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rinneverse · 28 days

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࿐ ♡ ˚ . 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚! — 𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒓𝒊 𝒚𝒖𝒖𝒋𝒊. ˒ ⊹

me and my roommate get drunk one night and end up fucking!!!! oh my god, this is so awkward…

୨ৎ syn. it’s your final year of uni—after midterms come to a close, you decide to celebrate by getting absolutely SMASHED with your roommate, itadori yuuji. much to your chagrin, this decision comes with a boatload of consequences. how do you navigate the awkward morning after with your golden retriever of a roommate!? (4.8k)

୨ৎ pairing. itadori yuuji x f!reader

୨ৎ cw. modern au, fem!reader, both yuuji and reader are in their final year of uni and are implied to be 21+, alcohol mentions, drunk sex, dubious consent (read prev warning), pet names used (baby, pretty, angel), oral (f!receiving), fingering, vaginal sex, creampie, dealing w/ the repercussions of fucking your roommate the morning after (but it ended up alot more fluffier and romantic than i intended because i love him), minors + ageless blogs dni! 18+ content under the cut!!

୨ৎ love, oak! oh christ almighty. i like itadori yuuji a normal amount. i just really really think he'd make the perfect boyfriend ever. first time writing for him so hoping and praying he isn’t incredibly ooc but regardless,, hope u guys like this i wrote it with my entire clit :3 crossposted to ao3 here!

[ main m.list! ┊coming soon... ]

“Yuu~ji!”

Your lilting voice carries through the shared living space of your apartment. Shuffling in through the entryway, the door clicks shut behind you as you peer around the corner of the entrance hallway.

“You there? Yu?”

You hear a muted groan come from the couch in response.

Toeing off your shoes with a giggle and setting them onto the shoe-rack (the same shoe-rack you constantly have to pester Yuuji about—”Yu, don’t just leave your shoes on the floor! The rack is right there!”—every other day), you peek over the back of the fluffy couch in the living area and find Yuuji sprawled on his stomach over it, face shoved in a pillow.

“How are you feeling?” you ask.

“Like I’m dying,” comes his muffled reply.

You reach a hand down to tousle his already messy bubblegum pink hair. He weakly bats a hand at you.

“Surely you can live a little longer for a night out with your favorite roommate?”

With a grunt, Yuuji flips over, lying on his back. He blinks once, twice. Then he grins; that familiar, radiant grin that makes your heart speed up a little in your chest. You can feel your own smile widen in response.

“I think I can do that,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows. He tilts his head at you. “You’re not gonna pass out on me again though, are you?”

Your eyes narrow slightly in challenge. Bringing your face closer to his by leaning over the couch, you reply snarkily, “and you’re not gonna force me to shoulder you the whole way home again, are you?”

Yuuji’s eyes widen at the new proximity, a faint rosiness rising to his cheeks that makes you giddy. His throat bobs before he replies, “No, promise I won’t.”

You think you see his eyes flick down momentarily—towards the swell of your chest, exposed by the low-cut top you had chosen to wear today—causing a smug sense of satisfaction to pool in your tummy. You lean further, the urge to be a tease winning out over your usual sense: over the notion that you shouldn’t be flirting with the guy you live with. It's entirely a bad idea (and yet here you are, doing it anyways).

Yuuji’s lips part slightly; when he meets your gaze again, there’s hunger shining in his big brown eyes, hazy and diluted by conflict. You can see the inner strife going on in his head already: he shouldn’t be feeling this way about his roommate. He shouldn’t be a perv.

You shouldn’t be feeling this way about him either, but you just can’t help yourself. Something about the way he’s looking at you fills you with a streak of confidence that throws all common sense out of the window.

“Good. Be ready at 7?” Your tone has noticeably lowered, nearly a purr even as you smile innocently down at him.

Yuuji swallows again, still looking like a deer caught in the headlights. “Sure—okay. Sounds good!” He babbles nervously.

It’s cute. He’s cute.

“Cool. ‘m gonna get a nap in then.”

He nods his head slowly. The tension hovers in the air between you, so palpable you could cut it with a knife. Slowly, ever so slowly, you straighten, watching as his eyes never leave your form. You bite your lip and offer Yuuji a softer smile before you turn on your heel and make your way to your bedroom.

You can feel the way his eyes bore holes into your back as you walk away, skirt swishing with every step. You purposefully sway your hips a little more despite yourself and you think you hear him choke slightly, a sound that makes you feel much more smug than it realistically should.

As you close the door to your bedroom, the only thing on your mind isn’t how tired you are from dealing with midterms—it’s how Yuuji looked at you just moments ago, eyes gleaming with raw want, like you were a five star meal served on a silver platter. You clutch your chest as you flop onto your bed.

There’s always been an underlying tension between you and Yuuji. It used to be easier to ignore, something left tucked away in the corners of your mind, leaving you to instead settle for an easy friendship. Something that doesn’t complicate things, especially since you live together. There’s no avoiding any awkward encounters should either of you decide to take that step.

But lately, things have been coming to a boiling point. You’re not sure if it’s the stress of your final year of uni dawning upon you or if its just years of tension finally being pulled taut enough to snap—whatever it is, it has muddled your senses enough to find flirting with Yuuji fun instead of something forbidden. It has you pushing boundaries you never thought you would push with him before.

Oh, well. If there was any time for things to make some bad decisions and get a little complicated with your incredibly handsome roommate, your last year of uni might just be perfect. Screw the consequences.

“Yuu,” you moan, drunkenly stumbling into a wall of muscle.

Thankfully, that wall of muscle happens to be Itadori Yuuji. He wraps a strong arm around your waist, a hiccup bubbling from his lips as he grins down at you.

“Hey there,” Yuuji laughs. “You okay?”

“Yeeeeaaahhh,” you slur. “Are we home yet?”

“Almost there. Hang on a little bit more for me, okay?”

The night air is crisp and cooling against your balmy skin, a welcome relief after spending hours in a bar packed with sweaty bodies and bass thrumming through your veins. It’s breezy, fallen leaves rustling across the ground as the wind scatters them along the sidewalk. A particularly stronger gust has you pressing closer to Yuuji, your little top and skirt doing little to protect you against the autumnal weather.

Yuuji pauses, making sure you’re steady before he shrugs off his jacket.

“Here, put this on,” he says, gently maneuvering your arms into the warm sleeves. His cologne wraps around you in its embrace, warm and musky and tinged just a little bit with alcohol. You smile.

Megumi and Nobara have already made their separate ways home, the former grabbing an uber while Nobara hitched a ride home with Maki. You can’t help the way you giggle and stumble as Yuuji ushers you forward again. “Nobaraaa’s gonna geeet iiiiit,” you snicker, latching onto the hard muscle of Yuuji’s bicep to steady yourself. “Did you see the way Maki w’s lookin’ at her? I wish someone looked at me that way.”

Yuuji is probably about equally as blasted as you are (you went shot for shot, after all), but he manages to carry himself in a more sober manner than you. He lets you latch onto him like a koala as he guides you through the doors of your apartment building.

He’s quiet. Uncharacteristically so—he’s usually a chatterbox when drunk.

“Yuuji? Did’ya even hear me?” you push.

“I heard ya,” Yuuji hums, pulling you into the elevator with him. As the machinery moves up to your floor, it makes your stomach lurch—forcing you to grab onto Yuuji tighter and bury your face in his shoulder.

“Are we there yet?” You grumble into his arm, clutching him tight.

“Almost,” he replies softly. You think you feel a gentle kiss being pressed to the crown of your head, but with the way everything is spinning, you can’t be entirely sure.

Between some time and the next, you’re finally ambling into your apartment, clutching Yuuji’s jacket tight around you. As the door clicks shut, you spin to face him—

—and end up nearly face planting, if not for the way Yuuji surges forward to catch you in his arms. “Woah there,” he mumbles. “Steady. Don’t move too fast, or you’ll fall.”

Despite his words, he has to lean against the now shut door to keep himself upright, you can feel that much. You grasp the fabric of his shirt in balled fists, pressed against the sturdy surface of his chest. You can feel the way his muscles flex and roll as he shifts with the way you’re pressed up against him.

When you look up at him, doe-eyes wide, you’re met with brown eyes glimmering with want. Lust.

“Yuu… ji?” Your lips part slightly as you suck in a breath. He inhales in sync, his hands dropping to curl around your waist. He holds you gently, like a porcelain teacup on the verge of breaking.

It's quiet. There's a dazed look in his eyes as he stares at you.

“Can I kiss you?” The question falls from his lips softly—but with the silence of the apartment, so quiet you could hear a pin drop, it’s earth shattering. His eyes drop down to your glossy lips, his tongue darting out to wet his own.

You’re not in your right mind. This is a bad idea. You know this.

You don’t care.

Pulling at the collar of his shirt, you tug him down to you, lips meeting in a clash of teeth and tongue. It’s electrifying, everything you’ve ever wanted and needed in this one moment, warmth exploding in your chest like a dying star.

Fuck. You were kissing Itadori Yuuji—and it’s everything you dreamt it would be.

He pants your name amidst kisses but it’s hard to hear with your heart roaring in your ears, a drum beating an unsteady rhythm that throws you off balance in your very core. You stumble into the shoe-rack trying to hastily drag him over to the couch. Shoes clatter to the floor as you tumble into him, a moan falling from your lips as he paws at you while your hands tangle in his hair.

“I was lookin’ at you like that, you know?” Yuuji groans as the two of you fall back onto the couch. He holds you on top of him, letting you get comfy as you straddle his lap before he continues. “You haven’t noticed?”

His voice is heavy, dragging drunkenly as you stare down at him. In this position, with Yuuji laid back on the couch, you feel like you’re towering over him—giving you some semblance of control, even though you know perfectly well that Yuuji can flip you over and take you just like that. You dip your hands under his shirt, nails gently scratching against the velvet wrapped steel planes of his abs. Pushing the fabric up, you reveal the faint happy trail that begins at his navel, disappearing teasingly under the waistband of his jeans. You bite your lip.

“Hey,”—your name falls from his lips in the form of a plea, desperate and sweet—”Look at me.”

Big hands squeezing your hips force your attention back to him. You finally listen and meet his gaze, finding that his eyes are heavily eclipsed by dilated pupils, leaving a faint ring of hazel in its wake. It’s like a dark sun, or perhaps a black hole threatening to pull you into him, consumed by everything that is Itadori Yuuji.

You think you wouldn’t mind that one bit.

“Are you sure this is okay?” He’s worried, something that makes your heart warm fondly, giving you a moment of clarity amidst the fog of lust that addles your brain. The guys you typically went home with sometimes never found it in themselves to care too much about you. But Yuuji… he’s different. He does care. Yuuji continues, a touch softer, “We’re both drunk… what if we regret it in the morning?”

You slowly reach down to cradle his face in your hands. When you speak, it’s with a bold certainty that Yuuji cannot argue with: “I know I won’t regret it.”

Yuuji nods his head. With that anxiety out of the way, he surges up to kiss you with renewed vigor, tugging his jacket off of you and pulling the hem of your top over your chest to reveal your tits. When he pulls back, his eyes widen slightly as he takes in the pretty lace bra you had opted to wear out tonight.

“You’re beautiful,” Yuuji says softly. A groan catches in his throat as you roll your hips down against his, delicious friction against his erection that has you mewling for more.

“Yu,” you sigh out as he unhooks your bra with clumsy fingers, pulling your shirt off as well in one go. The garments flutter to the floor, forgotten.

“I mean it—you really are.” His voice has noticeably deepened, taking on a huskier tone that makes your toes curl. “I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. I never can.”

He presses another kiss to your lips, quick and chaste, drawing a path down your jaw, the slope of your neck. He removes a hand from your waist to palm at your sensitive breast, drawing a whimper from you that has his cock twitching in his pants. “I can’t believe you’ve never noticed. Our friends tease me all the time for it, you know?” He sighs, nearly a whine, words slurring together in a lust-drunk haze as he presses a kiss to your collar. “I could never take another girl home with me because I only want you.”

Yuuji’s drunken confession sends you reeling, thighs tightening together around him as you tilt his chin up towards you. Love and adoration glimmers in your eyes as you respond gently, “I only want you, too.”

He smiles at you then, scooping you up in his arms as he rises. “Don’t wanna ruin the couch,” he murmurs, strong hands grasping at the fat of your ass as he carries you with ease. “Your room or mine?”

“Yu—” you gasp, clutching onto him for dear life, “mine, please.”

Even drunk, he moves with you with a practiced ease—as if you’ve done this your entire lives. As he lays you on your bed, he curls over you, lips pressing together messily as his hands fiddle with the hem of your skirt. There’s a brief moment where he pants, “Can I take them off, pretty? Can I?,” as he nips at your lower lip. You nod your head; immediately he’s sliding them off, leaving you in your lacy undergarments and feeling unfairly naked compared to him. You cross your arms over your chest shyly.

Yuuji smiles sweetly as he kneels, pressing a kiss to your navel.

“Don’t hide from me, baby. I wanna see you..” He trails off as he hooks his fingers under the band of your panties, eyes flicking up to yours in silent question. You can only manage to nod your head—words have entirely escaped you at this point. If you spoke, you weren’t sure what, exactly, would come out.

The way he pulls the fabric off of you is almost reverent, his eyes never leaving your body as he sets your panties to the side. His breath is hot against your skin as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh.

“Baby,” Yuuji starts, the pet name falling from his lips with ease, like something familiar, “tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”

Calloused fingertips press into the sensitive flesh of your thighs as he pushes your legs open, even going as far as hooking a leg over his shoulder as he settles between them. His breath is hot and heavy as he grows closer to your core. It’s embarrassing, and you want to press your legs together, but Yuuji doesn’t allow this. He’s firm in his place, holding your legs wide open, baring you to him.

He starts gentle. A kiss to the apex of your thighs, a gentle finger running along your sensitive, weeping slit. A shiver runs down your spine as he parts you open, eyes raptly on you.

“Don’t stare,” you whine. “It’s embarrassing.”

He murmurs a soft apology, taking one more second for himself before he dives right in: tongue lapping at you voraciously, pulling the sweetest of moans from your lips as he eats you out like a man starved. You try to press your thighs together once more but he holds you open, unyielding in his grip as his tongue dips in your slit, then draws upwards, making circles around your clit.

He’s messy in the way he eats you out. He doesn’t hold back, either: he laps at you like he’s a dehydrated man at last finding an oasis, drinking in your juices like it’s the finest of nectars. Slick covers his chin as he raises his head to look at you, half-lidded eyes meeting yours as he eases a finger into you. It slips in with ease, aided by how wet you’ve gotten on just his tongue alone.

Your back arches as he pumps his finger into you. You need more. “Yuuji,” you plead in a broken moan. “Need more—want your cock inside me, I can take it.”

His eyes widen slightly, but he’s nodding his head like an eager puppy, withdrawing his hand and rising to pull his clothes off. You whine, a soft plea of, “hurry, need you now,” that has Yuuji clumsily fumbling at the button of his jeans. He doesn’t even pull them off fully, letting the fabric pool at his ankles as he takes his dick in his hands and presses his hips to yours. His shaft presses against your messy slit, pulsing and needy.

“Fuck,” he curses, a soft whine sounding deep in his throat as his hips cant against yours. Your eyes are wide and unblinking as you take in the sight: Yuuji, desperate, grasping your legs and nearly folding you in half as his cock rests on your pelvis, your navel. He’s big. The thought of someone his size fucking into you should be scary, but you know Yuuji will take care of you—or perhaps that’s the liquor in your brain telling you that you can take it, that you need him inside of you now.

“You’re gonna feel me so deep, baby,” he mumbles, entranced by the sight. You buck your hips slightly, barely moving thanks to the hold he has on you.

“I can take it,” you repeat, your breathing growing heavier with every passing second. “I need it. Give it to me, Yuuji.” Your hands grasp at the sheets beneath you as finally, finally, he slides the tip against your slit, catching a few times against your clit (”Yuuji, stop teasing me!”) before he finally eases into you, his fat tip breaching your weeping cunt. The stretch burns, but the sensation is not an unwelcome one.

Your mouth drops open in a silent moan as Yuuji hunches over you, pressing further into your pussy. It feels like it should almost be fucking impossible how deep he reaches inside you like this.

“Baby, baby,” Yuuji whines against the shell of your ear, breath hot and wet. You can feel his chest heave against yours as he struggles to regain his bearings. “You’re so tight—don’t think I can pull out, you feel s’good…”

As he bottoms out, you think you might die like this. His cock fills you so perfectly, pulsing and twitching inside you as he forces himself to still—to give you time to adjust.

You don’t want time, though. You really will fucking die if he doesn’t move soon.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull him down to you to messily slot your lips against his, moaning into his mouth as his hips buck into yours. “Yuuji,” you breathe out against his lips. “Fuck me.”

“Okay, baby.” He nods, pressing his sweat slick forehead to yours as he moves his hips. He starts slower, long strokes that force you to feel all of him, deep and all-consuming and overwhelming your senses with him, strong arms caging you against the bed as he fucks into you again and again and again.

Yuuji’s pace picks up, your moans a sweet melody in his ears that spurs him on, making him lose all ration in his brain—it’s evident, in the way he growls almost animalistically, hips starting to rut into yours with reckless abandon. His balls slap against your ass, accompanied by a lewd squelch with every thrust into your messy cunt.

“Yu, fuck—please,” you sob with every thrust. He angles his hips a little differently until he finds the perfect spot—that sensitive little part of your cunt that has stars exploding behind your eyelids. Once he finds it, he narrows his focus on it, bullying his cock relentlessly into your pussy until you’re sobbing.

Your nails scratch along his back, leaving angry red marks in their wake. Yuuji groans and buries his face into the crook of your neck, mouthing and biting at the sensitive flesh as his hips pound into you.

“G’nna cum, don’t stop, ohhhh god,” you gasp out as Yuuji nips at the flesh of your collar. You claw at his back, toes curling in the air when you feel him slide a hand between your slick bodies to thumb at your clit, adding to the orchestra of sensations that are driving you mad with pleasure.

“Cum for me, angel,” Yuuji urges you breathlessly, fucking you with a renewed fervor. His hips are starting to stutter, and his large hands are grasping your thighs in a bruising grip as you convulse around him. His voice alone is enough to tip you over the edge; you’re falling into him, into oblivion, orgasming so hard your vision goes dark for a moment.

A long moan of his name falling from your lips is enough to push him over with you, white hot ropes of his cum coating your pulsing heat. You feel utterly breathless, boneless, as Yuuji slowly eases your legs down. The ache is pleasant.

“Baby,” Yuuji pants softly, breaking the pleasant silence as he brushes his fingers across your forehead. “I’m still… can I..?”

Oh, god. He is still rock hard inside of you. Your pussy is still fluttering with the world-shattering orgasm he had just given you—you’re not sure if you can take more.

But Yuuji looks at you with pleading eyes, your name falling from his lips with such desperation that you’re nodding your head, opening your arms for him. He smiles down at you, and as he leans down to press a gentle kiss to your lips, his hips slowly start to rut into yours again.

You’re not sure how many rounds you go with Yuuji—the rest of the night is a blur of moans and groans, of him making you cum again and again and again, as many times as you can possibly take.

You wake up with a pounding headache and a foreign weight slung over your chest.

“Oh, fuck,” you hiss quietly to yourself, voice raspy with remnants of sleep. “How much did I drink last night?”

Blinking open bleary eyes, you squint against the light that filters into the room—your room, which doesn’t make any sense because you never bring home your one night stands. Your hand brushes against the strong arm slung over you, and that’s when you hear an all-too-familiar snore.

“Oh, fuck.” You repeat, dread creeping into your groggy voice.

That was Itadori Yuuji in bed with you. That was your fucking roommate, naked in bed with you. You’re wearing his overly large t-shirt, and there’s an ache between your thighs that explains exactly what had transpired when you returned home with him last night.

You don’t remember too much, typical of nights where you have a little too much to drink. What you can grasp—mere wisps in the back of your mind—are fleeting moments of mind-numbing pleasure, or of sweet-nothings being whispered into your ear. Whatever scraps of memory you do have are enough to make you want to scream into a pillow out of sheer embarrassment.

You feel the arm around you tighten as Yuuji pulls you into his chest and you squeak.

Oh, that’s just fucking mortifying.

“Mmh… huh?” Yuuji mumbles sleepily. He slowly blinks, eyes focusing on you after a few moments. “What are you doing in my bed..?”

Your eyes widen as you scramble to sit up, grasping at the sheets to keep your lower body covered as you do so. Your mouth opens and closes as you look for the right words to say.

Yuuji’s eyebrows furrow. He seems to have come to a realization without you having to say it out loud.

“Oh. This isn’t...” Yuuji frowns. He’s calm in a way that confuses you—why isn’t he freaking out like you are? “We got really hammered last night, huh?”

You slowly nod your head in agreement. “Do you… remember anything?”

Your attention is drawn to his lips when he bites his lower one in thought, then drifts downards when you catch the blooming hickeys on his neck in your peripherals. Oh, god, did you leave those? What were you thinking?

All too slowly, Yuuji’s eyes meet yours. The way he looks at you is almost unbearable. There’s a sinking sensation in your chest: you think he might apologize, or tell you that last night was a mistake. That he won’t let it happen again. Quickly, you blurt, “You don’t have to say it. I get it.”

Yuuji tilts his head, his train of thought forgotten. “Say what?”

“I get that you regret it.” The words start tumbling out of your mouth and there’s little you can do to stop it. “It’s okay, you won’t hurt my feelings. I know you’re too kind to just say it outright like that—“

Yuuji opens his mouth to say something, but you barrel onwards, looking down at your lap. You’re too mortified to look at him directly.

“—And I understand if you maybe want to avoid me for awhile? I know things will be awkward, so seriously, take whatever time you need—“

Your onslaught of words is cut off by Yuuji cupping your face in his hands as he leans forward to kiss you. It’s gentle, and while it only lasts for a heartbeat, to you it feels like it lasts a lifetime.

Stunned, you lift a hand to your lips, ghosting your fingers over them as you stare at him. You’re absolutely dumbfounded.

“Sorry,” Yuuji starts softly, his thumb brushing your cheek gently. “I didn’t know how else to stop you.”

You blink at him, making a noise in the back of your throat. It’s an exhale of breath, of one you didn’t even know you were holding until just now.

“I don’t regret it. And I really hope you don’t, too.” Yuuji sighs gently. When his eyes meet yours, he looks unsure, but he continues, “I meant everything I said last night. You’re beautiful, and you’re all I’ve ever wanted. Have been, for awhile now.”

“Oh,” is all you can manage. You think your heart might explode in your chest. It beats an uneven rhythm, pulsing against your ribcage as if it’s bound to break out any moment now.

“I just didn’t want to ruin our friendship, yanno? But now that, uh...” He clears his throat. “Last night happened… I might as well come out with it.”

You nod your head as his words sink in. Yuuji visibly gets more distressed with every second that passes in tense silence, so you say, “Okay. I see.”

He swallows—you know what he wants to ask: ‘Do you like me like that, too?’ but he doesn’t voice it out loud. It hangs in the air, heavy and oppressive. You carefully deliberate your next words.

“Will you take me on a date, Yuuji?” you ask bluntly.

“What?”

“I said—”

“No, no, I heard what you said.” His eyes widen slightly, stark relief visible in his irises. “Are you sure? I mean—I’d love to. Yes. I’ll take you wherever you want to go, angel. You name it.”

You smile fondly at Yuuji—you think if he had a tail, it would be wagging ferociously right about now. “First, you can get me a glass of water and some ibuprofen. Then we’ll talk about date plans, ‘kay?”

Yuuji nods his head fervently. He rises out of bed—and quickly realizes that he’s still naked. “Oh—shit, don’t look,” he stammers, lunging for his boxers that were conveniently laid out on the floor as he blushes. Once he’s got those pulled on, he turns towards you. You’ve politely averted your eyes.

“I’ll be back in a sec,” he murmurs, grabbing your attention by gently grasping your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Anything else I should grab ya?”

You feel your face warm up at the affection as you shake your head. With a smile, Yuuji shuffles out of your room to go fetch your requested items.

As you sit in the quiet of your bedroom, listening to Yuuji rustle through the bathroom, you think that maybe fucking your roommate wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

please don't repost on other platforms. rbs and comments are super appreciated ♡ !!

#☆ oakie writes #jjk smut #jjk x reader #itadori yuuji x reader #itadori yuji x reader #yuji itadori x reader #yuuji itadori x reader #itadori yuji smut #yuji itadori smut #yuuji itadori smut #itadori yuuji smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #cw alcohol #dividers by cafekitsune

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astrophileous · 7 months

Text

Every Single Day

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Synopsis: When his daughter demands him to tell the story of how the two of you met, Spencer can't help but oblige.

Warning(s): dad spencer🥰, established relationship (eventually), parent-child relationships, alcohol consumption, brief interaction with a douchebag, made-up astronomy facts, made-up places, idk if there's any cursing but I'll throw it in here to be safe, implications of sex and nsfw themes (minors be advised), pregnancy, mentions of illness, mentions and/or implications of character death, topics of loss and grief, angst and fluff because I love the best of both worlds👍 (pls lmk if I missed anything)

Word Count: 7700-ish

Author's Note: hi 👋 I'm back again with another dad!spencer fic bc apparently I'm a sucker for him. I got a lil carried away with this one lol but anyways, I'm also writing this for the meet cute challenge hosted by the amazing and talented @imagining-in-the-margins so pls go head to her profile and show some love cause she's a peach ❤️ don't forget to leave a LIKE+COMMENT+REBLOG

Criminal Minds Masterlist

The air smelled of freshly brewed coffee. Against the wind, shades of crimson and orange swayed on the trees. Fallen leaves crunched underneath his feet to the cadence of his leisured steps.

Two deep breaths, in and out. Spencer Reid greeted autumn with the deep longing of an old friend.

Next to him walked a source of light bigger than the sun, jumping and bouncing excitedly on the sidewalk. Her tiny fingers emitted warmth inside of his hand. There was a skip to her step that reminded him of the innocence he had long lost. The innocence she now possessed.

Spencer loved this little girl beyond everything he had ever known.

"Puddle, Dee."

The tiny bundle of joy jumped to escape the small pool of water, grinning up at her father, who then began ruffling her hair until she evaded his onslaught with a shriek.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Pumpkin?"

"You never told me how you met Mommy."

Spencer glanced down at the 6-year-old, dressed gorgeously in her favorite floral dress, complete with a sweater that had entailed a hearty discussion about humans' perception of cold. It was only after he bribed her with the promise of a chocolate cupcake from Wakey Bakey did Spencer finally convince her to wear the woolen piece of clothing.

His daughter stared at him with a radiant smile peeking out behind a curtain of hair. A smile which Spencer always argued had belonged to you, even though the rest of Diana Aurora Reid was the splitting image of her beloved father.

"Surely I've told you before, Dee."

"Nuh-uh."

"Of course I have."

"No, Daddy. You haven't."

"Pumpkin, you know I don't forget stuff ever," Spencer said, looking at the little girl who was swaying along to the rhythm of her footsteps. "I used to tell you that story all the time. Back when you were still a baby."

Just as predicted, Diana let out a dramatic gasp as if Spencer had uttered the most offensive thing known to mankind; like claiming the earth was actually flat, for example. Spencer couldn't contain his grin upon seeing her reaction.

"But Daddy, that was so long ago!"

"Do you not remember, Dee?"

Diana shook her head.

"Fine. But Mommy must've told you the story already, right?"

"She has, but--"

"But?"

"But I wanna hear it from you."

Little Diana knew that her father could never resist her puppy dog eyes, especially garnished with that adorable pout on top. Once upon a time, you declared it sickeningly cute and annoying whenever Spencer would pull the same trick on you. When Dee started doing the same to him, you had simply laughed and kissed his cheek, letting him get a sweet taste of his own medicine.

Spencer smiled at the young girl next to him, squeezing her nose and relishing in the gleeful squeal that echoed from her chest.

"What do you wanna hear, Pumpkin?"

Diana held her chin, seemingly deep in contemplation before deciding, "Everything, Dad! I wanna hear it from the start."

"The start, huh?" Spencer hummed thoughtfully, his mind already reeling back to the first moment he ever laid eyes on you.

The story began on yet another ordinary Friday night.

Luck was on the BAU's side when the team managed to wrap the case they had been working all week just before Friday afternoon. By the time the sun was setting, their jet was already high up in the sky, en route from the state of Delaware to Quantico, Virginia. Spencer was looking forward to going home at a reasonable hour for once--maybe catching up on the four reading materials he had promptly pushed aside after his team was called to Delaware to work on the latest case--but that plan dissipated when Derek Morgan suddenly appeared by his side.

"Drinks. Tonight. Everyone's coming, and I'm not taking no for an answer," Derek said before dragging a reluctant Spencer away with him, ignoring the protests that the younger man kept grumbling under his breath all the way to the team's favorite bar.

Spencer just hadn't known it yet, but later down the road, he would spend the rest of eternity thanking Derek Morgan for dragging him along that night.

The Friday night crowd at Shaw's was borderline brutal, but fortunately for the team, a booth in the corner became vacant the moment they stepped into the threshold.

Two hours later, Spencer's fellow teammates weren't even close to calling it a night. The last chorus of "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" by Whitney Houston had just finished blasting from the speakers when Derek sauntered back to the booth, twirling a flushed Penelope Garcia in front of him. Spencer slipped out of the booth to allow them in--preferring to stay on the most outer seat instead of crammed between his tipsy friends' bodies--before sitting down once more.

"Hey, Genius," Penelope called, waving her empty beer glass in front of Spencer's face. "Be a darling and get me a refill, will you?"

"Garcia--" Spencer quickly snatched the glass from her hand before she could send it smashing against someone's head, "--are you sure you want a refill?"

Penelope scrunched her nose. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I think you're plenty drunk already."

"I'm not that drunk," Penelope denied, giggling when an unexpected hiccup interrupted her slurred words. "Derek, tell the beautiful Doctor I'm not that drunk."

"She's not that drunk, Reid." Derek grinned. "While you're at it..."

Spencer could only sigh when Derek slid his own empty glass across the table.

It was past 10 o'clock at night, and the crowd of people in the establishment seemed to have doubled in the couple of hours that the team had been there. Spencer had to squeeze himself through the ocean of patrons flooding the bar, barely able to move his limbs without other people's arms or elbows bumping against his ribcage.

Spencer was waiting for the bartender to complete his order when he happened to glance towards his right, catching sight of the concealed panic that triggered every profiler bone in his body.

Any other person would have taken one look at your face and presumed that everything was alright, but Spencer knew better. He recognized the frantic movement of your eyes, the tight press of your lips, and the impatient knocking of your fingertips on the counter. He only caught the tail end of your voice before discreetly listening to what the man you were talking to had to say.

"--so, unfortunately, I can't."

"I told you, Baby. My Veyron runs at over 260 miles per hour. We can go to Red Clover Hill and get you back home safely by twelve. It's simple math," the guy slurred smugly.

"Actually, that's not true."

The drunken man turned around at Spencer's interruption.

"Excuse me?"

"The Red Clover Hill State Park is approximately 229 miles away from here. Though theoretically, you could drive your Veyron at its maximum velocity, which is around 268 miles per hour, it's very unlikely you'll be able to maintain that speed for the entirety of the ride, considering the terrain you would have to go through between here and there. The fastest you can probably get to the park is in 60 minutes, give or take, and that's being generous. You would have to drive back to D.C. as soon as you arrive at the park if you wish to be back by twelve. It's just realistically impossible."

