#╰ *:･ﾟthread ──❝ thunder god ❞

[syoddeye]

cygnet, plucked | price x reader | part three, final part two cw: dubcon, noncon, forced marriage, stockholm syndrome (kind of), endearments, vague/implied first time, grief, guilt, mild body horror, pregnancy mention a/n: many thanks again to the anon who originally suggested this. part one | part two | masterlist 🦢

The lake is choppy the day John marries you, its surface churned by a coming storm.

Cold water laps at your ankles, bare feet numb in the shallows. The hem of your dress drinks deep from the surface. Soaking up what memories it can before you're further bound to man.

John says marriage is sacred, unbreakable. A higher purpose. It's a slap in the face to what you lost.

The nameless friend he brought stands smirking between you, reciting empty words. Invoking a god you do not recognize, but curse all the same. You answer only when John squeezes your hands. The veil, stitched from your ruin, is a mockery. A whisper-thin shield.

John lifts it with reverence, eyes bluer with the lake beside him, darkening at the edges where clouds gather. He looks at you the way he did that night. Hungry and triumphant.

After slipping a thin gold band on your finger, he kisses you, deepening it until his friend chuckles. Holds your face as if you are delicate and cherished. And for one fleeting second, you hate him less for it.

But when his lips leave yours, you feel it. That hollow space. The sore spots between your shoulder blades. A rift not easily mended.

His friend claps him on the shoulder, bids you both well, and winks as John steals another kiss.

Thunder rolls over the water, threading through and shaking the trees in warning. You doubt he hears it that way. To him, it's nothing but weather. 

The first drops hit before you reach the cabin, cool pinpricks that swell into a downpour. John's grip tightens, tugging you along as the storm swallows you both. He laughs as you stumble inside, slamming the door behind him, bracing against it like you've outrun something wicked.  

His laughter fades as his eyes rake over you. Your dress clinging, veil slick to your skull. Shivering. He watches for a breath too long before turning toward the hearth.

"Strip," he says, kneeling to coax the fire back to life. "You'll catch your death."

He tells you he overspent on dinner, whatever that means.

The honeycomb drips viscous gold, pooling in the flat of a salted biscuit before spilling over your lips. John hums, pleased, pressing the next bite to your mouth. You chew, tasting the wildflowers.

His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, solid and warm, still slightly damp. Tracing whorls of hair with your eyes. His arm is heavy around you, holding you firm in his lap, as if you might slip away between bites. He feeds you another, thumb brushing your lips.

With the fire and rain pattering the roof, it's almost tolerable. Nice. 

Then his fingers bump against your lips, sticky and insistent. The last of the honey, scooped up and offered. You hesitate. He does not. Two fingers slip past your lips, pressing sweet and heavy against your tongue.

You suck them clean, head buzzing as he pets your tongue. Their rhythmic draw over the muscle elicits a ghostly tug at your nethers. A string of spit breaks and splatters on your breasts when he extracts them. He gathers it as he did the honey, then drags them between your legs.

Outside, the storm howls. The cabin groans under the wind, trees clawing at its walls. Rain batters the roof, thunder cracks, lightning splits the dark.

He puts you on your back. It's only proper, he says as he climbs over you, for a man to first lie with his woman this way. Separates them from the animal.

You don't bother pointing out that it's foolish, him justifying his acts. That you expect him to do whatever he damn well pleases.

Your tongue stays fastened to the roof of your mouth, holding back words that wouldn't change a thing. Self-loathing leaking out with every pulse of your puffy, needy cunt, your feathers soaked from his attentions.

What a creature he's reduced you to.

You go rigid when it's clear he's done playing around, that there will be no more easing you into it. You fold your arms tight, the same as when he sets down a plate of something unappetizing and expects gratitude.

John merely exhales through his nose, a near-silent huff, and keeps on. He grabs an ankle, yanking you closer with an unbroken focus. Your display is nothing more than a child's sulk.

"This was meant to be, honey," he muses, tucking his hands under your knees and opening them. "You and me, right here." 

A heavy, hot weight slots into the crease of your thigh, and your head jerks up, unable to stop yourself from looking. It's flushed, redder than you imagined. Thicker, too. Crowned with a thatch of coarse, wiry hair that looks like it'll pull at your feathers.

He strokes himself, fist tight enough to push pearls from the tip, dribbling them over your swollen clit. You shudder, torn between repulsion and enthrallment, each equally strong and disorienting.

John licks his lip. "Arms around me."

You hug yourself tighter on instinct now that you've seen, up close, what he intends to shove inside you. He bristles.

"Fine. Be difficult." 

Surprisingly, he doesn't force the issue, but—

"No matter how you deny it or fight it, this is where you belong." His jaw clenches, fingers flexing on your hips like he's barely keeping himself together, thumb pressing a shade too firmly into your skin. Like the fact of finally having you underneath him is almost too much. "Me and you. Me and my wife."

He nudges your lips apart with his length, exposing the core of your heat to it, and glides through until you're squirming. He keeps bumping your clit, purposely nudging the rim he worked open by the fireside. Then it catches for real, and the head alone makes you dizzy. Much bigger than his fingers. A blunter, harsher pressure. 

You fought him on that third finger, back on his lap. You regret it now.

When he starts to push in, you picture egrets skewering fish. Impalement. Gasping, wide-eyed, and belly-up. Your arms fly open, startling a laugh out of him, abruptly cutting into a grunt as your nails sink deep into his furry chest.

John exhales hard through his nose, adjusting his grip, palms slick with sweat as he pulls at your hips. "Hell's sake, Shy," he mutters, voice threaded with frustration, but he tamps it down quick, replacing it with something softer and meant to soothe.

A hand lifts, and his thumb strokes over the hinge of your jaw, coaxing it loose. You're tense all over. His eyes are darker now, a thin ring of blue around the black swell of his pupils. The coldest part of the lake, where the light can't reach.

"Ain't doin' yourself any favors, it'll feel good, promise," he says, bracing an arm beside your head. Crushing your chest with his for another kiss. "Relax."

A deafening crack of lightning follows his words. A tree could come down on the cabin right this second, but he wouldn't even blink. Nothing would draw his attention away. That's obvious when he raises slightly and starts again with renewed purpose. 

"John," His name cast as a lifeline. Desperate, grasping. "Too big."

"You're alright," he grits out, voice tight, breath uneven. His cheeks, florid beneath his whiskers, lift in a grin when he takes another inch. "That's a girl."

You hiss angrily, spitting mad. Pinned and helpless. Humiliated even as your heels jam into the small of his back.

It keeps doing that, your body. Moving of its own accord, traitorous thing. Clinging when it should let go, leaning in when it should recoil. Caught between the urge to shove him off and the quiet, irksome need to let him in deep.

In, in, in. Your head presses into the pillow beneath it, mouth falling open as he makes a place for himself in your body. 

The pain blurs at the edges, numbing into something almost unrecognizable. No, unfathomable. A creeping, repugnant pleasure germinates where his cock drags. And just when your toes start to curl, coming around to the idea of it, to acceptance—he stops.

Confusion fizzes and pops between your ears, leaking steadily through the sieve he's punched in your skull. You slur the beginnings of a question, but the words sharpen, solidifying when he withdraws too suddenly. Something within stirs, sensing his intent, desperate to intervene.

"S-Said you'd take care of me," you choke out. "Be nice. Be nice." 

John falters, swallowing hard. He stares down at you, so intensely you think he'll lash out, every bit of him flexed.

"This you saying you'll behave?"

You don't answer right away, breath hitching when his thumb drags over your ribs, just shy of tender.

"Well?" His patience draws taut over the word, a fraying thread poised to snap like his hips. "Say it, honey."

There's but one answer he'll accept.

"Yes," you lick your lips. "Yes, John. Please."

He waits a moment, waiting for you to take it back, then tests: "Arms around me."

This time, you oblige.

How kindly he keeps this promise. The minute shake in his arm from the restraint he shows from not simply barging in. Sweat sluices over the swell of his bicep, tracing the ridges of muscle and the veins pulsing beneath the hair on his arm.

His eyes brighten—just barely. A flicker of tenderness, the same glint you've caught in stolen moments. The longing he's kept at arm's length, from across the table, from the beam outside the cabin, from the doorway. Burned into the back of your neck at night where he confesses but never apologizes.

This time, he unhurriedly feeds you his cock again, bottoming out with a groan, and rubs a circle into your hip.

"This is where you belong," He echoes, half-growling the sentiment with a grind that has you noiselessly pulling him closer. "Not in the muck, not in the grass. Bet you were a pretty thing with wings, but as a woman?"

John doesn't finish the thought, instead fixing his gaze to where you're stretched around him, silently deeming you acclimated. He kept his word, now to keep the others. It's like he said—he'll teach you every little thing you need to know. He'll make it good.

You're not naive about what's happening when he begins to move. Apart from the men you've spied on, you've seen wild animals. But knowing doesn't stop your breath from catching in your throat or the moans that follow.

Noises indecent enough to heat your face, each languid thrust finding its mark. They'd scald you with white-hot shame if emptiness didn't seem so awful a notion now. His cock jerks at a particularly sweet sound that stutters and skips like a stone over water and ends with his name on a sigh.

His fingers dig in, guiding the roll of your pelvis to meet his, grunting out filth. How wet you are, how right you feel.

"Don't even understand what you do to me, do you?"

You don't. Haven't since you arrived. It's still a mystery why he chose your dress from the dozen on the shore. Surely, he hadn't known it was yours. Hadn't picked you especially, hadn't spied you before—your mind severs the thought at the root, a little hysterically.

John switches arms, planting the other elbow beside your head to bear his weight. The other disappears, but you don't follow its path. His breath grows rough, eyes half-lidded and weighted with devotion and its twin. He picks up the pace, rolling his hips harder, bludgeoning his thick cock into you with urgency.

He surprises you by wedging his hand between your bodies, trapping it on the feathered slope of your cunt. He thumbs your pearled clit, stroking over it in tight circles. It makes you clench down greedily, rewarding you with a roll of his eyes and flash of gritted teeth.

It's—He's—

You've no point of reference for this turmoil.

The closest thing is the storm outside, wild and unrelenting. Rain pelting the earth, flooding the soil, swelling the lake beyond its banks. A force that drowns and nourishes in equal measure, tangling ruin and rebirth.

And under your skin, your blood simmers into a rolling boil. It spreads, curling through every inch, pooling under your navel and tightening.

"Give it, honey. C'mon, can feel it," He rasps, punctuating his demands with an ungentle grind of his cock and a quick succession of firm pats to your clit. "C'mon, on my cock, now, Shy."

You don't fight him, but you don't make it easy either. 

When you come, euphoria wrestles with doubt. A current that sweeps you away from him, tumbling hard and fast, only to throw you back, gasping for air. And through it all, John's voice, steady as the shore.

"That's it," he rasps, preening, "Knew you had it in you. My good girl."

Your vision returns in fragments, palms sliding from his shoulders, falling limp to either side of your head. He's still moving, the lewd slap of flesh on flesh and squelching loud in your ears. He's fully abandoned his earlier pledge, any pretense erased. Rutting and battering your walls with a singular goal. Exploiting how you've unraveled beneath him. Gives him the perfect excuse to unleash weeks of pent-up frustration, you think hazily.

He bears down on you when he gets close, breath heaving against your neck, your forehead. Chasing his release with such an effort, part of you understands why he must've played the waiting game with you. He's saved his fury, all of it, for this.

John finally follows with a prolonged groan, head tilted back, sinking to the hilt to spill deep. Cheek to cheek, whiskers scraping and sopping up stray tears. Shuddering above you, crushing until your ankles unhook from his back. Until the tension bleeds out of him, freeing him to move. Sated at last.

He lifts enough to press a lingering kiss to your temple, his eyes tiredly twinkling as he drinks in whatever stupefied expression you must be wearing. Then, with a sigh, he finds your mouth. 

"Did so good, honey," he murmurs, "Knew you'd be perfect."

He lies with you for a couple minutes, humming at how you tremble around his softening cock as it drags out of you. Pulling out spend which he gingerly pushes back in, mouth twitching at the quivering of your thighs. He stands, wipes his hand on his flank, then staggers away, knees popping, to fetch a towel.

He cleans his excess spend from your thighs and lips, then tends carefully to your feathers. Though in the lantern light, it's as if a different veil has been lifted. All you have is the aftermath. 

A belly full of cum. Finger-shaped bruises. A fierce ache. The spell breaks, and whatever idea of romance you had vanishes.

He stole your dress. Plucked and stripped you of your feathers, offering no alternative but the cage of his arms. Earthbound and alone, save for him. You're not yourself and never will be again.

Outside, the night hangs unnaturally still. You know it's a false hope. That this is just the eye of the storm.

When John crawls back into bed, his hand finds your stomach. He murmurs about the future—how fine a wife you'll become, how fine a mother you'll be.  

His breath stirs your hair as he chuckles. 

What'll it be, honey? A baby or an egg?

You nearly break apart all over again.

Babies. Cygnets. You don't know if it's possible. This union, this wretched coupling, is the first of its kind that you know of.

But from how he takes you again in the morning, nesting within you until he softens, if there is one man who could make it happen—

It's John.

You don't know what you want. Maybe you never did. The thought of leaving gnaws at you in the quiet moments when the fire is low and John's asleep, one heavy arm slung over your waist.

