I just think characters like Halsin and Blackwall should look a little more like sumo wrestlers and a lot less like shredded, 0% body fat, dehydrated Marvel superheroes.
The boys reacting to reader collapsing from exhaustion please?
Gale:
The stars had just begun to glimmer overhead, the velvet sky above the Shadow-Cursed Lands dimming into the kind of darkness that swallowed sound. The campfires crackled gently, casting flickering halos of warmth against the long stretch of gloom, but you were still going. Still walking. Still sorting. Still preparing.
You hadn’t rested. Not really. Not since that last fight, not since the argument with the goblins in the pass, not since the near ambush from twisted shadows. You’d kept your pace steady, your shoulders square, pushing through the weight in your limbs and the ache behind your eyes. You thought if you just did one more thing, the tension would stop building in your chest.
But your body had other plans.
You didn’t even remember falling. One moment you were standing, checking your gear, your fingertips trembling from fatigue, and the next—
Blackness.
A quiet thump. The faint scuffle of feet on earth.
Then a voice, fraying at the edges with fear:
“Wait—wait! No, no, no—gods, please—!”
You came to slowly, like rising through molasses, every sound muffled by a distant ringing. The smell of lavender and parchment hit your senses before anything else—then warmth. Gale. He was crouched beside you, cradling your head with trembling fingers, his brow furrowed with frantic concentration.
His face was pale beneath the firelight, lips pressed in a tight line, panic storming behind his eyes like thunderclouds.
“There you are,” he breathed, voice rough, like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until you stirred. “You—by Mystra’s grace, you scared the life out of me.”
You tried to sit up. “I’m fine—”
“No, you are not,” Gale snapped. The edge in his voice shocked you—it was so rare, so unlike his usual soft-spoken warmth. But it cracked with strain, with the sharp weight of helplessness. “You collapsed. Not tripped. Not stumbled. Collapsed. You’ve been running yourself ragged, and you think I wouldn’t notice?”
You blinked at him, throat dry. “I just—there was a lot to do. I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t mean to?” he echoed, his eyes going wide, almost wounded. “That somehow makes it better?”
His hands trembled as he brushed dirt from your cheek, then stilled when he cupped your jaw gently. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You don’t have to carry it all.”
You looked away, ashamed—because you had been trying to carry it all. Because you didn’t want to be a burden. Because you thought if you didn’t slow down, maybe everything else wouldn’t catch up.
But Gale wasn’t done.
“You think I wouldn’t burn the very weave itself if it meant keeping you safe?” he asked, his voice suddenly soft again, but still fierce. “You think your worth is measured by how much pain you can ignore?”
Your lip trembled, just a little. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
He gave a short, humorless laugh, eyes glistening. “Then you’ve failed spectacularly.”
You smiled despite yourself, and Gale immediately folded forward, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm and shaking.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
He closed his eyes, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Don’t apologize. Just let me help. You don’t have to prove your strength by hiding your exhaustion. Not from me.”
He helped you sit up, guiding you gently like you were made of glass—his hands constantly checking for bruises or signs of injury, his eyes flicking across your face like he might lose you again if he looked away too long.
“I’ll rest,” you murmured finally.
“You’ll rest now,” Gale corrected, brushing your hair back. “And you’ll let me stay, even if all I can do is hold you while you sleep. Agreed?”
“…Agreed.”
And so he settled in beside you, holding you close beneath the stars, heart still racing, fingers still trembling—but never letting go.
Astarion:
The campfire crackled gently in the distance, its glow barely brushing the edges of the clearing as the evening slipped into deeper shades of indigo. The world beyond was all hush and shadow, quieted by the oppressive weight of the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Everyone had started winding down, preparing for rest. Everyone except you.
You had been pacing—relentlessly. Repacking your gear. Polishing a blade you’d already sharpened twice. Pretending that the tremble in your limbs wasn’t there. That the weight behind your eyes didn’t burn. That you hadn’t been pushing yourself beyond the brink for days.
And then, quite simply—your body gave out.
Your knees folded. The world tilted. And the last thing you heard was a very undignified shout:
“Oh for—you dramatic idiot!”
You woke with a sharp inhale, but the moment you stirred, cold hands were already gripping your shoulders, a familiar voice hissing through clenched teeth:
“Don’t you dare try to sit up.”
Astarion loomed over you, silver hair in slight disarray, cravat askew, red eyes wild with something that looked like fury—but was far too sharp-edged to be anger alone. He was kneeling at your side, holding you like you were made of glass and pure trouble at once.
“You absolute menace,” he growled, inspecting you as if he might hex your exhaustion into submission. “I knew you were overdoing it. I told you. And what do you do? You drop like a sack of poorly stitched laundry!”
You blinked slowly, confused. “Astarion—”
“And not gracefully, mind you,” he continued, indignant. “You just crumpled. I had to catch you like some harlequin in a second-rate opera. I nearly broke a nail.”
Despite the scolding, his hands were maddeningly gentle, checking your pulse, brushing back damp hair from your forehead. He was so close you could smell the faint hint of bergamot and aged leather. You could feel the tension in his jaw, in the way his fingers curled ever so slightly into your sleeve as if grounding himself.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured, voice hoarse.
He froze.
And then something shifted.
Astarion’s eyes softened—not much, but enough to crack the veneer of aristocratic outrage. He sighed, exasperated and... undeniably worried.
“Gods, darling, what were you thinking?” he said, this time quieter. “You looked like death warmed over hours ago. Why didn’t you say something? Or sit? Or, Mystra forbid, actually rest?”
You tried to offer a weak smile. “Didn’t want to trouble anyone.”
His face twisted like you’d just said the most offensive thing imaginable.
“Trouble—? Oh, how dare you,” he snapped, but now it sounded almost... wounded. “You think I waste my charms on just anyone? You think I go around catching unconscious fools for fun? You are my trouble, you idiot.”
He pulled you upright against his chest with surprising tenderness, wrapping his arms around you as he shifted you into his lap, cradling you like something precious and exasperating all at once. You could feel the way his thumb traced circles along your spine, even as he clicked his tongue in disapproval.
“I swear, if you ever scare me like that again, I’ll—well, I’ll write a very strongly worded sonnet about your irresponsibility.”
You laughed softly against his shoulder. “A poem? That’s my punishment?”
“I am an artist of many talents, thank you very much,” he said primly. “But don’t tempt me. I’ll make it rhymed and awful.”
You looked up at him through tired eyes, heart aching with affection. “You were worried about me.”
“Oh, perish the thought,” he sniffed dramatically. “I was worried about me. What would I do if my favorite pillow went and died from pure stubbornness?”
And yet he pulled the blanket tighter around you. And his hand never left yours. And he didn’t stop holding you—not for the rest of the night.
Furious, indeed.
Wyll:
The world drifted back in slow fragments—light, sound, breath. You stirred, faintly aware of something heavy draped across you, of warmth pressed along your side, of a steady rhythm pulsing through fabric and skin: a heartbeat, far too quick to be your own.
“Wyll?” your voice came out as a rasp, thick and uncertain.
He did not move.
Your eyes blinked open to find him kneeling at your side, bent low, his forehead resting just over your heart like he was listening for something—proof you were still there, still beating beneath his hands. His fingers gripped your shirt, knuckles white, the rest of him utterly still save for the occasional tremble that betrayed just how close he was to coming undone.
“…You’re awake,” he whispered, voice hoarse, like speaking louder might break whatever fragile reality he’d constructed around himself while you were unconscious.
“I’m fine,” you croaked, trying to push yourself up.
Instantly, Wyll surged upward, pressing a firm hand to your shoulder and another to your hip, holding you flat against the bedroll with all the strength of someone who had just seen the person they love go limp and collapse in front of them. His dark eyes were wide, frantic, and furious—not at you, but at the helplessness clawing at him from the inside.
“Don’t you dare try to move,” he growled. “Not after that stunt.”
“I said I’m fine,” you muttered, wriggling against his grip. “I just overdid it a little—”
“You collapsed,” he snapped. “Like a marionette with its strings cut. One minute you were walking, talking, and the next—” He choked, fingers tightening for a split second. “You hit the ground and I—I thought you were dead.”
You opened your mouth to dismiss him again, to soothe, but Wyll leaned in, his voice low and sharp like flint striking steel.
“You don’t get to tell me this is nothing,” he hissed. “Because if you keep running yourself into the ground like this, someday it won’t just be a collapse. It’ll be you not waking up. And I—” He shook his head, his expression crumpling. “I can’t go through that.”
“Wyll—”
“I need you to understand what it does to me,” he interrupted, suddenly, dangerously close. “To see you fall and not know if I’ll ever hear your voice again. So if I seem dramatic, if I seem over-the-top, it’s because I’m trying to teach you something.”
He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his curls. His tail flicked with restless tension behind him.
“Because when the real thing happens—when I do lose you—I’ll be ruined. You are the flame I measure all warmth by. And if that flame ever goes out…”
He swallowed hard. “Then I’m nothing but ash.”
Your heart twisted at the way his voice faltered, how the last word was barely more than a breath.
You tried to sit up again, to offer some comfort—but he lunged, practically threw himself down, sprawling across your torso like an overgrown, armored cat with an overdeveloped sense of righteous vengeance.
“You are resting.” His voice was muffled against your chest, but the weight of his body was firm, final, and very much unmoving.
You blinked. “…Are you pinning me down?”
“Yes.”
“You weigh a thousand pounds.”
“I will increase it if I have to.”
You sighed, flopping back with a groan of surrender. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“And you’re being reckless,” he retorted, not budging. “So now we’re even.”
There was a long silence. Then a quiet chuckle slipped out of you, reluctant but real. You carded your fingers through his hair, letting the tension bleed from your limbs.
“Fine. I’ll rest.”
Wyll tilted his head just enough to press a kiss to your sternum, his voice a low murmur. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
Halsin:
The moment your eyes cracked open, you knew you were in trouble.
The air inside Halsin’s tent was thick with the scent of dried herbs and pine resin, heavy with the warmth of the furs layered beneath you. It was dim—his tent flap drawn shut—but soft light filtered in, revealing the familiar shape of his travel gear stacked in its usual meticulous order. The cot creaked softly beneath you as you shifted, muscles aching, limbs leaden. There was a wet cloth resting on your brow, cool and fragrant with some kind of forest mint.
You had absolutely, unequivocally passed out from exhaustion.
And Halsin had clearly been the one to find you.
A groan built low in your throat, and with it came your brilliant idea: sneak out. Maybe—just maybe—you could slink off before he returned. You didn’t relish the idea of a lecture from a near seven-foot-tall druid whose entire body seemed to be carved from oak and thunderclouds.
You swung your legs over the cot, wincing as the rush of dizziness hit you. But you were determined. Quiet. Graceful. Almost at the—
“Where,” came a low, thunderous voice from behind, “do you think you’re going?”
You froze mid-step. Slowly, guiltily, you turned.
And there he was—Halsin—massive, bare-chested, his thick arms crossed over his chest, golden eyes narrowed and jaw clenched with a sternness that belonged more to a storm than a man.
“Ah,” you said. “I was just—stretching.”