The man in front of him couldn't be less impressed by Spencer's lengthy rant.

"And who the hell are you?" the drunken guy said, pinning Spencer with a stare that was clearly supposed to be intimidating.

Spencer didn't even flinch. "No one. Just a guy who happens to know a lot about... simple math."

Your loud cough tore Spencer's attention away from the drunk man and towards you, who looked ready to burst from the laughter you were holding underneath. Even under the terrible lighting of the bar, Spencer could still pinpoint the hint of unspoken amusement glimmering inside your eyes.

"Sorry, Bill," you said to the man. "I really do need to be back home by twelve tonight. Maybe some other time?"

Bill didn't need to be told twice. He received the message loud and clear.

Spencer watched the other man scurry away, tail between his legs, before your charming smile enraptured him once more.

"Thank you for that. I was beginning to think he might never leave."

"Happy to help." Spencer smiled thinly, scratching the back of his neck even though the spot wasn't itchy. "What did, uh, why did he want to take you to Red Clover Hill, of all places?"

"Oh. That was... partially my fault." You grinned innocently. "I didn't know he was gonna be an insufferable drunk when he came over, and I was in the middle of watching this."

You pulled out a silver tablet from your lap. Spencer took a peek at the screen, seeing what looked like a live feed of the night sky--over North Carolina, judging by the visible constellations on the vast scene--stamped with the day's date at the bottom of the footage.

"You're watching the Roux-Nell?" Spencer deduced after gathering the facts: the live feed of North Carolina sky, the mention of Red Clover Hill State Park that harbored one of the highest grounds in North Carolina, including a collection of some of the most sophisticated telescopes in the country; you must have been planning to view that night's sighting of the Roux-Nell comet, its first time since the last one in 1927, and only its third one in history.

"Yes! How did you... don't tell me. You're an avid astronomy fan, too?"

Spencer's responding smile only made you beam even brighter.

"Anyway, that guy earlier, Bill, he approached me and asked what I was watching. So, I started talking about the Roux-Nell and about how I wish I was at Red Clover Hill right now since everyone keeps saying it's one of the best spots to view tonight's sighting. I thought he was genuinely interested until he started talking about his Veyron this, his Veyron that. I didn't even realize until a whole five minutes later that he was talking about his car!"

When you finally finished explaining, your eyes locked with Spencer's hazel ones before you seemed to cower shyly.

"Sorry. I can get a little excited when I'm talking sometimes."

"No! Don't be, it was--" Spencer stopped himself before he could complete his sentence.

What was he about to say?

Insightful? Entertaining?

Endearing?

Eventually, Spencer opted to settle for something safe and simple. "I get that way too, sometimes. A lot of the times, actually. So you don't have to apologize."

The fire flickered back inside your gaze following Spencer's admission. It burned brilliantly beneath the kindness you radiated, forged by the sharp intelligence he could see shining out of your eyes.

"So--" Spencer cleared his throat, attempting to shift the conversation in order to distract his racing mind, "--why did you tell him you needed to be back home by twelve?"

"Oh, that? I told him I'm donating blood tomorrow morning, so I need to at least get seven hours of sleep for the night."

"That's a clever lie."

You tilted your head slightly at his statement. "What makes you think it's a lie?"

"Because you're here. Nobody drinks alcohol before they're supposed to donate blood."

Your eyes flashed with surprise. "Not bad, Mister. You're very perceptive."

Spencer shrugged, trying not to appear too flustered by your casual compliment. "It's what I do."

You raised an inquisitive eyebrow at his reply.

"I'm a profiler."

"Profiler?"

"With the FBI."

"FBI, huh?" You hummed, something akin to intrigue swirling in your eyes. "So, you study criminals? Trying to decipher their way of thinking, why they do what they do. Dissect their past history for any related trauma, maybe even pinpoint a psychological stressor that could trigger a criminal behavior, that kind of stuff?"

Upon hearing your response, it was Spencer's turn to be intrigued. "Exactly that kind of stuff. How did you...?"

Grinning sheepishly, you pulled a professional badge out of your pocket, holding it up in front of Spencer so he could see the emblem covering its surface.

"Edgewater Psychology Center," Spencer read the words aloud, understanding dawning on him as he found your eyes once more. "You're a psychologist."

"Guilty as charged."

Spencer couldn't fight off his amused smile. "That explains it, then."

"You know," you began, leaning further against the bar counter to shorten the distance between you and Spencer, "I've never met a profiler in person before. Most of my colleagues, they have consulted on a federal case at least once in the past few years, but the bureau hasn't yet contacted me so far."

"Really?" Spencer took a step forward, closing the distance by a mere inch. "Sounds like a big loss for us. We're idiots."

You bit down on your bottom lip to suppress a smile, your gaze flicking between Spencer's own lips and eyes. For the shortest of minutes, nothing else existed in Spencer's world but you; your smile, your scent, and your kind eyes. You were a magnet carved out of his wildest dreams, and Spencer, well, he might as well have been made out of the purest of irons.

But before Spencer could get lost deeper in your relentless gaze, a shout of his name slashed through the air from across the bar. Back at the booth, Derek was waving his hand frantically in the air, stopping only when Spencer signaled him to sit back down and that he was returning in a minute.

"I have to go." He smiled tentatively, apologetically.

"Oh?"

Spencer tried not to revel too much over the small dip of disappointment at the edge of your voice.

"My friends. They, uh--"

"Oh, no, it's alright. You don't have to explain," you told him gently. "See you around, Mr. Profiler. Hope you have a great night."

With that said, you went back to watching the live feed on your tablet while Spencer, begrudgingly, trudged across the room with two refilled beer glasses in his hands, back to where his friends--minus Rossi and Hotch who were conversing among themselves at one of the standing tables--were waiting.

"Finally," Derek groaned once Spencer slammed the glasses down on the table.

"Who was that?" Emily asked as he slipped into the booth.

"Huh?" Spencer followed Emily's gaze, finding you perched up at the very end of it. "No one."

"No one?" Emily's eyebrows rose. "She didn't seem like no one from where I was sitting."

Spencer took an insanely large sip of his leftover beer.

"Holy shit, you like her, " Derek muttered. "He likes her. Pretty boy's got a crush."

"No, I don't."

"Yeah? Tell that to those red cheeks of yours." JJ chuckled.

Instinctively, Spencer touched his own cheeks as if he could physically feel the change of colors on his skin.

"I'm just tipsy," he tried to reason.

A collective scoff reverberated through the entire booth.

"What's her name, Spence?" JJ asked.

When a full minute ticked by without so much as a grunt of acknowledgment from Spencer, Penelope reached out and slapped the man right across his shoulder.

"Ow!"

"You didn't ask for her name?!" Penelope exclaimed.

"It didn't come up!"

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard you say, Reid," Emily noted before sipping her margarita.

"Nope. I'm not having this. Not tonight. Look at me, Sunshine." Penelope grabbed Spencer's face in her hands, forcing him to stare directly into her glasses-rimmed eyes. "I'm not letting you spend the rest of the night like this. You will get your cute little tushy out there and talk to that girl. You will get her name and also her number, maybe even ask the nice pretty lady out while you're at it. Now, have I made myself clear?"

Spencer barely managed to swallow his nerves before he offered Penelope two tiny nods.

"Good. I don't wanna see your face back here if you're not at least pocketing her phone number. Now shoo."

Penelope sent Spencer flying across the bar with a dramatic stumble. By the time he reached your side, Spencer was nothing less than a stuttering mess and a thundering heart.

"Hi," Spencer breathed out once he found your welcoming eyes.

"Um, hi?"

"I'm Spencer."

"Okay... Spencer?"

"Reid. Spencer Reid." He cleared his throat. "Sorry, it's just... I realized while I was sitting over there--well, my friends actually made me realize--that I, uh, never got your name. Which, you know, of course I never got it because I didn't ask. So, I was coming here, wondering if maybe you'd like to give it... to me?"

You blinked once. Twice.

By the third blink, Spencer wished the earth would open up and devour him whole.

"You want my name?"

Spencer nodded.

"What are you planning to do with it?"

"Call you?" At your bemused expression, Spencer quickly elaborated, "Not call like call. I meant referring. Yep. That's it. Although, maybe if you want to, I would love to call you as well. Sometime. And perhaps, you know, ask you out... on a date?"

Spencer swallowed the lump of nervousness in his throat. In front of him, you were pretty, even with the conspicuous scrutiny in your eyes as they assessed Spencer as if he was some sort of an enigma. Embarrassment burned hotter through his veins with every second that passed by. He was merely two exhales of breath away from dashing out of the door when you finally spoke up.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

Smiling, you produced an old receipt seemingly out of thin air and asked the bartender to lend you a pen, scribbling something down as soon as you had it between your fingers. When the tiny piece of paper emigrated to Spencer's hand, the Cheshire cat in him jumped out once he noticed the ten digit numbers written neatly underneath a name he could only assume as yours.

"Will that be enough, Spencer Reid?"

"For now," Spencer replied before grabbing his wallet and shoving the paper containing your name inside. "I'll call you."

"You better."

After Spencer's departure, you returned your attention back to the tablet in front of you. Barely five minutes later, though, your serene watching session was once again interrupted. Only this time, it was by the ringing of your phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is Spencer."*

Surprised, you swiveled your head left and right, stopping once you spotted Spencer standing on the other side of the room. His eyes were trained towards you, and behind him, a booth of four people seemed to have directed their attention at you as well.

"Spencer?"

"I know this is very untoward," he began, "but would you like to go out with me?"

"Boy, you certainly don't waste any time at all, do you?"

"I believe it's called being efficient," he countered, making you laugh. "So, what do you say?"

"Sure," you answered, enjoying the way Spencer beam at you from across the room. "I would love to, Spencer."

A breeze blew gently against Spencer's face, caressing the tendrils of curly hair that had fallen over his forehead. Diana's little fingers started to grip his tighter as the wind strengthened.

"Did you take Mommy on that date, Daddy?"

"Of course," Spencer replied, reminiscing the exact day when he had picked you up in your apartment, sweat glistening on his palm as he clutched the bouquet of flowers in his right hand. "We went to see a Mark Rothko exhibition at the National Gallery of Art, and before I took her home, we stopped by Wakey Bakey to buy some lemon tarts."

Diana gasped. "Wakey Bakey?!"

The little girl's reaction compelled a chuckle from Spencer's chest. "Yes, Pumpkin. Wakey Bakey."

"What happened after that, Daddy?"

"What do you think happened after that, Dee?"

"Um--" Diana pursed her lips, deeply lost in thought, "--did you become girlfriend and boyfriend?"

"Yes, we did."

"And you got married?!"

Spencer laughed at Diana's apparent excitement over the prospect of her parents getting married. "We did, yeah, eventually. After I proposed to her."

"Oh! Oh! The proposal!" Diana exclaimed, jumping up and down in the middle of the sidewalk without a care in the world. Spencer had to tug her back towards him before she could harm herself or the other pedestrians. "Tell me! Tell me! Tell me about the proposal, Daddy!"

"You wanna hear the story about how I proposed to your mother?"

"Yes, please!"

Chuckling to himself, Spencer mumbled a quick fine before his gears had started turning towards a specific memory in his mind. Spencer was sure, even without his eidetic ability, there was no way he could have ever forgotten about the day in question.

The day you agreed to have him as your forever.

Spencer had fallen in love with you during the first date, right around the time of yet another one of his animated ramblings, where instead of shaming him to shut the hell up, you had simply stared at him in awe and said, "You're pretty when you talk."

The young agent was sure he couldn't get rid of the blush adorning his cheeks for at least an entire week.

By the time the fifth date rolled around, Spencer was absolutely certain that you were the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. It wasn't a surprise, then, that a few weeks before your first anniversary came up, Spencer had pocketed a diamond ring with a promise of forever on the tip of his tongue.

Combing the courage to take this historical leap was easy. Difficult was trying to conjure up the perfect proposal plan that he would deem worthy enough for someone like you. There were no rooms for mistakes. Spencer wanted everything to be perfect because he believed you deserved nothing less.

Which was why, in moments of desperation, Spencer ended up turning to his fellow teammates in the FBI for help.

"I don't know if I'm the right person to ask about this, Spence. Will only ever proposed to me after finding out about Henry, and we only got married after I thought he was gonna die on the field," JJ explained. "It was never the most ideal of situations, but I would never change a thing even if I could."

Unsatisfied with JJ's answer, Spencer proceeded to find the BAU's tech genius in her bat cave.

"Go big or go home, my friend," Penelope said following a 10-minute hysteria she erupted into upon learning about Spencer's intent to propose. "Splash out on the bottle. Don't hold back on the grandeur. Spend all of your savings if you have to."

"Garcia--"

"Fine, maybe not all of your savings. You should leave some for the wedding."

Spencer spent weeks mulling over Penelope's advice.

Working as an FBI agent didn't pay as well as most people thought it would, and Spencer's tendency to collect first edition books wasn't exactly an affordable hobby. It meant that as much as Spencer wanted a proposal filled with the greatest grandeur--just as Penelope had suggested--he didn't have a fat enough balance in his bank account to make his ideal proposal concept a reality.

And Spencer probably would have spent the limited fund in his savings down to its very last cent, had it not been for Derek catching him browsing through the internet for the cost of a hot air balloon ride.

"I just want to give her the perfect proposal," Spencer admitted after he finished revealing everything.

"Kid, it doesn't matter," Derek said. "Don't you see? She doesn't care about hot air balloons or any kind of grandeur. She only cares about you. There's no such thing as a perfect proposal. You're just using it as an excuse to put off asking her 'cause you're scared of what she's gonna say. But you don't need to. You two are so devastatingly in love, it's disgusting."

In the end, grandeur wasn't even present in the room when Spencer decided to pop the question.

On that particular night, Spencer arrived in his apartment just a few minutes before midnight. His aching muscles were calling for sleep as he toed his shoes off, but his footsteps soon ceased when he caught sight of his dimly lit living room.

You were fast asleep on the couch, face illuminated by the television light. Spencer's movements were careful as he knelt in front of you, studying the soft and hard edges of your features like historians would an ancient scripture. He couldn't help it when his fingers reached out on their own accord, brushing the softest of touches against the high point of your cheekbone. Inside its cage, Spencer's heart started to stir.

You were so beautiful.

Even after one year of being together, Spencer was often still taken back by how lovely you were. He adored every detail of your being, most fervently the scars that littered your skin in a constellation of stars. All of the places in your body where your scrutiny had wandered in a fleet of insecurity were the same places that Spencer wanted to worship for the rest of his life. In his eyes, you were eternally magnificent, and this thought clouded Spencer's mind as he went to shake your shoulder gently.

"Spencer?" Your groggy voice sounded meek in the comfort of Spencer's apartment, the same one he had been sharing with you since you moved in three months prior. Your lips tilted with the tiniest hint of a smile at the sight of him, and Spencer thought he would melt when your fingers instinctively reached for his face. "You're back."

"I'm back," he confirmed, leaving a trail of kisses on your palm. "Why aren't you in bed, my love?"

"I was waiting for you," you admitted. "I have something to say."

"Really? Me too."

"Hm?" Curiosity flared in the center of your eyes. "You first."

Smiling, Spencer leaned down to steal a quick kiss before saying, "Marry me."

Your breath hitched.

After a few seconds of silence, your nervous laughter filled his ears. "Right. That's a nice one, Spencer. Very funny."

"I'm not joking, sweetheart."

Spencer reached into the inside pocket of his satchel, pulling out the velvet box that had weighed down his bag by several grams for the past few weeks. Any remnant of sleep you still had in your eyes was instantly washed away the moment he opened the box to reveal a pretty ring sitting inside.

"I've had this for a while now," Spencer admitted. "I kept putting off asking you because I believed I wanted everything to be perfect, until Derek knocked some sense into my head and made me realize that I was just afraid of taking the leap. He's right, as always, but don't tell him I said that."

Spencer paused at your teary laugh, relishing in the melodic sound that made his heart nearly burst in two. "My love, I don't need the perfect proposal when you're the promise of a perfect life. Any life with you is the one I want to live for the rest of my time, and I want to start living that life from this point onward. What do you say, sweetheart? Will you marry me?"

Spencer never thought the word yes could sound so incredibly spectacular.

The celebration had started right away, commemorated by the shedding of clothes from each other's bodies, finalized by panting breaths and entangled limbs beneath rumpled sheets. You lay on the bed with your palm on Spencer's chest, his own hand tracing invisible patterns on the vast canvass of your skin.

Spencer watched as you stared at the ring circling your finger. "Do you like it? We can exchange it for a new one if--"

"Spencer Reid, don't you dare."

"Apologies, ma'am." He grinned, continuing the random patterns he was drawing on your skin before he spoke again, "By the way, you said you also have something to tell me."

You looked up at him with a blinding smile before scooting out of Spencer's arm and reaching for the nightstand. When Spencer saw what you had rummaged out of the bedside drawer, Spencer thought his heart had forgotten how to beat.

"Is that--"

"Surprise," you murmured giddily, handing over the object in your hand into Spencer's awaiting palm. "I found out yesterday, but I wanted to tell you in person."

Spencer sat up on the bed, staring with disbelief at the small item in his hand. He only realized he had started to cry when a drop of tears fell down, blurring the two tiny pink lines in his vision.

"This is... you're..."

"I'm pregnant, Spencer," you professed.

Just an hour earlier, Spencer thought the word yes was the best thing he could ever hear falling from your mouth. But as he held you in his arms, his lips catching yours once more in a heated kiss, Spencer realized that you had many more surprising admissions waiting to be said out loud.

And Spencer couldn't wait to spend the rest of his life listening to every single one of them.

"Daddy, are you saying I was already in Mommy's belly when you proposed to her?"

"Yes, you were, Pumpkin," Spencer said, smiling at the blatant curiosity in Little Dee's eyes. "You were a surprise we didn't see coming."

Diana's responding smile was a picture of satisfaction. The father-daughter pair continued to walk down the street until Dee's voice tore through the silence once again, "Daddy?"

"Hm?"

"I thought you said a man and a woman can only make babies after they're married."

Spencer's footsteps halted on the pavement.

The silence must have stretched for only a partial of a minute, but the expectant stare Dee was nailing against his face, along with the internal panic that had short-circuited Spencer's brain made it seem as if the world had skidded into a standstill. Frantic eyes darted everywhere for a chance at rectification, and Spencer couldn't stop the words from tumbling off his lips when he saw the worn-down sign of a florist up ahead.

"Dee, would you like to buy some flowers for Mommy?"

The little girl squealed an excited yes before skipping the few steps left towards the flower shop. Spencer let out a relieved breath at having narrowly escaped such a harrowing crisis.

Once Spencer stepped into the shop, a multitude of fragrances immediately enveloped his surroundings. Diana was lingering back and forth around the vibrant displays when Spencer approached, her tiny eyebrows frowning in the most adorable way as she assessed the rows of flowers in front of her.

"Have you decided yet, Pumpkin?"

"Can we get some of Mommy's favorites, Dad?" Diana requested, pointing her tiny finger at the display of flowers she knew to be your favorites. "And then we can add some of these daisies, too!"

Spencer couldn't fight the smile blossoming on his face as he asked the florist to assemble a bouquet made out of daisies--Dee's favorite type of flowers, the same one printed all over the dress she was wearing--along with your favorite flowers in the center. Diana stared in awe at the deft work administered by the florist, her mouth forming an "O" once the bouquet was wrapped and ready to go.

"Do you think Mommy will like them, Daddy?"

"I know she will, Pumpkin," Spencer answered earnestly, his memory replaying that first time he had come home bringing the same arrangement of flowers in his hand.

Spencer came home to the apartment in utter disarray, and yet, it still was the best view that he had ever witnessed in his entire life.

Ever since his office was transformed into a nursery, the books he previously kept in there had to be relocated to the living area. Most of them had gone by now--some donated, and some others sold at second-hand bookstores--but piles of them still littered in various corners of the room.

Apart from his mountainous collection of books, small trinkets also covered every available surface of the place. From the empty nursing bottles in the kitchen sink to the breast pump on the counter, and the tiny socks on the coffee table to the pacifier jammed between the sofa cushions; every single one of them contributed to the mess that his apartment had become. Yet as he paused to inspect every inch of the place, Spencer couldn't find any other emotion besides warmth flooding his chest.

Muffled footsteps padded towards the living room before you appeared from the hallway with a freshly bathed Diana in your arms. As soon as your eyes locked with his, the crease between your eyebrows automatically vanished.

"You're home."

"I'm home." Spencer grinned before welcoming you into his embrace.

He stole a quick kiss from your lips before bending down to smother a 7-month-old Diana who yelped in glee when Spencer began attacking her with kisses all over her face.

"She's been fussy since yesterday," you told him. "I think she missed you."

"Did you, baby? Did you miss Daddy?" Spencer cooed. "I can take her for a few while you rest. You look tired. Are you feeling okay?"

"Gee, Spence. What a way to a girl's heart."

"You know what I meant, sweetheart."

"It's fine, Spencer. I just got a headache, but it's all better now that you're here."

Spencer smiled as he kissed your free knuckles. "If it's any consolation, you're still the most heavenly creature that I've ever laid eyes upon."

A sneaky laughter rumbled past your chest. "Fine. I'll let you go just this once," you said before letting Spencer take a yawning Diana into his arms.

As Spencer carried Dee towards the couch, you noticed a bouquet of flowers lying next to the kitchen sink in the corner of your eye. You glanced at the young genius with a discreet smile before aptly transferring the flowers into a vase.

"These are pretty," you commented, joining your family in the living room. You put the vase in the middle of the coffee table amidst the books and various baby clutters before dropping yourself against Spencer's side.

"They're your favorites."

"I know. As usual." You smiled affectionately. "And daisies. You've never bought me daisies before."

Spencer's eyes gleamed. "I bought the daisies for Dee."

"Oh?"

"I think daisies are gonna be her favorite."

"You do, huh?"

"One hundred percent."

Spencer's eyes looked up from Diana to you then, whose own gaze had been kept intently on your husband and daughter. Darkness embellished the area underneath your eyes, and Spencer couldn't help but count the lines of fatigue that seemed to have multiplied on the contours of your face. Even then, Spencer thought you had never looked more stunning than you did at that moment; as his wife, the mother of his child, and the woman who owned the sole reign of his heart.

Confusion wandered into your eyes when you noticed Spencer's stubborn stare. A surprised squawk escaped your lips as Spencer unexpectedly captured them in a rather long kiss. When he pulled back, Spencer looked the very image of a man who was drunk on love.

"I love you. You know that, right?" Spencer confessed as he squeezed your hand twice in his palm.

"Spencer, what's going on with you?"

"Nothing. I just--" he paused for a chuckle, seemingly trying to find the right words to say before he could continue, "--I owe my life to you, sweetheart. For all of the times you have pulled me out of the darkness, to the light you've brought into my life. You and Dee are the reason I keep on breathing. Without the two of you, I'm nothing."

"Spencer," you breathed out. "Where did all of this come from?"

"I don't know." He shook his head. "I just wanted you to know how grateful I am to have you in my life and that you've brought Dee into ours. Everything worth fighting for about me is because of you."

The telltale signs of tears began to cast a shadow over your eyes. You pressed your hand to Spencer's cheek, feeling the rugged sensation of his newly shaved stubble stroking your skin. Spencer melted into the warmth of your touch.

"You're giving me far too much credit here, Spencer," you whispered. "Everything you are has always been your own doing rather than mine. All I ever did was cheer you on from the sideline. You would still have become the person that you are today even if I weren't in your life."

Spencer physically shuddered at your last statement. "Don't say that. I can't even begin to imagine a life without you in it."

"Well, even if such day does come, when I won't be a part of your life anymore, I know you're gonna be just fine. Because you'll have Dee with you--" you stroked Diana's head lovingly, "--and I know that the two of you will give each other enough love and strength that you won't even notice I'm not around anymore."

The frown on Spencer's face deepened.

"You're not allowed to leave me. Ever," Spencer decided childishly.

"Fine. I won't. But you have to remember--" you brought your palm towards Spencer's chest, feeling each rhythmic thrum of his heart which seemed to flutter ever so slightly underneath your fingers, "--I'll be right here if you need me. Always."

Spencer's own hand landed on top of your hand, entwining your fingers together without ever tearing his fierce gaze away from yours.

"Always."

The sun was shining down in flimsy rays when Spencer and Dee finally walked past the familiar gate. Glimmers of gold sneaked past the reddish leaves on branches before falling upon the ground.

Next to him, Diana was humming a melody that Spencer recognized from one of your specially curated playlists. Her little hands struggled to carry the gigantic bouquet that she couldn't wait to present to you. It didn't matter that the bouquet itself was nearly as tall as she was, Diana still refused to let Spencer assist her.

"I wanna give Mommy the flowers myself," she had told Spencer in a manner that reminded him too much of your own stubbornness.

After a couple more minutes of walking, Spencer's reverie was soon broken by the excited squeal coming from the little girl beside him.

"Mommy! Mommy!"

Diana dashed into a sprint before words of warning could fall from Spencer's lips. He watched intensely as Diana's little feet moved upon the ocean of fallen leaves on the ground. Her tight grip around the bouquet never wavered even when she ran up the grassed hill, all the way towards the destination in her mind.

All the way towards the headstone with your name written on it.

When Spencer finally got there, Diana was kneeling next to your grave with panting breaths, but the smile stretched on her lips was the biggest one that Spencer had ever seen.

"Hi, Mommy. I'm back with Daddy," Diana announced. "Daddy, go say hi to Mommy."

"Hello, my love." Spencer smiled before taking a seat next to his daughter.

"We brought flowers, Mommy! They're your favorites. I added daisies to make them prettier." Diana beamed before putting the bouquet against your headstone. "You're not gonna believe what happened in class yesterday!"

As Diana animatedly began to recount the funny incident in her classroom--somehow involving a boy named Patrick and a cup of slushie--Spencer watched over her with a permanent smile on his lips. The little girl loved to talk--a trait she obviously acquired from both of her parents--and Spencer knew just how much you used to adore listening to Dee's rambling at any time of day.

It must have been at least ten minutes later when Diana's story eventually whirled to an end. Her attention instantly shifted to the family who was paying their own respect just two headstones over, a small squeak of puppy tumbled from Dee's lips before she dashed towards the boy with a golden retriever pup beside his legs.

Spencer shook his head affectionately at his daughter's antics.

"I know we were just here a couple of weeks ago, but Dee wanted to tell you about the slushie incident herself," he said. "And, well, I can never deny the chance to visit you, love."

A loud laughter boomed a few feet away. Spencer watched as Diana ran around jubilantly with the little boy and his dog. The boy's father waved at Spencer from the distance, which he replied with an acknowledging nod.

"She's getting so big, sweetheart. Sometimes, I just wanna stop time and keep her as my little girl forever. I wish you were around to see how much she's grown." Spencer smiled ruefully. "I can't believe that it's been more than a year since you were gone."

Spencer thought back to the last few moments you spent on this earth. How just a few months prior, the doctor had advised you to stop the treatment and take a rest at home instead.

The chemo isn't working, was what the doctor was really saying. You should be spending as much time as you can with your family.

So, that was exactly what you ended up doing.

Spencer had quit his job at the FBI shortly after you were diagnosed, opting to take a full-time job of teaching where the hours were more humane and reasonable. The day you were discharged from the hospital, Spencer made a vow to himself to make every day as memorable as he could, and he was keeping true to it. Those last few months were filled with countless road trips, an unforgettable weekend at Disneyland, and visits to various museums across the states. Spencer made sure that each day was charged with love and laughter, a perfect day culminated by an equally perfect night, with you falling asleep in the safety of his arms.

Until one morning, when Spencer woke up to your cold and lifeless body lying by his side.

"Do you remember what you told me once? About how Dee and I would never notice you were gone because we would have each other?" Spencer recalled. "You were wrong about that, sweetheart. Your absence is the first thing I notice every time I start my day. The moment I open my eyes, I notice that you aren't lying next to me on the bed like you're supposed to be. I notice the cold imprints on the sheets where your warmth used to linger. I notice you in every corner of our home, but most importantly, I notice you in Dee."

Spencer glanced at his little girl, playing and running around a pile of fallen leaves with her newfound friend and his pet dog. His heart floundered at the scene.

"Everyone keeps saying that she's an exact copy of me, but I see glimpses of you in her more and more every single day," Spencer admitted. "She's the only anchor I have left now, my love. Without her, I'm lost. I try constantly, with whatever strength still resides in me, to give her everything she would ever need. Shower her with every ounce of love I have left in my heart."

A lone tear cascaded down Spencer's cheek. He quickly erased it away with a wry chuckle.

"What I would do to have a minute with you again, my love. I hope you know I'd give my heart and soul to have those extra sixty seconds just to stare at your beautiful face. To hold you in my arms one last time. I try my best to fill the void that you left for Dee's sake. Some days are difficult, and I keep thinking about how much better it would be--how much better off she would be--if it were you here with her instead of me. I'd trade places with you if I could. I fear that all of me would never be enough for her, because she needs you. We both do."

Spencer inhaled a breath, forcing the imminent wave of tears from breaking the dam he had masterfully crafted since the moment you were gone. He promised a long time ago never to allow the grief to consume him.

He still had his daughter to think about.

"I'm beginning to think people are wrong when they say time makes everything better. The pain never lessens. It just becomes bearable with time. Dee makes it bearable," Spencer confessed. "I can only hope I'm doing the same for her."

"Daddy! Daddy!"

Spencer hurriedly wiped away any sign of tears from his face before he caught Diana in his arms. Her innocent laughter was a balm to the gaping wound in his chest, and Spencer allowed himself to bask in the bliss that his little girl brought to his life.

"What is it, Pumpkin?"

"Look what Brian's mom gave me!"

Spencer looked at her tiny hand to see a plastic daisy ring gracing one of her fingers. He looked up towards the family in the distance, mouthing a thank you to the mother who waved him off with a smile.

"It's very pretty, Dee."

"Like me?"

The young dad chuckled. "Yes, very much like you."

"Like Mommy, too?"

Spencer's smile softened. "Very much like Mommy, too. Yes."

The exhilarated smile Diana rewarded him could probably light up the entire state of Virginia at night.

Five minutes later, Spencer found himself bidding you a goodbye, with Diana promising to visit again very soon to give you an update over the slushie incident that supposedly got Patrick in a lot of trouble at school. The air was getting even chillier as the two walked the path they had taken after arriving at the cemetery. Spencer tugged Diana closer to his side once he saw the familiar gate lurking a few feet ahead, keeping her safe while simultaneously seeking her warmth.

"Daddy?" Dee's voice arose shyly once the pair had reached the main street.

"Yes, Pumpkin?"

"I miss Mommy," she admitted quietly.

Spencer's fingers instinctively tightened for a split second around his daughter's hand. "I know you do, Pumpkin. You just need to remember, even if she's not physically with us anymore, that she's always watching over you and keeping you safe."

Diana nodded her head understandingly. "Do you miss her, too, Daddy?"

"Every day, Dee." Spencer smiled, glancing back towards the gate of the cemetery behind him. "Every single day."

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threezzyo · 3 months

Text

꒰ ˒ wet 'n wild ∘︴satoru g.

↬ satoru can't take his eyes off of you in that skimpy blue bikini when you two go on a date at the waterpark.

