especially when he began to thrust said finger at a pace that matched your own hand around him.

A fleeting concern passed through your mind, of what sort of vulgar display the pair of you were currently presenting to the very heavens that you had driven out here under the pretext to admire, but it could not compete for you attention as Bucky added a second finger to your wet heat. Your hips moved in time with his fingers, of their own volition, and you were so focused on driving the pair of you towards your own heaven that you were barely taking in enough oxygen.

“Doll I’m gonna…fuck…I’m gonna cum…” Bucky growled, though there was the distinct edge of a whine to it.

“Yes.” You exhaled enthusiastically as you fully understood the statement this time. “Yes, Bucky go on I want you to, please.” You babbled, no longer completely in control of your faculties.

His left hand quickly abandoned yours to yank his uniform jacket and shirt higher on his torso as his hips slammed into your fist several times before, with a hoarse shout, a tremendous amount of fluid was released across his lower abdomen, dripping onto your hand. You watched with a slack jaw, very much wishing you could see the intricacies of his pleasure more clearly than the dark of night would allow, but nevertheless mightily pleased to have brought it about.

As his right hand stilled inside your underwear, you mistakenly assumed he was utterly spent, would not have minded at all if that were the case, and began to straighten your uniform.

“Oh, hell no, I’m not finished with you.” His fingers lurched into motion, pace somehow doubled as they scissored and curled inside you.

Left hand, now freed, settled over your right breast as he turned fully to devour the noises his renewed attentions wrung from your trembling body. You could feel your walls beginning to clench around his fingers, your thighs pressing together as the tension within you rose to its crest before shattering in a rush of ecstasy that had you clawing at his uniform jacket as you writhed beneath him.

Pulling back only once you had stopped wailing down his throat, Bucky smirked a little as he licked his lips. “That’s better.” Settling back onto the seat beside you, he carefully pulled his fingers from your still-shaking body to lick them clean, closing his eyes slowly. “Next time, I’m going to eat you alive, doll…”

Slumping against his shoulder all you managed by way of reply was a weak, “Uh huh.”

Bucky pressed a tender kiss to the crown of your head before pulling a utilitarian handkerchief from his pocket, wiping your hand before roughly wiping himself clean. He brusquely restored order to his uniform before very tenderly doing the same with yours.

“Need a few more minutes?”

“Mmm we should get back.” You frowned, leaning in to peck his lips softly. “If my legs still aren’t working, I’ve got the crutches at least.”

A confident grin unfurled across his features as he slid back behind the wheel, arm wrapping around your waist to pull you snug into his side before he began the drive back to your quarters. Absent-mindedly, you retrieved the stolen piece of gum from the corner of your cheek and folded an air bubble into it before cracking it against your teeth, slowly feeling the capacity to control your limbs returning.

Pulling up in front of your hut, he turned to you with a smirk. “You stole my gum.”

You looked to him slowly before shooting him a wink. “Guess you’ll have to steal it back.” You would have kissed him goodnight, given him the chance to do so right then, if not for the crunch of footsteps on the gravel drive behind you. “Goodnight Major Egan.” You said as you straightened quickly, putting a great deal of distance between you as you slid to the other side of the jeep before climbing out.

Fetching your crutches from the back, you were slowly making your way inside when you heard him address the unknown individual.

“Captain Miller.”

“Major Egan, whatever has become of your cap, sir?” Her voice was cold and shrill as usual.

“Got it right here Ma’am.” You heard him reply, though her hum of disapproval, one that was all too familiar to the WACs, did not bode well for the state of it.

“It seems rather worse for wear, sir. Might want to try and remedy that before Colonel Harding gets a look at it. Goodnight.”

Risking a glance back over your shoulder you frowned to see how horribly crumpled the thing had become – surely a victim of your star-gazing trip gone astray. Bucky, for his part, only sent you a broad smile as Captain Miller continued on into the night and you waved to him before ducking inside to face the firing squad of your expectant-faced friends.

The early days of September continued to be busy with crews from the 100th flying the following morning, the 7th, and then receiving a day’s rest. There was no real rest for you on the 8th, however, as the field order for Operation Starkey, set for the 9th, arrived late in the day, sending the Operations Room into a frenzy. Bucky had appeared at the usual time to drive you to the mess for dinner and all you could spare was an apologetic look before he was snagged by Colonel Harding. Set to be the largest operation of the war to date, you were up quite late ensuring everything was in place, unsurprised that Harding had ordered Bucky to bed to rest up – that only meant one thing. He would be flying tomorrow.

The target was an airfield just outside Paris, mercifully not another foray deep into Germany, but the customary knot that settled into your stomach seemed to twist all the more acutely this time. Making your way down the stairs on your crutches, bearing a little more weight on your ankle now, on Doctor McLean’s instructions, you were surprised to find Captain Miller waiting for you at the door.

“Good evening, Lieutenant. I was hoping to catch you alone.”

“Ma’am.” You juggled your crutches awkwardly in order to salute her, doing your best to keep the confusion and concern from your voice.

She began the walk towards the barracks at a slow pace, allowing you make your way alongside her as she spoke. “I’ve received orders this afternoon from Pinetree that effective September 10th you will be transferring there as a member of their Operations staff.”

Your head whirled to look at her angular profile, her hair perfectly smooth beneath her cap, as she delivered this devastating news as though it had as much effect on your life as the fact that it might rain later. The bottom of your left crutch snagged into the gravel and dug awkwardly into your armpit, sending you stumbling forward. Somehow you managed not to fall flat upon your face, but all you could croak in response was a pathetic, “Ma’am?!”

Miller eyed you a moment, presumably ensuring your stability before she resumed both her speech and her progress towards your quarters. “Your work is impeccable, you should not be surprised that you have been given this opportunity, Lieutenant. I suggest you begin packing. I will see you to the station myself morning after next.”

Nodding, speechless, you continued to shuffle after her. Pinetree – code name for the Headquarters of the 8th Air Force, located in some village just north of London. Quite a ways away from Thorpe Abbotts. Away from Vi and Mary and Ruth – your constant companions through your entire time with the WAC. Away from Bucky. Your throat clenched painfully as you desperately tried to swallow, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

‘Christ, please not in front of the dragon-lady…hold it together girl.’ You chastised yourself and straightened your back, clenched your jaw, willfully keeping an iron grip on yourself.

By the grace of everything holy she kept silent for the rest of the walk, pausing in front of your hut. “This is a good thing, Lieutenant. Now rest up, big day tomorrow.” Miller nodded firmly and you shared a salute before she continued on her way.

Taking a shaking breath, you crept inside, leg aching from the walk, throat aching from smothered emotion. The rest of the occupants were all sleeping, oblivious to your plight, and you miraculously managed to keep it that way, sliding into your cot at last to allow silent tears to roll down your cheeks. You should have used those four hours to rest before waking early, knowing Bucky would still insist on driving you to the mess and then the Control Tower before his flight, but sleep was about as friendly with you as Captain Miller that night.

As your alarm clock went off, and Vi hurled a pillow at you for the insult of vicariously waking her with it as well, you were quite convinced you had not managed a minute of sleep. Running through your morning routine like some kind of robot, you began to make your way toward the mess, smiling weakly even as your heart wrenched beneath your ribs to hear his jeep pull up beside you.

“Morning, doll.”

“Morning, Bucky.” You sighed, turning to him, afraid to meet his eyes. Afraid he might be able to see right through you, and not wanting to burden him with this impending separation right before he went up. “You go on ahead, I know you’re busy…”

“Doll, please don’t hit me, but what time did you get to bed last night? Get in the jeep.”

Despite yourself, despite the yawning dread in your gut, you still felt a laugh bubble up your throat. Perhaps not to the usual brightness he would have earned, but Bucky was still able to earn it.

“Late.” You sighed, surrendering your crutches to the back of the jeep, sliding in beside him. “But clearly, I need to put on a better face. ‘A WAC should never appear tired or distressed.’” You quoted one of your instructors from Fort Des Moines.

He huffed with a playful roll of his eyes as he put the vehicle into motion. “As far as I’m concerned doll, you’ve more than done your duty for this mission.”

You looked to him curiously, brain sluggish without any food to fuel it yet.

“‘Release a man for combat.’” He glanced at you with a wicked grin as he quoted the former WAC slogan, the one that had been in use before your superiors had truly understood the connotations of such a statement, and your jaw dropped as you felt heat paint its way down your neck.

“John Clarence Egan.” You hissed in half-hearted admonishment, shaking your head as a grin snuck its way onto your features in spite of it all. Sighing deeply as, after mere moments with him, you already found your mood much improved. “I’m gonna m–” Quickly slapping your hand over your mouth lest you admit to more than you were prepared to at this time of day, you feigned a yawn which made him chuckle under his breath as he pulled up in front of the mess.

“Maybe need a nap?” He finished mischievously and you just nodded, leveraging yourself out of the jeep, still feeling sore after your long walk to bed last night. “I’ll see you after briefing.”

“You don’t have to, Bucky I can make it just fine, you’re busy.”

“That wince you just failed to hide says otherwise, doll. I’ll see you in an hour or so.” He eyed you sternly and you gulped painfully, already feeling quite lost at the idea of being separated from him.

“I’m going to start walking if you’re late.” You tried a small smile on for size, preparing yourself to enter the mess with a pleasant look on your face.

“I’ll find you!” He threatened as he pulled away slowly, careful not to kick up any gravel in your direction and all you could do was shake your head fondly.

You were doomed.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, the few already up this early only present for the sake of fuelling their bodies and not really seeking conversation. Burying your nose in a book that you could not even manage to read one sentence of, you lasted all of forty-five minutes before your nerves got the better of you and insisted on action rather than wasting time while you waited for Bucky to be ready. Gritting your teeth against the protest in your joints, you began making your way down the road toward the Control Tower, needing very much to be useful else you might simply drown in the complexity of your emotions.

Regardless, you would need to get used to being independent once more. Pinetree, or High Wycombe as it was properly known on a map, would not have a private chauffer awaiting you. It remained to be seen how much distance you would need to cover in your daily duties and there was no time like the present to start practicing. You were almost halfway there when Bucky pulled up alongside, dressed in his flight suit, eyebrow raised impatiently.

“Someone definitely needs a nap.” He narrowed his eyes, gesturing at the open bench seat beside him.

Sighing deeply, you pulled the crutches from beneath your armpits to slide into the back before climbing into the jeep next to him. “I was falling asleep at the table.” You muttered as he pulled out. “I didn’t mean to insult you…”

His only reply was a gently squeezing of your knee, a quick motion between his steering of the vehicle, but you could tell he was not pleased. Combined with the quiet thoughtfulness that overcame him on his way to a mission, it made for a silent drive to the Control Tower. As he pulled up in front of the building, you turned to press a warm kiss to his cheek, feeling him tense in surprise at your rather visible display of affection.

“See you in a few hours.” You smiled to him tenderly and he offered you a lopsided grin in reply.

“You bet, doll. No sleeping on your desk, now.” He winked as you slid out and you offered him a laugh over your shoulder as you made your way inside.

Organized chaos awaited you in the Operations Room. Now officially billed as a practice run for the invasion of France, the entire base seemed to be alert and involved in this mission, many appearing just as tired as you. Situating yourself at your desk, you dove in headfirst, grateful for the all-consuming work before you. It did not allow for any ponderance of what tomorrow would bring, nor for you to feel the depth of your fatigue. The morning fairly flew by in a flurry of paper and typewriter ribbon, with one of the other women in the office taking over the duties of delivering wireless transmissions and teletype tape to the brass given your still-healing injury.

Upon reports of the safe return of all twenty-one of the planes that the 100th had contributed to the mission, you finally allowed yourself to surface for a break, making a trip to the washroom. On your slow return journey, you were startled when Colonel Harding stepped into your path, sliding his trademark cigar from his lips to speak.

“I’ve just been informed we’re losing you tomorrow, Lieutenant.”

So, it seemed the news was beginning to make its way around the base, then.

“Yes, sir, it is true.” You nodded, trying your best to keep your facial expression neutral.

“If I had known what a pain it would be, I would never have sung your praises so loudly to General Eaker.” He chuckled though you found it very difficult to focus on the words he was speaking as Major Cleven stepped into the Operations Room.

‘Why is Buck here? If all the planes made it back, why is Buck here?’

Your heart began to thrash frantically against the cage of your ribs as though it intended to break free in its panic. If Bucky were to assign anyone with the grim duty of breaking some horrible news to you, it would surely be his best friend. Nodding vaguely in reply to Harding, who was still speaking about something – possible Eaker’s personality, the level of dread within you only increased as Cleven’s eyes sought you out in the crowded room. Your stomach dropped further and further with each step he took in your direction.

Despite Harding’s apparent obliviousness to your terror, Cleven’s sky blue eyes traced over your face as he came to stand just behind the Colonel, casually crossing his arms before giving you a discreet thumbs up and slight nod of reassurance. It was subtle yet incredibly effective, almost instantly restoring your ability to breathe and easing the racing of your heart.

“Well, on to bigger and greater things, right Lieutenant?” Harding grinned at you, and you nodded quickly as the words once again registered in your brain, the dull roar of terror receding to the darker corners of your mind.

“That’s right sir, but I will miss everyone here.”

“But not little East Anglia I bet.” He laughed before sliding his cigar back into his mouth and dismissing you with a nod, making his way over to confer with Major Bowman who had just returned from interrogation.