Before you could retreat or formulate another weak excuse, he closed the space between you with startling speed, scooped you up like you weighed nothing at all, and slung you over his shoulder.
“Halsin!” you protested, smacking at his back as he turned and carried you—without effort, without ceremony—right back to bed. “Put me down!”
“You’re lucky I’m not tying you to the cot,” he rumbled, voice edged with exasperated affection. “You collapsed in the middle of the clearing. In front of everyone. I had to carry you back here—twice, apparently.”
He set you down with far more care than his grumbling suggested, adjusting the furs around you, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they brushed a damp curl from your temple. Then, without another word, he reached behind him and produced a small bundle of cloth.
He opened it to reveal a collection of deep red and violet berries nestled in soft moss. “I foraged these. You need to eat.”
You blinked. “Halsin, I—”
“Eat,” he said simply, with that patient, immovable tone he used when dealing with stubborn animals and, apparently, stubborn lovers.
You gave him a sheepish look, but obeyed, popping a few of the berries into your mouth. They were sweet, tart, and immediately grounding. Halsin watched you the entire time, gaze softening only after he saw you swallow a second mouthful.
Once satisfied, he slid in beside you, the cot creaking in protest beneath his weight. You barely had time to blink before his arms wrapped around you, strong and encompassing, pulling you into the heat of his chest. One leg tangled with yours as he pulled the furs up around both of you.
“You frightened me,” he murmured, his voice low and close to your ear, breath warm against your hair. “I have seen wounds. Disease. Poison. But watching you crumble from something so preventable? It... it undid me.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice already thick and slipping into sleep again. “Didn’t mean to—”
“Shh,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “No apologies. Just rest.”
You tried to protest, but your words slurred, consciousness unraveling like smoke. You barely registered his arms tightening around you protectively, his deep voice rumbling softly as he murmured something soothing in Druidic, something meant to lull, to calm.
“I’ll watch over you,” he promised into your hair. “You are safe now. Just sleep.”
And this time, you listened.
IM BACK WITH THE BOYS ugh I love it, also I'm on a dark bg3 brain rot so that will be the next post. Hope you guys enjoyed this and thank you all for your contiued support!- Seluney xox
If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x
"How do I look away now that I've seen you?" --Rachel Mennies, from The Naomi Letters "April 18, 2017"
~~
Victoria huffed under her breath as she rolled the bread dough between her palms, spreading it over the cracked surface of the makeshift board. The flour the Tenakth used wasn’t quite like any flour she’d used before, but it was all they had, and she worked it through her fingers and into the dough with the same methodical attention as her Maria had taught her. Push, press, roll. Her arms tingled from the motion, the ache in her shoulders spreading down to her wrists. Push, press, roll. Over and over, in a rhythm that was almost meditative, if she didn’t think too hard about it.
For the past week, Victoria had tried to find a place in the Memorial Grove that felt like her own. It wasn’t for lack of things to do. The Tenakth were constantly busy, flitting between martial drills, repairs, hunting, and whatever else it was they did to run their clan. She was just… slow to adapt. At first, she’d tried to tag along with Aloy on a machine hunt. She’d made it about a quarter mile into the jungle before the Watcher had appeared. Its single eye flickered red, and the old memories came back, sharp and blinding, the Faro Swarm crawling up buildings like ants.
By the time Victoria blinked herself back to the present, the Watcher was little more than a smoking heap and her face was streaked with tears and grime. Aloy hadn’t judged. She’d simply helped Victoria up, dusted her off, and marched them both back to the Grove. But after that, Victoria had quietly crossed “machine hunter” off her list of possible futures.
Next, she’d tried her hand at the forges with Petra. Petra herself had been nothing but encouraging, guiding Victoria through the basics of hammering and folding, explaining the nuances of different alloys and the importance of precision. Victoria had listened carefully, eager to impress, but her hands never quite matched her ambition. The first time she tried to temper a blade, she misjudged the heat and plunged the glowing metal straight into the quenching trough, splattering herself and Petra with a spray of boiling water and instant regret.
Petra had laughed and clapped her on the shoulder, but Victoria saw the nervous flicker in the smith’s eyes. After the third ruined blade and two broken hammers, Petra suggested, as gently as possible, that Victoria might be better suited to other pursuits. Victoria agreed, forcing a laugh, but the sting lingered.
Ivvira, ever the optimist, had offered to take Victoria under her wing and train her as a proper warrior. There had been something almost ceremonial about it: Ivvira presenting her with a training blade, the hilt wrapped in worn blue leather. In that humid morning air, Victoria had stood opposite Ivvira on the dirt packed earth, the two of them surrounded by the distant echoes of other sparring matches and the rhythmic clamor of distant Oseram forges.
The first session had been a comedy of errors. Victoria’s stance was uneven, her grip uncertain. Her muscles hadn’t still recovered from the cryostasis and rebelled against the need for brute force. Ivvira called out each movement in a clipped, drill-sergeant cadence (something she WAS used to surprisingly) but even that couldn’t stop Victoria from tripping over her own feet or flinging the practice blade halfway across the ring on a particularly spirited backswing.
After a half hour, Ivvira pulled her aside, brow furrowed. “You act like you’re afraid to hit someone.” she said, not unkindly. Victoria could only nod.
The truth was, she’d left the Air Force because she’d grown tired of fighting—tired of the endless, gnawing tension coursing through her body every time a conflict threatened to break out. Tired of the manufactured urgency and the way it hollowed her out. There was no thrill in survival. Just a numb, persistent ache best left untouched. Still, she agreed to keep training with Ivvira. Not so she could be a warrior, but just in case the worst happened and she needed to defend herself.
That was something she could live with.
But cooking? Here in this rough-hewn kitchen, with its stone hearth and battered wooden counters, Victoria felt almost… competent. The rhythm of meal prep had a different kind of violence—a careful, measured one. Here, she could lose herself in muscle memory.
How many times had she made Conchas with Maria on those lazy Saturday mornings, standing at their cramped Formica counter. Maria’s hair always up in a messy bun, flour streaks across her cheeks. They’d wear ugly pajamas and listen to old ranchera songs on the radio. She could almost smell the cinnamon and yeast, hear the pop of the oven door, feel Maria’s presence at her side. For a moment the walls of the Tenakth kitchen blurred, replaced by the faded yellow of the Faraday kitchen and the sunlight streaming in through the warped windowpanes.
Victoria wiped her hands on her apron and turned toward the oven, blinking away the sting in her eyes. She couldn’t change what had happened. She couldn’t go back. And while she’d never be a hunter, or a smith, she could feed a clan, and maybe that was enough for today.
Thankfully, Rikka proved chatty, almost compulsively so, when the work permitted company. Victoria wasn’t sure if it was a Tenakth thing, or just a Rikka thing, but after three days of working together over the battered counters and battered pots, talking had become as natural as breathing. Rikka talked with her hands, with her whole body, always in motion—rolling dough, mincing roots, slicing dried meat, all while her stories spilled over in a constant, bubblin1g monologue. It made the hours pass quickly, and more importantly, it distracted Victoria.
Rikka’s gossip was equal parts harmless and wild. Most mornings began with clan rumors. Who got caught sneaking back to the barracks after curfew. Which warrior had gotten trounced in the previous day’s sparring matches. Which Oseram tinker was sleeping with which Tenakth warrior (that had almost been a scandal and a half when they’d gotten caught out by the lake.).
Victoria couldn’t help getting swept up in the exchange, slipping in her own memories of base gossip and the strange rituals of squadron life. Rikka would hoot and cackle at the most minor difference—“You put your clocks forward? On purpose?”—and file the information away. But what Victoria liked most was when Rikka segued into stories about the Tenakth themselves.
“We did this thing called the Day of Unity,” Rikka explained next to her, slapping her forearms against each other to shake loose a cloud of flour. “It wa was a celebration for the whole tribe. Every year, the best warriors from the Sky, the Desert, and the Lowland would come here, to the Grove. There were games. Machine fights. Feasts. Drinking, obviously.” She shot Victoria a wink.
Victoria only smiled, shaping lopsided rolls and lining them up in neat little rows like soldiers on parade. Even here, the ghosts of old routines snuck in. “So, do they still do it?” she asked, nudging the conversation forward. “The games, I mean.”
Rikka’s hands, which had been kneading with a steady, practiced rhythm, stuttered to a halt. She stared down at the pale mound of dough, fingers spread wide, as if she’d forgotten what to do with them. For a long moment, the only sounds in the kitchen were the scratch of Victoria’s knife on the cutting board and the erratic sizzle of grease from the nearby frying pan.
“No,” Rikka said finally, voice thick. Victoria glanced up, unsure if she’d crossed some invisible boundary. But Rikka kept her eyes locked on the countertop, her jaw working as if she was chewing over the words before letting them go.
“Why stop?” Victoria pressed, softer this time. Instead of answering, Rikka attacked the dough with renewed force, folding it, slapping it onto the stone board, folding again. Her next words came out in a rush.
“It was the Red Raids. And then Regalla.” She rolled her shoulders, as if trying to shake off a physical weight. “After that, it was like the Tenakth forgot how to celebrate.”
Victoria nodded, not trusting herself to say anything. She knew that particular flavor of historical trauma all too well. How a place, a person, could be forever marked, even generations later, by something unspeakable.
“Some people tried to keep it going.” Rikka’s voice had gone quiet. “But it felt wrong. Like pretending you could go back to what it was before.” She looked up at Victoria. “Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” Victoria said. “It does.”
They worked in silence for a while, shoulders touching now and then as they moved. Victoria set the finished rolls on a battered metal tray, brushing each one with a glaze of egg and honey. She found herself thinking back to her own holidays as a kid. After her dad died and her mom disappeared into work, and Maria tried to keep up the traditions—Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter—but every year they got more and more strained. She’d never told anyone how much she’d hated those empty rituals. Was what the Day of Unity felt like to them: a party held in a ruined house, everyone pretending not to notice the smoke stains on the walls?
Victoria wanted to reach out, to offer some comfort, but she knew how hollow it would sound. Instead, she asked, “Did anyone ever try to bring it back? The games, I mean?”
Rikka shrugged, rolling the dough into a rough loaf. “People talk about it, every once in a while. But everyone’s afraid, I think. Not just of the old pain, but of the new stuff too. Like if we celebrate too loud, someone will come and take it away again.”
Victoria nodded, understanding more than she cared to admit. “That’s the thing about fear,” she said. “It’s sticky. Gets into everything.”
They both laughed at that, a brittle sound that nonetheless eased some of the tension. Rikka flicked a bit of flour at Victoria, who retaliated with a tiny flick of egg wash. For a moment, they were just two people in a kitchen, making bread against the backdrop of a world that refused to heal.
She looked up at the sound of footsteps and spied Hekarro walking past the open mess hall doors toward the arena overlook. He moved with his usual deliberate pace; each step measured, each gesture economical, as if conserving effort for some private war within himself. He didn’t notice her watching. He was already staring beyond the periphery, lost in thoughts as heavy as the crown on his head.
Trailing after him, as ever, was Dekka. But as Hekarro disappeared, Dekka veered off and slipped into the mess, heading straight towards them.