⇢ nsfw. 18+. MDNI! ⇢ cw: satoru and reader are both college students. smut. semi-public sex. unprotected penetrative sex. messy and desperate sex. oral, m! recieving. missionary, against a plastic volcano lolol. slight exhibitionism ig? squirting. cumming inside. lots of praise. pet names- baby, darling, princess, sweetheart. super touchy (both of you). pervert satoru. sato literally worships you omg. lots of fluff as always!

∾ satoru gojo x fem!WOC!reader. modern au. no curse au. reader is a WOC! (you tan at the waterpark and he loves it). reader used to be a professional swimmer. anyways, just a boyfriend taking his stressed girlfriend away from college to have fun at the waterpark. its not his fault you're just so damn hot. wc- 2k

a/n: again! this is nsfw, so minors do not interact. both dividers are made by cafekitsune (tumblr)

you were the perfect partner for the waterpark. why? you knew how to swim and could save satoru from drowning, of course. and that you were his beloved girlfriend and needed a break after exams were over.

like the bright and energetic boyfriend he is, he must take you to bright and energetic places too. the 'summer surf' waterpark was equally as bright and energetic as satoru. the multicolored swimsuits provide a chromatic scenery, the prodigious plastic slides were vivid against the radiant cerulean clear sky. the scent of sunscreen and chlorine provides you with a sense of amenity- you grew up swimming your entire life.

"well, baby?" his defined arms snake around your waist, as you clutch your giant beach bag with all the necessities. the tickets were safe in your hand. "you scared of heights?"

"no way." you replied confidently. "in fact, you're going to be the scaredy cat." you smile cheekily.

satoru chuckles, pinching at the sides of your white coverup, over the tantalizing bikini set you said he'd love. "nope. but lets start small, please?"

you smile, handing the tickets to the attendant at the ticket booth. now gaining access into the park, satoru snatches your bag and carries it for himself as he proudly shows you off on his arm.

first up, your favorite attraction, the wave pool.

"ugh! everyone puts their towels on the seats and its impossible to find another one." you grumble, walking around on the hot pavement to find an empty lounge chair by the pool. "ooh, they're leaving." a small family packs their stuff and walks away from a single empty chair. you practically run towards it, buzzing with excitement to spend time with satoru in the wave pool.

satoru trails along behind you, idly waiting along to finally see the bikini you bought for him, (in your words).

"well, baby. i'm not waiting all day. come on, show me." he whines softly. "please." through his circular sunglasses, he glances up at you. he looks so cute with his chin on your shoulder, like a little puppy.

you grin, laughing as you pull off your coverup.

his eyes widen, taking in the sight of your statuesque figure, with your glimmering tan skin. oh, he can't wait to see you even more tan than this. "sweetheart, you look so hot. absolutely divine."

"you like?" you giggle, at his sweet comments. you give him a 360, striking a pose or two. "come on. lets put on sunscreen."

as a skincare fiend, you were obsessed with taking care of your skin. and knowing satoru has fair skin, which is more subject to sunburns, you bought the strongest one you could find.

satoru swears he's not normally like this, but with you squirting a dollop of sunscreen on your palms, slathering it up, and starting with rubbing it over your legs, he can't help but feel his swim trunks tighten. fuck, you're just so arousing, his mind can't help but go wild at the thoughts of spurts of his cum against your sweet, tanned skin. how it would look if your tits were marked up from his teeth. god, he might as well cream his pants now.

you hand the bottle of sunscreen to him. "sato, baby, please? just spread it over my back." you present your back to him, the strings holding your little getup seeming so fragile. and what if he accidentally (untied) brushed over the strings?

he bites away at the temptation, focusing on just applying the damn sunscreen. you stifle a giggle, already knowing his little dilemma. you just need to tease him a bit.

once you both applied sunscreen, you excitedly drag him to the wave pool. "its really fun." you say, "its better when you jump over the waves."

he's barely even listening to your spiel, just aching to get rid of his... problem. and he can't fuck you in such a place, a waterpark? where would you two even sneak off to fuck? the parking lot was crowded, anyone could tell if it was in the car. virtually everywhere was congested with kids screaming around or teenagers lining up for the tall waterslides.

the cool water feels artic on his skin, refreshing from the blazing heat downing upon him.

"its so cold!" you yelp, jumping away from the water.

your breasts slightly bounce as you do so, and satoru is very shamelessly ogling at you. fuck.

"pleasee, come here? warm me up." you ask him with your best puppy dog eyes, lips forming into a small pout to sell the deal a bit more.

satoru laughs, pushing his sordid thoughts away for now, to pull you into the pool.

"satoru!" you yell, as you fell on your ass, the icy water sharp on your skin. "you fucker!" you whine, before pulling him down into the water.

"hey!" he gasps, shivering from the sudden cold.

"you deserved it!" you defend yourself, giggling as he rolls over onto you and places a kiss on your soft lips.

"lets go. see? there's a wave coming." he smiles, as you two tread a bit further down the wave pool.

you two have your fun at the wave pool, taking a seat together on your beach chair.

"satoruuu." you kiss his cheek. "lets buy ice cream."

"didn't you complain the entire time the water was too cold? and now you want ice cream?" he snickers, pulling out his wallet and handing you his card. "get me a chocolate cone?"

"well, yeah, but i really want a popsicle right now." you smile, plucking the card from his fingertips. "thanks, baby. whatever you want."

he grins to himself as he very shamelessly ogles at you as you walk to the nearby ice cream stand. your plump little butt just looked so beguiling, he just can't believe he's the only one who can tap your ass. god, he desperately needed to take care of his ...predicament.

you excitedly walk over to satoru, handing him his chocolate waffle cone, the ice cream already dripping from your fingers. "here you go, darling." you beam.

"thanks, princess." he kissed your cheek as you sit beside him. you smile, slowly licking off the chocolate drips off your fingers. its like you're doing this on purpose, the way you lick the dripping strawberry popsicle.

"so yummy." your words are so tantalizing, he's completely wrapped around your finger.

"fuck, sweetheart." he groans, grabbing your wrist. he pulls you in, whispering in your ear, "baby, please, lets just sneak off to somewhere private. i can't deal with this the entire day."

his boner, under his trunks, pokes at your side. you kiss your teeth, a bit disappointed. "thought you would last longer." you jive. "couldn't handle all the teasing? we didn't even go on any waterslides." you whisper, beaming up at him.

his eyes widen slightly, before narrowing them. his surprised expression is now gone, replaced with a sly little grin. "oh, you minx. you're coming with me and sucking me off. now."

you were always so bratty, and now you're all angelic and so good. sweet, pulchritudinous girl, on your knees so quickly.

"fuck, darling." he lets out a low groan as you pull down his trunks.

"shh. be quiet!" you whisper. you two were behind a plastic volcano prop for one of the attractions, the best hiding spot you could find. there was shade, and nobody was coming around this area.

in front of your face was his (really fucking long) dick. every vein and every curve just seemed so perfect. his pretty pink tip was already leaking. "satoru..." you shift a bit, to be more comfortable on the concrete floor.

"go on, baby. you can take it, can't you?" he grins, adjusting his sunglasses, and threading his nimble fingers in your hair. "come on, sweet girl. isn't this better than sucking that popsicle?"

"no, baby. your dick doesn't taste like strawberries." you wrinkle your nose, giggling. your breath directly hits his cock, twitching at the simplest movement.

"don't be such a brat, princess." he tugs on your hair harder. "suck."

you tug out your bottom lip, before pressing a soft kiss on his tip, a pearl of his precum collects on the tip of your tongue. you were so sloppy, the way you were suckling at his slit.

"fuck, sweetheart. jus' like that." he groans, guiding your mouth up and down on his dick.

you know just how to suck him off, being sloppy yet careful. slowly, you take him in your mouth, being mindful of your teeth. your dexterous fingers cup his balls, as your tongue traces over the shape of his veins, and his tip hitting the back of your throat. his low groans sounded so sinful, if your bikini wasn't wet from the pool, its wet because of him.

he smirks, bobbing your head on his shaft. tears prick your eyes as he fucks your throat.

his head falls back on the volcano as his hips thrust into your sweet mouth, his eyes landing on the sight of you- a teary mess with her two-toned lips wrapped around the base of his cock, eyes half-lidded with lust. the way your nose brushes on his trimmed pubes, he could die a happy man like this.

when satoru cums, he practically overflows your mouth. a deafening moan follows as his cum dribbles down the corner of your mouth. "sweetheart, fuck.." he whispers, watching you swallow it all. just like a good girl.

"yummy." you grin, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "my popsicle was tastier, though."

you thought you would be going to the waterpark to go on the massive waterslides and eating ice cream with satoru by the pools. never did you think you'd be getting fucked against a plastic volcano.

"satoru! baby, fuck!" you whimper, your head buried in his neck. your back was riding against the plastic prop, legs wrapped tightly around his waist. his hands were clawing into your ass, as he thrusts inside. you bit your lip to hide your moans.

he was very close to just ripping off that bikini bottom off of you, but he didn't want you parading around with your ass bare. so thong to the side it was. his breaths were haggard, just focusing on filling you up, getting closer with every jolt of his hips.

you had your beach towel draped around you both, but if anyone got too close, it would be very obvious to them what you two were doing.

even in such an uncomfortable position, with you clinging onto him, satoru wastes no time, pistoling into you like he was dying for a last gasp of air. "baby, fu-uck." you cry, nails digging into his back.

it was so messy, so desperate. you could feel your slick collect on the fabric of your bikini, as the tip of his long dick reaches the perfect spot, abusing it over and over again.

"shit, shit." his soft whines and groans are all you hear, just focused on both of you reaching an orgasm.

"sato-ru, baby, im gonna-" you bite back a loud moan, as one last thrust inside your waiting pussy sends you over the edge, spurting your liquids all over his thighs and dribbling down onto the ground.

"-cum." you finish your sentence, your breathing deep and ragged.

he finishes shortly after, fucking you through your orgasm.

he groans, almost dropping you as his cum floods your insides, shakily breathing as he presses a kiss on your cheek.

"i love seeing you like this." he whispers as he sets you on your feet, down on the ground. you quickly adjust your clothing, using your towel to wipe off the trails of cum down your thighs. "love seeing my cum on your skin." he whispers, kissing your cheek over and over again as he fixes your hair for you.

"can't believe you fucked me against a fucking plastic volcano, satoru gojo."

"oh, baby, i was about to take you in front of everyone on that little beach chair at the wave pool."

you furrow your brows, heat pooling in your core. that shouldn't sound appealing. (but it does.)

"you pervert!" you whisper-yell, smacking him with the beach towel.

"oh, sweetheart. i love that i know you so well." he says before kissing you, flashing a knowing grin as he pulls you to a more secluded spot.

PLESSSE show up under tags IM BEGGING

crossposted on ao3- miniminari !!! reblogs appreciated

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idiopath-fic-smile · 6 months

Text

this one goes out to all my Singin' in the Rain ot3 truthers—

Cosmo Brown had always known it would end like this.

Cosmo was a lot of things—in fact, you could argue he was too many—but he wasn’t dumb.

From the early years, when Cosmo and Don were just kids playing for pennies in pool halls, to their stint dodging rotten vegetables on Vaudeville stages across the very backwaters of America’s backwaters, to their first real breath of success in Hollywood (and then the second and the third and the fourth), Cosmo would catch a glimpse of his handsome, charismatic friend from the corner of his eye—a flash of dark hair, that perfect tooth powder ad smile—and know that for all Don’s protestations, someday the guy was gonna meet a wonderful girl and get married, settle down, and very gently slip off to the far edge of Cosmo’s life.

So yes, Cosmo had seen Kathy Selden coming. Not the details, not her sense of humor or her musical little laugh or the madcap way she really threw herself into dancing with them around Don’s place at 1:30 in the morning—and okay, certainly not the part at the beginning where she had jumped out of a cake at a party, but he thought a fella could be excused for not correctly divining that.

The general outline of the thing, though, how Don’s eyes followed her around a room...he had been preparing for Don to propose to Kathy ever since she’d tried to throw a pie at Don’s face. And when the happy day came, Cosmo had been ready with his best man suit, his best man speech, a slightly updated version of “Here Comes the Bride” that’d had Don and Kathy laughing all the way down the aisle.

Don and Kathy would buy a house together. They would have a swimming pool and a dog and then inevitably, a small parade of adorable little snot-nosed kids who would call him Uncle Cosmo, and they would spend less and less time with him, not on purpose but busy with the rest of their lives, and ultimately Cosmo would learn to make his peace with it because he’d have no other choice and he would have to try to move on and not live too much in his memories. He could picture it so clearly, he figured if the songwriting gig with Monumental didn’t pan out, he could always return to the backwater circuit with a new act: The Amazing Cosmo of the Cosmos—ladies and gentlemen, he sees the future, he reads the stars, he silently pines for his best married pal and all the while tap dancing!

Don and Kathy inviting him along on their honeymoon, though—that part was a surprise.

“What?” said Cosmo, hands frozen over the piano keys. He’d been busy with a brand-new assignment; on the heels of The Dancing Cavalier, offers were pouring in and he’d taken the first one scoring a movie that didn’t star anyone he was secretly in love with.

Don had looked a little wounded when Cosmo broke the news last week, but a guy had to start making his own way in the world. Besides, orchestrating layers of strings to swell as the camera zoomed in on Don and Kathy blissfully locking lips in radiant monochrome, oblivious to the rest of the world—well, Cosmo knew that dance, he had mastered the footwork, and he didn’t especially feel like a reprise.

It wasn’t lost on him that Kathy had dropped by his rehearsal space alone today. Of course, he had no idea what this meant—he didn’t think it was about the new job; Don didn’t tend to stay sore at him for that long—but Kathy was acting perfectly natural, and so probably the smart thing was to follow her lead.

“It’s a two-week transatlantic cruise,” she said now, gracefully dropping beside him on the piano bench. “We thought it would be nice to see Europe, take in the sights, get away from all the cameras.”

“Ah yes, such a wallflower, our dear Don,” said Cosmo solemnly. “Besieged on all sides by the love of his public, a tragedy of our times, up there with Lear! Hamlet! Caesar! The one with all the Greeks and the giant wooden horse, nay, nay, neigh.” He played a tragic little trill, for effect. Kathy huffed a laugh and smacked his arm.

“You know that’s not it,” she said. “Being watched all the time—we can’t always do what we want. It’s rotten.”

Tell me about it, thought Cosmo.

He was sort of seeing a fight choreographer named Archibald, who came from old money and was a “the third” or a “the fifth” but nice enough Cosmo might even forgive him for that. Archibald was trim and athletic, with dark brown hair that was just starting to go gray at the temples and enough discretion that Cosmo didn’t think they’d get caught. The only problem was that he didn’t laugh at Cosmo’s jokes, seemed to just tolerate them.

“What do you two even talk about, then?” Don had asked, when Cosmo had let this slip over drinks the same night he’d explained about the new movie project. (Cosmo had been trying to spend less time with Don and Kathy since the wedding but Don had said, “C’mon, pal, we miss you” and Kathy had laid one hand on his arm and peered up at him with her big green eyes and Cosmo was only one man.)

Cosmo had frowned, because Don hated Archibald, for reasons that were frankly mysterious. Then he’d looked up and grinned a grin he didn’t exactly feel and said,

“Tell you when you’re older,” and then Don had choked on his dry Martini even though Cosmo knew Don knew about Cosmo’s tendencies. It wasn’t something they discussed, and Cosmo had never properly gone with a guy before, but whenever a big-shot producer started complaining about all the degenerate queers in showbiz, Don always sharply steered the conversation someplace else. It was all very gallant and noble and knightly, and someday Don would play King Arthur and Kathy his lady Guinevere—

“Honestly, sometimes it feels as if we’re living in a fishbowl,” said Kathy now, in the present.

“And so your solution is to relocate,” said Cosmo, “to the biggest fishbowl on this here magnificent earth. The mighty ocean!” He struck up a sea shanty. “Oh blow the man down, blow the man down / way ay, blow the man down…”

Not everyone appreciated his musical flights of fancy, but when Cosmo turned, she was leaning with her elbow on the side arm of the piano, watching him with her chin on her hand and laughing.

“Just for two weeks,” she said. “So, are you coming?”

“With you two,” said Cosmo, just so there could be no misunderstandings. “On your one and only honeymoon.”

“Yes,” said Kathy.

“As what, your first mate?”

“Sure.” She grinned and threw him a quick salute. Cosmo was almost never attracted to women but in this case, he understood the appeal.

He swallowed. “You are aware of that ancient saying, ‘Two’s company and three’s a fast track to divorce court’?”

“You’re hardly a threat to our marriage, Cosmo,” she said, and he agreed, of course, in both directions, even, but it still stung to hear her say it out loud. For want of anything better to do, he gasped, clutched a hand to his chest and reeled backwards so hard, he threw himself off the piano bench, landing in a somersault on the floor.

Kathy spun around fluidly on the bench to face him, pleated skirt whirling a little, heels of her shoes clicking together.

“Oh, I said that badly,” she said. “I only mean that it’s more fun when you’re around. We have a better time, Don and me both. Remember the night we decided to make Dueling Cavalier a musical?”

“Do I remember the best night of my life?” Cosmo peered up at her from the hardwood. “Why yes, madam, now that you mention it, I believe it might ring a bell or two.”

“The best—” She frowned for a moment, and he remembered then that as a newly married woman, a newly married woman to Don Lockwood, no less, she’d no doubt experienced any number of evenings that blew that one out of the water.

Even besides that, it felt awfully revealing all of a sudden. Cosmo threw an arm over his eyes. He felt naked. He wished he was naked, because that might at least distract from whatever his face was doing.

“So it beats your time with Archibald, then?” said Kathy shrewdly.

Cosmo uncovered his eyes. He forgot, sometimes, that new as Kathy was to the moving pictures business, she was still a city girl, with a city girl’s worldliness. Also, Don had probably told her; that seemed like the kind of second-hand secrets married people shared with each other. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

“Hardly a topic for mixed company,” he said.

There was a pause.

“So yes,” she said and smiled with a smugness that would’ve been unbecoming were she not as cute as a button.

“What do you and Don have against the poor man anyway?” he groused. “He’s never done so much as sneezed in your direction, and if he did, I’m sure he’d use a handkerchief.”

“For one thing, we know you could do better,” said Kathy, folding her arms.

Cosmo elbowed his way back to sitting, brushing himself off with dignity. “Well, better’s not exactly knocking on my door right now.”

“This town doesn’t have an ounce of sense.” She reached down to offer him a hand up, pulling Cosmo to his feet; she was stronger than she looked. “Listen, two weeks away, it’ll be good for you.”

“What about you two?” Cosmo protested as he reclaimed his spot on the bench, Kathy sliding to make room.

“What about us?” said Kathy with wide eyes.

“Two newlyweds might want some alone time?” he offered weakly.

Kathy shrugged. “I told you, there won’t be reporters or cameras. It’ll be plenty private.”

“What about your matrimonial needs?”

“Which needs?”

His eyes narrowed; she was a terrific actress but suddenly he wasn’t sure he was buying it. Kathy wasn’t dumb either.

“You have to know what I mean. Don’t make me play Cole Porter at you,” said Cosmo. She hesitated, and Cosmo began to pluck out a melody: “Birds do it, bees do it / even educated fleas do it…” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“Let’s do it,” sang Kathy, finishing the stanza in her lovely alto, “let’s fall in love.”

Cosmo stopped playing.

“I do know,” she said simply, “of course I do, and we’re not worried about it, alright? Listen, do you want to go?”

Cosmo, who had been carefully not asking himself that question, stared down at the piano keys. Did he want to go? He thought back to that night at Don’s, the three of them giddy with excitement and inspiration and sleep deprivation, running through the house, clowning around and dancing with no audience except each other—he hadn’t felt like a hanger-on then, like a third wheel or an extra limb or a chaperone. He’d felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be, one note of a perfect chord.

Still.

“I can’t swim,” he said.

“They’ll have lifejackets,” said Kathy.

“I’ll have to work.”

“We’ll bring a piano.”

“All my houseplants will die,” said Cosmo.

“All your houseplants are fake,” she said. This was true, although he wasn’t sure how she knew since she’d never been to his house. She sighed. “Remember the night of that first screening, when you were about to expose Lina and instead of explaining what was happening, Don told me I had to sing, that I didn’t have a choice?”

He winced, thinking of Kathy’s heartbroken, tear-stained face before they’d pulled up the curtain and revealed who was really singing when Lina moved her lips.

“Yes, and I feel just awful about it.”

“Well, Don doesn’t,” said Kathy. “Because he knew it would take too long to convince me to do something that mean to her.”

“Mean?” Cosmo echoed. “She tried to trap you in a lifelong contract and steal your voice. A common sea witch wouldn’t stoop so low.”

“But there wasn’t time,” she pressed. “And anyway, he knew how it would end.”

“What’s your point?”

“We already bought your tickets,” said Kathy.

Cosmo gaped at her.

“We’ve cleared the trip with everyone at Monumental and anyway, like I said, we’ll have a piano on the boat.”

Distantly, he was aware his mouth was still hanging open. Kathy reached over with one light finger under his chin and gently closed it.

“That’s better,” she said, folding her hands daintily in her lap. It was around this time she seemed to realize it wasn’t some routine, that Cosmo really was well and truly stunned. “Of course, nobody is going to force you to go with us if you truly don’t want to,” she said into the silence.

“These tickets,” he said at last, “are they refundable?”

“Gosh,” said Kathy easily, “I can’t imagine they are, no.”

The thing was, none of them were hurting for money or work anymore, so the fact that Don and Kathy might be out even a few hundred dollars didn’t catch at him the way it might’ve some years earlier. No, the thought that really seized his imagination was the mental image of Don and Kathy planning this together, Don and Kathy discussing the matter with each other, maybe over breakfast—toast and coffee in their dressing gowns, so sure it was the right thing to do that they’d decided to just go ahead and make preparations: oh and a ticket for Cosmo, of course.

He could do it, he realized. He could go. He wanted to go. It was foolish, but Cosmo was an entertainer; he’d been doing foolish things in front of a roomful of witnesses since he was in shortpants.

“I’ll pack tonight,” he said.

“Perfect!” Kathy hopped off the bench and straightened out her dress. “And bring something nice to wear at dinner for a night or two; it doesn’t need to be black-tie formal, a good suit will do.”

He nodded. “I shall leave the top hat and monocle at home. Two weeks, you say?”

“Yes, and another half-day on either side flying to the harbor and back.” She reached into her coat pocket, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “The itinerary,” she said. “Don and I are so glad you’ll be coming.”

“Uh-huh,” said Cosmo. “Say, where is that fella, anyway? What’s the big idea, can’t even stick around to ask his best pal to his own honeymoon?”

“He’s planning the trip,” said Kathy brightly. “Last-minute details. Anyway, he thought you and I should have a chat, one on one. He thought it might help.”

He blinked. “Help what?”

“Help us,” she said.

It was all starting to feel like a farce, like one of those old Vaudeville acts with a lot of fast talking.

“Did it?” he asked.

“I think so,” said Kathy warmly. She turned and began to walk towards the door. “See you at the airport tomorrow. Six AM sharp.”

“Six AM,” he said, and then, foolishly, “You know, I can see why he likes you.”

Kathy dimpled. “Oh, likewise!” She tossed him another smile and then she was heading out of sight down the hallway, shoes clacking rhythmically on the tile.

“Well,” said Cosmo to no one. He felt pole-axed, he decided. He wasn’t sure he had ever felt pole-axed in his life before, but there was no other word for it.

He played a chord, then another chord, then a few more.

“Pole-axed,” he sang, “out of whack, when you are near there’s only one drawback: I can’t be clever, no I lack the knack, Darling, I’m pole-axed, out of whack around you!”

It wasn’t exactly Cole Porter, but he’d take it, he thought, reaching for his pen. There was still an hour or two left before he’d need to race traffic home and dig out his suitcase. Apparently, he had early morning plans.

(ETA: if you didn't see, there is now a second part here!)

(ETA THE SECOND: the whole finished thing is now here!

#singin in the rain ot3 #i might write more idk but listen like you can probably imagine the rest of it #old-timey polyamorous shenanigans on a boat #pretty straightforward stuff #there's singing there's dancing and somehow don managed to 'accidentally' book cosmo in an adjoining bedroom etc etc

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etfrin · 4 months

Text

❝ ִִִִִִִִִִִִִֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶָָָָָָָָָָָָָ doll — coriolanus snow & clemensia dovecote ִִִִִִִִִִִִִֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶֶָָָָָָָָָָָָָ ❞

☆　Warning: NSFW | threesome, cum eating, pinv sex, creampie, unprotected sex (wrap it dumbfucks), fingering (f. receiving) | lmk if I forgot something

☆　Pairing: tutor! Clemensia x fem! Reader x tutor! Coriolanus

☆　Summary: headcanons and a drabble for tutor! Clemmie and Coryo <33

☆　A/N: I want them both so deal with it :/

masterlist | navigation | bc: @cafekitsune

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 — you were just an assignment to them at first. They agreed to tutor you because of the extra credits.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 — you weren't cooperative at first. Your eyes filled with annoyance, your words filled with animosity that neither Coryo nor Clemmie knew the reason for.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 — turns out you were always bullied by the rich and privileged so you had already assumed them to be the same.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 — you were proven wrong. Coryo felt sympathy for you, as you both lived in a similar situation. Coryo sneaks out food from the academy to share with you during your solo sessions with him.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 — Clemensia bought food from home to share with you. Bringing in the finest cuisines that you could only dream about eating, you always had leftovers to give to Coryo later.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 — this helped win them plus points with you, and you begin to earnestly pay attention to the lessons. Try your best to impress them.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 — it started with ‘rewards’ Clemmie begins to give you with your good grades. For a C you would get dresses and more, a B would get you makeup and branded perfumes, and an A would get you everything mentioned before along with whatever you wanted.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 — of course, it wasn't because she had grown attached to you and wanted to spoil you to no end. She had begun to like your smiles, and your laughs, the small gasp you made when you did something right. There's no doubt in her mind that you deserved these gifts. It certainly helped that all the clothes were tailored just for you and made you look like the doll you are for her.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 — with Coryo’s financial situation, he couldn't spoil you with lavishing gifts. So he simply manipulated you into craving his praise, his validation instead. When you get something wrong, he looks at you with such disappointment that tears pool immediately but gosh, when you get something right. His blue eyes brighten, his lips pulling up in a smile so radiant that it blinds you, making you unable to see the cold man underneath.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 — soon, both of them realize their feelings for you. However both of them know better than to fight for your attention, they both devise a plan to share their sweet little doll instead. They slowly coax you into a relationship with them. You don't even realize the web of traps you are getting into.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 — the study sessions including both of them increase. You squeeze between Coryo and Clemmie as they teach you. You can't take in air with Clemmie's hot breathing down your neck, making you shiver. Her fingers laced with yours in something that you thought was platonic but was anything but. You couldn't think with Coriolanus so close to you. His lips inches away from yours as he goes on and on about the history of Panem.

How the fuck did he manage to make history sexy was a mystery never to be known.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 — then it happened, you snapped, leaning forward to brush your lips against Coryo. And Clemensia begins to press her lips on your nape. Her arm around your waist, trapping you in like a snake's hold.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 .𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 .𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 .𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .

nsfw drabble ahead

It seemed like Clemmie had you trapped between her and Coryo. Her fingers unbutton the silk blouse she had gifted you. Her cold hand now pressed against your bare, hot-to-touch skin. She whispered to you, “My sweet doll. Kiss him back, nice and slow. There you go darling, you're so smart.”

You moan into Coriolanus's mouth as your cunt begins to soak through your panties from Clemmie's words. Coriolanus bites your lower lip, his body pressed against yours. His hands on your face, controlling the kiss, dominating you with no chance of escape. He doesn't break the kiss even when you can feel yourself getting dizzy from the lack of air.

You gasp when he finally does break the kiss. Clemensia by then had already unbuttoned your blouse and unclasped your lacy black bra (also gifted by her). Coriolanus felt his cock throb as he saw Clemmie's freshly manicured hands knead your breasts, making sure to pinch your nipples to get them hard and perky.

You looked like a slut like this. Your lips are swollen, your eyes wide and your body is aroused. He could feel his eyes darken with lust and he leaned down to begin kissing and licking your right breast while he left the left one to Clemensia's mentations.

He sucks your nipple, making sure his tongue swirls around the bud. He pays special attention, nipping the bud occasionally, savoring the cries of pleasure leaving your lips.

Meanwhile, Clemensia was pinching your other nipple, her free hand trailing down your body to free you of your skirt, along with the soaking wet lace panties. She giggles as her fingers swipe at your wet folds. Her digits gather your arousal, all sticky and white. “Taste this, Coryo,” she whispered, interrupting Coryo from putting hickeys all over your chest.

Coriolanus gladly accepts your taste on his tongue, he diligently licks up your juices from Clemensias’ fingers. The sight makes your pussy clench around nothing, a moan of pure want escaping your lips.

“Loosen her up for me, Clemmie,” he said as she pulls out her fingers to begin teasing your pussy again. Clemensia gladly agreed with Coryo. She whispered to you, her lips brushing against your ears, “Next time, I will bring the strap I specifically ordered for you, sweetheart. So it won't be only Coriolanus’ cock you feel next time.”

You couldn't reply anything, not when her fingers began to dip inside your gummy walls. Stretching you out to take Coriolanus's cock. She begins to thrust in her fingers inside your walls, with a gentle pace. Her thumb rubbing at your clit. She crooks her fingers perfectly, her fingertips rubbing at your g-spot, making you see stars as your body jolts from ecstasy.

Coriolanus calms you down with soft kisses on your lips. “She's good at this, huh?” He coos at you, the tip of his tongue catching the teardrops that fall from your eyes. “But you can take it, pet. You're made for us after all. Our doll.” You nod at his words. You would do anything to please them both.

“She’s ready, Coryo,” Clemensia said. She takes her fingers outside of your warm, wet walls and presses her fingertips to your lips until you take her digits inside. You moan around her fingers as your tongue tastes you for the time.

Coriolanus nods at Clemmie's words. He was positioning his cock to your entrance. He smirks at you. “You're gonna take it like a good girl,” he whispered, no, commands you. And with that, he thrusts into you. His cock now kissing your cervix, your pussy pulsating around him and your gummy walls burning from the stretch.

Clemensia eats up your scream, covering your lips with hers as Coryo lets you settle down. You whine, Clemmie's hands holding you down and Coriolanus's hands around your hips, gripping so tight that bruises would bloom soon.

It doesn't take long for Coriolanus to begin to roll his hips, his dick pounding into your heat without care for your pleasure. Meanwhile, Clemensia's hands roam all over your body, pinching and kneading the flesh. Her lips never leave yours. She occasionally leaned back whispered praises about how good you are, and how much she will stretch you out with her strap, and how good she will eat you after this. Each of her filthy fantasies had your cunt clenching around Coryo's cock and he groans, his lips attaching themselves to your pulse point on your neck.

He doesn't pay you or Clemensia any attention, fucking pussydrunk he was, merely chasing his pleasure from your cunt. With Clemmie's constant praises, her hands worshiping you, and Coriolanus sucking the darkest hickey on your skin, his cock stroking your walls, his cockhead grazing your spongy spot inside your walls with every thrust.

It didn't take you long to have your eyes roll back, your body turning into jelly. Coriolanus groans as his thrusts turn sloppy. He cums inside of you with no warning, his body falling on top of you as he gasps. He whines, “Such a good girl. Such sweet cunt, that's my doll.”