“My apologies, Lieutenant. I did not mean to frighten you.” Cleven frowned as he stepped closer to address you directly. “Bucky is fine, just getting some stitches in his forearm – bit of flak, nothing to worry about.”

Exhaling slowly, you nodded gratefully. “Thank you very much for delivering the message, Major. I’m sorry I panicked.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t think the Colonel noticed.” A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and you pressed your own together to prevent yourself from laughing at Harding’s expense. “But, unless I’m mistaken, it sounds like you’re leaving us.” He tilted his head and your mouth immediately pulled down at the corners into a frown before you could stop it.

“I haven’t told anyone yet, I…I just found out last night and…” You tugged at your fingers nervously, a somewhat dramatic wringing of your hands.

“It sounds an awful lot like a promotion.” He prompted in that soft-spoken way of his and you nodded quickly.

“Supposedly a ‘good thing’ but it’s nowhere near here and I’m worried.”

“Worried about the job or…”

You gulped roughly and took a long hard look at Bucky’s best friend, the man he had sent to tell you he was all right, just a bit delayed in the hospital. The man he would have surely entrusted to tell you he was not all right, if it had come to that.

“Leaving Bucky.” You admitted, eyes quickly darting down to your brown, low-heeled dress shoes.

“Don’t you worry about that idiot. Trust me, he’s in good hands.” You could hear the smile in Cleven’s voice as he spoke, and you risked a glance upwards to confirm that he was in fact shooting you a soft smile of reassurance. “I’ve kept him alive this long, haven’t I?”

You scoffed a laugh as it really was hard to tell in moments like these who had the bigger ego, Bucky or Buck. All the same, you deeply appreciated his reassurances.

“Thank you, Major. I will tell him just as soon as I see him.” You assured him in kind, knowing he would be looking out for his friend’s best interests as well.

“Hopefully he doesn’t run into Harding first.” He smirked and shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “The Colonel is right though, we will miss you.”

“Thank you Major, the feeling is mutual.” You nodded, swallowing thickly as he nodded warmly in reply before turning to make his way out of the rapidly calming room, the level of activity waning now that the mission had been accomplished.

Bucky himself did not make his appearance until the end of your shift as you made your way out of the building, fit to fall asleep on your feet but facing an evening of packing and goodbyes instead. Leaning against the side of his jeep, he grinned to see you appear and you could not help but smile in return, crutching over to him as he met you halfway.

“Your own set of stitches hmmm?” You tilted your head curiously and he huffed.

“It barely needed it, but Buck insisted and then once Doc McLean got his hands on me…” He grumbled, pressing his lips to your temple in greeting. “Buck said he scared the hell out of you, sorry about that. We’ll work out a better signal next time.”

Taking a shaky breath, you turned to look at him, deciding there was no time like the present. “A…about that Bucky.” Despite your intentions, you still struggled to string the words together. “I’m being transferred.”

His steps lurched to a halt and a look of pure bewilderment came over him. “Transferred?”

Nodding slowly, you reached out to cup his cheek, despite the way it made you wildly unstable on your crutches. “Yeah. Promotion it seems. Doing too good of a job…” You felt tears welling in your eyes and blinked rapidly to try and stave them off.

“Hell, are they sending you to Division?” He croaked.

“Bucky, you know I can’t–”

“Headquarters then…damn doll, I’m proud of you.” The smile he bestowed upon you was brilliant, but the effort that it took him to summon was just as evident, and you could only shake your head sadly as those cursed tears slipped out of the corners of your eyes.

Bucky’s broad palms were quickly cupping your cheeks as his thumbs swiped them away as fast as your tear ducts could produce them. “Got my very own dame in Pinetree.” He grinned cockily and pressed his lips between your brows as you sniffled hopelessly. “Well done.”

“Gonna miss you, though.” You insisted weakly.

“Don’t you go getting all General crazy now. Don’t forget about your poor little Major back in little old East Anglia.” His tone was light, playful, though the sentiment did not fully reach his eyes which seemed somewhat hollow, resembling the endless depths of the ocean more than ever just then.

“Never.” You replied vehemently, gasping as his lips were suddenly on yours in broad daylight, surrounded by all manner of humanity, earning a few whistles and catcalls from his fellow airmen.

“Good.” Bucky replied firmly and pulled back slowly. “Suppose we gotta get you packed hmmm?”

“Yeah…” You breathed softly and relished the feeling of his hand on your lower back as you covered the last of the distance to the jeep, sitting as close as possible to him while he drove to your quarters. “I’ll write you.” You promised as he parked, and he grinned.

“I’ll write back.” Bucky tapped your nose fondly and you reached out, gently pushing his sleeve up, frowning as you found no bandage on that arm before grabbing his other hand to repeat the process.

When your eyes fell on the white gauze wrapped around his forearm you bent your head to press a soft kiss there. “Heal quickly.”

“What time do you leave tomorrow?” His question was barely above a whisper.

“0530, to catch the first train.”

“I’ll see you at 0515, then?”

Furrowing your brows, you spoke with the rational side of your brain only. “You should sleep in, there’s no mission tomorrow.”

Bucky snorted and tugged you closer by the hand still holding onto his. “And let you leave without kissing you one last time?” He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to press his lips to yours as if to prove his point.

Melting against him with a sigh, you were sorely tempted to ask him to drive you to out to the end of the runway to look at the stars once more. To play fast and loose with more than just your need to pack. Unfortunately, Ruth’s warning cut through the swell of recklessness that was building within you.

“Miller alert. She’s less than two minutes out.” She said quickly as she passed by the jeep before darting into your quarters and you pulled back sharply.

“0515, then.” You conceded with a nod and peck his lips once more before sliding from the vehicle and following your friend into your hut to begin the process of breaking the news and filling your suitcases.

By the time you slid into bed, not much earlier than the night previous, you were convinced that the next person who offered you a bravely proud face would be met with your fist in their nose.

‘Why can they not be as devastated as I am?’ You wondered as you lay you head onto your pillow to begin another fruitless wrestling match with the elusive prize of sleep. ‘Or at least admit that they are, instead of putting on that mask of happiness on my behalf. I’m not happy.’

You alarm clock, shrill and earlier than everyone else’s, was not greeted with the usual affronted reactions, but groggy hugs before you forced your companions back into their cots, moving your pair of mismatched suitcases outside the door one-by-one once you were dressed and ready. Bucky was there, waiting against his jeep in the wan grey light, soft smile settling on his features as you appeared.

He rushed forward to grab your luggage, putting it into the back of his jeep automatically, making you laugh softly.

“Captain Miller is picking me up here shortly, we’re just waiting for her.”

He huffed and guided you to sit on the front seat of the jeep as you waited, taking the weight off your leg. “Don’t even get to drive you one last time.”

“Today. One last time, today.” You amended firmly, looking up to him as he leaned over you, braced against the frame of the vehicle.

“You’re right, not forever.”

“No. Just for now.” You swallowed as your throat clenched painfully.

“For now.” He echoed and bent his head to kiss you softly.

The sound of a jeep pulling up behind his, grinding on one of the gears before coming to an abrupt stop, signalled the arrival of Captain Miller.

“She’s early, doll.” Bucky griped against your lips, and you sighed.

“‘A punctual WAC is an effective WAC.’” You whispered and slid to your feet.

Bucky stepped back to grab your luggage, moving it into the rear of Miller’s vehicle as you crutched along behind him. Standing at the passenger’s side, you gave him a watery smile.

“See you soon, Bucky.”

“Take care near that big city, doll.” He rumbled back, hesitating a moment before lunging forward to slide his arms around your waist.

Hauling you close against him, your mouths collided in a thorough kiss as the brim of his cap clipped yours, sending it flying backward into the road.

“Major Egan!” Captain Miller barked shrilly, but neither of you paid her any mind, clinging to one another until only life-giving oxygen necessitated that you part.

“You…take care here Bucky.” Your eyes bore into his firmly and he nodded in understanding.

“Lieutenant, get in this vehicle at once.” Captain Miller barked again, and you tensed under the direct order, wheeling to obey.

Bucky retrieved your cap, dusting it off and exchanging it for your crutches which he stowed in the back beside your suitcases.

Your eyes never left him, even as Captain Miller ground her way through several gears, getting the jeep into motion. Mouthing a silent ‘bye,’ which he mimicked, you turned in your seat to watch him become smaller and smaller behind you until you could no longer distinguish him in the distance.

-------------------------

Read Part Four - "I Trust You Know What You're Doing?"

"Trust" Series Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @precious-little-scoundrel, @rubyfruitjungle, @storysimp, @mads-weasley, @xxanaduwrites, @bcon24, @fxxiva, @slowsweetlove, @hockeyboysarehot

#john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #john egan imagine #john egan fic #mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction

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libraryofgage · 7 months

Text

Addams Family Steddie Seven

One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | ao3 (this part hasn't been added to ao3, yet, but I'll do it when I get the energy for tags lol)

Anyway, I'm back with another Addams Family for y'all fhdjsk

We now get Steddie children! I added little picrews of them at the very end, too! I just think they're little guys (affectionate) ^_^

Anyway, he's a big boi this time too, so you definitely don't see any typos no matter what you think

Dustin

"It's haunted?!"

Steve grins a little as he lets Dart dash into the house before shutting the door behind them. Dart only pauses by Dustin long enough to get a pat on the head before rushing off to explore. "Yep," Steve says, messing up Dustin's hair and meeting Eddie's gaze as a door bangs in the distance.

"Are you sure that's safe? What if it goes, like, full poltergeist on us?" Dustin asks, looking up at them suspiciously.

"I wish he'd go full poltergeist. I couldn't summon one for the life of me," Eddie says, sighing and shaking his head. "There's nothing like blood dripping down the walls to make a place feel like home."

"Okay, this?" Dustin says, gesturing to Eddie with raised eyebrows as he looks at Steve. "This is not making me feel better about the ghost."

Steve snorts and shakes his head, removing his hand from Dustin's hair. "Don't listen to Eddie. Blood is too hard to get off the walls and would mess up the paint. Anyway, Casper lives in the tower, and he likes D&D, so you can include him in sessions and stuff."

Dustin's face does this weird twisting thing as he tries to process the fact a ghost lives in their house and that it likes D&D enough for that to be a significant feature of its personality. He looks up at Steve, squinting slightly. "Like the friendly ghost?" he asks.

"He thinks it's ironic," Steve and Eddie say, perfectly in sync, and Dustin's disgusted expression nearly makes Steve dissolve into laughter.

"You're disgusting," Dustin tells them, rolling his eyes as he picks up one of his suitcases. "Just show me to my room before you start making out."

Steve snorts and leads Dustin upstairs, pointing out the living room, kitchen, D&D room, and guest rooms along the way. He has to grab Dustin's arm to keep him from veering straight into the D&D room, shooting him a look as they head up the stairs. "You can check it out later," he promises.

"I'll give you the grand tour," Eddie says, trailing behind them with a box of Dustin's computer stuff in his arms. "But first, check out the room. Stevie's been dying to know what it looks like."

"I haven't been dying," Steve says, looking over his shoulder to wink at Eddie as he continues, "You'd know when I'm dying, babe."

"C'mon!" Dustin shouts, ducking away from Steve and running up the last few steps. "Stop making everything a weird flirting thing."

"We're in love, Dustin," Eddie tells him, coming to a stop at the top of the stairs next to Steve. "It's only gonna get worse from here."

"I'm moving out. Don't even bother putting the stuff in my room. I'll go live with Mike, instead."

"At least see the room before you do," Steve says, gesturing to the door with Dustin's name on it.

Dustin rolls his eyes and marches over to the door. He throws it open, clearly expecting to see nothing of interest, only to freeze in the doorway, his eyes widening. "Woah," he whispers.

"I knew he'd love it," Eddie says, pulling Steve over so he can see the room is well.

It's at least twice the size of Dustin's old room. There's a loft bed with a desk and lamp under it against the wall to the right of the door. The opposite wall is covered in tools and random parts and wires, all placed carefully on hooks or shelves with a large table underneath. A pair of safety goggles is hung on a nail right above the table, with a little sign next to them that reads in all caps "WEAR THESE!"

Steve almost makes out with Eddie in the doorway of the room for that alone.

The wall with the window has been turned into a cozy area with bookshelves and posters of fantasy maps and cryptid anatomy. A telescope is set up next to the window, which has a clear view of the sky. In fact, it's one of the only windows that isn't blocked by trees from the cemetery. Two oversized chairs are set into a semicircle with beanbags, creating plenty of space for Dustin's friends to come sit and hang out.

"So, you like it?" Eddie asks, setting the computer box on the desk under the bed.

Dustin nods as he drops his bag, rushing over to the work table so he can inspect the tools hanging over it. "This is fucking awesome! Everything I need to make a lich animatronic is here!" he shouts, his excitement so great that he completely misses the equally excited flicker of the lights in the room.

"Language," Steve scolds, more on reflex than anything else.

"Yeah, yeah," Dustin says, waving his hand dismissively as he reaches out and pulls one of the wire bundles down from the wall. "I take back everything I said, by the way, be as gross as you want. I don't even care anymore."

Before Steve can tease Dustin, he's grabbed around the waist by Eddie. "With pleasure," Eddie purrs, dipping Steve and kissing him breathless just inside Dustin's room.

Steve can't help laughing into the kiss, inadvertently letting Eddie's tongue slip past his lips. And then he doesn't really care about laughing, too consumed by Eddie and his hands and his tongue and his teeth and Eddie.

