#which might not bode well for the rest of you

[annwrites]

sons & daughters. part five.

— pairing: cregan stark x fem!reader

— type: part of a series

— summary: your heart is broken multiple times in one day & just when you feel at the end of your rope—unable to take anymore—your heart is mended by another's loving, steady hands.

— word count: 7,815

— tagging list: @beebeechaos @crypticlxrsh @amindfullofmonsters @yeolsbubbles @icefrye19

When you wake the next morning, it is with a sense of belonging. For the first time in all your life.

A contended smile spreads across your lips as you snuggle further into your furs.

Furs which still smell of him.

Last night, you had begun to drift off in Cregan’s arms, your body feeling light and warm, so he had picked you up and carried you over to your bed, so you might rest.

He’d bent down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then brushing one over your lips, and as soon as he made to step away, you’d reached out for him, grabbing his fingertips, and asked him to stay.

He’d not refused. Instead, he had laid down next to you, wrapping you in his arms once more as the two of you continued to share soft kisses and gentle touches before you closed yours eyes for the night.

After breaking your fast, even if you had felt too excited to eat, Alia helps you dress. Afterward, you hug her with joy, to which she is quite taken aback, but she only laughs and tells you that you are welcome and she then leaves you.

You begin to open the door to your room, wishing desperately to seek Cregan out, just to be near him. Wherever he goes today—whatever he does—you only want to be beside him during.

And that is when you hear the news.

Your door is open no more than a crack—barely, at that—and you watch in silence at two older men go walking by.

“Yes, Lord Stark is most certainly considering a betrothal to the Lady Blackwood. It would do well to have such an arrangement in the possible wars to come. Their forces joined with ours would add volume to our ranks.”

The second man hums. “He has ruminated on the offer for some time. I believe it bodes well, however, that he has not rejected it outright. He is, instead, as always, acting with caution and measured thought. The loss of the Lady Arra was keenly felt by all, but it is time.”

You softly shut your door, pressing your forehead to it as your stomach twists so painfully it makes you wince—your bowels turning to water.

You’d trusted him. How…how could you have done such a thing?

Why did you not listen to Jace instead? He's a young man himself, and thus knows their ways of thinking.

Lord Stark had played you quite well, like that of a game of Cyvasse.

He’d slowly drawn you in by bestowing you with his attentions—pretending that he cared—and then had given you small touches and suggestive comments to preen your interest, showering you with gifts and compliments, until your head was spinning and you couldn’t think straight. Or, until all you could think of was love.

You had been raised in King's Landing of all places. What, then? Had you truly—in a matter of only a handful of days—forgotten how to read someone when they are lying to you?

And he had spoken of honor.

Mayhaps he has it, but not when it comes to you.

No. Never you.

And you'd let him into your bed. Nothing had happened—not yet—but now… Now you understood why he had asked for ‘more time’. More time to wrap you round his finger until he was able to finally claim what he desired from you, only to then marry another.

No one will ever want you for love.

You should’ve never started believing otherwise. Not for a day, or a moment.

Coming here had been a great mistake. You regret ever having met him now.

Tears sting your eyes and bile rises in your throat as you think of last night. You, seated in his lap as you allowed his hands to wander.

Whore.

That is what you are.

First, you had permitted Aemond to touch you in such ways—had let him to whisper and insinuate vile things toward you—and just allowed it—because you had actually enjoyed it.

You are not a princess who possesses self-respect. You are instead… You are your mother’s daughter. A mother who has now bedded how many men? You have her disposition.

Don’t you?

Harlot.

You squeeze your eyes shut, struggling to breathe. The room is too cramped. Too crowded. You feel like you are suffocating.

You wrench your door open, needing to be outside. You’ll go to the Godswood. You want to be alone. You begin to mentally pray that he stays away from you.

You need think on how best to word to Jace that you wish to go home now. You won’t tell him anything about Lord Stark because, no matter what has transpired between the two of you, you all need the northern army.

You will tell him that you are not faring well in this northern weather. That you have changed your mind. Going to the Wall would be—at least for you—ill-advised. A foolish thing to consider in the first place, as it is not a place for women. You will thus not intrude.

You nearly slip going down the stairs which lead into the Great Hall, but catch yourself, choking back a sob, your heart having jumped into your throat.

You walk briskly toward the doors which lead outside, and then with bleary eyes, step out. You lower your head, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze.

Alone.

You want to be left alone.

You wrap your arms round yourself, having forgotten your cloak.

You do not want the one he purchased for you now, knowing it is a lie. Same as the items he’d procured for you yesterday.

You will leave them behind when you go. You want nothing more from him.

It is just as you are about to pass the stables that you hear a young man calling for you. “Princess Y/N!”

You quickly wipe hot tears from your cheeks before turning back to him, refusing to meet his eyes.

“A raven came for you,” he states, holding a scroll toward you.

You gingerly take it from him with a slight nod. “Thank you.”

When Cregan emerges into the yard, a broad smile crosses his lips just at the mere sight of you.

Gods, how good it had felt to have you in his arms the night last.

You, curled into his side, tucked close with furs all around you as you dreamt—one of your soft, dainty hands resting over his heart, which now belongs wholly to you.

He had laid there for awhile—a long while (So long, in fact, that he had nearly fallen asleep beside of you, but refused to, even if he'd desperately wished for as much. He would not risk a servant, or even your brother—his new close friend—finding him with you in such a state, ruining your reputation; it means far too much to him. You do.)—imagining each night for the rest of his days being that way.

To have you lain bare beside him as he runs his rough hands along your soft body, telling you how beautiful and dear you are to him—that he will spend the rest of his days caring for and protecting you—he can imagine no finer fate.

The Gods blessed him by sending you to him.

You are meant to be together as one.

Now and always.

He had worried for so long after Arra passed that his grief would never cease, until it eventually turned to numbness. But when he set eyes upon you that first day as you looked around you in wonder at his home, his body awakened once more. After that, he could do naught else but think of you.

The morning he sparred with Jace, his irritation had partially been due to finding out you mayhaps loved another, yes, but also due to his advisors. If he heard the name 'Black Aly' one more time, he'd been sure he would fly into a black rage.

And he nearly had.

He didn't wish for her. He wished for genteelness. And there you were before him at last.

Cregan only manages not even a handful of steps in your direction before he stops, his brows furrowing as he watches your disposition suddenly change.

You stare down at a piece of parchment within your hands, looking at it in disbelief—near-agony—before turning your face upward, staring into the sky as if you're looking for...explanation. For something.

He needs to know what has happened.

And then you nod softly, looking forward again, a final look of resignation crossing your features as you quickly wipe tears angrily from your cheeks, a scowl settling onto your lips as you head toward the training yard.

Jace's smile quickly fades as he sees you heading toward him looking...not yourself. Pale, angry, utterly upset.

"Sister, what is—"

You hold out the missive toward him and he takes it with furrowed brows, waiting for you to say something—anything—but you instead remain silent, staring at him, waiting for him to read.

And so he does, his expression morphing into incredulity and then horrification. He begins to shake his head rapidly, his eyes meeting your own once again.

"This—this cannot be."

"It is."

"You cannot mean to—"

"I do."

He steps closer to you. "Dalton Greyjoy is a mad-man—a bloodthirsty beast. He already has over two score wives!"

You snatch the piece of parchment from him, quickly rolling it up and clutching it in a tight grip. "And now he will have yet one more."

You clench your jaw before continuing. "He has promised to make me his rock wife—his one true bride."

"They—they call him the Red Kraken, do you not know why?!"

"Because he is a fierce warrior of the Iron Islands. We will need men like him in the wars to come."

"You are better than this," he tries to insist.

And it is then that you snap. "This is what I am!" You shout, shaking the correspondence held tightly within your fist.

You force yourself to quiet, now that curious eyes are looking your way.

"He has a fleet of ships and fearless reavers. They will do us well against the Greens."

"We have a fleet through Lord Corlys," he snaps back.

"And now we shall have a larger one. As of this moment, I consider myself Lord Greyjoy's betrothed. He desires a princess, so a princess he shall have."

He shakes his head, grabbing your arm, desperate to talk you out of this.

You are not thinking clearly.

"You will be miserable there. You...you will waste away at Pyke as—as lonely and—"

You take a step back, yanking your arm from his grip. "As you said, he has a great many wives. Plenty to share in my misery. We shall do so together."

"What of Cregan? I had thought that the two of you...that something more was developing."

Your eyes turn hard, hateful. "We have nothing. He is our ally. That is all. I cannot wait for a proposal that will never come. I have one here and now, and I must take it before another claims him as their Lord Husband instead."

He scoffs, shocked at your flippant attitude toward a man he had been sure he had seen you only a day past looking at with love.

"I need you to promise me that come first light tomorrow you will return me to Dragonstone to inform mother that I have accepted and must be delivered at once to Pyke."

Tears sting his eyes. His sister. His twin. He...he can't just let you do this.

"Sister, please—"

"Promise me, Jace, or I will make arrangements myself."

There is a terse silence, and then he nods in surrender.

You turn to walk away then, unable to discuss it any further.

It is done.

"I had merely hoped for better prospects for you," he calls softly from behind you.

You stand with your back to him for just a moment as you quickly reply. "Better isn't coming, Jace. War is. And we must all play our part."

You continue on, mumbling, with a sneer, "Including me."

Cregan stumbles back at your words, hiding himself in the armory, eavesdropping through a window as you renounce yourself—your future—to one where you will be tore to a thousand pieces until not a single whole one remains.

All in the name of what? Your family winning a sea-faring battle or two?

You had said the two of you had nothing. Why...why would you think such a thing? Mayhaps because he had asked for time, and in this moment, you filled with doubt toward him.

No one will ever want me for love.

He has now made you think of him as just one more man who sees you as only what you are, instead of who. All the touches and suggestive looks...

Oh Gods, what has he fucking done?

He's about to lose you.

The future which he had envisioned, between waking fantasies and sleeping dreams now rests upon a precipice. One you are about to step over the edge of, never to return to him.

The thought of you there in one of those towering castles over the sea, staring out the window, empty and hopeless and heartbroken with not a single soul to save you from not just him, but yourself—a nightmarish fate—he can't bear the thought.

He clutches his chest, coughing, his heart squeezing painfully. An all-too familiar feeling he'd thought he'd long moved past some time after Arra's passing, but it returns to him now at the thought of you walking away from him. From the North.

It's your home now. It's meant to be. You are supposed to remain here where you most belong. The Gods themselves had ordained it.

He looks down to the scroll protruding from his pocket, meant to be flown to your mother to ask her for your hand, and he knows: his time to do things right by you has already run out in an instant.

There will be no asking her now, but instead you.

Your wishes are all that matter in this moment.

He has to save you. He...he has to keep you where you are loved and wanted and safe.

He steps out, heading back inside, knowing what he must now do.

Once you have returned to your chambers, you lock the door and step swiftly over to your wardrobe, ripping gowns from the hangers—you hear one tear, but care not—and begin stuffing them into the bag you had brought with you.

You angrily wipe gathering tears from your bleary eyes as you grab your shoes from beneath your bed and pack them away as well.

And then you spot it. The cloak he had gifted you.

You swipe it from the back of the settee and make to throw it into the fire, but pause, your fist hovering just before the flames, the black material softly swaying.

You then cry out in frustration and toss it into a corner.

No one will ever want you for love.

You throw your bag so hard against a chair that it scoots a few inches across the floor.

You then bury your face in the mattress and scream, clutching the sheets, the furs, losing yourself.

You gasp for air, hand settling over your abdomen as you try to calm it, fearing you may be sick.

No one will ever want you for love.

You tear at the back of your gown, you rip the sleeves off, as well as the neckline and it finally pools at your feet. You crawl into bed then and cry yourself back to sleep.

No one will ever marry you for love.

Your brows furrow.

You...you're not meant to be here. You don't want to be. Why have you returned to the Red Keep?

You step closer to a window. Snow...in the south and during the summer. Something isn't right.

Mama.

You turn down one hall and then another, until you finally reach your royal apartments.

When you step inside, she's there, but so is Daemon, the two of them twined around one another, their grasping hands dripping with blood.

"M-Mama?"

Her expression is that of indifference when she looks upon you.

Daemon smirks as he glances across the room. "You may call me father now instead."

You follow his line-of-sight and gasp, stumbling backwards, knocking something over.

A charred body lies half-inside the room's hearth, and not but a few feet from it, a golden cloak with a pile of ashes atop it.

Laenor. Harwin.

No.

No.

Not them.

Please not them.

You begin to wildly shake your head as you turn, yanking against the door's handle and when you emerge back into the hall, it has changed.

You're...you're in Winterfell, aren't you?

Dark wooden walls, braziers flickering softly, the howl of a wolf in the distant night.

"Cregan," you whisper to yourself.

He will help you.

You begin racing down the halls, heart beating wildly, unable to get that horrid sight out of your head.

And then you come to his door and you know you are safe.

You knock softly, and you hear feet padding toward you.

It opens.

"What is she doing here?" You hear a woman call from behind him as he stares down at you in irritation.

"I don't want you here," he says through clenched teeth.

You whimper in fear, tears stinging your eyes. "But—"

A lithe young woman comes around the side of him, raven-black curls falling over her shoulders, her form completely naked.

She glances to you with disinterest and then to Cregan. "Come back to bed. Forget about her."

He smiles, cupping her cheek, and nodding as he slams the door in your face.

You choke back a terrified sob, having no idea where else to now go.

No one wants you.

No one.

No one will ever want you for love.

You need to steal a horse and ride south.

To King's Landing.

Aemond.

Aemond wants you.

You will go to him. He loves you. Doesn't he?

Then perhaps we steal away in the dark of night, married in secret by a septon, you hear whispered in your ear from an indeterminable location.

Let us finally be free of our gilded cages, beloved niece. Together, he continues; you feeling familiar hands then holding you safely.

Yes.

Free.

You will be. Together. Just like he said.

"Sister, you must wake."

You go to swat Jace's hand away from your shoulder. "Leave me be, Jace. I wish to rest."

You shove your face into the pillow, exhausted.

"Lord Cregan has summoned us both to his solar."

"Whatever it is does not require me, I'm sure. Please, Jace, just go."

He sighs. "He has demanded us both be present. He says it's of utmost importance and cannot wait."

Your eyes slowly open, your stomach beginning to twist again. You don't want to see or be near him. Do not wish to so much as hear his voice.

The morrow cannot come soon enough.

You sit up, feeling dizzy. "Has word come from home? Has something happened?"

He shrugs. "He wouldn't say. It is why you must come at once."

You finally stand, grabbing the cloak which you rode in with and turn to him, not even bothering with shoes or proper clothing.

Jace thinks to tell you to put on a suitable dress, but when he looks into your eyes and see they are naught but void, he holds his tongue.

He wraps his arm round your shoulders as he leads you out and into the hall, and toward the awaiting Lord Cregan.

When the two of you enter the private meeting room, you merely stare at the floor as you take a seat beside Jace.

Cregan notes with dejection how you refuse to so much as look at him. How you look unkempt—your hair in tangles, only a thin cloak covering your frame, your complexion wan, and eyes puffy and red from crying.

Oh, his sweet girl.

But your pain will soon be soothed and all will be right once more.

You stare numbly out the open window to the right, drowning out whatever Lord Stark and Jace discuss. You do not much care. About anything.

Not anymore.

The full moon emerges from behind clouds, the evening sky gradually growing dark as night begins to fall.

Looking at the moon does not bring them back to you now. Nothing will.

They're gone.

Dead.

And then you wonder if Aemond can see it, too. If he is looking at it thinking of you as well. Would it be night in King's Landing? You doubt it, but when it is, perhaps he will share the sight with you.

The last time you saw him was the last, wasn't it? There would be no returning.

You hope he lets go of you and does not waste his days awaiting a girl who is now lost to him.

A tear slips down your cheek and your chin wobbles, your heart cleaving in two.

Jace is fortunate to have Baela, and Luke Rhaena. At least they will all have fondness in their marriages, if nothing else. What will you have, you wonder? A man who comes to you in the dark of night stinking of death and slick with blood as he claims what will then rightfully belong to him, even if you do not wish it.

What you want doesn't matter.

Mayhaps it never did.

A pawn to be moved about the board. That is all you are.

Mayhaps...you are not really here.

Another tear slips free and you sniffle.

Jace finally turns to you with an elated look upon his face. "What say you, then, sister?"

You slowly turn your head to look at him, your expression blank.

You blink once before standing, both men doing so as well.

You hold your cloak tightly around your trembling form. "Please, forgive me, Lord Stark, Jace. I do not feel well and wish to retire to my chambers to rest. I have a long journey tomorrow and will need it."

You go to step away, Cregan's heart beginning to break, but Jace grabs your arm. "Did you not hear what Lord Stark said?" He asks, his tone panicked.

You slip your arm from his grip. "Whatever is the matter, Jace, I am confident you and Lord Stark will resolve it together. My presence here is unnecessary."

You walk toward the door, your heart in your throat. You need to get out, need to get away from him.

No one will ever want you for love.

"Sister!" Jace calls.

"Princess. Y/N!" Cregan says, coming closer toward you.

Your twin spins you round to him, your back now pressed to the door.

You can't breathe. You just want them to let you go. You can't be here.

"Please, Jace, let me go!" You shout through blinding tears.

"Just—Y/N, listen—" he starts, but you step to the side.

"I don't feel well, please!" You choke out through violent sobs.

Gods, what is happening to you?

Finally, Cregan has had enough and lightly pushes Jace aside as he takes your face between his hands, even as you shove against his chest.

The feel of him...you do not want it. Why is he doing this?

"I have asked your brother for your hand in marriage."

You blink up at him, hiccuping, a long pause of silence.

"W-what?"

He brushes hot tears from your soft cheeks, his heart breaking at the sight of you being this distant to him.

"I would take you for my Lady Wife. Tonight."

"Why?" You ask with furrowed brows, mind spinning.

He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"Because of your beauty, your grace, and your genteelness. Your strength and resolve to do what needs be done in the name of your family, even to your own detriment. You are loyal. And you love whom you love fiercely."

He runs his knuckles gently along your cheek. "I will admit that since the passing of my late Lady Wife that I have received a considerable amount of offers of marriage. None have yet tempted me. Until I set eyes upon you. I was captivated body and soul. The thought of relinquishing you to another who would not appreciate you..."

He shakes his head. "Who would not protect nor value you? Would not treat you as tenderly as I might? It grieves me to consider such a thing."

He takes a step closer. "So, let us prevent it: our mutual agony of losing what can so easily be ours. Agree. Take my hand. And remain in the North where you belong. By my side, where you belong. You said once that the North felt like home to you. Princess—Y/N—you feel like home to me. So do not take yourself from me in the name of a fleet of ships or a small army. I beg of you."

He leans down, kissing you, caring not for what Jace may think. "I will give you the might of the North—and you, the title of Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North. I can think of no one more deserving."

You stare up at him, in disbelief, sure you are imagining this. Not hearing him correctly.

You break then, sobbing, unable to catch your breath as you drown in a sea of tears.

Cregan merely pulls you into his chest, his large hand cradling the back of your head as his other arm wraps round you to keep you close.

You don't see, but he gives Jace a silent look, asking him to leave the two of you alone for a moment.

He replies with a solemn nod, silently slipping out of the room.

Cregan presses his lips to the top of your head, your body continuing to quiver in fear.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. "For allowing you to feel for even a moment that I do not love you."

You cling to him, your cries eventually quieting as a feeling of weariness instead overtakes you.

“What about Lady Blackwood?” You ask quietly.

He pulls back, continuing to hold you to him, cupping your cheek once more.

His brows furrow. “Where did you hear that name?”

“I…this morn, when I was about to leave my room I heard men in the halls. Passing by. They spoke of a betrothal to her. Rather, that you were seriously considering one…”

He understands then. You’d thought he’d been playing you like a wolf with its prey all this time, while another waited for him to take the hand of.

Gods, his poor, sweet girl.

Your eyes fill with tears again.

He tenderly tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “For some time now my advisors have tried to encourage a union between us—between me and any highborn lady, in truth—so I might produce further heirs. I waited, however. I had married once for love and…”

He sighs. “If I had to marry again out of duty, I would have. But then you came to me, and the moment I set eyes upon you, something within me shifted. It was as if I had become alive once more. The thought of losing that feeling again—losing you?”

He presses an achingly soft kiss to your lips. “It would drive me to the brink of madness.”

He lowers himself to one knee then, holding your hand. “Y/N, I beg of you, in the name of the Gods—Old and New—be my bride this night. Be my wife. My Lady. Be…mine. Let me care for and love and cherish you for the rest of my days. Rather, our days. Do not take yourself from me only to hand yourself over to a monster. I’ll do anything just to make you say yes. So, please—”

“Yes.”

He stops, relief filling his very soul. “You will?”

You nod gently. “Yes.”

He stands on two feet again, pulling you back to his chest.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

You nod, your eyes fluttering closed, tears slipping down your cheeks as your heart finally calms.

“I don’t have a wedding gown,” you say quietly.

He nods. “I have something that may suit you. If it does not, wear whatever you wish. All that matters to me is that we become one this night.”

He wraps his cloak around you which hangs from his shoulders, for warmth, you enveloped in his arms.

“I love you,” he whispers.

You then stand on tiptoes, reaching for him and he leans down to meet your lips.

“And I you,” you reply, tears shimmering in your eyes.

Jace had been waiting outside as you and Cregan spoke and had been beyond pleased when your betrothed informed him of the good news—that you were to be wed this very night, because you had graciously accepted his proposal.

He could’ve nearly cried from the relief of it all.

His good friend settled—he could tell the young lord was desolate; raising his son all alone with no one of his own to love—and his sister, his twin, to be married to a strong and warm and honorable man.

He could not have imagined a better match.

He is only beyond grateful that a far worse one will now never come about.

So, Cregan had asked your brother to deliver you back to your chambers while he procured for you a gown.

And when he delivered it unto you, it took your breath away.

“It was my mother’s,” he’d stated, settling it into your arms.

Your eyes met his then, filling yet again with tears. “It’s beautiful.”

He had ran his fingers gently along your cheek. “She would have adored you just as I do. I think she would be…quite proud for you to be wearing her dress.”

You’d looked behind you, to your room, then back to him. “I truly hope it will fit.”

He'd nodded. “If it doesn’t, it is still yours to keep.”

Your smile had wobbled as you swallowed thickly. “Thank you.”

As Alia readied you for the ceremony, Cregan readied his household. He had promised you that tonight, things would be quiet and intimate. No grand gathering. That, if you wished for one, it would come later.

This evening was about the two of you and no one else.

You had told him vowing to be bound together for life was more than enough for you. Festivities were not necessary.  

The dress is a bit snug, but fits well enough, and it is beautiful. Lace trim, soft gossamer and silk, a long, flowing skirt, with a bodice in the shape of a heart, and the sleeves shimmer against firelight.

You’re grateful to Cregan for allowing you to not only wear, but have this dress. You suppose, in a way, it makes you feel closer to her: his mother. She must have been a lovely woman to raise such a man.

Your hair is long and flowing, with a crown of small white roses adorning your brow, pearls scattered throughout your curls. And you wear the necklace he gifted you of a small silver snowflake.

The final touch is a soft brown fur wrap—made of rabbit—which Alia lays over your shoulders before nodding her head. “I think that should do it, Princess. You look perfect.”