Clemmie chuckles, looking at your fucked out state. She was going to have fun with you as soon as you gained some energy. And she tells you exactly that as she gets up to bring you and Coryo glasses of water.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 .𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 .𖥔 �� ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 .𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 .𖥔 ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚

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historiaxvanserra · 4 months

Text

Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of

Pairing: SingleDad!Rhys x Reader

Summary: After his mate and the mother of his son abandons them, The High Lord and Nyx are left alone and wanting.

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: allusions to sexual assault, allusions to depression, abandonment, broken homes (y'know keeping it light, in all seriousness this is not all angst it's quite sweet actually).

The sky is painted in hues of lavender and mauve and the flowering ivory clouds shade Velaris in a perpetual state of dusk. The silvery light of the waxing moon seems to cast you in a gentle opal light as you approach the opulent manor. The High Lord’s townhouse is nestled in the heart of the city of starlight and wreathed in the colors of twilight; a slate facade that looks as though it is crowned in green, climbing ivy and night-blooming jasmine frame the large bay windows on the ground floor. From here you can see the large stained-glass window on the top floor, light refracts and it casts a myriad of dancing light onto the stone below-- dappled pinks and roses that fracture and give way to amethyst and indigo.

You spare a look to your aged companion as she breaches the threshold of the High Lord’s residence and, on unsteady feet, approaches the ornate wooden door and knocks thrice.

You remain for a moment a solitary figure at the entryway of the property, contemplating the series of events that led you here. Mother above, you chastise yourself. The thought occurs to you then, that perhaps you had made a mistake in coming here; that you should have given yourself more time, that you should have remained in the quiet solitude of the library where the world seems like a bitter memory.

“Come, girl.” Madja’s voice is tired and impatient as she beckons you closer with the wave of a crooked finger. “Don’t just stand there.”

You swallow thickly, bowing your head in obedience and you notice how her eyes soften as you approach the door tentatively.

“Nervous?” the old woman asks, you feel her eyes on you-- examining and critical.

“A little,” You admit, eyes downcast as you loose a shaky breath, “I haven’t left the library besides for training in quite some time.”

You stare down at the sleeves of your faded pewter robes as they billow in the evening breeze; the silver embroidery around the cuffs has begun to fray and the layers of fabric gather about your waist, the pleats have been poorly ironed and the heavy fabric falls over the curve of your hip haphazardly and pools to the floor in a swathe of heavy cotton. Shame pools in your stomach at the sight of your slippers as they peek out from the skirts of your robe.

It’s about time you asked Clotho for a new set of robes you think.

“You’ve met him before, no?” Madja’s voice breaks the tenuous peace you have found in those moments. You look up at her and a deep set frown graces her weathered face, “when you first came to Velaris?”

The visions fall on you like night; the Moonstone Palace saturated in onyx and jade, the reflections of your face in the marble of the throne room floor, the sentries as they dragged you before the High Council. The sounds of your screams and a sea of rubies and pearls as the bodice of your dress is torn away from your heaving chest-- all that red. Terrible and red.

Hewn City had always been cruel to you. You, a useless daughter to an ambitious man. The dreams are less vivid now but the sound of footsteps on marble still haunts you.

“Yes, it was him who brought me to Velaris-- after-afterwards,” You acquiesce to her questioning, eyes set on the light beyond the frosted glass panes of the onyx doorway, “though I doubt he remembers.”

Your avenging angel.

Madja looks at you carefully, taking account of you before she nods to you in silent acknowledgement.

The door to the High Lords townhouse opens with a flourish to reveal Morrigan. She’s more beautiful than you remember, radiant even as the dark shadows of sleep cling to her. Her golden hair hangs in loose waves over the delicate curve of her shoulder and though the deep umber of her eyes meets yours in a warm inviting stare as she utters your name.

She knows your name.

“Come on in from the cold.” she beckons you with the curve of a slender hand. You smile politely as you cross the threshold of the house. The wards fall away as you pass through into the foyer and the smell of mandarin and night blooming jasmine flood your senses.

The foyer to the townhouse is truly beautiful; a testament to the fine artistry and craftsmanship that seemed to define Velaris’ art district. The walls are paneled wood, painted in a shade of twilight that can only be found here, in The Night Court, and the burgundy carpet so rich in color that it reminds you of a blood moon, the oil paintings that hang on the walls seem to exude an air of majesty unlike anything you’ve ever seen.

In this room night reigns triumphant and you behold it all with a sense of wonder and awe. A careful deference to the love and care contained between these walls. It is a home that has been truly cherished by the people that live here.

“Did Madja tell you why you had been summoned here?” Morrigan’s voice is soft and sweet and the feeling of her hand on your robed arm pulls you from your thoughts.

“Sorry - I - uh” I stutter, glancing between her hand on my arm and the unyielding warmth of her gaze. “No she didn’t, only that there was a position in the High Lord’s household that Clotho recommended me for.”

“It was my recommendation actually,” Morrigan smiles proudly, letting her hand drop to her side idly. “Clotho just happened to agree.” The words leave her lips with the ghost of a smirk as she recalls the conversation between her and the High Priestess.

The last time you had spoken to Morrigan would have been in Hewn City, all those years ago. You abandon yourself to those days; when you had been the cursed daughter of a capricious Lord. The girl you were died under that mountain. The woman that stands in her place had been forged of blood, and splintered bone-- made strong by violence and tempered by time.

You nod solemnly and cast a glance to Madja who watches on in quiet curiosity.

“Rhys is upstairs,” Morrigan says softly to you both, gesturing up the staircase to the upper level of the house, “I’ll fetch him down”.

You notice then how troubled Mor looks. The rings around her eyes are pale purple and blue and her skin, once radiant, has become pale and sallow. She begins her ascent up the stairs with a small wave of her hand signaling Madja to follow. From here you can see a singular light that pierces through the blanket of the dark that shrouds the upper levels of the house.

Mor regards you once more as Madja passes her on the stairs and points towards the ornate door that leads to the antechamber at the heart of the house. “Go on in, we won’t be a moment.” In a flourish of golden blonde hair and crimson Morrigan winnows away and leaves you to linger in the foyer for a quiet moment.

The smell of cherries and marigold shades the air in her absence.

Voices, disembodied and distant from the upper levels of the house draw you into the heart of the house.

The antechamber of the High Lords townhouse is a beautiful living room, plunged into near darkness spare the slivers of jade light that dapple the dark walls from the emerald chandelier, even in the darkness you can make out the dark marble of the hearth that is draped with moonflowers and ivy. The low backed chairs are elegant and worn from use and there are books strewn about the room and a small library contained neatly in the alcove.

Your eyes find the painting hung above the hearth; immortalized on oil and canvas the High Lord of Night and his Lady. The High Lord is painted in a deep navy tunic and the silver paint mimics the delicate embroidery favored by the Velarian tailors in The Rainbow. His violet eyes shine bright against the dark.

He is a thing of dark beauty, you think.

In this light, his High Lady looks as though she is wreathed in starlight as smiles down on the antechamber from her place above the hearth. You observe the pointed curve of her nose and the upturn of her cerulean eyes and something aching and jealous festers in you at the sight of her beauty.

Otherworldly and ethereal.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” The low tenor of a man calls out from the darkness of the room, the voice is measured and devoid of any emotion as it permeates the dark. The male cuts an intimidating figure in the low light and all thought and sound eddies from your mind. You’re sure the sound of your heart like an echoing war drum is loud enough to shake the mountains as he takes a step towards you.

“High Lord?” you question. He steps further into the light and you regard him pensively; his skin is pallid and his eyes are ringed with dark circles of amethyst that trouble you. His onyx hair is left tousled and the ends have grown long enough to curl away from the harsh lines of his face. The sharp junction of his jaw has become obscured by the smatterings of coarse, black hair that grow there.

Even still, even in the unforgiving jade light, he is the most beautiful male you have ever seen. He smells of night blooming jasmine and violets undercut with something inherently masculine. Pine and whiskey perhaps.

His presence is something truly captivating; dark and intoxicating. When he looks at you there is only dark in those violet eyes.

The High Lord sinks into the worn armchair by the hearth with a deep sigh and for a moment he allows his eyes to flutter closed as he breathes deeply and all you can do is surrender yourself to that dark magnetism. The dying fire in the hearth warms him and in this light you notice the golden hues of his skin and the dark inky trails tattooed across the planes of his chest where his shirt opens.

“You’re staring--” The High Lord’s violet eyes falls onto you. In those liminal spaces between the seconds, when he is looking at you, all ceases to be. You tilt your chin downwards, hoping to avert his gaze, as you offer him a courteous bow.

“My apologies High L-” the apology is cut off by the High Lords gentle protests. None of that, Love.

You pray to the mother that he doesn’t notice the flush along the tops of your cheeks or the wild fluttering of your heart at the pet name.

“Sit down,” The High Lord gestures simply to the seat across from him by the hearth and his whole demeanor is somehow softer when you deign to look at him again. Wordlessly you comply with his request, a careful hand runs down the length of your robes to smooth out the lazy pleats in the skirt as they fan out around you in the low backed chair and while you don’t dare to meet his eyes directly you can feel him looking at you.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologizes though his voice is distant, despondent even and his eyes find the painting that looms over the hearth. “The portrait-- It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” He muses, tipping the rim of his whiskey glass towards the portrait.

“Very beautiful, High Lord.” you agree, smoothing the heavy material of your robes again. He watches you then with a curious glint in his eyes and he takes a few moments to assess you.

“Just Rhysand will do,” He smiles lightly, though there's a sense of apprehension as he regards you playing with the threads of your sleeves for the third time in so many moments, “there’s no need for such formalities when it’s just the two of us.”

“No of course not,” You agree and look at him through thick lashes and offer him a small smile in return, “forgive me, I’m--” you extend a hand to him over the small end table between the arm chairs and he takes it in earnest shaking it lightly. A calloused pad of his thumb rubs an absentminded circle into the skin of your hand before he brings your hand, trembling and slender, to the sulk of his lips and places a chaste kiss against the knuckles.

“I know who you are, Priestess,” he says lightly-- playfully. You offer him a polite laugh in return and nod your head again.

Something dark burns in his eyes in those moments; silver and violet. Like the darkness between the stars. He smiles to himself then, a soft beautiful thing. A secret shared between him and the dying light in the hearth as he picks at an errant threat on the stitching of his shirt.

“Why am I here, Rhysand?” You ask, inhaling deeply, hoping that his answer might assuage the anxiety that has been coiling in your stomach all afternoon. The door to the antechamber opens then and light, golden and radiant spills into the room all at once. The radiant light reveals the room to you fully, you observe the emerald velvet chairs and the dark wood furnishings, the landscapes hung on the walls and the rare manuscripts and novels bound all in black that line the walls.

This house is something truly breathtaking.

It feels like a home you realize.

“There you are!” Morrigan's velvet voice smothers the morose tension in the room as she comes into view. She’s since shed the tiredness that plagued her before and you notice the way her hair frames her face like a halo of gold in the soft ochre light. In her arms, swaddled in sapphire spider silk, is the High Lord’s son.

“We were beginning to wonder where you had gone.” Mor coos at the bundle in her arms as she approaches Rhysand who takes the babe in his strong arms.

As if he could get any more beautiful-- the man looks as though he was carved by The Mother.

It’s wrong, you know. He is your High Lord and you are…

The cursed daughter of a capricious Lord, you remind yourself.

Rhysand glances at me hesitantly and I meet his eyes briefly before focusing on the babe in his arms. He’s since broken loose from the swaddling and his chubby fist clutches at his fathers shirt. I can just see the top of his little head, it's all tufts of curly blue-black hair and pointed pink ears. You smile fondly to yourself as he continues to wriggle in his father’s grasp.

Gods, it’s been so long since you had smiled that wide without the feeling of guilt that usually attends it.

“You used to be a governess, didn’t you?” Mor says by way of explanation for your summons. To her credit her smile never falters even as your demeanor hardens against her, “Clotho said you had talked about it a few times.”

“Yes. I was,” You admit swallowing thickly, your voice comes out strained like the words themselves pain you to speak, “that was a long time ago though.”

That had been long before him.

You must have only been a youngling yourself. You had been happy-- that much you remember. Those were the happy recollections of your old life; summers spent under the opal lights of The Moonstone place, children’s laughter like birdsong that breaks apart in the humid air as you danced and sang long into the nights. Of dark autumns and smoky air, a bonfire and a small hand that holds your own with such gentle reverence.

“Clotho said you wanted to leave the Library?” Rhysand questions you, his eyes are dark and filled with a thinly veiled darkness that draws you into their depths as you speak to him without pretense.

“I do,” You answer him honestly, your voice wavering only a little, “I don’t want to spend my days rotting in the depths of that House.”

Rhysand considers it carefully and his face twists into a pained expression that almost breaks your resolve. You hadn’t meant to hurt him-- never. But you’re done hiding in the dark.

The world is a cruel place and full of cruel men. It always had been and it always will be. There is nought you can do to change that. So why should you cower from the world any longer?

You want to live.

The whining of the restless babe in Rhys’ arms rouses your attention and something akin to longing gathers in your chest as you regard him. You pull a lip between your teeth as he fusses and Rhysand struggles to soothe him. The babe looses a cry that comes out as a pitiful howl and you can feel a small ripple of power permeate the air.

“May I hold him?” The words take everyone in the room by surprise and the High Lord only nods easily and stands to pass the babe into your arms.

“I’m grateful,” You continue as Rhysand stands before you and transfers his son’s weight into the crook of your arm, “To you and your court for providing me, and girls like me with somewhere to heal but--”

“But you weren’t meant to cower in the darkness of the library forever.” Rhysand’s words come out as little more than a whisper and the feeling of his warm breath on your skin is something entirely perverse.

You shake your head, mouthing an inaudible ‘no’ before lowering yourself back into the chair by the hearth, hoping to hide the rosy blush that spreads across your cheeks. Rhys doesn’t retreat back into his armchair like you had thought he might and instead sinks to his knees before you and allows one of his son's fists to wrap around his ring finger. The babe seems to quieten then in your arms as he nuzzles against your chest, one balled first clinging to his father and the other pulling at the neckline of your robes and he smiles sleepily in your arms.

Looking at him now you are overcome with the realization of the absence that had stained this family’s happiness. Rhysand had given himself completely to a woman who had changed her mind. And their son-- their son; all cherub cheeked and big blue eyes framed with dark lashes-- had been abandoned by the woman who was supposed to love him without condition. Before the ghost of her had been an abstract thing. Something intangible and errant, a whisper or a memory, but now, as you look between the babe in your arms and the woman immortalized about the hearth you feel nothing but biting fury. A dangerous wrath only tempered by the stilling of the High Lord beside you.

It is Morrigan’s movement at the side of the room that rouses you from thought. “Then perhaps we can come to an arrangement?” The smile that graces her lips is brilliant and calculating and the sparkle in those umber eyes tells you she is genuine in his intentions.

“An arrangement?” You ask hesitantly, raising one arched brow to her.

“Yes.” The High Lord nods in agreement as Morrigan approaches you all casually, sauntering over to snatch a glass of wine from the decanter, “you’re free to leave the Library at any time but--”

“Help me take care of Nyx,” The High Lord beats you to it, his voice is soft and gentle and one of his fingers runs along the curve of Nyx’s ear as he begins to doze in your arms.

“High Lor-” You start, and you’re torn between declining outright and trying to dissuade them altogether, “Mor, I haven’t cared for a babe in well over 60 years.”

“Listen to me,” Rhysand’s violet gaze is unyielding and when you can no longer avert his gaze he takes on of your hands in his own and all but pleads with you, “take care of Nyx, for one year-- just until I get used to doing it on my own-- just until he starts his pre-schooling.”

The thought of him raising his son all alone pains you, a physical, bone deep ache that settles over you. You mourn for him then, for the love he thought he had, for all that he lost and then you mourn for the babe in your arms. For the son who will grow up without knowing his mother’s love. The High Lord looks at you through dark lashes and you note the tiredness in his eyes and the desperate sadness that seems to radiate from him these days and yet, he smile softly at you. As one might smile at something lovely and precious.

“And in return?” You ask peering down at him with sympathetic eyes when his whole body goes lax.

“I’ll help you get set up somewhere-- anywhere you want.” The words come quickly and if you were a cruel woman you would see what more he would offer you. But when he’s looking at you like you might just be his last hope you can’t find it in you to do anything but allow yourself to be persuaded by him.

You see a home; a cottage maybe, made of ancient stone and covered with climing ivy and jasmine. On the outskirts of Velaris, away from the artisans and market stalls of the main square, but close enough that you never feel truly alone. A home and it smells of mandarin and moonflowers, the sound of children laughing, and a garden blooming with violets in the garden in the leonine yellow heat of high summer. You smile wistfully and you swear you feel the gentle caress of a hand in your mind's eye.

“You can live here with us in the meantime” Rhysand continues gesturing to the house around you.

It’s warm and inviting and your body sings in response to the prospect.

“I don’t think that's a good--”

“Just until you find somewhere of your own.” He assures you standing to his full height before you. He casts a morose glance to the portrait that hangs about the hearth and you can see the moment his violet eyes meet painted cerulean.

“Rhys--” You warn gently.

“Please,” He turns to you again and the desperation in his tone has you yielding to him further, a gentle sweep over your face before settling on the sleeping babe in your arms, “please.” He repeats it once more and you swear your heart breaks just a little bit for him.

He had saved you once, you think. You had only been a girl then but you remember looking at him in that light; he looked like the shadow of some dark winged God-- avenging and angelic.

Perhaps this time the girl can save the God.

“A bargain then.” You muse lightly holding out a pinky finger to him.

Rhysand huffs out a laugh and curls his finger around your own. Nyx’s hand seems to flex in response, his own tiny pinky finger outstretched in agreement.

“A bargain.” With the simple confirmation you feel the gentle burn of a promise as it kisses its way up your wrist, and you see Rhysand’s own inky sigil as it glows faintly on the skin of his outstretched arm.

#acotar #acotar x reader #rhysand x reader #rhys x reader #rhys x you #rhys x y/n #rhysand x you #rhysand x y/n #rhysand acotar #rhysand imagine #rhys acotar #rhys fanfic #rhysand headcanons

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sfehvn · 6 months

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new religion

Description: AU- Astarion is enamored by you, and while he fights it at first, he may have just found his new religion. A/N: Just a tad bit of sweet smut to be honest. This was my listen while I wrote if you were curious. Enjoy! xx Rating: M (18+ minors DNI) Word count: 2,069 Characters: soft!ascended!Astarion x fem!au!Tav

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From the moment Astarion had seen you, he knew he had to have you. Walking through the animated city of Baldur’s Gate, your radiant smile was the first thing that had caught his eye. Flowing hair kissed your shoulders adorned with freshly plucked daisies. Your aroma was the most intoxicating scent that had graced his nose in all of his years. Your rose-tinted cheeks teased with the blood flowing beneath your flawless skin. Your eyes sparkled with wonder, reflecting the rays of the sun above. He had never been a believer in the love at first sight nonsense, yet there you were. If his undead heart could beat, he was sure it would be skipping against his ribcage. It was the only time the vampire had found himself utterly speechless.

For months, he watched from afar, finding excuses to go into town. Not that he had to excuse anything to anyone, but the newfound feelings were frightening, to say the least. Alas, day after day Astarion went out, whether for a drink or an unnecessary shop trip, and he would wait to get even the slightest glimpse at you. He was aware that this obsession was snowballing out of his hands as he fell harder and deeper. Hells, he had never even spoken to you. Yet he knew nearly everything there was to know.

He knew every other day you made your way to the apothecary to pick up medicines for your sick father, whom you cared for. He knew once every fifth day, you picnicked in the graveyard next to your mother’s grave. He knew your favorite color was yellow because it reminded you of the summers you spent with your mother before her untimely passing. You had six siblings: an older brother and five young sisters.

Astarion had also realized that you had a death wish, apparently. You were constantly staying out past sundown, running errands or helping neighbors. Did you even comprehend the dangers? He would often think to himself. Of course he had to follow you home to ensure you made it inside safely. You were becoming a liability to him, and quite frankly, he was terrified of how you made him feel. Just when he had decided to end this one-sided arrangement, there you were. Sat on the side of the road with tears pooling rivers down your cheeks, his body felt out of his control as he approached you.

He stood in front of you, his words caught in his throat. You stared at him with those big doe-eyes, and his knees felt like jelly. “Are you alright?” He finally managed out. Gods, what am I doing? I should just sink my fangs into her and be done with it. It’s just bloodlust. This was something he had tried to convince himself of many times already- a lie.

“Oh, yes.” Voice sweet and smooth, like the finest honey gold could buy. “Just this silly book.” You giggled, holding up the novel you had previously been engrossed in before Astarion had found you.

“Right. Good.” He clears his throat in an attempt to regain his composure and still his spinning mind. “I’ll just be on my way then.” You nod, gifting that sweet smile to him. Astarion felt his legs would give out beneath him if he stayed longer, but he didn’t move an inch.

The man intrigued you, ruby red eyes and skin pale as the snow that fell during winter. He was gorgeous. An aura of mystery surrounded him, and you were keen to discover those mysteries. “Say, you live in that big fancy manor?” You question, breaking the awkward silence that had befallen you two.

“I do. Why?” Skepticism was palpable in his tone.

You disregarded his tone, and he believed it to be your naive nature. “You have the most exquisite daffodils blooming alongside your walls. I didn’t want to pick them without asking.” Your smile is sheepish, innocent. Astarion doesn’t speak, his face unreadable. “I-I enjoy putting bouquets together. I don’t mean to-” He already knew this, obviously.

“They are yours.” Astarion can’t contain the smile that tugs the sides of his lips.

As you two stroll to the location of said flowers, Astarion finds himself loosening up in your presence. He watches you intently, the way you move your hair from your face as you carefully pluck a few from the group. He urges you to take more.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother. These are plenty.” You assure. In response, he crouches down next to you to help pluck the remaining flowers.

After walking you home, Astarion ordered flowers to be planted around the grounds. With the help of just a little magic, within weeks, roses, peonies, sunflowers, and carnations bloomed healthily. You would come with a fresh serving of food, a bouquet as thanks, and collect the flowers. As naive as you were, you could recognize what Astarion was doing. The daffodils were a one-off in that area, but now flowers surrounded the entirety of his property. The rate at which they grew, too; you were aware some effort went into getting them to blossom so hastily. At every mention of a new flower, the next time you came, they were miraculously in bloom.

This compromise had been in full swing for months when you finally questioned him about it. Astarion was on his knees as he snipped red roses from the bush, insistent on doing it himself so you didn’t prick yourself on a thorn. “Why are you doing this?” You question, a wicker basket that was already overflowing held firmly in your hands.

“I told you, you’ve nabbed yourself on these blasted thorns one too many times.” His reply came without a look in your direction as he continued to snip the stems.

“That’s not what I meant.” A soft chuckle emanates from behind closed lips. He looks up at you in realization, his hands coming to a halt. Your breath catches in your throat as he stares at you wordlessly, longingly. Standing slowly, he takes a step closer to you. He drops the roses into your basket before cupping your cheeks, closing the distance between your faces. The kiss is electric. You drop the basket to your feet, arms snaking around his neck while he presses your body tightly to his, clinging to you like a prayer. His lips were a colder temperature than you expected, but they were soft and hungry.

That’s how Astarion ended up with you in his bed. As he eagerly ripped the pale blue dress from your body, you took note of the bouquets around his bed chamber. Every single one you had gifted to him was on display and in perfect condition. Your heart flits in your chest, eyes closing in ecstasy as wet kisses trail up the inside of your thighs. A soft moan is elicited from you as his mouth reaches your warmth, his tongue flicking teasingly along your slit. Your fingers thread into his stark white hair, instinctually tugging with every contact against your clit. Colors explode behind your eyelids from the euphoric excitement.

He pulled away briefly, with his starving mouth against your thigh, he spoke muffled words, “I don’t think you realize how long I’ve been waiting to hear that, darling.” Your breathing quickens as you look down at him between your thighs with hooded, lustful eyes. His mouth returns to your clit and he suckles lightly, two fingers dipping into your dripping center. The sensation brings your back into an arch, aching to feel him deeper inside of you.

The swirling motion of his tongue brings you close to the edge, your legs shaking mercilessly. Astarion’s free hand moves between his torso and your legs, holding them steady as he continues his work on your body. Just as you are about to cum, he places a final kiss on your mound before his eyes meet yours. “You’re much naughtier than I thought.” He tsked, crooning his neck at you before moving up your body.

Your lips meet passionately, his tongue slipping effortlessly into your mouth to meet your own. He creates a gap between you as one hand holds him up, quickly removing his trousers and undergarments with his other hand. He pressed his bulge down onto your warmth, hitting your sweet spot as he grinds against you. “Do you taste how lovely you are?” He murmurs, plunging his tongue further into your mouth. You can only let out a delighted moan in response.

Once he breaks the kiss, you press your slippery core harder against his erection. “Please fuck me.” You whimper lustfully, “Please-” Your words are cut short by the sensation of him rubbing the head of his cock against your clit, causing a delicate moan to leave your throat.

“Fuck. You’re soaked, my darling.” He coos. As much as Astarion wanted to continue to play with your body, he needed to be buried in you as quickly as he possibly could. He slides the head of his member from your clit, pushing slowly into your welcoming embrace. He savors every sensation as he enters you. There is a momentary flicker of pain on your face as you adjust to his size, and he falters for a moment.

“Have you done this before?” He asks quietly, pressing his forehead to yours, avoiding your throat to save himself from temptation. He cursed himself inwardly for even asking; he shouldn’t care. This woman brought a side out of him he had never met before- a softer side. The scariest part is he actually, well, liked it.

You wavered for a second before shaking your head, confirming that he was indeed the first man to have ever been in such a position with you. The thought makes him feel feral. Such a sweet flower trusting someone like him to take your virtue; he would never admit it to anyone, but honor and pride swelled in his chest. He nodded in acknowledgment, “We’ll go slow, pet.” He reassures, hips rocking delicately into yours as he fills you with as much of him as he can manage without causing you discomfort. He lays a gentle kiss on your forehead as your pain turns into pleasure, still-shaking legs wrapping to engulf his hips.

“A-Astarion.” His name sounded like a hymn gracing his ears from your mouth, and he wanted to devour you right there and then. It took everything in him not to plow you into the bed. His hand rests on the bedframe as he finds a comfortable rhythm, eyes never leaving your face. He wanted to soak up every reaction to his touch.

“You drive me crazy, pet.” He grunts as his pace quickens, gripping the mahogany wood tighter at the magnetic pleasure buzzing through his body. He uses his free hand to effortlessly move you further up into a slightly seated position as his thumb once again finds your clit to draw purposeful eights over it.

“I-I’m- Oh my gods-” The moan is loud, music to his ears as your walls tighten around his cock.

“That’s right. Be a good girl and cum for me.” It’s a stern demand, all to mask just how close Astarion was himself. His words push you over the edge, your body clinging to his for support as the euphoria rushes over you. Every hair on your body standing on end, you throw your head back and scream Astarion’s name thrillfully.

With you coming undone, he allows himself to reach fruition, his seed filling you to the brim. His hand on the frame loosens, and his head hangs, face full of gratification. He looks down at you, pulling his now-soft member from you, a satisfied sigh leaving your lips as you stretch contently, much like a cat. Your eyes were droopy, a giddy smirk on your face as you fought to keep them open. Astarion chuckles, pressing another kiss to your lips. “You can sleep, my darling. I’ll wake you in a little.”

Astarion swore he felt the tiniest tinge of warmth in his heart at the sight of you so comfortable cuddled into his side as you dozed off. This could be a welcome change. Maybe his undead life just needed his very own light, his own sun. All he knew was that he was done fighting it. One weakness couldn’t hurt.

#ascended!astarion x tav #astarion x tav #ascended!astarion x reader #astarion x reader #soft!ascended!astarion #ascended astarion #astarion #smut #x reader #tav #reader #bg3

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madelynraemunson · 26 days

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 (𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲) 𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐞 ✨ — a steve harrington one shot fic

modern!sperm donor!steve x modern!pregnant!fem!reader

Summary: It’s hard to find ‘forever’ in a world that glorifies hook-up culture. After multiple failed relationships, you start to believe that your dream of having a family someday will only be just that — a DREAM. That is until you stumble across The Baby Gate Foundation, a family planning organization that helps qualifying Strangers start families with one another.

disclaimers — fluff overload, strangers to friends to lovers, some angst, reader goes by “Honey”,

NSFW — very brief smut, p in v sex (unprotected), breeding kink, cream pie, soft!dom steve

word count — 6.0k words

“So… what’s your favorite color?”

It’s the most aggravating question to ask when wading in the Dating Pool — and unfortunately the most frequent. But you figure at least asking about Steve Harrington’s favorite color is a good ‘precursor question’ when trying to get to know him. After all, you are the one carrying his child.

“Cerulean,” the handsome stranger from across the table replies.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a type of blue.”

“You could’ve just said blue.”

“What’s the fun in that?”

You issue him a touché type nod as you gently place your folded hands over your growing bump…a bump that was a byproduct of an ordeal that he wasn’t even present to participate in.

Before you knew him as Steve Harrington, he was just Stranger #021 whose sperm donation gave you the gift of life. The gift of having a little one of your own.

And it was about time you started a family. It has been a dream of yours — once you bagged your dream job and got to travel the world — to get married and have kids. But apparently the person you spent 6 years with did not share that dream, despite having told you he did in the beginning stages of your partnership.

Are you crazy? How dare you think your ex wanted a family after he explicitly told you he wanted you to marry him and have his kids? Silly lady. You actually thought he meant what he said.

And Steve Harrington’s baby daddy application seemed impossible to resist. The Baby Gate Foundation disclosed to you that Stranger #021 has no physical ailments, was a star athlete in high school, isn’t a carrier for any chronic illnesses, and passed a mental health and drug clearance.

Your baby is very likely to come out healthy and, now that you’ve gotten a good general idea of the guy, will hopefully inherit Steve’s luscious chestnut brown hair, his radiant smile, sparkling eyes, and kind nature. A healthy baby. A healthy family. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

“Your stomach feeling okay?” Steve inquires.

“Yeah,” you smile. “I just like touching it sometimes. It still doesn’t feel real.”

When selected, Steve jumped for joy. And you bet he started doing cartwheels when your pregnancy test came out positive. My dick still works! he remembers saying.

Having been a foster parent to many teenagers in the past, Steve also felt ready to have a kid of his own. But then his first long term girlfriend of three years cheated on him, and then his next long term girlfriend left him when she realized a family with him was not what she wanted. Steve was practically on the same boat as you. And the stars aligned…

“So I was thinking…when you’re in what’s considered a ‘safe’ point in your pregnancy, say second trimester… we can do cute pregnancy announcements,” Steve suggests.

Your eyes glimmer at the thought.

“As coparents of course!” Steve makes sure to add. “A-and then we can have a gender reveal. We can choose the theme and ideas for it later but I’m just thinking of an intimate cake cutting thing….pink frosting, obviously for girl…”

“And cerulean for boy,” you smirk at him, finishing his thought.

He chuckles at your comment. “Yes, cerulean for boy.”

You two then begin to brainstorm the minor details. Signing up for parenting classes. Check-up appointments. Your baby registry. Ironing out the details so that you both can relish in the pregnancy as much as possible.

When you’re done, Steve then pays for your lunch and you two go separate ways. But not before a long, grateful hug.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his ear. “You’ve made my dream come true.”

“I am just as indebted,” Steve insists, giving your back a loving rub. “I’ve always wanted to be a father.”