He does, however, start laughing so hard that Eddie almost drops him when Dustin turns around and screeches like a banshee.

Belladonna

Eddie brings their first child home on a wonderfully dreadful day. The sky is unleashing a torrential downpour on the world, lightning cracks and thunder rolls through the clouds, and wind howls across the street. Perfect weather for a Saturday, really.

Steve was ready to spend the first half of the day in the kitchen, trying out recipes Wayne and Grandmama had given him while Dustin sat at the island to finish his homework. In the second half of the day, he'd sit at the piano outside his and Eddie's room and play while Dustin watched TV or worked on the lich animatronic in his room or fine-tuned a new character in the D&D room.

Eddie would be gone for most of the day, trying his level best to get struck by lightning. He's yet to succeed, but that just means Steve gets to cheer him up when he gets home. And the new song he's working on will do just that, especially when he tells Eddie it's composed from the lyrics Eddie wrote in that journal he gave Steve before they started dating.

Yeah, that will definitely cheer Eddie up, and Steve should probably tell Dustin to just order Chinese for dinner because he doubts they'll be leaving the bedroom after that.

The thought makes Steve grin as he pulls out an apple and nightshade pie from the oven, the cloying scent spreading through the room and making Dustin crinkle his nose. He hasn't quite worked up to nightshade, but he's almost there.

"I finished," Dustin says, pushing his homework away and dropping his pencil.

Steve sets the pie on a cooling rack and shuts off the oven. "And that was all your homework?" he asks, dropping his oven mitts and moving to Dustin's side of the island. He leans over Dustin's shoulder, pulling the homework back and skimming over the answers.

It's a sheet of chemical equations, and Steve very quickly realizes he's got no clue what he's looking at. He frowns slightly and hums. "How confident are you?" he asks.

Dustin chooses one of the equations and starts explaining his balancing process. He gets about halfway through before Steve puts a hand over his mouth to stop him. "Okay, okay, I get it. You're gonna make my brain hurt," he says, grimacing when Dustin licks his palm. He pulls his hand away, dragging it on Dustin's shirt to clean it.

"Can I go now?" Dustin asks, looking up at Steve.

Steve sighs and ruffles his hair. "Run along. I think Casper is in the D&D room," he says, his guess confirmed by the slam of a door down the hall. With a grin, Dustin slides out of the chair, shoves the homework into his backpack, and runs out of the kitchen.

Now that he's alone, Steve takes a deep breath and starts cleaning the kitchen. He rinses used mixing bowls and utensils before placing them in the dishwasher, unplugs the mixer, and wipes the counters clean of flour and sugar and nightshade extract.

He's just finished cutting the pie when lightning strikes a tree outside the kitchen window, thunder rolls loudly over the house, the lights surge and flicker, and the front door swings open to slam against the wall with a vigor only Eddie could produce. Steve blinks and looks out the window once more, confirming that it is, in fact, still raining, and leaves the knife in the pie to welcome Eddie.

If he's come home this early, he must have finally been struck by lightning, which means there's something to celebrate.

Steve grins excitedly and heads to the front door only to stop short when he enters the hallway. Eddie is soaked to the bone, which is expected, sporting a huge grin that reveals too-sharp canines with the ends of his hair burnt like he'd (finally) been struck by lightning. He looks like a drenched rat, and in his arms is an equally drenched child that he carefully sets on her feet.

She looks no more than ten and sticks close to Eddie, staring at Steve with silver-grey eyes. Her skin and hair are the same deep black as the calla lilies on the porch, and the hair she's pulled up into two puffs on either side of her head has a similar reddish tinge along the edges. Splashed across the bridge of her nose, cheeks, and forehead are freckles lighter than the girl's skin, standing out because of it.

Eddie smiles excitedly at Steve, practically vibrating where he stands but not moving since the girl is gripping the edge of his shirt. "Stevie! Sweetheart! I'm home!" he says, his gaze flicking between Steve and the girl and unabashedly begging Steve to ask about her.

Steve can't help chuckling. "Welcome home," he says, walking closer and grabbing the towel he'd placed on the coat rack after Eddie left that morning. He crouches in front of the girl and smiles warmly. "Hi, what's your name?" he asks.

She fidgets for a moment, glancing up at Eddie long enough to see his relaxed shoulders and infatuated smile before looking at Steve again and smiling at him. Her right canine is sharper than her left, and Steve feels his heart melt at that sight. "I don't know," she says, shrugging as she steps forward. "I don't like my name much, but I haven't thought of a new one, yet."

"I see," Steve says, unfolding the towel and wrapping it around her shoulders. "Well, my name is Steve, and you've already met Eddie here. Did you lose your parents?" he asks.

It's not that he doesn't know why Eddie brought a child home. Steve has made no secret of his desire for children, after all. He just has to make sure Eddie acquired the child...well, legality doesn't really matter, but he can't have stolen the child from people who truly care for her.

The girl rubs her cheek against the towel, looking delighted by something so soft, and says, "Oh, I haven't lost them. I know exactly where they are." Her grin widens a bit, and she points down at the floor. "I put them there myself."

Steve raises an eyebrow at her, getting a slightly amused smile. "Did you? How come?"

She sighs, shaking her head as though it's a shame. "They were meanies. I wanted new parents."

"And you met Eddie."

She nods, looking excited as she glances back at Eddie. "He had a big pole to catch the lightning!"

Eddie crouches next to her now, his eyes bright and eager as he says, "It was amazing, Stevie! The moment she walked up to me, I was finally struck!"

The girl nods in agreement, and Steve looks between the two of them as he considers. Her parents are gone (by her own hands, apparently, and Steve feels oddly proud already), and she got Eddie struck by lightning. "Do you have any other family?" he finally asks.

When the girl shakes her head, a few drops of water flying off the ends of her hair, Steve can't help grinning. Something settles in his chest, warm and happy, and Steve nods once. "There's a lawyer in the family," he says to Eddie, meeting his gaze.

"They're perfectly corrupt, too," Eddie agrees.

Steve nods and looks at the girl again. He scoops her up, standing straight and grinning when she squeals with delight. "Welcome home," he tells her, already figuring out the best way to introduce her to Dustin.

----

Exactly two weeks after Steve and Eddie gain a daughter and ask a favor from the Addams lawyer, she chooses her name.

It happens in the kitchen. She's sitting next to Dustin, both of them watching Steve and Eddie make pancakes for breakfast. Eddie is getting the pan ready while Steve is making two batters. One has chocolate chips and will be cooked the first. The other will have chocolate chips and nightshade berries fresh from Flora and Fauna's secret garden at their psychiatric hospital.

"What are those?" their daughter asks, pointing at the jar of nightshade berries.

Steve picks up the jar and shakes one out, placing it in her palm for closer inspection. "They're called nightshade. They're deadly," he says, smiling as he shakes the rest into a black mixing bowl.

"Do they taste good?" she asks.

"I wouldn't try it," Dustin says, leaning closer despite his wary look. "Unless you're like Eddie and Steve, I guess."

"Am I?" she asks.

"Well, you did just fine with the cyanide," Steve reasons, considering the berries for a moment. Finally, he nods once and gestures to the berry in her palm. "You can try it."

She lights up and pops the berry into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. After a few seconds, she swallows. "They're good," she decides, nodding once and looking unaffected by the berry.

Steve decides to give her a few minutes still, just to be sure.

"You know," Eddie says, looking over his shoulder and taking the finished chocolate chip batter from Steve, "they come from a plant with purple flowers."

"Oh!" Dustin says, sitting up straight, "We learned about them in class. They're called Atropa belladonna, or belladonna for short. They're native to, like, Asia and Europe."

"What class did you learn that in?" Steve asks, mixing chocolate chips into the batter alongside the nightshade in the second bowl.

"English. We read some story where a wife poisoned her husband using belladonna. Max said it was very girlboss of her," Dustin explains.

"So, it's a flower and a poison?" Steve and Eddie's daughter asks, studying the jar for a moment before grinning. "I like it!"

"Yeah?" Eddie asks, flipping a cooked pancake onto a large plate before pouring more batter into the pan. "Maybe we should get you a cutting."

She shakes her head. "I like the name," she explains.

Steve and Eddie both pause, sharing a look before turning their gazes to her with serious expressions. "Would you like your name to be Belladonna?" Steve asks.

After a few seconds of serious consideration, she nods once. "Yeah, I like it."

Eddie abandons the stove, dropping the spatula in favor of sliding around the island and lifting Belladonna from her chair. "It's perfect!" he tells her, hugging her close and spinning her in a circle. "Our little poison flower!"

Belladonna squeals in surprise, latching onto Eddie's neck as Steve flips the pancakes so they don't burn. "You know we gotta enroll her in school now, right?" he asks, looking over his shoulder just in time to see Eddie throw Belladonna in the air.

"Aww, man, she's too young to get her spirit crushed," Dustin says, leaning forward to watch as Steve slides a few more pancakes onto the plate.

"There's nothing wrong with a good spirit-crushing," Steve says, glancing up when the lights flicker and a cabinet door slams. "See, Casper agrees with me."

"They can't crush my spirit if I crush theirs first," Belladonna says, scrambling her way to sitting on Eddie's shoulders. She drapes herself over Eddie's head, arms hanging in front of his face, and brightly adds, "And by crush, I mean kill."

Eddie grins and grabs her hands, moving them so he can see Steve. "Our daughter is perfect," he tells him.

"She's just like y'all," Dustin says.

"Isn't it great?" Steve and Eddie ask, meeting each other's gaze and laughing when Dustin just rolls his eyes and mutters about them getting grosser by the day.

El stays with them on the weekends. She spends all of Saturday playing with Dustin and Belladonna, switching between the two as she pleases until they've all somehow congregated in the living room to watch true crime videos and judge the criminals. On Sunday, she helps Steve in the kitchen as he preps lunches and dinners for the week and then tends to the plants outside. Eddie sometimes joins them in the kitchen, but he usually ends up doing laundry most of the day.

On this particular weekend, Wayne drops El off with several suitcases next to her on the porch. Steve stares at them for a moment before looking up at Wayne. "Did something happen?" he asks.

"Well, I'm leaving on a world trip," Wayne says, placing a hand on El's shoulder as he continues, "and El would rather stay here than tag along."

"It is the middle of the school year," Steve points out, glancing down when Belladonna pokes her head out the door.

She sees El and lights up. "Oh, perfect! I've got a brand new guillotine from Cousin Wednesday. You got one, too, right? Let's race them!" she says, pushing onto the porch and grabbing El's hand.

El nods and looks up at Wayne. "I will be inside. Please help Steve bring my bags in," she says before grabbing one of her bags (presumably the one with the guillotine in it) and letting Belladonna drag her into the house.

Steve can't help smiling as they pass him, reaching out to ruffle each girl's hair. When they've gone inside, he looks at Wayne. "Where are you planning to go?" he asks.

"I'm gonna start domestic with Area 51," Wayne says, looking excited just to talk about it, "Then I'm gonna hit those Parisian catacombs, make my way to a haunted forest in China, and then circle back to spend a few weeks in the Bermuda Triangle."

"You'd better not pull a Fester on us," Steve jokes.

Wayne sighs, shaking his head regretfully. "Nobody could pull a Fester except him. How do you follow that up? I mean, the grief he put his brother through, it's impressive all right," he says.

Knowing the full story of Fester's disappearance and homecoming, Steve can't argue with Wayne. "Well, maybe you'll get lucky enough to be abducted," he says.

"One can only hope," Wayne says, returning Steve's grin. "Seriously, though, you don't mind watching El, do you? I'm sure Cousin Itt wouldn't mind if it's too much trouble."

Steve waves away his worries. "She's Eddie's sister, which makes her my sister, and she's friends with Belladonna and Dustin. Of course, she's welcome here. In fact, you're welcome, too, when you get back," Steve tells him.

Wayne laughs, pulling Steve into a spine-crushing hug. "I just might take you up on that," he says, patting Steve's back before pulling away. "Now, let's get El's stuff to her room."

----

El already has a designated guest room, and she helps Steve unpack her things in it. Her clothes are already in the closet and dresser, her books and knick-knacks are on the bookshelf, and she's currently setting out her skeleton collection on the windowsill while Steve hangs up her photos of cobwebs.

"Can I invite friends over?" El suddenly asks, looking at Steve as he carefully hammers a nail into the wall.

Steve blinks and looks over his shoulder. She's finished placing her collection and is now sitting on the bed, feet idly swinging over the edge. "Yeah, just try to let me or Eddie know when you do," he says, flashing her a reassuring smile before focusing back on the nail.

As though he's been summoned, Eddie bursts into the room and zeroes in on El. "It's about time!" he says, throwing himself onto the bed next to El. His weight makes her bounce, and she falls over Eddie's stomach, blinking a few times.

"You know," Steve says, putting down the hammer to hang the photo on the nail, "you could've invited her to stay here at any point."

"Yeah, but where's the fun in that?" Eddie asks.

"Why was waiting more fun?" El asks him, pushing on his stomach to sit up again.

Eddie grins at her. "Cuz I made a bet with Dustin about how long it'd take, and I won," he explains.

Steve pauses and raises an eyebrow at him. "What did you bet?"