You take her hands in yours. “Y/N, please. This…this is going to be my home now. I would like…I’d very much like for us to be friends. Would you?”

She nods, smiling. “I would.”

Jace’s breath is taken away by your beauty. How you look every inch a northerner. How quickly you were able to transform into one… He wonders, now, if this place has not been awaiting your arrival all this time. Or, you it.

He offers you his arm. “Shall we?”

You take it, nodding. “Don’t let me fall.”

He presses a kiss to your hair, careful not to mess so much as a strand. “Never.”

“Father, Mother, Maiden, Smith, Warrior, Crone, Stranger. I am his, and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

The Septon speaks, finalizing the ceremony. “Let all bear witness to the union of Lord Cregan of House Stark, and Princess Y/N of Houses Targaryen and Velaryon, being now bound together as one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be they who should seek to tear them asunder.”

A solitary tear slips down your cheek, and over your lips, which mingles between yours and Cregan’s as he takes your face between his hands, and kisses you long and deep. And passionately.

All cheer and laugh and smile, including Jace and Alia—your brother standing as Cregan’s best man, and Alia as your maid-of-honor.

And you know then, it was always meant to be him.

From the beginning, the Godswood in the Red Keep had been the place you went to for refuge and peace. Northern tales had always been your favorite as a child. And snowfall was something you’d desired to one day see—feel upon your skin—for as long as you could recall.

Even just a few days past, Cregan had wrapped you in his cloak before this very same tree. The Gods had known, even if the two of you hadn’t.

They always had.

Dinner is celebratory, but not exactly a grand affair. There is music and drink and hearty foods to be had, while a fire roars in the great hearth.

As the servants had been given short notice, in place of a cake, biscuits with jam and honey are served, which you and your new Lord Husband serve to one another, kissing each other’s face’s clean with many laughs and smiles.

A few journey into Winter Town to visit late-open shops and return with small wedding gifts: fine materials for you and colorful threads, books, and collections of decorative candles. You take all graciously and with a great many thanks, promising they will all be put to use. You even place a few of the candles atop the hearth’s mantle, their wicks flickering as people dance and converse.

For Cregan, he is gifted a couple small ornate daggers, and a pelt, along with a new whetstone. His insistence that he wants for nothing is ignored.

Once things begin to wind down, he turns to you, his hand sliding along your back, to then grip your hip and pull you close as he whispers into your ear “it is time for us to retire, my love”.

You merely lick your lips and nod.

You’ve never been in Cregan’s chambers before tonight. You suppose now they are also yours.

Your chambers.

And the first thing you notice is just how very organized he is. Unusual for a man, you deem. Unless, of course, that is in thanks to the servants having readied the room while the two of you were celebrating.

The door stands behind you and to your right is a large desk, with stacks of parchment, a collection of quills and an inkpot that you’re sure must be the size of your palm.

To the left is a row of hooks mounted to the stone wall, which holds cloaks and furs.

The mantle above the hearth has a long row of well-loved books placed atop it, with worn metal bookends in the shape of howling direwolves.

The same as your room, there is a large settee before the hearth, with brown and dark blue blankets lain across the back.

To the right of it, in the corner, is a wardrobe.

The opposite wall has a set of double-doors, the top portion of which are stained-glass windows that are the sigil of his house, painted in white and black and light blue, small, sheer curtains hanging over them. Beside those doors, a small square table for eating, with stuffed chairs on either side.

And finally, there is a large, four-post bed, turned down, with plenty of blankets and pillows and yes, more furs. On either side are wooden end-tables, and at the foot of the bed, a chest with cushions atop it.

You step over to the hearth and look at the large sword which is mounted on brass hooks atop it.

“Ice,” Cregan states, coming to stand behind you. “The ancestral sword of our house.”

Our house. It warms you to hear him say it.

You lean back against him, smiling softly as his arms wrap around you.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt this…content before,” you remark.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, before gently turning you around in his arms to face him.

He removes the flower crown from your brow, tossing it back onto the settee—perhaps you will press it into a book tomorrow for safe-keeping—before brushing a kiss over your lips. “I’ve not for a very long time now.”

He cups the back of your head, bringing his lips down to your own, his mouth moving slowly against yours, tongue tasting you as his fingers move to the back of your dress, unlacing it.

He kisses down your cheek and your jaw, coming back up to your ear. “Let us bind ourselves as one in this final way, my love.”

A pulse forms between your legs and you nod, your eyes fluttering closed as you push his cloak from his shoulders and it falls to the floor with a soft thud.

He brings his lips back to your own as he tugs your gown down, down, down, until it, too, has pooled at your feet.

You pull away for only a moment, gently folding it before placing it delicately upon the lounge.

He slips his fingers beneath the straps of your shift, and he grips either side in his hands and pulls it down your body.

He dips his head, kissing the tops of each of your breasts and your fingers tangle in his hair, a sigh escaping your lips.

His hands then slide lower, slipping your smallclothes from your waist, and once you have toed off your shoes, all that is left are your thigh-high stockings.

You reach down, gripping the tops of them, until you feel his finger under your chin.

“Leave them.”

With that, he cradles your body in his arms, carrying you over to the bed and he lies you back on fresh sheets as he stands at the foot of it.

You feel as if every nerve ending is exposed as you lie back on your forearms, your legs spread as you watch him undress himself.

He removes his jerkin, then reaches behind him, gripping his shirt back and tugging it over his head, his eyes returning to yours, watching how you lick your lips as he begins to unlace his breeches.

He had, admittedly, once wondered what the hair covering that most delicate part of you would be like in color. He is pleased to find it matches perfectly that which is atop your head.

He toes off his boots, then shoves down his trousers, along with his socks, leaving himself naked before you.

Your eyes widen as he takes his long, thick member in-hand and begins to stroke it.

Your eyes flit back to his, heat pooling between your thighs. Gods, you want him to touch you again.

Yours. All yours.

He takes a step forward, his thighs hitting the edge of the bed. “I don’t want for you to be afraid. I promise you that I’ll be as gentle as I can be.”

You shake your head.

“I’m not,” you reply breathlessly.

He nods, then climbs atop you, pressing his lips to yours and kisses you so achingly slow, removing his hand from himself and instead trailing it down your sensitive skin, your body jerking at the touch, a sigh escaping your lips as he moves to your neck, his fingers coming to explore your hot, wet core.

You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck, the ends of his hair tickling your breasts as he moves his mouth lower, taking a peaked nipple inside of it, rolling it gently between his teeth.

Your back arches, his other hand slipping beneath it, holding you closely as his dextrous fingers spread your labia, gently massaging.

Your eyes roll back in your head.

“Oh, Gods,” you whisper.

You’ve touched yourself before. Many a time. But for another to do it—for him? You fear you may be reluctant to ever leave this bed—at the very least this room—after tonight.

He presses a hot, wet kiss between your breasts, then your stomach, his hands gripping your hips before he playfully peppers kisses on your cheeks and chin and nose, earning him a bubbly giggle from your lips.

He is glad to hear it. He doesn’t want you tensed up and anxious this night. He wants you to enjoy yourself. To experience just how pleasurable and intimate lovemaking can be.

His eyes gaze into your own, warm and full of love. “Are you ready, my darling?”

You nod, lifting your hips to meet his. “Yes.”

He presses his lips to yours, begins to rub the tip of himself against your dripping entrance—pleased to find you so ready for him—and he eases inside, breaking through your maidenhead.

You gasp against his lips, tears stinging your eyes.

He presses his forehead to your own. “Breathe, my love. Lift your hips for me again, darling.”

You do, and he sinks deeper, the pain quickly turning into something wholly different as he fills you.

“Gods,” he whispers in your ear as you clench around him for the first time.

He moves one hand into your curls, the other sliding down your thigh, lifting your leg onto his back as he begins to rock his hips against yours, a low moan emitting from the back of his throat at the feel of you.

You coat the length of him, the sound of your arousal meeting his ears as he eases out and then back in so, so slowly.

You lie your head back against the mountain of pillows behind you, soft furs lie beneath your sensitive, naked skin, the fire warming every inch of you.

You feel…somehow euphoric. The two of you joined together as one—literally—causes a small sob to escape your lips.

His head jerks up and he stares down at your tear-streaked cheeks. “Are you in pain? Should I stop—”

You shake your head vigorously. “I’m happy.”

He smiles before pressing his lips back to your own, easing back inside of you.

He then begins to lean up, gripping your waist and settling you into his lap, your bodies chest-to-chest as his hands tug against your hips, encouraging you to find your own pace.

You begin to undulate beneath his instructive hands, your body quivering as his callused palms rub against your back. He lies his head against your breasts and you run your fingers through the tangled strands of his hair, pressing soft kisses to the top of his head.

“I love you,” you whisper, your heart filled to the brim.

His lips come to hover over your own. “And I you.”

“I regret making arrangements for us three to travel to the Wall tomorrow with our retinue,” Cregan states, his fingertips ghosting across the soft skin of your back.

You lift your head, removing your hand from his chest and instead cupping his cheek.

He continues as he turns more toward you. “For I do not wish to allow you out of this bed for at least a sennight.”

He presses yet another kiss to your already swollen lips with a cheeky grin.

You smile, feeling a pleasant soreness between your legs where he has already spilled his seed thrice—once with your legs thrown over his shoulders as he pounded away relentlessly inside of you. That position… You’d been able to form naught more than garbled words and cries of pleasure during.

“Nor do I.”

You slide a leg between both of his. “Mayhaps we could reschedule our visit?”

“Wish that we could, but I already sent a raven, which may have already reached them. At the very least, will be shortly.”

He cups your cheek. “You should know that is why I wished to wait to propose to you. This morn, I had intended to send a request to your mother for your hand. And then I heard that you…intended to take another to husband. I merely wished to do things the right way. Not just because it is—right—but because I know how much your family means to you.”

You flush. “About that…”

He leans over you with furrowed brows, and you cup his cheek with a nervous smile. “I hope you do not find it presumptuous, but just before Jace and I took to flight atop Vermax, my mother told me that…due to your young age, and knowing that you are a widower…”

Your eyes flit from his chest, then back to his own. “She told me if love were to grow—if you asked for my hand and I felt it right; I desired it, then I was to give you both our blessing. So you already had it.”

His lip twitches. “All that upset due to naught more than misunderstandings on both sides.”

He takes your hand in his, brushing a kiss over your fingers. “I will forever regret that for even a moment you doubted the love which I now hold for you.”

You shake your head, curling your fingers against his stubbled cheek. “When did you know?”

“When I saw you with Rickon. That morn, I had gone to the Godswood to pray, asking for the Gods to give me a sign—any—if it was meant to be. For I wished for you—to have you. To claim you as mine own. Desperately. The conversation we had in Winter Town made me doubtful, if for a moment. It is…why I changed tactics,” he states with a raised brow.

“I wanted you assured that I was a man who chased after that which he desires most—that I do not relent easily—and that was you. But it was also a matter of whether you wished to be chased. Seeing you with my son, I knew that was at an end, and commitment was to be what remained. That we belonged together. As one.”

He presses a kiss to your warm forehead. “And when I heard you telling Jace…heard you ready to resign yourself to such a horrifying future, I knew the time I thought I had, had then run out.”

He brushes his lips over yours. “It shattered my heart to see you so…heartbroken tonight. You could not even stand my touch. To think I nearly lost you—”

You crush your lips to his. “I am yours.”

You climb into his lap, straddling him, easing him back inside of you.

He grips your hips firmly. “You are mine.”

[greatestexpectationss]

Cherry Lip Gloss- Luke Castellan

Luke Castellan x Fem!Aphrodite Reader

You don’t feel like a daughter of Aphrodite today. Your hair won’t cooperate with you, it feels like none of your clothes fit right, and you’d somehow lost your favorite cherry lip gloss and had to borrow your sisters which tasted distinctly nonfruity, some vanilla something that left way too much of a taste in your mouth.

You just don’t feel like you. There's some sort of despair deep in your bones, you ignore the cause of it and trudge through the day in a haze, by them time you make it to lunch all you want to do is go back to bed and pray to the gods tomorrow is better.

“Y/N, are you okay?” Silena, your sister, asks you from her seat at lunch beside you. The rest of your siblings, true children of Aphrodite, turn their eyes and ears to listen in. Across from you and Silena is Drew, whose perfectly plucked brows furrow, “You haven’t touched your cherries,”

“You love cherries,” Jake, your brother, chimes in.

“I’m fine,” you tell them, forcing a smile. You pop a cherry in your mouth, “See?”

“No you’re not, you’ve been off all day,” Drew retorts, arms crossing as she turns to look at you. “Is this about that fight you had with Luke?”

Under the table Silena kicks her, and above it Jake elbows her.

“Drew,” he hisses, gesturing toward the rest of your siblings who all promptly turn back to their meals. 

“Sorry, but are we not gonna talk about it, seriously?”

You, in fact, weren’t gonna talk about it. Luke had been your best friend for most of your time at Camp Half-Blood, you’d met him in the Hermes Cabin before your mother had claimed you. You’d only stayed there for 3 days, but by the time you were headed to Cabin 10 and away from him, Luke was already ready to help you carry your stuff and remind you if you needed anything he was still right next door. 

You hadn’t really needed anything,. It was no shock to anyone you were Aphrodite's daughter, with your pretty smile and long shiny (y/h/c) hair. You had always had this way about you, something that lay between perfection and humanity. Confidence radiated off of you in waves, and you always smelt of fruit and cherry lipgloss.

You were fine on your own, perfectly capable of making your own life and friends for yourself in camp.

But Luke was charming, and maybe a little persistent. When you struggled to find a weapon you could actually wield, he knew your siblings would be no help, he’d approached you with two daggers in hand and told you to follow him. You were good with daggers but with Luke’s help, you were a damn force to be reckoned with. From there your friendship had blossomed and as you’d both grown up something more bubbled beneath the surface. A sort of "Will they?Might they?"

You never did, but you desperately wanted to. 

At least you did, before your fight

A few days ago, Luke had been pretty worked up about Capture the Flag. Normally, you liked him like this, all argumentative and technical, jaw and fists clenched. Mainly because you're never on the receiving end and also because a small part of you prides yourself on the ability to calm him down afterward. He's always soft with you, but when he confides in you, truly, you think he’s the best person you’ve ever met.

But this time he’s just pissing you off.

Luke, Annabeth, and a few other children of Athena worked tirelessly on a strategy for your team to beat Ares. Ares was on a winning streak and it was putting damage in all of your egos. Annabeth’s idea to put you in front of the flag had bode well with the rest of the group, everyone always underestimates you as a daughter of Aphrodite. You'd told Luke how much this irks you, in quiet moments alone, there's this stereotype, a mold Aphrodite kids are "supposed" to fit into, and you don't fit it, you just wish other people would realize it too.

Maybe that's why when Luke didn’t like the idea, when he openly protested it, it stung so much. When he Annabeth that putting you, a child of Aphrodite (he didn’t say it in so many words but still) as the last line of defense for the flag was "fatal strategic error" you'd blinked at him. Luke had talked Annabeth out of it or at least talked her into him and Chris waiting behind the tree line out of site “just in case”. 

After the meeting when it was just you and Luke, you’d fought, or more so Luke had tried to explain while you yelled at him.

“C’mon Y/N, this isn’t personal,” he’d told you after you’d ignored him the 3 minutes it took to get back to your respective cabins, he halted you in front of the Aphrodite cabin, coming to stand in front of you and tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, “leaving you there by yourself wasn’t a good idea, what if you needed back up?”

You’d slapped his hand away from your face. 

“No but if Annabeth had wanted to leave you there, or herself there it wouldn’t have been a doubt in your mind you’d both be fine right?” He says nothing but you know what he’s thinking, and you scoff in disbelief. 

“Don’t be like that,” Luke begged, eyes sad and soft, you almost wanted to cave when he lowered his voice and stepped closer to you, “Will you just let me explain?”

You take a step back, “What? You wanna explain that because I’m in Aphrodite I’m somehow less than you and Annabeth? Like I can’t look like this,” you gesture to your black mini skirt, camp half-blood tee, altered to be shorter and tighter, and your dainty jewelry, “and kick your ass at the same time?”

“I’m not saying–”

“Just forget it, Luke,” you’d said bitterly, “you know for the record I’m used to everyone treating me like some dizzy Aphrodite kid without a clue, I just never thought you’d be the one doing it.”

And then in the greatest storm off in Camp Half-Blood history you’d bumped his shoulder, stomped up the steps of your cabin, and slammed the door right in his cute puppy dog face. 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you told your siblings. Silena scoffs while Drew and Jake roll their eyes. “Y/N, you haven’t talked to him in almost a week.”

You pop another cherry in your mouth, “Look its fine, I’m fine, everything is fine, I’m just tired and this morning was rough”

They share an unconvinced look. “You know he keeps asking about you,” Jake tells you after a moment of silence, “I think he’s worried about losing you.”

“Can’t imagine why,” you say bitterly, you take your fork and stab it into your salad.

“Hmm, I don’t know because he’s totally in love with you??” Drew deadpans, she’s kicked and nudged again. She throws her hands up in the air and sighs loudly before she grabs her trey and stands up. “Look Y/N I love you, and if you want us to totally ignore your problems we will, again because we love you. But we just want you to be happy, and I think for the most part Castellan makes you happy.”

She smiles and then leaves. Jake stands too, “Plus he’s super hot, you are not gonna find better arm candy in this camp. Trust me I’ve looked.”

That draws a laugh out of you, “I’ll keep that in mind Jake, thanks.”

Silena goes to stand up too, “Are you gonna come to archery practice today? I heard Lee and the Apollo kids are gonna show off, might be kind of cool.”

“You go ahead I think maybe I just don’t feel well,” she looks unsure, and double-checks again. You just wave her off, tell her to have fun before retreating to your cabin.

You don’t feel well, you repeated, you must be coming down with a cold, your feeling of despair and lessthanness has nothing to do with Luke, with missing him, with wanting him.

You curl up in your empty cabin, in your bunk. Your siblings call it your nook, a bunk in the corner of the cabin, the top unclaimed, but the bottom bunk is yours. It's covered in pretty floral sheets, a fuzzy blanket, and a fluffy pillow. You had hung up (or had Luke hang them up for you) a long curtain rod across the bed frame with light pink curtains, the inside of your bunk lined with pretty fairy lights. Usually, your nook is comforting, today it just makes you miss your best friend. 

The door to the Aphrodite Cabin opens and closes, you close your eyes, hoping desperately to fall asleep, and that whichever sibling walked in doesn’t realize you’re hiding in here. 

A shadow appears outside your curtains, you internally groan and bury your face deeper in your pillow,

“Y/N?” the voice asks, you recognize it right away. You think you’d know him anywhere. It’s Luke, you let him peek into your curtain, and he gives you a small smile.

“Hey,” he says. His curly hair looks stupidly good, in a way that makes you wanna run your fingers through it. It's unfair really.

“Hi.”

“You okay?”

“M’fine,” you try to say voice muffle by the pillow, his smile grows. 

“Mind if I come in?” You hesitate, you’re still reeling from his rejection of the idea that you could be of value as the last line of defense for the flag like you're some damsel that needs him to rescue her. Your ego isn’t the only thing that's wounded though. Luke hurt your feelings, all this time you thought he was the only person who saw you, all of you, and loved you for it and despite it. Never in a million years would you have imagined that your one episode of self-loathing would be triggered by his words. But, still, you miss him, and you're sad, so against your better judgment, you mutter a quiet sure and scoot over. 

He crawls in with you and lays down on his back beside you, side by side the two of you stare up at your twinkle lights. 

“You’ve kind of got it made in here don’t you?” he asks in order to break the terribly awkward silence. You mumble a quite yeah, and then you’re both silent again. It’s incredibly painful. You turn your head to look at him, and find he’s already staring at you. 

“Hey,” you say.

“Hi,” he replies. He reaches up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, you savor the feeling of his touch, leaning into his hand. He smiles at you something sweet and sad all at once.

“I miss you,” Luke tells you, “and I’m sorry.”

“Luke–” he turns all the way to face you on his side, you follow suit even when he cuts you off.

“Just listen okay?” he pleads. 

You nod once. 

“I was worried about you,” he starts running a tired hand through his hair, your brows furrow in confusion, you open your mouth to protest, but he puts a finger to your lips, “You promised you’d listen remember?” 

You glare at him but relent as he pulls his finger away from your lips and down your arm. “Peter from Ares, all week had been talking about how he’s leading the charge for our flag, and how he couldn’t wait to get his hand on the pretty Aphrodite girl who always takes all the cherries,” it doesn’t take a genius to realize that Peter had been talking about you. He’d flirted up a wild storm with you a few weeks prior and you’d turned him down, Peter, a true Ares kid at heart, didn’t take it well. “I didn’t want you out there all alone if he came looking for you and actually found you.”

Luke’s always had a hero complex, the desire to prove himself worthy of being called a hero, no matter the cost, the pink scar on his face is a testament to that. It would be annoying if it wasn’t so fucking sweet. “I can take care of myself, Luke.”

“I know that,” he says earnestly, and you think he means it. Luke reaches for your hands and holds both of them close to his chest, he brings one to his lips and kisses your wrist. “The thing is you don’t have to. And I guess I just wanted to protect you and I went about it all wrong, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him and before you know it Luke is pulling you to his chest hugging you and kissing the top of your head. “I know you can take care of yourself, and I know you could kick anyones ass and look gorgeous doing it, you always do.” Another kiss to your head, before you’re looking up at him grinning. 

“You think I’m gorgeous?” you can’t help teasing him. Your self consciousness is melting away under his gaze, how can it not when he’s looking at you like you hung the damn moon?

This is that something else that bubbles under the surface of your friendship.

“Are you kidding?” he scoffs, moving his arm from your waist to place a hand on your cheek, stroking it with his thumb, “Look at you, of course I do.”

“Even when I’m mad at you?” You tilt your face upwards and closer to his

Luke grins, “I don’t know are you still mad at me?” You smile right back, bringing one of your hands between your faces, and pinch your index finger and thumb together only a tiny sliver of space between them. Luke knows you’re kidding by the glint in your eyes.

“Well then especially when you’re mad at me.”

You laugh and it does something funny to Luke’s chest. He looks at your lips, and the air changes. 

“Luke?”

“Yeah?” 

“Would you really have protected me if I needed it? From Paul?” you ask quietly, eyes darting to his lips drawn between his teeth. 

“From anything,” Luke swears, thumb still caressing your cheek, you want him closer, you need him closer. You could just reach up and kiss him but first you have to know, you have to make sure.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

And then he’s kissing you, like you’ve never been kissed before. You let out a squeak of surprise by the sudden pull at the back of your neck, toward him, then he’s shifting you on your back and hovering over you all the while never breaking your lips apart. 

You’re glad for that, when he slips his tongue in your mouth, you think you’d die if he stopped kissing you. You reach one perfectly manicured hand at the base of his neck and thread your fingers through the shorter strands, Luke lets out a little groan, and you grin into your kiss. Your grin is cut short by his hand on the skin of your waist where your shirt had ridden up, he caresses it there and you absolutely melt. 

This is it, you think, no one else will ever be able to kiss me again, you know you’re completely and totally screwed before you even pull away to catch your breath. 