You decide to not let go until Steve breaks the hug. But little did you know that was Steve’s plan too. So you both stand there, in the middle of the mall food court swaying back and forth, waiting patiently for the other to let go because to be honest, you never know what a simple ‘I see you’ hug can do for somebody.

Finally, Steve pulls away.

“Listen, uh, Honey,” he says. “I hope this doesn’t sound weird because technically we don’t really know each other…but I already care about you so deeply. You’re the mother of my child. I want to be as involved as possible.”

“I care about you too Steve,” you beam at him. “And I feel like our healing journeys are coming to an end. I’m so excited to come together with another person who has the same goals in life.”

And that is all that’s said during that exchange. You hope that throughout your pregnancy, you and Steve can have more coparent dates to really get to know each other. You love that he feels safe and trustworthy, willing to put his all into the child that he, and many many medical experts helped you create. And you hope that as your baby grows up, you will find a lifelong partner like Steve someday.

“So how’d it go?”

You’re over at your best friend, Eddie’s apartment talking to him about your day. Eddie has been your best friend since middle school, bearing witness to every wonderful milestone — and tragedy — that has plagued your life ever since. Your decision to become a mother on your own, and coparenting with a stranger is no exception.

“I like him!” you exclaim. “He’s very sweet.”

“Do you trust him as your Baby Daddy?”

“If I didn’t, it’d be a little too late for that I’m afraid.”

Eddie would’ve been more than happy to be your donor, and without a doubt, you’d trust him in being fully present in the child’s life. However Eddie comes from a home with a turbulent family dynamic, and unfortunately is a carrier of the addiction gene along with many other illnesses. Eddie didn’t want to risk doing that to you or your family. So it works out that he and his boyfriend Henry are the ‘Fun Uncles’ or as he calls them “Funcles” instead, and Steve is the dad.

“But yeah I like Steve,” you circle back. “He’s funny, sweet, looks like he takes care of himself. Even paid for my food. Oh, and as a bonus, he uses big words.”

Eddie snorts as he strides over to the fridge. “He uses big words.”

“Yeah, like cerulean.”

Your bestie cocks an eyebrow and smirks at you. “What’s that?”

“It’s a type of blue,” you smirk back at him.

He releases a theatrical gasp. “Ground-breaking.”

Your banter is cut short when Eddie’s partner Henry walks through the door.

“Hello, hello.”

“Hey, Henry!”

You watch as the quiet, tall blonde dressed in dark-denim-tailored-to-fit struts in with a grocery bag, closing the door behind him with his foot.

“Hi, darlings.”

“Funcle Number Two,” Eddie greets his partner.

“I thought I was Number One.”

“You are,” Eddie shrugs. “In my heart. If you have an issue with your title and rank, I’d talk it up with Honey.”

“You can be Number One,” you grant him permission, eliciting a betrayed gasp from Eddie.

“Thank you, Honey,” Henry smirks, shooting a sassy look at Eddie.

Eddie issues a sour variation of that smirk to Henry, only to be met with a rough nudge to the ribcage. The two black cats then assemble to unload the groceries, all while focusing their attention back to you, their appointed ‘golden retriever’ of the bunch.

“Speaking of titles,” Henry adds. “How was your meeting with Daddy Steve?”

“It was wonderful,” you respond. “Was just telling Eddie how much I like him.”

Henry grimaces, understandably so. Your taste and judgment in men throughout the years have been nothing short of concerning. But because you didn’t willingly seek Steve out on a shady online dating app, at a dive bar at 2 AM, or on the dance floor of a sweaty small town nightclub, you figured you were in the clear.

“We’re gonna make it work no matter what,” you insist to your seemingly doubtful friends. “Even if there are discrepancies, we agreed it’s our kid before anything. And I’m ready. I told you guys myself that if I don't meet the love of my life by the time I'm 29, I'm having a baby by myself."

Aside from the two "Funcles", you have been the only consistent person in your life. And in this day and age, two people don't need to 'be together' to bring life into this world. And even if they are together, it’s not a happy home sometimes.

All that matters in this arrangement is that both of Baby Harrington’s parents are involved. That was Steve's promise to you.

Let's just hope he keeps it.

“That’s the head… and those…are your baby’s feet.”

You and Steve watch the monitor in awe as the sonographer scans your belly. You are now 20 weeks along, and doing a routine ultrasound check up.

First trimester was a nightmare. Constant nausea and vomiting so you’re not even sure that you’re stomaching those pre-natals, intense mood swings, and breast tenderness so bad you essentially begged Steve to just chop your tits off.

Regardless, you are healthy, and the baby is healthy. And now your camera roll is filled with pictures and videos of every frame of every ultrasound you get done, as well as audio recordings of Baby Harrington’s heartbeat. You and Steve even share your content amongst each other, just in case the other missed something that the other captured. It’s a wholesome exchange, really.

“Baby’s kicking a lot. Almost looks like they’re swimming in place,” the tech comments.

“I did swim and water polo in high school, could be why,” Steve explains.

You bat your eyes in adoration at your friend. He gives you a warm look back.

“Just like Daddy,” you say. And then Steve rests his palm atop your hand.

For the first time in a long time, everything feels complete.

“So, would you like to know the gender?” the sonographer inquires.

Immediately you and Steve bombard her with anxious-filled “No no no no”s. You decided to go with the cake gender reveal idea, and Henry and Eddie were in charge of having it made.

“We’d like for it to be a surprise,” Steve smiles. “But we sure would like an envelope with the gender in it. Honey’s gonna give it to her friends to give the baker.”

“Sounds like a plan to me!” the tech grins widely. “I will have it printed out for you shortly.”

She wipes your belly down so that there is no more ultrasound jelly on your stomach before leaving. Meanwhile, you and Steve are absolutely giddy. You are now halfway through your pregnancy and couldn’t wait to hold Baby Harrington in your arms.

But as exciting as everything is, it is also anxiety-inducing. No parenting book could ever prepare you for bringing a kid into the world. There was so much more that needed to be done. So much to do. And it seems like there was so very little time to do it.

Steve has another question for you. “When does the baby usually wake you up?”

“Baby’s a night owl, strangely,” you reply. “I’ll feel some moving and stuff at night.”

Steve sighs and shakes his head in thought.

“Man, I hope kid doesn’t wake you up at night too much when they’re born. That’d be god awful.”

“I know, I’ve been thinking of that too,” you groan. “And all the diaper changes I’ll probably have to do before putting them back to sleep. Ugh, I don’t even wanna think about diapers.”

You didn’t want to think about post-partum shit. So far, you’ve only been focused on pregnancy shit, and that shit is already overwhelming. While you seem well-equipped for pregnancy itself, the thought of actually being a fully-functioning parenting unit alongside Steve brings on a new set of fear.

Suddenly you and Steve look up at each other.

“Oh shit!” you shriek. “A crib! We need a crib! A stroller.”

“And a whole nursery,” he gulps. “And a baby monitor… A swaddle! A carrier!”

———

You and Steve are moved in together by the end of the month. Platonically, of course. With a capital P.

You both figured that raising the baby under one roof would be the healthiest way to approach your parenting situation. Both of you already get along really well and have similar communication styles. You two also have the same expectations from each other. And not every child is blessed with two parents living together in a happy home. It’s a luxury you both refused to take for granted.

So eventually the non-traditional-housewarming-slash-baby-shower-party rolls around, in efforts to help prepare for Baby Harrington’s arrival. It ends up being a huge success. Additionally, the party gave everyone a chance to mingle with one another, your friends meeting Steve’s friends and jokingly calling each other "in-laws". Robin and Eddie immediately grow very fond of each other, having deemed each other best friends after their third time meeting.

“How long do you give it?” Robin asks Eddie as they watch you and Steve work together to build the crib. “You know till they…”

They observe as you and Steve bicker back and forth about whether or not a section of the crib was installed the wrong way. You argue that it was, and Steve, still firm in his masculinity that he felt like was slowly chipping away (he can’t help it sometimes) insisted that it wasn’t.

“I know how to read, Honey. And besides, if it’s the wrong part, how did I screw it on perfectly?”

“I don’t know, Bob the Builder,” you fire back at him. “You didn’t have to 'screw it on perfectly' to get me pregnant.”

“Til that baby is born,” Eddie estimates.

Eddie chuckles at this. He’s been with Henry for many years, but you two have beat him at the argue-like-a-married couple thing. Slyly, he sips his beer.

“…The very latest.”

“Steve, I’m hungry. Wanna go to Rally’s?”

The cravings have officially kicked in (finally). But of course, it’s at the least convenient of times.

“Woman, it is 1 in the morning...”

“Yes, and I want Rally’s.”

You give Steve a light thunk on his fluffy head.

Now that you two live together, sleeping in the same bed was bound to happen eventually. But it is the least of your concerns. In a world where people go ‘ghost’ after getting what they want, laying your head down in the same bed as Steve is the farthest thing from intimacy. You’re also afraid of the dark, and being in his light calms your nerves.

Except for tonight. Where the only thing that’ll calm those nerves is a Wild West burger and some fries.

Steve huffs, clearly too tired to argue with your hungry ass. But also, you’re the mother of his child. You have the hardest job, and having a late night snack when you felt like it is the bare minimum of what you deserve.

“Let’s go.”

You smirk to yourself as you dance your way out of bed. Anything Baby Mama wants, Baby Mama gets.

Rally’s sure did the trick. When you and Steve return, you find yourself skipping back to the bedroom while Harrington fights to urge to plop onto the floor right by the entry way, his body’s natural response to a food coma, and the state of lethargy he was in from being stirred awake.

But as much as he valued his beauty sleep, he knows deep down he’d still do it again for you. Your little food dance was also pretty damn cute, anyways.

———

THE NEXT WEEK

You and Steve have been ordering way too much takeout. So tonight you decide to surprise him with a home-cooked meal. So while he’s at work, you’re searching Pinterest for healthy, savory dishes to cook. Chinese food it is. One can never go wrong with some chicken fried rice.

Steve comes home right when you finish.

“Oh my god,” Steve gawks as he enters the kitchen. “What smells so damn good?”

“I made dinner,” you smile gleefully, and with pride. “I have so much energy second trimester it’s insane. Hope you like Chinese.”

Steve slows down. Glancing around the chaotic kitchen, he takes in the array of sauces, the cutting board, and the multiple plates and bowls that most likely harbored the. Then he looks at you — a sweaty mess with stains on her apron from all the rice tossing. And he can tell, by your slightly labored breathing, that you’re gathering up all the energy you possibly can to powerwash all the dishes.

“You…made this for me?”

“Yeah! For us, actually. And the baby. I hope you’re okay with onions and scallions.”

“Y-yeah, I’m fine with those,” he insists. “It’s just that…I have a date tonight.”

Suddenly the pots and pans feel so much heavier. The air, hotter. The onions, stronger judging by how tears start pooling at the base of your eyes. At least you want to blame it on those.

“Oh,” you sniff.

“I’m so sorry, Honey. I should’ve told you so you didn’t have to go out of your way.”

“It’s fine.”

Why do you feel this way? It’s not like you two are together anyway. This pregnancy is a partnership… platonic with a capital P. So why are you upset? And more importantly, why are you jealous?

“I-I’m sorry…” Steve panics. “I-it’s just that we’ve been getting takeout all week and I thought it’d be the same toni-”

“It’s okay, Steve.”

“That came out so bad, I…”

“I know what you mean,” you shake your head shutting him down immediately. “Have fun tonight, okay?”

“You’re crying…”

“I was chopping onions,” you point out.

You nod to the bag of onions that were yet to be put away. There was a lot left to be put away actually, and you were kind of hoping Steve would help. But clearly he’s a busy man.

“And it’s probably just the stupid pregnancy hormones too,” you add.

“They’re NOT stupid,” Steve insists. “And you just said you have so much energy. You were bursting with light just a moment ago…before I killed it.”

“Have fun tonight, Steve,” you repeat.

You head over to the wok and scoop out a serving for two: one serving for you, and one for the baby. Dad will get the leftovers, you suppose.

Steve watches you intently. You can feel his stare even with your back turned. Suddenly, you hear the faint dial tone of his cell phone ringing a couple of times before someone answers.

“Hey…Lacey, I can’t come tonight,” Steve sighs. “I’m really sorry for being so last minute. A family emergency came up.”

You look back over at him. He makes sure to look you in the eyes as he says ‘family’.

The two of them talk some more before Steve hangs up the phone. Awkwardly now, you chew softly at the rice you made.

“Well she definitely hates me,” Steve chuckles. “But I don’t care.”

“Steve…” you speak. “You didn’t have to.”

“You’re carrying my kid,” Steve looks at you with glimmering eyes. “I can’t be running through the town in the arms of another woman. This pregnancy is a team effort.”

He glides over you and stops right where your hips meet. You timidly manage to look up at him, tear-jerked, all sweaty, and very very pregnant. And after Steve tucks a loose strand of hair behind the blushing cartilage of your ear, he presses his tender lips against your forehead.

“For the baby,” he whispers to you.

“For the baby,” you repeat after him.

The day is here.

The gender reveal, that is. You didn’t expect finding out something as simple as having a boy or girl was going to be this nerve wracking. And to think some people do this in front of a huge audience.

“Okay…” you exhale unevenly. “You ready?”

“Only if you are,” Steve nods, but his trembling hands betray him.

“Hand me a glass.”

Steve hands you one of the two wine glasses you brought for the intimate picnic you had planned for today. On the count of three, you two were to dig those very glasses into the cake and scoop out the long awaited answer.

SWEET CHILD O MINE, the cake reads. Boy or girl?

Henry and Eddie settled for a Rock-N-Roll inspired cake, with self-indulgent black and red buttercream on the outside, and the pre-determined blue or pink on the inside. You were afraid that it was going to be a little too edgy for Steve, but he assures you the aesthetic of a cake is the least of his priorities.

Drawing out an uneven breath now, you decide to start counting down.

“One…” you gulp.

“Two…” Steve joins in.

But you can't bring yourself to say ‘three’. Shutting your eyes closed in a bout of nervousness, you mutter softly,

"Two and a half..."

It earns you a chuckle from Steve. Knowing just how to calm you down, like he had been doing all pregnancy, he offers you his available hand to squeeze if you needed.

“Three!” you two finally say together.

Plunging your wine glasses into the cake, you and Steve gather one big scoop each while your eyes drift elsewhere.

“I can’t look,” you choke, sniffing back a tear or two.

“I can’t either,” Steve exhales, evidently nervous. “You can look first though.”

“No, I’ll look when you do.”

You’re met with messy dough and frosting in the glass at first. But after trailing after the inside part of the cake, you catch sight of the fluffy frosting that was buried beneath. A bright, eye-catching, pastel....

...cerulean blue. A baby boy.

“Oh…my…god,” your hand trembles in complete shock. “It’s a boy…”

“Oh my god, baby!” Steve sniffs going in to hug you. “We’re having a boy…”

And then it happens. Unable to contain himself from his joy any longer, Steve cups your face with his frosting-laced fingers, connecting his lips passionately to yours, and you with him.

It’s the best day of Steve’s life. You are the reason that he gets to live out his dream of becoming a dad. And now that you two are having a son, all he can imagine is teaching the kid how to throw a football in the backyard, signing him up for T-Ball and Boy Scouts (just like his dad once did with him), and taking him and his buddies out on silly, fun-filled rag-tag group adventures.

And knowing how strange and daunting the world can be, Steve already maps out how to raise your child morally, encouraging him to always treat others with kindness, to be a friend to all, to always lend a helping hand whenever the situation calls on it. And to respect women…because after all, everybody came from one. And Steve knows that he struck gold, considering the fact that he views you as an absolute queen.

You kiss King Steve back, humming in awe because of how natural his energy feels against yours.

It all feels very natural. Makes you feel like you’ve known him your entire life.

Your eyes widen in shock as you two look at each other, both stunned that a kiss was both of your initial, seemingly ‘platonic’, response to the news.

"Is it just me or is it just now hitting?" Steve questions. "We're having a kid together."

"It's just now hitting me too," you agree, the double meaning tugging aggressively at your heartstrings. "We're really doing this, Stevie."

“Our son.”

———

“What happens when one of us finds somebody?”

It’s a talk you and Steve were due for eventually. But Steve is just as unsure, looking over at your pregnant silhouette standing at the foot of the doorway.

But with how beautiful you looked standing at the doorway, your silk, maternity night gown hugging all the beautiful curves of your body while you rubbed your belly that housed your very active kicker, Steve wasn’t even sure if he’d ever want to find somebody else.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” he ends up saying.

He makes his way over to you, wrapping his gentle arms around your waistline, emitting his ever-growing love for you and the baby you two share.

“But if one thing's for sure, it's our son. Baby Harrington first. Before anything.”

“Baby before anything," you repeat the promise.

Steve’s lips graze your skin once again, an invitation and incentive to join him in bed — nuzzled up in the sheets and his warmth — so the two of you can soak in all the rest you possibly can before Baby Boy makes his entrance into the world.

Some bridges aren’t meant for crossing. Sometimes settling is the best option. And you don’t mind settling down. Because here, in Steve’s arms, it feels like home.

WEEK 38

An involuntary rush in your lower extremity stirs you awake. When you feel around to push the sheets aside and hobble to the bathroom, you’re stunned to discover your nightgown had become a raft, and that you’re laying atop your own unscented secretions. And you know it’s not piss. So if you didn’t pee…

Oh no, it’s happening.

You begin to panic.

“Steve!” you hiss, sitting up and pushing your partner awake. “HEY! Harrington!”

“Huh?” Steve mumbles, still half asleep.

“Get the hospital bag.”

“What?”

“Get the hospital bag, dingus. My water just broke.”

He shoots up. Still relatively disoriented, but now also horrified.

“W-what? Are you sure?! Does this… A-are you about to…”

“Yes! Grab the bag and start the car. He’s coming RIGHT NOW.”

While you slowly sit up to get your shoes and a robe on, Steve scurries to the car with your overnight L&D bag and purse in his arms. You reach over to grab your phone and charger, dialing up Eddie in the process.

It rings for a long time before he picks up.

“Honey, it’s 4 AM, what do you want?” Eddie grumbles.

“It’s time, Eds,” you sniff happily. “The baby is coming.”

The line is silent for a couple seconds, and for a while it’s like you can hear Eddie connecting the dots in his head. Alas, he speaks.

“HO-LY SHIT!”

*Click*. The line disconnects.

Steve holds your hand through it all. From checking into Labor and Delivery, to moving to your room, to breathing exercises with your bedside doula, check-ins with your midwife, and throughout the entire birthing process.

Not only is he nervous out of his mind, but he thinks you’re so beautiful.

"You know," Steve says in attempts to soothe you. "When I came out the womb, the nurse yelled "Oh my gosh! That's a lot of hair on a baby!"

You're too fixated on your breathing exercises to fully appreciate Steve's story. But you understand his sweet gesture, so you stroke his thumb with your thumb to let him know you're listening.

“I guess I had double the amount of hair than a usual newborn,” he continues. “And all the nurses were crowding around to get a good— OW OW OW! Watch the hand, watch the hand.”

The sudden level 9 contraction that shot through your entire stomach, causing you to scream in agony and beg for the epidural.

"JESUS, FUCK GET THIS BABY OUT OF ME!" you plead desperately.

Steve kisses you softly on the forehead before going in to stroke your, very sweaty, hair. He was not going to leave your side. Not now, not ever. This baby — and you — are the best things to ever happen to him.

Thanks to yours and Steve's mindful prep, the birthing process was a smooth one compared to others.

But still pretty painful, nonetheless. For you, for Steve, for everybody involved.

"Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit," Eddie sputters as he and Henry rush onto the unit with the baby's carseat and other miscellaneous belongings in their hands. "It's happening, it's happening. He's almost here!"

"I wonder," Henry pants, doing his best to keep up with his boyfriend. "If she experienced the Ring of Fire yet."

"What's the Ring of Fire?" Eddie questions him.

"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" your tumultuous screams sound down the hall directly from your room. Anyone would've thought someone was getting murdered in there, had it not been a hospital unit strictly for childbirth.

"That," Henry answers him.

---

"You're almost there, baby," Steve encourages you. "Keep pushing."

The epidural had finally kicked in and now all you had to focus on was pushing.

“I see the head, Mama,” your midwife announces, rubbing your knee as you’re struggling to push. “Keep going, keep going! Couple more for me.”

“FUCK!” you cry out doing your best to contract those muscles.

“There we go…” Steve soothes you as he strokes your hair. “Doing AMAZING, baby. That’s it…”

He strokes your thumb with his, a helpless look in his eyes as he watches you struggle. It’s clear that Steve doesn’t know what else he could possibly do for you, but he attempts to mask that belief. He couldn’t wait to spoil you afterwards. It’s what you deserve.

“Few more pushes, Honey,” your nurse says again. “He’s almost out. We got his shoulders now.”

“Oh god I’m gonna faint,” Steve says, evidently growing dizzy.

“Can someone get a wet towel for Dad?!” another nurse calls out. “And maybe some juice?”

“PUSH, PUSH!”

“PUSH, Honey!”

“ALMOST THERE, MAMA!”

“I can’t,” you cry out. “I can’t anymore.”

“You can do it, baby,” Steve encourages you, pelting the back of your hand with endearing kisses. “You’re doing such a good job, I’m so proud of you…”

Before you know it, the air of the hospital room fills with tiny belted cries, followed by relieved and adorn coos as the nurse catches your baby.

“0507, time of birth!"

“Oh my god,” Steve wails in excitement. “Oh my god, he’s here he’s out. We have a baby! You did it, Honey!”

Too exhausted to say anything you simply fall back, taking a few deep breaths in relief. It’s over, the baby is here. And he is healthy.

You feel a sloppy kiss land on your cheek. Steve ruffles your hair when you look his way.

“You did it, Honey.”

Everything happens so fast after that.

From what you hear, Steve was the one who cut the umbilical cord — and he was very adamant about having the pictures to prove it. The baby was then weighed and bathed, all the hospital data was gathered with permission granted by Steve.

And soon, after an eternity, your son is swaddled and soon returned back to you and ‘Dad’.

"Oh wow!" a nurse remarks. "This baby has a whole lotta hair!"

You and Steve immediately look to each other and burst out laughing. Just like his Daddy...

———

“How does that feel, Steve?” you ask him, eyes fixated on the absolute DILF in front of you.

“Amazing,” he coos. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

When all needs were attended to, it was finally time for ‘skin to skin’. You didn’t think it’d be possible to be both sexy and wholesome at the same time — until you saw Steve cradling your newborn, pressing him tenderly against his exposed chest so that their hearts can beat as one.

“Hi little man,” he sniffs. “I’m your daddy.”

A single tear falls from his face and splashes onto the blanket that your son was cocooned in. Steve pulls him in closer and kisses him softly on the forehead.

“I’m your daddy,” he repeats.

It’s everything he’s ever wanted. Steve’s legacy is about to begin and it’s all thanks to you. And from your hospital bed as you recover, you are able to snap some pictures of the two loves of your life, the first photos of many, of the family photo albums.

“Ugh, when did Steve get so hairy?” Lucas wonders as he sneaks a gaze into the hospital room.

“Right?” Dustin agrees, joining him beside the doorway. “I told him he needs to tame that jungle but he claims the ladies dig it.”

“I mean, look at Honey,” Lucas points out. She seems to like it and Steve knocked her up.”

“True but it wasn’t organic, you idiot,” Max mutters.

Love pours in from every wing of the unit. Soon all your family and friends start to arrive, as well as Steve’s family and friends. You’re spoiled with ‘congratulations’ signs, and postpartum care packages, and an array of foods that you couldn’t eat while pregnant (i.e. sushi, deli sandwiches).

And with your approval, Steve comes out of the hospital room, ready — and proud — to showcase your baby to the entire world.

“Everyone, there’s someone we’d like for you to meet,” Steve says, keeping his voice at a low murmur. “This is Benjamin Dean Harrington. Benny for short.”

You and Steve end up taking parental leave at the same time.

Your entire day-to-day consists of loving on and spending quality time with Benny. The diaper changes, the cuddles, the nursery rhymes, and everything in between. It’s impossible to think you’ll ever get tired of it. You and Steve have officially transitioned to Mom & Dad Mode.

Until Benny goes to sleep.

As the golden sun peaks in through the cream colored blinds, you feel Steve’s hand trail down your back and down to your ass to grab it. Releasing a soft moan, you lean into his touch, shifting your weight to one side of the mattress.

“Baby…” he moans into you.

“Should we?” your eyes twinkle. “The baby’s asleep…”

He chuckles into your neck, raspy voice sure to be the end of you if he kept teasing you any longer.

“‘m scared I’ll hurt you.”

“I’ll let you know,” you barter. “I feel ready.”

———

“Fuck, right there, Steve…”

You grip the sheets tightly as Steve rolls his hips into you, his strokes a delicious mix of pleasure and a challenging stretch. And as you bite into your pillow, your eyes rolling up towards the sky, he maintains the pace you love so much, drilling you in, simultaneously massaging your clit while his quenched lips tenderly suction themselves to the crook of you neck.

It’s your first time together, but it feels like you two have done this before. Your bodies are naturally in sync, knowing where your boundaries lie without needing any cues, and knowing exactly how far you both can take it. Daddy Steve, being the gentleman he is, has your entire body mapped out.

“God I love it,” your overstimulated self whimpers, chest to your chin, ankles dangling off of Steve’s broad shoulders as he rails you.

“Oh, I bet you do, Honey.”

His large hand encloses around your neck, thumb hovering over your lips as he fawns over your mewling, vulnerable body.

“You want my cum, baby?” Steve asks. “Want me to fill you to the brim huh? You wanna have my babies?”

“Yes, I want your babies, Steve,” you moan. “Want all of them.”

And as an orgasm spills out of you, Steve’s spills in, coating you with his warm release as you both unravel in the sheets.

“Holy shit, that felt so good,” you whisper, nuzzling your head against his chest. Steve grins from ear to ear when you kiss him on the chin. “Thank you for making me feel so safe and loved.”

“Well when you’re you Honey, you make it so easy,” he blushes.

Steve rests his hands on your ass again, giving it a faint smack. You bite your lip as he pulls you even closer to him. And as the sun sets, you know round two is on the horizon.

“Anyways, when ARE we having another one?”

———

author’s note: i’m noticing some themes with the way i write eddie smut vs steve smut. i totally write eddie as a rough dom and steve is def a soft dom. not complaining tho, those are my headcannons for them 🤭

divider creds: @silkholland , @elfbar-baby

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qwimchii · 7 months

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𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 (pt. 3) — 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘺

playlist pt. 1 pt. 2 pt. 3 pt. 4 pt. 5 pt. 6 pt. 7 pt. 8 (10/24)

𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘹 𝘧!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺 — 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘯, 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵'𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘢𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘸𝘤 — 21.3𝘬

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦 — 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩-𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵

𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴/𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 — 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘸𝘦𝘴𝘵!𝘢𝘶, 141𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘨!𝘢𝘶, 𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘮!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳!𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘪𝘯𝘦��𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘷𝘪𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘯!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 (10𝘺𝘳𝘴), 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘩𝘰𝘭, 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘭��𝘰𝘥 & 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘴 & 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘮𝘢, 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘬, 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨

note: this chapter is literally insane but 😗 nothing like a bit of forced proximity 🤭

when you emerged from your room, it was already mid-morning. you had pulled your hair back and up from your face, ringlets of loose curls framing your head like a halo. you dressed in the best attire you could fish out of the armoire—a petal pink skirt with furls of embellishments like honey, and a pale beige blouse with tendrils of pastel blue carnations stitched into its chest and up the high collar, gathering tight at your shoulders and pooling into a loose sleeve then the tight cuff of your wrist.

the garments were delicate—as delicate as you felt you were, broken in and soft. from the makeup tray on a shelf in the armoire, you very lightly pressed just a tinge of french rogue powder to your lips and cheeks to smother the swollen puffiness of your face. taking a bit of dark eyeshadow on your pinkie, you smudged it meticulously across your eyelid, hoping you looked positively radiant on this awful, gloomy day, despite the strong sun shining through the windows of your room.

when you passed the porter, marching into the compartment littered with los vaqueros, one-four-one, and much to your chagrin, Ghost, you barely spared the porter a glance. he looked so much smaller, meager, in the sunlight, a chubby pudge to his face and teeth that slightly protruded over his bottom lip.

still, you bowed your head with a graciousness as he just rudely stared into your face, his hands clenched into clammy fists by his sides.

when you stepped into the compartment, there was a diminishing of noise that coalesced into a steady silence. you ignored them all, sliding onto an abandoned couch where breakfast tea and coffee was laid out. you served yourself a cup, politely curling your legs to the side as you looked out the window.

it was the same scenery as the night before—a stretching half-desert with sparse vegetation and weedy trees, cast in a yellow glare from the sunlight.

Kate slid into the plush chair adjacent to you, the sight of another woman at her shoulder making you jump. she had a mahogany rich tone to her skin, intricate black coils braided tight to her head and trailing down the back of her neck. the almond curve of her eyes and full lips gleamed.

your mouth parted quite rudely. she was absolutely radiant.

laxing back in her chair, she sat across from you with an easy-going look. she wore loose buckskin trousers with a fringe and a jacket of cowhide, a bandolier slung across her chest. she tipped her hat to you and you sorely missed your stetson at that moment.

“mornin’,” Kate said with a light slap on your knee, which you deemed mildly inappropriate, but at this point, you couldn’t bother to comment.

as if on queue, you eyed Ghost pad over to sit by the woman. he was rock still, face imperceptible and stoic behind the mask, though you noted the twitch of his hand on his holster. another one if his telling habits.

you sipped at your cup. “good morning, Kate.”

pointedly ignoring Ghost, you gave a polite smile to the woman across from you, offering a hand. “pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“please. call me Maria.” she had the same soothing rhythmical accent as Alejandro and Rudolfo, her voice a smooth, grating honey.

your brows rose. before you could stop yourself, you remarked—

“i had no idea there were women in los vaqueros.”

Kate snorted, and you immediately felt your face flush. if Kate was in one-four-one, or led it alongside John, practically, it shouldn’t have been shocking that there were female gunslingers in los vaqueros.

stupid, you chided to yourself, not missing the way Ghost cocked his head at you curiously.

but Maria just smiled, reaching out to brush her knuckles over Kate’s shoulder, and Kate's fingers inched over to touch her knee in reply. “she’s funny,” she said, tone denoting something of approval.

Ghost cleared his throat, drawing your attention.

“we need to talk.”

not to you, you hoped with a bitterness, and found relief when he leaned instead towards the other two women.

Kate’s eyes narrowed.

“you didn’t tell her?” her tone was lashing and it startled you.

suspicious, you turned your gaze to take in Ghost fully. he was staring dead at Kate, unmoving and wordless, till he shifted, knees spreading wider as he settled back. she sighed, long and tired.

“when we get back to san francisco,” she said with a cocked brow, “you’ll be goin’ back to your folks.”

your blood slowed to a thick, icy stop. “what?”

she just shook her head. “we weren’t plannin’ on it but it’s best for you, missy. we won’t be able to protect you much once we’re in the city. there’ll be a full-blown out war. Turner isn’t hellbent on finding you.”

she clasped your knee. “he’s hellbent on killing us.”

you startled when you felt a hand on your shoulder. looking back, Soap was leaning over you, arm no longer in a sling and clasping at your shoulder with a solemn look.