It must be something good because Eddie doesn't shy away from Steve's gaze. Instead, he lights up and jumps off the bed. "Well, Dust-Bunny lost, so he's agreed to babysit Belladonna next Friday," he says, wrapping his arms around Steve's waist and spinning them to the center of the room. "So, we can go out."

"Like, a date night?" Steve asks, a smile tugging on his lips.

"Whatever you wanna do," Eddie promises, pulling Steve into a dance to music only he can hear. Steve is only a little jealous of Eddie's auditory hallucinations.

"I can also watch Belladonna with Dustin," El offers, watching them from the bed. She has a tiny smile, looking completely relaxed and at home watching Eddie and Steve flirt. "If she dies, it will be in an entertaining way."

Steve snorts, pulling away from Eddie and dropping onto the bed next to El. Eddie follows, crouching in front of them and grinning up at her. "You don't need to babysit, too," Steve tells her, ruffling her hair. "But we'd appreciate it if you make sure Belladonna actually goes to bed on time."

El nods once. "I can knock her out if she stays up too long," she says.

"We have sedatives for that, so no blunt objects required," Eddie says, "They're in the kitchen."

"Can I have a bottle for my room?" El asks.

Steve and Eddie share a look, and Eddie shrugs. "Sure, I'll make some just for you," Steve promises. When El smiles a little wider at him, he pulls her into a hug. "Remember, this is your home now, too. So, just do whatever makes you comfortable."

"Oh," El says, leaning into Steve as she nods, "I'll start putting down traps, then."

Steve makes a mental note to warn Dustin later to watch out for those traps.

Romero

Three months after Belladonna twirls into the house and sets root and two months after El has laid down her final trap, Steve starts rearranging one of the guest rooms. He's not sure why, of course, but he's filled with a sudden and inescapable need for it to be different.

Steve changes the sheets on the guest bed, replacing them with a new, forest green set. He gets a dresser for the room and asks El to carve insects along the sides. The desk stays, but he moves it to sit under the window and replaces the curtains so they're lighter and more easily swayed by the breeze. He gets a bookcase and fills it with odds and ends: a jar of marbles, a comb with a mother-of-pearl handle, a shrunken head Belladonna found on the ground one day, and a collection of buttons, to name a few.

Finally, Steve covers the room in plants, dragging in planters and pots and even a fish tank for an aquatic plant set-up. While he never had a green thumb before, taking care of Nix and spending several hours on the phone with Morticia has given him the skills to make sure the plants thrive. He grows flowers and succulents and wall-crawlers and everything in between.

When he's done, two weeks have passed, and Steve inexplicably feels like the room is just about perfect.

It's just missing an occupant.

----

Someone grabs the back of Steve's shirt, tugging on it until Steve groans and rolls over. He stops once he's facing the edge of the bed, blinking tiredly against the odd glow coming from the kid standing there.

It's the middle of the night, and Steve had been halfway through a dream in which Dart and Nix were waltzing in the backyard, so he can definitely be forgiven for not questioning the child's existence. He just questions what brought the child to their room.

"Wha'z wrong?" he asks, the words slurred together and practically incomprehensible.

Thankfully, the child seems perfectly fluent in half-awake linguistics. "Bad dream," he says, voice soft like the breeze but all-encompassing like the rustle of leaves.

Steve hums softly and reaches out. He picks up the boy, vaguely noting that he can't weigh more than a five year old. The child says nothing as Steve cradles him to his chest and rolls back over.

"Sleep h're," Steve mumbles, placing the boy down between him and Eddie. He keeps his right arm under the boy's head, letting his bicep act as a pillow. And Eddie, somehow, seems to sense a child in the bed in his sleep. He shifts closer, draping his arm over the kid's stomach and then grabbing the edge of Steve's shirt tightly.

The boy settles in, grabbing Steve's other arm to hold like a teddy bear. "Good night," he says, the words barely more than a whisper.

Steve smiles and kisses the boy's temple, murmuring a good night in return before falling right back to sleep.

When Steve wakes up in the morning, his arm is still acting as a teddy bear. He tries to pull away, intending to go to the bathroom, but the grip tightens. Steve is about to tell Eddie he'll be back in a minute but pauses when he looks down.

Green eyes meet his, staring calmly. They belong to a little boy, no more than five, with skin so pale it almost has a green tinge and hair so red Steve is surprised the pillow isn't on fire. The boy is pinned under Eddie's arm, looking perfectly content to stay there.

"Uh, good morning," Steve says, his voice rough from sleep.

Before the boy can respond, Eddie hums softly, a smile tugging at his lips. "Good morning, sweetheart," he says.

Steve can't help a soft laugh. "I wasn't talking to you, babe," he says.

Eddie opens his eyes at that, zeroing in on Steve first like always before seeing the boy in their bed. "Oh," he says, holding the kid's gaze for a few seconds, "Good morning."

The boy nods to Eddie and sits up, finally letting go of Steve's hand only to hold his arms out. Steve doesn't really think; he just scoops the boy up, cradling him close.

Apparently comfortable, the boy finally says, "Good morning. My name is Romero."

And Steve suddenly knows who he redecorated the guest room for.

----

Belladonna and El don't blink twice at seeing Romero sitting at the kitchen island, a small cup of milk in front of him, when they come down for breakfast. Dustin, however, stops in the doorway and gestures at him while asking, "When the fuck did we get another one?!"

"Okay, first of all, language," Steve says, turning around and aiming a spatula threateningly at Dustin. "Second of all, this is Romero. Now, come sit down."

"Do neither of you find this weird?" Dustin asks, looking at Belladonna and El as he slides into his usual seat at the island. Eddie places a cup of orange juice in front of him, pushing down the bill of the cap he insists on wearing inside before moving on to get drinks for El and Belladonna.

"Nope! I've got a brother now," Belladonna says, grinning as she leans closer to Romero and pokes his cheek.

"You already had a brother," Dustin mutters before taking a sip of his juice.

Belladonna still hears him, so she turns to Dustin. "Yeah, but you're, like, an older brother," she says. "I go to you when I need to bury someone or rig something to blow up. Now, there's someone who can come to me for that stuff."

Dustin blinks, considering for a moment before relaxing. "Well, I guess that's true. Oh, and that music box you asked me to...fix is done," he tells her.

"Thanks, Dustin!" she says, settling in her seat again as Steve slides a plate of eggs in front of her.

"I put ghost pepper on it like you asked," Steve tells her, kissing the top of her head before putting another plate in front of Dustin. "And yours already has ketchup."

He goes back to the stove and finds a cup of coffee waiting for him. "Thanks," he says, pulling Eddie into a quick kiss before pulling away.

Eddie hums and playfully nudges Steve away from the stove. "I can make the oatmeal," he says, gesturing for Steve to go sit at the island, too. "Go bond with the kids."

Steve rolls his eyes but doesn't argue. He just takes his seat next to Romero and idly fixes a few fly-away hairs sticking up. "Romero, this is Belladonna, Dustin, and El," he says, pointing to each kid as he introduces them. "Belladonna is our daughter, Dustin is my brother, and El is Eddie's sister."

After a few seconds, Romero looks up at Steve. "Must I call them aunt and uncle?" he asks.

"Nope, you can call them whatever you like," Eddie says, grinning over his shoulder at Romero. "I suggest Dust-Bunny for Dustin."

"Can we please let that nickname go?" Dustin asks.

"No," El says, watching as Eddie pours oats into a pot of warmed milk. "It's amusing."

Dustin groans and shoves a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

"Hey," Belladonna says her eggs, poking Romero's cheek again, "How come your skin is green?"

"To blend in," Romero says, inspecting his now empty cup with a slight frown. He doesn't ask for more, though.

"Blend in with what?"

"The forest."

Belladonna hums, nodding once like that answers every question and doesn't inspire more, and focuses on eating her eggs.

"You know, we'll have to enroll Romero in school, too," Steve suddenly says, taking a sip of his coffee.

Eddie hums in agreement, pouring oatmeal into bowls before placing them in front of El, Steve, and Romero. "Good point. How old are you, Romero?"

"How old do I look?" he asks, picking up a blue plastic spoon and using it to stir around the oatmeal curiously.

"Around five," El tells him, pouring pitch-black syrup into her oatmeal before passing it to Eddie.

Romero nods. "I'm five."

Steve hums, meeting Eddie's gaze. His husband doesn't seem to have any ideas, either, so Steve tucks this moment away for later, after the older kids have gone to school. For now, though, he pours some honey into Romero's oatmeal and encourages him to give it a try. When Romero's eyes widen slightly at the taste, Steve grins and feels something warm settle in his chest.

Robin

Two weeks into summer, Robin appears on the front porch of the house with her dorm room in bags around her and an impatient expression. Steve has a similar expression when he opens the door. "What took you so long?!" he asks, yanking Robin into a tight hug that she quickly returns.

"C'mon, dingus, you know I had to finish school," she says, digging her fingers into Steve's side and grinning when he jerks away. "Now, show me to my room. I know you've set one aside for me."

Steve rolls his eyes, but he doesn't correct her. He has set a room aside. It's on the first floor. He'd dubbed it Robin's room when he finally spent more than two seconds studying the space and realized it had a perfect view of the house where the married couple likes to argue on the front lawn. They'll offer Robin hours of entertainment.

"Help me carry your stuff," he says, picking up several bags.

As he's shouldering two of them, Belladonna rushes onto the porch and crashes into Robin's legs, grinning up at her. "Robin! What took you so long?" she asks.

"Geez, she really is your kid," Robin says, grinning at Steve before crouching. "As I told Steve, I had to actually finish school."

"I know. I wanted to go set it on fire, but Dad wouldn't let me and Romero said it would draw too much attention."

"Well, set it on fire next time. If anyone dies, they have to give everyone an A."

"That's not true," Steve says, shooting Robin a look before gesturing Belladonna closer. "Here, can you help us carry stuff inside?"

"Okay! I'll take...this!" Belladonna grabs what looks like the heaviest bag on the porch, straining as she drags it inside.

Steve watches her and shakes his head. He looks at Robin and gestures to the final bags on the porch. "You gonna get those?" he asks.

"I can't believe you're making me carry things, Steven," Robin says, huffing as she picks them up. "Me, a guest in your home, having to carry her own things inside."

"One, not my name. Two, you're not a guest, Robin. You're family. And family carries their shit."

Robin rolls her eyes, unable to help a grin as she uses her foot to hold the door open for Steve. She slides into the house behind him, nearly tripping over Dart but managing to step over him at the last minute. "Once again, your name is whatever's comedically appropriate, dingus," she says, sticking her tongue out as they catch up to Belladonna dragging her bag down the hall. "And aww, you called me family."

Steve pauses and looks at Robin, a serious expression on his face. "Of course, you're family, Robin. You're more family than my parents. Living in a house with you was literally my birthday wish when I was 13," he tells her.

"Ooh, kinda embarrassing to admit that," Robin says condescendingly, her face scrunched into a sympathetic smile. It only lasts for a few seconds before she drops it into something more genuine and bumps her hip against Steve's. "But you're my family too, and I'm glad we get to be together now."

"Is this Robin?"

Steve blinks and looks over his shoulder to find Romero standing just behind them. He's gotten used to his son just appearing whenever and wherever he likes. "Yep. Romero, this is Robin. Robin, this is Romero, my son," Steve says, unable to contain a grin.

"Ohhh, this is the famous Romero," Robin says, spinning on her heel and crouching in front of him. They study each other for a few seconds. "Favorite color?"

"Gold. Like honey."

"Favorite food?"

"Dino nuggets."

"Right on. Favorite movie?"

"Friday the 13th."

"Favorite weapon?"

"Crossbow."

Robin nods once and looks up at Steve. "He sure fits right in," she says.

"He's got a way with the electric chair in Belladonna's room," Steve says, a happy pride filling his words.

"I'm sure he does," Robin says, nodding along like she hasn't heard Steve say this before during one of their phone calls. She flashes a grin at Romero, messes up his hair, and then stands. "Okay, show me my room already, dingus."

Steve snorts and nods, leading Robin the rest of the way to her room. "We're planning a big dinner to welcome you," he says, looking over his shoulder at her, "Everyone is gonna be there. Except Casper. He's on vacation."

"Ghosts take vacations?"

"Well, you can't expect him to work 24/7, right?"

Robin considers for a moment before nodding, figuring it would be an unreasonable expectation to have.

----

"The blood doesn't even look real," Robin complains, throwing popcorn at the TV from where she's sprawled on the armchair. He head is resting on one arm while her legs are thrown over the other, a bowl of popcorn and a soda balancing precariously on her stomach.

"It's the first movie," Steve tells her, shifting to lean more comfortably on Eddie's shoulder, "Give them a break." Romero is in his lap, sleeping with his head cushioned on Steve's chest. He'd nodded off a few minutes into the movie, and Steve had started idly running his fingers through Romero's hair.

"But she's right," Belladonna says, pouting as she tilts her head back to look up at her parents. "It's too dark to be real."

"They wouldn't really let the actors bleed," Dustin explains, looking up from his little animatronic long enough to meet Belladonna's gaze, "It's not, like, ethical. And the actors could sue them."

"They have never bled to death before," El decides, frowning from her spot on the floor. Her head is propped on Dart's side, and she's idly playing with a spider she'd found in her room. "They don't look nearly happy enough."

Steve feels Eddie laugh before he hears him, his shoulders and stomach shaking. "It's not even a clever death," he points out, feeding a few pieces of popcorn to Steve, "I wouldn't look happy, either."