“Chaplain,” Rikka greeted, snapping off a salute so exaggerated it bordered on mockery. Victoria caught the brief flicker of amusement that crossed Dekka’s face; it lasted less than a heartbeat before settling into the familiar, diplomatic smile. Dekka nodded and accepted the bowl that Rikka slid her way, then sat with a careful exhale, like she was letting out a month’s worth of tension in a single breath.
Up close, the fatigue was obvious. There were deep lines under Dekka’s eyes. Victoria always thought the Chaplain so untouchable, radiating that quiet credulous faith and wisdom. Now, she just looked tired. Both she and Hekarro did, lately.
“Hey, Dekka,” Victoria said, hesitating for a beat, “is everything okay with Hekarro?”
Dekka’s first response was exactly what Victoria expected. A slight tightening of the shoulders, a raised brow, and the dry, half-smile that said: “You know how it is.” The kind of thing a commander might toss out at the end of a long day, when you’d both seen the same bad news and pretending otherwise was the only thing left to do. Victoria had seen it all before. The rehearsed lie; sometimes for the sake of the group, sometimes for yourself. In the Before, the lie was protocol. You lied to keep people flying, to keep the gears of command turning. She’d been on both sides of it, as the one needing reassurance and the one ordered to deliver it. But here, in this kitchen with its dusty light and chipping paint, the lie only made her more certain something was wrong.
Rikka, meanwhile, leapt to fill the silence, grinning like she was defusing a smoke bomb with nothing but bravado. “The Chief looks as he always does, no? Stern as a Thunderjaw, and twice as stubborn. What else is he supposed to do but look serious?” She winked at Victoria. “Doesn’t make him any less handsome, though.”
Victoria looked between the two of them; either Rikka was deflecting or she really didn’t see what Victoria saw. But Victoria was sure Dekka did. She let Rikka’s comment hang in the air, let the silence stretch. Dekka was using a spoon to swirl something in her bowl, but she wasn’t eating.
“Rikka’s right about one thing,” Victoria said, voice low and careful. “He always looked serious. But there’s something else now.” She waited for Dekka to challenge her, to tell her she was imagining things, but instead Dekka only tilted her head, level and assessing. So Victoria pushed a little harder. “He looks like he’s trying not to throw up.”
Dekka’s eyes reminded Victoria of a hawk circling above a field, watching for the right moment to dive. There was always a kind of humor in her gaze, but it was never gentle. Now the scrutiny was turned fully on Victoria, and she felt a sudden urge to look away, to busy herself with the mundane. But she held Dekka’s gaze, letting the silence hang.
Beside them, Rikka had gone uncharacteristically still. She stood with her hands flour-dusted and suspended midair, waiting for a cue. Dekka flicked her chin, and Rikka took the hint, grabbing an armful of bowls and heading for the back pantry.
Dekka waited until the kitchen curtain stilled, then spoke in a voice quieter than before. “We have received word from the East,” she said. “Our peace with the Carja is… well, unknown now at best. With Marshal Fashav’s murder at Regalla’s hands, the Carja are demanding a blood debt.”
Victoria felt the muscles along her jaw tighten. “Regalla’s dead.”
Dekka’s eyes narrowed. “We know that. But the Noble Houses of Meridian do not care, it seems. The Shadow cast by the Red Raids is too long, too deep.”
A pulse of sympathy—sharp, almost electric—shot through her. “Oh… Hekarro.” She said it under her breath, but Dekka caught the thread. She tried to imagine what it must be like for Hekarro. She could picture him at the edge of the overlook above the Arena right now: shoulders rigid, hands clasped behind his back, staring toward the horizon as if he could will the universe to give him better news.
And that sense of helplessness, of being at the mercy of distant, unseen forces?
it wasn’t just familiar. It was personal.
Victoria bit the pad of her thumb, lost in thought even as Rikka returned to the kitchen, arms loaded with clean bowls, and Dekka made her silent exit. The clamor of dinner prep was in full swing now and Rikka wheeled between the stations like an expert, doling out orders, tossing a joke here and a warning there, but Victoria could only half-register the movements. Her mind was still back with Hekarro, picking endlessly at the new ache in her chest. She knew it was a slow-acting poison: a problem too big to solve, too far away to fight, but close enough to turn your insides into knots.
She thought about going after him—just leaving the mess hall, marching up to the Overlook, and offering some useless comfort. She could see herself doing it: the awkward approach, the fumbling of words. Platitudes, all of them. The kind of talk she’d always despised, because it never actually changed anything.
It wasn’t until the last of the trays were stacked and the kitchen was quiet again that the idea hit her. Not a plan, exactly, but a shape—a memory, a possibility. She didn’t know if her half baked idea would work, but suddenly the thought of doing nothing was worse than the risk of looking like a fool.
She snatched a bowl from the counter, ladled a modest portion of stew into it, and set off toward the Overlook. She spotted Hekarro before he saw her: upright, arms folded behind his back, silhouetted against the bruised sky, exactly where she expected. His silhouette was stark against the dying day, broad and severe, the lines of his armor softened by the shifting colors of dusk. From behind, he looked less like a man and more like a monument: something built to withstand centuries of weather and war, unmoved by the frailties of the living. But as she stepped closer, Victoria caught the minute tremor in his shoulders, the almost-imperceptible sag at the base of his neck.
He didn’t turn until she was close enough to smell the paint and chalk on his skin, and something that reminded her of rainy days and thunderstorms. Even then, he didn’t speak, just turned his head to watch her approach, impassive and patient. Victoria felt the sudden, ridiculous urge to apologize, to backtrack and come up with a better reason for disturbing him. But instead, she squared her shoulders and thrust the bowl out in front of her.
“The Day of Unity,” she said.
Hekarro flinched. A subtle motion, but she caught it. Not the recoil of a man startled by a knife, but the twitch of old scar tissue. He masked it with a neutral stare, then took the offered bowl with studied care, held it without eating, waiting for her to explain herself.
Victoria pushed through the awkwardness. “Rikka told me about it. About how it used to bring everyone together.” She glanced sideways at him, gauging his mood. “Maybe… maybe it’s time to bring it back.”
Hekarro’s expression didn’t change, “The Day of Unity is for the clans,” he said. “It’s not for outsiders.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” she shot back, surprising herself with the force of it. “Look, I know the Carja are breathing down your neck. You’re stuck. If you fight back, the Carja get the war they want. If you don’t, you look weak.” She paused, “But if you invite the Sun King here, to celebrate Unity, that changes everything. We set the terms.”
Hekarro's face remained a stone wall, but Victoria caught the flicker behind his eyes—like watching gears turn inside a machine. Only someone who'd spent time studying his expressions would notice the difference between this contemplative stillness and true anger. After a long moment, he tilted his head slightly. "You believe the Carja will forget blood with bread and spectacle?"
“I think it’s worth a shot.” Victoria leaned in, hands balled in her flight suit pockets. “What was the Day of Unity, really? It was a show. A reminder that the clans could put aside their differences and work together, even if it was just for a day. The Carja will show up expecting a fight. Instead, we give them a parade. We serve them food, show them the games, let them see what the Tenakth are actually about. And when they return to Meridian with full bellies instead of battle scars, they'll have to explain why they were so wrong about us. And that," she said, pointing at him, "is a victory no spear could win.
He was silent for a long time. Victoria could see, in his profile, the way the muscles at the corner of his jaw moved and stilled and moved again, but she knew he was thinking, running calculations, turning her words over and over in his head. When he did finally speak, it was just one word, soft as a challenge and heavy as iron. “We?”
Victoria hesitated, blinking in the dusk. She hadn’t meant to say it. Not consciously. But she tasted the word on her tongue, and it felt both alien and familiar. The Last Living Old One, the inevitable outsider, the subject of a hundred rumors and a thousand stares, suddenly included herself in the equation. Victoria, the Tenakth.
She chewed the inside of her cheek, feeling the words churn and bubble, jumbled and riotous behind her teeth. All the old instincts screamed at her to soften what she meant, to offer a joke or a self-deprecating aside, to paint over the rawness with something easier to swallow. But she’d spent too many years wearing masks and speaking in the safe dialects of her own detachment. Out here, with the world cracked open and all her other lives burned away, what was the point of lying? Even to herself.
“I said what I meant.” She forced herself to look up at Hekarro. His eyes were steady and unblinking. “You said it yourself,” she pressed. “my blood is in the roots here. I might as well stop feeling sorry for myself and actually…put in the effort.”
We have talked about this before,” he said, finally. His speech was always slow, deliberate—like the words were heavy stones that needed careful placing. “But only in theory. Only if you wanted it. Not because of politics or the legacy of your bloodline.” He set the bowl of stew on the ledge so carefully she could barely hear it make contact and closed the last of the distance between them. When he reached out there wasn’t even a hint of hesitation. He caught her chin between two fingers, callused and warm, and tipped her face up gently so she couldn’t look away.
“Are you certain?
He was giving her an out. A chance to step back from the edge, to laugh it off, to pretend she’d never meant any of it. If she said no, he’d never bring it up again. He would forgive the outburst, the heat of the moment, and welcome her back to her place. Not as one of the Tenakth, never truly, but as an honored guest, the inevitable outsider, the walking curiosity from a dead world.
Victoria stood very still, caught in the honeyed amber of his eyes. She thought about taking the out. It would be easier. Safer. She could keep floating on the periphery, haunting the edge of every conversation and gathering, never quite belonging but never quite in danger of being hurt, either. After all, she was good at it. But the ache was always there, gnawing at her in the quiet hours, in the cold.
It was in the way she lingered in the dining hall after every meal, as if proximity alone could build something resembling kinship. It was in the absurd, childish pride she’d felt when Rikka asked about all the food that brought her comfort and tried to learn how to make conchas for her. And it was in the guilt, always the guilt, for surviving when so many better people had not. For being handed a future, a place, a tribe, and insisting on standing outside in the rain.
But Victoria was tired—bone-deep, marrow-tired—of being on the outside looking in.
A slow change came over Hekarro’s face; a subtle unlocking of the caution he wore like a second skin. The lines at the corners of his mouth softened. The set of his shoulders eased. Even his breath, which she could hear and feel in the narrow space between them, seemed to lose its edge. For a heartbeat Victoria thought he would let go, step away, put the mask back on and retreat to the distances that kept them both safe. But he stayed. He stayed, and she stayed, and the silence wrapped around them like a thread pulled tight.
“I’m sure,” she said. There it was, simple as that. No hedging, no pulling back at the last second. “I want to help. I want…” The rest caught in her throat for a moment. “I want to be a part of something again.” She looked up at Hekarro, looked right at him, and felt the words burn their way out. “And you’re one of the few who makes me think I could actually belong, here. With your people. With you.”
She realized she was holding her breath.
“It is not an easy thing, to change your place in the world,” Hekarro said at last. “Many people never find the courage for it.”
She swallowed, the movement nearly knocking his fingers from her chin. “Yeah,” she managed, “Well, I’m tired of pretending that being outside of everything doesn’t hurt.”
A low sound of amusement rumbled from his chest. "I see no pretense in you now," he said. Then he leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers in a gesture that stole her breath. The tip of his nose grazed hers. Everything beyond them fell away—there was only the heat radiating from his skin, the heady mixture of paint and weathered metal. "With me," he murmured, "there is no need for masks."