“You taste like vanilla,” Luke says, grinning at you with the sheen of borrowed lip gloss on his lips, he brings his thumb up to wipe the reminisce of the lip gloss off of yours, “I thought you use cherry.”

“I do,” you pout, reaching up to wipe his lips the way he did yours, he kisses the inside of your lips, “I lost mine.”

Luke reaches into his shorts, and appears with not one but two new, not yet opened, cherry lipglosses, her grins as you sit up and greedily grab them from him, “I brought them as a peace offering, you know in case you didn’t want to make out.”

You laugh before pulling the little handheld mirror off the window ledge next to your bed, you apply it and already you feel more like yourself. 

You fling yourself back on top of Luke and cling to him like a Koala.

“Thank you,” you mumble into his chest. He laughs, and you can feel it in your cheek.

“Anytime sweetheart.”

You kiss him again, and this time when you pull away, it's your lips gloss that smeared on his mouth. You think you like him best like this, shiny swollen lips, tousled hair, and grinning.

[oxbellows]

Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

 It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost. 

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory. 

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it? 

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king. 

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope. 

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it. 

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him. 

Perhaps. 

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised. 

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition. 

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

 Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

 "Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap. 

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears. 

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

 Your father thought you dead.

 Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward. 

 He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him. 

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered. 

 Faramir would never plan a suicide mission. 

 Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones. 

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

 Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

 He reached the top of the stairs. 

 A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.” 

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

 Boromir ran like he had never done in his life. 

 For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

 He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

 In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

  “Faramir?” Boromir called warily. 

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!” 

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot. 

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand. 

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir. 

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying. 

Boromir dropped to his knees. 

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell. 

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill. 

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart. 

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it. 

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs. 

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

 “No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

 The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

 Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief. 

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply ­covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

 Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

[alcoholfreenayeon]

yow what abt twice mtls? confess first, fall in love, get jealous, fall out of love. great jeongyeon hc btw

Twice most to least likely: Get jealous

A/N: I feel some of these ended up sounding more yandere than jealous🙂‍↕️ but hopefully that’s just me😭hope you guys like it

Sana

She’s a huge flirt, she likes the way she can get people to be infatuated with her plus she likes to play hard to get.

Because of this she’s not used to people seeing her as a second choice so when she sees her partner having a good time with someone else when she’s available or even when she isn’t, it makes her feel strange.

It’s uncharted territory for her and she feels possessive immediately. After all what does the other person possess that Sana doesn’t. Why isn’t her partner yearning for her every moment instead of having a good time without her…

Nayeon

You’ll find Nayeon staring daggers at you with or without a polite smile. It’s really not a fun sight to witness because you just know you are in so much trouble later.

Nayeon feels very possessive of you. She’s someone who needs a lot of reassurance so you being clingy with anyone other than her doesn’t bode well with her.

Though she ends up feeling a bit silly after some time thinking for being so possessive she can’t help it, she wants you for herself and only herself.

Mina

Mina is a big introvert and she likes to stay indoors alot and keep to herself. But she knows she can’t really force you to do the same.

Nevertheless, she secretly wishes you would be that way. She’d prefer if she could have you all to herself. If it’s only you and her, all day everyday,

She feels sometimes she’s not good enough and that might make you drawn to others and hence gets her guard up immediately when she sees you being close with someone she doesn’t know.

Momo

You were happily chatting with your friend while waiting for Momo. You had known her for a long time, you didn’t take much notice of it when while laughing at a joke, she put her hand on your arm.

Soon enough, her instincts began to scream for danger and upon looking around, she spotted Momo a few meters away, glaring at both of you. “Is that your girlfriend?”…..

The journey back home was quiet. You realized how that might have looked out of context and were fearing Momo saw it differently. She was quiet though. “Everything ok baby?”, you ask her.

“Yes. But you need to sleep early and rest well”, she replies. “Huh? Why do I need extra rest?”, you question. “Well the couch isn’t very comfortable to sleep on is it”, she answers, unbothered, as she looks into the rearview mirror and applies her lipstick.

Chaeyoung

Chaeyoung and you were surprised to run into your ex at the mall. It was a bit awkward for the three of you but luckily there was no violence.

She hated how you and your ex became awkward because for her that meant you both saw each other and intentionally or unintentionally reflected back on the time you both were together.

She hated when while leaving, you both shared an inside joke which she didn’t know. Chaeyoung knew it’s just how these things go but that didn’t make her blood boil any less.

Tzuyu

Tzuyu is observant, she doesn’t always speak out, never mind her speaking her mind.

So when she was looking at your Instagram and spotted old posts of you and your ex, it just made her quite upset.

But she also knew it was the past yet she also thought you could have deleted it. After all wasn’t the ex was no longer part of your life.

Dahyun

Dahyun was watching you talk with the party’s host. It was normal. The two of you seemed to be getting along well.

She was standing a few feet away, getting something to drink when she suddenly heard the host make a suggestive flirty comment towards you. You didn’t realize it and just laughed along,

Dahyun though, gritted her teeth, it’s annoying that you always are so oblivious to these things. She’s gonna scold you for that later, as for the host…well, it’s a good thing her nails felt sharp right now.

Jihyo

Jihyo knows her worth and she knows you know it too. So she’s never really worried about someone else stealing you away.

But after watching some dramas, she got a bit influenced by them and began to worry that she didn’t like you as much as she thought or wanted because why wouldn’t she ever feel jealous. It was normal for couples to feel jealous at some point right?

And when she asked you to try and flirt with a cashier because she wanted to test something, you definitely felt it was a test. It took a lot of convincing from her and a promise that you wouldn’t get in trouble. Reluctantly you did it but when the cashier actually ended up giving you her number. Jihyo took your hand and dragged you out of the store without even buying anything. You were in big trouble.

Jeongyeon

Jeongyeon never has any real reason to doubt you. She knows you both love each other very much.

Of course, it’s inevitable that at some point either of you would get approached by someone else. It won’t be your or her fault if that happens.

But that’s easier to think when it hasn’t happened. When a fellow idol told Jeongyeon that she was lucky to have you and she should be careful you could get stolen. Though Jeongyeon was polite, her glare she ended up shooting at them later would have scared them silly.

[kinq-sleazee]

ﾟﾟ･｡･ﾟﾟ｡ ﾟ。 thinkin’ about S. Gojo being ⟡ scary ⟡

　ﾟ･｡･ﾟ

18+ | piss , bullying, violence, reader is a teacher,

❤︎₊ ⊹ ⋆˙⟡♡

Satoru Gojo is your worst nightmare. Yeah, he might be the “honored one”– powerful, revered, respected and loved by most but apparently you’re not one for his charms. Where others fawn , you flee. You never offer praise or expected idolatry from one such as yourself. You rush past him in the hallways. Brush off his attempts at communication. Barely reacting to anything that had to do with Satoru Gojo. Who do you think you are ? He’s the strongest after all. What he didn’t know is that you were to shy and in awe to do anything but run away! After all his presence seemed limitless and suffocating. There was no way that someone like you could keep up. But Satoru didn’t know this. You see , he isn’t the strongest because he’s Satoru Gojo. He’s Satoru Gojo because he’s the strongest. And why should the strong protect the whims of the weak ?

So he was mean.

“Innocently” undermining you in front of your students, interrupting your classes , over talking you , bumping into you, pinching your thighs, and cornering you in dark hallways to whisper vicious insults and veiled threats.

“You cryin’? God, you’re weak” lips brushing against your jaw as he squeezes your neck. “What if I pulled you into my domain ? What do you think would happen?”

You tried to tell someone, anyone , but who’d believe you ? You should’ve known better, and you also should’ve known that word would get back to your tormenter. You probably would’ve kept your mouth shut if you’d known that he’d have you backed against the lockers, head locked between two meaty fists. Thumb resting against your temples and lips pressed against your ear whispering cruelly. “Did you really think they’d believe you, weakling?”. “Even if they did, what did you think would happen? No one can stop me. They’re too weak”. Honestly , you should be grateful that I even waste my time on someone as pathetic as you.” “People have literally killed for my attention” And you know he wasn’t lying. Everyone loved him. Everyone except you.

He couldn’t understand why you didn’t immediately succumb to his charms. Why you didn’t fall to your knees the moment he spoke to you. Most women did. He took personal offense to your shy and introverted nature. Getting meaner and meaner everyday. But this was the worst it had ever gotten. His knee was pressed between your legs, right against your cunt. You were shaking so bad. So scared and he was holding you in place. It didn’t help that he’d caught you on the way to restroom. “P-please Gojo … gotta go” Your pathetic pleas fell on deaf ears. “P-please Gojo” he mocked, adding pressure against your temple. “Where do you have to go , huh ? What’s more important than me ?” Fat tears welled in the corner of your eyes, threatening to spill with each twitch of his leg. “I have to go to the ladies room, Gojo” you whined, praying that he’d spare you the tiniest sliver of mercy. Prayers went unanswered because Gojo’s handsome face twisted into a cruel smile. Cerulean visionaries burning into your skin and tracing a path down to where his knee met your clothed cunt. “Oh?” he mocked, voice dripping with faux concern. “Does little Y/N need to go potty?” You didn’t answer, just whimpered and averted your eyes which did not bode well with the sorcerer . *BAM! His fists crashed into the locker, leaving a gaping hole right next to your head. “When I talk you- Gojo’s voice trailed off and his gaze fell to the darkening splotch on his uniform pants. Pale yellow liquid surged from the place between your thighs. Pretty white stockings ruined with streaks of hot piss. "G-gojo , i-” Words caught in your throat and you whimpered in humiliation. Utterly defeated by the fact that you’d pissed yourself in front of the most powerful man of your era. He was going to be furious. At least that’s what you assumed before you dared glance at his oceanic orbs. His eyes glazed over, completely clouded with lust. The wet tip of his tongue darted across his plush lips and your eyes followed the movement. Slightly parted and moistened by saliva. What you wouldn’t give to have those lips on your body. As if he were clairvoyant, Gojo pulled you into a bruising kiss. Bullying into your mouth with such skilled aggression that your brain felt fuzzy. A heady mixture of adrenaline and arousal permeated the air and the damp warmth of your cunt pulsed against his leg in rhythm with the frantic beating of your heart. Gojo pulled away hair messy and tie disheveled. Thick fingers carded through his white locs before he stepped forward to fix your hair. A hand lingered against your cheek, almost gentle. Almost. His thumb and index finger squeezed as he pulled your face close to his. “My place at 11 PM, weakling. Don’t be late.”

[catscidr]

i woke up and got possessed by the urge to write the smut i wanted to ramble about yesterday. i have nothing else to say. you cant blame me for any of this. it was inevitable.

cw shameless smut, dottore x afab reader, brainrot rambling. he uses his fingers for a good cause °ᗜ°

working overtime was a chore. your bosses expected you to stay after hours to work on documents meant for the next day and you’d get judgemental looks if you didn’t stay in the office longer than you needed to. unfortunately for you, the knowledge that they might think lesser of you for not doing overtime was enough for you to stay.

apparently not many people shared the sentiment though, because when you finally look up from your computer screen to stretch your aching muscles, you’re met with deafening silence– aside from your shoulders cracking.

which isn’t to say that no one is in the office besides you, either. but you doubt zandik stayed behind because he cared about the managers judging him. he always seemed to move along his own schedule, placing more importance on work than relationships with… anyone. granted, it’s not like he was ecstatic to work at the office, but he was naturally good at whatever job the boss gave him. to other people it looks like he works hard, but really, he’s just doing the bare minimum. you don’t want to think that people are too dense to notice it, but at the same time you can’t really blame them; it’s not like it’s normal for overworked office employees to notice such little details about a coworker that doesn’t care for them.

though, ever since you and your cubicle neighbor got told off by the man himself, you’ve found yourself looking for him in crowds. when you take the subway on your way home you try to spot his icy blue hair amongst the sea of suits and blazers, when you attend office-funded outings at the bar you hope to find him sipping on the cheap beer they provide, and even now you’re subtly trying to catch a glimpse of him in the dim lighting of the office. your efforts usually end in failure, unfortunately- but not this time.

you always expect to see nothing but tired businessmen and women cramped in the subway, to see the same faces you greet every day of the week downing that cheap beer, and to see a myriad of black screens in the office.

you didn’t think you’d meet his gaze as he walked out of the boss’s office, completely inconspicuous but still harbouring that same aura of suspiciousness.

“you’re still here?” you ask before you can stop your lips from moving. sure it was currently three hours after hours, but speaking so informally to a senior could bode poorly for you at any time.

thankfully, he just chuckles as a response. but you notice how his lips immediately tilt back down to their original resting state, the lighting making it look like he’s scowling down at you.

“i had to take care of some personal business,” he says plainly, not elaborating further (and you think he would avoid doing so even if you asked). you nod, glancing down at your uniform to smooth it down nervously, suddenly acutely aware of how tired you must look. “well i hope you were able to take care of it without a… hitch,” you cough awkwardly.

sure you knew zandik well enough to not call him a stranger, but recently it seems like he’s been spending more time in your head than in the office. you blame his mysterious and brooding personality. “i understand why authors like to write mysterious love interests in their romance novels…” you think offhandedly, for no reason at all whatsoever.

his footsteps pull you out of your daydream, right before your mind drifted off to not-so-professional thoughts. pulling the rolling chair out from under the desk, zandik takes a seat next to you, crossing an ankle over his knee. you shuffle away to give him some space (to politely accommodate his long legs or to stop yourself from pouncing on him, you wouldn’t be able to tell).

“i appreciate the sentiment. but why are you still here? you work efficiently, i doubt you’re so behind schedule that you need to stay in the office for this long.” the words that leave his lips entrance you– the slight drawl, bordering on seductive, makes you swallow the saliva in your mouth. you shake your head, humbly dismissing his praise (though your brain buzzes at what else you wish he would say).

“i just had to take care of some… things,” you respond awkwardly, fidgeting with your fingertips as you avoid looking into his carmine eyes for too long. he hums, placing down the file he had been carrying around on the desk to cross his arms over his chest, expression unreadable aside from the corners of his lips tilting up ever so slightly.

“right. things,” he says, his tone deep, rumbling in your chest as your heart hammers into your ribcage. you’ve talked to plenty of coworkers over your time working here, but none have made you break a sweat from their mere presence.

“h-haha, yeah, things. um, how have you been? i want to apologize again for the other day, we really didn’t mean to pry into your personal life, we were just-“ zandik makes a tsk noise, “concerned for my wellbeing, of course,” he finishes. the ghost of a smile he wore vanished, leaving you with a feeling of dread and anticipation. “you’re not the only one looking out for your coworkers though, sweetheart. you don’t look too good yourself,” zandik says, raising a brow at you. you were all but shivering under his gaze, brows stopping the sweat that had started building up on your forehead from getting in your eyes. if anything, you looked worse than him. you barely register the pet name before he speaks up again.

“we can’t have you overworking yourself too much, can we? you’re one of out best employees,” he says your name softly, practically purring. the same thing you felt that morning came back tenfold– though this time you couldn’t possibly leave for a bathroom break to take care of it.

zandik approaches you like a wolf does with a rabbit, slowly and quietly, to reduce the chances of you fleeing the scene. he gets close enough that his knee almost grazes yours.

“what kind of senior would i be if i just let you go without offering any kind of help?” you knew it was a rhetorical question and he wasn’t expecting an answer, but you still try to muster up the courage to say something, anything.

“is there anything i can do to help?” he continues, tone sickeningly sweet, practically foreign on his tongue. but the more he speaks, the more you feel your resolve melt, the more he pushes your buttons until-

“you’re not very good at being subtle,” he whispers, placing the tip of his shoe right up against your clothed core. you keen, legs widening as if on autopilot, but back away into your chair to flee from the sinful sensation. his lips stretch into a grin, the same expression you played on repeat in your mind when you got off a night ever since he confronted you and your coworker.

“don’t run away now. your body is practically begging for me to touch you,” he coos, extending his slender leg to press his polished shoe right up into you again, pulling a whine out of your lips. you lick your lips and swallow the lump in your throat, scrambling to say something to save your dignity.

“y-you don’t know that. are you a… doctor or something?” you huff, trying to steady your breathing. he slides his foot up and down your panties, pencil skirt riding up the more you widen your legs. zandik laughs under his breath, eyes narrowing at you for a split second.

“yeah, i am. that’s what i do as a second job. i run an underground hospital and run unethical tests on desperate patients.” the words roll over you like drops of water on a chinchilla– even if you did listen to him though, you wouldn’t have believed him. “that’s why i can tell that your heart is pounding. that’s why i can tell that you want this,” he coos, leaning forward ever so slightly. you buck your hips unconsciously, chasing the feeling he oh so graciously was giving you.

“that’s not- mngh, ‘m not a pervert,” you whimper, throwing an arm over your eyes to hide your lewd expression. zandik only laughs at you, pulling back to stand up and lean over you, his lips right next to your ears.

he places a hand on your thigh, the other going between your legs to rub at your drenched panties. “oh but you are. getting this wet when i’ve barely done anything to you,” he purrs, middle finger gliding up to tease your clit. “just want me to take you right here, huh? my my, you’re so desperate.”

if you hadn’t taken care of your needs you would have come already, but even then you were still teetering on the edge of an explosive climax. his calloused, slender fingers slide up and down, teasing your clothed hole as it flutters around nothing. you try to close your legs to keep his hand steady but he swiftly brings one knee up to rest on the chair, keeping your legs spread. zandik takes ahold of your wrist with his free hand and pulls your arm away from your face as you turn your head away to hide.

“oh no you don’t,” he hisses as he grabs your face with one hand, cheeks squishing together to turn your head back to face him. “you’re going to look at me when you come.” your eyes flutter, thighs twitching as the coil in your lower abdomen threatens to snap. your gaze flickers down between your legs to watch his deft fingers toy with you, then drag up to look at the tent in his slacks. zandik tightens his grip on your face, forcing you to look up at him.

“are you fucked dumb already? i said don’t look away,” he hisses, eyes narrowing at you as he pulls your ruined underwear to the side to slide two fingers into your cunt. you squeal at the stretch, but you were so wet that you didn’t feel more than a pinch before you started moaning freely again. his thumb rubs tight circles over your clit as his middle and ring fingers pump into you earnestly. he curls them up to prod at the spongy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back momentarily from the sensation.

“come on, i can tell you’re close sweetheart,” he coos, lips ghosting over yours, just away from reach. you whine and moan, hands gripping his flexing forearms as you feel your body lose control.

the sound of your pussy squelching in the otherwise quiet office throws you over the edge, your vision going white as you just barely make out zandik’s face while he makes you ride out your orgasm, adding a third finger inside of your cunt to stuff you full. all of his fingers stop but his thumb, still rubbing your sensitive clit as you twitch and jolt in pleasure.

“thaaat’s it, that’s my girl, ride it out,” he purrs, grinning down at you with a smug laugh. “took me so well,” zandik praises, curling his fingers up inside your used cunt. you thrash weakly, letting out a muffled ”‘s too much”. he continues for a few seconds before letting go of your face and pulling out his fingers slowly, looking down to admire the slick covering his hand.

“mmh, made a mess. gonna clean it up?” he asks coyly, bringing his hand up to your lips. you waste no time to lick it off, brows furrowing at the tangy taste. he pulls his hand away to lick it himself, holding eye contact with you as he goes over where you just cleaned him off. a shiver runs down your spine at the sight.

while you shut your eyes for a moment to catch your breath, he grabs a few tissues from the box on your desk and cleans the mess between your legs, pressing down on your aching clit on purpose to make sure you don’t fall asleep. you jolt, whimpering as you glare weakly at him, earning yourself a chuckle from the man between your legs.

“i hope you don’t think this is a one-time fling,” he whispers, tossing the used tissues in the bin under your desk. zandik pulls the edge of your skirt down to cover your messy thighs and straightens up, turning to leave. he palms his bulge, holding eye contact with you as you stare at his hand, feeling yourself get wet again.

“see you tomorrow.”

[randomfandomblabdom]

I really need to vent about how much I like Cal and Merrin's dynamic in Jedi: Survivor cause they've quickly become probably my favorite canon pairing in the franchise.

I absolutely love that this relationship is built on the basis of friendship, respect, and a genuine mutual understanding of each other. From gameplay comments and conversations, Cal is very clearly so enamored with Merrin and literally everything about her. I know it's become a bit of a joke how clearly into her he is but he just thinks she's the most incredible being in the entire galaxy and it's honestly the sweetest thing. The writers could have very easily made his connection to Merrin a weakness or had it where it made his struggle with the darkness harder but I adore that they allowed him to be completely smitten with her and presented it as a strength. It's refreshing not only in Star Wars but in media in general, at least in my opinion. Love being presented as a positive asset is something so deeply missing in media nowadays - especially romantic love. Far too often in this day and age, love is presented as a weakness or something that will only bring you down, so I respect the fuck out of this writing.

Oops, this got really, really long so I'm putting the rest under a cut. It's kind of spitfire, so I apologize if it feels random.

I love how their first kiss is Merrin basically making a split-second decision where she realizes she doesn't want to die without kissing him at least once even if it runs the risk of making things awkward should they survive. Is it cliche as fuck? Absolutely, but it works so well in this instance. Cal being so dumbfounded, gawking at her like a fish, trying to process what the hell just happened that BD has to remind him they're literally about to die is the best thing too.

I appreciate that Cal is so obviously hesitant about giving into any sort of romantic feelings for Merrin because, of course, he would be due to his upbringing. He's pushing so hard against it to the point that he's even completely reluctant to so much as discuss it with Bode when they're on the Lucrehulk. Personally, I don't think Cal is oblivious to their potential feelings for each other. I've never been a huge fan of treating Cal as completely naive. He still might be a bit emotionally stunted, sure but he's lived 10 years outside of the Jedi Order at this point. I think he's hesitant to talk about it because first of all, it's really none of Bode's business but also, if he talks about it, he has to admit it, and if he admits it, that makes it real, and if it's real... well fuck, now he has to do something about it either way which is exactly what he's trying to avoid. I think he's trying to stay as neutral about it as he can until he gets to a point in the story/his arc where he decides he actually wants or feels ready to make a decision. Bode almost gets it out of him too before they're interrupted. The progression of Bode's questioning during that mission is something I actually find really interesting but that's a different topic.

Many people have pointed this out but Cal smiling so brightly while Merrin is clearly freaking the fuck out of Bode is just the cutest thing. Not only because he finds such humor in her scaring the shit out of people for fun when he of all people knows it's a running joke but he also goes along with the joke any chance he gets. He does this even when she's not around. People will be freaked out by her and he still plays along and it's not even like, "Yeah, I know, she's fucking scary bro," it's more like, "Yeah, I know, she can wake the dead, isn't it amazing how scary she is!" Someone else already pointed this out in another post but that feels almost more intimate than any kiss they share. His attraction to her encompasses all sides of her including those that many people find incredibly terrifying and I find that so endearing, he wouldn't ask her to change for anything. He's the only person who genuinely isn't freaked out by her in the slightest but not only that, he finds that side of her to be so incredible. Also, Cal being so blase with Bode about his obvious attraction to Merrin a mission prior and then having the most blatant sexual tension with her in front of Bode in the next scene is peak comedy, I don't care what anybody says. Like, Cal, honey, you just spent the entire previous mission trying to convince Bode (and yourself) there's nothing there and/or you're not pursuing it, so you're not doing yourself any favors by looking at her like that, standing that close to her, and speaking to her with the cadence of a lover bro.