"See, when I made these kinda comments at college, everyone looks at me weird," Robin says, nearly spilling her soda over herself and the chair as she wiggles to get comfortable. "Thank fuck I'm around normal people now."

"You think this is normal?" Dustin asks her.

"Yeah."

Dustin blinks and then points at El and Dart. "That's literally a freak of nature," he says, his tone still affectionate despite the words.

"Thank you for the compliment," El says, tilting her head to look at him.

Before Dustin can say he was talking about Dart, Belladonna turns around and pouts at him. The scene on the TV starts flashing, backlighting her in red and white and black. "How come you haven't called me a freak of nature?" she asks.

"It's okay, sweetie," Eddie says, reaching out to pat her head. "You'll always be our little poison flower."

"Besides, being a freak of nature is about your vibes, not your looks," Steve adds, flashing her an encouraging smile.

Belladonna considers this for a moment before nodding and turning back to the movie to watch the character's arm get completely torn off. "The arterial spray isn't accurate," she complains.

"You're all so weird," Dustin mumbles, not bothering to hold back the endeared smile tugging at his lips.

Steve's own smile widens as he reaches for Eddie's free hand and brings it to his lips, playfully biting his palm. "Isn't it great?" he whispers, meeting Eddie's eyes. He gets a semi-feral grin in response, one that shows off sharp canines, and Steve decides they'll simply have to break the bed again tonight.

Tag List!

(Tumblr has a limit, so I couldn't get everyone who's requested a tag, but I did try to get as many as I could)

@estrellami-1, @justforthedead89, @starman-jpg, @abstractnaturaldisaster, @sugartin, @ashwagandalf, @xjessicafaithx, @somegirlsomewhere, @imjust-that-shy, @blaqcats-fics, @littlebluejane, @xoxoladyclara, @halfadoginatank

@pjoneedstherapy, @nocturnalgayboi, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @justforthedead89, @gothwifehotchner, @elizbaehth, @angels-dressed-in-blood, @imfinereallyy, @oile-loves-sharks, @carlprocastinator1000, @stxrcrossed186, @spider-boygirl, @epiclazershark, @7shrewsinatrenchcoat

@perfectlymellowthing, @just-a-tiny-void, @nburkhardt, @nailbatandfreak, @sunfloweringstories, @vampireinthesun, @novelnovella, @bookworm0690, @bestwifehaver, @goosesister, @phantomcat94, @martinskis-lydias, @ghostofyourvampiregf, @lifeisnotsobadonceyoustopcaring

@nerdsconquerall, @dontslayfay, @potato-of-the-lord, @suikatto, @deliriousmom, @code-switcher, @lizard-dyk3, @anonymousbandgirl

Belladonna! (POV: you are Steddie and your daughter is very proudly showing off her new fang)

And Romero! (POV: you have insulted his little bow tie and he is now contemplating ways to get revenge)

#steddie #steddie fic #addams family steddie #addams! eddie munson #steve harrington #dustin henderson #eleven stranger things #robin buckley #it's about the found family vibes #and the addams trope of children just fucking appearing outta nowhere actually #where they come from? who knows but they're addams (or munsons) now

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lulublack90 · 23 days

Text

Prompt 9 - Captivate

@jegulus-microfic May 9, Word count 472

Previous part First part

He was such an idiot. What had he been thinking? He only just remembered to dismount his broom before entering the castle. He hurried back up towards Gryffindor Tower, but just as he was passing the seventh floor he veered off and headed towards the come and go room. He needed space to calm down. If Sirius saw him now he'd know something was wrong.

When he got to the blank space of wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and his tutu-wearing trolls, he paced back and forth thinking only of needing somewhere he could shower and clear his head. A simple wooden door materialised on the previously empty stretch of stone wall. He reached out and entered the room.

There was a shower cubicle, a bath and a bench with a neatly folded pile of his own clothes. He sighed as he shut the door. He liked this room.

He stepped into the shower after stripping off his quidditch gear. The water was perfect, and the pressure was something else. There was a selection of shampoos, conditioners and body washes. He selected a few he liked the smell of and started washing his hair and body.

He was just about finished when the door opened. He froze, the only sound was the water from the shower still cascading down the drain. He turned it off and stuck a hand out of the shower to grab the towel he’d hung next to it. He didn’t have his wand at hand, he just hoped that whoever had come in wasn’t about to hex him when he was only in a towel. He also didn’t have his glasses, so he wouldn’t be able to see who was there anyway.

He wrapped the towel firmly around his waist and stepped out of the shower. A figure stood before him. It seemed familiar. He’d thought for a second it was Sirius, but the posture was off. He snatched up his glasses from the bench and shoved them onto his face. They instantly misted up, so he was even more blind than he had been before.

He pulled them off again and tried to clean them with his towel. Finally, they were clear enough for him to see through. Regulus stood before him, staring. James looked down, something about his chest seemed to captivate Regulus, but he couldn’t figure out what.

“What, did I miss something?” He looked down at his chest again, swiping his hands across the water droplets that clung there. But he couldn’t find anything amiss. Regulus let out a low moan.

“What?” James said again. Regulus strode forward and pressed his hands against James’s bare chest.

“Fuck sake,” Regulus's voice was thin. James stared at him confused. And then those molten silver eyes looked up at him and James stopped breathing.

Next part

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matchavellichor · 8 months

Note

Hello :D

How are you doing?

Your writings are just amazing!

May I please request a part two on how to win the girl? (If it's okay with you)

Thank you and have a great day/noon/night <3

A/N: omg i've had an unfinished part two sitting in my drafts for soooo long, thank you for giving me a lil reminder to actually finish it loool. it's rly short but i hope you enjoy!! <3

How to Win the Girl Pt. 2

Ominis x f!MC - NSFW/Fluff - 1.8k words - ao3

Part 1

Tags: Pining, First Date, Fluff, MC is Bad at Feelings, Ominis is a Romantic Little Shit, Pureblood Courting Rituals, Period Inaccurate Flirting

Summary: Following their tryst in an empty classroom, Ominis decides to make crystal clear his true intentions with MC.

“Ominis, you cheeky bastard — flaunting around your spoils of battle, huh?”

Ominis didn’t pause to indulge any of Sebastian’s teasing, though he couldn’t deny the immense satisfaction he felt deep down in being able to show her off as he carried her through the castle.

“Don’t be so chauvinist, Sebastian,” he said, biting the inside of his cheek to suppress a smirk.

Sebastian called out another sly retort that fell on deaf ears as Ominis continued down the hall, veering off towards one of the adjacent hallways that provided a shortcut for where he was taking her.

“Dragging me off to another abandoned classroom?” she asked, cheek pillowed on his shoulder. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special, Ominis.”

“Shush,” he chastised. “We’re almost there."

“You can put me down now, you know,” she said as he turned the corner on another empty corridor. “I think you’ve long accomplished your goal of publicly staking a claim on me.”

He grinned, the arm he had braced under her thigh only tightening. “Who said that’s my only goal? Maybe I just like you in my arms.”

Stubborn as ever, Ominis only set her down when they finally reached their destination, pausing at the bottom of the Astronomy tower’s winding staircase.

They laced their fingers together as they began their ascent up towards the uppermost platform, and though they’d held hands countless times before, it felt so terribly different this time. Intimate, yet strangely unfamiliar. There was a novelty to it, and it was almost like she was a fifth-year again, still fighting the nerves she got in her stomach everytime they interacted.

When they reached the top platform, she stilled completely at the sight before her.

Pillows and blankets were arranged around the middle of the room in such an inviting display she wouldn’t have minded spending the night there. There were little glowing candles charmed to float around the room, complimenting the dim orange light cast over the space from dusk bleeding into evening outside.

Her voice was uncharacteristically dazed when she finally spoke. “This is…this is really nice, Ominis.”

“Oh thank Merlin,” he sighed, letting out the breath he’d been holding in. “I was nervous it wouldn’t be the way I’d left it.”

She swallowed to clear the strange tightness that found itself in her throat, hoping her voice wouldn’t reveal just how moved she actually was by such a stark show of effort that he had put in for her. Somehow, the fact was just as thrilling as it was terrifying.

“Been planning this for a while, have you?” she laughed in a show of feigned nonchalance, following him further into the room. “Were you that confident you would beat me?”

“A lot longer than I’d care to admit,” he muttered, sheepish. “And like I said, I was confident my motivations were certainly stronger.”

She paused for a moment, her head tilting as she observed him. “You really do like me, don’t you?”

He shook his head, huffing out an amused laugh. “Did you only just now piece that together? And here I thought I was being rather forward.”

She couldn’t help but smile so hard her cheeks hurt, Ominis barely repressing his own grin when she laced her fingers with his and pulled him down to sit on the pillows he had arranged on the floor.

She kissed him then, slow and tender, as if in gratitude, as if she could pour every bit of emotion he made her feel into the kiss without being forced to say the words. It was almost too much, evidently even for him, and he inhaled sharply when she braced her hand on his thigh to lean closer.

He broke away then and she grinned, quirking a brow. “Don’t tell me you’re going coy on me now.”

“Never,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “But it’s not what I brought you up here for. I’ve already lost control of myself once, I’m not going to get ahead of myself a second time. I…want to do things right with you.”

“The world’s last standing romantic,” she teased, earning an eye roll from Ominis. “I have to admit, I’m disappointed you’ve become so righteous. I wouldn’t have minded getting shagged within an inch of my life again.”

Ominis’ features darkened at her words for a brief moment, but he shook his head, as if willing any imprudent thoughts away.

“Don’t tempt me, witch. I’m trying to be sweet for you,” he heaved a groan, running a hand down his face. “Also, I think Professor Onai would notice if I did what I really wanted to do to you on top of her pillows.”

“Good point,” she snorted. “Maybe she’s having a premonition about it now.”

“Well, I guess I can’t really be blamed then, can I?” he murmured as he suddenly leaned over her, pushing her down on the pillows so he could crowd her against the floor. “The threads of fate have willed it.”

She laughed, her giggles morphing into contented sighs as he peppered kisses along her jaw. She keened from the contact, squirming underneath him as she tilted her head back to give him better access, his lips dragging down the column of her throat. He gave a lingering open-mouthed kiss to her collarbone before he pulled away, smiling at the soft whine she gave his absence.

“I have something for you."

“If it’s anything other than what’s currently poking my stomach,” she said, squirming against him in demonstration of the stiffness she felt hidden behind his trousers. “I don’t want it.”

“Circe, you’re more insatiable than me,” he sighed, voice having grown strained. He reluctantly detached himself from her, sitting up. “You’re going to be the end of me.”

“Revenge for beating me so cruelly,” she smiled. “I’m a sore loser.”

“Keep provoking me and you’ll be sore, alright,” he murmured, pulling away to rummage through the shoulder bag he had brought with them.

She sat up on her elbows to watch him, tempted to instigate him even more. He granted her no chance to, however, as she was suddenly too preoccupied with the way her heart stuttered a few beats in her chest when he finally turned towards her again.

There was a small, dark velvet box in his hand. She stiffened immediately. As if sensing her unease, he cleared his throat, making some attempt at lightness.

“Don’t tell me you’re going coy on me now.”

She swallowed, sitting up. “Whatever it is, I won’t accept it.”

“Stop that,” he sighed. “You haven’t even seen it.”

“But I know what it means.”

“So what? You’re not a pureblood, it won’t matter to you.”

“But you are,” she murmured, voice suddenly tense. “I know what you’re doing, Ominis. This is the equivalent of a—”

“I know what it is,” he said, decidedly firm, as if this was something he’d spent a great deal of time considering. As if he couldn’t be talked out of it, especially not now.

She stared at the box in his hands for a long moment as if it was a grenade, and then at him, like he’d just bitten free the pin and was holding it between his teeth.

“I don’t understand.”

He quirked a brow. “Have I been vague about my intentions with you? I could’ve sworn I’d been very clear.”

“There might’ve been some blurred lines here and there,” she murmured, sheepish.

He deadpanned. “Then let me make this excruciatingly explicit—”

“Ominis…” she began, but he quieted her with a raised hand, as if already expecting her refusal.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything to you, I’m alright with that. Just accept it as a gift—”

“A courtship gift, you mean.”

“A gift,” he insisted, inching closer to present her with the box.

Despite his level-headed tone, his fingers trembled slightly when he opened it, revealing a delicately-wrought ouroboros in the form of a ring. A snake swallowing its own tail. An emblem of wholeness, of infinity, of…forever.

She swallowed hard and stared at the glittering silver for a long moment.

“Please,” he added in a whisper, almost inaudible.

She tore her eyes away from the ring to glance up at him, taken aback by the stark vulnerability she found so open-faced. She realized then just what he was doing for her. Flaying himself open, letting himself be exposed.

“People will think we’re engaged,” she murmured, taking the box in his hands despite herself. His shoulders immediately sunk, the tension stringing them up dissipating from his muscles.

��Would that really be so bad?”

She raised her brows at him and he smirked. “Only teasing you.”

She looked unconvinced. “Are you?”

“Yes,” he insisted, rolling his eyes. “I just…want you to know I’m serious about you. We’ll take this at your pace.”

“A heartfelt letter would have sufficed,” she said, holding her hand up to the dim light of the surrounding candles to examine the ring on her finger. “Christ, how old is this thing?”

She felt an array of mixed emotions about how nicely it looked on her, like its place was always meant to be there. Her nerves manifested in her fidgeting, twisting the ring around her finger until Ominis finally stilled her with his own.