She didn’t think. Didn’t analyze or weigh the risks or consider the endless, fractal ways this could blow up in her face. Instead, she let her body answer for her. She closed the distance, letting instinct override the caution that had ruled her life since the day everything burned. The kiss was gentle at first, exploratory, a question more than a statement. Hekarro responded in kind, his hand moving from her chin to the curve of her jaw, anchoring her with surprising tenderness. Victoria pressed closer, emboldened by his patience. The paint on his skin left a faint trace along her cheek, cool and powdery, but beneath it he was nothing but heat.
And oh god, he tasted like the jungle after a rainstorm. Earth and ozone and something wild, something mineral and clean. His mouth was unfamiliar in every way, yet the contact sparked a sense of recognition, as if two puzzle pieces had snapped together at last. All Victoria’s senses were suddenly, furiously alive: she was aware of the thrum of his pulse beneath her fingers, the subtle hitch in his breathing. She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, at her own shamelessness, but the laugh caught in her throat and dissolved into another kiss, this one deeper, more certain.
“We shouldn’t,” Hekarro muttered, the words barely more than a vibration against Victoria’s lips. His breath came in uneven pulls, each one drawing her closer instead of holding her at bay. “I shouldn’t,” he amended. He tried to lean away, but their foreheads touched, and every attempt at withdrawal became a new point of contact; his lips finding hers again and again. “I am chief, everything we are is built on your legacy, I won’t—”
Victoria felt the tremor in him, a quake that started at his chest and rippled out through the bones beneath her hands. If she'd been a different kind of person she might have swooned at the sheer nobility of his restraint. His tribe was built on her mother’s memory, and she was the Last Living Old One. She saw the way guilt and desire warred in the set of his jaw. God, it was so like him. He would sooner bleed out than let her think he was taking advantage. Even if every fiber of him was turning to glass with the strain.
She slid her hands up, slow, tentative, then bolder, framing his face with palms that trembled only a little. Her thumbs traced the angled stripes of his warpaint, the fine cracks where the pigment had settled into the valleys of his scars. The marks told stories she’d never dared to ask about in daylight but now she wanted to know every one.
“Hekarro.” His name, nothing else, but he froze at the sound. She felt him tense, saw in his eyes that wild, hunted question—are you sure, are you sure, are you sure?
“Just shut up and kiss me.”
The laughter that broke from him was so surprised, so raw, that it startled even him. It was a sound that shook loose the mask, revealed the man beneath. Hekarro’s lips curved against hers, and then he obeyed—not as a chief acquiescing to a demand, but as a man giving in to the only thing he wanted in that moment.
a/n: been rewatching Criminal Minds with my partner so of course my love for Spencer Reid reared its head again, pls enjoy <3
Jane Austen once said, “And sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself because I could find no language to describe them in.”
You sat at the table in the local sheriff’s office, files and papers spread haphazardly in front of you. You were absentmindedly chewing on the red pen in your hand, while your mind was bouncing from topic to topic.
Spencer sat kitty-corner to you, flipping quickly through a notebook. The rest of the team was spread across the building and county, checking crime scenes and trying to find leads. You and Spencer had been relegated to poring over the paper evidence - teasing little notes the unsub had left behind and information Garcia had pulled about the victims.
“Did you know,” Reid spoke without looking up from the notebook, “that chewing on pens or pencils is often a sign of deep concentration, anxiety, or even just a need for oral stimulation?”
“Oral stimulation?” You look over at him, with an eyebrow raised.You glance at the pen before setting it down on the table.
“Don’t be embarrassed.” Reid continues, throwing the notebook down on the table and looking up at you. “I had to train myself not to chew on pens when I was younger. Of course, having a pen explode in my mouth in the middle of class did not exactly encourage me to keep the habit.”
“Thanks, Reid.” He gives you a pleased little smile before he pushes the notebook to you. There’s a copy of a letter from the unsub on the first page.
“Wanna trade?” So you take the notebook, shoving the pile of files to his side of the table. The letter was the usual unhinged nonsense you’d come to expect from unsubs and serial killers. You took a deep breath and started reading, taking mental notes of language usage and people mentioned but…you kept getting distracted. Every O had a dot in the middle, two O’s in a row were connected by a dash, the T’s looked more like crosses with little extra bits on the end.
“Reid? Do these letters look weird to you or are my eyes going funky?” Reid tilted his head but came around the table to lean over your shoulder. You pointed at the specific words and Reid leaned even closer, his face almost even with yours.
“I didn’t even notice, too busy thinking about what was said and not how.” Reid mumbled under his breath. He brought a finger up to point at the different letters. “These are alchemical symbols. Gold, arsenic, acids. These symbols aren’t used anymore, they started to fall off about the 16th century.”
“Reid.” You turn your head, impossibly close to his face. “The symbols at the crime scenes. Are they alchemical too?”
“Anything?” You and Reid jump and he accidently smacks his shoulder into your head as he stands. Hotchner throws his bag in a chair and looks at the two of you expectantly, eyebrow raised. Reid hurries to explain the alchemical symbols to him and he smiles as he gives you the credit for noticing them. You rub your head absentmindedly as you begin to help the two men go through the letters and pictures for every instance of a symbol. And when the profile is narrowed down to chemists with access to arsenic and acids, the unsub caught, you can’t help but be a little proud of yourself for catching something that Spencer Reid missed.
“Yes, yes, I missed an obvious clue.” Spencer relented, sighing. “Happy?”
“Pleased as punch to know someone one-up the genius.” Morgan grinned, settling into the plane seat.
“Don’t give him a hard time, Morgan. We caught it, caught the guy. Doesn’t matter who did it.” You point out.
“You’re telling me you aren’t even a little pleased?” He counters.
“Well. I didn’t say that, exactly.” You reply and Morgan laughs. Reid gives his own little laugh, shaking his head but still smiling.
“We didn’t need proof to know you’re intelligent and clever.” Reid says to you. Morgan raises his eyebrows and wiggles them at you. You answer with an eyeroll.
“Thank you, Spencer.” Spencer gives you a grin, before ducking his eyes.
“Yeah, uh, of course.” He clears his throat. “It’s the truth.”
“You guys wanna go to dinner when we get back?” JJ asks as she slides into the chair opposite Morgan. “That Italian place a few blocks from me has unlimited sangria refills on Wednesdays.”
“That sounds like a perfect way to end the day.” Morgan agrees.
“Oh, I dunno, I don’t drink.” Reid says.
“You eat, though, don’t you?” Morgan asks.
“Somebody said sangria?” Rossi asked as he passed by.
“Dinner with everyone?” JJ offers and Rossi nods.
“C’mon, Spencer, we can go, stuff our faces with pasta and babysit these guys.” You offer. Spencer bites his lip as he glances up at you before glancing away quickly, though he nods.
“Alright, fine. But if someone throws up, I am not helping clean up.”
-
“Goodnight, my nerds. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow at noon.” Morgan laughs as he heads for his door, mostly steady on his feet. You watch until he gets into his house before you relax and turn to the man in your passenger seat.
“Where to, sir?” You put on a silly posh accent and Spencer gives a light laugh.
“Just home is fine. Thank you again for driving.” Spencer says. You check that you have his address right before pulling out onto the road.
“I told you, it’s fine. No way were we all fitting in your car.” You laugh. “Though, man, your car is so cool, you gotta let me ride along with you sometime.”
“I, uh, of course you can. It’s just a car, though.”
“A cool car.” You stick your tongue out at him quickly, barely glancing away from the road.
“I didn’t know you were into cars.” Reid mumbled.
“I’m not, really. There’s just something about older cars, they look so cool and, I dunno, more…stylized? I’m not sure I’m making sense.” You rambled.
“No, no, you are. Many cars nowadays, even across different brands and companies, are all similar in appearance. A car that was unique in its own days stands out even more now.”
“Which makes me wonder why you drive one.” You said. Small raindrops start hitting the windshield as you get closer to Spencer’s apartment. “You don’t really seem like you’d want a lot of people to notice you.”
“I - I don’t. Older cars are more reliable, though. Easier maintenance, less of the new gadgets they keep trying to add to modern cars.” Reid laughs to himself. “My mother told me it was an old man’s car when I showed her a picture.”
“You drive an old man’s car and dress like a grandpa, maybe you were born in the wrong century.” You tease.
“A grandpa?” Reid sputters, glancing down at his outfit - sweater vest, button down, and khakis.
“But like, a grandpa that’s a college professor. Teaches…anthropology or something.” You laugh as Reid stumbles over his words trying to argue.
“You - I- Should I be offended?” Reid seems genuinely baffled.
“No, no, no, Spencer, it’s cute-grandpa, I promise.” You turn your blinker on so you can pull over outside the apartment building. The rain had picked up, pounding against the car. You miss Spencer tugging at his collar and the blush that rises up his neck.
“I was never really sure how to dress professionally. I can’t stand a suit but I don’t really do t-shirts either. It used to annoy my mother, actually, the way I’m picky about clothes.” Reid replies, rambling.
“Hey now, Pen,” You lay a hand on his arm. “I’m only teasing. Your clothes are your choice and they suit you. I won’t bring it up again.”
“Pen?” Spencer asks, though he keeps his eyes down, trained on your hand.
“I needed a nickname for you!” You raise your hand and wave it at him. “JJ already calls you Spence.”
“You can’t use the same nickname?” He asks, tilting his head as he looks up at you. You shrug and try to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks.
“I wanted a unique one.” You admit. A huge flash of lightning illuminates both of you, followed quickly by a rumbling, loud thunder crack. You’d jumped and thrown a hand over your heart. “Jesus.”
The rain had become a steady downpour by now, obscuring a lot of your vision even with the wipers on. The wind was starting to pick up and you dreaded having to drive home in this. J
“Would you…I mean, if you want, you can come in til this is over.” Reid offered. “It’s dangerous to drive in weather like this. About 12% of vehicle crashes are due to adverse weather.”
“Well, if I was thinking about driving, I’m certainly not now. You sure?” You ask and Reid nods in agreement. “Alright, let’s go.”
-
“I apologize, I wasn’t expecting company. My apartment’s kind of a mess.” Reid rambles on the elevator ride up to his floor while water drips off of him - he’d insisted you used the small umbrella you kept in your car for moments like this. It was, unfortunately, not large enough to cover both of you.
“I promise I don’t care what your apartment looks like, Pen. So long as I can borrow a towel to dry my feet.” You reassure him.
“Of course! I can turn the heat up, help dry out your shoes.”
Reid fumbles with his keys at the door before pushing it open, gesturing you in first. You step in, relaxing at the warmth that washes over you.
“Could you…” Reid trails off, standing just inside his door. “The bathroom is the first door on the right. Would you bring me a towel so I don’t drip everywhere?”
“Oh, sure!” You hurriedly take off your shoes and go grab a towel for him. He thanks you, points you towards the couch, and promises to be right back. You go to sit on the couch but get distracted by the large fish tank against the wall.
A few bright colored fish darted around a well decorated tank. You knew Reid had mentioned having fish once or twice before but never thought more of it. He clearly took good care of them, if the clean tank and automated feeder was anything to go by. You notice one of those little sucker fish in a corner and lean down a bit to look at him.