You could slip away. You could try. 

But then what? 

The forest is vast. The lake depressingly empty. The town full of strangers. And you are neither swan nor woman, not truly. There's no going back to your sisters, no wings to carry you home, wherever that is now. And even if there were—would you take them?

Would you abandon the warmth of his hands, the way he looks at you like you belong to him, like you belong somewhere at all? More precious than the matching gold on your fingers or the money hidden beneath a floorboard.

The guilt coils tight, constricts your ribs. You shouldn't hesitate. Shouldn't find comfort in the rough edges of this man, in the way he steadies you, feeds you, calls you honey and darling like he means it. 

He stole from you. He broke you open and reshaped you into something else that fits into his world, not yours. He doesn't even know your true name.

And yet, when his fingers trace lazy circles against your skin, when he murmurs Shy in the dark, you wonder—if you had the choice, would you take it?

It's best to tuck away your past life. Fold it like the lace in the trunk beneath your marriage bed. Shove it into a dark corner and relegate it to a memory to take out on rare occasions, softened with time. Best to recall the sweetness and not let the bitter ruin it.

Months later, you wake from a nap and find feathers strewn across the bed. Your heart stops.

With a trembling hand, you reach for the small of your back, and feel smooth, bare skin.

A wail rises in your throat, but then a tiny kick flutters deep in your belly.

You swallow the grief.

[bluggluglfgh]

so i found my lost fountain pen

[phantomrose96]

God's Favorite

Lucy wakes to the soft tapping of rain against her window, and she is God’s favorite. She knows this in the absent sound of her alarm, and she knows this in the yawning rumbles of thunder, and she knows this before she touches her phone alight to the notification screen.

8:43 am. Far from the 4:30 am alarm she’d needed to heed to make it to her flight. Her screen is awash with airline notifications.

She scrambles from bed. Her urgency is an apology. Lucy skips the shower and skips the hair washing and paints on deodorant before stowing it back in her carryon and calling her uber.

“Crazy weather,” her driver with the big mustache remarks. His windshield wipers swish through a river of rain.

“Yeah,” Lucy answers. She glances at her rumbling phone. She glances at the rumbling clouds. The road is clear. It shouldn’t be, not this route and not at this hour. A gas main broke somewhere up the highway that feeds this street. A freak accident. 2 injuries. It’s kept this road clear for just the locals since it happened. Lucy encounters no traffic enroute to the airport.

There are pockets of planes grounded across the runways, barely visible behind the sheets of downpour. They look like herding animals, herbivores, standing stock-still in brace against the weather. Lucy stares at them only a moment while the driver pulls her carryon out of the trunk. She grabs her jacket closed against the wind, and grabs her carryon handle, and thanks her driver. The rain does not reach her here, though the wind does.

Inside Lucy drags her bag past the help desks swarming with the orderly filings of people in disarray. Parents leaning too hard on help counters with kids pulling on bag handles. Hurried conversations and requests and arguments. The electronic boards are awash with deeply red DELAYED and CANCELED. The airport is choking. Lucy, who God loves, glides through security unimpeded.

At gate-side, Lucy finally looks to the large red board of DELAYED and CANCELED etchings to confirm what she knew without even checking her phone notifications. Gate A14. Her carryon wheels pitter and patter across tile as she walks, striding quickly, with apology.

When Gate A14 comes into view it is smothered with the weight of two or possibly three flights worth of people. There are people asleep clutching backpacks and curled on the floor. There is a four-year-old girl with her face buried in an iPad and a mother having a phone call whose clipped urgency infects Lucy. There is a man leaning over the counter to talk to the gate agent, and his hands pulse with each tensing of his fingers. “…to the hospital before she…” Lucy makes out, or thinks she makes out. She doesn’t hear the gate agent’s response, but she can read the defeated shake of her head.

Lucy’s carryon wheels clunk where the smooth tile of the terminal shifts to carpeting. She doesn’t think to grab a seat because there are no open seats. So she positions herself in a way to unmistakably say she is at the gate, threading between stagnant suitcases and kids splayed on the floor. Lucy approaches the rain-splattered windows, and like a conversation shy upon being overheard, the thunder recedes from her advance. The rain draws to a polite close. The clouds split along a seam and pull away, as if they were only ever a wave that had transiently crashed to shore. The sky is beautifully blue.

There is a stirring hopefulness in the air. Other passengers have pushed past Lucy to stand closer to the window and peer outside, as if their confirmation of the changing weather can convince the airline of what to do next.

The gate agent puts down the phone receiver of a one-sided call. She pulls the microphone close and with grainy clarity she announces, “Boarding for Flight A1874 to Detroit will begin in 10 minutes.”

On the walkway, through the gap between the throughway and plane, Lucy sees the puddles rising with steam. They throw the iridescent spectrum of a rainbow up into the sky.

In a backlog of hundreds of flights, Lucy’s is the first out across the runway. This is because God loves her. She only wishes It loved her in a way to fix her broken phone alarm.

…

In childhood Lucy had heard “God loves you” and “Jesus loves you” in the placative ways that Sunday School teaches its children. With jingles and crayon-drawings of sheep and shepherds and a decorated ornament, crafted each Christmas Eve.

Lucy had long since fallen out of it and had thought very little of her parents’ tepid god for the last 10 or 15 years.

It was last spring, 27-years-old, that Lucy had found her way out into the marsh. Mud sucking her boots and gnats plicking in swarm against her skin. Where she sat her tailbone in the muck and folded her arms over her knees and buried her face in her legs to cry. And cry. And cry. And there with the mugginess sopping her skin and the humidity coiling her hair, God decided It loved her.

It loved her with a parting of canopy for the robin-blue sky. It loved her with the chirp of cicadas. It loved her in the way a dog circles its owner and nudges a wet snout to palm, because It was here, and It would make her feel better.

Lucy’s seat is the window seat beside the man with the tensing fingers. He fiddles with a phone in his clutch until he locks it in airplane mode and stows it, to look at no more. Lucy wonders who this man knows in the hospital, and she wonders why God doesn’t love him more than It loves her.

…

In March, Marco breaks up with her over a plate of fish that is too dry. In the moment, Lucy wonders if it’s her fault, because of the fish. But that’s not it. The signs were there, in all the subtle and stuttering moments Marco had pulled away. Each little moment like a slightly missed step, on a staircase growing ricketier each month.

Marco leaves and everything is so quiet, to the point that Lucy thinks her own sounds are pretty stupid, and pretty embarrassing while she’s coiled snail-like and snottily-sobbing into her pillowcase. She thinks absently of how she has to wash the pillowcase now, and that’s fine, because she was going to wash her linens this weekend anyway. She sobs so hard she’s almost screaming. Oh, and kitchen towels. She’ll wash the kitchen towels too.

She’s alive enough the next morning to throw all her linens and her kitchen towels on the floor of the laundry room. And maybe Marco breaking up with her is fine, because his birthday is December 25th and who wants a husband whose birthday is the same day as Christmas?

Her doorbell rings. And somehow it’s Marco again. She opens it to him, and he smells like a wildfire.

“Sorry, Lucy, this is awkward,” and Lucy believes he means it. He’s clutching a jacket around himself for what looks like security more than warmth. His apartment burned down last night. A resident fell asleep with a cigarette lit and dangling from her fingertips. Unit right below him. All his stuff burned, or filled with smoke, or is now logged up with water. He’s been sitting outside on the cobblestone for the last few hours, watching the blaze, on the phone with insurance. His landlord hasn’t responded to him yet. He’s cold, and he’s smokey, and can he shower here maybe? Can he stay for just a day or two, maybe? Sorry. This is awkward. He has no family on this coast. He really has nowhere else to go.

“Sure.” Lucy lets in Marco who smells like a wildfire. She adds the towels to her laundry list because they will smell like a wildfire too once Marco has used them. When he is clean, Lucy asks him nice questions. He asks her nice questions back. She helps him figure out something strange on the insurance form. He starts cooking dinner before Lucy realizes he’d entered the kitchen, because she was busy with the linens and the towels.

Marco takes the couch and clean linens. “Thanks, again, really. I can pay you a few days rent, when I get the insurance payout.” It’s no problem. Lucy goes to her room and shuts the door. It’s warmer here with Marco again. She wonders how long he’ll stay. She wonders if it will be for as long as she thinks the sound of him breathing in the other room is a comfort.

Something twists in Lucy’s chest. She wonders why God loves her more than It loves Marco. Lucy wonders why God didn’t love the woman with the lit cigarette who did not make it out of the building.

…

In June Lucy is desperately throwing together the haphazard makings of a financial report. She meant to stay up late to finish it, and get up early to make it beautiful, but she’s had a cold for a whole week now and the new bottle of decongestant she grabbed wasn’t “non-drowsy” like she thought.

Her heart is beating, and she nearly twists her ankle with a misstep in high heels, and she almost loses her grip on the shoddy makings of a too-light financial report still warm from the printer. She can spin it, maybe, that it’s intentionally light and she’d simply wanted the esteemed and respected input from the executives in the room before she produces the truly polished report this evening. And when the eyebrows are raised and she is told the report is due now, maybe they will refrain from firing her on the spot since she is still the only one who can produce the report they need.

She pulls open the meeting room door as if she is not out of breath, as if her nose isn’t red from a thousand tissues. She takes her seat so hastily that she does not notice, until she looks up properly, and sees the CEO’s seat is empty.

No one speaks. No one acknowledges her entrance. Lucy hugs the warm binder to her chest.

The door latch clicks open, but Lucy knows it will not be the CEO. She heard the click of heels before the doorknob turned.

It’s his assistant with the lovely auburn hair that curls around her shoulders. Her suit is red and her eyes are red and she stands just behind the CEO’s chair. Everyone notices her in the way they did not notice Lucy.

She speaks. The CEO’s wife and daughter were in a head-on collision with a drunk driver 42 minutes ago. They’re in critical condition, and the CEO has gone to be with them. He asks everyone’s forgiveness and grace in this time. The meeting is rescheduled for tomorrow, same time, and he humbly requests if everyone in attendance can adjust their calendar to accommodate this. This is a big ask, he knows. The board will have questions, he knows. But these are extenuating circumstances. The assistant will help with any necessary reworking of everyone’s calendars. And Lucy, can you please deliver the report tomorrow? The assistant has a sympathy card, which she lays on the table along with a black pen, and she asks if anyone would care to sign it.

Lucy signs it. The card paper is so cold, compared to the warmth of the half-finished report squeezed tight against her chest. The half-finished report should have cooled by now, but God must know she’s cold and ashen-faced, and God loves her so much.

…

In July, Lucy is a perfectionist. Her mother swears she wasn’t always like this. Her high school best friend is surprised, when in town for a weekend and meeting up for coffee, by the way Lucy triple-confirms the time, and the place, and the way she wears two watches. Why two watches? he asks. Because the alarm on one watch might fail. What about your phone? The watches are the backup, if the phone dies.

There’s something off-putting in the way she talks, and the way she asks questions of him, and the way she exclaims in joy at every piece of good news he shares. Josiah glances behind himself, more and more, and it’s because Lucy stares back there like she knows someone else at the next table.

It’s all weird, and Josiah can’t help but pull away. But Lucy pulls away first, retroactively. She can always pull away retroactively, and declare to her four walls of her room how much she didn’t need that friend, like she doesn’t need Marco, or anyone else who God may drop at her doorstep like the dead bird bounty of a cat, happy to share with the person It loves.

Lucy finishes her reports early. She wiles away the sun at her office even in the summer finishing reports far before anyone could need them. She double-checks, every time. She triple-checks. Her boss pulls her into a meeting room and with hands folded on the desk, he asks if maybe she needs to take some time off. And instantly she declares to the four walls that no-one at the company is doing this to her. “I wasn’t implying that…” but she’s not looking at him when he answers.

In July Lucy returns to the marsh. She returns with stones she’s horded up and gathered in the trunk of her car. She walks through the boot-suckling mud and she weighs stones in her arms while she hurls them, and throws, and screams, and hopes one of them might strike God in Its snout.

“I HATE YOU!” she screams. She throws all her weight into a stone whose sharp edge nicks bark. She hurls one through the bushes and another into the leafy canopy above. She is sopping wet and the cicadas chirp at her. “I HATE YOU!! GO AWAY!! LEAVE ME ALONE!!!” She chucks a stone which lands in the sucking muck, capsizing like a ship beneath the algae.

She throws, and her gravity heaves forward, and her boots stay stuck in the mud. So she topples elbow-deep in the mud, spattered, soaking into her chin and her shirt and her jeans and her hair. She parts her lips and tastes the earthy wetness on her skin, coppery blood, split lip. The stones are all under her. She laughs. Lucy tilts her head to the sky screaming with laughter. Joyous to tears, with the wetness drawing rivulets down the mud on her cheeks. She laughs because sopping-in-mud-and-muck is NOT the state of something God loves. This wouldn’t happen to something God loves.

Lucy goes home. Lucy showers. Lucy does her laundry. And It crawls back into bed with her. Perhaps like a scolded animal, but perhaps It did not even know It was being scolded. Lucy cannot tell.

The wine stains came out of her linens today because God loves her.