“sorry, bonnie lass,” he said bitterly. “we should’ve never taken ye in the first place.” then his face brightened. “but yer gonna see yer family soon, even if we’ll miss ya.”

behind him, Gaz stood with crossed arms, face pinched with an ever stoic look. you expected that he would be happy about this as the most diametrically opposed to your presence out of all the members of one-four-one, but the despaired scrunch of his brow betrayed him.

your voice cracked. “who decided this?”

the whole room shifted with discomfort, and Kate’s eyes slid to Ghost. you bit back a scream, refusing to even look in his direction.

his voice was a deep timbre in your head—those were the terms of our agreement.

i own you. body and soul.

if you did go back to your daddy and mama—when you did, Turner would be there, old and wrinkled up like a prune, his stale breath a sigh against your face during long, long nights.

Ghost knew that if he gave you back to your mama and daddy, you would be handed over to Turner instantaneously. and still, he’d rather win the battle over your body against Turner. for revenge.

it seemed that he had no use for you now that his revenge ploy was over with.

John was standing at Maria’s shoulder now, leaning his body weight against the back of Kate’s chair. he looked at you somberly, mouth an etched line beneath the scruff of his beard.

“you saved my life with that bloody good sharpshootin’, sweetheart.” his eyes twinkled. “how can i ever repay you?”

you’d hardly thought John guiding you through your first murder was considered saving his life but you’d take all that you could get.

your mind turning back to Turner, the rushing torrent of blinding rage that consumed you was scary. you hated him with your whole being. you wanted to hate everyone with your whole being. you wanted to hate everyone in the room for doing this to you—their vengeful kidnapping ploy had turned you into a sinful outlaw just like them. but you just couldn’t.

“do me a favor.” you looked from each member of one-four-one, eyes passing over Ghost with a blind haze. “make sure you kill that Turner fucker slow and painful.”

that way you may never have to be owned by him.

Maria laughed aloud. “i like the way you talk, chica,” she said with a malicious glint to her grin, as one-four-one nodded in agreement with your words.

the rest of the morning was a slow haze. los vaqueros conjoined with one-four-one in the lounge compartment just before a brunch. you stuck with Kate and Maria the entire time, sorely avoiding Ghost and the other members of one-four-one, taking slow bites you could barely hold down.

an all-consuming grief pinched at your stomach. you would’ve gladly avoided the rest of them for the next day of travel on the train if Gaz didn’t barricade your way out the dining car. most of the men had filtered out, only a few stray los vaqueros lingering out of ear-shot.

Gaz crossed his arms in the doorway, looking down at you with a hooded face.

you cocked your brow. “yes?”

Gaz’s dislike for you had been obvious since day one. since the first moment you heard him speak, he had protested your stay at their base, which didn’t surprise you, but still left you feeling irked in an immature way.

he jerked his head to the hallway. “would you walk with me, ma’am?”

it didn’t sound like a question. turning on his heel sharply, you trailed after him bitterly. even with the pinched displeasure in his tone, he was still as polite as ever. biting down back your tongue, you wondered if the rest of one-four-one thought the same of your mama’s polite manner ingrained in you.

you followed him through several train compartments, a thick uneasiness settling on you from his silent and broad form in front of you, blocking half your sight, but relieved that porter was nowhere to be found.

as you passed through another lounging car, the sparse spread of people across the plush interior eyed you curiously. one man peered above his newspaper at you, monocles glinting, and mouth skewing into a hard line, eyes shadowed.

you stepped to Gaz a bit closer.

when you reached the end of the first class compartments, he slid open the door that breached between the travel trains and a rusty red boxcar. the steel railway grinding against steel wheels was a louder rhythmic clatter than before.

for a brief moment, you were staggering through the rush of air on the gangway between compartments before Gaz offered you a forearm politely without even a glance. grasping it tightly, his strength was stabilizing, and he pulled you over the gangway and into the safety of the boxcar, your hair whipping in the wind.

several crates littered the space. you had a sneaking suspicion that the both of you weren’t supposed to be there.

Gaz drew the larger door of the boxcar open with a screeching, rumbling tug and dragged a crate an arms length from the edge. he took a seat on the floor, boot dangling just over the gravel tracks that passed below.

“ma’am?” he offered the place on the crate beside you with a gesture and you complied, taking a seat without much question, because there really was nothing else to do on this train.

this train ride bringing you right to your doom, you thought with a grimace.

in the long silence, you overlooked the landscape—there was a sharp dip from the railway into green plains, dotted with purplish vegetation that the sun spilled over with yellow delight

leaning forward to peer at the side of his face, you watched his dark eyes dart over the curve of the passing scenery.

“how did you know about this place?”

the swell of his throat bobbed. his voice sounded tight and airy. nervous. “i wander when i can’t sleep at night.”

you were no stranger to that. you thought back to your first night in the leather crafts shop, the itching anxiety to get out driving you to rummage through the kitchen where Ghost found you.

pushing the memory from your mind, you tried not to let the apprehension drip into your voice.

“what’s this about, Gaz?”

he shrugged. “just wanted to enjoy the scenery of the land, ma’am.”

your brown quirked. “right. what is this really about?”

he sighed, shifting, his mouth in a sheepish, muddled twist.

“i’m not really sure how I’m supposed to say this ma’am—” your brown quirked again.

you put a hand to his shoulder lightly. “Gaz, for the love of everything good, please stop calling me ma’am.” he glanced at you from his peripheral. “you’re older than me.”

he leaned out of your touch. “right. sorry, miss.”

you bit back your tongue. even though you had just chided at him about his overly zealous formalities, you funnily felt as though you were talking to a nervous little boy with the way he fumbled with the seam of his jeans.

“Gaz, what is this about?” your voice was softened now, trying to coax him out of whatever hole he was digging himself into.

his voice was barely above a grumbling whisper. “Ghost came to me last night.”

you paused, jaw going numb.

sighing, you rubbed a hand over your forehead, smoothing back your hair with unease. “Gaz whatever he told you—”

his voice was soft with awe. “he asked me to marry you.”

the breath stopped dead in your throat, the world spinning at an angle. “what?”

he just nodded slowly, looking as shocked as you felt, his eyes glazed over and wide.

“i know this ain’t the proper way to propose, and when we’re off this train and over with this war, i’ll do it properly i swear, but—”

you held your temple, clutching at the wall of the boxcar. shakily, you pulled yourself to your feet. “stop Gaz. just stop.”

you backed away from the edge and he scrambled up to follow you.

“no, please, just listen—”

“no, you listen.”

you knew it wasn’t fair to be angry at him. you knew it wasn’t fair, especially with the way he looked so crestfallen, brows pinched and shoulders slumped.

“if i’m going to be married,” you said with a huff, indignant, “it’ll be on my terms and my terms only.”

he reached a tentative hand out to you, and you let him pick up your palm and press it to his chest.

“i was thirteen when i enlisted for the war.”

you weren’t looking at him before but you were looking at him now.

he spoke fast and low. “i was an orphan. i didn’t look my age. no one wanted me in london, and the older boys in my orphanage were volunteering for the war. when i signed up, they snuck me in, pulled some strings with the army doctors.” his voice fell to a dead whisper. “i didn’t know what i was getting into.”

you felt stupid when tears welled up in your eyes. he looked so young, so broken in that moment. you wiped at your eyes quickly.

“oh Gaz—”

he let you pull him into a quick, indulgent hug. it was inappropriate and the way his arms hung loosely at his sides felt awkward, but you were grateful he let you do it anyway.

“i owe Ghost my life. i owe him everything. he took care of Soap and i when we were kids. John and Kate too, but they were preoccupied most of the time. Ghost—” he choked with emotion, “Simon was always there.”

it felt almost impossible to imagine a Ghost ten years younger in the militia, around the age you were now, keeping two gangly teens tucked closely to his side on a battlefield, maskless and freer without the malevolent reputation he bore. he wasn’t yet the gunslinging devilish outlaw you knew now. but the image only curled at the edges and soured in your mouth.

you didn’t want to hear this about Ghost.

“you don’t even like me,” you said, blunt, tilting your head up into Gaz’s face. he just looked down at you with an imperceptible face that you couldn’t even begin to pick apart.

then, he sighed, dropping your hand and stepping away.

“maybe not,” he said, voice soft, “but i’d like to try.”

you tried to digest that. “for yourself or for Ghost?”

the empty look he gave you was everything you needed to know. a dead silence followed before it was interrupted.

the boxcar’s far door—from where you had entered—was yanked open, and a member of los vaqueros stepped through.

the front of his jacket was tipped in an oozing red, and he clutched at the spot, shouting out something that you couldn’t understand before the unmistakable vibration of a gun was exploding forth in the air, echoing in the boxcar.

you screamed when his eyes went dark, a thick stream of blood flooding his mustache as he crashed to the floor with a deadly stiffness.

behind him, in the entrance of the doorway, was a man, his revolver raised high. he wore monocles and a twisted expression. you recognized him—the man reading the paper. and his revolver was aimed directly at you.

Gaz moved fast. much faster than you, as he drew your body behind him, drawing his revolver. before he could even flick his thumb over the safety, a body clad in black whipped forward and reached around the monocled-man’s neck to grip at the collar of an expensive dress shirt. something glinted in the air and it drew over the man’s throat in a quick motion, a red mask gleaming by his cheek.

the monocled-man dropped by the fallen vaqueros.

Ghost straightened to his full height. you watched his eyes dart over Gaz quick—checking for injuries with pinched eyes. you had never noticed him do it before, and you jolted when his hardened gaze snapped to yours.

“we’ve been double-crossed—”

there was a loud, shattering racket from behind him and you saw glimpses of several bodies spill out into the gangway in a tangled fervor. you saw glimpses of Kate’s blonde hair struggling against a man with a disheveled cap and a fashionable black jacket. for a moment you caught his dark eyes, all-encompassing and evil.

the pullman porter.

Gaz rushed forward, revolver raised high, but Ghost only pushed back, driving you through the boxcar and yanking the door open to the next one, revealing another gangway with air spilling over it in dangerous whooshes.

you didn’t have time to think or to feel an ounce of fear, Gaz’s boots hot on your heels and Ghost behind him as they pushed you forward through to the next compartment.

you heard Ghost’s voice in a grit, tight with frustration. “i’m out of ammo,” he explained and Gaz didn’t slow for a second, spurring you further and further forward.

there was a ruminating clamor from behind you. something primal in you roared to life, fear coiling tight and real in your stomach. someone was chasing Ghost, Gaz and you. something primal in you told you it was the pullman porter hunting for you.

heaving the next boxcar’s door with a grit of your teeth, sweat pooled at your back. when you swung out onto the little platform, gripping the railing for purchase, panic rose in you at the sight of railway stretching on and fishing between rolling, green land.

you had reached the end of the train.

that didn’t stop Ghost. he pulled Gaz towards the ladder on the sheer outer wall of the last boxcar.

“up.” you had never seen him so panicked. “go up!”

Gaz immediately complied, spidering up the ladder and out of sight onto the roof of the moving train. when Ghost turned to you, you thought you may puke.

he must’ve seen the blaring alarm in your face because he hoisted you by the waist, yanking you towards the ladder easily. he steadied the trembles of your body with two gloved hands on your waist.

“one step at a time, princess.” there was a ferocity in his eyes. “i’ll catch you if you fall.”

a rush of something gold poured through you, and you steeled yourself, clambering up the rusty ladder rungs one at a time. the wind lashed at your clothes, threatening to steal you out into the open air, but Ghost’s hand was pushing you flush to the ladder against your back. when your boot slipped at the top rung, Ghost hissed, lurching forward, an iron grip at your waist.

at the top of the train, the world felt like it was moving too fast to comprehend. up ahead, a mountain loomed, casting a dark shadow over the train as the sun dipped behind its peak.

“don’t stop,” he commanded, and you scrambled forward, low to the train.

looking over your shoulder, you saw the porter’s head slide over the edge of the boxcar, pulling himself up onto the roof with an eerie ease. he was moving fast, almost full speed.

a revolver glinted in his hand.

Ghost shouted in frustration, hoisting you up by your arm and propelling you into a dead sprint over the train.

one slip, you realized, glancing over the edge of the roof, would send you toppling into the chasmic valley below.

the mountain ahead was approaching rapidly.

Gaz was a few bounds ahead of you, and he turned sharply to shoot at the porter just over your shoulder.

with a yelp, Ghost tugged you down and you flattened against the train. your eyes strained against the noon light and the mountain ahead split into a cave—not a cave, a tunnel.

“Gaz!” you choked out.

he dropped to the train roof with a clumsiness that sent his revolver skidding across the roof and off the edge. the train speared forward into the tunnel, shrouded your vision in a darkness that felt deafening.

Ghost’s hand was inching up your back.

“crawl forward,” he demanded, and you complied, creeping over the cold steel of the roof.

a blinding light ahead advanced, the end of the tunnel in sight.

there was a loud, ricocheting gunshot against the walls of the tunnel, a hot spark of friction against steel flickering in the darkness.

you screamed, Ghost’s hand on the collar of your blouse, as a glaring light enveloped you.

blinking rapidly against the sunlight, eyes burning, you scrambled to your feet with the help of Ghost’s strength.

when your eyes cleared, snapping into a focus, a panic flurried in you at the sight of the end of the train nearing.

you wanted to slow but Ghost kept pushing you forward wordlessly to the end of the train cars.

“where will we go?” you shouted against the violent wind.

a sob almost escaped you when he didn’t respond. Gaz stopped short at the edge of the last compartment, just before the train engine, jacket ruffling wildly in the wind. the look he gave you over his shoulder was one of pure dread.

you jolted when he straightened, barreling past you and Ghost right at the porter hot on your heels.

“Gaz!” Ghost shouted, his low baritone pitched and strained, hand lashing out to pull him back by his jacket but narrowly missing. you turned on your heel in horror.

the porter reeled back in surprise as Gaz tackled him full force to the floor of the train roof. they almost skittered off the edge if it wasn’t for Ghost lunging forward and gripping Gaz by the back of his jacket collar and hoisting him from the edge.

it may have been the weight of their two bodies combined, the rush of the wind, or the clumsiness in Ghost’s blundering, adrenaline drive that caught him off guard for just a moment that the porter took advantage of. he slammed the butt of his revolver into the side of Gaz’s face, and the boy’s entire body fell limp over the porter.

he scrambled out from under Gaz’s body in a flash, and the scream that tore through your throat was carnal when he seized Ghost’s collar and sprung forward, pushing him right over the edge of the train roof.

Ghost fell with a sickening whoosh, and the speed of the train was already zipping away from his body crumpled against the ground, splayed unnaturally near the train tracks.

you scrambled back on hands and knees, not even sure when you collapsed, Ghost’s body already just a black dot in the distance.

the porter turned to you, the revolver still tight between his knuckles. his eyes were wild.

“who are you?” you screamed over the wind. his face was an ashy dark tone, looking extremely sickly and pale.

“i’m sorry,” he wailed, and you jolted further backwards when tears spilled from his eyes. your palm edged along the brim of the train roof, yelping when your hand almost slipped.

“he said he’d kill me and my family if i didn’t do it.” more tears spilled down his face. “i don’t want to kill anyone.”

his face was twisted up, whole body shaking as he raised the revolver. “but i can’t let my daughter die.”

there was a pop of a safety, and the darkness of his eyes swirling. an imperceptible feeling came crashing down on you—one you couldn’t even begin to describe, an endless downward whirl of dread, acceptance, dread, acceptance.

you thought of Ghost’s body sprawled out by the train tracks in the distance and closed your eyes.

acceptance.

the sound of a strangled cry startled you awake, and the sight of Kate’s arm clasped tight around his neck in his bind sent a whirling electricity down your spine. her blonde hair was wild, eyes even wilder, and she bared her teeth at you in a menacing look.

“for god’s sake, get your useless behind off the ground and help me!”

those familiar words screamed in the back room of the leather crafts shop had you scrambling to life, getting on your hands and knees and launching forward to wrestle the porter for his revolver.

he twisted back, and for a sick moment, you worried Kate would go reeling off the edge too as she dangerously neared it, but she released the porter, using his moment of unbalance as an advantage.

she slammed her hands into his chest and he slid, crashing to the train roof floor, gun clattering to the floor as she fell on top of him.

you dove for the gun, hand just almost closing around the handle of the thing before the porter twisted over with a surprising strength, dislodging Kate from his body, and pulled it from your grasp.

he gripped it tight, leveling it right to your face, finger on the trigger.

the noise that tore through Kate’s throat was guttural. “no!”

she launched towards you, two strong hands on your arms and pushed you hard. harder than you thought she could, and you tumbled backwards, spirling without direction into free air, and thudding to the forest floor.

something cracked and a numbing pain spread like wildfire from somewhere—your shoulder, body, mind. you couldn’t discern the source of pain, the metrical chug of the train roaring in your ear as it continued on without you.

you woke with a start, breath hitched up in your throat. tears stained your cheeks.

you didn’t remember crying. your whole face felt numb. in fact, your whole body felt numb, save for the throbbing, searing ache in your shoulder. along the joint, there was a numbness at your fingertips and an unpleasant tingling that ran up and down your arm.

groaning, you strained, trying and failing with great effort to move. you tried again and felt a lace of panic when your stiff body wouldn’t move.

is this what it feels like to die?

desperately trying to move when your body wouldn’t budge?

that sent a burst of sparkling energy through you, and you managed to twist your good shoulder, fingertips digging into the ground to push yourself up. your muscles strained with effort, shaking, but they failed with a spasm, and your head fell back into the dirt.

your temples throbbed.

looking up, you noted the darkening dusk of the day. it had been just noon when you were on the train—how long had you been laying there?

there was a cool blue tinge to the air, the moon cresting over a cloudless sky. an unmistakable shiver went through you. the temperature was dropping by the second.

you had felt the same at home. the desert air lacked a single drop of humidity to maintain the sweltering heat of the day at night, and it was the same here in this california forest, though less pronounced. the result was a plummeting temperature.

the thought of home gave you comfort as you lay there in the dirt.

then, you heard a crunching nearby. of feet. boots, perhaps, and you craned your neck back.

a large, black form loomed in the distance. you wanted to be scared, wanted to be panicking in the moment, but a muffled layer of silence was laid over you like a blanket, a ringing in your ears.

at that moment, you just wanted to sleep.

eyes half-lidded, a masked face slid into your blurry vision overhead. his arms coiled around you, very, very gently lifting you from the ground.

“Ghost,” you gasped, a sharp stabbing in your shoulder that contended with the darkness that threatened to pull you into a slumber.

he just shushed you, the sway of his body rocking with each of his steps along the railroad track.

you didn’t have enough energy to say a thing, forehead throbbing, feeling like there was an invisible band contracting around your head with every movement.

“you’re freezin’,” he said in your ear, but it resonated somewhere very distant.

he curled you closer into his chest and that made you jolt back to life from the sharp sensation racing across your shoulder, biting down on your tongue hard enough to draw blood.

your vision went hazy for a long moment, ears ringing with a muffled dizziness. the pressure in your head warped when you were being lowered down, to what you assumed, might’ve been the forest floor, leaning you back against something solid and hard and cold.

you gasped when you felt his bare fingertips skimming across the skin of your shoulder beneath your blouse.

he just tutted, muttering something in your ear. you tried to hone on it, but it was so distant and muffled and hazy.

then, he was turning your head from side to side and pressing a cool hand to your forehead. you winced when his hands came back to your shoulder, rubbing over it, one hand to the front and the other cradling your shoulder blade.

he twisted your shoulder with a sickening pop, and you were violently dragged back to your senses.

you bit back a loud scream, keeling over at the waist, everything pouring into your mind at once. the rushing and chitters of the forest, the prickly, dry pine needles beneath your legs, the icy rock at your back, and the acute shadows the moon was casting through the holes of the canopy.

it was too overwhelming. groaning, you screwed your eyes shut and slid down the rock to press your ear to it, your good arm to the other ear.

Ghost’s voice was still too loud through the makeshift covers. “dislocated shoulder,” was all he said, hand tapping against your knee lightly.

his hand stopped tapping. “you hit your head hard as well.”

he reached behind your head and pressed his fingers across your scalp. when he found a sensitive, swollen spot, you squirmed away.

“s’just bruised. no blood.”

you felt like there was blood pouring from your ears.

he pulled you toward him and carefully drew your hand from your ear, replacing it with his gloved ones.

“better?”

there was a pleasant, cool muffle over your ears—pleasant enough to open your eyes.

two earthy brown eyes stared back overshadowed by a strong blonde brow and pale skin—

you yelped, scrambling back onto the rock.

Ghost’s outer masked layer of red was vacant from his face, leaving behind the black fabric beneath it. torn rough, he pulled up the remains of it to reveal the skin of his neck, jaw, and lips.

it left little to imagine. the fabric sat on a high, curved bridge of his nose, and the deep-set of his dark eyes made them appear larger than you believed with the red shell of his mask—owlish almost. and then there were the handsome, strong brows furrowing at you.

he just blinked before inching forward in a crouch, covering your ears with his hands again.

your voice was swollen raw, sounding entirely unlike your own. “your mask…”

he was half-maskless.

“it broke,” he offered with a shrug and a very blank look.

Ghost was half-maskless.

his leather palm sneaked around your ankle.

“how’s your ankle?”

“fine.” you were lying. you couldn’t feel anything save for the painful pulse in your shoulder that throbbed in time with your head.

he nodded but the twitch of his lips made it look as though he wasn’t convinced. peeling back his trench coat, you watched as he easily tore through the sleeve of his dress shirt from his arm.

your breath hitched as he slid forward to wrap it around your shoulder.

“what are you doing?”

“returnin’ the favor.”

you thought back to two nights ago, when you had clutched at the bullet wound in his stomach, ripping off your own sleeve to desperately stave off the red deluge rushing from it.

he had wanted you to leave him for dead that night.

you stared up into his profile, captivated by the plains and curves of it, a slithering heat running circles in your chest.

when he was finished with the bind, wrapping it around your bicep, up over your shoulder, and tugging it tight with a loop around your breast, he had sat back on his haunches, watching you with quiet eyes.

you watched the pink of his lips twitch, his hands curled into fists at his knees. there was a menacing cold circulating through you, and the softness of his eyes, his face, his lips radiated a warmth—

there were a thousand things running through your mind—

instead, you croaked, “what happened on the train?”

he sighed, turning his gaze from you to the dark forest. “we convened with los vaqueros in yuma before boardin’ the train Kate arranged. the owner of the railway company owed us a debt and we—” he cringed, “—we thought we could trust ‘em. turns out, Turner’s men were on the train with us the whole bloody damn time.”

you swallowed hard, feeling even colder. shivering, you drew your good arm around your body. “the porter?”

he nodded. “a fight broke out after brunch. thought it was just some stupid squabble but they drew guns and hell broke loose.”

he pitched forward, hand coming down to loosely clutch at your knee. “i couldn’t find you.”

you pulled back from his touch and his brows pinched together before falling impossibly blank.

“what were you doing with Gaz?”

you gave him a sidelong glance, fighting back the pout that spilled onto your face. “he proposed to me.”

Ghost stiffened, falling back to his haunches. you cocked your head, watching the stoney look on his face.

“and what did you say?”

you scoffed. “none of your business.”

that’s what you wanted to believe, but it seemed that Ghost had one foot in your business at all times, and you didn’t know if you liked it or not.

the absolute image of indifference in his face had a low, simmering anger crawl up your back.

“he doesn’t even like me,” you hissed, remembering the way Gaz would lean away from your touch in the boxcar, stepping back when he felt too close.

you lamented deeply, wondering, why would he want you to marry Gaz?

Ghost’s voice was even. too even. “he’ll marry you if i ask. he feels like he owes a large debt to me.”

your breath hitched, a hot, tight feeling choking your throat. “do you always exert yourself over others like that?”

his voice turned icy, eyes narrowed. “like what?”

you almost snarled. “you’re using Gaz to your advantage—”

“you don’t know Gaz,” he snapped, before adding in a low timbre, “or me.”

his words shouldn’t have hurt you as much as they did because you knew that he was right. you almost knew nothing about the man in front of you. he was an imperceptible enigma you’d only met five days ago, and yet you felt as though you knew him better than anyone in the world, all his tell-tale habits, the facade of his stoicism, the warmth beneath…

it was nothing like the cold, sour feeling curling in the air between you and Ghost right now.

with a humph, you clambered to your feet, an angry immaturity brewing above the grief that pinched at your nerves. he didn’t move from his position on the floor, eyes hard and staring.

you hiked up your skirt ungraciously and began to move in a random direction in the forest.

“what are you doing?” he called from behind you. there was a satisfaction hearing the annoyance lashing in his tone.

“i’m sorry, sir, but i don’t know you,” you gritted back loudly, not even looking over your shoulder. “i don’t talk to strangers.”

the forest was tipped deep into the night now, a murky dark surrounding you. it was hard to make out the stretching, slithering forms of the underbrush that swayed in the breeze. but you were too angry to feel scared.

after a long bout of silence, and several more bounds of your indignant act, your anger waned into worry.

what if Ghost did leave you in this forest? he was giving you up to Turner as soon as you reached san francisco—because you were useless to him now. so what was stopping him from just leaving you to the darkness of the woods?

to the coyotes?

you shivered, and allowed yourself a glance over your shoulder. you shrieked with a jolt at the sight of him looming just a couple steps behind you, looking impossibly large in the stretched shadows of the forest, and moving with an eerie silence.

he huffed. “what? did i scare you, princess?”

you whipped your head back in front of you, hiking up your skirt higher to step over a log. “sorry. i don’t know you.”

“so stubborn,” he mumbled, and you shrieked again when he wrapped an arm around your waist to hoist you over the log with ease. you swatted him away.

“i can do it myself,” you griped, turning sharp on your heel in another direction. he just sighed, trailing after you, steps noisy against the twigs and pine needles underfoot.

when he knocked his boot against a tree, you could tell the noise was purposeful—making sure not to scare you. it didn’t quell your anger any less.

“do you even know where you’re going?”

that was a stupid question. no, you didn’t.

“yes,” you said instead.

he made a noise between a grumble and groan. “i didn't mean for Gaz to propose so soon.”

that made you stop dead in your tracks.

“i wanted…” he trailed off. you didn’t want to look at him for fear that he may see the tears welling in your eyes. there was nothing but the rustling woosh of leaves streaming through the canopy.

you jolted when you felt the tip of his nose press into the back of your head, voice impossibly deep. “he’s younger. he’s polite. he doesn’t care about purity.”

you heard him swallow. “he’s a good man to marry.”

you screwed your eyes shut, feeling a bothersome wetness come down your cheeks. “that’s not your decision to make.”

his voice was gruff, raw. “i know.”

sighing out, you turned to him slowly, finding a morose and withdrawn scowl twisting his face. he swiped a thumb over your tears.

“how would i have even married him anyway?” you asked in a low tone, surprised by the ice of it. “you would’ve handed me over to Turner the second we landed in san francisco.”

speaking it aloud yourself made the reality of it so much more crushing than hearing Kate say it that morning.

“to keep you safe,” Ghost hissed, eyes flashing with a clenched jaw. after your train escapade, you recognized the expression as something bordering on panic.

“safe?” you scoffed, “with Turner?”

he just shook his head. “Turner’s men outnumber us. with your parents, you’d at least be protected—”

you lurched forward, grabbing the collar of his dress shirt, shoulder aching in protest.

“with Turner!” you articulated, voice rung through with frustration. “i would be his mistress. he could… we would…”

the suggested words went unsaid and Ghost’s flashed—this time with something dark and imperceptible.

“i would kill him before it even got to that,” he said, mouth drawn into a hard life, deadly serious as he grasped your hands on his collar.

“and then what? after the war is over, i leave my parents again and Gaz sweeps me off my feet?” you pressed, trying and failing over and over to pick apart the expression on Ghost’s face.

your anger deflated, words falling flat and soft. “where would you go? back to southern california?”

he just stared at you, and you felt your heart drop. “Ghost? where would you go?”

he looked away from you, fixing on a distant point, and pried your hands from his collar. “i don’t plan on making it that far.”

oh. you gazed at the vacancy of his eyes, the clench of his jaw. he wasn’t planning on making it out the war alive.

your skin felt hot all over, and you lurched forward to jab a finger in his chest and make him look at you.

“to hell with that.”

but he wouldn’t meet your eyes. “it doesn’t matter now. you won’t be going anywhere near Turner.”

now, he pinned you down with a hard look, and you reeled back a bit. “what?”

“the porter,” he chewed out, brow furrowing, “he was trying to kill you.”

your mind whirled. that’s right—you remembered what he said, tears in his eyes when he cornered you at the end of the train.

he said he’d kill me and my family if i didn’t do it.

he had obviously been Turner. you swallowed, remembering the next slew of his words.

but i can’t let my daughter die.

he, a pullman porter with an inadequate paycheck, had risked everything, including his life, for his daughter. you couldn’t say the same for your own father.

you held your forehead, feeling the throbbing pulse of it through your fingertips. “why would Turner want to kill me?”

desperately, you trained every fiber of your mind to run through the notion, coming up with absolutely nothing in the end. you balked. that almost never happened.

Ghost’s thoughtful silence seemed to mirror yours.

but he just huffed, brushing a knuckle to your cheek briefly. “you’re a smart girl. i’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

rolling your eyes, you pushed his hand away, a tugging ire in your stomach. “so what now?”

he turned on his heel, giving you a lax look over his shoulder. “we walk to san francisco.”

it turned out that Ghost was a lot more hurt than he made you believe. you had walked a mile through the dark, led by his broad shadowed form and, with the practiced strike of a match, a torch he coaxed to life until you returned to the divide in the forest where the railway drove a split through the plains.

its pathway was ignited with moonlight, and you walked in silence, nothing but crunching gravel underfoot, till you reached a freshwater lake embedded in a softly swaying field that lingered a couple hundred feet from the railway.

Ghost had stripped the bushes of gooseberries and currants along the way, giving you a brief grumbling explanation—we used to eat ‘em during the spanish-american war.

you could imagine Soap and Gaz popping them in their mouths as gawky teenage boys, laughing along the way and a quiet, stoic Simon in their tow.

you ate them slowly, watching Ghost set up a fire with an ease to the task but with strange shuffling movements whenever he turned. you cocked your head. he wouldn’t twist his body.

“Ghost,” you called, and he didn’t even look at you. “why are you moving like that?”

in your stupor through the forest, or maybe the low lighting of the night, you hadn’t noticed it before. using another one of the matches stowed in the breast pocket of his trench coat, he bent down and blew on the small flame, blooming it to life over a nest of tinder. when it crackled and popped, and he added bigger branches to the fire, you moved closer, shivering in the dark, and spread the collected berries over an unsoiled rock.

your jaw clenched. “Ghost.”

he ignored you again, instead stepping back from the fire and turning so all you saw was the shadow of his back as he discarded his trench coat. then unbuttoning his vest and shirt, he shucked them off, tossing them to the ground by his other clothes. you gasped at the mottled, purple swell of his bare back.

from the bottom of his shoulder blades to his lower back, he was covered in bruises.

“is it bad?” he looked over his shoulder at you. you couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

your mouth fell open and then closed. “yes. very.”

then he turned, and the fire illuminated yellow and green bruises littered across his ribs and the angry red, puckered stiches across his lower abdomen. your stomach dropped. they looked worse than the last you had seen them—on the bed in the train.

he brushed a knuckle over his ribs and winced. “i think they’re broken.”

you looked up at him with a pinched expression and he raised his brows, mouth twitching with a huff. you hated that he looked amused.