I love that the second Cal walks onto the Mantis after killing Rayvis, she instantaneously picks up on the fact that something's wrong. Literally instantaneously. You can see her face drop the moment she sees him. She just knows something happened. Her ability to read him insanely well is something that is introduced very early on in the game, most noticeably in the campfire scene, and it stays consistent over the course of the story. The following conversation they have is honestly one of the best moments between them in the entire game. It's this type of conversation I've been wanting to see with a Jedi and their potential lover since Revenge of the Sith. He is so open with her even in a somewhat roundabout way about his genuine fear of losing himself and while the conversation is not explicitly about their relationship, the implication is still there and she 100% picks up on it, especially since he wonders aloud why Santari didn't see the change in Dagan before it was too late. Instead of shaming him for his reservations or calling it ridiculous or anything else she could have said at this moment, she instead decides to possibly help curb those fears and give him some comfort regarding it. She goes on to basically tell him in so few words she knows what she's signing up for and is willing to cross those bridges with him if they come. It's a great difference between Cal and Dagan. Though it's never outright stated that Dagan and Santari were in love, I feel like it's... pretty heavily implied, or at least he was definitely in love with her (was I the only one who read it that way??) but whereas Dagan demands that Santari talk him away from the darkness and seems to almost expect her to, Merrin herself plainly offers to do it with no prodding on Cal's part. It doesn't seem to be a burden Cal wanted to put on her, not something he was inherently expecting of her but she willingly offers, it is her choice, she wants to carry that burden with him. While she does seem maybe slightly annoyed by his hesitancy regarding their relationship to each other, she is also so incredibly patient with him while he's stewing over what he wants to do. It's beautiful. As a side note, "A shared dream is not so easy to wake from," is such an amazing line. Seriously, I want merch with that quote on it.

I liked that going through with the relationship was Cal's choice in the end. Merrin didn't push it, she didn't pressure it. She let him bring it up and come to her when he was ready and if that meant potentially being rejected by a man she very clearly adores, so be it, and I have no doubt she would've respected that choice if that's what he'd wanted. I know a lot of people seem to think he only makes this decision due to Bode's questions earlier but it really seems to be a combination of multiple things that lead to this. Bode picking his brain definitely got him thinking about it, maybe more than he wanted to, but I do think the other big part of Cal being willing to go forward with it at this moment is his confrontation with Dagan that, while an illusion, did cause him to come to grips with his own mortality in a way. "How does it feel knowing you're about to die. That your life meant nothing." As Cal says, Dagan uses an extremely powerful force hallucination based on fear here, so while losing himself to the darkness might scare him, his life being completely meaningless is what he seems to fear the most. Cal's journey throughout Survivor encompasses many things but one of them revolves around feeling aimless and finding a purpose, preferably outside of being a hired weapon that will surely and slowly consume him. It's what everyone consistently tells him: find a home, settle down, embrace happiness because it's fleeting, the path you're on is not healthy and will consume you otherwise...etc. His decision here to give in to his romantic attraction to Merrin is a culmination of all of these interactions and conversations he's had throughout the story, how they've influenced his line of thinking, and him coming to his own conclusions regarding what he personally wants and at this moment, when things are finally, calm and everyone is in a good place with a plan going forward, he personally decides there's no point in living up to the expectations of the Jedi when the Order doesn't exist anymore and wants to see where this could go.

I love the fact that when Merrin witnesses Cal's darkness in the ISB, it's made abundantly clear that she's just as afraid of losing him as he most likely is of losing her. I do think a major reason why she was able to talk him down at the moment is that he fundamentally understands what it feels like to lose everything and everyone, your entire livelihood. That is what they first bonded over and it's something that keeps them bonded in the saddest, yet most profound way and he would never want to add himself to the list of people she's lost. She's also doing exactly what she said she would. In an instance where again, she reads him like a fucking book, she can tell just from his responses on the intercom that he's losing himself and is guiding him back. She immediately went to rescue him as she says. No question, no argument, nothing, she simply does it. She made him a promise and she kept it and in that moment, he promises that she won't lose him, he won't allow it. This is a fundamental difference between Anakin and Padme's dynamic and Cal and Merrin's. While Anakin's love for Padme quite famously ends up extremely selfish in an "I would lose myself to ensure you're not ripped away from me" type of way, Cal and Merrin's dynamic is leaning towards a more selfless, "I won't allow myself to be lost because I can't let that happen for your sake," type of way and god damn it, I love it.

There are several interactions they have in gameplay that I'm lowkey peeved weren't included in cutscenes and one of them is when Cal returns to the Mantis after all but demolishing the ISB, they have this really short but great interaction where Merrin says that if he ever feels that way again, he needs to tell her. She doesn't even ask him to do it, she all but demands it, "If you feel that way again, you will tell me." She's demanding communication from him regarding the darkness and he doesn't fight this demand at all. He agrees to respect this request and I fucking love that from both of them. I will genuinely be kinda upset if we don't get a moment like that in the next game.

I like how their kiss after they've successfully navigated the abyss is kind of their first kiss inverted but instead of "omg we might die, I need to kiss you" it's more "holy shit, we survived, I need to kiss you," but instead of Merrin initiating, now it's Cal. I'm probably reading too much into that but whatever, it's cute.

This isn't about any one part in particular but I do love that it looks like the headcanon so many people had regarding Merrin most likely being quite physically affectionate is turning out to be true.

...I think that's enough for now lol I might add on some things later

Apologies for any typos and thanks for indulging my rambling if you got this far.

[pavlovianfuckery]

how about a fucked up game of hot potato because why not

MASTERLIST

linky for those AO3-ly inclined: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42497385

anyone else a greedy indecisive bitch or is it just me? no? this got messy as fuck and i'm sorry, i was just unbelievably thirsty

5.8k of something vaguely???? i dont want to say gangbang but gangbang adjacent? adjacent-ish? whatever you wanna call it, it's under the cut

Going to bed on the night of your birthday is a somewhat gloomy affair. The day itself had been...fine, you supposed. Sure, there had been a bit of a party, a cake and a few thoughtful gifts from your closest friends. But that had been all. Nothing wrong with any of it. Still, you couldn't help being just a bit disappointed that the only one you had truly wanted to see today had been conspicuously absent. It's stupid of course, something so insignificant as somebody turning a year older would be laughably far beneath the notice of someone like him. And still.

Annoyed, you fully expect to have several sleepless hours ahead of you, so when you drift off as soon as your head hits the pillow, it's a pleasant surprise. Even more so is where you find yourself when you enter the Dreaming.

You'd been in his chambers before, of course. It might not have been very often or for very long, as the fleeting moments before waking up always seemed to pass so quickly. Arriving straight here was new. When his arms envelop you from behind you can't hold back a smile.

"Hey. I missed you today."

"Then I hope my absence can be forgiven," his voice is sly as he continues, tightening his arms around you a just fraction, "but I must confess, I wanted you all to myself when offering my gift."

Leaning back into him, you simply bask in the feeling of having him close.

"What kind of gift would that be? Nothing nefarious, I hope."

He rests his chin on your shoulder and clicks his tongue in mock disapproval, breath tickling your ear. "'Nefarious'? You wound me. That would depend entirely on what you wish for."

"I see. So the gift is a wish, then? Can I wish for anything I want?"

"Within reason, yes. Do you perhaps have a request in mind already?"

Being spoilt for choice isn't your strong suit and usually, this kind of situation would leave you at a loss and unable to make any choice at all, but for once you do know what you want. The real question is if he will go for it or not. Possibly mistaking your hesitation for reluctance, he makes you face him.

"I do have something I would like, but it's...silly." Biting your lip you turn your eyes away, unable to keep some embarrassment from showing.

"I have already seen your every fantasy, every dream. Nothing you could request would shock me," he reassures you."So go on my sweet, make your wish known, for I long to hear it."

"It's more of a combination of two different things, now that I think about it."

"Fortunately for you, I find myself in a very generous mood this evening." His tone is dry but his lips twitch into a small smile.

"Okay, so, first things first. Could I..." you take a deep breath, "Could I have more of you?"

"More in what sense?" The question doesn't faze him in the slightest, which bodes well for the other half of the request.

"In the 'more than one of you' kind of sense." Your cheeks are blazing and you almost can't believe that you just said that, but at least now the cat is out of the bag. Or one cat, at any rate.

"While we are here, in my realm, you certainly could. Is that what you want?" The way he looks at you when he asks makes lust coil in your belly, hot and heavy.

"Sort of." You plant a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth, "Do you remember..." you fiddle with the collar of his coat a bit, still feeling a bit shy about the whole thing, "when you showed me some of the things you used to wear, way back when?"

"I do." Judging by the look in his eye, he can tell where this is going. "As I recall, you rather enjoyed that."

"I did. Very much, in fact." The way he preens at that is kind of adorable.

"And was there, by any chance a...favourite?" He looks at you through lowered lashes, the way he fishes for another compliment not nearly as subtle as he would probably like to think.

"Well, you see, that's the problem, I don't think there was." You've never seen him confused before, but this comes pretty close. Figuring it's better to rip the bandaid off sooner rather than later, you go on; "I adored every version of you. How could I choose only one? I want all of you."

"Is that your wish?" You have a sneaking suspicion that he will be insufferable after this, because he looks like a cat that has eaten an entire flock of canaries, eyes gleaming. "To have one of me for every era? All at once?"

"Can I?" The thought makes your insides quiver, want making you almost dizzy. "You're not...upset with me or anything?"

That makes his eyebrows shoot up, or as close to it as you've ever seen.

"My love, how could your request possibly upset me? If anything, I am flattered that you would hunger after me so." He cups your chin in his hand and brushes his lips across yours. "I would deny you nothing, but I do have terms of my own."

"Tell me." The eagerness in your voice makes him smile again and you almost regret the whole thing immediately, because if there is one thing he doesn't particularly need, it's an ego boost.

"As it happens, my request is also twofold. Firstly, I get to watch." He slides his arms around your waist and pulls you close, and his breath is hot against your ear as he continues; "Secondly, you may have each of me only once, and after you have had your fill, I fully intend to have my own turn with you as well."

"That sounds," the thought of him watching you like that makes the words stick as if your tongue was made of flypaper and you struggle to swallow, getting the words out. "Sounds fair. Why only once though?"

"I admit my motive for that is entirely selfish; I want you lucid enough by the end of it for me to enjoy properly." The way he says it is almost a purr, and if your knees weren't weak before they're certainly starting to get there now. That he would even be willing to indulge you like this wasn't a given, but him outright enjoying it makes you almost giddy.

"Okay. So, this is a bit embarrassing but...I have no idea how this is supposed to work. I didn't really think that far ahead," you admit a bit sheepishly. "Is there anything I should keep in mind at all?"

"Did your appetite get the better of you?" That earns you an outright chuckle, though not unkind. "No matter, I will take care of you," he strokes your cheek with a soft smile. The emphasis on 'take care' doesn't go unnoticed, and it makes anticipation buzz under your skin. "The only thing I require of you tonight is that you enjoy yourself. You need not treat them any differently than myself because, in every way that matters, that is what they are."

"And you're sure that you're alright with this? I don't want you to feel like you're being left out or anything like that." You frown up at him, feeling terribly selfish.

"Your concern is touching but unnecessary, my love." He rubs his thumb over your bottom lip, his tone airy as he continues, "Anything I create for you will be connected to me, and in part, I will share in the sensations."

Flicking his eyes over your shoulder, he steps closer and kisses you deeply, pushing you to take a few steps back until you hit something solid and pair of arms circle your waist from behind. Your heart is beating against your ribs like a bird in a cage and when another pair of hands join in and slides under the hem of your shirt, it feels like all the air leaves your lungs at once. When you whimper into his mouth, he pulls back and has the absolute gall to smirk at you.

"Go on now, indulge yourself to your heart's content. I will be right here, awaiting my turn."

And with that, he saunters over to the sturdy chair by the desk and sits down, in what might be the most nonchalant way you've ever seen. Leaving you there with, well, all of him.

It's a bit like being thrown to a particularly polite pack of ravenous wolves. Being surrounded like this is a bit disorienting and with the way they all eye you hungrily, the thought that you might be in over your head this time flashes in your mind. It's surprisingly gentle though, the way you get passed from one version of him to the next, all of them stepping in close, taking turns, putting you at ease. You've always marvelled at the softness of him, of his skin, but in this mass of bodies and mouths and grasping hands, it feels like you could drown in it.

The way they undress you is no less gentle, one pair of hands passing you to the next until your bare skin is pressed against the myriad of fine fabrics. Some questionable decisions aside he has always dressed well, every texture brushing your skin feeling nothing less than luxurious. It's intense, all the teasing little touches and kisses from every direction, and they don't stop even when you feel like you might implode. The entire time you can feel the way your Morpheus watches you, his gaze on you an almost physical weight.

It's overwhelming, and your knees start to buckle. For a moment you think that you might just sink to the floor, but strong arms steady you as the closest one pulls you to him, the cloth of his tunic so lovely against your heated skin.

"It's alright," he murmurs against your lips, "I've got you."

Pushing one leg between yours he guides your hips, encouraging you to grind against it. It feels better than it has any right to, and when he backs the few steps away to the bed and hauls you on top of him, you don't resist. You're not expecting to come like this, humping his leg like a bitch in heat and ruining his trousers, but the rest of him won't stop touching you and he's watching you and it's simply too much. His slightly longer hair tickles your cheek as you hide your face in the crook of his neck, and with one last slow drag over his thigh, you come, without even meaning to.

Some silly part of your brain feels like you should be apologizing, but when you open your mouth to do just that, this version is gone and you're alone on the bed. You shoot a confused look at your Dream, sitting leisurely in the chair still.

"Did you forget my terms, my love?" He looks like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth as he reminds you, clearly enjoying himself.

Not letting it get to you, you simply set your sights on the next one. It's not as easy as you might have hoped. It's a lot like being a kid in a candy store at this point, they all look so tempting and you just want to devour every single one.

You've always enjoyed a good suit though, and the suit he'd chosen for one of the more recent versions of himself was very good. His hair is shorter than you can recall ever seeing it, and with the ruby shining at his throat, he looks every bit the distinguished gentleman. The sharp lines of the suit are a stark contrast to the rest of him, making the plush pink of his lips look even more inviting. That's probably not the effect he intended, to look kissable rather than imposing, and the thought almost makes you giggle. It doesn't stop you from approaching him and doing just that, though, grabbing hold of his lapels as you do so.

The kiss leaves you winded, the fabric of the expensive-looking suit jacket rubbing deliciously against your nipples.

"This is a good look on you," the words are a bit breathless in their delivery, but they do come easier now, inhibitions crumbling away. The shorter hair feels a bit strange in your hand, not being as much to pull on. It still works though, and he gives easily enough, letting you bite his neck gently, scraping your teeth over the creamy skin. "You should wear a suit more often."

He's a bit too perfect though, still too composed. Undoing the buttons of the vest takes some doing, but you manage it, fingers barely shaking at all. The dress shirt is a lot thinner than what you're used to, and having him so close with almost nothing separating your hands from his skin is maddening.

"Perhaps I shall," the slight curve of his lips makes you want to kiss him again but he grabs your chin, his grip surprisingly gentle as he runs his thumb across your bottom lip. "Tell me what you would like."

You can't resist flicking your tongue out, licking the pad of his finger as you consider your options. When you suck the digit into your mouth he blinks at you slowly, and you can feel him stir through his trousers. It makes your mouth water, makes you know precisely what you want.

"I want to suck you." It comes out as a sigh, full of longing. "Want to come with you in my mouth." Stroking his thighs through the deceptively thin fabric feels wonderful, the muscles of his legs firm under your hands. "Can I? Please?" When you meet his eyes, they are barely blue anymore, the way they reflect the light betraying his true nature.

"You may."

He makes dropping to your knees so easy. Something about kneeling at his feet like this feels right, and as he gets his length out and rubs the tip over your lips you can't stop a small whine from escaping.

"You have the prettiest cock I've ever seen, have I told you that?"

"No." He strokes your hair, gently encouraging you. "Show me."

It's not an order, not quite. Still, he doesn't have to tell you twice. Everything about him is so smooth, his skin like silk as you run your lips over him. At first, you simply lick at the head, teasing fat drops of pre-come out of him, lapping them up like the most precious of pearls. The way they coat your tongue is heady and it always makes you feel oddly powerful, this tangible proof of the effect you have on him. Using your hand to cover what your mouth can't, you start working him in earnest, putting on a bit of a show as you let the drool drip down your chin, drawing the loveliest noises out of him.

The long, shaky exhale as he hits the back of your throat makes you ache.

"Touch yourself for me."

You can't respond, but you can do as he says, so that is exactly what you do. It's hard to do it effectively, but you don't have to be very precise, just the sounds you coax out of him as you bob your head is enough to bring you a good part of the way on their own. From here you can see your Dream from the corner of your eye, and it looks like he wasn't being disingenuous about the "sharing the sensations" part. His cheeks are flushed, legs spread wider than before as he breathes heavily, his eyes never straying from you. Even from here, you can tell that he is painfully hard, the tightness of his jeans does nothing to hide it.

Just to see what he'll do, you decide to press your limits, just a little. In the waking world, you probably wouldn't be able to do it very easily, not like this. But this is the Dreaming, so you relax your throat and take him even further. When you swallow around him the noise he makes above you is a strangled thing and he grabs onto your shoulder, steadying himself.

"Do that again."

When you do, the Dream watching you sags in his seat, knuckles white as he grips the armrests. It doesn't take a lot after that, hearing him and tasting him and watching the way he watches you. It's not as fast as the first time, but you still come faster than you wanted to, your own fingers pushing you over the edge with a few shaky rubs. With the way he fills your throat, you can't even moan as you spasm around nothing, regretting that you hadn't asked for more, to be filled there too.

You wish you could have kept going a while longer but you had agreed to the terms and he holds you to them, though it's less of a surprise this time around. Still just as frustrating though.

"I wasn't finished with that one," you pout at him.

"You were, though." His breathing is still a bit uneven. "Would you rather argue with me, or enjoy the rest of your gift?" Before you can respond he continues, "Or have you perhaps changed your mind? I can take it back if you'd prefer."

"Now you're just being mean." It gets you to your feet and moving again though, not wanting to risk finding out that he's serious. He always looks good so making any kind of choice is still difficult, but you manage. This one you trap against the edge of the desk with your body, caging him in with your arms.

"Why the fuck," you ask, kissing his neck, "are you dressed like a priest? On second thought, don't answer that."

"You seem to like it well enough," he murmurs as you grind your hips into his.

"It's absolutely ridiculous." Twisting the voluminous sleeves you wind the fabric around your hands, using it to pin his wrists to the desk as you bite his neck, perhaps a little bit rougher than you had originally intended.

"Never have I met a creature quite as greedy as you, my love," he groans as you mark him, bruises staining his pale throat prettily. "I would lay my hands on you, if you'd have me. Let me please you."

The way he says it makes it sound so good, so tempting, that you let him go, let him lay you out on top of the desk. This way you're close enough to touch your Dream, so you reach for him, pulling him down for a kiss. Being crowded like this feels better than you had ever imagined as they take turns kissing you, touching you, until you're almost dizzy with lust again.

"Is this..." you pant against his lips as one of his other selves sucks one of your nipples into his mouth greedily, "is it alright, like this?"

Every bit of worry or shame evaporates as he slides a finger into you, though, making you abandon the kiss in favour of watching his hand between your legs. The sleeves might look ridiculous but they feel lovely dragging over the insides of your thighs as he pumps in and out of you slowly. He's always known how to touch you well, and this time is no exception as he adds a second finger, hooking them just so. The way his fingers drag over that one spot inside makes you tremble.

"Can I have some more?" You can feel him grin against your skin at the question, but he doesn't bother to tease you, just adds a third finger, his thumb settling over your clit, just barely touching. The way he ghosts the pad of his finger over it makes you squirm, wanting more still, for him to rub you properly.

"Patience, my sweet," he admonishes you, "I will take care of you, if you let me."

With that, he plunges a fourth finger in and gently presses down on your lower belly, trapping that sensitive spot between the palm of his hand and his fingers. The way he massages you is slow and methodical, as if he has all the time in the world to pull you apart. Every brush of his thumb is light as a feather, and while it makes you want more, you don't strictly need it. You can feel your peak approaching, slow but inevitable.

"If you keep that up I'm going to, "you tangle your hand in his hair, gasping, "make a mess of your desk."

"I know." The way he looks at you then is so smug and just all-around indecent that you can't decide if you want to punch him or kiss him. You barely have time to settle on the latter before pleasure overcomes you, washing over you in powerful waves. You can't remember the last time you were this wet and he's not stopping, whispering encouragements against your lips as you pulse and gush over his fingers with a pitiful little whimper.

The last spasm has barely finished when he leaves you empty, splayed out alone on the desk. Or, not quite alone. This time, the choice isn't yours, another Dream stepping in between your legs before you've barely had time to catch your breath. Compared to the softer fabrics you're accustomed to, the fine leather makes him look sleeker, meaner, though no less inviting.

"This is...different." Running your hands over it, you revel in the buttery feel of it under your fingers. "I think I like it though."

"Of course you do," He doesn't bother to hide the pleased look on his face.

"Hold on, is that..." you pull him down closer, craning your neck to see. "You never told me you had an earring."

"Should I have? It hardly seems important." There is a small wrinkle between his eyebrows, confusion over why something so small could be significant at all. It's pretty adorable.

"Maybe," you hum, wrapping your legs around his waist, petting his hair as you catch the small ring in your teeth, giving it a little pull. He seems to enjoy that, letting out a short exhale of breath as he grinds his hips into you. He's half hard already, uncaring of the mess.

"You can have me like this, if that is what you want." Preoccupied with the earring still you don't respond right away, so he adds, "Unless you would rather play with my jewellery?"

"Sorry." You let it go, albeit reluctantly.

"No need to apologize. If you enjoy it so much, perhaps I should wear it again." His eyes sparkle with mirth as he kisses you, clearly amused by your dumbstruck expression as you imagine the present iteration of him with an earring. "Now, turn over for me."

When he asks like that you can hardly refuse, nor do you want to. At this rate, you're not sure how much more you can take. Being in the Dreaming can only stretch your limits so far, and you're starting to approach yours.

"Wider." The leather of his boots is smooth against your calves as he pushes your legs apart. Once you're arranged to his liking, he leans over you and kisses the back of your neck, his tip prodding your entrance as he rocks his hips gently, not entering just yet. Your Dream is watching you intently, reaching out to twine your fingers together.

"Are you enjoying your gift so far?" The small smile on his lips makes it very obvious that he doesn't expect you to respond in any coherent way. When his other self slides into you, burying himself as far as he will go, they both moan, his grip on your hand tightening.

The pace he sets is slow and deliberate but not very gentle, his grip firm on your hips as he nearly lifts you onto the tips of your toes. Still sensitive from your last orgasm, the way he drives into you with inhuman precision is its own form of torture, pushing you towards the next one with relentless focus.

"Morpheus please, I can't," the words come out in a garbled kind of plea, "it's too much, I can't."