[crushmeeren]

♡ Master List Link

❥ Fem Reader

❥ Warnings; cursing, teasing, dirty talk, praising, soft! dom Tamaki, breeding kink, mentions of pregnancy sex, pussy eating, fingering, vaginal sex

Note; for the lovely anon requester, I super loved writing this, I love Tamaki — the soft dom version of him hits the spot.

Tamaki is, more often than not, tightly wound into a ball of nerves. Not to say he hasn’t gotten any better at being able to handle the reigns of his anxiety, because he certainly has.

It’s just, there’s always a small undercurrent of unease lingering in his belly. Making his pulse thunder, fingers shaking with unrestrained adrenaline each time he gets interviewed after a villain beat down.

He’s ashamed to admit that even when he’s with friends the unsettling sensation remains, albeit minutely. It creeps across the back of his mind, lurking in the shadows at all times.

That is, unless he’s with you, and now, with your baby girl too. Funnily enough, his hands were as steady as they’d ever been when he first held his little girl.

His heart didn’t race, he wasn’t choking to death on butterflies— okay well, those things were happening. Just not in an oh my god the sky is falling type of way. It was in an oh my god I love my family so much I’m gonna throw up scenario.

Tamaki was drowning in his feelings for the two of you, so much so that he definitely did burst into tears.

Tamaki’s sweet little Chiyoko is two years old now, and don’t get him wrong, he’s happy. But fuck — he’d be remiss if he didn’t admit he’s starting to get that itch again. The one that clouds his mind and turns his thoughts into a one track mind of I want a baby, I want a baby, I need to knock her up NOW —

Tamaki just really longs for another little one to raise, someone to teach how to be better than he ever has been. Another person he can completely be himself with, who he’ll love unconditionally. He’ll always strive to give his kids a better world than the one he grew up in.

Although, if he’s being honest, what really severed the pathetically thin thread that was left of his patience was when he came across what must’ve been the 10th pregnant woman while out on patrol today.

All Tamaki could keep picturing was you. With your belly so cute, so swollen and so so round with his baby.

An image involuntarily pops up behind his eyelids. It’s of your pretty face, your lower lip pushed out so sweetly in a pout, tits obscenely spilling over the top of your bra. Tamaki swallows, throat dry as cotton as he works to keep a steady pace while he walks the streets.

His cheeks are burning, a bubblegum pink flush taking over his skin. He can feel the heat crawling up the back of his neck, all the way up to the pointy tips of his ears.

Tamaki frantically pulls the hood of his hero costume further down to obscure his face as his mind sharply turns down a much filthier path.

The vivid image and memory of you riding his cock when you were six months pregnant makes the muscles in his stomach clench in anticipation. He remembers how unbelievably tight your pussy was, how he was able to place his hands possessively on your belly as he gawked at the way you used his cock to make yourself cum.

Fuck, fuck, fuck — he craves the satisfaction of putting another baby into you so badly his balls ache.

His heart stutters when he realizes his cock is rapidly thickening against his inner thigh, hot and full.

Tamaki then urgently speed walks back to his hero agency as if he’s leaving a trail of fire behind him, because he’s pretty sure the stretchy spandex of his hero outfit is not going to hide his humiliating boner.

Later on that evening, after your daughter has fallen asleep, you find yourself with your hands bound to the metal slats of your headboard. A soft, smooth, silky material caressing your skin, and binding your wrists together above your head.

Your skin seems to be stretched too tightly over your bones, entire body flushing white hot as Tamaki traces the pads of fingers feather light over your bare breasts.

You’re both naked now, and he’s been playing with you for what feels like a lifetime. He’s been teasing you relentlessly as his thumbs delicately circle your nipples until they pebble up. Your pussy throbs in response.

“Tama,” you whine lowly, arching your spine as he grips your left tit playfully. You push further into his touch, craving so much more from your husband than he’s giving you. You twitch as his other hand traces your lower belly idly.

“Hm? Is this not enough for you my goddess?” Tamaki teases you with a soft voice, punctuating his words with another rough squeeze to your tit. He makes sure to pinch your nipple in between his fingers this time.

You bends your knees and let your thighs spread open even further to fit his lithe frame as you let out a breathy sigh.

“Fuck no, it’s not enough Tamaki,” you complain, irritation lacing your voice as you strain against the silk that ties you down. Goosebumps litter your arms when rests his warm palms over the bumps of your ribs, fingers splaying out just under the swell of your tits.

“No? My, that’s a bit bratty of you,” He reprimands, warm breath tickling over your skin as he presses a kiss to your sternum.

“Baby,” you say, asking for his attention. You tilt your head down to stare at him with wide eyes. “Please I want your mouth so bad.”

Slender fingers dig into your ribs, forcing a squeak out of you as it tickles you. Tamaki only hums, pressing a line of kisses down your soft belly, lowering himself onto his own as he makes his way to your pussy.

“Here?” Tamaki asks innocently before he kisses the sensitive area of your hip bone, sucking on the skin a little. Your hips twitch, trying to move his head to your pussy — which is starting to ache, puffy and slick from being so turned on.

“No,” you whimper, fingers curling into fists, nails digging into the flesh of your palms where you’re still tied up. Tamaki places his hands on the underside of your thighs, easily pushing them open further for him.

“Oh, so you must mean here?” He giggles, dipping his head to kiss the inner part of your thigh, close to the seam that connects to your groin. He nips at the skin there sharply, making you gasp.

“You know that’s not it Tamaki,” you huff, wiggling in place, frustratedly tugging at the silk yet again. Your shoulders start to ache and you have the insanely strong urge to tangle your fingers in his soft, purple hair.

Taking action, you maneuver your legs until you can rest your thighs over his shoulders, heels ready to dig into his upper back. He instinctively wraps an arm around your thigh.

He uses the other hand to brush his fingers through the small patch of curly hair you left above your clit. His cock twitches looking at it because it’s basically a neon sign pointing him straight down to your pretty pussy.

“I’m not quite sure what you want then baby,” Tamaki sighs, pretending to be disappointed. “Ya know, only good girls get what they ask for. You should use your words better, don’t you think?” He remarks thoughtfully, pinching your clit between his thumb and fore finger, trying to bite back his smile. One of his canines pokes out over his bottom lip.

“Tamaki!” You hiss, pressing upwards towards his mouth. The hero wraps both his arms around your thighs, halting your movement completely. “Fucking—Tamaki, please baby, I want you to eat my pussy,” you reluctantly beg, teeth grinding together in frustration.

“Oh! I see, why didn’t you just ask me in the first place? Such a good girl though, using your words,” Tamaki replies happily, brushing his warm lips over your clit when he speaks, and you could strangle the man right now.

His slick tongue is so close to your clit you have the urge to rip apart the silk tie and shove his face into you.

“Tamaki I swear, if you don’t — oh,” Your complaint is cut short. Your jaw falls open, fists clenching tightly when your husband’s tongue finally parts the lips of your pussy. Leisurely, he swirls circles into your clit, forcing a rush of warm shivers down your spine as he kitten licks at you.

“Oh my god Tamaki,” you keen, voice thick with pleasure. “Please don’t stop,” you plead, thighs threatening to suffocate him as you cross your ankles over his back.

He rewards you by sucking your clit between his lips, flicking his tongue up and down occasionally. He teased you for so long before that you’re already starting to feel an ominous knot tighten up behind your navel.

“Tama I wanna, oh!” Your breath hitches. “Fingers, want your fingers in my pussy, please!” You blurt urgently, tugging painfully at your restraints.

You squeeze your eyes shut when Tamaki hums, smoothly freeing himself from one of your thighs.

With no resistance, he slips his two middle fingers inside, stretching you just the way you needed him to. He thrusts and curls his fingers at a steady pace, never letting up the suction on your clit. His tongue teasing just under the hood and turning you in a pile of mush.

“Just like that, Tamaki please, I wanna cum,” you say desperately, tilting your head to look at him again and meeting his gaze. His eyes are half lidded, pale skin flushed. He’s so pretty it physically hurts.

The knot of your orgasm tightens frighteningly fast. Not to mention, just the sight of Tamaki between your legs is overwhelming.

The base of your skull digs into your pillow as the water balloon pops, your orgasm gushing through your limbs like heated honey.

Your mouth opens in a silent o shape as your entire body goes taught. Your back arches off the bed, pussy acting as a vice while you cum around Tamaki’s fingers. He makes sure to move fluidly with your hips as you roll them against his mouth.

Your husband pulls his mouth off your over sensitive clit with a pop, fingers still fucking the life out of you.

“Look at you, such a good girl, cumming on my fingers so sweetly,” Tamaki coos. His pink tongue pokes out to lick his shiny lips, moaning huskily at the taste.

After a few seconds, your body begins to melt back into into the mattress below. Your thighs releasing the death grip on his head. Your chest heaves as you catch your breath, watching Tamaki push himself up with one hand, settling back on his haunches as he slides his fingers free.

“You’re too good at that,” you laugh, chancing a peak at your husband’s hard, leaking cock.

He’s got such a pretty dick. He’s thick and pale, sticking straight out, a pale pink at the tip. It twitches a few times under your praise, precum making the tip shiny. Saliva gathers in your mouth as you imagine licking him clean and swallowing him whole.

Tamaki smiles shyly down at you like he’s read your mind. To distract you, he rolls his thumb over your puffy clit, making you wince.

“I know you want to suck my cock, but I need to be inside you baby. Want me to untie your hands?” He asks lovingly, running the knuckles of his clean hand over your cheek. You nod, humming softly.

“Please,” you laugh, tugging on the silk for emphasis. He chuckles gently in return, leaning over to untie your wrists.

As he does, the warm, spongy tip of his cock glides through the mess he’s made of your pussy. Massaging your clit, and making you both moan. The weight of his cock making you feverish.

Tamaki’s eyes are intense as they stare into yours. He lets you free, hands hovering nearing your face. You pause, flexing your fingers, allowing the blood to flow through your veins. You can feel the tension smoldering deliciously between you both, about to blaze.

Hands plant themselves on either side of your head, and then Tamaki’s suddenly smashing his against yours. He tilts his head to the side as his lips meet yours over and over.

Your fingers finally weave through his soft hair, tugging on it roughly. He lets his sharp canines catch on your bottom lip in return, easily swallowing the moans he’s dragging out of you.

Tamaki breaks the kiss, sitting back on his heels. Your hands fall limply to your sides when he moves away. He places his palms on your inner thighs, pushing them wide open. You let out a sound of protest, lower lip jutting out. He bites the tip of his tongue, looking amused.

“Don’t pout my queen, I know what your pussy really wants,” he says, lightly slapping your clit. You jolt in surprise, fingers fisting the soft material of the sheets.

“Yeah — okay, please fuck me,” you agree, feeling sweat bead up in the hollow of your throat.

“I’m gonna stuff you to the brim princess,” Tamaki says, voice airy but eager. He uses one hand to keep you spread, the other gripping the base of his shaft as he pushes the tip of his cock inside you His jaw clenches at just how tight, how perfect you are.

“I know Tama, c’mon, I want to make you a daddy again,” you urge him, wolfish grin pulling at your lips. Tamaki pauses, blinking at you in surprise with a rapidly forming blush. Said man raises an eyebrow, slipping the rest of his cock in without any warning. It punches a strangled sound from your lungs as you grip your pillow for leverage.

“My queen’s got a filthy mouth,” Tamaki croons, hooking your knees over his elbows — effectively folding you into a pretzel as leans forward, hands braced by your shoulders this time. “It’s hot,” he giggles. The glare you level him with holds no heat behind it.

He wiggles his eyebrows as he pulls his hips backwards halfway, before thrusting forward smoothly and filling you completely. You grip his shoulders, head falling backwards into the mattress. His cock is so so good.

“You feel amazing,” you tell him with a moan. The glide of his cock inside you is fucking perfect every time, splitting you open just the way you love.

“Yeah? Your pussy fits me like a glove princess, it drives me crazy,” Tamaki pants, warm breath ghosting over your face. He’s drinking up your reactions as if he’s never had a drop of water in his life.

“Mmhmm,” you whimper, hanging onto his muscled forearms now. “Harder,” you tell him, your face scrunching up as your eyes flutter shut. All you can focus on is the way he slides in and out of you, carving out a space for himself.

“Yes baby, you take me so well. You’re so pretty like this,” Tamaki praises low and smooth like butter. He gives you what you want, curling hips up slightly so he can hit your g-spot spot dead on.

Your nails create crescent shapes in his forearms, spine rising off the bed as much as you can in this folded position. Your blood is buzzing, eyes rolling so far back into your skull you’re afraid they’ll get stuck.

“Tamaki!” You sob. “I can — oh my god, feels like you’re in my guts.” Your legs flex over his elbows, his strength keeping you pinned however he chooses.

“It’s called a mating press for a reason baby,” Tamaki huffs a laugh, his eyebrows pinching together as the sound of his pelvis smacking your ass pushes him closer to the edge.

Tamaki makes you cum this way multiple times. Enough to make you see stars, hearing going fuzzy as you notice your hips start to ache. Then you’re begging him to cum inside you— making his cock jerk excitedly.

“I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to see you cum on my cock like this princess,” he says, as if in awe of the very sight of you.

Tamaki knows he’s not going to last much longer as he starts throbbing repeatedly, the way you’re suffocating him makes his brain mushy.

“Tamaki,” you murmur, hands reaching up to frame his face. “Cum inside me,” you demand, bringing his face down to kiss his jaw.