“That’s Aristotle.” Reid says from behind you, causing you to jump a bit. “The others are Galileo, Newton, Curie, well, there’s a lot of them, I don’t want to bore you.”
“I’d love to hear their names. You named them all after scientists or historical figures?” You ask, turning. Then you freeze, because Spencer is in plain long sleeve v-neck and baggy purple sweatpants. Spencer doesn’t seem to notice as he begins to rattle off the names of his fish, adding what species they are and fun facts.
The two of you end up sitting on his couch with mugs of warm tea, chatting about whatever came to mind. You’d abandoned your jacket in favor of one of the plush blankets Spencer had lying around and he’d insisted you borrow some fuzzy socks so your feet didn’t freeze. After a lull in the conversations, you speak up.
“You doing okay, Pen? I - I overheard you talking about nightmares with Morgan.” You ask quietly. Spencer sort of freezes, jaw clenched. “I’m, I'm sorry, Spencer, I shouldn't pry.”
“It’s…it’s okay. I’m okay. I just thought, I had finally gotten used to what my brain was using against me and it pulls out something even worse.” He laughs humorlessly, shaking his head. You shift a bit closer so you can lean your shoulder against his.
“I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t help but, I am.” You say softly.
“Thank you.” You’re both quiet for a moment before Spencer shifts, leaning over just enough to rest his head against yours.
-
After that, it’s like you and Spencer are able to work in sync. You move and he steps aside, you’re handing over a paper before he even asks for it. Coffee on his desk when he’s late, a pastry on yours. You call him late one night after a particularly bad nightmare of your own and he stays up with you until the wee hours of the morning (and you both get teased when you walk in the next day, sluggish and with noticeable eye bags). Morgan, Garcia, Prentiss, and JJ start a betting pool (that neither you nor Reid are aware of).
Even Hotchner and Rossi begin raising their brow at the two of you, though they never say anything directly. They do know, however, that putting you and Reid to work on something together was the quickest way to make progress on a case.
“Alright, alright, this has gone on long enough.” Prentiss said as she sat down at the table. You were out eating dinner with her, JJ, and Morgan after a day of sorting through files with Reid.
“What’s that?” You ask.
“Oh, here we go.” Morgan grins, leaning back and rubbing his hands together. You shoot him a confused look before turning back to Prentiss.
“Are you and Reid dating?” Prentiss asks bluntly. You’re just glad you weren’t mid-drink.
“Excuse me?”
“C’mon,” Morgan says, “You don’t gotta lie to us.”
“There’s nothing to lie about! We’re not together, we’re not anything!” You insist before turning to JJ. “JJ, please, help me talk sense into these two.”
“Have you seen the way you two behave with each other?” JJ asks and you groan, throwing your head back.
“Not you too.” You whine.
“You two have seemed so happy together lately and the way you talk-”
“We’re just friends!” You cut Prentiss off. Before you can say anything your phone dings, the screen reading Pen(:. You snatch it off the table but not before JJ sees.
“Pen, huh?” She smirks.
“You guys are terrible. I should request a transfer.” You mumbled into your dinner plate. The three laugh.
“And move away from your Pen?” Morgan asks, clearly trying to press your buttons.
“Just a reminder that we’re coworkers.” You grumble.
“Fraternization is discouraged, not unallowed.” Prentiss points out. You sigh.
“You guys aren’t giving up on this huh?” You ask.
A chorus of “nope”s is your answer.
“Fine, yes, I have a crush on him. Are you happy?” You cover your face with your hands as the three burst into chatter.
“See, that wasn’t so bad.” Prentiss grinned, patting you on the back.
“You should say something to the kid, he’s probably oblivious.” Morgan said.
“Oh, no, I should not. I’m perfectly happy being friends.” You argue. You point a finger at each one of them. “And if any of you talk, just know, I have the power of Rossi on my side.”
“He knows?” JJ asked. Your shoulders droop.
“Well, no, but I know he’d side with me over you rascals.” It only earned you another round of laughter.
-
A few more weeks of the same, except now you’re hyper aware of your’s and Reid’s behavior. More coffee, pastries, carpooling, the usual. You snag a pair of tickets for Reid for one of those conventions he likes attending and he insists that it's you that joins him. Reid gets another fish and lets you name it (though he does try to argue that Celery fits neither his naming convention nor the bright orange fish itself). You hang out together outside of work more.
You do, of course, only get teased more as time goes on. No one mentioned your crush outright, but it wasn’t uncommon for Morgan or Prentiss to ask for the ‘power couple’ to be put in charge of a task. While you just rolled your eyes and gave a snippy remark, Reid usually flustered and stumbled through a protest (you took it neither as an insult or as encouragement; Reid was like this with anyone they teased him about).
It’s late evening, the summer heat having died down enough that leaving the windows open was actually viable and enjoyable. You and Spencer sat on your couch this time, an abandoned game on the coffee table.
“You can’t expect me to believe that actually happened.” You say, half worried and half amused.
“I wouldn’t lie to you, you know.” Reid huffed.
“I know, but, really? You actually got shoved inside a locker? I thought that only happened in movies.” You laugh.
“Multiple times, actually. Usually by the football team. One time, by the girl I had a crush on.” He admitted.
“No!” You look at him, mouth agape.
“Yep.” He said, popping the ‘p’ before giving you a mix of a grimace and grin. “You…didn’t need to know that though. Should’ve kept the embarrassing stuff to myself.”
“Pen, you don’t have to be embarrassed over how some asshole kids bullied you.” You grumbled, upset on his behalf. “We could probably track them down if you remember names. Morgan would help me stuff them in a locker, I’m sure of it.”
“Let’s not attempt physical harm to my childhood bullies.” Spencer was laughing though, which was your goal really.
“Fine.” You sigh dramatically, leaning into the couch. “But I would fight a bully for you.”
“I know.” Spencer said, a soft smile on his face as he looked at you. “And I really appreciate it.”
“I know you can fend for yourself, Pen, but I’m more than happy to be back up.” You insist. Spencer ducks his head as a big smile crosses his face. You pick up the card game and step into the hallway closet to put it away.
“Do you…would you…I mean, would you wanna watch the sunset?” Spencer asks when you return.
“Yeah, sure, we can drag the chairs out?” You offer. He shakes his head. So, the two of you plop into the grass of your tiny backyard. It’s not the greatest view but you can just about see the horizon. The sound of crickets and cars fills the silence as the two of you sit out there.
“Can I ask you a question?” Reid asks, absentmindedly picking at blades of grass.
“Yeah, ‘course.”
“How do you…how would you tell someone you were…that you liked them?” Spencer asked and your heart fell through your stomach.
“Oh. Gosh, I - I dunno. Depends on who it was, I guess.” You reply. You were very carefully ignoring your pounding heart and racing pulse.
“I just…I’m very good with words, intellectually. But - but, feelings are harder to articulate and that’s not even factoring in the reaction from you that I’d have to take into account. How do you even put into words that someone feels like coming home or - or a safe space? Are others just better at this than me or - or am I not understanding something obvious?” Spencer rambled, sitting up straight so he could gesture with his hands. But you were stuck on a particular word Spencer had used.
“A reaction…from me?” You ask quietly. Spencer froze, replaying his words over and realizing his slip. He chewed on his lip for a moment before looking at you, slowly nodding. “Spencer…”
“Look, you don’t - you don’t have to feel the same or even say anything else.” Spencer stood, brushing the grass off his pants. You scrambled to your feet as he kept talking. “I just, I haven’t been able to think about anything else and you’re very distracting. I - I just couldn’t figure out what to say or if I should say it. And clearly, I should’ve kept my mouth shut because -”
“Spencer.” You grabbed his hand. He stilled, eyes glued to your hand on his. “Look at me, Pen.”
Spencer took a shuddering breath before he raised his eyes to yours. Clearly flustered, cheeks pink, Spencer was back dropped by a purple-pink sunset.
“If I was to tell the person I liked that I liked them…I’d tell him he was the nerdiest dork I knew, but he makes me feel safe and heard, and I can’t imagine living without him.”
He watched you with wide eyes, almost seeming like he was holding his breath. Spencer raised his free hand and pointed at himself, asking “Me?” barely loud enough for you to hear.
“Yes, you.” You laughed. A dazzling grin grew on his face and Spencer took a step closer.
“Can I kiss you?” He asked softly. You nodded, not quite able to speak over your rushing heartbeat. He reached up again with his free hand, cupped the back of your head, and pressed his lips to yours.
The first kiss was short and sweet. Spencer pulled away just enough to get a good look at your face and when your eyes trailed back down to his mouth, he took the hint. Spencer kissed you again, hand on your head a bit firmer. He let go of your hand so that his other hand could rest on your hip and you took that opportunity to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him even closer to you. He let out a huff of air as you did, a mix of surprise and contentment.
When you both finally pulled away from one another, both of you had kiss-swollen lips and matching goofy grins.
“That was a lot better than any scenario I could come up with.” Spencer said. You raised an eyebrow at him.
“You’d been thinking about this for a while?” You asked.
“Longer than I’d like to admit.” Spencer chuckled, pressing his forehead to yours. “I almost asked Morgan for advice.”
“About that…” You bit your lip. “Some people kind of…they know I have - had? - a crush on you.” You laugh.
“You had a crush on me?” Spencer asked. You laughed at his reaction.
“We just made out, Pen, and you’re surprised I had a crush on you before?” You shake your head at him.
“But I’m…me.” Spencer replied incredulously.
“Precisely.” You say, leaning up to press a quick smooch to his nose, which only has him blushing harder.
-
It took three months for the BAU folks to figure out you and Spencer were officially dating. All romantic stuff was saved for at home, except for brief handholding or a quick kiss if no one else was around. It was finally Hotchner, tired of the teasing and betting pool talk, that called the two of you out (and gently reminded you that workplace relationships were not easy and to be careful). Prentiss won the betting pool but took everyone out to drinks with it in celebration.
IT HAPPENED! WE'RE FULLY FUNDED!!! ❤️❤️ Thank you everyone for supporting us, it feels like a dream! We'll get back to work soon once the KS ends but now we celebrate!!! 🎉
📣 With 4 days left to spare, our Kickstarter ends June 12! Consider helping us bring the full game of Cupid's Chatroom to life by backing our campaign ❤️🧡💛
You can even try out the demo on itch.io and Steam!
hiiii i've recently got obsessed with the visual novel Cupid's Chatroom and got possessed and wrote this in like two days :3 if you enjoy pleaaaase go check out Cupid's Chatroom on Itchio and Kickstarter <3
(i've also crossposted to AO3 here)
CW; afab!reader, smut
Ivan hadn't really thought it through, calling you as soon as he’d finished the call with his mother. Her joy at her son having found someone was palpable through the phone and - despite it being Fake, remember - he’d rode that high and clicked the call button before giving himself time to think. It was only after it rang for a while before he realized that maybe he should’ve messaged first, at the very least, or maybe just updated in the group chat for everyone -
And then you accepted the call, blinking blearily at him through your screen. Hair a bit rumpled and one tank top strap hanging off your shoulder.