"You can." He sounds so certain, not leaving you any room to argue as he presses himself against you and pushes you down to prevent you from wriggling. "You will."

And he's right, you can feel it. It's a slow burn, like petals unfurling, and it feels like you could swallow him whole, the intensity of it turning your legs to jelly. This isn't the kind of release you can chase, all you can do is wait for it, for him to bring you there.

"You feel so good like this, so plump with pleasure," he sighs, rolling his hips into yours. "Let me feel you." Just hearing his voice brings you closer, he's watching and you're so very nearly there, and then your Dream is kissing you, drinking your every sound like a man parched and he's still talking.

"Come with me." He bottoms out then, and it's either the 'with' or the way he swells so deep inside of you that does it, but you do. It's like melting, like falling, but he catches you, holds you there as you go limp underneath him, hardly able to breathe. He hurtles over that edge right along with you, groaning as he does, but the noise your Dream makes right into your mouth is downright filthy.

Being left empty is no less jarring this time around, but you're more interested in him, the damp spot at the crotch of his jeans. He notices you looking, and lets out an amused little huff of not-quite-laughter, leans his forehead to yours.

"Don't worry, my love," he nips at your bottom lip, eyes dark. "I fully intend to have my turn with you still." He leans back in his chair and drops a kiss on the back of your hand. "Enjoy the rest of your gift. I will be waiting for you."

Flopped bonelessly on top of the desk, you do your best to catch your breath and clear your head. If you had known exactly what you were getting into, you might have been a bit more restrained and not asked for all of him like this, but you're not going to back out now. He's not really letting you either, his mind set on giving you exactly what you asked, for better or worse. When the next pair of hands touch you softly, gliding up the back of your legs, you lean into it, refusing to let him get the better of you as you turn to face him.

"Do you need rest?"

Probably.

"No."

"Very well." If he doubts you, he doesn't show it, leaning over to take the tip of your breast into his mouth.

Something about this version of him is a bit too immaculate, too polished. Everything from the too-rich fabrics of his clothes to the touch of makeup around his eyes makes him look decadent, like a dessert that is just a bit too heavy to stomach more than a mouthful of. There is an honest-to-god ribbon in his hair, tied in the most infuriatingly perfect bow you've ever seen. The effect is maddening; he looks like something you'd like to ruin. And judging by the way he looks at you as he kisses his way down your body, he absolutely knows it.

It's a simple thing for him to haul you to the edge of the desk, leaving you open to him. All his finery makes him look entirely out of place kneeling between your legs, but you can't quite find it in you to care as he kisses you there softly, giving your clit a little flick with the tip of his tongue. Everything is just this side of too sensitive and you flinch away on pure reflex, but he doesn't let you close your legs, keeping them apart with his hands.

His breath is hot on you as he gently laps at you, soothes you with his tongue, almost impossibly soft. Rather than devour you he cleans you, his eyes fixed on yours as he takes every part of you inside his mouth, working his way from the outside in. And in.

The way his cheeks hollow as he sucks at you is nothing short of obscene. The sight alone is enough to make you want him all over again but then he opens his mouth, shows you his tongue coated in his own release and you throb. Watching his adam's apple bob as he swallows makes your mouth go dry and you're not sure what kind of noise you just made but it must have been something to make him smirk at you like that. When he puts his mouth on you again, you bury your fingers in his too-perfect hair.

He is nothing if not determined, wholly uncaring of the fact that you're nearing the limit of how much more you can take. Slipping first one finger into you, then another he sighs, kissing the inside of your thigh.

"I love seeing you like this, all undone for me."

When he puts your aching clit between his lips and gives it a few slow gentle sucks, you can't help clawing at him until the ribbon in his hair comes loose.

"Morpheus, please!" Everything is hazy around the edges and you're not sure if you're begging for more or less or something else entirely, "please, oh please, pl..."

And then there is a mouth on yours, muffling your cries, hands cradling your face. There is almost too much of him like this, so much to touch and his other self is still devouring you like you're the sweetest thing he's ever tasted until you're a quivering mess under his tongue, tense like a bowstring. It's a slow kind of falling apart and you can barely make a sound as he wrenches your release out of you, dragging it out hot and slow, bordering on painful. His hands are the only thing holding you up as he kisses you as if he could swallow you, take you into himself and keep you there.

When the waves of pleasure recede it's almost a relief, finally letting you breathe. Opening your eyes, you think for a split second that you might cry, the way he's looking at you is so soft. No tears fall, but your love for him rises and swells in your chest until it feels like you might burst at the seams, choking you as you wind your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair.

"Take me to bed? Please?"

And he does, they both do. You want to undress him, to peel him out of all those layers, you do, but you're shaking and your fingers can't quite obey, fumbling the buttons until he simply lets all of it fade away and you're pressed between both of them with nothing separating you.

It's a remarkably tender thing, the way they tangle their limbs with yours, kissing every inch of your skin like you're something precious. You vaguely remember how he said that he wanted you "lucid enough to enjoy" but that isn't what he ends up getting, not quite. He doesn't seem to mind though, even as he puts you on your hands and knees.

Despite the exhaustion starting to set in, having his cock right in front of your face like this is a temptation, one you don't bother fighting. Even your mouth feels clumsy as you take him in, wanting him in any way you can get. When his other self starts easing into you from behind you can't keep a whine back, overstimulated nearly to the point of tears.

"Shhh, just let me..." He whispers, pressing kisses to your back, long hair sliding over your skin like strands of silk, "just let me..."

And you do, letting him sink in as far as he will go. He rocks against you so gently, like he's worried you might break. At this rate, it feels like you might. Trapped between the both of them like this, the only thing you can really do is let them, let him, use you. When he puts his hand between your legs and starts stroking you, it feels like he might actually drive you mad.

"Just one more, my sweet," he whispers, his breath tickling the back of your neck, "one more for me, then you can rest."

Every slide of his finger over your swollen clit feels like ice, like fire, and you can't even move away. You feel like a worn-out spring being wound up too tightly, but he is utterly determined to coax one more climax out of you, not stopping even when you start whimpering. When your walls start fluttering around him, weakly at first, you swirl your tongue shakily over the tip of his cock, the shared sensations making him moan.

"You're doing so well," he pants, stroking your hair with a not-quite-steady hand.

You can tell that he's just as close as you are, swelling inside you and on your tongue, and you want him to come with you, properly this time. The noise he makes as you take him into your throat is a shattered thing, he's barely holding on and his eyes are black and that finally makes the tension inside you snap with a strength that wracks your entire body. When you swallow it's more on reflex than anything else but it's enough to push him over the edge right along with you, pulsing down your throat and in your cunt with a sound that isn't exactly human, either.

As you come down from your high everything is a bit of a blur, every part of your body is aching as the tension finally drains out of you. The only thing you have energy for is collapsing on the bed in an ungraceful heap. He wastes no time pulling you to him though, chest heaving for breath you know he doesn't strictly need. When you start shivering, he conjures a blanket to cover you, holds you close. He's never been a selfish lover but the tenderness of the gesture still makes your heart constrict in something like pain, knowing he might not be there for your next birthday. You've always known what he is so you try not to mourn prematurely, covering your worry with humour instead.

"Dream?"

"Yes, my love?" He kisses the top of your head softly, content for now.

"Do Endless have birthdays?"

[uravitypng]

𝐈 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇: 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

pairing: denki kaminari x reader, (hanta sero x reader)

word count: 4.5k

content warnings/things in part three: everyone is oblivious to everyone's feelings, jealous/needy denki, shopping at the beginning but i'm not specific on describing exactly what been brought just that it's slightly shorter than what the reader would typically buy, reader's social battery drains quickly, reader has some resentment towards jirou and only ever calls them jirou sfdhhsvjg, written with a chubby reader in mind (smut in later chapters/+18)

a/n: i hope you all enjoy part three, this is the longest part so far and i'm not really sure if i like all of it but i think i do! i'm so excited for the this series to carry on. let me all know what you think about this chapter!

i talk too much summery: it's terrible when you're in love with your best friend. it's terrible that he's in love with someone else.

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In a weeks time is the charity gala event that's held every year for heroes and if someone doesn't go it certainly looks bad on them. If they're not on patrol or wrapped up in hero work they should be there, especially if they're big names or retired big names. You may not be the number one hero but you're noticeable and you're a big enough name to make it a problem if you didn't turn up which is not the best for you. Every year is the same, spending hours picking and trying on outfits only to wear once, a smile plastered on your face all night that makes your cheeks hurt when you get home, heels so high you feel as tall as Mt Lady and this year is the same problem.

Denki already has a car hired to take you both to the event in case either of you want to drink and because he knows you walking so far in heels would likely be a disaster.

You've been fretting for days now about the gala, you still haven't brought a dress for the night and shopping for clothes really does not bode well for your self esteem. You prefer buying clothes online so you don't have to go to stores and try clothes on but sizes on websites can sometimes be wrong and they look different than advertised.

You know you shouldn't compare yourself to your friends and your colleagues but you can't help stop yourself, they spend so much money and time getting ready in comparison to you it makes you stand out when you think you don't look as good as them or you don't spend hours doing your hair. You care about your appearance at these events but they make your esteem plummet, you always think your friends look better than you, dress better than you and look more desirable than you.

Now you don't want to people to get the wrong idea, you don't really care about desirability, actually you care very little about it but it might make Denki do a double take for once, maybe he might even do a double take and make a flirtatious comment. That's the kind of desirability you want. You don't wish to become on a list of the hottest bachelorette pro heroes, if anything you want to only be considered 'hot' to a few people but to the rest of the world you want to be called something different, something other than desirable. You want to be called a pro hero who's amazing at her job, especially in away missions, a pro hero that if you hear a commotion and see a crime taking place down the road you spring right into action even if you're not on duty. Just referring to you as desirable would be a disservice.

But for some reason, with this gala, you agreed to let Mina help find you a dress and you're already regretting it as she calls you after she's finished work asking if you're ready to go shopping. You had no idea she wanted to go today and you were so close to cancelling. You couldn't help it, it's like being thrown into the deep end but not only can you not swim but you're also allergic to the water. Having no time to prepare to get in the right mindset to go shopping definitely put you on edge but you agree all the same knowing that you've got to get it over and done with and Mina might not accept the decision of you cancelling and drag you out anyway.

"Hey! Ready to go shopping?" Mina calls as she see's you.

"Not particularly."

She laughs at your reply, "that's my girl. Lets go! I have a couple styles in mind."

Mina's already brought what she's going to wear, she brought it months ago but when you asked for help she dropped every plan that she could possibly cancel to help you. You've never asked her or anyone else, for that matter, to help you shop for clothes before so she couldn't help but be excited at the prospect of helping you choose something amazing.

She has a plan in mind, something you're comfortable in, she loves you and she wants you to feel comfortable but she also wants you to feel confident. Luckily Mina still gives you some control of the situation, letting you decide the store. There's only a few shops around that cater to your size so you visit the one you like most.

Two hours later you're still in the dressing room, surrounded by expensive clothes that are mostly in black, because 'everyone looks good in black', as Mina keeps passing you new ones to try. You reluctantly stay until you find one. You like it, in fact you love it but if you said that out loud you might change your mind about it. It's slightly more fitted than the ones you typically go for and it shows slightly more skin. It's out of your comfort zone for sure and something you'd definitely not pick to wear without Mina but you're glad she came along.

Tonight's the night of the gala and Denki's waiting in the living room for you and he's so very close to knocking on your door to see if you're nearly ready but he knows that would not be a good idea, you'd be sour all night and would stay away from him so he waits as patiently as he can.

When you come out the room he's so very glad he didn't rush you. The dress you're wearing is different to what he's used to and what he expected you to wear. Seeing Denki's reaction but not recognising his look on his face you assume the worse and pull your dress down as low as you can. After seeing this Denki rushes out to reassure you, "you look lovely 'doll. You ready to go?" It's rare that Denki compliments specifically your appearance or outfits. Fiddling with your fingers and shifting from side to side you answer, "Thank you, Denks. You look lovely too. I'm ready, are you?"

Denki really does look nice. He's wearing a black notch lapel suit meaning the suit has a triangular shape V because of the sewing of the lapels into the collar of the jacket. He's not wearing a tie but he's wearing cufflinks, if you look close enough you can see that they're the ones you brought him when you all left UA, they're silver circles with a yellow lightning bolt on them.

He holds out his arm for you to take and with a cheeky smile on his face asks, "ready mademoiselle?"

Accepting his arm, "ready monsieur."

Arriving at the gala gives you other reasons why you dreaded it. This year there are more camera's outside than normal and you wonder why. It makes you anxious, you're use to the camera's you just don't like them. Denki places his hand on the small of your back and falls in step beside you, in doing so calming you down and giving you security. You dreaded the noise and how busy it was. You started scouting the hall, looking out for any of your friends, maybe even catch up with your old classmates.

"I found people, let's go." Still holding onto the small of your back he guides you through the crowd. You were already on edge with the surroundings and all those cameras but then your mood drops as you spotted where he was taking you both, right to Jirou. There was more than just Jirou there, but you knew that's why he's going over, not because Hanta's and Ejirou's over there, both of you see them all the time, and it's not because Yaomomo or Katsuki and Ochaco are over there either, it's for Jirou. He complimented you at the beginning of the night and your stomach fluttered with butterflies but now you'll have to watch him flirt all night with someone else, someone who neither of you have seen in so long so it's awful to think about how much he'll be talking to her and about her in the following weeks.

"Heyo," Hanta calls when he see's you, making you grin wide as he holds his hand up for you to high five.

You perk up at his anticts at high five him back, "Heyo."

There's a collection of greetings from everyone. Momo complimenting your dress and you saying back that Mina helped you, Uraraka saying she missed you as you hug her.

Bakugou saying he didn't he sees you all the fucking time, causing you to smack him lightly on the back of his head while grinning. "Don't be like that that Katsuki." He scowls at you and makes a dismissive sound before calling you a dumbass.

Denki exchanges pleasantries with everyone, you were too wrapped up in your conversation with Kiri and Hanta to even notice that he hadn't flirted or made any kind of comment towards Jirou at all.

"You look beautiful," Kiri says earnestly making your heart warm.

"Yes, you look very hot. I'm liking the dress." Hanta adds on.

You chuckle, "thank you Kiri and when did you become such a creep Han."

"I'm simply making an observation," Hanta replies causing you to try, and fail, at controlling your laughing volume sounding a lot louder than you intended to be.

Hanta looks good too, all your friends do.

Bakugou's wearing his hero costume colours in a suit, his hair slightly more tamed and he has pencilled eyeliner on his lash line like his mask, you'd put money that his publicist from the agency made him wear it all.

Most of your friends have gone with their hero costume colours with Ochaco wearing an all pink flowy dress that goes down to her ankles, Kiri wearing a suit similar to the one he wore at I-Expo, Momo a red fitted dress and Jirou wearing a longer dress catered to her aesthetic, but Hanta, well Hanta looked really good.

Hanta was wearing a cool dark grey tone unstructured blazer his dress shirt had the first button undone. How someone can look this good but keep it simple, classy and somewhat casual in formal wear is beyond you.

Denki watches you make conversation with Hanta and his jaw clenches as he wonders why you're talking to him when there's people you haven't seen in months or close to a year, yet you're choosing to talk to Sero who you saw earlier this week. Is this why you're wearing that dress? For him?

Denki wants your attention, wants you to focus your attention back on him. "I'm going to get us drinks. Do you want to come?"

You were about to decline but you feel him hold your wrist loosely in his hand and you look and see an expression on your face that you know too well, it's the look that he gives you when he wants you to agree with something so desperately. His 'puppy dog eyes' look. You don't speak for a second, all the background noise fades away as you try and understand why he wants you to come with him so bad and that's when you connect that he's standing next to Jirou and something might have happened or someone might have said something insensitive to him.

He pulls your hand a bit and lowers his voice, "please."

"Of course Denki," you nod. "I'll follow you anywhere," you tell him softly and honestly. Your heart starts racing as you realised what you said. You've said stuff like this to him before and you always mean it truthfully, you'll follow him anywhere. You'd follow him to the end of the world and knowing your luck it could happen. He can be so oblivious, like with how you truly feel towards him that he might not even notice he was at the end of the world until you pointed it out to him. You hope that Denki can't feel your pulse racing while he's holding onto you.

He doesn't notice, he's too relieved that you agreed to go with him, that you chose to go with him instead of staying with everyone else, instead of staying with Sero. "We're going to get drinks, we'll see you guys later." Before you can say your goodbyes he's gently but firmly pulling you to the bar. You want to make a joke about his haste to get away from the conversations everyone's having but you don't know if that would be appropriate with whatever he's feeling right now and with whatever happened.

He drags you to one of the stools and orders your favourite drink. "Are you okay Denki?"

"Just peachy," he didn't mean it to sound sarcastic, he didn't mean it to come out at all. He wanted to tell you that he's fine, to assure you that with you next to him he's having a good night but he's vexed and frustrated.

"Did...Did something happen Denks? With Jirou? Or... Um something else?" You wearily question.

He turns his head around to face you so quickly it's a wonder how he didn't get whiplash. "Why would something happen with Jirou?" He looks quizzically at you, having no idea why you're bringing her up.

You became equally confused as you see his expression. "I thought maybe something happened and you wanted to get away from her." You take a sip of your drink, using it as an excuse to look away from him.

"Nothing happened with Jirou or anyone. I just wanted to spend time with you," he says while running his hand through his hair, you look up just in time to see him and cuss him out in your head for looking so attractive.

If you were anyone else you would have asked him further questions but you're use to this by now, his confusing statements that always leave you wondering why he wants something. If you were anyone else you would have wondered why he didn't want to spend time with any of the others or spend time with Jirou, the girl he's mad about. Instead he wants to spend his time with you when he see's you every single day but by this point you're use to it. When he says random things and constantly wants your attention, really living up to the 'puppy dog eyes.'

"Let's live together."

"Are you sure you want to live with me Denki. I mean we've got enough money to buy our own places." he convinced you that living together would be the best decision you would ever make, it was.

You were tidying up the house one day when Denki came up behind you scaring you. "Come shopping with me." you put your hands on your hips and turn to face him.

"Now why on earth would I do that Denks, it's your turn to go shopping."

"It's no fun without you though." you agree but grumble about how it's his turn and you're going to both go together next time. he happily agrees like that was part of his plan all along.

you hear clutter in the living room as Denki's searching for all the takeout menu's. "let's order in tonight."

"I've got a date remember.

"Yeah I do but he's ugly and I'm better. Pizza?"

When you and Denki went to watch a film at the cinema, you run into Eijirou and you stopped to talk for awhile, arranging to all hang out later tonight as you were all free. Denki flicks your hand. "pay attention to me."

Denki casually tells you, "if we're not married by the time we're 40 we should get married," causing you to spit out your tea. "Two pros getting married will boost both our ratings up like crazy, the look on our parents faces when we tell it's a publicity stunt though will be interesting, pretty sure my parents like you better than they like me. Mina and Kirishima are planning to do the same thing."

"Bold of you to assume i'm going to make it 40." You chuckle.

You don't see the angry look on his face as replies, "you better."

You giggle, "you just can't live without someone paying attention to you every hour of every day." In a normal setting your heart would be bursting out of your chest but you knew he didn't mean what he said, it surprised you but after you got over the initial shock it was fine. He's just been listening to Kirishima too much. Plus both of your ratings are good enough as it is and there is already speculation of you both together.

"You'll stay with me right?" Denki takes a sip of his drink and looks hopeful at you.

"All night." You respond before stealing his drink and tasting it, scrunching your nose in disgust, "Denks, this is gross."

You stay together alone for the majority of the night at the bar before you decide it's probably in both your best interests to mingle. The whole time Denki stays attached to you, staying by your side.

It's now getting late and you start wondering if it would be appropriate for you to take your leave. The gala hasn't ended but it could be on all night for all you know. You've seen some heroes leave but Denki's next to you smirking at a joke Mic said and you have a feeling this is going to be a long night.

You're trying to keep up with everyone, with Denki, but it's hard with your social battery draining. You excuse yourself from the conversation to go to the bathroom, although it's just an excuse for you to take a deep breath and be away from all the noise and chatter.

After a couple minutes you head back out of the bathroom and go out to find Denki when you hear Hanta calling your name. Before you can comprehend what you're doing your legs walk and you go to Hanta. He's standing on his own which is surprising, due to the charismatic and social butterfly he is.

"You look tired."

"Gee, thanks Hanta. Did you call me over just to say that?"

"Oh snappy aren't you? I didn't mean it as a bad thing, I promise. I'm just surprised you're still here that's all."

"Well I'm surprised you're here alone." You reply, you know you're being short with him but you're just so drained and it feels like he's teasing you.

He doesn't take any offence to your tone and short replies.

"Actually I was with Midoriya but I left when I saw you to come talk to you."

"Oh." you mumble.

"You look super drained, why haven't you gone home yet?" He questions gently as to try and let you know he's coming from a place of caring and he's not teasing you.

"Denki's having fun." You nod your head to where he is, where he's animatedly telling a story to Hawks.

"Hmmm, do you want me to take you home." Sero leans closer to you. He's so tuned in on your feelings and your needs, he always just knows.

You look up to see him softly smiling at you, "you look really nice tonight Hanta."

He chuckles and pulls you closer so you're leaning against him. "Thank you pretty girl, but that's not what i asked is it?" he strokes your knuckles with his thumb as he mumbles under his breath about how you're too tired.

"You really would take me home Han? You're having a good time though." you ask quietly, not sure if you want to go home but if you were more awake and socially aware you'd be calling Hanta your saviour right now for the offer.

"You're more important. If you want me to take you home I will."

Neither of you are aware but you're being watched, if Denki saw you he'd come marching up and drag you away but he's so invested in the conversation he's having that he doesn't know where you are. The people who do see however are Katsuki, Mina and Kiri and that's not the best people to see because right now Mina is jumping to every possible conclusion.

Mina may be the worst person to see this innocent act other than Denki but at the same time Kirishima is hardly any better as he's thinking about every interaction he's seen you two have together and every word you've spoken about each other. Katsuki is the one telling Mina to 'leave it alone', 'it's not a big deal', 'it's probably nothing' and to 'forget about it'. He makes a quick glance around the room trying to spot Kaminari. He knew you and Sero were close but not this close. He thought that you and Kaminari have been dating for years and have been lying to everyone who asks about it. Dating as a pro was hard so he just assumed you two kept it super under the radar from everyone, including your friends. He never pushed either of you on the subject.

"Bakugou, there's no way there isn't something going between those two! Of course it's a big deal and of course I'm going to talk about it! Do you think they're dating or that they're just into each other?" Mina whispers loudly and excitedly. "Oh my god! She asked me to help her buy a dress, do you think that was because of Sero?" She directs the question to Kirishima knowing that they live close together and he's more likely to entertain her questions.

He doesn't want to get involved in you and Sero's relationship, it wouldn't be manly of him but he does wonder why neither of you have never mentioned anything to him before. He thinks about Kaminari and how it gives him a weird feeling. By the way you're leaning against each other now right now and talking close so that only each other can hear he has to admit it that it does look rather intimate.

"Don't forget guys, they're both always very touchy with people, not just with other." He's trying to rationalise it and you do always touch Kaminari and fall asleep on Sero and hug Mina, but when Sero leans down closer to talk to you it puts Bakugou and Kirishima on edge, Mina is ecstatic for her friends but Bakugou and Kirishima are now hyper-aware that Kaminari is in the room.