“I’m not very good with words,” he said, bringing her hand towards his lips to place a lingering kiss to her knuckles. He ran his thumb over the ring, almost in awe at it being there, surreality shining in his eyes. “And it’s a couple centuries, give or take.”

She whistled, staring at the heirloom with widened eyes. “You realize a couple dozen of your ancestors are rolling in their graves at the moment, right?”

He shrugged, starkly unbothered. “Salazar Slytherin himself could manifest and bid against it and the ring would still only ever be yours.”

She stared at him for a long moment, narrowing her eyes. “God, fuck you.”

He sputtered, choking out a laugh. “What?”

“You really are the world’s last standing romantic,” she muttered, swatting at him when his lips pulled into a prideful grin. “I hope this is the full extent of any pureblood courting rituals you plan to enact with me.”

“You wound me,” he frowned. “And here I thought you would be positively thrilled about all the chaperoned strolls around the Manor I had planned for us.”

She laughed. “Only if the chaperoned strolls involve an unchaperoned detour towards some lonely corner where you can fuck my brains out.”

“You are incorrigible,” he tsked, feigning great offense, even as he pushed her down and towered over her again. “What am I ever going to do with you?”

“I have a few ideas,” she smirked and he shook his head, brushing his lips against hers.

“Trust me, I’ve endured enough years of pining to conjure up plenty of my own.”

#hogwarts legacy #ominis gaunt #sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt x reader #ominis x mc #hogwarts legacy imagine #hogwarts legacy fanfiction #ominis gaunt fanfiction #ominis gaunt x mc #hogwarts legacy ominis #ominis x you #ominis x reader #ominis x oc #fanfiction #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #fluff

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underdark-dreams · 26 days

Text

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

Blades and Spells [Fluff - First Meeting]

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

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

A Strand to Climb - Ch.6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not like this, her mind screamed in protest.

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

“Hells, we’re headed for harbor—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—they jumped.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tav!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rolan?”

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

“After that…will you take me home?”

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

—

Tav shifted on top of him with a mumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was as if she sensed the thought.

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

“Morning,” she purred sleepily against his neck.

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

He kissed her brow. “Evening, actually.”

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

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

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

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

Tav looked at him in appraisal for a long moment.

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

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

“One of the scrolls you gave me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tav,” he groaned.

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

“Where's this coming from?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I missed this,” she breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come in me,” she gasped. “Please.”

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

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

“I love you—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That tickles,” she mumbled into his chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My wizard,” she said softly.

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

Instead…

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

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

#sage and soldier #rolan x tav #bg3 rolan #bg3 fanfic #rebgrrl writes #underdark-dreams #spicy #nsft #crying (me)#holy rolan empire

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treedaddymcpuffpuff · 1 month

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Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten

TW: angst, uncomfortable situations, bdsm content, fire, blood

“What in God’s fucking name are you doing?” You ask yourself as you dig out the silky dress and golden bangles to wear tonight on this BDSM safari date.

In theory, you know you absolutely cannot be Julian’s submissive. After a lot of googling, and a lot of video watching, the conclusion is that your smart, mindless mouth will have you bruised and crying more often than cumming, which sounds unpleasant (something you and your vagina can both agree on). It's not that the thought of his big hands swatting your rear as you lay over his broad lap is unappealing. In fact, you like that vision a lot. It’s the fact that he wants to do much more than spank you. Maybe that’s why he likes you, you realize, because you’re so bad at listening that he won’t need much of an excuse to fuck you up.

Yeah, great thought to have before a date.

Your phone rings, and you’re not surprised anymore when you see Tom’s number pop up. He’s been calling almost twice a day now, that desperate ring cutting through your daily life so often that you have to keep the tone on silent most of the time.

You suppose this is just his way of making sure you don’t forget about him while you’re taking back roads and long detours home to avoid his face. Ludlow scares you, but not in a way that Julian’s Mr. Hyde does. No, Tom’s fear factor is that you can’t go two seconds without thinking about him.

The silky dress sits very nicely on your soft body, hugs and fans and dips in the right places. You can’t help but admire yourself in the mirror; hell, what’s a little bit of vanity every once in a while between you and your house plants? It’s not often that you feel good about yourself in the way the dress and the hairline bangles cinching your wrists make you feel. Eat your heart out, Julian.

Eat your heart out, Tom.

Julian looks good enough to eat, and you just might do exactly that before this night is over. You’re sure he can at least stay hard while you’re sucking the head of his beautiful cock (even without your arms tied behind your back), or you really hope so. I mean, you’ve never won any awards or anything, but the people pleaser in you has never had complaints, either.

“You look wonderful.” He hands you a towering potted phalaenopsis orchid with a festoon of blooms so dark purple they’re almost black and leans down to kiss your warming cheek. You feel bad for the plastic wrapped flowers, so you ask him to come upstairs for a minute so you can settle them in their new home.

“Wow, you love plants,” he muses, fingers playing at the waxy tip of your flourishing Queen of the Night cactus in the window.

“Well, I can’t have a cat or a lizard or snake or dog, so.” You give a tiny shrug, clipping off stems into the sink.

“Snake?” He asks, leaning against the counter and watching you work.

“Yeah, like a Ball Python or a Corn Snake.”

“You just keep getting more fascinating, y/n.” You have your back turned, but can still feel his weighty stare, and it makes your skin crackle and pill, distracts you from the task at hand, causing the slippery scissors to veer and slice into your palm, glassy beads of blood forming at the base of the cut immediately.

“Shit,” you say, grabbing a towel from the counter and pressing it into the wound.

Julian comes to your aid, a knight in shining armor ready to slay those dastardly scissors as he plucks them from you and tosses them onto the opposite counter. “Oh, darling.” He takes your sliced hand, uncovers it, blood immediately pooling into the basin of your palm and dribbling over the spillway of your wrist onto the kitchen tile.

“Julian, it’s fine,” you tell him, trying to pull back half heartedly.

“Wait.” The command of his tone makes your heart squeeze out a couple extra rivulets of blood for the floor. Black eyes travel up from your hand to your own, and you honestly have no idea why he is suddenly in this hellish mood again, but fuck, it really does do things for you that you can’t mention in chaste company

“The floor is getting bloody.” You shift—more like squirm—under his shadow.

“What a waste. May I?” His eyes can’t decide what they want to look at—your crimson stained palm or equally if not more bloody face—and you forget that he asked a question as they hood and darken.

He tugs you forward a tiny step, then kisses your fingertips, pokes his tongue out to lick at the sensitive skin there. “Y/n?” He murmurs against your pointer, inquisitive and, what? Hungry? Is that what you’re getting from him?

“Huh?”

“Can I taste you?” His lips tickle down your fingers, peck the top of your palm.

Well, at least he’s not whipping your feet. “Yeah.”

He presses the flat of his tongue against the fresh, oozing cut and licks a long stripe through the carnage. You have to grab onto him because your knees buckle and your vision swims black, but he’s got you anyway, arm wrapped around your waist, holding you up like you’re not made of heavy bone and fat and meat, protecting your pretty dress from that bloody floor.

“Are you okay?” He asks, full Dr. Mercer mode again, lips still stained dark red, acting as if he didn’t just transform into a creature of the night before your very eyes. Your head and cunt throb in a strange, floaty numb tandem as you surface from the haze.

You’re a nurse. You see blood all the time, get covered in it, have to scrub it out of your hair and from under your nails and use special laundry soap on your scrubs to avoid having to buy new ones every other day. That’s why you’re so confused as to why you almost passed out at the sight of Julian licking it off your palm in one of the most erotic displays you’ve ever witnessed in your measly life.

Again? Asks your damp cunt.

Hush, you admonish, ushering her back into her little broom closet chastity prison.

“I’m fine.” You wonder why it took moving to LA to realize what a shit liar you are. And then, because you can’t really help asking with a giggle: “Are you a vampire?”

He chuckles, fails in licking the settling red hue off his lips, and then guides you to sit on your sofa with the towel pressed against your palm. He gets you a cool rag from your bathroom, and presses it to your forehead. “Hold that there for me,” he instructs. “Where’s your first aid kit?”

“Under the sink,” you thumb behind you. “But I’m fine, Julian.”

He plucks a tiny kiss on your wrist. “You know, lying to me is bad for you.”

“Oh?” Your vagina asks, “and why is that, Doctor?”

Julian is too easy. Sure, he prefers to have the upper hand, but as soon as you challenge him, he’s almost squirming with excitement. You wonder if you could make Tom squirm like that, see all the tough masculinity turn soft and peach pink with a well placed, “cuff me, Officer Ludlow.”

“Because lying is naughty, and do you know what happens to naughty girls?” He leans in as if to kiss you.

You lean right back, mouth open to taste your own thick residual copper on his sharp tongue, and sincerely hope the answer is they get fucked until they can’t walk. “Enlighten me?”

He boops your nose. “They don’t get kisses. Now, stay here.”

You glare daggers at his cute butt as he makes to golden retrieve your first aid kit.

“Thank you, Doctor.” Fuck me, Doctor. You bat your eyelashes at him while he cleans up your cut. It’s big, but surface level, warranting a tight wrap and no steri strips.

You boldly brush the fallen, velvet hair from his eyes to see that toothy, knowing smile a little better.

“My pleasure.”

“So…are you into that? Blood?” You’re not sure how else to word it or If there’s even an actual name for the act of eating blood for pleasure. Vladsexual? Bathory Kink?

“That and other carnal taboos. I suppose I’m a bit of a roue.”

“Okay, so what else?”

“I don’t want to scare you.”

“Too late, Julian.” You make it sound lighthearted, sugarcoat the truth, but if you’re going to get into this shouldn’t you know more about what he wants?

“I won’t lie.” He looks at you, presses the finishing slice of tape over your gauze wrap.

You retrieve your doctored hand to cradle on your ribs and maintain his gaze to the best of your ability. “I know.”

“I enjoy pain play. But that’s an umbrella term.”

“Like hot wax? Caning?”

“Yes. You’ve done some research.” He seems like he’s thinking hard about how to word something, but there’s probably no eloquent way to put what he’s about to say. “Cutting. Piercing.”

“What about infection?”

“Aftercare, honey. You make sure it’s nice and clean. Do you want me to stop talking about this? You look paler again.” He rests his hand over yours.

“It’s like you switch into someone else when these things.. come up? It scares me a little.”

He nods. “Part of the point would be to make you scared.”

“That would help you?”

It looks like he understands what you mean by that, and his face droops a little. Seems you’re both still thinking about that last disappointing date. “Yes.”

“There are going to be people getting hurt at this club?”

“Yes.” He cards a hand through his hair and it lays back perfectly where it once was. “There are other parts to it. Parts that are good. I would take responsibility away from you, make sure you eat nutritiously and often, give you a solid routine, pamper and spoil you.”

Why does that part sound worse than the getting cut and pierced bits? The thought of someone controlling your life, what you eat and do, it’s entirely unappealing. Maybe you’re a mess, but you like to be independent and free spirited. Tom was right about you wanting someone on your side, someone to take care of you and go to bat for you, but you’d still like to be on the field when it happens instead of tied up helplessly to the bench.

You’re not saying anything, so he speaks up after a pause of tense silence. “We don’t have to go.”

“I know,” you say, “let’s leave before it gets too late.”

***

You’ll be honest. You expected people on leashes scantily covered in leather, big medieval tower guards in hooded black cloaks, heavy metal equipment bolted to the walls and floor, maybe a stage with grandstand seats like in a fucked up little leather circus.

However, the doors of the club are fairly normal, if not painted blood red. Dark, sultry, heavy bass music welcomes you as you walk inside. Most of the interior is classy, but unexpectedly underwhelming. The inside is carved marble, high ceilinged, low lit, tinged with dark red and purple lights.

It reads like a vampy career fair.

Banquet hall open floor, a pop up bar in the corner, booths and alcoves swollen with spectators dressed in bespoke club wear from Versace, Valentino, and Chanel. Some people choose to hide their identities with finely crafted leather masks. Some people chose to flaunt their faces openly, and you’re pretty sure you recognize at least one B level rockstar and maybe an actor from a distance.

The first thing you see as you go further inside is a man trussed in intricate rope, hanging from the ceiling. Not too bad. Actually, fairly tame, all of this. Well, more tame than the internet showed you. Mostly heavy bondage, maybe a nipple clamp thrown in here and there. Julian leads you to a carpeted venue with floor cushion seating in the far left corner and goes to retrieve some liquid courage.

He hands you a wine glass of rosy, sweet liquor and you gulp it down immediately.

“Slow down,” he says, squeezing your hand in reassurance.

Instead of calming you, his bossy words incite annoyance. You’re a grown ass woman who needs alcohol to deal with something he wants you to attend, and you’ll be damned if you’re not going to drink as much numbing potion as you like.

“I could actually use another one,” you tell him, standing and stretching. “Want some?” You eye his nursed, sipped from glass.

He surprises you by handing you his credit card instead of arguing. “No, thank you. Get as much as you like.”

“Julian, I am not taking your card-“

You’ll never stop being surprised at how fast he can be. He’s so slow, thoughtful, calculated in his work that these sudden, long limbed movements startle you, especially when they bring him right against your body.

He tucks his Chase back into your extended palm, frames your feet, and wraps a covering hand around your collar. “You are taking it.”