“G’morning.” You half mumble, rubbing your hand against one eye as you try to wake up.
Ivan is…mesmerized. Captivated. Distracted, by your bare shoulder and soft expressions, and is this what you’d look like every day, waking up? He mostly manages to succeed at looking too low on your chest but the tank top doesn't hide much and he can't fight the glances.
“Ivan?” You ask. You squint at the screen and learn forward a bit, trying to make sure your camera and mic are working properly. Which, whether on purpose or not, gives Ivan a clear look straight down your shirt.
“G-good morning!” Ivan looks around frantically, blush rising high on his cheeks and ears. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to call, I - well, I did but I should've asked first. I only wanted to give you an update on, um, things and I got too excited. I’m…gonna stop talking now.”
“Too excited, hmm?” You tease. You reach behind yourself and grab a blanket, draping it over your shoulders.
“That does seem to be my reaction when it comes to you.” Ivan replied.
“It’s way too early for this level of flirting!” You laugh, waving your hand in front of your face and trying to distract him from your flustered state. A yawn catches you by surprise and you quickly cover your mouth.
“Oh, jeez, did I wake you up? I really wasn’t thinking.” Ivan frowns. Well, he was thinking. About talking to you. But he won’t mention that.
“No, well, kind of. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Just wanted to relax because it’s my day off, I didn't think I’d just pass out right away.” You explain. Ivan still looks moderately concerned, so you put on your most charming smile. “You can wake me up anytime, sweetheart.”
“You might regret that offer one day.” But Ivan chuckles and relaxes a bit. “I can let you get back to relaxing. Save the excitement for later.”
“You’re just gonna wake me up and tease me with good news before disappearing?” You pout playfully.
“Tempting though it would be to leave you in anticipation, I suppose I can take mercy on you this time.” Ivan leans back in his chair a bit and relaxes. “I spoke to my mom about our…arrangement. Partnership. Fake partnership. Regardless! She is extremely excited that her baby boy is no longer single and can’t wait to meet you.”
“Aw, man, I’m gonna feel bad lying to your mom, huh.” You jokingly whine.
“And my sisters, and cousins, the cutest niece in the world…”
“I can’t believe you got me out here lying like this.” You sigh.
“I’m pretty sure this was your idea from the beginning.” Ivan countered. You sighed dramatically again, causing the blanket to slip a bit from your shoulders. You pulled it back tighter, keeping your hand clasping it shut. Ivan just swallowed heavily, having watched your movements and eyes lingering on your hand. “I get it, I understand if you don't wanna fake date me. I am pretty boring after all. You’re too pretty for me, anyway. That…was supposed to be an inside thought. Maybe you’d be better suited to chat up supermodel zzzleepy instead.”
“Ivan, shut up.” You roll your eyes while ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “You’re not boring, I’m not pretty, and I think I’d actually go insane from too much zzzleepy exposure.”
“You are pretty, sunshine. Very pretty, actually.” Ivan said. His tone had shifted; he was being incredibly serious right now. No joking around.
“Th-thanks.” Deep breath, you channel some early morning confidence and flirt back. “You’re pretty easy on the eyes too, sweetheart.”
“I…I never know how to respond when you do that. You’re just so casual about it. It’s almost unfair.” Ivan blushed.
“I’m sorry.” You laugh a bit. “I’ll go easier on you, promise.”
*
The silly bunny Cupid in your phone continued to be moderately creepy while opening up the app for you and Ivan to talk more freely. Suddenly, you could mention towns near you and fewer things were blocked in chat. Ivan was suspicious, of course, and you couldn’t exactly blame Cupid without getting your messages blocked and an earful from Cupid himself. Cupid even put an app on your phone so you wouldn't have to rely on your computer (and so you could message Ivan more, obviously). The other guys only had the desktop chat room still, so you hesitated to tell them about the extras that you two were getting.
Cupid kept trying to push you towards bringing up the wedding again, because why can't you go? Your work is flexible enough (Cupid, how much spying are you doing?). Ivan has mentioned a few times how excited his mom and sisters were that he was finally ‘dating’ and kept asking if you’d be at the wedding. It’s only been a few days! But you can’t deny the temptation to meet Ivan in real life - though you’re really not sure how you’ll survive the Fake part of the Fake Dating.
And yet, you tentatively bring it up to Ivan, that maybe you could actually join him for the wedding? It’s in a few weeks, there’s still time to get to know each other.
“That’s…more tempting by the day, Sunshine, I’ll admit. It’s just, this whole chat room thing. This mysterious chat room just happened to connect me to my perfect, ah, perfect pretend partner?” Ivan’s quiet for a long moment. You’d opted out of a video call this time, so you laid on your bed, computer nearby, and stared up at the ceiling while you talked.
“Maybe it was Cupid.” You blurt out before you can think. You expect Cupid to have disrupted the call or something but Ivan just laughs.
“Fake cupid maybe, since we’re fake dating. I don’t think the real Cupid could be so cruel.” He mumbled the last bit before clearing his throat. “If you…really insist, I’d happily want you to come. With me. To the wedding, I mean. Obviously.”
“Obviously.” You tease. “I think it’d be fun. And I’m pretty sure you’re not a serial killer.”
“Ah, so my plan is working!” You both laugh. You end up discussing details, like a flight and where you’d stay (Ivan insisted you stay with him, of course). It’s daunting to think about meeting his family but seeing Ivan in person is more than enough encouragement. After a few days, you eventually admit to the group chat that you’re actually going to the wedding, surprise.
Romulus: Good job, Tech. [smug emoji]
Romulus: Shame she’s off the market though.
SundaeFundae: this is so exciting and cute [blush emoji] :o are you gonna have matching outfits??
Chapman: I cannot condone such a thing.
Zzzleepy: c’mon chapi dont be a killjoy :T
Chapman: I’m simply stating a fact.
You: ahaha I guess it is a bit crazy to do ^^; but i do it for Tech [nod]
Zzzleepy: scifi really got that GAMEEE
Zzzleepy: OMG we better get pics [puppyeyes]
TechSupport: I domt tthink we cand send pictrues inhere still
SundaeFundae: [cry emoji]
SundaeFundae: so unfair T^T Scifi gets her all to himself
Romulus: That is usually how dating goes, to be fair.
TechSupport: We’re notactuallyy dating
You: Only in my dreams u.u
Zzzleepy: scifi you better be careful or u gonna lose ur girl tsk tsk
TechSupport: she’s notmiene
TechSupport: tecniclaly
Romulus: and that technicality will be my chance [devil emoji]
Chapman: You’re all ridiculous for entertaining this.
Zzzleepy: is chapi…jealous??? [sweat emoji]
<Chapman went offline>
Romulus: I think you were onto something.
*
The fact that you survive traveling to Ivan is a miracle. Not that anything tried to compromise your flight, but the way your nerves and the butterflies in your stomach were fighting the whole time, you’d almost been sure you’d never had made it. Ivan seemed to feel somewhat similar, if his rambling in your dms was anything to go by. You messaged him as soon as you’d landed but found yourself hiding in a bathroom stall. What were you doing? Pretending to date a (really cute and likeable) guy, flying out to said guy to be his plus one to his sister’s wedding, all while trying to not actually like Ivan that much.
Maybe failing at trying to not like Ivan that much. It’s fine.
Once you’d finally gathered your thoughts and conjured up some fake confidence, you wheeled your suitcase out to the main floor of the small airport. You don’t see Ivan in your first glance around as you walk, but turn when you hear your name called.
It’s Ivan, of course, a grin on his face and hands in his pockets, hovering near an outer door. You smile in relief and head over. Ivan tries to stealthily wipe his hands on his pants ( you notice, but you won’t mention it).
“Hey. It’s so nice to see you. In person, I mean, I’ve seen you before. You know that. Fuck, um, hi.” Ivan moves like he’s gonna offer a hug before stopping himself.
“Hi, Ivan.” You grin up at him and let go of your suitcase to open your arms to him. “Feel up to a fake hug for your fake girlfriend?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t do fake hugs.” Ivan says. He takes the invite anyway, scooping you up and almost lifting you off your feet. You both laugh as you stumble and Ivan pulls back enough to help you steady yourself, hands still on your waist.
“You’re really trying to sweep me off my feet.” You laugh, stepping back a bit and reaching for your suitcase. He quickly reaches around you and grabs it before you can.
“It’s simply what fake boyfriends do. This way, I’m parked in their lot.” Ivan has one hand pulling your suitcase and absentmindedly offers you his other hand. You loop your arm around his instead, smiling up at him as you both walk.
“Lead the way, loverboy.”
The drive to Ivan’s house isn’t too long and you do most of the talking, rambling about the flight and asking questions about the town he lives in. He’s a good driver and you don’t notice how often he’s glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.
You ride through a cute downtown area before pulling into the parking structure of a moderately sized condominium.
“You weren’t joking about the condo?” You asked in surprise. Ivan chuckled and rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand.
“It’s not so impressive, I promise.” He pauses outside his door and turns to you. “Just, remember I’ve been living that bachelor life, alright? Don’t judge it too hard.”
Ivan’s condo is very…green, upon first walking in.You’d seen plants when video calling him and he’d mentioned a few times having to keep more watered but it seemed like almost any spare space in the living room was host to plant. Beyond that, the furniture was simple but plush looking and the place looked clean.
“Are you trying to live in a jungle?” You joke, eyes comically wide. He laughs as he walks you through the space, pulling your suitcase along.
“It’s kind of peaceful though, don't you think?” Ivan opens the door and gestures you in ahead of him.The bedroom is similarly decorated like the rest of the house. Plants, some pinned butterflies on the wall, and a huge plush rug under a well made bed.
“Oh, it’s nice.” You reassure him. “For a bachelor, your decor is top notch really.”
“Phew, I was worried. So, you can settle in here, whatever you need to do. Bed’s all yours. I’ll sleep in the living room, so don’t worry.” Ivan said.
“You never said I’d be kicking you out of your own bed.” You pointed out. Ivan sheepishly shrugged.
“I wasn’t about to make you share.”
“I’ll take the couch.” You insist. “I’m shorter anyway.”
“Absolutely not. I was just thinking my bed was too comfortable, I need to be reminded of the simpler things in life.” Ivan counters.
“Simpler things like a sore back and bad sleep?”
“Yep!” Ivan pat your shoulder before walking back out to the living space. “Can’t wait!”
It’s a bit awkward that first day. You told the group chat you’d made it safely (and Sundae made you Swear to let them know if you were in danger. He didn’t know how he’d help but he’d certainly try). You and Ivan just sort of…circled each other for a while, nervous and maybe a bit flustered. Around dinner though, Ivan handed you his phone.
“I know you mentioned liking sushi a lot and I was gonna order some as a surprise, but I don’t really know what you prefer. Pick a few out, okay?” Ivan insisted that you order whatever sounded good (he was happy to have a sushi dinner too) and once the delivery arrived you both sat at his small table to eat.
“Thanks for ordering, Ivan.” You chirp, happily breaking open containers and grabbing pieces to put on your plate.
“Of course. I figured this could be our, mm, second real fake date?” He ducked his head as he said it, quietly picking some food for himself.