You look around the room trying to find Denki. "Want to wait for Denki."

Hanta straightens his posture and takes a deep breath but you're none the wiser. "Are you sure? He might be here for hours. I don't want you to collapse out of exhaustion."

"I'm sure Han," you whisper. "I'll.. I'll, wait for him. He shouldn't be too long. Thank you though, you're the best."

Right on cue, Denki turns around and looks at you, his eyes hardens when he see that you leaning against Hanta but as soon as you see him you beam from ear to ear, softening Denki's gaze. He excuses himself from the conversation he's having and starts to go over to you. Hanta noticed Denki, "I think Kaminari might take you home, he looks pretty displeased right now."

You giggle, "he's been a bit more protective of late. I think it's because our patrol times have been different and we haven't seen each other much. Hopefully soon it will be back to normal."

"Hey 'doll, hey Sero. What are you guys up to?"

You move off of Hanta, "can we go home soon Denki, 'm tired."

Denki's heart nearly breaks as he see's how drained you are and how drained you must have been for ages. "I'm sorry babydoll, I've been so wrapped up talking to everyone. I promise I'll make it up to you, let's go home yeah?" you nod your head and wave bye to Hanta.

Denki knows he should probably say goodbye to everyone individually but right now all he cares about is getting you back home. "Can you tell everyone we left and said bye Hanta," Denki requests.

"Sure thing dude. See you guys later, get home safe."

Denki holds your hand and intertwines your fingers with his before guiding you out.

The three onlookers were still watching the interaction, all with their drinks in their hand with Bakugou and Kirishima breathing a sigh of relief, when, from the distance it looked like everything was okay between Kaminari and Sero.

"Do you think she loves him?" Mina asks as she watches you follow Denki.

"Who?" Kirishima observes you leave.

"Kaminari." Mina responds having not taken her eyes off you since you started making your way to the door.

"Leave it raccoon eyes."

"it's just a question Bakugou." Mina retorts.

Kirishima sighs as he answers, "it's not any of our business Mina."

"They're our friends Kirishima."

"Yes and because of that we're staying out of it." As they were watching they were caught by Sero, making accidental eye contact with him. Everyone quickly looks away.

Denki takes you home and on the way he keeps apologising. "Please don't say sorry Denks." You squeeze his hand that you're still holding.

He turns to you and moves some of your hair out of the way of your face and delicately tucks it behind your ear, "'doll I am so sorry, and I need to apologise. I should have been more aware and have been making sure you're okay. I know how quickly your social battery drains, especially compared to mine, I should of been checking up on you," he's looking you in the eye, you think he must be tired too because his eyes are slightly watery. He presses your foreheads together and says so quietly it's a surprise you even heard him apoligise again, "I'm sorry."

You keep the same energy as he does and keep your foreheads together still touching, "it's okay Denki, I promise. You're here now. Plus Hanta was making sure I was okay."

Denki changes position and turns his head away from you, "yeah, but it should have been me."

Come the following morning Kirishima and Mina have completely forgot the conversation they had the previous, they had too much to drink and their memory of the end of the night is fuzzy only remembering pieces. Bakugou didn't drink at all, he remembers everything. He won't say anything to anyone.

You wake up to Denki entering your room with a tray and a huge gleeful grin on his face, "breakfast in bed! Made just for you." You rub your eyes slowly waking up, "I let you sleep in but I'm off today and so are you, so I thought we could spend the day together."

You groan, "five more minutes."

"I thought you'd say that," Denki chuckles and places the tray on your bedside table, "budge up, if you're going back to bed, I'm waiting here until you do." You groan as you make room for him. If you were more awake you would be internally screaming that Denki Kaminari, your best friend and the man you love is currently sitting next to you in bed but you're already half asleep.

tag list: @xnorthstar3x @st4r-girl-official @potatoboiasta

(everyone in my tag list that wanted to be tagged disappeared? i think they deleted their accounts or something, if i find them i'll tag them, let me know if you want to added to my tag list! )

[peachy-panic]

The After Party

BBU Hollywood: Chapter 2

I guess this is a whole story now??? We'll see :)

Takes place after THIS.

WARNINGS: BBU, NONCON DRUGGING (LOTS OF IT), bad tripping, mentions of noncon, religious imagery and trauma, rich assholes and the hollywood elite

The tint on the windows doesn’t do enough to block the camera flashes as the limousine descends into the waiting crowd. Henry squints, turning his gaze forward and away. Beside him, Paul is on his phone, which is a mercy. His preoccupation means Henry can take these last few seconds to collect himself before the start of a very long night—as long as he is able to drown out the absent circles being traced on his upper thigh. Henry is so tired he thinks he might be able to drown out anything. If he only let his eyes close for a second or two, he thinks he might drift enough to—

A pinch on his leg—not hard, but firm enough to get his attention—pulls him back from the edge. Paul ends his phone call without a proper sign-off and shoves his phone into his pocket. Henry watches him carefully, assessing his mood. If the phone call was a bad one, it wouldn’t bode well for the rest of the night. But Paul seems to shrug it off easily as he produces a small, glass vial from inside his jacket. 

Henry grinds his back teeth but forces his expression to remain neutral. 

“Look alive, superstar,” Paul says, sprinkling a line of white powder across the side of his finger. “A lot of eyes on you tonight.”

Henry knows the routine, so he doesn’t hesitate when a finger is placed under his nose. He may even be grateful for it later, before the crash, when the dim lights inside the theater want to make his eyelids droop. For now the familiar sting in his sinuses elicits a few watery blinks. 

“Good boy.” Paul rubs a thumb gently under his eye to wipe away a bead of moisture before it can smudge the bright concealer keeping his dark circles out of sight. Henry lets himself be pulled into a kiss, closing his eyes on cue. It could almost be a comforting gesture of affection, if he lets himself believe it. “You did well today. You’ll do well tonight.”

It is not encouragement, but a command. Henry knows this but as he leans a cheek into the large palm that cradles it, he decides to let himself take small comforts where he can. Pretending, after all, is what Henry does best.

“You’re due for a reward. Maybe next weekend, we can take a trip. Just you and me, huh?” Paul says, smiling. “How does that sound?”

Henry fights to keep his expression in check, even as his stomach roils. Flashes of memory assault in a steady stream: the sticky sweetness of pineapple juice sucked from Paul’s fingers, a pill on his tongue (and another and another), the smell of chlorine and saltwater on Paul’s skin. 

“I’d like that,” Henry says.

His smile—the one that he spent months practicing and polishing and perfecting under the harsh fluorescent lights of the training facility—is plastered on for several seconds before the door swings open, exposing him to the awaiting crowd. 

The roar of sound and light and energy used to send his heart skittering. Now, he lets it wash over him as he steps one leg out of the car, then the other, raising a hand into a robotic wave, and he tell himself this is good. The screaming of the crowd is what he wants, what he needs, because Henry has been made for their adoration, and without it, he is nothing. Their attention is what makes him valuable. It’s what keeps him alive. 

Paul places a hand at the small of his back as he steps out beside him, and Henry’s shoulders roll instinctively at the touch. Shoulders back. Chin lifted. Smile bright. He knows this dance too well to let something like exhaustion make him miss a step. 

“Henry!” A faceless voice cries out from the crowd of photographers. “Give us a smile!”

His beaming smile turns toward the voice like a sunflower growing toward the light. The mechanical movement of his head on his shoulders makes him feel like one of the animatronic figures he was frightened of as a child, hiding his face against his mother’s chest at an amusement park he doesn’t remember the name of. A lifeless imitation of a real human being, uncanny in resemblance but with none of the light behind the eyes. What makes Henry so different from that, really?

***

By the time the film screening is over, and they step out of the theater and into the afterparty ballroom, Henry’s eyes burn with fatigue. The comedown snuck up on him well before the credits rolled, and it was all Henry could do to keep himself awake and aware, pinching his legs in the discrete darkness of the theater. He knows that Paul will pull him aside soon, into some corner booth or a bathroom stall, and give him another bump to get Henry through the rest of the event. He will need it, and at this moment, he craves it. 

Evening has long faded behind them, but the night is just getting started. 

After the second bump, the world moves by him too quickly. The party becomes little more than flashes of light and color, impressions of touch on his back, his arms, his neck, his face. Henry recognizes some of the faces; the usual parade of executives and A-listers that either greet him with hungry fascination or outright indifference. (He might prefer the latter if the fear of falling out of favor of someone’s attention hadn’t been so thoroughly trained into him). 

Eliza Darling is there, of course, dressed to the nines in an elegant red gown and long, black gloves, but she regards her co-star as little more than a prop, a breathing mannequin, as they are pushed together for photo after photo after photo. 

Once the press has gotten their fill, the cameras and media badges begin to filter out of the crowd. That’s always the first sign that the shift is coming. The night will become something different soon. Eliza leaves, too, hung on the arm of this week’s PR arm-candy, not before exchanging tipsy kisses on the cheek with Paul, and one for Henry as well. Just in case any cameras are still lurking nearby. 

It’s not long after that Henry is ushered into the backseat of a limousine. Paul is there, pressed against his side, but there are others as well. The other Hollywood high-rollers—studio executives, the upper echelon of producers on their payroll—and, of course, their contracted Companion stars at their sides, like ornately decorated shadows. Henry recognizes the others. It isn’t yet common practice to employ Companion labor in film and television, and some studios forbid it outright. Maxwell Entertainment has taken no such stance. 

Still, there are only a few of them in the business, and Henry knows each of them with some degree of intimate familiarity. 

Across from Henry and Paul sits Geoffrey Bellmonte, a sitting board member of Maxwell Entertainment, and nuzzled into his neck is a young man Henry knows as Aspen. Henry tilts his head to Paul's shoulder the way he knows he likes and tries to avoid both sets of eyes. 

It’s not often that Henry is made to perform with Aspen—at least not nearly as often as he is with some of the other favored Companions in the Inner Circle—and for this, he is grateful. They still spend plenty of time together in close quarters at events and afterparties like this one, and at each one Henry tries his best to fly under Aspen’s radar. 

He is a lithe, fox-faced beauty, all pointed features and long limbs. Henry knows that some of his features are the product of a customized plastic surgery plan, implemented before his final contract was ever signed, same as all of them, but there is an undeniable natural beauty underneath. The only thing sharper than his cheekbones is his whip-smart tongue. He gets away with more than most in his position. His cutting remarks and cold condescension—often aimed at Henry—are generally met with a level of endeared amusement from the Keepers. 

Several years ago, Aspen was the first contracted Companion to star in a major studio film. His contract used to belong to Paul himself, but everyone knows that Mr. Maxwell prefers to keep fresh talent cycling in. Nobody gets to stay under him for more than a few years if they’re lucky, but if they prove to be a fan favorite onscreen and an equally favored asset behind the scenes, their contract stays within the Inner Circle a little longer. 

It’s a widely known but unspoken truth that Aspen, growing closer to 30 with each passing day, is nearing the end of his welcome. 

After, when they are alone, Paul sometimes attempts to assuage Henry’s hurt feelings with silken promises that Aspen is only cruel to him because he’s jealous. Of Henry’s youth, of his beauty, of his time in the limelight. He sees in you an image of himself that he can never recreate, he tells him, as if someone else’s misery could somehow make Henry feel better. 

They arrive at Paul’s house in the hills a little after 2 a.m., where the exclusive after-after-party has already begun to trickle in. There will only be about thirty to forty people in attendance this time, and much of that crowd will end up dispersing into groups of two or three or more into guest bedrooms and balconies and hot tubs. 

Henry doesn’t know which he will end up in, and it does him no good to try and predict how the night will go ahead of time. 

***

Every light in The Hills House is programmed to change color at the click of a remote. Tonight, every inch is bathed in blood red. 

It’s exactly the kind of dramatic flair Paul Maxwell is known for, in his life and in his work. Henry thinks the red light and shadows make the house look like a nightmare in his memories. 

Still beaded in sweat from the brief three-way exchange he was pulled into on the living room floor, Henry sprawls among a tangle of bodies on the couch. One thigh is hooked over Paul’s lap, while his back leans against the broad chest of an older man he only ever sees at these kinds of parties. Fingers—he isn’t entirely sure whose—card through his damp hair, over and over. Is it pool water or sweat making the strands plaster to his head? He doesn’t remember, but he leans into the soft repetition, letting his eyes drift shut. 

How long has it been since he slept?

Call time was at six this morning—yesterday?—so that means transpo would have been outside to pick him up by five-thirty, and Henry would have had his alarm set by…

“Looks like someone is tapping out early.” Henry peels his eyes open at the saccharine voice, dripping with condescension. His tilted vision converges to form the smiling face of Aspen, who is draped over Geoffrey’s lap in the chaise across from him. “What’s wrong, Henry? Didn’t get enough beauty sleep?”

Paul’s hand lands heavily on his thigh, and the man pressed against his back rumbles with soft laughter. Geoffrey chuckles into the side of Aspen’s neck. The young man tilts his head to the side with practiced ease, opening himself to the affection, but his sharp eyes hold Henry’s the whole time. 

“Sorry,” Henry mutters, mostly for Paul’s benefit. The apology is met with a sharp squeeze, which Henry can interpret as either acknowledgement or warning. He will find out for sure later. 

“Looks like your boy could use another taste, Paulie,” the man under Henry says, the words vibrating through his upper body. 

“You offering?” 

Henry is jostled as the man reaches into his pocket for something just out of his line of sight. Whatever he holds up makes Paul’s eyes light with amusement. 

“How does he do with Lucy?”

Paul reaches over to scratch Henry’s belly, which makes him feel like a pet. “I think that’s a new one for you, sweetheart. Yeah?”

Henry doesn’t know what “Lucy” is, but almost all of his experience with drugs has been in Paul’s presence, so that must be true. He swallows, forcing himself to nod.

Paul’s eyes cut over his head, meeting Sal with a nod. “Go on, then.”

A hand from behind him taps twice on his cheek. “Open up,” he says. Henry obeys, and immediately a small tab that feels like paper is placed on his tongue. “Don’t swallow it. Just let it sit.”

Henry nods again, trying to hide his reaction to the bitter, sharp tang. 

The effect isn’t instantaneous, like it is with the bumps he takes off of Pauls’ fingers. For a long while, Henry lays there with his head on Sal’s lap, staring at the ceiling as the party moves around him. At some point, hands begin to wander again, sliding over his chest, stomach, legs, face, neck. 

Across from him, Geoffrey pulls Aspen into a deep, consuming kiss, but when Henry looks that way, he catches Aspen stealing glances at him. This time, it seems the usual coldness in his expression has been washed out by something he can’t quite identify.

***

Henry wakes up in hell.

It’s not the first time he’s had that thought upon waking, but it’s the first time it’s been true in such a literal sense. 

This is the hell from the Bible, the hell from his childhood, all fire and brimstone gnashing of teeth, and Henry has woken here, consumed by the flames. 

His limbs shoot out in every direction, flailing—or at least he means to? Is his body moving? There is something wrapped around him, suffocating him. Long cascading limbs. No, they’re tentacles. And he’s… He’s so hot. They’re killing him. He has to get free, free, free, free—

The flames stick to his skin like hot wax as he lands on the ground, soft and scratchy under his hands and knees. He crawls forward, desperate to escape the heat. He doesn’t know where he is and the ground gives beneath the weight of his palms, shifting between sand and concrete and carpet. 

Some part of him he doesn’t quite have access to knows there is water, and knows (hopes?) he is heading toward it. It is this thought alone that drags him forward, down winding tunnel-like hallways. Water. Water. 

Water. 

Water. 

Water. 

Light floods his vision. Henry spins around, thinking he’s been caught (by who? Who is he running from?), but he sees his own hand resting on a lightswitch. And then, much to his horror, he watches his fingers melt down the wall like candle wax. That can’t be good. Can it?

He doesn’t care, though, because then there is water! Water! He found it! It runs cold and beautiful over his hands, and then his arms, and then Henry is rubbing it all over his body, splashing it into his hair, on his face. He has never felt happier than at this moment. 

“Shit,” someone says behind him, and Henry watches as the word spells out in front of him in big, white, puffy letters. S H I T. He reaches for them and they dissipate like clouds of smoke. 

“Shit,” Henry whispers. It echoes through the cave behind the waterfall. “I found a waterfall,” he remembers to tell the person standing behind him. He feels it’s important to tell him this. Who is that anyway? Should he know him? “Do you want some water?”

But then the water stops, and Henry is so sad. 

“It’s all over the floor,” The Voice says again. 

Henry looks down at that, and the floor around his feet is squirming with neon-pink, rice-sized worms. They wriggle under his toes, some of them crawling up his ankles, cold and wet and slimy.

Henry begins to cry. 

“Shhhh. Henry, shh.” The shhhhhhhhh moves through the cave like wind, Henry can feel it blowing through his hair. He can’t stop crying. “Henry, listen to me. Look at me, please. You need to be quiet.”

Cold blocks of ice touch his cheeks, Henry leans into the touch but they melt quickly into the warmth of skin. Hands. Somebody’s hands. 

He follows the movement as the hands turn his head, and in front of him stands a tall, skinny man with a fox face. The fox is talking to him. Henry’s eyes are wide, but he can feel the tears burning his face like raining fire, and then he remembers he’s in hell. He lets out a wail. 

The fox says “shit” again. The words don’t appear this time. The bathroom door slams shut. When did they leave the cave?

“Henry, you’re okay. Can you take a few deep breaths for me?”

He listens, picturing his lungs like big, fat balloons inside his body, inflating his chest to twice its size with each breath. The air feels good. 

“Can I have my water back?” Henry asks the fox man. 

“You’re currently covered in it. Maybe let’s try inside the shower this time.”

The shower sounds nice. Put me in the shower, please. Thank you. You have to remember your manners, Handler Rex said. Please and thank you, ma’am and sir, you have to remember your place. 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Just close your eyes and feel the water for a minute. Try to keep breathing.”

The waterfall is back and he is standing directly beneath the stream. It’s nice. 

***

Henry opens his eyes and he’s on the bathroom floor. Aspen sits in front of him in nothing more than a pair of light-blue boxer briefs. 

“Don’t be mean to me,” Henry says. “You’re always mean to me.”

He can’t tell what face Aspen makes at that, because colors start to smear together, dripping like an ice cream cone on a hot day. 

“Maybe your skin is too thin.”

Henry looks down at his arms, turning them over and over. He can see the blood and bones and muscle and sinew beneath the paleness. Shit. Maybe he’s right. 

“Not your actual skin, numbskull. Jesus Christ.”

“Jesus Christ,” Henry echoes in a whisper. He doesn’t think he’s in hell anymore, so that name is probably okay to say here.

“The good news is you probably won’t remember most of this in the morning.”

“You looked like a fox.”

Aspen raises an eyebrow, and it keeps going higher and higher until it disappears into his hairline. Henry blinks and it’s back to normal. 

“A fox, huh? Are you hitting on me now?”

Henry pinches his face together. “No?”

“I know, Henry.”

“Okay. Why are you mean to me, Aspen?”

“Oh god. I’m way too sober for this.”

“Aspen?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.”

“Okay.”

“You’re really fucked up, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m really fucked up.”

“Look, I… I’m sorry, okay? About this. I didn’t mean to prompt that asshole to drug you. If anything, I thought he would just give you another bump to get you through the last couple hours. I didn’t… I knew Paul would get mad if you started snoring on Sal’s lap in the middle of the party.”

There’s too many words. The white, bubble letters try to spell them out, but they start popping like balloons before they can finish a sentence. Henry stares after them, trying to make sense of what’s happening. 

“I don’t really know what you’re saying,” Henry tells him honestly.

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I can say it.”

“Am I going to feel like this forever?” He thinks he might cry again if that’s true. 

“No, Henry.”

H E N R Y. The bubble letters don’t pop this time. They float up and up and up until they disappear into the sky. He doesn’t think that’s his name, but he’s talking so nice and gentle to him, so he doesn’t bother correcting him. 

“It will be over soon. Just close your eyes. I’ll stay right here.”

*****

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[angstywaifu]

The Lost Sister - Part 30

Synopsis: Xaden is known as an only child due to his sister who 'died' during the Rebellion. Little do they know she didn't die and has been so close this entire time.

Garrick Tavis x OC (Ophelia Riorson)

The Lost Sister Masterlist | Masterlist

As the middle of May arrives, so does War Games. Meaning we are fast approaching graduation. Something I had tried to avoid thinking about too much. But it was fast approaching. Meaning Garrick and Xaden leaving was fast approaching. This year was going so fast. It felt like only yesterday I was crossing that parapet and being shoved in front of the stairs in the rotunda. Being reunited with my brother and Garrick. And now we had to face the prospect of being separated again for who knows how long. And with our line of work, there was also the reality we may never see each other again. I shake my head to clear the thoughts from my head. I needed a clear head today. Today was War Games. If I went into this distracted, there was a very real chance I could be killed. It wasn’t uncommon for riders to die during war games. None of us were safe.

”What do you think our assignment is going to be?” Liam asks as we stand in formation in the middle of the courtyard with the rest of Fourth Wing. “Deigh thinks we’re on offense. He won’t stop going on about getting to kick Gleann’s ass-” Pausing as his dragon clearly butts in to say something. “Guess dragons hold grudges.” He whispers.

We certainly do. Mealladh adds, causing me to chuckle.

Anyone in particular you want to get revenge on? I tease.

Mealladh chuckles. No, not yet at least. Though Cath might be tempting to teach her rider to pull his head in.

We might have to get in line for that one.

Ahead of us leadership are gathered, getting their assignments from Xaden. He had know about the task since yesterday and he used his spare time to plan who was going where.

”We’re definitely on offense,” Rhiannon answers, “Otherwise we’d already be in the field.”

I nod in agreeance. “I don’t think I’ve seen a single rider from First Wing since lunch.”

Which did not bode well for us. Out of all the wings, First Wing liked us the least. Mainly Jack Barlowe and his squad. He wasn’t going to forget that Violet had put him in hospital for four days after their challenge a few weeks back. Meaning she would be the most likely target if our squads crossed paths.

”I think you two might be right.” Violet adds as she fidgets with the collar of her uniform. It was a particularly warm day, and we we’re fast approaching summer. I suddenly envied the other quadrants who had far better uniform options than the black leather we wore. “Why do you think riders wear black anyway?”

”Because it’s badass,” Ridoc states from behind us.

”So it’s harder to see if we bleed,” Imogen adds.

”Forget I asked.” Violet mumbles as she turns her attention back to the front.

Any hints as to whats to come? I ask to Garrick who startles slightly as I speak in his mind.

I’m never going to get use to that. He replies as his eyes flicker up to meet mine.

You love it. But you didn’t answer my question.

You’re getting nothing out of me sweetheart. He tells me bluntly as he turns his attention back to the squad leaders in front of him.

Nothing? I can’t tempt you anything? I tease.

I watch as his shoulders tense and his nostrils flair. No

No? Not even me getting down on my knees, my mou-

Stop it! His eyes meeting mine again, desire and need heavily evident in them.

Make me. I tease before severing the connection as the leadership meeting ends, Dain and Cianna heading back to us.

”Which is it?” Heaton asks. “Offense of defense?”