The double entendre is not lost on you, and it brings that too often ache back into your toes and fingers and clit and every tip of your body, really.

You want so horribly for his beautiful, cervix kissing cock to be inside you instead of swelling up against your tummy. And, you’ve never been a big fan of PDA, but, when in Venice…

You slip your hand between his hard and your soft, and palm that pretty trapped appendage, using your body to press and grind and get a better understanding of how deliciously he would fill you up.

Your power trip of the night is Julian groaning aloud, then halting this indecency and glaring down at you with a monstrous sneer. Before he can speak, you pipe up, soft and feminine, voice tinted with subtle hedonism. “Yes, Doctor.”

You grab a mixed glass of vodka cranberry and take two extra shots courtesy of doctor money. Liquid courage. It's gonna be alright. Tell yourself that all you want, though, you still don’t feel completely safe here. Which is ridiculous because it’s an adult space with consenting people. Maybe it’s not your physical health you’re worried about so much, but rather your fragile psyche.

When you get back with another shot and your mixed drink, the show has already started. You nestle down into the cushion beside Julian, and he scoots closer to press shoulders in what you think is an attempt at reassurance until he starts talking in your ear about the scene unfolding before you.

“She’s bound to the chair with wool.”

“Wool? Why?”

“Fire resistant.”

Your heart slams faster against your ribcage, hands turn cool and clammy.

“They have a wool blanket ready in case things go south.”

“Are they going to burn her?”

“Not seriously.”

What in the fuck is that supposed to mean? A burn is a burn, right? Whether first or second or third, it can still have detrimental effects on a person’s health. He’s a damn doctor, shouldn’t his years of medical training raise a hand to why this is potentially life threatening?

Despite the protest of your nervous system, you can’t look away. The man in the scene rubs something on her naked skin, in the middle of her chest, almost down to the hairless mound of her sex. “Isopropyl alcohol,” Julian says. He places his warm hand in the middle of your back like he’s trying to manually start your lungs back up. “Breathe.”

You do, let out a big whoosh of air and then take another in. The man lights a torch.

“Fire torch,” Julian says, voice leagues deeper. His hand travels down, nuzzles into the small of your back and makes you let out a little noise that you’re grateful he can’t hear over the music and bustle of the club.

He presses the flame to her sternum, and she hisses, flinching away from the heat, from the flint that lingers on her skin. He extinguishes that same mini bonfire with his palm almost instantly, then creates more. The orange flame reflects on the tears of her cheeks, illuminates the fear in her blown pupils.

Julian rubs little circles into your back, hips, grins when he hears you groan as his thumb slips up the hem of his dress.

It goes on, and Julian has stopped explaining. Stopped moving those skilled fingers. You’re confused, so you look over at him, and realize that you have not seen monstrous from this man yet—not until now. His handsome features are pulled in such an expression of raw, primal hunger, all for that woman’s pain.

You’ve seen that look on a man’s face before. It did not end well for you.

It’s that look on his face that gets you up on your feet, and you say in a voice you yourself hardly recognize, “I have to use the restroom.”

Julian looks disappointed, but he nods. When you’re confident that he’s not going to leap up and follow you, you make your way in said direction on shaking legs. However, once you round the corner out of sight, you are making a B-line for the exit, moving so quickly you almost stumble over your own feet, the desperate animal running through the woods, away from the hungry wolf.

#tom ludlow x reader #street kings #keanuverse fic #keanuverse #julian mercer x reader

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amywritesthings · 5 months

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part four: the dance. / astarion x tav

the better strategy series.

pairing: astarion x tav (she/her) word count: 4.5k summary: jaheira organizes a makeshift winter's ball at the last light inn. astarion loses sight of his own game and asks tav for a dance. tags: winter themed, waltzing, dancing, last light in reimagining, romantic/sexual tension, trauma, astarion's pov, miscommunications, selûne worshipper!tav, sensuality, confessions // mature for thematic elements

part three. / part five (coming soon). | masterlist.

welcome to the eighth day of the twelve days of amymas !!

PART FOUR: THE DANCE.

A winter ball — oh, he could climb into a coffin and never resurface.

They are a party of adventurers, not performers.

They ought to be compensated with gold and weaponry. Instead they're met with a celebration of food Astarion is sorely disinterested in and booze that will surely make for some less-than savory debauchery.

(And usually he’s such a fan of debauchery, but not when it involves other people and Tav.)

After all, without Tav’s quick thinking and assistance, Jahiera and all of her Harpers would have easily lost their half-elf cleric protecting their little Last Light Inn.

And, without Isobel, the idiots taking refuge here would all be doomed to wither away to the Shadow Curse like their precious lands.

The party, however, would be just fine.

Torches for days.

Rations overflowing at camp.

Not to mention that handy little moon lantern Astarion may or may not have swindled a confused drider out of giving up.

(Miserable bastard.)

So here the somewhat-heroic group stands:

Inn? Saved.

Isobel? In one piece.

Jaheira? Grateful, in her Jaheira way.

So grateful, in fact, she's proposed a one-night party in a similar vein of the grove celebration many moons ago.

A winter's ball, she calls it.

(Astarion is quite convinced the druid only calls it a ball because half of these blasted Harpers have never seen an elegant gathering to save any of their skins.)

Perhaps the most annoying part of this happening is the fact that Tav has looked happier than she’s appeared in weeks.

So many harrowing battles on the dilapidated roads before them forced them to veer a hard right, ruining their original mission trajectory.

Moonrise Towers, for now, could wait.

With dwindling supplies and Karlach running out of steam, Tav was certain this road was the best path to take.

Call it… well, a calling, he supposes.

Because a hop, skip, and a jump later, their party discovered some Harper-infested bubble called the Last Light Inn.

The Last Light is a warm place to sleep at night, and frankly? Astarion hadn’t laid down on a real mattress (not without a stranger in his orbit) in over two-hundred years.

Coincidentally, Tav loves the Last Light Inn, too.

It’s a prime opportunity to rest their feet, to catch up with the refuge tieflings that managed to escape their own ill fates, to speak with that indebted gnome from the windmill hilarity—

And, well, Isobel.

Isobel is the white-haired cleric that guards said bubble, keeping the curse from entering their oasis.

However, Isobel isn’t just a cleric — she also happens to be a fellow follower of Selûne.

(Oh, goody.)

The woman is convinced Selûne guided Tav to their hideaway.

She's convinced their detour was all in the plan.

(Selûne was never far from Tav's prayer, a notion that makes him both envious and glad.)

However, Isobel is a bit too giddy to steal the wood elf away from their party. They've spent the better half of a day gushing over one another's skill, gossiping over their goddess and what it took to simply get to this place.

In fact, Astarion hasn't seen her in hours.

(Even an hour is too long, he's decided.)

Yet that’s all the bloody Harpers have done in Tav’s orbit:

Chat. Compliment. Praise. Swoon.

(Yes, she’s impressive, but what about him? He needs dinner.)

And now it has all come to a head: a party to celebrate a victory when there are so few.

Wyll, of course, thrives at the idea of setting up a Winter’s Ball. It’s in his Ravengard wheelhouse.

Karlach — with a fixed engine and a glowing disposition now that she's reunited with Dammon — trails excitedly right behind.

The two of them, along with Isobel, take up most of Tav’s time.

Astarion is bumped back with the rest of the party, again.

The rest are neither here nor there about the plan. Shadowheart wants to keep moving. Lae’zel finds the concept childish. Gale swears he has two left feet.

Frustratingly enough, Tav is somewhere predictably in the middle.

She doesn’t wish to rock the boat or ruin anyone’s fun — she empathizes with those not as excited, but he can tell she’s closer towards wanting this to happen.

The way she beams when the Harpers ask her for preferences isn’t lost on him.

So Astarion has to do one of the hardest things he’s ever done in his life.

He goes from hell no, to hell yes — in a fortnight.

Especially after Tav that afternoon comes to him with an embarrassed look on her face.

That alone could get him to agree to anything.

"Astarion?"

Ah — think of an angel, and she shall rise.

His is an instant response, brought on from the sound of her voice alone.

“Yes, my sweet?”

(Only one other person commanded his attention as such, but that was out of fear. This is out of eagerness.)

Astarion has been minding his own, mentally preparing for a crowded, drunken celebration in his bedroom. People watching, really, as everyone sets up tables and chairs in the courtyard below.

He turns a chin towards the doorway where she stands, appearing smaller than usual.

Distraught.

He pushes off of the window frame with his shoulder.

"Is something troubling you, my dear?"

Tav makes a noise of discomfort, concerning him, before she holds up…

Fabric?

“She gave me a dress.”

The vampire blinks twice. “A what?”

“A dress,” she bemoans. “Alfira.”

The godsdamn tiefling bard that plays horrid music, of all people.

“She had extras in her pack, and…" Tav sighs in that people-pleasing way he's come to memorize, "...she’s hoping I wear it to the ball. As a gift for helping out the tieflings, but I don't feel I've earned it. And I don't really... well, the dress is...”

“It’s a party, dearest, not a ball. A ball needs less dust and cobwebs,” Astarion corrects, before crossing his arms over his chest. “You could have told her no.”

“She’s been through a lot.”

“So have you,” he challenges.

“And she looked quite excited—”

“Is it as ugly as her grove attire?” A tiny smirk crawls over his lips. “Because—”

“Astarion!”

Tav whispers desperately, moving across the room to him. She lifts her hand to hover over his mouth as if to quiet him without ever touching him.

She does that often — avoids touching him outright.

The wood elf always asks.

Apparently the surface-level stories of Cazador's abuse were enough to make her mindful of his aversion towards surprise touch.

(The thoughtfulness of him makes him want to scream.)

“It’s plain,” Tav quietly explains. “Green and, um, not quite my shade, but I just — can you please tell me what you think of it?”

“A half hour before our party’s a bit late to request opinions on outfit, is it not?” he quips, pretending like being Tav’s mirror is such a burden.

It’s really not.

It’s better than her going back to Wyll for opinions.

Or, Gods forbid, Gale.

“I knew you’d be honest,” she says like he’s ever been honest a day in his undead life.

So Tav believes he’d be brave enough to tell her… what?

That she’s ugly in something?

He’d be elated if he wasn’t so offended — Tav could wear a potato sack and still boggle the minds of every man, woman, and person at this inn.

Still, he has a reputation to uphold.

“Go ahead," he sniffs, then adds, “and I very much doubt green isn’t a wood elf’s color.”

Astarion waves her off with forced indifference as she glances around the room.

“Should I just do it here, or is that uncomf—”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

She wishes to undress here?

His brain feels a bit constricted, like he’s lost oxygen.

Then he remembers to perform.

“I’ll turn around. How’s that?” Astarion purrs, before pointing to a mirror. He flips it around and offers a grand gesture once his back is to her. “See? Fixed. I promise to not take a single peak at that tantalizing figure you so rarely accentuate.”

“Accentuating is impractical, and I’d hardly call myself tantalizing — but I appreciate the compliment, Astarion,” she returns with a relieved sigh, and Gods, he smiles.

She can’t see it, which is why it’s so easy to soundlessly laugh.

Fabrics ruffle behind him. Articles of clothing gently hit the ground.

The vampire could black out at the way the forefront of his imagination runs wild.

Tav is naked.

In some state of undress, right there, behind him.

It’s a strange feeling, to want to see someone naked — bodies are just bodies.

They’re skin and blood and, quite frankly, a bit disgusting.

So many fluids all the time.

But something warms him at the concept of Tav’s soft curves, the slopes of collarbones under tunics, what her legs may look like when they’re not covered by practical trousers. He pictures freckles on her skin. A scar or three. Planes of flesh clear of speckles of blood—

Shit, is he getting hard?

Just for thinking about fucking Tav?

Not fucking her, no, but the idea of simply looking at her, which is more embarrassing.

Astarion acts quick, thinking of something vile.

Purple robes.

Ah, yes, Gale’s robes.

Gale’s ridiculous, wrap-about robes mixed with his smarmy voice correcting the group about a spell he learned in Mystra’s teachings—

“Astarion?”

Her voice is so small that he barely recognizes it.

The vampire turns a chin, not willing to push a boundary until offered.

(Her thoughtfulness ought to go both ways.)

“I’m good," she adds. "I think I figured it out, but the clasp is…”

“Is what, dearest?” he coos back, finally turning on a heel to see what may become his undoing.

Tav stands timidly in the middle of the bedroom, shuffling her bare feet on the floor.

Alfira wouldn’t pull this off, no, but this darling wood elf glows in an olive-green ensemble. The embroidered fabric slopes deep past her collarbone, exposing her sternum, the curve of her breasts, straight down to her navel.

The sleeves are sheer, their pattern swirling like the very vines she derives from.

He’s gawking.

Astarion hasn’t said a word in over twenty seconds, and he’s painfully aware of it.

“Are you positive that isn't the back of the dress?” he asks, fluttering his fingers at the risqué front.

“I asked the same thing,” Tav sheepishly admits, stepping closer with her arm bunched behind her back. “The clasp is up the back, but it’s too high.”

She twirls to show him the predicament at her neck, and all Astarion can do is work his body on autopilot.

Not thinking will help him not make a fool of himself, so he shoos her hand away and clips the dress to completion.

He refuses to let himself touch the nape of her neck, her waist, her hips—

What in the hells did that little tiefling witch do to this dress?

“Am I alright to move?”

“Hmm?”