“Keep this up and I’ll be spoiled.” You hummed happily over a bite of food. “Best second real fake date ever. I’m not sure how it will get better from here.”
“I had actually considered taking you to a nice restaurant, but thought you’d like to rest after traveling today.” Ivan admitted.
“You don’t have to do anything fancy, ya know?”
“I’m taking this fake dating seriously. I thought we were on the same page, I guess I was wrong.”
“Oh, I’m taking this soooo seriously.” You reply, pouting playfully before a smirk crosses your lips. You stand, walk around the table, and throw your arms around Ivan’s shoulder.
“What’re you-!!” Ivan instinctually reaches up to hold your waist. You press a quick kiss to his temple.
“Thank you so much for dinner, sweetheart. It’s very thoughtful of you.” You say. Ivan’s hands clench around your shirt but he lets his hands fall away as you saunter back to your chair. He grumbles something to himself as he leans his elbows on the table, covering his burning face with his hands.
“Something wrong?” You ask as you sit back down. Ivan drags his hand down his face, letting his glasses fall back into place.
“You’re doing this on purpose.” He grumbles.
“Obviously. You’re too easy to tease, Ivan.” You chuckle, before stuffing more sushi in your mouth.
“Ah, I can’t decide if I prefer you calling me that or sweetheart.” Ivan sighs, goes to pick his chopsticks back up before he freezes. “That…I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Ignore it, please.”
“I will ignore it this time, but only because you got me yummy food.” You chat over the rest of the food, Ivan warning about his overzealous sisters and his off-and-on relationship with his parents. You reassure him that parents usually love you and, if you get too nervous, you’ll just act like a very overwhelmed girlfriend that hangs off his arm the whole time (Ivan would not complain).
At some point, you move to the couch, beers in hand. And it’s so easy to relax like this. Ivan is warm and shares more personal things than he had over the (suspicious) chat room. He was funny and kind and, yeah, okay, also kind of a huge dork. But you liked hanging out with him. It was easy. Easy and comfortable and you didn’t notice you were getting sleepy until you dozed off during a quiet moment and Ivan softly shook you awake.
“I told you, you’re not sleeping on the couch.” Ivan jokes, holding a hand out to help you up. You wanted to protest but a yawn cut you off. So you grumbled but didn’t argue. He trails you to the door of the bedroom and shifts nervously when you turn to him.
“If you need anything, you know where to find me.” Ivan said. Before he can leave, you give him a quick hug, squeezing him round the middle before scurrying into the bedroom.
Oh, what have you signed up for? You change into pjs and plop down onto the bed. You’re greeted with the smell of freshly laundered sheets and…the smell of Ivan. You groan, burrowing your head into the pillow but all that does is fill your senses with the smell. You flop over dramatically. Fake dating was a lot easier when you were only talking through a screen.
*
The next few days are a whirlwind of meeting Ivan’s family, wedding prep, and a lot of “fake” dates. You and Ivan are constantly dancing around each other, flirting and getting flustered. A few days right before the wedding were blessedly clear, a time for everyone to rest before the big event, so you and Ivan got a chance to relax and lounge around his condo for a while. The two of you end up spending one evening staying up way too late, playing Mario Party (sorry FFXIV, you’ll have to wait) and having a few drinks.
“Ivaaaaan. You’re supposed to let me win.” You whine when you lose the second game in a row, his Monty Mole on the top pedestal while your Peach stood on the second one. At least you’d beaten both the NPCs this time.
“If I let you win, you’d just fuss at me for that too.” Ivan retorts, laughing. “One more round? It’s late, though, if you’d rather go to bed.”
“I can’t sleep until I win.” You huffed, starting another game. He laughed again and bumped his shoulder against yours.
“Alright, alright, don’t get too competitive, sunshine.”
“It’s simply in my nature.”
After losing your third game in a row (I swear Bowser sabotaged you this time), you gave up and just lounged on the couch while Ivan played a bit of FFXIV, streaming it to his tv so you could watch. You found that it was really fun to make widely incorrect assumptions about characters and creatures and watch Ivan try to explain it all to you, only to be met with you calling him a mega nerd. At some point you’d picked up your phone, so Ivan wasn’t too worried when you were quiet for a while.
He did jolt, suddenly wide awake, when your head landed on his shoulder.
He glanced down at you, phone dangling precariously from your hands as you slept. Ivan was frozen for a bit, unsure of the best course of action. He could wake you, of course, but he’d feel bad. He wasn’t sure he could carry you to the bedroom without waking you either and that might end up more embarrassing than just waking you up.
He could be selfish for just a night, right?
He shifted his arm behind you carefully and your head shifted from his shoulder to his chest. Ivan stilled until your breathing was even again then carefully, softly, draped his arm around you. He let out a sigh, letting his head fall back to rest on the couch.
He was truly fucked.
At some point, you tried to roll over, couldn’t, and woke up enough to look around. Oh, you fell asleep on the couch, no big deal - wait, nope, the couch is snoring and oh, actually, the couch is Ivan. He’d slumped down a bit farther into the couch, his arm still around you. And your arm, your arm was across his belly. Your head, on his chest. His other hand, the one not around your back, was slightly tangled with your own, fingers entwined.
It wasn’t bad. The opposite, in fact. Ivan was warm and his hand was soft on yours and you were so very tempted to go back to sleep.
Oh, you were fucked.
You carefully extracted yourself from Ivan, moving slowly and stopping anytime he seemed to move. Finally free, you threw a blanket over him and hightailed it to the bedroom.
Neither of you acknowledged it the next morning, though the blush on Ivan’s face gave away how he was feeling. You only hoped you weren’t blushing too (you were).
*
The day of the wedding was hectic and you were glad Ivan was only a guest. The wedding itself was small and simple, a beautiful ceremony really (and if Ivan teared up at his sister and her wife being so happy, well, you couldn’t blame him). The reception, however, was a loud affair. A good dj, open bar, and a few hundred of the couples closest friends and family made for a chaotic but fun atmosphere.
Ivan was the perfect gentleman the whole night (and he looked quite handsome in his suit and tie, the color of which matched your outfit). Holding your drinks, introducing you to everyone, pulling your chair out for you before you could sit down. It was easy to pretend that this wasn’t all a ploy to save him from family judgement and remarks. Especially when you two got dragged onto the dance floor and Ivan showed off his (questionable) dance moves. When the music slowed and changed to a love song, Ivan tried to pull away.
“Can’t I get at least one slow dance?” You pout up at him playfully. He huffed a laugh and allowed you to pull him back to you.
“I can’t promise to stop at one.” Ivan murmured. He rests his hands on your waist and you lay your hands on his shoulders.
“Oh, nooo, what a shame.” You reply cheekily. You sway gently to the music and try not to make too much eye contact with Ivan. One song turns into two then three. The party is slowing down for most, though some people seemed determined to stay til sunrise. Someone dancing a bit more loosely bumps into you, throwing a sorry behind them. You stumbled but Ivan steadied you immediately, arms tight around your waist even as your grip on his shoulder tightened.
“Don’t worry, sunshine, I’ve got you.” Ivan says quietly, head ducked down towards to make sure you’re okay. You can’t help it, really. Ivan is too attractive and the atmosphere is perfect.
You lean up and kiss him.
Ivan freezes, brain short circuiting. When he doesn’t respond, or move, you pull back and step back from him.
“S-sorry. I’ve gotta - I”m gonna. Bathroom!” You stutter out, rushing away from him and to the hallway, throwing yourself into the bathroom. You slid down against the wall, letting out a huge sigh. Good job, you tell yourself. Way to keep this totally fake and platonic. It’s already after midnight, maybe you could get the key from Ivan and just take a taxi back to his place, and never face him again.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door and you jump as Ivan calls your name.
“Can we talk?” Ivan asks after you don’t respond. After a moment, you crack the door open. Ivan visibly relaxes upon seeing you. “Sunshine-”
“No, don’t!” You cut him off, stepping out into the hallway with him. “I’m sorry, okay? I just…everyone else was smooching and you’re really handsome and I let my brain get away from me. We can forget it happened. Fake kiss, that’s it.”
Ivan frowns, opens his mouth, then closes it. Slowly, he nods.
“Okay.” He says quietly. He shoves his hands in his pockets and lets out a sigh.
“Can we - are you ready to go?” You ask, eyes downcast. “I’m tired.”
“We can go.”
The ride back to Ivan’s condo is quiet. You spend the ride looking out the window and wringing your hands together, playing the evening over and over in your mind. Ivan’s grip on the steering wheel is tight, knuckles white, though you don’t notice. Once inside, you rush towards his bedroom, only pausing to wish him a goodnight with a small, strained smile before disappearing inside.
The next day is similar. You tiptoe around and avoid Ivan, claiming a slight hangover and lack of sleep. Ivan finally loses his patience by evening, knocking on the bedroom door and walking in before you answer.
You’re sat cross legged in the bed, phone in hand (definitely not scouring the internet for instances of others fake dating and how it went. You get a lot of fanfic recommendations though). Ivan had been intent on talking to you but he’s a little…distracted.
Your oversized sleep shirt hangs off one shoulder and you’re very clearly not wearing shorts. Which is one of the last things Ivan notices, because he can’t bring himself to look away for a long minute until he finally shifts his gaze to your face.
You stare at each other wide eyed for a minute before Ivan stumbles backwards.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to, well, I should’ve waited for you to answer. And get dressed. Not that you’re not dressed. I meant more dressed. Not just in your…Not that I looked!” Ivan rambled.
“Ivan!” You scrambled to your feet and joined him in the hallway. “I swear, I didn’t plan on flashing you today. What did you wanna talk about?”
“That’s… that’s a good question. You’re so…distracting.” Ivan huffs a laugh and tugs on the neck of his t-shirt.
“Sorry.” You reply, tugging down the bottom of your shirt. Which only brings Ivan’s attention back to the way so much of your thighs are on display. Ivan takes a deep breath, drags his eyes away so he can look you in the eyes, and takes a small step towards you.
“Can we talk about…that kiss? About what happened?”
“I’m really sorry.” You say again. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t, actually. Not even a little. But you’ve been avoiding me.” Ivan frowned a bit.
“I thought you’d be upset.” You admit quietly. Ivan takes another step closer and raises your chin with his hand.
“You think I’m upset you kissed me? Am I…Am I not as obvious as I think I am?” Ivan laughs lightly. He takes another half step towards you and you instinctively step back, lightly bumping into the way.
“Ivan…”
“That’s not what you’re supposed to call me.” Ivan murmurs. He ducks his head down so his lips are brushing the top of your cheek. “Try again.”
“S-sweetheart. What-” You’re cut off as Ivan raises your chin just a bit more and presses his lips to yours. You inhale sharply, eyes wide open for a moment, before you relax into it. You lean into it and grab the front of his shirt lightly. Ivan pulls away slightly, moves his hand from your chin to cradle the back of your head as he presses you against the wall, the bulge in his pants pressing into your thigh.
“Alright, Sunshine?” Ivan checks, locking eyes with you.
“Yeah, yeah. Great really.” You try to tug him back down towards you and he chuckles.\
“You got to tease me this whole time, do you really think I’m not gonna play with my food a little bit first?” Even as he says it, Ivan is bent down and scraping his teeth along your neck just under your jaw.