”Both.” Dain states as he stops in front of us. “First Wing has taken a defensive position in one of the practice fort in the mountains, and they’re guarding a crystal egg.”

The older riders in our squad murmur with excitement. Obviously this challenge is far more exciting than ones in the past they have encountered.

”What are we missing?” Ridoc asks as he looks around at the older riders. “Because you guys seem thrilled about an egg.”

”From past years, we know that eggs are worth more points,” Cianna states as she grins enthusiastically. “Flags have statistically been the lowest, and captured professors rank somewhere in the middle.”

As exciting as it would be to try get an actual human out, if it was Carr I would leave him there as long as possible just to make him squirm and suffer.

”But they like to switch it up,” Dain adds. “The same way we could be going for a real objective on the line only to discover its not as valuable as we thought.”

”So how is this both offense and defense? If they have the egg, then clearly we should go get the egg.” Rhiannon adds.

Dain’s excitement peaks with Rhiannons question. “Because we’ve also been given a flag to defend and no outpost to do it in.” He grins widely.

”And we’re carrying it.” I state as a grin of my own spreads on my face.

Dain looks over at me and nods, his grin faltering slightly as our eyes meet. He still wasn’t sure of me, and I don’t blame him. But right now we had to be on the same page.

”And who is going to carry this flag?” Imogen asks.

I don’t know how but Dain manages to smile even wider. “That is going to be the fun part.”

Immediately we jump into formulating a plan. Dain drilling into us the strategy he wants us to follow. It seems Dain had taken something away from out time in Monsteratt with Mira. But our plan was simple and easy to follow. Anything too complicated would have us too focused on trying to remember what to do. All we had to do was play to our individual strengths and pass that flag often, never giving First Wing a chance to spot who was carrying it. An almost perfect chance for me to try use my signet. But could I cast a believable illusion while moving and on a large group of people? That was going to be my test. With two whole wings out there it would be a massive test to see if I could. But if I messed it up, part of my signet would be known to the entire quadrant. Something I did not want.

It’s a risk worth taking. It will not be easy, but if we focus I have no doubt you can pull this off. Mealladh states as I meet her eyes as we walk into the flight field.

One way to find out then. I state back as I smile at her.

”We’re going to win.” Rhiannon states confidently as she puts her arms around Violet and I.

”What makes you so sure?” Violet asks nervously.

”We have you two, Tairn, Mealladh, Riorson and Sgaeyl. And obviously me.” She grins. “There is no way we’re losing this.”

”You are certainly-” Violet’s words die as Tairn comes into full view.

He’s standing proud and tall at the front of the section next to Mealladh. Dain’s dragon Cath pushed easily to the side to accommodate them. A glint on Tairn’s chest catches me eye. A buckle. On Tairn’s back is a saddle. A saddle made to help Violet keep her seat. That sneaky bastard.

”That’s…. That’s a saddle.” She stutters out.

”That’s cool, that’s what that is.” I tell her.

”Yeah, and it looks way more comfortable than Feirge’s bony spine, I’ll tell you that. See you two up there.” Rhiannon says before pushing past us and heading off to mount her own dragon.

I turn and walk over to Mealladh, leaving Tairn and Violet be to have whatever conversation they are having.

She’s not going to be happy with you. I tell Xaden who is walking over to Violet.

He meets my gaze and shrugs. It will keep her alive and let Tairn do what he needs to do. She will learn to like it.

I shake my head at him. Fucking mated dragons.

He gives me a vulgar gesture before walking past me to Violet who still looks shocked at the saddle that now adorns Tairn. I have to give it to my brother, he had thought of anything and everything to keep that girl alive. And honestly this was the best one I had seen yet. Hell I kind of wanted one, but I had not problems keeping my seat and I doubt Mealladh would tolerate it.

You would be correct. But if it kept you alive I would do my best to tolerate it. She states as I run up and mount her.

That might be one of the nicest things you’ve said to me.

I don’t have to look at her to see she’s rolled her eyes at me. As I settle in my seat I look forward to see Garrick mounted on Chradh looking over at me. I can tell from here how excited he is about this War Games. It would be challenging to do offense and defence, but we could pull it off. I feel his presence reaching out for me, clearly wanting to communicate before we take off.

You’re going to use your signet aren’t you?

Of course I am. It’s going to give us the upper hand with that flag. I tell him sternly. I was not backing down on not using my signet. I needed to learn to use it in real life situations.

I see him nod his head slightly. I know there’s no point in telling you Riorson’s not to do something, but please be careful with it. We can’t have everyone knowing what you can do.

If it means winning, I’ll do whatever it takes. And I know you will to.

I don’t doubt that. You just keep that flag safe sweetheart, and I’ll make sure Xaden or I get that egg.

How about this. You make sure you get that egg and you might just get a reward tonight. I tease, knowing he will do anything and everything to make sure he gets that egg.

A reward? What kind of reward? He practically growls in my head.

Get that egg and you’ll find out.

And with that Mealladh and I launch into the air, leaving a very shocked and dumbfounded Garrick down below.

@riorgail @going-through-shit @fw-gt @bbkissme99 @xceafh @leptitlu @came-to-laugh-but-cried @onthewaytotimbuktu @daardyrnitta @lovemesomevesey @mxtokko @krowiathemythologynerd @callsign-blue @1islessthan3books @side-angel @wolfbc97 @just-an-ace-elf

[buckevantommy]

what sort of bucktommy pda do you think we'll get with the new episode?

part of me wants to go in with low expectations so i won't be disappointed, but the rest of me (the majority) is thinking like this:

it's going to be couples a-plenty at the ceremony (madney, bathena, henren, eddie/marisol, bucktommy) which i think bodes well for something with bucktommy, because we know there will be pda all around them (madney rose dance, henren lack of personal space, eddie and marisol) and so to not let bucktommy have any pda would look.. weird. it would make them look like coworkers/friends and we know buck and tommy don't want that - everyone knows they're together and they want to be out together - and that's not the vibe we've been given so far; tommy's hand on the small of buck's back, the cafe hand holding, the sooty public kiss - it wouldn't make sense for them to remove all romantic touches now.

the only reason i foresee them holding back at the ceremony would be because they're both in uniform (all the other couples only have half in their blues) and maybe that's frowned upon? although if it were a het couple i'm sure that wouldn't be a hindrance and this is fiction so they can fudge whatever details they want. i suppose gerrard's presence might deter tommy putting his hands on buck, but honestly I don't think so - or at least, i don't want to see that happen. they can give me tommy being affected by gerrard's presence, but i don't think i'd accept him stepping back in the closet because of it, and even if tommy was hesitant to touch buck i think buck would still touch him.

so: what kind of bucktommy pda will we get?

1 - they're seated next to each other in the audience, so i'm thinking maybe a knee touch of comfort/pride.

2 - tommy's hand on the small of buck's back when they leave the podium or are mingling and getting cake.

3 - lack of personal space, plastered to each other's side even for a moment; maybe even leaning into each other.

4 - if tommy encounters gerrard and is shaken by it, we might see buck asking if he's okay with a hand on the small of his back, or his arm, maybe even hand-holding.

^^^^ those are the bare minimum types of pda i'd expect. but if we're talking about raising hopes a little:

a - holding hands, maybe while entering the station for the ceremony, maybe in the crowd after.

b - a KISS !! congratulatory after the ceremony, soft and sweet and brief but it's there.

c - soft intimate touches: adjusting the medals around each other's neck, fingertips tracing over hands, close-talking with lips grazing an ear, close-talking with noses brushing cheeks.

...i could go on. basically, there are a myriad of touches they could give us that wouldn't pull focus but which would once again remind the audience that they are dating, they are a romantic pairing, they are ✨ thriving ✨ and given that other romantic pairings around them are allowed some pda i think we'll get something from our boys, i'm just not sure what exactly.

[soupandsorcery]

"Astarion and I had a conversation about you once," Ciro says, seemingly apropos of nothing. They're stoking the fire higher in the hearth to ward away the chill in the air. Astarion is in the bath, which he'd promptly claimed for the next 'hour--no, two. Actually, just come check that I haven't drowned if you don't see me before bed'. Gale is sitting on the bed, making a face at the way it squeaks, even though the three of them have stayed in much worse places than this.

"Do I want to know?" Gale asks, and Ciro can feel him watching them. They've grown to learn the differences between the way Gale and Astarion look at them, though they both manage to convey their own hungry sort of awe with just their eyes.

Ciro smiles and feeds another small, neatly split log into the fireplace. "It wasn't bad. It was complimentary even. For Astarion."

"Oh, I'm sure that was interesting. Tell me."

The bed squeaks, and Ciro turns to see Gale lounging. He's shucked off his outer robe, and is just in a tunic and pants. For a man who looks so good in finery, Ciro thinks they might like him best when he's dressed down and comfortable. He looks more approachable then. More touchable.

"It was a little while after he bit me for the first time," Ciro explains. "And he was saying that after tasting me, he was wondering what the rest of our group might taste like. I think he compared you to a fine, well aged brandy."

Gale's eyebrows lift and something sparks in his eyes. It's curiosity, the same light he gets when he's about to spend the next few hours buried in books, chasing down some obscure spell or reference.

"Really?" he asks. "That is high praise from Astarion."

"I told you." Ciro smiles and comes to join him on the bed. It's going to be a tight fit for the three of them, but when the inn keeper offered them two rooms to divide up, they'd quickly declined. "I agreed that you'd probably taste very good."

Gale's cheeks go pink, and Ciro laughs softly. For a man who can weave erotic magic like no one they've ever met before, sometimes the simplest things make him blush. And maybe that makes sense. Maybe Gale has spent so much time with the grand and the ethereal that the small and mundane still manage to catch him off guard.

It bodes well for Ciro then, small and mundane as they are.

"What is it like?" Gale asks, sitting up on his elbows. "When he bites you?"

"It hurts," Ciro answers truthfully. "But that part is over quick. Then it just feels sort of...warm. Woozy. But Astarion always makes it a seduction. You know how he is." Gale nods. "He's good at distracting me from the pain of it and making it into something more tender."

Gale's eyes are very warm now, lit by the firelight and the heat of his curiosity and desire. "What does he do?" he murmurs. "Paint me a picture."

"That's not my thing." Of the three of them, Ciro is the worst with words, but they try anyway. "He kisses the spot where he bites me, and his hands wander. I don't really think about the pain when he's stroking me...you know."

Now their cheeks are on fire, a splash of red across their pink skin. Gale is still gazing at them intently, like he's expecting more, and Ciro feels the heat from the fire and the thump thump thump of their heart.

"Words are all well and good, Gale darling," a drawling voice interrupts them. "But they're no comparison to the richness of experience. Wouldn't you agree?"

Astarion emerges from the separate bathing area, draped in nothing but low slung pants. His pale skin glistens in the firelight, and his hair is damp and even curlier from the steam. He looks like a treat, but then, he always does.

He catches Ciro looking and smiles, small and tender, before winking at them.

"You ah-- You might have a point," Gale says, clearing his throat. "And I have been thinking about it."

"Really?" Astarion's eyebrows climb up his forehead. "I...didn't think you were interested."

"I wasn't. At first. Not that I'm opposed to you feeding yourself, of course, but Ciro had it well covered, and. Well, I'll admit I was being a bit of a baby about the pain aspect of it. But Ciro makes it sound very intriguing. And I've seen the way they look when you're finished with them."

"How I look? How do I look?" Ciro asks, glancing between the two of them.

"Soft, sleepy," Gale says at the same time Astarion purrs, "Ruined."

It's enough to make them blush darker, and then groan, falling face first into one of the pillows on the bed. "You're the worst," they mumble.

"Which of us are you talking to?" Astarion wants to know.

"Take your pick."

He chuckles, a low, rolling sound that does things to Ciro's body and their heart. It's not fair that he's so casually attractive. Or that Ciro is so easily flustered.

"Leave them alone," Gale says fondly.

"Alright, I'll turn my attention back to you then," Astarion replies. "Are you actually interested in seeing what it's like? I won't be offended if it's more of an...idle curiosity."

Gale is quiet for a moment, and Ciro can practically hear him thinking. "I suppose I should try it, shouldn't I? I can hardly be involved with a vampire without letting a little blood every now and then, right?"

"Well, you could. It's hardly a requirement. But I won't deny that I am still ravenously curious to find out what you taste like."

Ciro snorts into the pillow at the word choice and gets poked in the side for their trouble. Their men and their drama.

"We'll call it an experiment, shall we?" Gale declares. "I'll try it, and if I don't like it, no harm, no foul."

"No harm, no foul," Astarion agrees. "I should have done this better when it was my first time with Ciro. You won't be offended if I make this a little more romantic for our dear Gale, will you, pet?"

Ciro sits up and finds Astarion looking at them intently. It's an honest question, they realize, from the way Astarion looks at them and the little furrow of anxiety between his brows.

"I won't be offended," they promise him. "You've more than made up for it."

Astarion smiles, reaching for Ciro's hand to kiss the back of it before sweeping around the room. He grabs one of the chairs from the little side table and puts it near the fire, then stands in the center of their rented room with his hands on his hips. His eyes flick back to Ciro, and a smile plays around his lips.

"Could I trouble you to help me?" he asks. "Gale isn't as...familiar with pain as you are. It might help if he had a distraction." There's a mischievous glint to his eyes, and he picks up one of the pillows from the bed and lays it in front of the chair.

Ciro catches on to Astarion's meaning before Gale does, and they smile, sliding off the bed. They kiss Astarion's cheek, leaning into him for a moment. "I can be distracting," they murmur.

"You certainly can."

"I--oh," Gale says, finally catching on.

"Indeed. Come sit," Astarion drawls, gesturing to the chair.

Gale practically scrambles to obey, sitting down in the chair, legs spread. Ciro slides in gracefully, sinking down to their knees on the pillow. It's clear that Gale is nervous, from the way he's shifting and his eyes darting back and forth. Ciro can't pretend they didn't feel the same when they did this for the first time, but they've all come a long way since then.

"Breathe," they murmur to Gale. They slide their hands up his thighs, fingers massaging the muscles there. "We'll take care of you."

"Yes," Astarion agrees, moving in behind the chair. His long, elegant fingers slide over Gale's shoulders and down to his chest. "You are ours to look after."

"Alright." Gale takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, and his posture relaxes. He sits back in the chair and tips his head back to regard Astarion. "I'm ready."

"Hm, not yet, I think," Astarion murmurs. "Ciro?"

That's their cue. With an ease borne of practice, Ciro walks their fingers up Gale's thighs even more and starts unlacing his pants. Gale lifts his hips enough that Ciro can drag the garment down, freeing Gale's cock. He's already on his way to being hard, but it never does take much to get Gale going when the two of them are involved.

Ciro glances to Astarion, to make sure he's comfortable with this amount of sexual contact happening right in front of him. It comes and goes these days, and sometimes he wants to be involved, while sometimes he'd rather not be in the room at all. But now there's a honeyed warmth to his eyes, and a slow, pleased smile tucked into the corners of his mouth.

He catches Ciro looking and inclines his head a little, in answer to the silent question.

"Focus on me," Ciro murmurs to Gale, one hand wrapping around his cock to stroke it slowly.

Gale's eyes are riveted on Ciro as he sucks in a deep breath, hips already bucking minutely up into Ciro's touch. Ciro grazes his thumb over the head of Gale's cock, gathering the growing wetness from the tip to spread down as he keeps working him up.

Astarion keeps his hands on Gale too, fingers dipping under the open collar of his shirt, dancing over his collarbones.

"Ciro's beautiful on their knees, don't you think?" Astarion purrs into Gale's ear. It must have an effect because Gale's dick twitches in Ciro's hand. "So very eager and obedient. So ready to please you. To please us both."

There's so much promise in that tone of voice, and it catches Ciro up in it too, making them swallow hard.

"Perhaps we'll both indulge in how good you must taste tonight," Astarion says, and Ciro dips their head to lick a hot stripe up Gale's cock.

"Ah," Gale moans. His hands are wrapped around the arms of the chair, a white knuckled grip as Ciro and Astarion work him up between them.

"Yes, very good," Astarion continues, and Ciro doesn't know which one of them he's praising. They suppose it doesn't really matter.

They ease their mouth over the head of Gale's cock and then take him all the way down to the root. Not having a gag reflex has come in handy many a time with their lovers, especially Gale, who is surprisingly well endowed.

They hold it there for a moment, taking in the feeling of Gale in their mouth, the way the head of him hits the back of their throat, the way they can feel the tension climbing in his body.

Then they pull off, sucking in a gasp of air before going back to it.

Astarion just waits. Watches. Occasionally offers praise in his low, seduction edged voice. When Ciro glances up, they can tell that Astarion is thumbing Gale's nipple under his shirt, and that Gale is sprawled in the chair, almost boneless with pleasure.

"If you keep this up--" Gale chokes out. "I am not likely to--ah! I'm not likely to last."

"That is the goal," Astarion says. He sounds a bit breathless now, but is otherwise composed. Ciro knows that if they looked into his eyes there would be a million different emotions in them, but they focus on their task, sucking Gale down and swirling their tongue around the head of his cock.

He leaks a salty drip, which Ciro laps up eagerly, letting themself get lost in it. Gale's little moans of pleasure are almost musical, and Ciro knows from experience that he's beautiful when he falls apart.

He's close now, Ciro can taste it, and apparently Astarion can too because he chooses that moment to bite him. Ciro hears his voice, a low, "Breathe, love," and then Gale's gasping sharply.

Ciro looks up, but it's not pain on Gale's face. At least not entirely. He looks like he's in a harsh sort of ecstasy, sharp and brutal, but like he's enjoying every second of it. His body arches a bit, and Astarion keeps a hold of him, not letting him buck too hard.

He's learned, from his time feeding on Ciro, how to really refine this art. How to walk the line between pain and pleasure, and wait for the moment when the two can blend together beautifully.

Gale's there now, wrapped up in it, and Ciro has just enough time to pull back a bit before Gale comes undone, coming hard in their mouth.

Ciro works him through it, licking him clean before they pull off. Astarion pulls away a moment later, dragging his tongue over the small drips of blood that have spilled down Gale's neck. He presses a kiss, tender and soft, to Gale's neck, and then lets out a pleased sigh.

"Well?" Ciro asks, sitting back on their heels. "Was it everything you expected?"

Astarion smiles, and he almost looks drunk with it. "And more, darling. We were right, all that time ago. He's positively exquisite."

"I'm flattered," Gale says. "And spent."

"It's a very good look for you," Astarion tells him.

Between the three of them, they manage to bank the fire and move their way to bed in various states of undress. By an unspoken agreement, Gale gets the middle, and Astarion and Ciro curl up on either side of him. It is a tight fit, but Ciro has never complained about having to huddle close with these two.

It's several minutes later when Astarion speaks again. "Was that...was it alright?"

Gale chuckles and turns his head to kiss the tip of Astarion's nose. "'Alright' doesn't do it justice in the least. That was an experience. One I would be happy to repeat, if you're all willing."

"Count me in," Ciro murmurs sleepily.

"I suppose I could be convinced," Astarion replies, and he sounds very pleased behind the flippant words.

"Then it's settled."

Like so many things between the three of them, it comes down to a conversation and mutual agreement, and Ciro smiles, happy and eager to see where life leads them next.

[moni-logues]

Kintsugi 12

Pairing: Yoongi x reader

Genre: strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, non-idol!au, angst, smut, tiny bit of eventual fluff

Summary: In a fit of spiteful, post-break-up self-improvement, you sign up to a baking class. Yoongi, in a bid to appease his demanding girlfriend, signs up, too. Determined to make him your friend, you end up with more than you ever imagined.

Word count: 3.2k

Content: little bit of throwing up (alcohol induced)

A/N: thanks to @quarter-life-crisis2 for beta-ing the first part of this! This is now the second time I'm posting this so i have nothing more to say lmao

Chapter Eleven | Masterlist | Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Twelve – Peaches pt.2 

You stood outside Yoongi’s front door, pie held carefully in your hands, breathing deeply, taking a moment to try to soothe your nerves. It was outrageous, you thought, that you could be this nervous. It was Yoongi. On the other hand, it was Yoongi. It was not every day that you confessed to harbouring romantic feelings for one of your best friends. It was not every day that you ripped yourself open and placed your fluttering heart before them, hoping, praying that they felt the same.  

It was not every day, but it was today.  

You squared your shoulders, shuffled the pie so it rested on the palm of one hand, and used the other to key in the entry code.  

“I’m here!” you called as you strode in and shut the door behind you. 

You could hear and smell cooking from the kitchen, music on low in the background. You kicked off your shoes and took a deep breath. You had run over a hundred different scenarios, a hundred different scenes; sometimes you just kissed him; sometimes you prepared a long, thoughtful speech; sometimes you played it casual; sometimes you told him you loved him; sometimes, even in your thoughts, you chickened out entirely; sometimes he rejected you and sometimes he didn’t. You always cried.  

You were still standing in the hallway, staring up at the invisible obstacle in front of you when Yoongi approached, spatula in hand, frown on his face. You tried hard not to notice how cute he was with his apron on, how domestic. You tried to stop your mind flying forward to a future where he cooked all your dinners, or you cooked them together, in the house you shared. You needed to keep a level head. 

“Oh,” he said when he saw you. “I thought I heard you come in but then you didn’t appear. Why are you just standing there?” 

Good question.  

You chuckled awkwardly and walked into the apartment fully, straight to the kitchen where you set down your pie on the counter. 

“What’s in it?” Yoongi asked. 

“It’s peach and nectarine,” you answered, wondering if he would remember, if he might understand its significance. 

“It’s what?” 

“Peach and nectarine.” 

He looked at you with his eyebrows raised, expectant. 

“It’s what?” 

You groaned and rolled your eyes; your heart sang. You gave him a huge, dramatic sigh. 

“It’s peachtarine pie.” 

“Damn fucking straight.” 

He was in a good mood. You liked that. That had to bode well, right? 

“Do you want a drink?”  

Yes, you were offering him his own alcohol in his own house, but you felt like you needed it. You should have had one before you came out but time hadn’t allowed.  

“Sure, there’s wine in the fridge.” 

Not the sort of drink you had in mind. You checked in his fridge for soju and, finding none, walked around to his drinks cabinet where you deliberated between tequila and vodka, eventually plumping for vodka. Tequila gave party vibes which wasn’t exactly what you were going for. You returned to the kitchen and poured two shots.  

“Here.” 

You nudged Yoongi – who had turned back to the stove – and handed him the drink. 

“Wow, really? Are we celebrating or commiserating something?”  

He knocked back the shot anyway and you did the same, cursing Yoongi in your head for not keeping soju – or anything more palatable – in the house.  

“Nope. Just because.” 

“Ok, party girl.” 

He waved the glass out towards you, asking for another, which you gratefully gave, taking one more for yourself, too. That was a little more like it. You felt looser already. A little Dutch courage can go a long way.  

“What are you cooking for me?” 

You moved from the other side of the counter and stood next to him, peering into the two dolsots bubbling away. 

“Haemul sundubu.”  

“Yum, thanks.” 

“It’s almost done; there’s banchan in the fridge. And the wine I said I actually wanted to drink.” 

He grinned down at you and you hip-checked him, moving away to set the table and pour more drinks.  

