I’m expecting some soft Kieran Duffy content
“Kieran.”
It’s a whisper.
You’ve slipped to the other side of camp under the light of the moon with a hot cup of stew in hands. Kieran’s eyes pull wide at the sight of you.
You’re holy, a gift procured from glimmering starlight with a smile that’s enough to cement heartache deep into his bones with one gentle look. You’re patient and kind and soft and beautiful and he’s been watching you with the others around camp -- you lack the usual crassness of the other Van der Linde’s and your looks spared towards him are usual full of worry rather than malice.
From his spot, tied to this tree on the far end of camp swearing he ain’t no O’Driscoll, Kieran is but a voyeur to the way the men of the Van der Linde’s seem to bend to your beckoned whim. You have them wrapped around your finger, eyes following the trails of your skirts as you sing a high hymnal while you wash.
You’re revered.
You could, Kieran thinks, have any man your heart desires.
And yet, you’re here in the middle of the night instead of in the arms of a lover, finger under his chin as he eagerly takes the stew with hearty sips. The meal is a secret -- a quiet moment shared among the whisper of the woods -- and you smooth a hand across his cheek as he swallows.
“Thank y’, miss, thank you.”
He’s awfully sweet, you think, and linger in his gaze for a moment more before you slip back into the camp with a tender smile.
He’s got it bad.