“worried about me?”

you turned to the fire again. “no.”

there was more rustling from behind you and an unmistakable clink of a belt. you screwed your eyes shut and willed yourself not to look back. there was a thud against the grass by your hand, and you looked down to see his boots discarded by the fire. you saw his foot just behind it and a bare calf that turned and padded down the slope to the small lake.

you wanted to scream. “what are you doing?”

he called out, “care for a swim, princess?”

you narrowed your eyes. no, you didn’t.

“it’s improper for men and women to bathe together.”

you just barely looked over your shoulder, watching him in your peripheral. his naked back shone in the moonlight, a white glow cast over the bruises and scars of his back before it slowly descended into the water. he reclined against some rocks, arms spread wide and head lolled back.

“lots of things between men and women are improper to you, princess.”

a strangled noise of frustration left your throat. “what if your stitches get infected?”

he shrugged. at this point, a sliver of the darkness in you hoped they did get infected for not heeding your warning.

standing to your full height, you turned to him, looking over the expanse of the lake, and then the darkness of his lazy eyes trained on you.

you watched him swallow, blonde lashes illuminated by the firelight, he spoke considerably softer, “you looked lovely this morning.”

that morning, when you had dolled yourself up, a pretty, airy skirt and flowery blouse and makeup and all, telling yourself that you wanted to look like the sun after such an awful night. maybe it was for yourself, or maybe it was for Ghost. the latter you would never admit.

but now, you realized, more than anything, the act was for your own bout of revenge. to watch Ghost’s face twist at the sight of you—someone he couldn’t have.

you, who would never let him have you again.

at that thought, you gave him a pretty smile like you were bashful, and the way his eyes widened in surprise was a crush of satisfaction.

but you kept up the act, intent on playing with him. if Ghost had taken so much from you for revenge, you didn’t see why you couldn’t do the same. the idea had a twinge of displeasure curling under your skin. but thinking back to last night had you angry all over again.

“i’m still angry at you,” you said instead, crossing your arms and turning like you were mad. in all technicality you were.

very.

his voice was low. “you’ve got something on your face.”

what?

“what?” you voiced, head whipping to him.

he cocked his head. “your hair too…” he squinted like he was trying to see you better. “it’s a mess.”

you scoffed. this was not going according to your plans.

“well i’m sorry i don’t look my best after falling off a train—”

“and your clothes too.” his dark eyes raked over your body. “all ruined.”

you looked down at the state of your clothes, torn in places and stained in others. the hem of your skirt was a very discolored smear of brown.

“looks like you’ll have to take them off,” he said with a casual shrug.

your jaw dropped open. “you…”

you searched for the words you couldn’t find. “you’re awful.”

with a nod he said, “just as bad as the devil.”

narrowing your eyes, you gave him a sidelong look. was this another one of his revenge ploys? another way to get you undressed and take another sliver of your innocence?

he shifted on the rocks, arms spread along the wide berth of the bank, and beneath the water you saw his knees tip wide. he cocked his head at you.

an invitation.

of which you could easily say no to, if you liked, but just as much as he tried to trick you, the devil wasn't foolproof. you could weasel your way into one of those cracks and trick him instead if you wanted to. and in that moment, you decided you did.

with the calmest look you could muster, you took off the makeshift sling of your shoulder, and unclipped the back of your blouse, sliding it from your torso with ease and letting it fall to the ground. between the laxness of your face, you glanced at Ghost who, you noticed with disappointment, looked absolutely undisturbed until your gaze trailed down his exposed arm and to the clutch of his hand in a tight fist.

suppressing a smirk, you dropped your holster, then the delicate pink skirt and moved to unlace the back of your corset. you undid it as fast as your aching shoulder could let you, watching the way the warm glow of the fire danced in his black eyes.

the corset fell to the ground, and his head was perked up now, eyes going impossibly dark, as you pulled down the last of your undergarments—completely bare in the moonlight.

but his eyes never left yours, didn’t even look down to your body, as you stepped carefully forward over the pebbled lake bank, heart thundering in your throat. you kept your hands in fists to keep yourself from covering your body, shivering when a gust danced over the field.

as you sank into the water, you were surprised to find it not so unbearably cold, avoiding Ghost’s gaze entirely as you neared him, close enough so that you could feel his foot brush against your calf under the water.

he looked up with hooded eyes, chin close to his chest, breath shallow and wanting—

but you waded right past him to a spot on the rocks a good distance away. you were close enough to see his eyes narrow in your peripheral.

“what are you planning, princess?”

you shot him a glare. “i’m still mad at you.”

he cocked his head. “are you trying to tease me?”

you sucked in a breath entirely by accident, and you knew it was the most telling answer in the way he shifted over the rocks with an infuriating smirk.

feeling bitter, you asked with a sourness, “are you still trying to bed me for revenge?”

he went completely still at that and you turned your head away from him, looking over the field into the forest. in the distance, those mountains loomed on the horizon, looking like a large void that spearheaded the sky. you tipped your head back, clutching onto yourself, and looked up to the stars that splattered like bright, white paint over the sky.

like the white paint you had splattered over the pale blue wallpaper of your room when you were child, and your mama had lost half of her mind at the sight.

that thought only soured your mood more. there were tears in your eyes now.

biting back a string of unholy curses, you tucked your head away, really hoping Ghost wasn’t looking at you, but you knew he was when there was a moving rush of water as he stood

you could hear him near you, till he was standing over your crumpled form, his hand brushing along your neck.

“can i?”

you should’ve said no. absolutely not.

your plans to fool the devil had gone absolutely wrong. you glanced up at him, the softness of his face, his big hand moving to brush over your injured shoulder.

you should say no.

with your curt nod, he sank down into the water beside you, and pulled you flush against the warmth of his body, and you just melted into him, your arms curled against his chest, shoulder aching in reply.

you pressed your forehead to his shoulder, embarrassed when wet, warm tears slid from your cheeks, the tip of your nose, and jaw to his skin.

“your ribs…” you sniffled, trying not to lean so hard against his torso when he was practically crushing you to him. but he only wound around you tighter, pressing some of your hair to his face.

your heart ached at the familiar gesture.

“so you are worried about me then?” his eyes glinted but the sullen look on his face quelled any humor in them.

you closed your eyes, basking in the warmth. “i’m always worried about you.”

when there was a long silence, you felt him tap your nose lightly.

“what are you thinking about in that pretty head of yours?”

your mind flashed with more images of your mama. “my mama.”

he hummed, digging his nose in your hair. “tell me.”

you sucked in your lower lip between your teeth, draping yourself over him with an ease. “my mama used to get so mad at me all the time.”

you couldn’t help the smile on your lips. “i used to paint on the walls in my bedroom when my nanny wasn’t there and my mama was busy. it drove her crazy.”

“yeah?” he smoothed his thumb over your cheek, and you opened your eyes, finding yourself cradled in his arms and the tip of his nose inches from yours, dark gaze lapping over you in warm waves.

you wanted to drown in them.

“you have pretty eyes,” you told him, feeling your eyelids droop. “kind of angelic.”

he huffed a laugh. “i thought i was the devil?”

“you only want me to think that,” you said dreamily, losing a whole reign of control over your tongue, “satan was an angel once too.”

he pressed his lips to your ear.

“so what’ll it be? devil or angel?”

“s’up to you,” you whispered, clutching at the wet planes of his muscled chest, “are you going to use me for revenge?”

“no,” he said immediately, though his voice was calm. “not again.”

you weren’t exactly sure if that made it any better.

you could hear his bated breath—the way it was shallow, and sharp. he turned his head away from yours. you caught a glimpse of his blonde lashes curling from the shadow of his black mask.

“what are you hiding from me?”

it was a question you knew he wouldn’t answer as he helped you up from the cold water, wrapping an arm around your bare waist and leading you back to the fire. he just stretched out, completely bare, over a big flat rock embedded in the bank, and orange glow over his skin, and pulled you down to nestle into his side, letting the waves of heat emanating from the fire settle over the both of you like a heavy blanket.

his hand came down in featherlight touches over the curves of your body, trailing up the back of your thighs, to your back, to your neck where he pressed his lips. then his fingertips spidered across your wounded shoulder.

his voice sounded fragile. “i’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”

even you? you wanted to ask, tracing the pleasing curves of his face with your gaze.

you brushed your knuckle along the strength of his jaw, the curve of his nose, his lips…

he just peered at you with dark eyes, blinking gently, pressing the most gentle kiss to the corner of your lips that had you falling into another slumber.

Ghost watched your eyes flutter close, waiting till your breath went deep and even, before he even tried to pry himself away from you.

it was hard to not stay. the inviting warmth of your body warmed his cold heart.

he watched the swell of your chest rise and fall, brushing a hand over the softness of your abdomen. the fire light danced across your peaceful face, the plushness of your parted lips, your hair…

god he loved your hair.

but he pulled away, carefully shifting you in a comfortable position over the rock, where you curled up in his absence. he sat up, wincing from the slide and crunch of his ribs beneath his skin, the sore thrum of the bruises up his back, and listened to make sure the lull of your breath was still even and calm.

then, he tore off his mask and balled it up in his fist.

what the hell was he doing?

he inched further away from you, putting a marginal difference between your bare body and his. but you shivered and something inside him jolted with a stupid, muddled flurry.

quickly, he reached for his trench coat near the fire and laid it over you, feeling a full, fuzzy feeling when you stopped shaking. it was strange. he couldn’t put a single word to the feeling but he knew it was something foreign, something dangerous…

something he couldn’t afford.

but your soft voice was always running circles in his head, and it echoed back out to him.

are you going to use me for revenge?

he sighed out long and hard, tapping his balled up first to his forehead. more of your voices clambered into his weak mind.

do you always exert yourself over others like that?

liar.

i hate you.

liar, liar, liar.

liar, liar, liar, liar—

and you were right. you were almost always right with that brilliant mind of yours, he thought with a twinge of wonder.

Ghost was a liar. he was lying to you, and he was lying to himself most of all. and he knew it too.

“liar.” the word was becoming melded into your tongue. “you want to use me for revenge. is that all i’m useful for, then?” your throat cracked open, wide and full of emotion. “i’m just for your revenge? did you bed me for revenge?”

his gaze was half-lidded, tired. “yes.”

why had he lied like that?

he watched the side of your peaceful, youthful profile. he allowed himself to reach over and wrap his trench coat around you snugger, content when you exhaled deep, and stroked slowly at your hair. you looked so young. too young.

why had he lied like that?

he knew why. but he didn’t want to admit to that either.

instead, he picked himself up, muffling a groan as his stiff body worked itself to move, and kicked his clothes into a pile over the dirt. then, he reached for your own and folded them neatly into a pile by the fire to warm them by the time you woke.

maybe, he thought to himself, trying to be a sliver of an honest man, if he told you that you were right and that he was a liar, you would forgive him.

or maybe he would have to beg on his knees for your sweet forgiveness until the day he died.

he wouldn’t mind.

he jolted at his own thoughts, beating them down till they were a silent pulp in his mind.

he knew he wasn’t going to make it out of this war. that knowledge only soured the feeling unfurling in his chest, every thump of his dead heart aching with effort.

Turner was gunning for him and only him at this point—he was the brand mark of one-four-one. the mask was a tell-tale sign of who he was. even if, in the beginning, it had only been to preserve his anonymity, it ended up becoming an infamous emblem that became an endlessly useful tool of intimidation wherever he went—for business or more violent affairs.

he took a knife sheathed in the outer pocket of his trench coat, making sure not to wake you, and pressed his mask to the rock, cutting out the lower torn portion of it so that it was only half the piece of fabric it was previously.

maybe when he had lied to you about his true intentions one night ago, even if he wasn’t thinking, he knew it’d be easier to break your heart if you hated him.

because he knew if you didn’t hate him, you’d never leave his side, and he wouldn’t be able to protect you like he wanted to when Turner killed him, and you’d be left…where?

hopefully as Gaz’s bride, he thought morosely.

he couldn’t forget what you said last night—i would’ve been married.

even if he knew that was your own lie, if that was what you wanted, he would give that to you as best as a dead man could.

because the truth was—

you were precious. like porcelain glass. all those nights ago, when you first laid together, he was never planning on touching you. even when he first took you, he was never planning on touching you. least of all for revenge.

not even when he first saw your pretty eyes go wide at the sight of him walking into your daddy’s saloon, in that beautiful blue skirt of yours and the loose clutch of your blouse exposing an indecent amount of your dewy skin when you leaned down. not even when your hands trembled, body just shivering in his proximity. you told him you weren’t scared. he didn’t believe you until you gave him everything that first time.

now, he chided himself for taking anything at all. hated himself for it even. he wanted to be…

dead.

he ruffled at his matted hair, screwing his eyes shut before pulling back on the mask. everything in him quieted—the confusion, the thoughts, the circling endless regret having him bite at his own tail.

it wasn’t one-four-one’s plan to get you personally involved in their lives. when you showed up at the base, it was like you had single-handedly wedged the knife of your innocence into the bottled up lot of them, and pried the can wide open. John, Kate, and Soap adored you. and Ghost had seen the way Gaz looks at you.

or at least he thought that he had. maybe it was his own jealousy contorting his thoughts.

jealousy, he cringed, flipping the knife in his hands, why would he be jealous?

the rustling in the woods answered him, and he twisted around on his haunches, ignoring the stabbing pain blooming into his lungs, and watched something prowl out onto the far clearing of the field. a long snout furrowed deeply at him, and the coyote drew back its upper lip, fangs glinting in the moonlight with a growl.

Ghost only stared back, gripping at the knife tightly, leaning forward onto his fingertips to cover your sleeping form with his body, muscles bunched to spring forward at any moment.

the coyote only crept forward a bit more, lapping at the very edge of the water at the lake, before retreating backwards, ears flattened to its head as it disappeared into the shrouded darkness of the treeline. its tail was tucked in between its legs.

maybe even coyotes were afraid of the devil.

the next morning you woke, Ghost was up, dressed, and fiddling with a knife in his hands. he was perched on the rock beside you, staring off into the horizon and looking pensive which was… uncharacteristic of him.

the fire was put out, embers still burning as a trail of smoke wafted up into the thin morning light.

your stomach growled.

Ghost’s head turned down to look at you and he pushed back the hair from your face with just his glove fingertips. “hungry?”

you nodded, feeling a bit embarrassed, and shifted to sit up beneath his trench coat with a shiver. the rock beneath you still felt a tad warm from the fire last night, but it had cooled, leaving your bare backside feeling numb.

“here,” Ghost offered, shifting in that awkward movement of his to keep the pressure of his wounds, you noticed with a twinge in your heart. he gestured to an array of things spread out over the far rock by the far littered with the berries he collected last night, now coupled with pale looking tubers.

you rubbed at your eyes with a yawn. “you cooked last night?”

he nodded. “wild parsnips.”

they were peeled and cut carefully off the top. he gave you an expectant look, and you supposed he thought you would take them, but instead you shifted over the rock again, shivering with the breeze at your back.

“can i change?” you asked meekly, and he blinked.

“‘course.” he handed you the pile of your clothes folded neatly by the fire, and with a blush, you noticed they were warm.

had he done that on purpose?

“thank you,” you said, looking up at him with a smile, but he just looked away with an indifferent huff, poking at the parsnips with his knife.

he turned his back as you redressed in your ruined clothes, rebounded your shoulder in the sleeve of his dress shirt to the best of your ability, and joined him for breakfast. you split the berries and parsnips into groups—trying and failing to give him a larger portion to compensate for his muscled stature and severe wounds, but he pointedly refused without so much as a bat of his eye and a deep scowl, and when you pressed, he ignored you entirely.

when you both finished a portion of the food, he kicked over the fire and made sure the embers were doused, before you set off across the plains back in the direction of the railway. Ghost told you, from the last time he checked with the conductor, that the train was fifteen miles from san francisco.

you’d be walking the whole day, sure, but it was better than you could’ve hoped for. testing your shoulder with a swing, there was still a sharp ache to it, and you winced, ignoring the side glance Ghost gave you.

you were worried more for his wounds anyway.

about two hours into the trek, you could hear the rasp of his breath and the shallow nature of it. his hands clenched and unclenched by his sides.

“Ghost,” you called, “i think you should take a rest.”

you weren’t even surprised when he chose to ignore you.

“Ghost,” you repeated, rephrasing your words in a careful deadpan, “i’m tired. i want to rest.”

at that, he stopped with a curt nod, and you both moved to sit in the grassy bank by the railway. he sat with a stiffness and slowly stretched back out over the incline of the slope, hands behind his head and eyes closed. you sat with your chin tucked between your knees beside him. you knew him too well to see that he was playing pretend.

“Simon.” he jolted at the word. “let me see your ribs.”

he opened his eyes and looked at you, lips in a stale line. “they’re fine, princess.”

you rolled your eyes, moving to do it yourself. he hissed with protest when you began to unbutton his vest and you shushed him with a harshness that had him falling silent. you undid his dress shirt next and pushed the fabric aside, gasping at the sight of them.

it was worse. much worse. the strange patches of yellow and green bruises stretched over his rubs had become darker, more pronounced, and a swollen, madly red purple. looking down to his bullet wound, you almost wanted to faint.

it was bright red—angry and puffy with a crust of yellow goop around it. you gasped again.

“Simon this looks—”

infected.

he just stared up at you. the absolute indifference on his face had you balling up your hand in a fist and smacking him lightly over the head with it.

he flinched, reeling away from you with a scowl. “what was that for?”

“your lack of desire for self-preservation irks me,” you shot back, and settled over his hips with your thighs in a bind around him. you could feel him stiffen beneath you.

“i told you it’d get infected if you swam in that lake water.”

very gently, you traced your hands up his torso, and with a twisting impulsiveness, you leaned down to kiss the swell of chest, pressing down into its brawn. then you kissed up his neck, his jaw, his cheek.

maybe each kiss would make him better like in those books you used to read as a child.

he huffed out, and you looked up to meet his half-lidded gaze, swirling and dark and tinged with a lazy hunger. “are you teasing me again?”

you blinked up at him, and he reached down to press a thumb to your lower lip.

“i’m distracting you. is it working?”

he smirked. “too well, ” he hummed, before sighing out, “you’re too good to me, lovely.”

you nodded. “i know.”

pitching forward, you gently pecked that silvery scar on his upper lip and he jolted, breath going more shallow than before. when you leaned back, watching his expression with a fit of anxiety rolling around in your stomach, you watched him lick over his upper lip like he was tasting you.

the jittery feeling in your stomach turned into something else entirely.

“quit bloody teasin’,” he chided, pulling you back down to him and pressing his nose to your ear, face smushed against your hair.

you bit back a snicker and rubbed at the back of his neck. typical Simon.

so easy to please, so easy to make him surrender.

usually, an ill-tempered voice in you said, flashes of the coldness of his tone, face, body on your bed in the train seeping into your mind.

remembering yourself, you pulled away and stood again. he watched you with an owlish blink—a look of confusion and question that you chose to ignore as he pushed off the ground to trail after you and back down the railway.

for the next couple of hours of aimless walking, nothing eventful happened, save for Ghost randomly brushing along the edge of the forest, poking around amongst the foliage. you shared few glances and even fewer words, but that didn’t make it uncomfortable.

in fact, as you eyed the side of his handsome profile, black trench coat fluttering softly in the wind, you wanted this to last forever.

right now, you were just two people in the woods. no war. no gangs. no guns. no violence.

even if he had hurt you.

you stepped closer to him, catching the fabric on the back of his elbow, but he barely even glanced at you when your hand slid down his forearm and pushed shyly into his hand. he easily swallowed your hand in his, lacing your fingers together tightly and squeezing.

later, he pulled out a couple of leaves from the inner pocket of his trench coat and offered them to you. mint, he had explained, chewing on the herbage, it staves off hunger.

you would need it by the time noon came and your stomach was growling again. you both stopped by the tracks to finish the last of the berries and cooked parsnips, chewing more mint Ghost picked from the underbrush of the forest.

the glare of the sun had waned by the time you reached the afternoon, and the railway seemed to stretch on forever, sloping over hills, cutting through landscape, till the trek flattened and the woods drew even tighter to the railway, trees towering overhead.

finally, you reached a crossroads in the railway, where a paved road cleaved through the woods, and on the horizon, revealed a sprawling skyline of buildings—smoke billowing above it, and a strange sort of humming raucous drifting across the terrain.

the sound of it made you apprehensive, and you eyed the hazy gray film in the air. you had never seen such a large town—city, would be better perhaps. you stopped in the road.

Ghost’s shoulder brushed your own. “what’s wrong?”

you squirmed with discomfort in your spot. “what is that?”

he squinted at the horizon. “s’a city.”

just as you suspected. but it didn’t make you any less reproachful. “i’ve only seen them in picture books,” admitted, sniffing the air. “it stinks.”

he gave you a twisted smile. “you should see manchester. my father used to work in the factories.”

your eyes widened, and he just kept walking, leaving you scrambling to catch up. “your father?”

he nodded. “my father.”

“and where is manchester?” you pressed, prying for more out of him, as you peered at the side of his face which was trained on the road ahead.

“england. s’where i grew up.”

you snuck your hand into his again. “did you have siblings?”

his grip stiffened around your hand. “an older brother. Tommy.”

your mouth opened and closed, watching the way his shoulders were tightened now. he obviously didn’t want to talk about either of them, you thought weakly, mourning, and instead changed the subject.

“what was it like in manchester?”

he glanced at you. “dreadful. i never want to go back again.”

“besides…” his thumb brushed against your palm. “i have everything i need in america.”

you nodded slowly, trying to chew that information, and desperately wanting more.

from behind, a growing assortment of noises approached you quickly, the clopping of hooves at your back, and Ghost drew an arm around you as he pulled you off the road. a horse and buggy bumbled down the road with a friendly looking coachman in the driver’s seat.

he had a scraggly white beard and a fray of white hair strewn over his balding head, a big toothy grin, and a beet, splotchy redness to his entire face.

“hullo there!” he called, slowing his horses as he neared. Ghost’s arm went tighter around you.

“hello sir,” he said with a politeness you didn’t know he could have.

“s’a beamin’ day, is it not?” the man’s eyes mosied up and down your body but not in a rude way. you suddenly felt embarrassed by the state of your clothes and crossed your arms over your torso.

Ghost shook his head. “it’s been awful.”

“oh?” the man leaned in, apparently unperturbed by the mask covering half of Ghost’s face. “pray tell, what happened to you folk?”

“we were comin’ down the same path as you last night,” Ghost said, tipping his hat to the place down the road. “and a couple of coyotes came out of the woods.”

you stared at him. coyotes?

where did that come from?

“scared our horses half to death and they went ballistic. tipped over our buggy and everything and galloped off into the woods.”

the man gasped, spluttering. “heavens! how can i help you kind folk?”

Ghost paused like he was apprehensive. you cocked a brow at how easily the act came to him. “well, we were just trying to make our way to san francisco.”

“well i can do that, no problem!” the man said, scooting over his buggy to make more room. “i’m headin’ there right now to visit the ol’ missus.”

“Ghost,” you whispered, feeling a panic when he pushed you forward gently. “can we trust him?”

“unless you wanna walk another two miles, lovely,” he shot back, though not unkindly, as he dipped his head politely to the man in the buggy.

hesitating, you stepped forward towards the thing.

“this yer lovely missus?” he said with a friendly smile, and Ghost nodded.

“my lady.”

you wanted to smack him.

“howdy, ma’am,” the man said to you, offering a polite hand to shake. you stretched up to the buggy and took it with a tight-lipped smile.

“nice to meet you, sir,” you said, voice coming out weaker than you intended and he only grinned wider.

“well climb on in!”

you hesitated. it was only a two-person carriage, and Ghost might barely be able to squeeze into the space left that the other man left. looking back at Ghost over your shoulder, he just squeezed your waist softly, and slid around you to step up into the buggy himself.

rude, you thought with a huff, but only realized his intent once he was settled in the thing. he spread his arms as an invitation, one hand held out for you to climb into his lap.

his raised his brows at you. you looked from him to the beaming man beside him, something twinkling like knowing in his beady eyes, and you bit back a sigh, taking Ghost’s big hand and letting him pull you onto his lap.

you sat on one of his broad thighs, his chest flush to your back. he snaked an arm around your middle and kissed your cheek softly, hand still intertwined with yours.

you dug your nails into the glove of his palm in warning, withering in his arms, and wholly enjoyed it when he winced.

the man beside you sighed out but it sounded happy.

“oh, i remember the days when i just married my missus!” he said dreamily, hitching the horses with a snap of the reins.

Ghost chuckled in your ear, and you sent him a scowl over your shoulder when the other man wasn’t looking, but he only smiled wider, pulling the hair from your shoulder to kiss the back of your neck.

you stood on the edge of the street, bidding the kind stranger goodbye as he drew away from the sidewalk, hitching his horses down the wide san francisco avenue.

entering the city had been an enigma for you. it was even stranger now.

people littered the street. too many people. your mama had let you go to a bigger town now and then near your home with the girls from church, but never too far. she had said it was the role of your future husband to expose you to such harrowing conditions.

standing in the midst of one of the largest cities on the western coast, you could better understand what she meant. women and men sauntered down the road in tight-knight groups, business men in three-piece suits and bowler caps shot past you, and a slew of buggies blundered down the streets that Ghost guided you through.

some peered weirdly at the mask but most didn’t even care to notice at all—didn’t even look up from the point they were trained on getting to.

in all honesty, you found their behavior quite rude as they passed you.

watching a woman in a pastel, flowing dress with pearls adorning her ears and neck, and silk gloves drawn to her elbows, she had her arm linked with a man with a well-trimmed mustache and pristine suit.

feeling strangely exposed, you inched closer to Ghost and linked your arm with his as well. you looked up at him with wide eyes, a whine building in your throat.

you were uncomfortable. very. very uncomfortable.

he huffed, taking your arm in his. “city life overwhelming you, princess?”

you nodded blearily, wincing when a man almost brushed against you through a tight pass on the sidewalk. you had never been flanked by so many people.

“what about Turner’s men? what if they recognize you?” you whispered out, curling closer to him, and he just shook his head.

“they won’t without the mask.”

right. you had become so accustomed to the revealing nature of his black mask that you had completely forgotten about the broken, bloody skull layer of it.

you passed through more blocks, buildings scraping the sky so high that you felt dizzy and small.

you craved to be out in the wide array of the demanding western landscape again. you wished you were still walking along that railroad, chewing mint leaves, and your hand in Ghost’s.

eventually, the skyscrapers dwindled into crumpled, shorter, dingy buildings and the avenues tightened into busy marketplaces. but it was different than you had ever seen before.

men wore linen suits—in grays and blacks with small hooped knots down the front—and bowlers caps. some women wore dark blouses with loose sleeves and low collars that gleamed in the evening’s light, curling with patterns of clouds and the fine leaves of bamboo, and flowing bright skirts over heeled shoes that looked binding.

Ghost watched your face closely, and you slowly turned in the spot. you had never seen a culture that wasn’t of your small western hometown before. “where are we?” you asked him, voice tinged in awe, and he put a hand to your lower back and led you down the busy market street.

“this is chinatown,” he said, and you just nodded slowly, trying and failing to digest it all.

“why are we here?” you pressed, and Ghost pushed you further towards a big brick building at the end of the road that dwarfed the dingy places beside it, a throng of people swarming in front of it.

“Turner’s men won’t come here,” he explained, seeming utterly casual. “they think the bubonic plague’s still lingering.”

you stiffened. “plague?”

he nodded. “it came through san francisco in 1900. it’s been gone for years but Turner doesn’t think so.”

“why not?”

he gave you a sidelong look but his voice was soft. “why do you think, lovely?”

feeling saddened, you gave him a meek look and he just smiled, brushing your cheek with his knuckles briefly. “smart girl.”

when you entered the building, there was a reception at the front and a large folding divider with intricate ink brushes over its surface shrouding the rest of the narrow establishment from view. the interior was extravagant—tipped in gold, marble, and lush patterns and a stark disparity to the image outside of it.

there was a tinge of something sweet in the air, a hazy smoke drifting through the place. you wrinkled your nose.

a man came from behind the folding divider in one of those linen, knot-button suits, hair shaved close to his head, with a big smile and a gold tooth. at the sight of it you went cold.

he spoke in a language you couldn’t understand—taking in its foreign inflections with a feeling of awe, and hearing the word Ghost between the slew of his words.

it startled you when Ghost spoke back in the same swinging rhythm. staring at the side of his blank face, he just ignored your burning gaze.

suddenly, the man turned to you with a slick smile, eyes crawling down for a long moment before crawling back up. the hair on the back of your neck bristled.

“good evening, ma’am,” he greeted in a gentle accent, “how can i help you?”

Ghost braced against the desk, speaking low and fast in that language. the man’s eyes went dark, but that slick smile never left his lips. then, he grinned, gold tooth flashing, before he gestured with his arm to the intricate divider.

“please follow me.”

Ghost’s grip on your waist was tight as you followed the man behind the divide, walking down a dim, but equally decadent hallway. you jolted away from one of the doors—there was an intermittent bang and shout from inside of the room.

a splinter of fear cleaved your heart, and you shot a look at Ghost before he just urged you forward without so much as a glance.

“here is your room,” the man offered generously, waving his arm to a wooden door with an intricate carving over the front.

you muffled a gasp at the sight of the girl standing beside it. she must’ve been only a few years older than you, with milky skin and long black hair that came down her slim frame like the brush of swirling ink. the crimson dress she wore wasn’t constricting at all, and exposed so much skin.

from the elbows to her wrists, her ankles, calves, and knees, you could see her bare skin. you averted your eyes immediately, fumbling with your hands, but her gaze was solely trained on Ghost.

he wholly ignored her as the man shooed her away with a rude gesture and fast words. her dark eyes flashed, sending Ghost a nasty look, and then you, before turning on her heel and marching down the hallway.

the man handed Ghost a key and you followed the broad, masked man into the room, quickly shutting the door behind you. the strange, elongated noises from the hallway was diminished now. sighing out with relief, your breath hitched when you noticed the intricacy of the room.

there was a low-lying bed strewn with pillows and rich draperies. the room was littered with different wooden furniture pieces with ornate carvings like geometric mazes in the chairs, wardrobe, canopy bed frame, and sunken table in the far corner of the room. you observed the rolls of paper hanging from the walls, the vases covered in gleaming blue brush strokes, and the dim lamp overhead with red tassels hanging down from its silver sheath.

Ghost sat at the edge of the bed with a crumbling sigh, kicking off his boots. your heart sunk, cringing at more of the gentler noises wafting through the door.

“where are we, Ghost?”

you had a sneaking suspicion that you wouldn’t like it.

he cleared his throat, sending you the most apologetic you had ever seen on him. “a brothel.”

you spluttered. “a brothel?”

he had brought you, a good, christian woman, to a brothel?

you did a quick prayer, closing your eyes and clasping your hands together, murmuring under your breath. you could hear Ghost move from the bed and pad closer to you, impossibly silent.

you ignored him, continuing to pray, as he wrapped his arms around you, impossibly warm and comforting, and tucked his chin into your neck.

“i’m sorry.”

you jolted. opening one eye to look at him, two of his own peered back at you.

you shut your eye, ignoring him and continued to pray in low murmurs. he pressed a kiss to your neck, another i’m sorry falling from his lips. and then another and another wherever he kissed across your neck, jaw, cheek.

you could get used to him saying that.

it was his warm breath across your lips that startled you back to the present.

when you opened your eyes again, hands still clasped in a bind at your chest, he leaned forward, clothed forehead pressing against your own.

“i’m sorry.”

a trickle of something muddled dripped down your spine. a new suspicion pricked up in you.