“I can’t wait to see your belly stretched with my baby again, you’re such a good mama,” he coos softly, turning his head so you can kiss his neck. You lick a stripe up his neck, tasting the salty sweat there and he groans. “Fuck, m’gonna cum, you’re made to take my cock, made to give me babies,” Tamaki babbles, thrusting shallow and desperate.

The tiny, rhythmic squeezes of your pussy are enough to push him over the edge, because suddenly he’s shoving his cock inside you entirely. The curly, coarse hair at his base tickling your skin.

Tamaki’s cock twitches relentlessly, stuffing you with small thrusts until he’s sucking in air through his teeth when he gets overstimulated.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, hugging him to your chest as Tamaki drops your legs. You sigh in relief, feet tingling as you crack your toes. The two of you catch your breath for a moment, hearts thundering.

Eventually, your husband rises, forcing you to drop your hands to the bed once again. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip as he pulls out of you slowly, admiring the sticky, white cum coating his cock.

He groans as he tracks the way his cum trails out of you. Before he can think better of it he drags a thumb over your pussy, gathering a bit of it and wrapping his lips around his thumb to suck it off.

“Tamaki!” You gasp, mildly scandalized and cheeks burning furiously from the nasty sight.

“I wanted a taste,” he says nonchalantly, pulling his thumb from his mouth with a wet pop.

A startled laugh slips from your lips and then Tamaki is infected with it, laughing along with you. You both giggle as he lays down on his side, facing you. He places a hand on your belly and you intertwine your fingers with his, resting your hands on your sternum.

“You’re lucky we didn’t wake up Chiyoko,” you scold him, halfhearted in your attempt. He just smiles, eyes shining as he laughs.

“I would’ve put her back to bed,” Tamaki appeases, squeezing your hand playfully. You hum, content enough with his answer to relax and enjoy the post orgasm glow.

“I can’t wait to be pregnant again,” you admit in a hushed voice, eyes fluttering shut.

“You’ll be just as beautiful as you always are,” Tamaki whispers so sweetly it’s tooth rotting.

The two of you bask in each others company for a bit longer, daydreaming about the baby you hope you’ve just you created before you do anything else.

[littlelamy]

hey queen was wondering if you could do an angsty rafe fic don’t care what the topic is just need my soul to be crushed tbh…

anyway love your work😛😛

lamy's note: thank you bby!! i hope i did it justice! 💗

the evening clung to the air, heavy and suffocating like a storm waiting to break. you stepped into the mansion, your heels clicking against the marble floors, echoing in the quiet stillness of tan lines and rosegold hues. everything about tonight felt off. rafe’s texts had been sporadic, distracted. but you’d convinced yourself it was just his usual mood swings—the volatility that came with his name, his family, his demons.

“just come over,” he’d said earlier, voice low like he was speaking through gritted teeth. you’d asked if everything was okay, but the curt reply and abrupt end to the call told you everything you needed to know. he was pissed about something. probably ward. maybe topper. or… maybe you.

anxiety gnawed at the edge of your thoughts, a sharp-toothed beast sinking into your resolve. still, you went. because it’s rafe. and you’ve never been able to stop yourself when it comes to him. his pull was magnetic, a gravity you couldn’t escape no matter how much it burned.

but as you approached the living room, your heart sank. voices. hers.

sofía.

your pulse quickened, thundering in your ears. you knew sofía had been hanging around more. her smile always too sweet, her touch lingering a second too long when she’d brush rafe’s arm at parties. you’d pretended not to notice. pretended to trust him. because rafe promised you, over and over again, that he was yours.

but now, as you turned the corner, you saw it.

rafe’s back was to you, broad shoulders taut under the strain of whatever this was. sofía stood inches from him, her hand on his chest, and before you could even process what was happening, she leaned in, pressing her lips to his.

for a moment, it felt like time stopped. your lungs seized, your vision blurred. the room tilted like you’d just stepped off a spinning carnival ride, nausea and disbelief crashing into you all at once.

“rafe,” you choked out, voice cracking under the weight of betrayal.

his head snapped up, his blue eyes wide with shock. “baby, it’s not—”

“this isn’t what it looks like!” sofía interrupted, a perfect picture of feigned innocence, but you saw the glint in her eye, the slight curl of her lips. she wanted this. she wanted you to see.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” you spat, glaring at her. your hands were trembling now, the fight-or-flight adrenaline coursing through you making every nerve hum with raw energy. “are you seriously trying to act like i didn’t just see you?”

sofía shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest. her expression was maddeningly calm, like she was toying with a piece of prey. “he didn’t kiss me back,” she said smoothly, like that somehow made it better.

“get the fuck out,” rafe growled, his voice low and dangerous. the venom in his tone made even sofía hesitate for a split second before she gave a mocking smile and sauntered out of the room, hips swaying like she’d won.

silence hung between you like a blade, sharp and ready to sever whatever fragile thread was left.

“you’re unbelievable,” you finally said, your voice trembling, barely containing the torrent of emotions surging within. “she’s been throwing herself at you for weeks and you just… what? let her?”

“no!” rafe took a step toward you, his face a mess of desperation and guilt, but you recoiled, and it hit him like a slap. “baby, i swear to god, i didn’t—i wouldn’t. she kissed me, i didn’t even—”

“but you didn’t stop her.”

he froze, his jaw tightening as your words landed. “what?”

“you didn’t fucking stop her, rafe.” your voice cracked, the dam breaking as tears spilled over despite your best effort to keep them at bay. “how am i supposed to believe you when you just stood there?”

“baby, please.” his voice broke, raw and pleading. he reached for you again, his hands trembling now, but you stepped back, shaking your head. the distance between you felt insurmountable.

“i trusted you,” you whispered, the words bitter on your tongue. “i fucking trusted you.”

“and you still can,” he insisted, his voice rising with desperation, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “you’re it for me. you’re the only one, i swear. she’s nothing, okay? she’s fucking nothing.”

“but i’m supposed to just ignore what i saw?” your voice rose too, the pain clawing its way out of your chest, demanding to be heard. “how many times do i have to wonder if i’m enough for you, rafe? if you even fucking want me?”

“you are,” he said fiercely, the raw intensity of his words cutting through the tension. he stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until you were backed against the wall. his hand cupped your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. “you’re everything. i need you to believe me.”

you shook your head, fresh tears spilling over, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. “i don’t know if i can.”

his hand dropped, his expression crumpling as the weight of your words crushed him. “don’t say that,” he begged, his voice barely above a whisper. “don’t fucking say that.”

“then prove it,” you said, your voice trembling but firm, the storm inside you raging. “prove to me that i’m not wasting my time loving you.”

his eyes searched yours, frantic, his chest rising and falling as he tried to find the words. and for the first time, you saw it. fear. raw, unfiltered fear. because he knew. he knew he was on the verge of losing you, and for once in his life, rafe cameron didn’t have a plan to fix it.

and the worst part? you weren’t sure you wanted him to.

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @rafesbabygirlx

[flowersforjude]

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐔𝐬

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Harwin Strong x Fem Targaryen!Reader 

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | A stolen morning spent with Ser Harwin.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 2,036

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Sneaking around, slightly suggestive in some parts?, there’s always gotta be a little angst, but also fluff!

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨��𝐞 | How has it taken me this long to notice how good this man is? It’s disgraceful really. @criminalamnesia has something similar to this so go check it out!

masterlist

A soft breeze was blowing through the open window of your chambers. Early morning light threaded through the thin curtains billowing in the gentle wind. You shifted slightly in bed, throwing an arm over your face to combat the sunlight. Sleep beckoned you back into its waiting embrace. 

The gods were cruel, however. Or, sweet, you really couldn’t decide. 

“Good morning.” A languid voice rumbles in greeting. Harwin trailed a hand up your bare shoulder, his delicate touch leaving chills in their wake. 

“Hmm,” you returned, willing your eyes to stay closed. If you even cracked them open a bit, there’d be no going back to sleep. You drew closer to his chest, pressing your face into the sheet that covered him. His extra warmth quickly pulled you back to slumber. Almost. 

Your lover, however, had different ideas. His hand on your shoulder roamed down your back, sliding under the thick cover you’d hoarded in the night. His touch was still gentle as he took to running his fingers up and down your spine. Hitting the ticklish spot right above your tailbone every time they wander lower. 

Face still hidden in his chest, you bit your lip to keep from giggling. He was relentless, though. Dragging his hand down once again, he allowed himself a generous feel of your rear. 

“Harwin!” You exclaimed, shooting your head up to meet his grinning face. 

“Good morning.” He said again, pulling you closer to him. He nudged your head to tilt up higher so he could press kisses to the underside of your jaw. 

Sighing, whether from pleasure or annoyance, no one knows. You tangle your fingers in his dark hair. “It is early.” You grumble as he moves lower to your neck. His lips were heavy against your skin. 

“Actually, Princess.” He replied, his hand going to your hair to angle your neck to be more open to him. “It's almost time for me to leave.” 

Truthfully, it was like this almost every morning you and Harwin spent together. Quiet spoken words, warm carasses, and sometimes a reenactment of the night before if there was time. The gods were surely used to the sight of you two tangled together in your bed, with the door to your chambers locked. It was moments like this that sustained you, both of you. Stolen from the rest of the kingdom, they were, but precious all the same. Something that was reserved just for the two of you without having to care about the rest of the people around you. 

“You don’t have to go.” You said casually, knowing deep down that wasn’t true. He always had to leave. Sneak out in the earliest hours of the morning to protect your secret. 

Eyes finally meeting his, you smiled sadly at him. Harwin returned it with a slightly more lighthearted one. He always tried to keep your spirits high in times like this. When the clock was ticking too fast for either of your comforts, racing against you for him to depart. 

“I do,” he countered. “I cannot be discovered here, or I’d lose my head. I’d lose you.” 

You rolled your eyes at his sentiment, but placed a kiss on his jaw. Telling him you knew, of course you did. He hummed as your lips met his skin. A deep thunder-like sound that never fails to send a thrill of excitement through you. “You’re forgetting the power I hold, my love. I’d talk my father down to a finger, perhaps. Unless he was having a bad day, then you’d be short of a hand.” You beamed up at him. 

“I trust your negotiation skills fully, Princess.” His fingers, still tangled in your hair, dug deeper, running his digits through the tresses of silver. 

You fought your eyes from dropping shut, his touch soothing your mind back to sleepiness. The cloak of dreams was very much welcome, but that was a disaster that needed to be avoided. You’d go to sleep, and Harwin would follow suit, and you’d be caught. Or you’d fall back asleep, and he’d leave without waking you. 

He’d done that only once before. Slipping out of your chambers without rousing you to say goodbye. You had been so angry at him for stealing your chance to see him off, for depriving you of one last kiss that you’d threatened to feed him to your dragon if he did it again. You would never actually do that, but your tongue was talented at running away from you when angry. And Harwin knew that, so you were always worried he’d escape like that again. 

One night, while tangled together after blissful pleasure, he’d admitted he tried to lure you back to sleep many times before with the soul intention of leaving once you were. An angry retort had been ready before he continued to say it was because he loathed seeing how crestfallen you looked when he had to part from you. He hated watching your giddy mood dissipate and be replaced by sadness. He would much rather prefer gazing at your peaceful expression as you sleep before leaving. 

You were quick to tell him your dark emotions were never aimed for him. Rather, they were reserved for the entire circumstances you both found yourselves in. Being so entirely enamored by each other but forced to hide your affections. 

You could not wed until Rhaenyra did. It would look unfavorably upon the heir if her younger sister took a husband before she did. So, while you loved Rhaenyra with your whole heart and would never wish to see her tapped in a marriage she did not want, you wished she would hurry up and choose someone. 

“Where are you posted today?” You asked, rolling yourself over so you sat atop him. The blankets pooled around your waist, so your naked chest was on full display for him. You saw him glance and then look away in the same second. Trying to remind himself that there was no time for that this morning. 

He cleared his throat before answering you. “I’ll be training new recruits in the yard for most of the day.” 

You grinned at him while scratching your nails lightly down his chest. “I suppose I’ll have to wander by the training yard then.” You said coyly. “Many times.”

“I suppose I’ll just have to try harder to remain focused with the beautiful princess passing through so often.” His arm came to loop around your waist, pulling you a little higher on his lap. His fingers smoothed over your hips as he watched you raise your arms above your head, stretching the tiredness from them. 

“I should speak with my father about taking you as my sworn sword.” You told him. “I’ve been thinking about it for some time now.” 

“You wish to be accompanied by me every day?” He questioned, sitting up while still holding you to him. 

Confusion colored your expression. “Do you not wish for it?” 

“That is not the issue,” he said. “If the King happens to agree, you will not be able to request a different guard simply because you’re crossed with me.” He flashed a bright smile at you. 

“I only did that once,” you protested. 

He laughed then, a hearty sound that you’d grown to adore. “Because I forgot the strawberry pastries you requested before I came to your chamber that night.” 

“I was looking forward to them.” You grumbled, ducking your head down. “And in any case, I came to regret that decision very quickly. Ser Brune was dreadfully boring.” 

Harwin laughed again, and moved your head up to look at him. “Speak with the King, love. If he agrees, then I’d happily spend the rest of my days never leaving your side.” 