Tav’s voice. Tav asked a question. Tav asked a bloody question, you dolt, don’t lose your—

“Oh! Yes.”

Astarion clears his throat, flexing his fingers right over the clasp before stepping back.

“All settled.”

“Thank you,” she meekly replies, and he hates it.

She should be proud of the way she looks.

Why does she want to crawl into herself?

“Have you acquired a date to this humble happening?” Astarion decides to ask instead, balling his fists at his side.

“Do I truly look that horrid in this?” Tav asks, bypassing his question with her own.

Astarion opens his mouth to tease her some more, to press and prod and push until she glares his way, but nothing comes out.

Instead the pale elf softens at her stare, helpless and angry at his own insistence.

Why does he feel the need to be so cruel?

The world is cruel, but Tav is…

“Ah! There you are.”

The grating voice of Shadowheart pierces through their private moment, door swung wide as if privacy has no home here. The Shar cleric wears her usual traveling fashion, but her braid is unraveled, loosened. The tiny hair piece appears much more like a crown now with her free-swinging ponytail.

She smirks, brow quirked.

“...have I interrupted something?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Two voices ring out simultaneously.

Tav answers first.

Astarion’s ivory curls wave in the wind at how fast he whips his head to look at the half elf.

Shadowheart's eyes are already on his, even as she beckons Tav to join her with the crook of a finger.

No, he said. You’re interrupting nothing. We are nothing. This, whatever this is, is nothing.

“Jahiera won’t stop asking for you,” Shadowheart tells Tav. “Karlach and Dammon have already popped a few bottles to toast to her heated predicament, so you might want to find yourself a bottle before they’re all gone.”

“I’m—” Tav glances Astarion, and his undead heart squeezes. “Sure, I’ll join.”

She walks into the hallway with Shadowheart, leaving Astarion to stand alone.

“Where’d you get the dress, anyway?”

Now that the vampire's not within her eyesight, Shadowheart inquires with a softer tone.

Astarion finds himself becoming unnecessarily jealous.

Lighter.

Everyone is also so much lighter with the cleric of Selûne at their side; even a wayward prodigy of Shar.

He cannot squander her light.

She cannot be swallowed into his darkness.

Still, he feels just as drawn to Tav as the rest of them.

Like a damned fool who has yet to learn his lesson.

-.-

The party rages on well into the night.

The Harpers can drink.

In fact, they drink so heavily that half of them are already on the makeshift dance circle in the middle of the Inn’s courtyard.

People chant and cheer.

Couples find corners to hide in.

Astarion remains on the outskirts, all too easily reminded of the parties once organized in Lord Cazador's name — in his blood.

Just how many souls had he lured to those damned things?

How many bodies had he conjured with his oil-slicked words, his midnight charm?

Enough to know that the dragonborn trying to get Tav to dance doesn’t know a lick of proper waltz steps to save their own hide.

Yet Tav… does.

And that doesn’t go unnoticed, not by him.

She tries gently teaching the dragonborn so keen on speaking with her until the poor thing awkwardly gives up.

The red-scaled person shuffles off into the inn for more alcohol, leaving Tav alone on the dance floor.

No.

No, that won’t do at all.

His crimson eyes catch the laughter of Wyll to his right — the Blade of Frontiers is too busy talking to a disinterested Lae’zel to notice. Gale’s arms crossed and serious about discussing books with the elder Harper shopkeeper not far off. Shadowheart’s drunk a bit too much, so she's asleep with her head on a table. Karlach and Dammon — well, that’s something he shant ruin.

Which leaves… him.

Him and Tav.

Tav and Astarion.

He curses at himself before pushing off of a stone wall.

Like a creature of the night he stalks towards the diamond of the ball, forcing himself to do what no Harper, no dragonborn, and no bloody person in their camp can do for her.

“I suppose you can only teach an old dragon so many new tricks,” the vampire snarks with a feigned sigh as he steps up behind Tav, surprising her.

The wood elf spins on a heel, face flush with…

Oh, my.

She’s tipsy.

Possibly drunk.

(Although he'll go hungry this evening, he has no intentions of feeding from her when she isn't sober.)

“Astarion,” she greets breathlessly. He performatively bows. “What are you—”

“I was a magistrate, you know,” Astarion interrupts, a smirk growing on his lips as he glances up through pretty eyelashes to regard her. “In Baldur’s Gate, when I wasn’t so staunchly pale. If you wanted to dance with someone, my sweet, all you had to do was ask.”

Please ask me is what he’s trying to say, but he’s too much of a bloody coward.

Tav squares her shoulders as if to defy her own intoxication, yet her round eyes betray her wonder.

“You… wish to dance with me?”

“You lost your partner,” he coos. “What would I be if I left you stranded? And besides, I doubt anyone here knows how to waltz. Was that not what you two were... attempting?”

“You were watching me dance with Strohlan?”

She hiccups, and it’s adorable.

“If that’s what they wish to call dancing, sure," he snidely remarks.

“They did their best."

Yet she does not step into his orbit.

Instead she waits, as if anticipating for him to make the first move.

Tav stares at the vampire with cautious interest before becoming brave: “Ask, then.”

Astarion contemplates.

Coward, coward, coward.

Then he blurts before he can back out:

“Would you do me the honor of accompanying me in a dance?”

It sounds so juvenile on his tongue.

Like he isn’t over three-hundred years old.

Like he doesn’t have a single clue what he’s doing here.

(In truth, he doesn’t. He really fucking doesn’t.)

The cleric holds up her palm to the air, still not offering to touch him first. Her other arm curves at the elbow, as if Astarion can slot against her body perfectly.

He can. He has.

(With his fangs lodged into her neck, drinking her sweet life essence without a word of gratitude.)

Astarion realizes his stalling, so he takes a leap of faith — his hand reaches for her waist first, gliding around the silky smooth fabric of her olive dress.

The other hand curls around hers, seeking to lead.

He swallows when her warmth engulfs him.

No amount of mead can be this intoxicating.

Not like her.

When the makeshift band starts a new song, he pushes her back to start the dance.

Tav tenses but quickly relaxes as she allows Astarion to take the lead.

His brows furrow when he notes how her limbs seem eager to push back, as if—

“Are you trying to lead me?”

“Hmm? Oh shit, I’m—”

Did Tav just swear?

“Sorry, it’s a habit.”

“A habit, you say?" His voice is a melodic mockery. "Happen to find yourself leading the dance in your past entanglements?”

“Unfortunately,” she laments honestly. “Back where I’m from, they always tried teaching me the follower’s steps. I never quite liked it, so I learned the leader’s dance instead.”

“And where are you from?” he finds himself asking without meaning to, leaning into her ramble.

Tav sways to the music with him, a perfect mirror. “Southwood.”

Astarion’s brow quirks.

“As in the kingdom of Southwood?”

Southwood was a vast clan of wood elves on the southeastern side of the realm.

He’d never personally been there, but many wood elves in Baldur’s Gate spoke of their clan with such vitriol. According to them, Southwood wood elves rarely left their gates.

Why would they? Their lands were gorgeous. Ethereal.

Perfectly in sync with nature and all its glories.

Their government was not much of a democracy but a matriarchal monarchy.

Kings, Queens, all the stops.

They viewed themselves as pure royalty, rarely allowing outsiders to infiltrate. And because of that, most inhabitants of Southwood looked at the rest of the realm with their noses turned high.

So why in the nine Hells was Tav, their Tav, out here with the rest of them?

Tav, however, doesn’t seem very bothered.

The alcohol waves away his question and allows her to keep rambling during their dance.

“They love their lavish parties in Southwood. Nearly every week had some form of a dance, a celebration, an… exhausting seven-course dinner. Learning the ‘wrong’ steps kept people away.”

“Kept them away?”

“Yes,” she answers, matter of fact. “So no person could ask me to dance.”

He never expected — well, this.

Learning about not only Tav’s life before the mind flayers snatched them into their floating ship, but the fact that she’s… well, he worries there are many, many more layers to this young wood elf that no one else is aware of. Layers of secrets that make up who Tav is.

Layers that others could exploit.

(And they will never know. Tav's past is as precious to him as the finite dirt she'd once kicked away at camp, hiding his own demons.)

“So you hate dancing,” he decides to say instead, forgoing twenty questions about her lineage for now.

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” she corrects. “I hate dancing with people I don’t like.”

Astarion grips her waist a little tighter.

He regrets it immediately when she presses closer, her fragrance overwhelming his every sense.

“And you like this… dragonborn? This Strohlan?”

Her head shakes. “I like the Harpers. They’re kind to us.”

“When we arrived at Last Light Inn, dear, Jahiera nearly sent you into a vine-ridden slumber.”

“I don’t blame her for taking precaution against people with wriggling tadpoles in their heads.”

He steps away, taking her off guard.

When his arm lifts, however, Tav is quick to obey the unspoken rule:

She twirls under it, skirt billowing with the movement.

Once she returns, her hand adjusts lower to his bicep — catching her step.

It feels more intimate, this way.

Real.

“And… you like our companions, then?” he leads.

Tav blinks. “Hmm?”

“Since you say you only dance with people you like,” Astarion repeats, hating that his ego needs to be stroked so thoroughly with thorns that he hopes to hear her sputter her way through—

“I like you.”

Astarion’s expression forcefully hardens to protect it from faltering.

“And I like our companions, of course," she explains, "but this… I would have asked you, if I’d known you would have actually said yes.”

I would have asked you.

So he wasted this entire ball doing… what, precisely?

Skulking in the corner, watching Tav get passed around like a commodity rather than a jewel?

Astarion holds her close, suddenly very aware of their every movement.

“Me?” he asks despite himself. She nods. “In what way, darling?”

Must he sound like such a school boy?

This is the perfect time—

To seduce.

To sink his proverbial teeth into her neck so that she may never shake him off.

But Astarion doesn’t want that.

He lost the script somewhere along the blackened roads of these cursed lands.

“How do you mean, in what way?” she counters, and he knows — knows he should seize the moment and purr in her ear and promise her one hell of a night.

But she’s drunk.

She’s drunk and she’s confiding in him, for Gods sake.

Like so many before her, she’s confessing to a slanted altar he cannot absolve.

(Do not like me, he wants to scream. You are light. I am shadow.)

“You’re formidable in battle.”

No.

“You stay with me in the night, in the dark, when my goddess is not near.”

Stop.

“You… guide me, ground me, entrust me with your life.”

Please, just stop.

“And I wouldn’t — well, I cannot imagine conquering what is before us without you by my side—”

“Tav."

Astarion stops moving.

His hand accidentally curls too harshly into her side.

Tav stops moving, too.

Her name spills like crushed smokepowder on his tongue.

Ashy, not the least bit polished; it’s nothing more than a croak, a plea, to stop while she is ahead.

Rounded eyes stare at him, waiting for his next words.

His thumb absently runs along the fabric of her soft dress, completely at a loss of what to do — what to say.

“I should have asked.”

Those rounded eyes widen impossibly further when Astarion murmurs the first thing that comes to mind — the first right thing, the first real thing, in centuries.

Not a mockery of himself, a soul he’d neglected for so long, but… this.

Whatever this is.

“You wanted to?” she quietly asks in return, and he nods silently. What else is he to do in her mercy? “Truthfully I wanted to ask if you were interested in a dance or two when we were upstairs, but then Shadowheart interrupted my bravery.”

“Lady Shar strikes again,” he jokes, but it’s strained.

He’s gifted with a laugh, soft and sweet, before it fades in the space between.

Tav drops her gaze to his lips, but he doesn’t notice.

He can’t — not when his own eyes have already traveled south.

Not to her chest.

Not to her neck.

To her very lips, rosy and alive.

Astarion had a plan.

A nice, simple plan.

Yet, with a heavy heart, he realizes much too late:

In his own free will, he wishes to kiss her.

He wishes to give a part of himself to her without expecting anything in return.

Not even a taste of her own damned blood.

Is this what it means, to give?

(Is this what it means, to trust?)

“Astarion…”

The young wood elf’s voice melts into his brain like a soothing balm.

Only then does he realize he’s a breath away from her face — ducked nose to nose, her light breath peppered with liquor tickling his chin.

Tav switches her attention between his eyes and lips, blinking up and down as if contemplating.

Her lips part, voiceless in her question, but the calling is clear:

Her chin nudges a fraction closer, and she’s thinking.

Do it.

Gods, he wants to scream it.

Fucking do it. Be selfish, for once in your damned life.

All he’s known is to be selfish.

To look out for one person and one person alone.

“I’m sorry.”

When Astarion leans in to finally bridge the gap, to finally break his own code and be damned with the plan, the vampire realizes the cleric is pulling away.

No—

Abruptly Tav steps back as though she’s scorned him with fire.

Her hands rip away from his shoulder and palm.

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Darling—”

“Forgive me,” Tav blurts, as if she’s done something criminal to him.

Her once-bleary eyes sober in an instant, and she looks… ashamed?

Like she took advantage of a perfectly sober vampire, not the other way around.

You were supposed to fall for me.

That much is true.

That much is very clear to him.

Where, in some bizarre fashion, he’s managed what he once deemed impossible: Tav likes him. He's secured her affections without ever so much as being inside of her.

Yet it isn't enough. Tav lifts the skirt of her dress and beelines to the inn before he can reel her back.

She leaves him standing in the middle of the courtyard with a very real, very damning, reality:

Astarion’s nice, simple plan has fallen apart—

Because the pale elf has fallen first.

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