“about what?” you asked, working your jaw slowly.

he buried his forehead into your neck, speaking softly. “about lying to you.”

your brow quirked.

“about the brothel?” you asked, feeling confused, and he stiffened against you before nodding slowly.

“mhmm.”

that muddled feeling was back again. was he lying about what he was lying about?

you snorted at the thought. that muddled feeling told you he was probably apologizing about a lot of things at the moment—what, exactly, you couldn’t discern. there was a lot to choose from.

“i’m still mad at you,” you said with a tenderness, brushing across the back of his neck with your fingertips.

he just nodded again with a hum.

a much darker furl of despair in your stomach said that this may be the last time he would say sorry to you.

you didn’t know what would happen tomorrow, or tonight even, as the hazy dusk settled outside the carved windows. when would the war break out? where was one-four-one and los vaqueros? why had he brought you to chinatown? why a brothel?

when would he be leaving you again?

would he be dead in the next couple of days like he kept promising?

your silence must’ve been telling because he sighed out across your skin and untangled himself from your body and led you to the edge of the bed where you both sat.

your brows rose expectantly as he shifted over the bed and took off his hat, putting it down. you took it into your hands to have something to fumble with as his hand came to the length of your hair, playing with it in between his fingers.

when his silence was too long, you cocked your head. “tell me, Simon.”

it was more of a command than anything.

he rubbed a hand over his jaw with a curt nod, but he wouldn’t look at you. “i know the owner of this establishment. he owns a brothel chain in san francisco. for the night, we’ll be safest here.”

your hands paused, glancing up at him. “you do business in prostitution?”

the relief that bloomed when he shook his head came as a surprise. you released a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

“an enemy of Turner is a friend of mine,” he said decidedly. “so i learned mandarin.”

you changed the subject. “so what about one-four-one and los vaqueros? where are they?”

“we’ve got a base but it’s across the city,” he said, scratching at his neck, not revealing anything further. you didn’t really expect him to.

“when will you see them?” you asked, sullen.

what you really wanted to ask was: will he take you with him?

“tonight.” his hand dropped from your hair. “only rich politicians come through here. you’ll be safe. i promise.”

you closed your eyes. that was that.

you didn’t really know if you wanted to hear the rest of what he had to say.

“then, you and i will reconvene with them tomorrow. together,” he said, the pad of his thumb brushing over your closed eyelids.

you took a breath of relief. you could work with that.

“and the war?”

his eyes were dark, swirling. “i don’t know. i’d rather stop it before then.”

and still get the revenge one-four-one promised?

you cocked your head. “how?”

the corners of his lips twitched and your brows rose. “it’s a surprise, princess.”

you groaned, exasperated. “no more surprises, Simon.”

“will you allow an awful man to fix a date with you, lovely?”

you gave him a bitter look and his smile only grew. “what makes you think i want you to court me?”

he slowly slid off the bed and you watched in amazement as he kneeled in front of you, hands on your thighs.

“what do i need to do?” he asked softly, eyes wide and beseeching.

you were in awe at the sight of him—on his knees in front of you, broad body bowed down. you looked over the plains of his masked face, and all that was revealed beneath it. his pale skin, littered with scars, and the silvery one on his upper lip, that blonde brow and tall nose, his telling dark eyes.

you blushed. “more than that.”

“how about this?” he offered, stretching up to kiss the tip of your nose.

“more than that.”

“this?” he kissed over your jaw, down your neck, lips warm and soft and wet when his tongue slid out, sucking at the flesh of it.

“more,” you whined, feeling hot all over when his hands expertly came to unclasp the back of your blouse.

it was perplexing in the way he could strip away your facade in mere seconds, melt the stubbornness from your shoulders, and evaporate any reign of control over your intent to be furious with him.

he had you completely bare in seconds and all your ruined clothes in a pile on the floor, pushing you back onto the soft bed, and then it was his turn. he stood up and undressed in front of you, and you watched with a greediness, that familiar dark, needy pulse between your thighs.

you pawed at that ache, feeling relentless, and his pupils blew wide, hands flying to get out of his clothes.

swallowing, you tried to not let the shame consume you when you dipped your hand beneath your thighs, and touched that spot for the first time. his hands fumbling with his belt stuttered to a stop.

experimentally, you dragged your fingertips against its wet softness, gasping when it came in contact with your clit. it was a little nub that swelled against your fingers, fluttering in time with the pulse of your heart in your throat.

you kept your eyes on Ghost, fighting the droop of them, when you started to circle around it like he had. a pleasure bloomed through you, and you gasped again. curious, you jerked your hand faster, and the intensity of it only spread, through your core, dipping into your stomach, and you thought you saw gold.

with a loud moan, you realized you never knew that you could make yourself feel so good.

you jolted when Ghost let out a guttural, low sound, and pitched forward, pressing his knuckles into the space beside your head, towering over you on the bed.

“you touchin’ yourself, pretty thing?”

you whined with a nod, his words only spurring you on.

when he reached down to grip your hand rubbing against your cunt, you hissed. “no.”

“no?” his brows shot up, eyes searching yours.

“no touching. just watch,” you commanded, deadly serious, arching into your own magical touch.

the sound that left his throat was in between a groan and a whimper, and it made your hips buck up, a whine tearing through you in response.

he sat back, hands twitching against his thighs, and a painful looking swell in his pants, you noticed, but you were perfectly content with the way you were touching yourself.

rolls of aching sweetness unfurled through you.

“are you teasing me, princess?” he asked, head tilted and voice incredibly deep, the swell of his chest fast and breathy.

“mhmm,” you whimpered, slowing your hand painfully so, then quickening again, gasping when a thick wave of pleasure poured over you and swept you into a distant haze.

“s’your punishment—” you went even faster, “—for bein’ an asshole.”

he groaned at that, leaning down to kiss your bare ankle, and you hissed, pushing him back with your foot to his shoulder. the look he gave you was steeped in such an obvious display of desperation that you almost wanted to give in.

“let me do it,” he rasped, leaning forward to tower over you again, hands by your head, but still not touching.

“no.”

he leaned down to your ear. “please?”

you whined, bucking into your hand, feeling the edges of your vision fade and flutter. you were getting closer to that telltale, delicious, precipice—but frustratingly, it still felt so far away.

“no,” you whimpered, and you chased that edge desperately.

he licked over his lips. “struggling, pretty girl?”

you shook your head, whole body jolting when a new flare of intensity coursed through you. it was almost too much, and suddenly, you wanted to take your hand away.

you looked up to the man perched between your legs, his bare muscled torso gleaming in the dim light, and the sharpness of his jaw spurring you on.

he cooed, “you sure you don’t need my help, pretty thing?”

sniffling, you mewled, feeling defeated when you pulled your hand back, your sensitive clit twitching in response to the cold air that filled the absence where your hand had just been.

Ghost hummed, looking positively pleased at your surrender, and he tentatively brushed his fingertips over the softness of your inner thigh.

“may i?” his eyes were dark and malicious, and a shudder of something bordering on fear slithered down your spine as you squirmed against the blankets.

“please.”

he lurched forward, and you squeaked in surprise when one of his arms slid beneath your back, the other beneath your thigh, as he threw you further up the bed.

“shoulder?” he asked softly, though his hands were rough as he positioned you the way he liked, pressing the back of your thighs up so that almost touched your chest, legs lolling over his shoulders.

you could barely feel anything in your shoulder—all the blood had pooled to your cunt, pulsing with a wild, aching need.

“please, Simon,” you said instead, grabbing his shoulders and pushing them down to where you needed him.

but he was too strong. much stronger thank you, as he pinned your wrists to the bed.

“answer me,” he said, voice thick and dark, and you whimpered.

“s’fine.”

“you sure?” he breathed over your cunt and you whimpered.

“y-yeah.”

he hummed. “we’re going to do something different today.”

that piqued your interest, pulling you from the muddled haze of your mind. he splayed a big hand over your stomach, pressing against it, the rough pad of his thumb reaching down to rub lazy circles over your clit.

you melted back into the bed, a deluge of relief coursing through your veins. you think you could come just like this—Ghost leaning over you, sucking the skin of your neck, whispering low murmurs into your ear, and a circling pressure growing against your clit. you think you could mostly because it was Simon.

“Simon,” you whined, and his eyes snapped to yours, turning warm and buttery when he kissed your eyelids.

then, you felt something circling the entrance of your core.

a confused hum left your lips, and you looked down to see his other hand spreading his fingers down the slick of your entrance.

“what’re you doing?” you asked, sliding a hand over his.

“do you trust me?”

your breath hitched, looking up into his hooded eyes. you didn’t take a second to even think—

god, yes, you trusted him. you needed him.

“need you,” you whimpered, truthfully, and his eyes went even darker as he bent down to kiss your clit softly.

then, you watched him push a finger into you, swallowed up by your cunt inch-by-greedy-inch.

you gasped, arching at the new feeling of a stretch that felt… good.

“Simon?” you squeaked, and he just shushed you gently, kneading at your breast as he sucked on your clit, pinning you down as you squirmed.

then, he began working the finger inside you, rubbing against your gooey inner walls, and then he was pressing in a second finger, and that delicious stretch swept you away into a haze.

breathy moans were torn from your throat and you could do nothing to stop them when he curled his fingers, pressing even deeper and against something that had the sweetest feeling unfurl deep, deep, deep inside you.

“Simon!” you mewled, feeling your climax approaching quicker than ever as he fucked you open with his fingers, his lips wrapped around your clit, a sinful squelch harmonizing with the breathy tones of your voice.

your whole core convulsed, clenching, then—

he stopped.

your chest fell in rose in heavy pants, that delicious edge receding slowly. picking up your head up to look at him, your brow furrowed when you found him just staring back at you.

whining, you picked up your hips to press your swollen clit to his plush lips, but he just shifted back a bit so the tip of your nub barely brushed his lower lip.

he cocked his head with a malicious smirk.

“you’ve been teasin’ me for days, minx,” he said, eyes so empty and cold that you shivered. he slid a hand over the goosebumps of your thigh.

“at the lake. today by the railroad.”

he began pumping his fingers again, slowly, and you whined, trying your best to grind down on it so the tips of them would find that swollen place in you that felt heavenly, but he just pulled his hand back every time you pressed down.

his eyes darkened. “touchin’ yourself in front of me like i’m not allowed to do anything about it.”

“please,” you whimpered, and the smirk dropped from his face.

“you’re not allowed to come until i say so, pretty thing.”

a shockwave went straight through your tummy at the words, eyes blown wide with shock. you didn’t know why those words made your heart drum harder, the slickness between your thighs feeling unbearable with the way he just slowly fucked you with his fingers.

you wanted more. you wanted him deeper. something bigger.

his fingers brushed over your clit, and you jolted. “ready f’more?”

“mhmm. please, Simon.” your voice was a keen, and you whined louder when he completely pulled his hand away from you, feeling desperately empty, but he just grabbed your hips and flipped you with ease onto your stomach.

he pulled your hips up, one hand smoothing down your back so you were arched, arms braced against the soft pillows. it was a strange position, left you feeling awkward and exposed, but he pressed a soft kiss to your injured shoulder and you ignored the throb from the weight it bore.

then, he slid off the bed and you heard the clink of his belt, something dropping on the floor, before the bed dipped again, and then silence.

looking back at him, you blushed at the sight of him just shamelessly staring at you in the position.

“Simon!” you chided, curling out of the position before he gripped at your hip tightly with a sly smirk, pushing you back down into the arch with a low rumble of protest.

he crowded over the back of you, settling down over your body, and pressed you further into the bed, his warm chest flush to your back and knuckles pressed to the space next to your ears. you gasped when something warm, sticky, and hard brushed along your inner thigh.

he stroked a hand along your neck, words a throaty whisper in your ear. “comfortable, lovely?”

you felt him press himself against your soft slit, the thick head of it pressing against your clit.

it felt hot, big, throbbing, and—

you gasped, a cracking dawn of realization washing over you.

“it goes…?” inside.

your whole body shook in anticipation, a strange muddle of fear and desperate want making your hips press further back into him.

he hummed, kissing your neck.

“figure it out, pretty?”

“mhmm,” was all you could get out, wiggling yourself against him in impatience, and he just gripped your hips tightly.

“inside,” you retaliated, and he huffed in your ear, the curve of his smile pressed to your hair.

“needy girl. you don’t even know anything about this,” he chided, a hand coming down to rub at your clit, and you squirmed with relief.

“what do i need to know?” you squeaked, grinding against his fingers.

“it hurts.” your movements slowed, suddenly feeling apprehensive.

“it hurts?” you looked back at him from over your shoulder, his eyes only inches from your own where his lips were against your shoulder.

his stopped moving. “mhmm.”

you reached down between your legs and gripped at his wrist, willing him to move again.

“i don’t care. i can take it.”

he smiled against your shoulder.

“im sure you can, but save it for your marriage.” his words were hushed, and you just frowned, a ball of frustration building in you, arching back into his touch.

“i don't want anybody but you.”

he went stock still, and you swallowed hard, feeling an edge of unease bubble up between your desire. you wished you could see his face but you didn’t dare look behind you.

his hand slid away from your core again, leaving you wanting and cold. but you took a breath of relief when he didn’t move away, only pressed his body down into you harder, the heady weight of him a pleasant pressure.

“i guess you’ll just have to wait till we’re married then.”

the breath was stolen from you, and you fought to whimper out, “no. now.”

“that’s improper, lovely,” he whispered, dark and throaty, hot tongue licking over your ear.

he slid his hips forward between your thighs, and you felt his hard length glide smoothly over your cunt, catching against your puffy clit, ripping a gasp out of your throat.

your eyes drooped shut. “don’t care.”

“so bratty. can’t you let me court you first?”

you grit your teeth, fighting back the breathy noises from the back of your throat, as he thrust forward between the hot clutch of your plush thighs.

“no,” you moaned out, letting his hands guide your hips in a slow roll over him, your cunt clenching with every movement.

“even when i’m being so nice to you right now?”

“you’re being mean,” you whined, pushing back against him, meeting the snap of his hips with a string of breathy gasps as your head fell forward.

he snaked a hand into your hair and pulled, tugging you back over his sticky length with every thrust. you felt the telltale beginnings of a rolling, sweet burn stemming from your clit to the rest of your body that you needed to satiate.

“please,” you begged, and he hummed, curling an arm beneath you to play with the sensitive swell of your nipples, holding you close to him as you jolted with each brush of your clit.

“wanna come?” he asked softly, and you nodded eagerly, feeling the first waves of your orgasm pulling you under—

then he pulled his hips back, pushing you back down to the bed, and you almost sobbed at the loss of friction against your core.

he leaned down to coo in your ear softly, “what’s wrong, princess?”

that desperate, squirming ache in your stomach melded into something angry.

“stop teasing me!” you snapped, sending him a teary-eyed look from over your shoulder, jolting when his eyes snapped up to yours.

his face was hooded—lustful, pupils blown wide, and dark with something sinister you’d never seen before.

“stop teasing?” he growled, pushing his hips forward between your thighs again, your clit twitching against the tip of him. “like how you were teasing me earlier?”

you whined as he began rolling his hips, the combined slick coming down your legs in a sticky, mixed muddle, and gasping when he hooked his arm beneath you and pulled you up so you were leaned back against his chest—his teeth sinking into the skin of your shoulder.

you grabbed at the back of his neck, a pleasurable pain gliding across your skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake. a dark, slithering heat tightened that inevitable knot in your tummy when he slid a big hand up and wrapped it around your throat.

“bratty girls get punished. didn’t church teach you that?”

the moan you let out was downright sinful, breathy, and left your throat raw and aching, as you clawed at his hand around your throat, trying and failing to anchor yourself to anything.

he pitched forward, grabbing at your hand and pinned it down to the bed beneath his, intertwining your fingers tightly, and you watched his length between your thighs leak white pearls that glided down your skin with every heavenly thrust.

“are you gonna be good?” he whispered out, and you nodded eagerly, a slew of little whimpers and begs falling from your lips like a breathy flood.

he purred a sound of approval. “i know you will. bein’ such a good girl lettin’ me fuck your thighs like this.”

“yes, Simon, i’ll be good, i’ll be good—”

god you were so close—

“pretty girl. my sweet girl. you’re mine.”

his growled words guided you right through those convulsing shudders and a hot, searing haze welled up in your throat—tears pricking in your eyes from the intensity of it.

you only realized that Ghost came too when you felt ropes of something warm and thick splashed against your cunt and inner thighs, his groans a pretty song right by your ear.

he practically crushed you to the bed, his warm, sweaty body pleasant against your skin. you stayed like that for a long time, listening to his deep breaths, a tickling drip down your spine—the after-effect of your shared pleasure.

you never wanted the sensation to leave you.

you searched for Ghost behind you and came into contact with his shoulder, then grabbed at his neck, and he hummed contentedly, sliding his arms beneath your stomach, pressing fleeting kisses to your shoulder and neck.

you squirmed, giggling at the ticklish sensation, but you were trapped there, and he only kissed you more with a soft smile against your skin, up to your ear, your cheek, before he leaned back to turn you over.

you looked up at him, his brown eyes warm and lips twisted in a wry smile, and curled your arms around his shoulders to pull him back down. he settled between your thighs, cheek pressed to your breast, and you scratched at the back of his head lightly like your mama used to do to make you fall asleep after a bad nightmare.

he practically purred, sinking further into the big bed, his arms winding back around your middle.

his voice was a raw rasp. “does this mean you’ll accept my request?”

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile on your face. “where are we going for a date?”

he inched up your body so he braced his forearms beside your head, the tip of his nose brushing yours. he blinked at you, face blank.

“don’t get mad at me, alright?”

you quirked your brow, sliding your hands up his shoulders, filling the dips and grooves of the bunched up muscle.

“what’re you hiding, Simon?”

he cocked his head. “it’s a social event.”

your brows rose. a social event?

you thought back to your daddy’s letter, such a strange and hazy memory now—i’ll round up my men and join the effort in two weeks time after we conjoin at the social. there, we can talk finances.

was that the same social?

you turned your cheek, giving Ghost a sidelong look. “the same one my daddy was talking about?”

you saw something flash in his eyes before his face became impossibly imperceptible again.

“how did you know about that?”

you snorted. “i snooped through your basement, remember?”

his brows rose, a very slow smile creeping up on his lips.

you frowned at him. “what?”

he shook his head, grinning, “nothing.”

you dug your nails a bit into his shoulders. “tell me.”

“it’s just—”

he wouldn’t look into your eyes. he leaned down closer to you, lips against your cheek, voice a seductive, low sound. “your mind. i lust for it.”

your breath hitched. “lust for it?”

he nodded. “you’re brilliant. it’s sexy.”

you scoffed, swatting at his shoulder lightly, and a laugh rumbled through his chest into yours.

you wondered what he would think about your brilliant mind if he knew that you were periodically going through… mental struggles. you thought about something else instead.

“tell me what this social’s about.”

you watched him close his eyes, fingers fumbling with your hair. “Turner’s having a masquerade ball. somethin’ ‘bout going back to historical roots.”

your brows shot up. “and you want to go with me?”

his smirk was devilish. “who else? i was invited.”

now, your brow was furrowed. “why would Turner invite you?”

he shook his head. “he didn’t. it’s his way of having a little victory party over this war before it’s even really begun. s’basically an invitation.”

there was a bitter taste in your mouth.

“i thought you said i wasn’t going anywhere near Turner?”

he shifted above you, eyes open now, and hand still tangled in your hair.

“changed my mind.”

you scoffed. for Ghost, changing his mind wasn’t surprising. in the matter of Turner and you however…

“why’d you change your mind?” you pressed softly, meeting his buttery warm eyes.

he smiled, whole body going lax and soft against you. “last night.”

that didn’t clarify anything at all. when your jaw dropped open to reply, he filled the words in for you.

“s’just a stupid omen. there was a coyote. it was scared just at the sight of me, but i was more scared than anything.”

you stroked along the soft, warm skin of his back. “why?”

“because i wanted to protect you.”

his eyes were wide and open, and you bit your lip, a new burning ache pushing up between your lungs.

“i promised i’d never let anyone hurt you again,” he said with a hush, pressing his forehead to yours. “i want you to be with me when you’re in danger.”

then, he slid down pressing his ear to the steady thrum of your heart. “just be with me all the time.”

a rush of sweetness poured through you. just be with me all the time.

you felt giddy, your grin big and making your cheeks ache.

“is that what you were getting all thoughtful about this morning?”

you remembered him sitting on the rock beside you, fumbling with his knife, face shadowed and faint with a furrowed brow.

he craned his neck to look up at you.

“you noticed, smart girl?”

you wanted to scoff. “i notice a lot of things.”

you drew lazy circles into his skin. “i noticed how you always like to fold my clothes. i noticed how like to put your face here—”

you pointed to the area where your hair pooled around your neck, and with that, he pulled forward to press his face to that spot with a contented hum.

you held the back of his head, feeling like you were in a hazy, surreal dreamscape.

had you really wanted revenge on him only a night ago? a few mere hours ago? did it really matter what his original intentions were with you when he displayed his feelings so clearly like this?

yes, a voice hissed out, leaving you feeling uneasy, but you beat it down so it wouldn’t cloud the blissful moment.

soon, he pulled away, shifting off of you, and slid off the bed to kneel on the hardwood floor again. the absence of him felt wrong—cold and too light. like you needed his heavy warmth to pin you back down again.

he gripped at your splayed hand from the edge of the bed. “will you go on a date with me, lovely?”

his question was completely simple and pure, but you found yourself wanting to tease him, lips twisting into a sly smile, enjoying the way he blinked in response, a bit perturbed.

“and what will we do on this date, Simon?”

you flipped over onto your stomach, propping up your head up over your elbows with your knuckles, in love with the way his blonde lashes fluttered against your cheek when your noses brushed. his lips were a mere breath away from yours.

“dine. dance…” he whispered, dark eyes flickering from your own to your lips.

his lips parted, head tilting. “maybe i can hold Turner down, and you can torture him to death.”

at that you laughed, pulling back away from him and curling onto your side into the sheets. he remained at the edge of the bed, grin wide and wolfish. once your fit of laughter stopped, you peered back over your shoulder with a hum.

“i’ll tell you what i decide in the morning,” you sang, sitting up, watching with delight as a curiosity burned in his gaze.

“did i not teach you well enough what happens when you tease me?” he asked, voice throaty, and you shivered, suddenly very aware of the exposed nature of your bare skin.

you shrugged. “guess you’ll have to remind me.”

his eyes darkened and you squirmed away from him with a giggle across the big bed so he couldn’t reach you so easily. his brows rose carefully.

“think i can’t catch you if you run away like that, bunny?”

a low, kicking thrum came back to life between your thighs.

“what are you?” you asked with a laugh, gripping at the sheets, “a wolf?”

he cocked his head in a predatory manner, words low and deep. “when i want to be.”

you shuddered and he just shook his head with an amused look, padding away from the bed to a door across the room. behind it was a bathroom, and he disappeared inside, the sound of running water accompanying you as you laid back down on the bed, reclining back into the soft blankets and even softer pillows.

the more you laid there, the more you could feel a growing, painful ache returning to your shoulder. it was stiff, hot and swollen to the touch, and you chided yourself for going so… rough in your intimate moment with Ghost.

but when he sauntered back out of the bathroom, footsteps eerily quiet, a damp washcloth in hand, you didn’t feel an ounce of regret.

he helped clean you up, swiping away your shared fluids from your skin as his kissed the crown of your head with a tenderness. you reached for the cloth, grabbing his bare hip, and were about to return the favor when you were reacquainted with the battered state of his body.

the bruises had reduced but there were still a blotchy, purple mess, and his stitches were just as bad as before—that same dried crust around it. now, you really chided yourself, angry that you hadn’t taken a moment to take care of him before…

you wiped away any residue from his nether regions, before thumbing gently over that strong, muscled v-line of his hip.

“what is it?” he asked, touching a knuckle to the bottom of your chin and tilting your head up to meet his eyes.

you blinked. “it’s really bad.”

his expression was blank. “honestly, lovely, i’ve had worse.”

“like what?” you pressed, and when his face contorted, you waved a hand.

“nevermind. don’t tell me.” you might be sick if he did.

“just please let me take care of you,” you practically begged, sliding a hand down his bare thigh as his eyes narrowed.

your frown deepened, trying to give him your best doe-eyed pout, and he heaved a sigh with a nod, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

you walked to the bathroom, casting a look over your shoulder to make sure Ghost was still sitting obediently at the bed, and when he cocked an impatient brow at you, you bit back a smirk as you entered the bathroom.

there was a big tub pressed to the corner of the room, and a wash bin where you rinsed off the wash cloth and grabbed an extra cup from the sink, filling it with water. you fished around the ornate cabinets, smiling in victory when you found a jar of vaseline pushed to the very back of a cabinet filled with sparse miscellaneous items. your mama had spread it over any injury of yours like an invisible gauze.

taking a moment to inspect your appearance in the mirror, cheeks flushed and hair disheveled, you splashed your face with a bit of water and calmed your hair with your hands.

on the back of the bathroom door, you took the simple silk robe in a pale yellow pattern and tied it around yourself, walking back out to Ghost who was lounged back against the bed and still stark naked.

“has my pretty nurse come to my aid?” he asked, eyes half-lidded.

you just nodded with a sheepish smile, crawling over to him and dipping the washcloth in the water before dabbing at the stitches. you watched his whole body tense with a hiss, and then relax again, his eyes screwed shut.

“sorry,” you squeaked with wince, wiping away the yellow ooze around it. you bit your lip, brows furrowed as you looked down at the fleshy wound—red and swollen with a loose thread pulled through it. you pressed your fingertips to it and he jolted, jaw clenched. it was hot to the touch.

“it didn’t reopen, did it?” you asked sullenly, and his eyes barely fluttered open.

“i’d be bleeding if it did.”

with that, you spread the cool vaseline over it, and he sighed, sinking back into the bed. then, he wrapped an arm around your waist, and you muffled a squeak as he tugged you towards him into pillows.

his lips were against your hair. “shoulder?”

you pushed away from him with a hand to his chest, and he grumbled in protest as you moved to put your gathered medical supplies onto the nightstand.

“s’okay. kind of swollen but nothing like yesterday.”

the sound that left his throat was full of disapproval.

instead you changed the subject, turning to him with a hand on your hip.

“are you gonna change?”

his brows raised slightly, knees tipping wider as he picked up his head to look at you with a smirk. with a blush, you refused to look down at his bare, muscled body.

“nope.”

rolling your eyes, you clambered back into the bed and he tugged the silky robe loose from your body, and you just let him do as he liked as he positioned the both of you beneath the thick blankets.

he pulled you into his pleasant warmth and you hummed, your cheek nestled to his chest and his lips against your hair.

the room was dim, a lulling quiet darkness over the room now, pitching deep into the night. you drew circles over his forearm cast over your waist.

“when will you leave?” you whispered, sullen, because you knew these tranquil, soft moments were dwindling with uncertainty.

he smoothed a hand over your back. “in a little bit.”

you bit your lip. “why can’t i come with you?”

he shook his head, and you closed your eyes, a pinched feeling in your chest.

“i have to do this on my own. you won’t be in danger here.”

you thought back to what he said a mere moments ago.

“what happened to just be with me all the time?”

his words were soft. “you are with me all the time.”

you craned your neck to look up at him and he inclined his head against the pillows, tapping with a finger to his chest lightly.

oh.

“i think i’ve read about that in a children’s fantasy novel, Ghost,” you said with a cocked brow and he gave you a wry smile, then shifted to tuck his chin over your head.

“what happened to Simon?”

you closed your eyes. “Simon privileges revoked.”

he scoffed. “bratty.”

you smacked at his arm and he didn’t even move—like a big rock you could anchor yourself to.

a big rock you wanted to anchor yourself to, except that he was always leaving it seemed.

and when he left, would he actually come back as promised? or would he leave you to the streets of san francisco as you feared—without a use for you?

unless your use was turning up to Turner’s masquerade as Ghost’s lady for the evening in another display of their battle for… ownership.

at that you stiffened and Ghost roused against you, his even breaths hitching.

the question you posed was careful and calculating. “if i wanted to run away and never look back, would you let me?”

he went impossibly still at that. then, he pulled back far enough so you could see the grim lines of his face, even through the darkness and the shroud of his mask.

“yes.” the word was so strained it almost didn’t sound like his own voice. “i think it’d kill me though.”

you cocked your head.

“when are you gonna take that mask off?”

his eyes flashed. “full of questions are you?”

you nodded. “always.”

he looked away from you. “i can’t answer all of them yet.”

always hiding something from you.

“why not?” you pressed, and he frowned, taking up your hand to press to his chest.

“in time,” he whispered, kissing the back of it, before sliding out from under the blankets.

you gripped his wrist to keep him tethered to you, voice cracking wide open.

“did you mean what you said?”

he cocked his head, eyes a placid coolness.

you swallowed hard “about courting me? about me being yours?”

your breath was shallow when you added, “do you really think you’ll die tomorrow?”

he stared at you for a long moment before sighing out, climbing back onto the bed and over you, leaning down to brush his lips against yours softly. you jolted with a gasp, straining up to kiss that silvery scar on his upper lip carefully. he was stock still, eyes following your movement with a familiar stoicism.

“i will be back tomorrow morning,” he promised and you grimaced.

“will you?”

he nodded strongly. “before dawn.”

you curled an arm around his neck. “promise me?”

“honest to god.”

you winced, remembering your words from two nights ago.

how can you be honest to god?

as he redressed to go out into the night, you watched him to try and find any tightness in his movements. the stiff motion of his body looked pure and simple—easing off the pressure of his injuries.

there wasn’t a trace of apprehension as he slung his gun back into his holster, sheathed knives back into the layer of his trench coat, and put on his stetson, that silver skull pendant on its brim glimmering in the dull light.

but you had seen how easily he lied to the kind man earlier.

how easily he could lie to you.

before he left, he pressed his forehead to yours, cool leather palm against your chest, and then to that spot where your hair and neck met, and then he stepped out into the hallway and the door shut behind him.

you twisted in the sheets, searching for a sliver of warmth that he had left behind.

there was an emptiness in your heart when you couldn’t find it.

you couldn’t sleep almost the entire night—desperately waiting for when the sun would breach the horizon, and Ghost would crawl back into that space in your heart you left vacant for him.

the night steeped into an black sky, clouds drifting across the moon in splotchy patches. you fell into a half-slumber, perched between the soft pillows of the bed when there was a quiet thud from a distance.

you startled, picking up your head and searching in the darkness in a sleepy haze.

“Ghost?” you whispered out, only a silence answering you, as a form materialized, prowling forward from the entrance of the room.

it was the girl with milky skin and an inky black hair, in that same revealing dress as before, skin reflective in the moonlight, and a revolver in her hand.

important note: if anyone wants to learn more about san francisco’s chinatown in circa. 1900, here’s are two articles i found interesting: time magazine (bubonic plague) and history.net (prostitution & Donaldina Cameron)

that being said, i want to clarify that much of san francisco’s chinatown culture became characterized solely about prostitution, opium, and gambling in the media (movies, tv shows, etc.) because of racial prejudices in the 1900s. while i talk about those themes in this story, they don’t make up even half of the rich culture in san francisco's chinatown and i do not want to create that impression!!

ugh anyways i didn’t mean to make this chapter so angsty 🙁 it will get better i promise i promise i promise but thank you for all your guys’s amazing support <33 i hope you enjoyed this chapterrr <33 next up... character development 🌚

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