Before you could say anything in return, he wound his arms around you, pulling you to lay on him as he sank back into the bed. Both his arms stayed wrapped around you, successfully holding you to him. Letting your head fall to the crook of his neck, you sighed contently. 

“And if he does not, then we’ll just have to hasten your sister along in her search for a husband.” He spoke, his deep voice rumbling through his chest. “So then we would finally be allowed to wed.” 

“Rhyeanra will likely remain unwed for the rest of her days.” You sighed. “I don’t think there will be a match waiting in the wings anytime soon.” 

“I’m sure you could…persuade her. You can be quite terrifying when it suits you, Princess.”

Gasping as if offended, you shift to meet his eyes. “You are unbearable.” You accused, leaning down towards his face. Your silver hair concealed you both from the outside world and the bothersome sun. 

“Am I now?” He asked with a smirk, brushing his nose along yours. 

“Terribly so.” You teased before leaning the rest of the way down and capturing his lips. 

Sweetness erupted behind your lips just as it did every time you kissed him. The intoxicating feeling lasted all of a few seconds before an alarming knock came from the door. 

The frantic knock was accompanied by your handmaiden’s worried voice. “Princess! Are you awake?” She called from outside. 

You quickly sat up, taking the sheets to cover your very naked body, before looking down at Harwin, who was also very naked. In your bed.

“Princess, are you in there?” Your handmaiden spoke again. The concern was raised in her voice. You could only imagine how the situation looked. Your door locked, you not answering, and no guard in sight outside your chambers. She was likely thinking the worst. 

You tossed the sheet at Harwin, rushing over to your wardrobe to yank out a nightgown. As you pulled the garment over your head, he rose and began hastily collecting his clothes and armor strewn across the floor from the night before. 

“Yes, Seanna!” You called to your handmaiden, helping Harwin haphazardly button his shirt.  

“You must go.” You urged while he attempted to place his armor on without fastening anything. 

“This damn, I am trying.” He muttered, nearly tripping over his boots, still on the floor in his haste. You cringed as his bracer slid from his arm, almost clattering to the stone floor. He caught it just as it fell, though. 

“Princess, are you alright?” Seanna asked, knocking on the door once again. 

“Yes, just a moment.” You yelled, trying to mask the nervousness in your voice. You gathered his boots and remaining armor as you herded him to the secret passageway hidden in the wall behind your dressing screen. Jerking the concealed door open, you all but pushed Harwin in. 

Shoving his armor and boots into his arms, you noticed the wide smile he was directing at you. “Yes?” You questioned disbelievingly.

“You seem a little nervous, love.” 

Pushing his shoulders to urge him on, you rolled your eyes at his audacity. “Just go!” You chastise him with a traitorous laugh sounding behind your words. 

He chuckled while surging forward to press a lingering kiss to your lips. With that, he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the passage. You quickly put the door to rights and readjusted the dressing screen. Running a hand through your hair, you finally open your door for your handmaiden. 

She all but rushed into the room. “I was starting to think the worst, your Highness.” She got to her duties right away. Going to the wardrobe to retrieve a dress for the day. “Who was meant to be on guard last night, Princess? There was no one outside.” 

“There wasn’t?” You asked in mock surprise. 

“Yes, Princess.” Seanna looked at you skeptically. 

“Oh!” You exclaimed as if you just remembered something. “Ser Harwin was on duty last night. I’m sure they are just doing shift chances early this morning.” 

“I’m sure.” Your handmaiden agreed with more skepticism. She was good enough to let the matter drop, though. 

Once she is done putting your hair into a braided style, she helps pull your dress over your undergarments. Stringing a necklace around your neck, she smirks at you in the mirror. 

“His cloak is under your bed, your Highness.”

Expect a lot more of this man from me. He's on my list now!

[munsonsmixtapes]

Virgin!Eddie X Experienced!reader where Eddie has a wet dream for the first time and calls (reader) for a little bit of help 🤭

Ooh, yes! Thanks so much for the request, lovely!

virgin!Eddie x experienced!reader

cw: MDNI (18+) smut (p in v) Eddie receives a handjob

Rain pattered against Eddie’s trailer as he tossed and turn in his sleep. His thoughts were filled with nothing but you and he could stop seeing your naked body and the way your back arched in pleasure as he pounded into you. Your hands leaving bright red scratches down his back as you screamed his name as he said the most filthy things in your ear.

He jolted away at a loud clap of thunder and checked to see that he had in fact had a wet dream about you. He had dreamed about you so many times, but he was always able to care of it. But tonight, he didn’t want to. He wanted you to do the job for him. He wanted more company tonight than just his hands.

Eddie turned onto his side to face his bedside table and stared at his phone, contemplating giving you a call, but it was three in the morning so he was sure that you were asleep. He was desperate, but not enough to bother you while you were sleeping.

Maybe he could text you. That wouldn’t be too disruptive, right? He was just going to text you and if you didn’t reply, he was just going to have to rely on his stupid hand to get the job done. But the thing about his hand was that it wasn’t pretty and didn’t compliment him when he made a sound that was particularly hot. And his hand didn’t snuggle him after the show was over, telling him what a good job he has done.

Eddie reached over and grabbed his phone and opened up the text thread he had with you before going through your conversation before debating if he was actually going to say something. Before he could stop himself, he quickly typed out something before throwing his phone across the room.

Are you awake?

He got up onto his knees as if he could see the screen from there and felt his heart race in his chest as he waited for a reply. God, why did he do that? He should have just left it alone.

His phone pinged and he launched himself across the bed into the floor, flipping the phone over to see that you had replied.

never thought I’d get a you up text from you

What’s up?

My dick, he thought, but he thought that was too to the point.

Can I come over?

There was no way that he was going to fuck you with Wayne being in the other room, so your apartment was going to have to work.

You replied instantly.

You don’t have to ask, handsome! That’s why I gave you the key, remember? 😉

He honestly couldn’t believe that you had trusted him enough with a key to your apartment. Sure, you had been at this for months, but he didn’t think that your relationship (if you could even call it that) was at that stage. But still, he took the key found himself staring at it from time to time, knowing that you’d let him come over any time he wanted.

You had given Eddie the key months ago and this was going to be the first time he actually used it. His excuse was that he didn’t want to potentially walk in you while changing but you both knew that you couldn’t have cared less. His real reason was that a key was a big step in any relationship, and he wasn’t sure what ever was going on between the two of you, but he liked it. And he was trying to convince himself that he didn’t want your relationship to progress just because he was sure that you didn’t want it to. He knew for a fact that if you asked him to be your boyfriend, he would have jumped at the chance.

Eddie threw on his shoes out the way out the door and raced across town to get to your apartment. He had memorized the way, no longer needing his phone to get him there since he had come over so often.He had never come over so early in the morning, though, and he was grateful for the lack of people on the road so he could get to you sooner.

Eddie pulled up to your building and the elevator ride to your floor was agonizingly long as it slowly took him up to your floor. Once there, he got to your door and unlocked it, letting himself in.

The place was in a bit more disarray than usual with a few dishes in the sink and appliances that took over the counter that were usually neatly tucked away. But that didn’t surprise him since you didn’t really have much time to clean up. And Eddie didn’t think he could talk because he could barely see the floor in his own room.

He moved through your apartment and knocked on your door which you opened in a flash. You let him inside and he couldn’t take his eyes off of the baby pink silk lingerie nightgown that showed off your body very nicely.

“Hi,” you greeted him with that pretty smile and he thought he could just melt right there where he was standing. Seeing you in that outfit, he really was going to need all the help he could get.

“Hi,” he nodded and stepped towards you, his hands, gripping your waist, pulling you to him. “This is a nice little number.”

“Really? You like it?” Were you kidding? Eddie swore he was going to cum right there just by looking at you. The dress stopped right at the middle of your thighs and the cups of the top were always sheer and he could see how hard your nipples were. It was driving him mad that you both weren’t already naked.

“Fucking love it. You’re so hot it’s unfair.” Eddie was really good at compliments. He somehow always knew exactly what you wanted to hear and never failed to tell you how much he liked the way you looked. He was just so sweet and you really wished you could have him b

“You’re hotter,” you told him, your hand moving up so you could twirl some of his hair around your pointer finger.

“Impossible. There’s no competition,” he leaned forward so that his lips were right by your ear. “But if there was, you’d win hands down,” he whispered before bringing your earlobe between his teeth and giving it a soft bite before pressing his lips to your jaw. He pressed open mouthed kisses to your skin until he got to your lips, pulling you in for a bruising one.

It was messy, teeth and tongues getting in the way, but you eventually figured it out, your lips slotting together like two perfect puzzle pieces. Your hands gripped his jaw roughly as you moved his head, trying to get more of him, beginning him to open his mouth as your tongue swiped along his bottom lip.

He opened up and you slide your tongue into his mouth, letting the muscle swirl around his as you both moaned in pleasure at the feeling. You felt Eddie’s boner against your stomach and pushed down his pajamas pants and underwear, giving you a full view of his cock.

“God, I need you so bad,” he whined and you shushed him, trying to get him to calm down.

“It’s okay,” you assured him. “Don’t worry, I’m going to take care of you.” You reached for some lube and covered your hand in the stuff before giving his length a few slow pumps, causing him to let out a loud moan, as if it was a sigh of relief.

“God, feels so good.” His fingers dug into your hips as he threw his head back, shutting his eyes tight as euphoria coursed through him.

Eddie’s hands slide down and pushed up your dress to remove your underwear only to find that you weren’t wearing anything.

“You’re not wearing any underwear,” he told you and you bit your bottom lips as you looked up at him through your lashes.

“Thought it’d skip a step.”

Well, that was very nice of you.”

You continued to move your hand back and forth, picking up the pace as you did so, wanting him to feel as good as you had a few nights ago. Once he had reached his climax, you removed your hand and you pushed him down onto the bed before reaching into the pockets of his jeans before pulling out a condom. You ripped open the packet before rolling the thing onto his dick.

You then climbed onto top of him and settled yourself onto his cock, both of you moaning at the sensation as you did so. Out of all the times you and Eddie had hooked up, he had always been on top, but this time, you felt like you owed it to him to let him be on the bottom. You took no time and bucked your hips into his, grabbing onto his shoulders so you’d have more control.

“Fuck, so good, baby,” he whined and you couldn’t stop thinking about hot he looked underneath you, his hair splayed out onto the mattress. His lips so pretty and pink and kiss bitten. His eyes shut as he made the prettiest sounds, it was all so euphoric.

“You like that?” You asked, moving the hardest and fastest that you could and he came completely undone underneath you, his hands scratching up and down your back, leaving bright red marks.

“God, love it, baby. Could let you ride me all night.” You could definitely make that happen, especially since he was being so sweet and complimentary.

“Oh, I intend to.” You continued to move at the same speed and you both moaned and whined and whimpered at every little move, being nothing but vocal about how much you were enjoying your time together.

If you were being honest, Eddie could have been the only man you ever fucked for the rest of your life and would have been content. You’d never tell him, but you’d hadn’t even slept with anyone else since that night at there club and you were going to continue to hook up with him until he got bored of you. They always got bored of you.

After riding him for what felt like forever, you both climaxed and did the proper things to clean up before climbing into your bed, snuggling up in each other’s arms, your naked bodies pressed together.

You stared at Eddie as you stroked his hair, wondering why he always came back. Most people would have kicked you to the curb by then, but it seemed like the never got tired of you. He was such a gentleman and you couldn’t believe that he had given you the honor of taking his virginity in that club all those months ago.

[apoemaday]

Shadows

by Mary Oliver

Everyone knows the great energies running amok cast terrible shadows, that each of the so-called senseless acts has its thread looping back through the world and into a human heart. And meanwhile the gold-trimmed thunder wanders the sky; the river may be filling the cellars of the sleeping town. Cyclone, fire, and their merry cousins bring us to grief — but these are the hours with the old wooden-god faces; we lift them to our shoulders like so many black coffins, we continue walking into the future. I don’t mean there are no bodies in the river, or bones broken by the wind. I mean everyone who has heard the lethal train-roar of the tornado swears there was no mention ever of any person, or reason — I mean the waters rise without any plot upon history, or even geography. Whatever power of the earth rampages, we turn to it dazed but anonymous eyes; whatever the name of the catastrophe, it is never the opposite of love.

[speaknow-sw]

•| ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ |•

Content : fight, killing, death, whipping.

A/N : Chapter one guys, so excited to introduce that version of Anakin. It’s kind of a knightfall Anakin, or unburnt Vader. I tried to write as good as I could but I remind you, I’m not English. Enjoy.

• | ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪ : ᴛʜᴇ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ | •

The Colosseum roared like the mouth of the gods, hungry for blood.

THE GATES OF THE COLOSSEUM CREAKED OPEN, revealing the sun-soaked expanse of the arena. The light hit like fire, reflecting off the gilded helmets of the Roman guards stationed at the edge of the sands. Anakin stepped forward, bare-chested beneath his battered armor, the leather straps across his shoulders darkened with sweat and blood. His sword rested in his hand—a weapon as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.

The crowd roared with anticipation. Thousands of voices thundered through the stone arches, shaking the ancient bones of Rome itself. They didn’t care who fought, only that blood would be spilled.