“W-wait, where’s my shy Tech Support and what did you do with him?” You joke, raising one hand to run it through his hair. Your other hand plays with the waistband of his sweats.
“His head’s a little cloudy right now.” Ivan replies, his free hand dragging up the bottom of your shirt. “But don’t worry, I’ve got you. I’d really like you in bed, though, if you don’t mind.”
You’re not really sure how you make it to the bed. You’re on your back and Ivan hovers above you.
“You change your mind, you tell me.” Ivan says, very serious.
“Promise.” Your agreement has Ivan positioning himself above you, though he takes a moment to grind his lower half against you. He tugs at the bottom of your shirt.
“Can I take this off?” He asks. You nod and lean up to make it easier to get off. Ivan groans low, eyes trailing over your chest.
“A picture will last longer.” You tease, grinning up at him. Ivan arches a brow at you before leaning down to kiss you, while one hand wanders to your chest. He grinds his clothed cock against you again, making your breath catch.
“I just have to last longer than you, Sunshine.” The two of you make out for a while before you’re the one tugging on Ivan’s shirt. He tries to pull it off but it catches his glasses.
“Fuck, shit.” Ivan grumbles, head still stuck in his shirt. You can’t help but giggle as you sit up and help him out. You hold his glasses carefully as he flings his shirt to the side. You let your eyes roam, catching on the trail of hair that disappears under his sweatpants. You gently place his glasses back on his face, followed by a light, quick smooch.
You pull him back down on the bed, bare skin brushing, and groan into his mouth when his fingers trace down the front of your underwear. Ivan kisses you harder all while swirling his thumb across your clit, your underwear adding extra friction. You buck under him, pull away a bit for air.
“Damn, S-sweets, fuck!” You stutter harder as Ivan leans down and bites your neck, sucking and nibbling enough to form a hickey. “Condom?”
Ivan leans over immediately, digging around in the bedside table and finally pulling out a box. He leans back on his knees to get one out and open it while you take the opportunity to tug his sweatpants down. His cock sprang free, leaking freely, but he lightly smacked your hand away when you reached for him.
“Patience, Sunshine.” Ivan grumbled. He quickly rolled the condom on, stood up to free himself of his sweatpants, and tugged at your underwear. You lifted your hips but never took your eyes off Ivan. His belly, his thighs. Ivan takes the chance to do the same, eyes roaming your entire body before he climbs back into bed over you.
Ivan leans back down to kiss you, then trails kisses down your chest before nibbling and licking at your nipple. You gasp, arching towards him, and you’re distracted enough that you don’t notice his hand until he’s slowly rubbing your clit again.
“Ivan!” You whine and dig your nails into his back. He chuckles against your chest, before letting his fingers trail further down and press just inside you. You whine again and try to rock against his hand, but he just pulls it away.
“Patience, remember?” He teases as he leans back up to kiss you.
“N-no patience. You’re being too slow, w-worst fake boyfriend ever.” You reply, equally teasing.
“I’m trying,” Ivan starts, pressing one finger into you as he talks, “to get you ready for me. I won’t hurt you.” You reach up, grab him by the back of the head, and pull him into a searing kiss as he starts fingering you. Fat fingers indeed, you think. Clearly his skills in typing was the only thing his fingers were bad at. Ivan presses his thumb to your clit while slowly pumping his fingers in and out of you, and you can’t help but squirm.
“I-Ivan, sweetheart, just - fuck me, please.” You moan. Ivan carefully and slowly pulls his fingers out of you, leaned back enough so that he could see the wetness that clung to him. He used that hand to stroke himself a few times before positioning his cock at your entrance.
“You’re sure?” Ivan asks quietly, eyes steadily meeting yours. At your nod, he slowly presses his cock into you, kissing away the groan you let out.
“Fuuuck, Sweets.” You’ve got your head thrown back, one hand clawing at his back and the other one grabbing the sheet under you. Ivan rocks against you, letting out his own groan as he drops his head back down to your neck, pressing hot kisses along it. One hand winds its way into your hair, tugging just enough to feel, while the other lands on your hip, helping you move in time with his thrusts. Ivan is mumbling nonsense against your neck between love bites and kisses, mostly praising you for taking him so well or about how tight and warm you are.
“I-I’m close, I think.” You manage to stutter out. Ivan slows, earning a whine from you. His hand keeps you still as you try to rock your hips.
“Does this count as fake fucking? Or can we quit pretending now?” Ivan murmurs against your neck, keeping himself still above you. Your heart stutters, even after all the two of you have done. Ivan’s hand tightens on your hip when you remain quiet and he nibbles lightly at your neck.
“I - I don’t…” You stumble over your words as Ivan thrusts slowly, just once. You shudder, instinctually trying to match his movements. You can feel his smile on your neck.
“Speechless, sunshine?” Ivan leans away from your neck so he can look you in the eyes. His own eyes are dark but steady.
“You’re not - not supposed to talk about feelings during sex, ya know. Too - too many endorphins or s-something.” You’re not sure how you manage to even speak with the way your head is spinning but you do and Ivan hums in response.
“Gonna have to have a talk after then.” Ivan yields for now. He grabs your hands in his, pressing them into the pillow beside you as he looms over you. “We will talk about it. Right, sunshine?”
“Yes, ye-” Ivan cuts you off with a kiss, squeezing your hands in his and slowly starting to rock his lower body again.
*
Ivan returns from the bathroom, damp washcloth in hand, and sits beside you on the bed. You’re both sweaty and you lay sprawled out on the bed, hardly moved from when you guys had finished. You reach for the cloth but he shoes your hand away and begins to gently wipe you off.
“You’re the most attentive fake boyfriend I’ve ever had.” You joke, trying to ease the intimacy of the moment. Ivan stills and slowly meets your eyes.
“Still stuck on this being fake? I - I admit, I was hoping for, well, not that. Honestly.” He takes a deep breath and tugs on your hands to get you to sit upright, so you’re both eye to eye. “You must know, that this, what we…are. I can’t keep this platonic. You are far too enticing for that.”
“Ivan…it’s just, if this is fake, then it can be fun and I don’t have to worry about you deciding I’m not worth your time.” You admit, head tilted down. Ivan places his hand under your chin and gently raises your face so he can look at you.
“You deserve nothing but the best. And I'm not saying I'm the best - that’s not what I meant. But if - if you want to stop pretending, I’ll do everything in my ability to lo-, to adore you the way you should be adored.” Ivan presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“…okay. I’d…like that.” You admit softly. It earns you a big grin from Ivan, who peppers the side of your face with kisses, making you giggle, and pulls you into his arms.
“Oh, thank the gods. I thought I was ruining everything.” He sighs in relief.
“I will need to tell my fake boyfriend that I upgraded to a real one, though. He’s gonna be devastated. Oh, oh, hang on!” You lean out of his arms as much as you can and grab your phone. Ivan is content to press kisses to the side of your neck while you type (So not distracting, thanks Ivan) but he looks up when his computer dings too.
“What did you do?” He asks and you hold out your phone, Cupid’s Chatroom pulled up and a big cheeky grin on your face.
You: Guys, I have bad news. I broke up with Tech u.u
SundaeFundae: WHAT ;;
Zzzleepy: bish better be joking fr wtf o.o
Zzzleepy: my OTP, BROKEN T-T
Romulus: Does this mean you’re back on the market? [smug emoji]
SundaeFundae: ROMI NOW IS NOT THE TIME
You: Oh, sorry, mistype! I fake broke up with Tech. And then asked him to actually date me <3
Zzzleepy: [dead emoji]
SundaeFundae: that was meaaaan T.T but also really cute [blush emoji]
Romulus: I suddenly feel sick.
Ivan groans and leans more heavily against your shoulder. You giggle and toss your phone away again.
“You’re such a brat.” He grumbles.
“Is that a problem?” You asked cheekily. Ivan bit your shoulder quickly, making you jump a bit.
“Not a problem at all, sunshine.” Ivan says, voice a bit husky. He presses a light kiss to where he’d bit you. He placed a hand on your thigh. “As long as you can deal with the consequences, of course.”
I really love your companions reacting to Tav's sketches of them post! Can I request the same prompt with Dammon, Rolan, and Zevlor?
Dammon
Dammom, I assume, sketches his plans for armor or upgrades. So the two of you lounging together, sketching and nibbling on snacks isn’t uncommon
When you finally finally let Dammon see your sketches, his reaction is in two parts
1) what do you mean you can sketch so good, why haven’t you been helping him draw up stuff come ooooon
followed by 2) that’s him !! Dammon is a blushing mess, bc surely he’s not that pretty but also why do you spend so much time devoted to sketching him (you know why)
Rolan
Rolan doesn’t mean to go through your sketchbook. It’s sitting out in a table and honestly he thought it was one of his books but he could tell instantly once he picks it up that it’s not one of his. He tries to be strong… but the curiosity (or his nosiness) wins
When he opens it to a page of his face, he honestly doesn’t know what to think. Yeah he was infatuated with you, but surely it wasn’t reciprocated??
And then Cal and Lia are peeking over his shoulder, gawking at your art and asking all sorts of questions which reaaaally don’t help him. At all. You walk in to quite the scene; Cal and Lia teasing Rolan (as usual) while Rolan is blushing and avoiding eye contact (not usual)
His younger siblings scurry out, giving you cheeky grins and telling you to “go easy” on Rolan
Zevlor
He’s seen you sketching before, in the little bit of downtime you’ve had. But he’s not asked to see it, assuming you’d share if and when you were ready. Zevlor respects your privacy of course
It’s a day when he’s real down on himself, over Everything that’s happened and how he’s “failed”, when you take him aside and show him your sketches of him
Sketches of him awkwardly but warmly interacting with the kids, him with his weapon at the ready, him having drinks with some of the other tieflings.
You don’t see his failures when you look at him. This is physical proof. (Zevlor might’ve teared up a bit tbh). It doesn’t matter your talent level. Zevlor is floored, by you and the work
I have moved across the country to live with my partner! That’s honestly where my focus has been for the past few months, between planning and packing and all that jazz. I’m still not entirely unpacked and a lot of stuff is still with my mom but what can ya do
I’ve got an actual PC here which means pc games! (I’ve been replaying fallout new vegas again haha and hopped back into fields of mistria).
I still wanna write and take requests. BG3, once the patch drops, will prob become my focus again. [daVeilguard just…didn’t stick for me unfortunately]
I hope all of yall are doing well and thanks to everyone who has stuck around <3
Hello! Are you still taking requests/asks for Bg3? 👀💕
Hello! It has been… a long while since I logged on haha. But yes! I still take requests, as long as people understand that it may take a while for me to get to them. But especially as the patch 8 update should be coming soon, I feel certain I’ll want to write for BG3 again!
Hello Tumblr user who’s reading this! Congratulations! You are now contractually obligated to romance the Grey Warden known as Davrin in your next play through of Dragon Age the Veilguard! If your first thought upon reading this request is errm actually I don’t wanna do that, think very carefully as to why it might make you uncomfortable and reflect on it!
snowghoul
dededos
areudirty
pixelskylines