You hadn’t decided when you were going to tell him. You had told yourself that you would show up and you’d just know when was the right moment; you knew now that that was bullshit and you should have come more prepared. The fear of spoiling everything was rapidly creeping up on you; Yoongi was in a good mood and you were having so much fun. You knew the second you opened your mouth to tell him, everything would change. Even if it was what you wanted, what you were hoping for, even if he said everything you most wanted to hear, it would change things. It was the last night of your friendship, for better or for worse. You felt desperately like you had to make the most of the evening, make the most of everything you had right now: the ease, the comfort, the little sparks of something more when he laughed at your jokes, when he smiled at you, when you got to touch him even a little. There would be no going back. So you delayed your jump into the unknown a little longer and it settled your nerves. It put off the moment and you could relax, at least for an hour or two. 

* 

The addition of a film after dinner had continued; it was supposed to be your night to pick but you couldn’t focus on making a decision so Yoongi picked one for you. You didn’t care. You weren’t even sure what it was, even though it had been on in front of you for the last hour and a half. You couldn’t have explained the plot if you’d been offered a lottery jackpot for it.  

You had your legs thrown over Yoongi, leaning towards him, sitting as you did every time now. He was slouching deep into the corner, his feet on the coffee table, picking idly at the threads of the holes in your jeans as he watched; your heart skipped every time his fingertips brushed the bare skin beneath. 

You could almost hear a clock tick as time went by, you still not having said a thing. It was coming. You knew it was coming. You knew you had to say something; you had steeled yourself for this. You had promised yourself you would do it. You had promised everyone: Taehyung, Nina, San. You had made Taehyung go to your apartment and wait on standby, so he could be there with no delay if it was a ‘no’. You had to do this. You were going to do this. And it had to be now. 

You reached out and put your hands on his, toying with his fingers. His immediately stilled and there was a twitch that told you he was going to pull them back, out of reach, but you held on. You kept his little finger in your hands, mindlessly fidgeting with it, finding yourself unable to look up at him. 

“Yoongi?”  

Your face was already hot, your heart already racing. He grunted inquisitively and you felt his eyes move to you. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

You were still looking at his hands, your stomach doing somersaults; you wished you hadn’t indulged in so much stew now that it was threatening to come back up the way it went down.  

“Are you ok?” 

You nodded, your throat feeling choked already.  

“I, um... Do you ever... think about me?” 

You risked a glance up at him; he seemed surprised by your question and then confused. He leant forward, feet on the ground, taking his hand from yours to reach for the control and stop the film. Then he sat back, not slouching this time, and looked down at you again. You focused on your hands. 

“I mean,” you continued, before he could answer, “I mean that-… I- sometimes, just recently, I... I think, I have feelings for you.”  

Your face burnt so hot, it brought tears to your eyes. You didn’t know what to say next; usually your mouth did all the talking for you but it had dried up. And Yoongi wasn’t saying anything. You tried to speak and nothing but a croak came out so you cleared your throat and gave it another shot. This was not how you had imagined it going; it was supposed to be smoother than this, more confident. You hadn’t expected to be this meek; you weren’t meek. But the weight of this exchange was crushing. 

“I just mean that... Recently, I’ve felt... different... and I- I guess I just wondered if maybe you ever felt like... that. About me.” 

It took all you had to look up at him, to try to gauge his reaction, see if you could divine what he was thinking through his face. It was closed, impassive, inscrutable in a way that reminded you of when you first met—his silence in that third class, which you had put down to his ex, but he had never actually explained. You felt the same way as you had back then. You were sticky with nervous sweat, hot and flustered. Embarrassed and self-conscious and burning like you’d been skinned alive. The anxiety was rising in you, a panic that said it was going to go sideways, that this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. That something had already gone wrong. You tried to talk yourself out of it but the longer he stayed quiet, the harder it became.  

“Yoongi?” you whispered, the sound barely making it out of your throat, when the seconds felt stretched to minutes. 

He wasn’t looking at you; he was staring straight ahead until he gave you a millisecond’s glance and shook his head. You waited, again, for him to say something else, to say anything at all. There was nothing giving him away. You knew him better than this; you could read him; you could sense how he felt. But not now. Not now at a moment when you really needed it.  

“No?” you asked when he still said no more. 

He was looking down now, not at you but somewhere on the floor. There was pink at the tips of his ears; his cheeks just barely rosy. He shook his head again and cleared his throat. 

“No,” he confirmed, just as quiet as you were, his voice just as strained. 

“Oh.”  

Your attempt to mask the gasp you gave when trying to gulp in air was poor but you couldn’t bear the thought of bursting into tears, here and now. They pooled thick in your eyes and blinking them back only sent them scurrying, falling, streaming down your face in a deluge. You opened and closed your mouth, gaping, fish-like, a few times before you found the composure to reply. 

“Ok.” Your voice wavered. “That’s fine. Yeah, ok, friends I guess then.” 

You weren’t looking directly at him—there was no way you could—but you saw him, from the corner of your eye, nod, two almost invisible dips of his head. You removed your legs from over his, curling them under you, trying to keep your breathing in check. You didn’t know what to do now. You didn’t understand. You thought about what Namjoon had said, the way he had seemed so confident. Didn’t Namjoon know Yoongi? Surely he wouldn’t have encouraged you if he had known Yoongi didn’t feel the same.  

There was a tearing in your chest that felt like collapse. It had been quick at least. But it was sharp. You wiped at your wet face, wishing Yoongi would just say something, anything would do. You felt shut out, iced out, pushed out. Rejected. Which was exactly what you were. In an instant, he had moved a thousand miles away as he stayed sitting next to you on the sofa. You had never felt farther from him than you did at that second. It made your stomach sink like a stone in the sea. It made your hands go weak, incapable of holding a hand even if he’d let you. It made your blood burn with shame like the acid rising in your throat.  

Of all your hundreds of scenarios, all the practices you’d run in your head, none of them went like this. You always talked about it, sometimes you even argued, but it was never this. This silence, thick like fog, choking like smog, resting over you. You began to feel smothered, suffocated by it. You couldn’t breathe for fear of falling apart; you had to get out.  

Yoongi stayed still, looking at the floor, his fingers worrying a loose thread on his trousers. Did he want you to leave? Did he want you to stay? You couldn’t know and were not able to wait to find out. 

“I guess,” you said, when you found the ability to speak without sobbing, “I should just go.”  

Yoongi turned to you then, his face for a second wearing a look of panic. He opened his mouth as you stood and you waited for him, gave him a few seconds to tell you to stay, or encourage you to leave. He said nothing. So you walked, with heavy feet and a heavier heart, to the door.  

Yoongi followed you, his hands tucked into his sleeves, his fingers twisting around one another. You stooped to put on your shoes and it was only when you were leaning on the door handle that he said anything. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You looked back at him as you stood in his doorway; you blinked away more tears and you could almost have sworn you saw tears in his eyes, too. You didn’t stop longer to make sure. You turned tail and ran.  

* 

You had managed to hold in your sobs in the taxi ride back to your apartment; you couldn’t stop the constant leak of tears from your eyes, but you just about kept a lid on the worst of it. Then you flung open your door and fell to the floor, gasping and choking and barely able to breathe. 

Taehyung was by your side in a second, scooping you into his arms, stroking your back, pressing kisses into your hair, letting you make his T-shirt wet and snotty, not saying anything, knowing you weren’t listening anyway.  

You couldn’t quite believe it. Not because Yoongi hadn’t wanted you, but because you hadn’t anticipated it going like that. Because you didn’t understand. Because you somehow thought that there would be discussion; you could, now, think of things that you wanted to say, things you wanted to talk about; every thought and idea that had eluded you then flooded back now. You thought of the many ways you had broached the topic in your head and wondered why you did it like that. That wasn’t what you had planned. You hadn’t been clear, had you? Or you hadn’t got your point across? Or maybe you did? You just couldn’t tell. You were, entirely, in disarray. 

You also had to ask yourself, did it matter? If Yoongi didn’t feel that way about you, did it matter how he told you? Did it matter what he said or didn’t? Did it matter how you said it? He had clearly known what you meant because he had given you his answer. You had the answer you were looking for—you had the answer to your question, even if it wasn’t the one you had been looking for. The rest was irrelevant.  

* 

The emergency treatment for your heartbreak was booze and a lot of it. So much, in fact, that you ended the night with your head in the toilet, that seafood stew finally making its burning way back up, Taehyung standing behind you rubbing your back and making sure your hair was out of the way.  

He put you to bed, tucked you up nicely and, at your insistence, curled up next to you, where you clung to him like a koala, desperate to not be alone. 

Yoongi stood, gasping, at his door, unable to catch his breath. He was familiar enough with panic attacks to know that this wasn’t one, but he nevertheless sank to the floor and began walking himself through it. He focused on the inhale and the exhale, the counting that accompanied each usually uncomplicated step of breathing. He needed to focus on that. Anything so that he didn’t have to focus on what had just happened.  

Panic. That was one word for it. Insanity. That might have been another. Stupidity, certainly. He hadn’t expected it, could not have seen it coming even from a mile off. Nothing had seemed different. You were the same as you ever were; things between the two of you were normal. 

And then you asked him that.  

And he’d wanted to say yes. He was trying to. He wanted to open up to you and respond in kind and see if maybe something, anything, could have happened.  

But he couldn’t. The words got stuck in his throat. He couldn’t force them out, couldn’t make himself say it. He could see it all crumbling; as if he had been watching from outside his body, he had seen it. He had seen himself fail, let you down, lie to you.  

And he couldn’t explain it. He didn’t understand the gut-wrenching, visceral fear that had gripped him when you spoke, when you looked up at him—timid and shy like he had never seen you before—and asked if he ever thought about you, said that you had feelings for him. Like a pair of icy hands, one on his heart and one around his throat, it took such strong hold of him that he literally felt strangled: couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do a thing that might have led him to happiness. 

And then you left. In tears. Because of Yoongi. He wouldn’t forgive himself for that. He probably wouldn’t forgive himself for any of it, but his own pain, he could handle. He was used to that. Causing you pain? Before tonight he would have said it was unthinkable. He would never.  

But he had. He had lied; he had rejected you; he had let you run out of his apartment with barely a word said.  

He had lost you. That was it. He couldn’t see redemption, couldn’t see a way to walk this back. Not a hurt this big. Not a stupid, pointless, embarrassing lie like this was. It was over.  

He couldn’t forgive himself for that either.  

* 

He stayed on the floor in the hallway until his legs started screaming for him to move, then a little longer. It wasn’t until Cherry came to chase him into bed that he stood up, walking straight through the apartment to his bedroom, not looking anywhere but straight ahead, not daring to glance at the scene of the crime, the scene of his immodest failure, a scene the very thought of which made him feel sick.  

He fell onto his bed and stayed there until Sunday.  

Chapter Eleven | Masterlist | Chapter Thirteen

Taglist: @chimmisbae, @idkjustlovingbts @miriamxsworld, @tarahardcore, @simp47koreancrackheads, @xyahrinx, @olyd, @diorh0seokie, @thelilbutifulthings, @acquiescence804 

[iwritesickfic]

So this past week I've had an ear infection combined with a sore throat and a fever. It's probably been over a decade since my last ear infection but they come with some serious wump potential. This made me think of Theo having to perform with a sore ear and any other list of symptoms you'd like.

hey there! thanks for the prompt ❤️ hope you enjoy!! :)

“You don’t have to do this,” Seamus says for what feels like the thousandth time. Theo sighs, slumping deeper into his chair.

“Stop saying that,” he mumbles. It’s not that Seamus is wrong - it’s the opposite. And the more he says it the more Theo wants to agree with him. This is the perfect storm for him to call off a performance. He has a double ear infection. His head is killing him. He’s at a festival in the middle of the desert and he’s running a 101 fever.

Still, people are going to be so fucking mad at him if he bails. This is his first performance in over a year, and he knows that people bought tickets and flew out here just to see him. The festival would be livid, even though there’s a clause in the contract exactly for this situation.

“You want some ice?” Seamus asks, and Theo nods, even though it hurts. Seamus is back in only a few moments with a bag of ice wrapped in a damp towel, and Theo gasps as he presses it to the tender, throbbing space behind his jaw. “Too much?”

Theo shakes his head and takes the ice, holding it under his ear with his trembling hand. He feels like he can hardly breathe.

Seamus’s fingers begin to work through his damp hair, gathering it into a small bun. He’s especially careful around Theo’s ears, his hands moving slowly and deliberately. He ties the bun loosely, then kisses the nape of his neck.

“God, I wanna fucking die,” Theo mumbles, and Seamus slides a water bottle into his hands. He doesn't need to be told, just starts taking small sips. The heat is making him nauseous and each mouthful feels heavy in his stomach.

“It'll be ok,” Seamus says softly. He kisses him again, this time on his temple, and even though it sends a shock of pain through his pounding head he doesn't mind. If there weren’t so many people watching and if it wasn’t so hot, he might have pulled him closer and buried his face in Seamus’s throat and let himself cry. But there are, and it is, so he lets Seamus walk away.

His set starts in only 45 minutes. They're already doing the changeover, stage hands hurrying back and forth with cables and guitars and mics. He can hear the crowd that's gathered. He's a headliner, he can't back out. He just can't.

Seamus comes back with some food, which Theo doesn't eat. He chokes down some ibuprofen and drinks some electrolyte thing Seamus managed to find, but he doesn't feel any better. The fact he's shivering now doesn't bode well, his body cloaked in a cold sweat. His hair is wet, and his tank top is clinging to his chest. And though they haven't spoken a word to him, someone dressed suspiciously like a medic is loitering around at a middle distance.

At least Seamus has stopped telling him he doesn't have to do it.

It's only a few minutes before the set is supposed to start when he decides he'd better finally put in his in-ears. He's standing in the walkway between the makeshift green room and stage side, staring at the two small devices in his palm. He feels weak standing up - dizzy and disoriented. He's trying to work up the courage to actually put the monitors in when Seamus comes up beside him.

He rests his hand lightly on Theo's upper back, and he doesn't need to say anything for Theo to know what he's asking.

“I'll be fine,” he mumbles, even though he can feel his heartbeat in his ears, and the throbbing is enough to make his knees weak. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and it's making him slur his words. His ears are ringing.

“I know you will,” Seamus whispers back, and Theo chokes out a laugh.

“I'm not…I'm not fine right now. But I'll be fine.” He's staring at the in-ears. Seamus follows his gaze.

“Do you want-”

“No, no, I…” Theo trails off, quickly bringing one up to his right ear. He hesitates a moment before starting to put it in. Immediately, there's a burst of white hot pain that lances down his neck and all the way through his head. He presses past it, but it only gets worse. He makes a sound between a gasp and a cry, and the next thing he registers is Seamus’s voice.

“Shh, shh, you're alright,” Seamus whispers. “Here, baby, sit down.”

He's shaking all over, and it feels like there's a knife through his eardrum. His breath is short, and he's fighting to keep from actually whimpering.

He feels himself being lowered into a chair, and he can't tell whether it's tears on his cheeks or sweat. The pain is enough to send his stomach into his throat, and he can't get enough air to make it go away. He hopes no one heard Seamus call him baby. He only calls him that when he’s too sick to think straight. Theo doesn't even like being kissed in public, so the intimacy of Seamus calling him “baby” is something he doesn't want anyone bearing witness too.

His fingers are shaking so hard he can barely take the small earpiece out, and though it sends another jolt of pain through his head, he feels immediate relief when it's out. The world is spinning violently though, and he can barely keep his eyes open.

“We need a monitor. On stage monitor,” he hears Seamus say, and then there's a mess of people talking.

Then he feels hands on his knees, and he opens his eyes to see Seamus crouched in front of him, looking how he always looks when Theo’s like this. Worried, worry poorly hidden by a small smile. Seeing his face tears a sob from Theo’s throat, and he's almost immediately wracked with them, chest shuddering and heaving.

Seamus immediately pulls him into his arms, his chest so solid and steady compared to Theo’s tense, trembling body.

“Oh, baby…” Seamus says, and Theo presses himself fully into Seamus's arms. “You're gonna be alright.”

Theo can barely get words out between sobs. Seamus's hand is on the back of Theo’s head, holding him against his neck.

“I can't, I can't do this,” he chokes, and he feels Seamus sigh.

“You don't have to.”

“No, I-” he's gasping for breath between sobs. “I-”

“Breathe. Just breathe.”

He tries, but he feels like he can't force his lungs to draw in anything more than a gasp at a time. His head hurts so badly he's sure he's about to pass out. He's about to vomit.

He feels someone touch his back, grabbing his shoulder to pull him away.

“Get the fuck off me,” he chokes out.

“Hey, hey. It's alright,” Seamus whispers, but Theo would rather die than have the entire crew see him like this. “I'm sorry, I…can we just have some privacy, please?” Seamus asks, and there's more muffled talking. “I'm so sorry. He’s…I know.” The talking seems to fade, and Seamus rubs his back. “You're ok. Just relax.”

He sits there for what feels like a long time, trying to catch his breath. The pain in his head doesn't get any better, but he's at least able to calm himself down enough to not feel like he's about to pass out.

Eventually, Seamus gets him back up into the chair and slowly, the crew begins to appear again, though they're pointedly trying not to look directly at him.

The medic that he'd suspected was for him walks over with her duffel bag and smiles at him as she starts to unpack her things.

“Do you mind?” she asks, stopping short with her gloved hand hovering over his arm, and he feels a wave of shame.

“No, go ahead. I'm sorry, if I…I promise I'm not, like, an asshole celebrity or something,” he says, and she laughs. Her whole demeanor seems to lighten as wipes the back of his hand with an alcohol pad.

“No worries at all. I know you're probably in a lot of pain.”

“No, I…I'm sorry,” he says again, and winces as a needle enters the back of his hand. He turns his head so he doesn't have to see, and his gaze lands on Seamus, who's talking with Zeke and a few people dressed in black and wearing headsets and holding clipboards. Stage managers, producers, festival staff… He wonders idly if Seamus is negotiating a cancellation.

Part of him would be pissed - it should be his own choice if he performs or not - but another, much larger part would be immensely grateful. He shudders as he feels the cold liquid of the IV snaking up his arm.

“What's in that?” He asks.

“Just saline. You're pretty dehydrated.”

Seamus starts to walk over and Theo feels another wave of nausea crash over him.

“What's going on?” he asks, and Seamus fiddles with the laminated pass around his neck.

“So they agreed it's within contract if you need to back out, but if you…” Seamus adjusts the sunglasses pushed up in his hair and sighs, “If you really want to, what we can do is basically get you an on stage monitor so you don't have to wear the in-ears. And they can get you a stool so you don't have to stand the whole time.”

Theo nods before remembering that moving his head even a tiny bit makes the pain in his ears worsen.

“I...um…” He mumbles. The throbbing in his ears is almost unbearable. Even as the medic runs a thermometer over his forehead he feels the pain worsen. He's so exhausted, he's so sick. “I can't,” he finally says and Seamus nods, expression not changing at all. The backs of his fingertips brush Theo's temple.

“Sure?” he asks.

“Yes,” Theo says, voice soft. He feels a dizzying mix of relief, guilt, and anxiety pressing on his chest as soon as he says it. Even so, he knows he can't. If he tries to go out there…

Seamus sighs and squeezes his shoulder.

“Ok.”

[noodyl-blasstal]

Pretty huge Doughnuts

The word count's droppin', but I'm not stoppin' - @taznovembercelebration day 15. Prompt "baby"

Read below or on Ao3. Missed yesterday's catch it here.

-

“You’re doing what now?”

“Planning Lup a baby shower.”

“Lup’s pregnant?” Barry’s voice is doing something high pitched and weird and Taako’s unsure exactly what the fuck is going on, but someone’s forgotten they have like 8 PhDs.

“Wanna think that through, Barold? Do you think that maybe she might have told you if she’d cracked that one.”

Barry looks less panicked. “Yeah… fair. Uh.”

“Anyway.” Taako ploughs on valiantly, he’ll pull this one out at a later date, once Barold thinks he’s forgotten. “I’m planning a baby shower for her.”

“If she’s not pregnant…” Barry starts.

“Which she isn’t.” Taako adds, helpfully.

“Yeah. Uh. Which she isn’t.” Barry looks pale still, poor, sweet idiot. “... then why are you throwing her a baby shower?”

“It took her more than nine months to birth the thesis” Taako says, he shrugs because it’s obvious, obviously. He doesn't know why literally no one so far has understood. They're definitely the problem.

Barry’s still scrunkling his face up like Taako's being irrational. The joke's on him because Taako's never irrational.

“She’s had a tonne of appointments.”

“Uh huh.”

"She brought new life into the world."

"The necromancy thing isn't part of the main thesis after, you know, the legal issues."

“I meant the concepts, not the zombie. Anyway the university are cowards for not embracing him." Before they get into the ethics of free education after reanimation Taako diverts Barry again. "She had to do that scan.”

“What scan? Wait, Taako, do you mean the MRIs she did for the data collection?”

“Now you get it.”

“I…”

“Cha’boy found this banner.” Taako unfurls it dramatically and holds it up, it’s gold and spangly and far too much, which is, of course, the perfect amount.

“Congratulations, it’s a…” Reads Barry.

“PhD!” Taako replies. “I’m gonna write it in and add flames. It’ll be great.”

“She’ll love the flames.” Says Barry, probably trying to tactfully dissuade Taako from the rest. Optimistic fool.

“I made a game for us where we have to guess the circumference of her thesis. There's prizes.”

“Is the thesis measurement bound or unbound?” Asks Barry far too fast. Oooooh, Taako has him on board now. Suddenly he loves BaPhD showers.

“No can do, Bluejeans, you wouldn’t want to cheat, would you? Wouldn’t want to ruin Lup’s special day by making it all about winning?”

“No.” Says Barry, unconvincingly.

“No cheating, Barold!”

Barry doesn’t say anything. Taako never should have taken Bluejeans under his wing, he’s created a monster.

“What’s a baby snack?”

"Mush?"

"No, like, for this."

“Are you asking what a baby thesis would eat?” Barry sounds more delighted by the concept than he should be.

“Baby researchers, I assume.” Chews them up, spits them out, not that Taako’s bitter. He’s fine. He can come back any time. Any time the police get round to officially clearing him. Not that it’s a problem, he’s not bothered about his degree anyway. He’s peachy. It’s not weird to see Lup get her doctorate before him when they were supposed to do it together.

Barry seems to realise he’s triggered some kind of horror even though Taako's definitely doing an incredibly normal face. He's going to try sand be nice about it.

“What are PhD snacks?” He asks before Barry can say anything kind.

“Pretty huge doughnuts.” Barry replies without hesitation. Taako knew there was a reason he kept him around.

Taako makes a note in his phone. Giant doughnuts mean giant frying, mean big oil, mean big pan.

“Why’re we making big doughnuts?” Kravitz asks, cracking the door to his room.

Of course it was food discussion that summoned him from his regimented work schedule (ignoring what he needed to do because he got distracted by other things and then panic typing up everything for his deadline.) It bodes well for Taako’s ongoing wooing, the stuff about hearts and stomachs was true probably, but Taako was also hoping to make his way to Kravitz’s di…

“Taako’s throwing Lup a surprise baby shower.” Barry cuts through Taako’s wandering thoughts. “We’re planning the menu.”

“Oh.” Says Kravitz. “For her PhD? Neat!”

-

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