Anakin’s eyes were dark beneath the shadow of his helmet. His expression was unreadable—cold, calculated. He moved like a wolf in a den of lions, his footsteps steady, his presence commanding. His opponent stood across the arena, waiting. A seasoned gladiator, scarred and broad, wielding a spiked mace and a shield emblazoned with a Roman eagle.

The man sneered, raising his mace in a silent challenge.

Anakin didn’t flinch. He didn’t smile. He merely rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles coil like a serpent. His opponent was bigger, stronger. But size didn’t matter. Strength didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered in the Colosseum was who walked out alive.

The signal was given—a sharp blast of the horn—and the fight began.

The other gladiator charged first, his heavy footsteps pounding across the sand. The mace swung toward Anakin’s head with brutal force, aiming to crush his skull in a single strike. But Anakin was faster. He ducked low, the air whistling as the mace sliced through the space where his head had been.

He pivoted on his heel, slashing upward with his sword. The blade caught the other man’s shield, sending a reverberating clang through the arena. The force of the blow made the man stumble, but he recovered quickly, slamming his shield forward like a battering ram.

Anakin took the hit to his shoulder, pain blooming across his body, but he didn’t fall.

Instead, he stepped back, circling his opponent with measured grace. His eyes locked onto every movement—the way the man’s shield arm trembled under the weight, the slight hitch in his step. Every weakness was a thread to be pulled, unraveling the illusion of invincibility.

The mace swung again, a brutal arc aimed at Anakin’s side. This time, he sidestepped with ease, his sword flashing like lightning. The blade skimmed across the other man’s thigh—a shallow cut, but enough to slow him down.

The crowd’s cheers grew louder, a frenzied chant echoing through the Colosseum.

“Skywalker! Skywalker!”

Anakin ignored them. He wasn’t fighting for their approval. He was fighting to survive.

His opponent lunged again, swinging the mace in a reckless, desperate arc. Anakin caught the weapon on his sword, the clash of steel ringing in his ears. The impact jarred his arm, but he held firm, twisting his blade to lock the mace in place.

For a moment, they stood locked together, muscles straining, sweat dripping into the sand. The other man’s eyes narrowed, his teeth bared in a snarl.

“You fight like a man who wants to die,” the gladiator growled.

Anakin’s lips barely moved. “No. I fight like a man who’s already dead.”

With a sudden surge of strength, Anakin twisted his sword, breaking the lock. The mace was wrenched from the other man’s grasp, falling to the ground with a heavy thud. Anakin didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, his sword aimed for the man’s exposed chest.

But the other gladiator was quick, raising his shield just in time to block the killing blow. Anakin’s blade glanced off the shield, sending sparks flying. The man swung the shield like a hammer, smashing it into Anakin’s ribs.

Pain exploded in Anakin’s side, but he didn’t falter. He twisted away, his feet kicking up sand as he regained his footing. His breath came in short, harsh gasps, but his grip on his sword never wavered.

The other man was breathing hard now, too. Blood dripped from the cut on his leg, staining the sand beneath him. He glanced at his fallen mace, then back at Anakin, calculating his next move.

Anakin saw the hesitation. He saw the fear creeping into the man’s eyes.

It was over.

Anakin moved like a predator, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. His sword cut through the air, a deadly arc aimed at the man’s shield. The blow was relentless, driving the other gladiator back step by step. Each strike was precise, calculated to wear down his opponent’s defenses.

The shield splintered beneath the onslaught, cracks spreading like lightning across the wood and metal.

The crowd was on its feet now, screaming for blood.

Anakin’s sword struck one final time, shattering the shield completely. The other man stumbled backward, weaponless and defenseless. He fell to his knees in the sand, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Anakin stood over him, his sword raised.

The arena fell into a tense silence, waiting for the killing blow.

The man looked up, blood smeared across his face. “Mercy,” he whispered.

Anakin’s grip tightened on his sword. His heart pounded in his chest, a relentless drumbeat of rage and grief. He saw ghosts in the man’s eyes. Ghosts of those he had killed before. Ghosts of the life he had lost.

There is no mercy in Rome.

With a swift, decisive strike, Anakin brought his sword down.

The blade cut through flesh and bone, clean and final. The gladiator crumpled to the ground, lifeless. Blood pooled in the sand, dark and endless.

The crowd erupted in thunderous applause, their cheers echoing off the stone walls. They chanted his name, hailing him as a hero, as a champion.

But Anakin felt nothing.

He sheathed his sword, turning his back on the corpse. His gaze lifted to the crowd, scanning the sea of faces. They cheered for him, but they didn’t see him. They saw a legend. A monster. A weapon forged by Rome’s cruelty.

But somewhere in the crowd, a pair of eyes watched him differently. Eyes that didn’t cheer. Eyes that saw through the mask of brutality to the man beneath.

Eyes that remembered him.

Anakin’s footsteps echoed through the Colosseum as he left the arena, the bloodstained sand stretching behind him like a trail of ghosts.

The Colosseum loomed like a monument to blood and ruin, its arches casting jagged shadows across the sand. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and iron, the echoes of battle lingering long after the last sword had fallen. The crowd dispersed slowly, their cheers fading into the streets of Rome, leaving only ghosts behind.

You walked unnoticed through the emptying arena, your form shrouded in the guise of a noblewoman. Mortals glanced your way, but none truly saw you. They never did. To them, you were a passing shadow, a face soon forgotten. But you moved with purpose, your sandals barely disturbing the blood-soaked sand beneath your feet.

The gods had cursed you to wander endlessly, to carry the weight of a legend that time had tried to bury. For centuries, you had drifted through mortal lives, whispering forgotten stories into the ears of poets and scholars. You were the goddess of legends, doomed to remember what the world sought to forget.

But now… something stirred. Something ancient. Something long buried beneath centuries of dust and stone.

You paused at the edge of the arena, your gaze drawn to the sands where blood still pooled. The echoes of swords clashing and bodies falling seemed to resonate in your bones. And beneath it all, beneath the noise and violence, you felt it—him.

Remus, Anakin.

The name lingered on the edge of your mind like a half-forgotten melody. You hadn’t spoken it in centuries. You had buried it alongside your grief, locking it away in the ruins of memory. But now, the weight of that name pressed against your chest, as if the past was clawing its way back to the surface.

Your eyes scanned the arena, searching for the source of that ancient pull. You knew it wasn’t just the place that stirred these memories. It was someone—a presence you hadn’t felt since that fateful day beneath the twin hills where Rome was born.

And then you saw him.

He stood near the gladiator gates, the torchlight casting flickering shadows across his battered form. His armor was streaked with blood, his sword still hanging at his side. His dark hair clung to his face, damp with sweat. His gaze was sharp, unyielding, even as he limped slightly from the battle’s toll.

You felt the air leave your lungs.

It was impossible. Unthinkable.

But there he stood—Anakin.

He didn’t know you. Not yet. The curse of mortality had stripped him of his memories, erasing the bond you once shared. But his soul… his soul was the same. Wild, restless, defiant. His very presence radiated rebellion, a man carved from the bones of the earth and tempered in fire.

You took a step closer, your heartbeat echoing like thunder in your ears.

The gods had whispered of this moment. They had told you that Anakin would be forgotten, his real name wiped from history, while his brother’s legacy endured. But they never said his soul would be lost forever. You had carried hope through centuries of loneliness, a fragile ember that refused to die.

And now that ember flared into a blaze.

Still, doubt gnawed at the edges of your mind. Was this a cruel trick of fate ? A shadow cast by your own yearning ? Or had the gods truly given you another chance to rewrite the legend that had condemned you both ?

Remus—Anakin—turned slightly, as if sensing a presence beyond the mortal realm. His gaze swept over the arena, passing by you without lingering.

But something made him pause.

He was more beautiful than you remembered. The years and centuries had softened the memory of his face, but now, seeing him in the flesh, it was like waking from a dream you hadn’t realized you’d been trapped in. His hair, once trimmed short and once shiny as the sun above your head, had returned in this life as wild, golden curls—disheveled and unruly from the fight, falling into his eyes with a carelessness that no Roman noble would dare. Those eyes… gods, those eyes. Blue as the sky above the Tiber at dawn, fierce and unrelenting, they seemed to pierce through the veil of time itself. He also looked older. Older than when he died, barely a man, still harboring a cherubic face with rosy cheeks and dusted lips. Now he was breathtaking. 

His features were sharp yet regal, a strong jaw dusted with stubble, the high cheekbones of a warrior carved by fate’s cruel hand. His lips, stained with the faintest hint of blood, were set in a line of defiance. He bore the scars of a gladiator’s life—scratches across his broad chest, bruises blooming beneath his armor—but they only added to his allure. He was mortal, yes, but he stood with the bearing of something more, something ancient. He was a man forged by violence, yet he carried the weight of tragedy in every line of his body.

His stature was commanding, taller than most of the men around him, with broad shoulders that seemed made to carry the weight of the world—or your sorrow. There was something about the way he moved, even in exhaustion—graceful yet lethal, like a lion prowling the edges of the arena. He was strength and ruin in one.

And you couldn’t look away.

To the Romans, he was nothing but a slave, a fighter to bleed for their amusement. But to you, he was everything you had lost. Everything the world had forgotten.

His eyes, darkened, narrowed as they met yours. There was no recognition in them. No spark of memory. Yet something ancient flickered there—something deeper than conscious thought.

He frowned, his expression unreadable, before turning away and disappearing through the gates.

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest.

He was here. Alive. But he didn’t remember you.

Not yet.

And as you stood alone in the shadow of the Colosseum, you whispered the name the world had forgotten.

"Remus." No… Anakin, you chastised yourself.

The winds carried the name across the empty sands, a prayer to the past. A prayer for what was to come.

Something ancient stirred in the air—a curse left unfinished, a legend waiting to be rewritten.

The crowd gathered at the Forum, eager for blood. Romans thrived on spectacles of cruelty, drawn to suffering as moths to flame. But this was not a battle to the death. There would be no swords, no shields. This was punishment. A public reckoning. And at the center of it stood Anakin, stripped to the waist, his back bared to the lash.

The whip cracked through the air like thunder, and the first strike split the silence. His body jerked, muscles tightening, but Anakin did not cry out. He refused to give them the satisfaction. His back already bore scars from past punishments, reminders of Rome's endless cruelty. This was nothing new. He had endured worse.

The lictor struck again, the leather biting into flesh. Blood beaded along the fresh wounds, trickling down his spine. Anakin clenched his jaw, refusing to show weakness. His pain belonged to him alone; he would not let Rome take that from him. The crowd murmured in approval, reveling in his suffering, their eyes alight with morbid fascination.

But then, his gaze found you.

You stood at the edge of the crowd, cloaked in fine robes, your face pale with horror. You hadn’t come to witness this cruelty. You had come seeking answers, hoping to understand the mortal who haunted your dreams. But now, watching him bleed beneath Rome’s lash, you could barely breathe. This was Anakin. This was the man you loved—suffering from a whip.

Yet Anakin did not see love or recognition in your gaze. He saw judgment. He saw cruelty.

His lips curled into a bitter sneer, and his eyes darkened with hate. His expression hardened into defiance, as though daring you to look away. His gaze was unrelenting, full of fury and accusation, as if to say: Are you entertained ?

Another lash tore through the air, ripping his skin. He grunted in pain, his shoulders trembling under the strain. But his eyes never left yours. His anger burned, hot and unyielding, as though your presence stoked the fire within him.

To Anakin, you were just another Roman aristocrat. Another cold-hearted noble reveling in his suffering. Your beauty only made it worse. He hated himself for noticing the way the sunlight caught the strands of your hair, or the way your eyes shimmered with emotion. He loathed himself for wondering what your voice might sound like, for imagining your hands on his face, soft and kind.

But he buried those thoughts deep beneath his rage. You were a Roman. You were his enemy.

Finally, the lictor lowered the whip. Anakin’s back was slick with blood, the wounds raw and open. The guards dragged him to his knees, shackled his wrists, and hauled him away. The crowd dispersed, satisfied by the punishment, but your feet remained rooted to the ground.

As he was pulled past you, his gaze flickered toward you one last time. There was something in his eyes—pure hatred. 

Back in the dim confines of his cell, Anakin leaned against the stone wall, his body aching from the beating. His wounds burned, but it was nothing compared to the rage simmering in his chest. His thoughts circled back to you, unbidden and unwanted.

The Roman woman.

Why couldn’t he stop thinking about you ?

He hated you. He hated your kind. The Romans had taken everything from him—his freedom, his dignity, his name. His Master selling his body to the highest bidder of the market for a night. And yet, your face lingered in his mind like a delicious curse. He remembered the horror in your eyes as he was whipped. He remembered the way your lips parted, as though you wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

But hate was easier. Hate was safer.

So Anakin closed his eyes and vowed to forget you.

Yet in the darkness of his cell, he dreamed of your face.

The night brought no peace. Shadows of memory chased you through sleep, weaving dreams from fragments of a life long past—a life you were cursed to remember when all the world had forgotten. A life where Anakin loved you.

You saw him again as he had once been. Young, wild, and full of life. The fields of the Aventine stretched endlessly beneath a golden sky, and the wind carried the scent of wildflowers. His laughter echoed in your ears—low, warm, and unguarded, the way only he could sound. He ran ahead of you through the tall grass, turning back every few steps to beckon you closer.

“Come,” he whispered in your dream, his voice the anchor of your heart. “There is still time.”

In the fields, he knelt before you, hands rough from a life of toil, but gentle as they wove a crown of flowers. His fingers moved with care, weaving stems together until he lifted the delicate circlet and placed it atop your head. You laughed at his crooked handiwork, brushing a stray lock of golden hair from his face.

“You look like a goddess,” he murmured, his gaze soft with devotion.

“And you,” you teased, pressing your forehead to his, “look like a boy playing king.”

His lips found yours then—sweet, tender, tasting of summer and wildflowers. His kiss was gentle, unlike the harshness of the world around you. In those moments, you had been free. With Anakin, there were no rules, no gods, no fates woven by unseen hands. There was only love.

But dreams cannot hold forever.

The fields faded into mist, and the warmth of his touch slipped away like sand through your fingers. The laughter died. The golden sky darkened into the cold gray of stone walls. Rome replaced the Aventine. Blood replaced wildflowers.

And then, there was him again.

You saw him as he had been that day—standing tall, in the Colosseum, sword in hand, drenched in blood and defiance, older... His gaze, blue as a storm-tossed sea, had found yours even as he was punished. There was no tenderness in his eyes, no softness. Only fire. A fire that burned you even now.

“Ani,” you whispered in your sleep, clinging to the name like a prayer. But no. He was not Ani anymore. He was Anakin now—a man forged in iron and rage, a soul reborn into chains.

You woke, breathless, your hands trembling with the remnants of your dream. The gods' curse weighed heavy on you, a burden you had carried for centuries. You were the goddess of legends, the keeper of stories lost to time. And your curse was to remember the one story no one else did—the story of the brother who had been forgotten.

The gods watched you still. Their eyes followed your every step, their judgment lingering over you like a shadow. But you no longer cared for their wrath. You had loved Remus once, and now, you saw him again, alive in the mortal body of a gladiator.

"Anakin," you whispered to the night, letting go of the wrong name. Letting go of the past that weighed too heavily on your heart.

You vowed to approach him. To see him again, to make him remember who he once was, who you had been together. Even if the gods punished you again. Even if the world itself crumbled beneath your feet. You needed his touch, you craved him, his scent, his voice…everything about him made your skin tingles and your heart ache.

Because you would find him. Even if he had changed. 

Even if it meant your ruin.

Roma de cineribus nata est, et tu fusa manus eras. 

Rome was born from ashes, and you were the hand that spread them. 

[thedemoninme141]

Her Heartbeat; Chapter 22: Her Heartbeat.

Parings: Wednesday x Fem reader. Wordcount: 11.5k.

Summary: You changed Wednesday's heartbeat forever.

Warnings: Angst or No Angst?

Chapter 1 ------- Previous Chapter

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Wednesday stood still, her dark, hollow eyes fixated on it...

On your name... carved into the smooth, cold surface.

The weight of the world pressed down on her shoulders, and yet, the world itself felt unbearably empty. Her hands trembled ever so slightly as she reached out, fingertips ghosting over the etched stone.

God, she missed you too much already.

She had always known this moment would come, had braced herself for it from the very beginning, but it didn’t matter. Nothing could prepare her for the weight of this emptiness.

The flowers in her hand were black roses, your favorite, the ones you said reminded you of her, resilient, beautiful, and worth everything, you had said.

She knelt down, brushing her fingers over the soft petals before setting them at the base of the headstone.

Behind her, a voice broke the heavy silence.

“Grandma Wednesday, how was Grandma Y/N?”

Wednesday didn’t turn around. Her dark eyes stayed fixed on your name, the corners of her lips twitching upward in the faintest hint of a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “She was…She was everything.”

It had been a good 62 years, with you…

“The surgery was successful.”

For a moment, Wednesday didn’t move. The words reached her ears, but they felt distant, muffled, as if she were hearing them underwater, she couldn’t process them. It didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real. Fate had a cruel sense of humor, always snatching away what she loved most. Her mind repeated the doctor’s words over and over, trying to convince herself they were real.

She didn’t even register Enid’s arm wrapping around her shoulders until the warmth of the embrace seeped through her. It was a strange feeling—light and fragile, like something inside her had shifted, broken apart and rebuilt itself all at once.

All she could feel was the thundering of her own heartbeat,

You were alive.

You were alive.

She barely registered the doctor’s additional words, something about being able to see you after a few hours. It was as if the room had been muted, and all she could focus on was the singular fact that you were still here.

Time dragged on and yet moved too quickly. Minutes blurred into hours as she waited, her patience hanging by a thread. And then, finally, she was led to the room where you rested.

The sight of you made her knees almost give out.

You were there. Alive. Awake. The sight of you made her legs almost give out. You were pale, fragile-looking, but your eyes—those eyes that haunted her dreams—were open and staring at her with a soft, tired smile.

“Hey, Angry Bird,” you said, your voice weak but carrying that familiar tease.

Her feet moved before she realized what she was doing. In a matter of seconds, she was at your bedside, her hands reaching out to grasp yours. She didn’t care about appearances, didn’t care about keeping up her usual mask. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she didn’t care about that either.

“You’re…” She swallowed hard, her voice unsteady. “You’re okay.”

Your smile was soft, tired. “ You are not getting rid of me that easy."

The corner of her mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile. “You have an infuriating tendency to make me worry.”

Your fingers tightened around hers, the faintest squeeze. “Worth it, though. If it means I get to see you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Soft.”

Wednesday’s gaze darkened, but there was no real anger behind it. “I could smother you with your pillow right now.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go,” you teased, your smile weak but radiant.

“You’re insufferable.” she said.

"I love you too." you said.

Her chest tightened, a mix of frustration and overwhelming relief flooding her system. “I wanted to protect you,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “But you made your choice. And you… you survived.”

“Because of you,” you said simply. “You gave me the strength to fight. You gave me everything, Wednesday.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. Words felt inadequate, too small to convey the depth of what she was feeling. So instead, she leaned down, pressing her forehead gently against yours.

And she realized she could wish.

She could wish for you.

And she would.

Wednesday walked beside you, her hand brushing yours with every other step, though she never quite reached for it.

It had been a week since you left the hospital, a week since you proved to the universe that you were stronger than anyone had ever given you credit for.

And yet, Wednesday couldn’t help the way her dark eyes would flit to you every few seconds, as though to confirm you were truly there, walking beside her.

In your hand, you held the diary. That diary. The one that had started this journey, that had changed her in ways she still struggled to articulate.

It was an object so small, yet it held the power to shatter her walls and force her to confront emotions she never believed she could feel.

Now it held an almost sacred place in her mind. It wasn’t just your story anymore; it was their story.

But it would all be over soon. The bucket list that had been her compass for months was coming to an end. It should have been a relief—proof that you were safe, that you had survived—but instead, it felt like losing something precious. It had connected her to you in ways she never expected, and now… now, it was slipping away.

“Wednesday?” Your voice broke through her spiraling thoughts, soft and tentative.

She turned her head slightly, meeting your gaze. “Yes?”

“You’re quiet,” you said with a small smile, though the concern in your eyes was impossible to miss.

“I’m always quiet,” she replied.

You chuckled softly. “Not like this.”

Wednesday’s fingers twitched at her sides, itching to reach for you, to feel the solidity of your hand in hers and remind herself that you were here, that this was real. But instead, she drew in a breath, “I’m fine,” she said, though the words felt like a lie.

You didn’t press her, but your gaze lingered on her, and she could feel the weight of your concern.

When the two of you finally reached your special place, the fireflies danced in the air like tiny embers, illuminating the clearing in soft, golden light. Wednesday watched your face light up at the sight, your lips parting in a quiet gasp of awe. It was the same expression you wore everytime you came here, as if seeing it for the first time.

You turned to her, holding out the diary with both hands. “I want you to do it,” you said quietly.

Her brow furrowed. “Do what?”

“Tick it off,” you said, nodding toward the diary. “The last one.”

Her brow furrowed. “Why?”

“You’ve been with me through all of this. You made everything on this list possible. It’s only right that you finish it.”

Wednesday stared at the diary as if it might burn her fingers. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she reached out and took it from your hands.

She opened it, flipping through the pages, her dark eyes scanning the wishes that had already been fulfilled. Each one was a memory, a moment she would carry with her forever.

And then she found it.

“Save a life.”

Her fingers twitched as you handed her the pen, the small object feeling heavier than it had any right to be.

Her hand hovered over the page, the tip of the pen poised above the box. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard, willing herself to focus. This wasn’t just a checkmark; it was a symbol of everything you had survived together. Of the nights spent wondering if you’d see the next sunrise, of the fears she’d never admitted aloud, of the love she had fought so hard to protect.

And then, she drew the line, completing the small, simple mark. But as she did, a wave of emotions crashed over her, threatening to drown her in their intensity. Relief. Gratitude. Joy. And beneath it all, a gnawing sense of emptiness she couldn’t quite shake.

You were safe now. You didn’t need her to protect you anymore. The thought should have been comforting, but instead, it left her feeling untethered, like a part of her purpose had been taken away.

“There,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended. “It’s done.”

You smiled, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “Thank you, Wednesday. For everything.”

You had kept your promise,

And now, it was her turn.

Wednesday reached into the pocket of her coat, pulling out a small, leather-bound notebook. She held it out to you.

You blinked at it, confused. “What’s this?”

“Open it.”

Her voice was calm, but there was something underneath it—a vulnerability that made your fingers tremble slightly as you took the notebook from her.

When you opened it, your breath caught.

It was a wishlist. Just like yours.

Your eyes flicked up to meet hers, wide and shimmering with unshed tears. “Wednesday…”

She crossed her arms over her chest, her gaze darting away as if embarrassed. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. Just read it.”

You smiled, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you turned your attention back to the list.

Dance in the rain with her. You smiled, your heart swelling. “You hate the rain.” “You love the rain,” she replied as if that answered everything.

You stood in the middle of it, water dripping down your face as you looked at Wednesday, who stood a few feet away.

“You really want to do this now?” you called over the storm, your laugh carried away by the wind.

Wednesday’s dark hair clung to her face, her usual pristine appearance completely ruined by the downpour. But her eyes were fierce, a fire burning in their depths. She stepped closer

You didn’t need more convincing.

She reached for you, her hands finding your waist as yours rested on her shoulders. The rain fell harder, soaking through your clothes, but neither of you cared. Wednesday guided you slowly, her movements stiff at first but growing more fluid as she let herself go.

Her hand slid up to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing away the water—or maybe it was a tear.

"Create a yearly tradition of Y/n's choice" You smirked, you already had an idea...

Bright, garish sweaters of every imaginable color and pattern filled the room, and her group of idiots was there too...

“This,” Wednesday muttered darkly, tugging at the scratchy fabric of the sweater, “is the single greatest regret of my life.”

You couldn’t contain your laughter. “Come on, Wednesday, ugly sweater parties are iconic.”

“I thought you would choose something dignified,” she snapped, glancing at the sweater again. It was black—thankfully—but the design was an abomination: a grinning skull wearing a Santa hat...

“Smile, Wends!” Enid came from nowhere, holding up her phone.

Wednesday’s glare could’ve incinerated the device, but just as Enid was about to take the picture, you leaned into Wednesday, planting a quick kiss on her cheek. Her eyes widened just slightly, the shock visible in her face.

Enid gasped dramatically after taking the photo, “Awww this one is so cute!!”

“Delete that immediately,” Wednesday demanded.

“Absolutely not,” Enid yelled running for her life... “This is going in the scrapbook.”

“I will never forgive you for this,” Wednesday said, but there was a warmth in her eyes that said the opposite.

“I love you too,” you teased, leaning in to kiss her.

And as she watched you laugh and shine among your friends, she realized something: Maybe ugly sweater parties weren’t the worst tradition after all.

“Stay inside and read books all day.” “Why do I feel like this is less my wish and more your dream scenario?” Wednesday tilted her head, feigning innocence in a way only she could. “Are you implying I tailored this wish for my own enjoyment?” “I’m not implying anything,” you replied, narrowing your eyes playfully. “I’m outright accusing you.” Her lips twitched in the faintest smirk. "Good. Think of it as a challenge." "Really? A Challenge? I can easily stay inside with nothing but books all day." you added.

“This is torture,” you declared, flopping onto your back. “maybe we could add, like, a little break? Just a quick scroll through social media, maybe a movie—”

“No.” Wednesday’s voice was sharp, her eyes never leaving the pages of her book. “The wish was clear. All day. No distractions. No technology. Just books.”

You groaned, slumping dramatically in your chair. “I didn’t think it would be this... quiet. How are you so good at this?!”

“Because I’m not a modern-day parasite glued to glowing rectangles,” she replied coolly, turning a page with deliberate precision.

“Glowing rectangles make life bearable,” you muttered, eyeing your phone on the far table like it was a lifeline just out of reach.

As the hours wore on, you did your best to immerse yourself in the story, though you took plenty of breaks to stretch, snack, or make sarcastic comments. By mid-afternoon, you were sprawled across the couch, halfway through a second book, when you caught Wednesday smirking faintly at you.

“What?” you asked suspiciously.

“You’re actually enjoying yourself,” she said, her tone smug.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the grin tugging at your lips. “Fine. Maybe this isn’t the worst thing ever.”

“Perhaps I’ll make this a weekly occurrence,” she said, her tone infuriatingly calm.

Your groan echoed through the library, but even as you protested, you knew part of you wouldn’t mind doing it all over again as long as she is here with you...

Your eyes landed on the next entry "Visit the Northern Lights." you read aloud, your voice soft. A small smile tugged at your lips as you glanced over at her.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“It is,” she said, her eyes never leaving yours. “But it pales in comparison to you.”

You blinked, your breath hitching. It wasn’t like her to say things like that, to be so open, so unguarded. “Wednesday…”

The two of you lay there in silence for a while, the auroras dancing above, painting the world in their ethereal light. The universe is infinite, and yet, in that moment, all that mattered was the girl beside you—the girl who had changed your life in ways you couldn’t put into words.

You turned your head, your eyes meeting hers again. “Thank you,” you said softly.

“For what?” she asked, her tone tinged with genuine curiosity.

“For being here. For letting me love you. For everything.”

Her gaze held yours, steady and unflinching. “The gratitude is mutual.”

“Did you write these wishes just for me?” you asked, teasing “Because most of them seem like something I would’ve put in my own diary.”

“They are not for you,” she said simply, “they are for us.”

Your chest tightened at her words. For someone who wielded words like knives, Wednesday Addams could cut you down to your core with these words.

“Us,” you repeated, your voice almost a whisper, as if you were afraid saying it too loudly might shatter the delicate moment.

She nodded, her dark eyes steady on yours. "These wishes... they’re not just for you to live. They’re for me to understand what it means to live with you. Go onto the next wish.”

You hesitated, feeling a lump form in your throat as you turned the page. And tho, you have always wished your heart to beat faster, you can feel it now, going extra fast.

"Get Married."

Slowly, you looked up.

Wednesday was already on one knee.

A small dark velvet box in her hand.

Her dark eyes bore into yours, unguarded and vulnerable in a way you had never seen before. She opened the box, revealing a ring that was as unique and beautiful as she was.

"I didn’t love you because I was lonely,” she began, her voice steady but filled with raw emotion. “Far from it. My world was quiet, and I was content in my solitude. But then you came into my life, like a comet streaking across the night sky. You weren’t just a spark—you were a fire that consumed everything, that made me see the world in a way I never thought possible.”

Tears blurred your vision as her words washed over you.

“You made me see color, feel life, experience joy. You’ve given me more than I ever thought I deserved. And now, the thought of losing you…” Her voice wavered, but she pressed on. “It would be like being plunged back into darkness. You are my light, my everything. And I don’t want to spend another moment without you.”

She took a deep breath, her gaze never leaving yours. “You gave me everything. And if you’ll let me, I want to spend the rest of my life giving it back to you. Would you take one step into forever with me?"

Tears streamed down your face as you dropped to your knees in front of her, wrapping your arms around her. “Yes,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Yes, of course, yes.”

She held you close, her grip fierce as if she was afraid to let go. And in that moment, with the fireflies dancing around you and your heart beating steadily against hers, everything felt just right.

"YOU DID WHAT?" Enid’s voice reverberated through the Ophelia hall.

Wednesday calmly placed her fingers over the keys, she knew the chaos she was about to unfold.

“I proposed,” she said flatly, not even bothering to glance Enid’s way.

Enid gasped dramatically, her hands flying to her mouth “You PROPOSED?” She squealed, “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe it! You, of all people, did something so romantic! I mean, I always knew you were secretly sappy, but this? Wowie, this is next-level!”

“Control yourself, Sinclair."

Enid practically vibrated in place, her grin so wide it looked almost painful.

“I’m going to be your maid of honor!” Enid announced throwing her arms into the air.

Wednesday blinked, her expression unamused. “The wedding is years away. Two or three, at least. There’s no need to discuss something so far in advance.”

“Doesn’t matter!” Enid chirped, “I’ll start planning now. We’ll need a dress, obviously, and I’m thinking flowers, maybe something gothic to match your vibe, but not too gloomy because Y/N is, like, the literal sunshine to your darkness. Oh, and—”

“Enid.”

“—maybe a fall wedding? Or winter! Ooooh, imagine a gothic winter wonderland theme with snow and—”

“Enid.” Wednesday’s tone sharpened, but the werewolf was undeterred.

“—and matching outfits for Thing and your brother—”

Wednesday groaned quietly, pinching the bridge of her nose. How she tolerated Enid was a mystery even she couldn’t solve.

“By the way, Dad,” you said, setting your mug down. “Wednesday proposed to me yesterday.”

He didn’t even look up at first, too engrossed in his newspaper. “That’s nice, sweetheart.”

Then it hit him. His head snapped up so fast you thought he might have given himself whiplash. “Wait, she WHAT?”

You bit back a laugh as your dad’s coffee cup slipped from his hand, spilling onto the table. His eyes were wide with shock, his mouth slightly agape.

“She proposed,” you repeated, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably as a grin tugged at your lips.

“Proposed,” he echoed dumbly, “Like, as in, marriage?”

“Yup.”

He blinked at you, then ran a hand down his face. “Oh, my God.”

“Surprised?” you teased, leaning your chin on your hand.

“Surprised doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like her. She’s... uh, unique. But marriage? Aren’t you two a little young for that?”

“We’re not getting married tomorrow, Dad,” you assured him. “It’ll be a few years. But yeah, we’re serious.”

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling deeply. “I… I don’t know whether to be thrilled or terrified. Maybe both.”

“She makes me happy, Dad,” you said softly, your voice full of sincerity. “Like, really happy. And I think I make her happy too, in her own… Wednesday way.”

Your dad let out a long sigh, his expression softening as he looked at you. “Well, as long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters. But, uh… I’m going to need some time to wrap my head around this."

“Take all the time you need,” you said, unable to hide your amusement as he reached for his spilled coffee.

From her window, Wednesday watched you from afar, her hands clasped behind her back. Your laughter echoed faintly, carried by the breeze, and it stirred something deep within her, warmth.

She had brought you to her family mansion for the winter vacation, to show you a part of her world, of herself.

“You’re staring,” came Morticia’s voice from behind her, smooth and knowing.

Wednesday didn’t look away. “I’m observing.”

Morticia stepped beside her. Her gaze followed her daughter’s to where you were now chasing Thing across the field.

“She has a light about her,” Morticia said softly. “It’s rare for an Addams to be drawn to such brightness.”

“She’s not just light,” Wednesday replied, “She’s fire. She burns, and I can’t look away.”

Morticia tilted her head, a small smile gracing her lips. “You’re sure about this? Marriage is not a fleeting thing. It’s a vow, a promise you must keep forever.”

Wednesday didn't even take her eyes off you for a moment. “I have never been more certain of anything. She is my promise.”

Morticia studied her daughter for a long moment. Finally, she placed a hand on Wednesday’s shoulder, “Then keep that promise well, my raven.” she said softly.

Wednesday’s gaze drifted back to you, her heart steady and she knew, she would. For you, she would keep every promise.

And now, Wednesday stood before the full-length mirror in her room, she adjusted the collar of her black coat with deliberate precision. Everything about it screamed Wednesday Addams—dark, deliberate, and just a touch theatrical.

But the rest of her? The faint unease in her eyes, the almost imperceptible tremble in her hands? That wasn’t familiar at all. Today wasn’t just another step forward; it was a leap into the unknown, tethered only by the trust she had placed in you.

And it is enough.

Two years. It had been two years since you’d said yes, since she’d slipped that ring onto your finger with hands steadier than her heart had felt. Two years of planning, of waiting, of promises whispered in quiet moments. Two years that had gone by faster than she would have liked.

She remembered A Dance. The Raven.

Wednesday remembered standing on the edge of the ballroom, her fingers tightening slightly around yours as she led you to the center. The same room. The same polished floor. The same glimmering lights.

Last year, in this very place, she had watched you collapse. She had felt her world teeter on the edge of something she couldn’t control. She didn't want to attend another raven, but she couldn't say no to you.

She didn’t know why you had insisted on revisiting the Raven, why you had wanted to confront the memories of that night. But standing there with you, she now realized it wasn’t about the past. It was about writing the present.

Her chest ached—not with fear, but with something far deeper. Something she didn’t have the words for.

“You’re thinking,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m always thinking,” she replied.

“About what?”

She hesitated. The answer felt too raw, too exposed. But this was you. You, who had shown her what it meant to live.

“About how this moment feels like a dream,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “And how I don’t want to wake up.”

You smiled, and for a second, she thought she saw tears glistening in your eyes. “Then don’t. Stay here with me.”

And just like that, the fear that had been clawing at her chest eased. You were here. You were alive. And for the first time in a long time, she believed you when you said everything would be okay.

The song ended too soon, the music fading into applause. But you didn’t let go of her. Not then, not ever.

She looked at you, her gaze steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within her. “Thank you.”

“For what?” you asked.

“For not letting me lose you.”

Your expression softened, and you reached up to brush a strand of hair from her face. “You’ll never lose me, Wednesday. I promise.”

And in that moment, she believed you.

Wednesday knew she would protect you, She has already committed her life and soul to your protection. As long as you are with her, she can hope, you can hope. She did promise to wish for you forever after all.

The sound of the door creaking open pulled her from her reverie. Pugsley stepped in, dressed in a suit that was slightly too big for him.

“Are you ready?” he asked, his voice hesitant but warm.

Wednesday turned to face him, “I’ve been ready.” she said, though her hands betrayed her with a slight tremble.

Pugsley grinned, his nervousness fading. “You look cool, Wens. Really cool.”

She gave him a curt nod, straightening her coat one last time. “ Let’s go.”

As they left the room together, Wednesday allowed herself one last thought: she wasn’t walking into the unknown. She was walking toward you, and that was all that mattered.

Wednesday looked up at the grand doors at the far end of the aisle, knowing that any moment now, they would open. This was how it had all started, here in this very place—this very church. When you had dragged her here for that absurd mission to break "little cupcake" out of an asylum for her wedding, Wednesday had felt detached back then, an outsider observing someone else's moment.

She hadn’t known you then, not really. You had been nothing more than a mystery wrapped in audacity and irreverent charm. She understood now, she had agreed to your plan not because she wanted to, but because something about you intrigued her, unsettled her in a way she couldn’t ignore.

And now, here she was, standing in that very spot, waiting for you. She never could have foreseen it. Back then, she had been indifferent to the concept of commitment, of love, of a future that wasn’t carefully crafted by her own hands. But then you had entered her life and ruined all her plans, burned them down and replaced them with something infinitely better.

The church doors creaked open, and her breath caught.

You were there, framed by the light pouring in from outside. Your dress was simple yet stunning, flowing around you like you had stepped out of a dream.

You weren’t trying to be beautiful. You were just being you.

And you were beautiful. It was a problem.

Your arm was linked with your father’s, his grip steady but full of emotion. Enid followed closely behind you, her face practically glowing with excitement as she trailed along with Brooke. But Wednesday didn’t spare them more than a glance. Her eyes were only on you.

Her entired world faded into nothingness as she watched you take those steps down the aisle. She felt it all over again—the weightlessness, the freefall. Her heart, that stubborn organ she once considered nothing more than a biological necessity, seemed to stutter in her chest. She had always prided herself on her control, her ability to keep her emotions tightly leashed. But in your presence, she unraveled in ways she didn’t mind at all.

When you finally reached her, your father placed your hand in hers. She grasped it firmly, her fingers curling around yours as if to remind herself that you were here, real and hers.

And that smile, that damn smile again, “Hey, Angry Bird,” you whispered softly.

“Hello, Trouble,” she replied, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within her.

The ceremony began, but Wednesday barely heard the words. Her focus remained on you, her mind was filled with you, your hand warm in hers, your eyes glistening with unshed tears.

When it was time for the vows, Wednesday took a deep breath and stepped closer.

“I never believed in fate,” she began, her voice low but steady. “I didn’t believe in destiny or serendipity or any of the romanticized notions people cling to. But then you happened.”

Her grip on your hand tightened slightly, grounding her.

“You walked into my life with chaos and unpredictability, and I hated it at first. I hated how you challenged me, how you saw through the walls I built, how you refused to let me retreat into the shadows where I felt safe. But what I hated most…” Her voice wavered for a fraction of a second. “Was how you made me feel. Because it terrified me. So today, I promise you everything. My mind, my heart, my… odd attempts at humor. All of it is yours, as long as you’ll have me. Because there’s no world, no life, no existence, where I don’t choose you.”

You blinked rapidly, a tear slipping down your cheek as you squeezed her hand. “Wednesday…” Your voice trembled as you began your vows. “My heart has always been fragile. I grew up thinking it would always be a weakness, a reminder of everything I couldn’t have. But then I met you. You didn’t just make my heart stronger—you made it feel alive."

“Every moment with you, every argument, every rare, stolen laugh—it made me want to fight, to live, to hold on. You once said I made your world brighter, but Wednesday, you’re the one who turned mine into something worth living for. You’re my heartbeat. My anchor. My everything."

"So today, I promise you my whole heart—flawed as it is. I promise you every laugh, every tear, every stolen moment we’ll ever have. Because as long as you’re with me, I’ll always be okay.”

The vows were complete, and the officiant spoke the final words. “You may now kiss.”

Wednesday didn’t hesitate. She leaned in, her hand cradling your face as her lips met yours in a kiss that was as much a promise as it was an expression of love. The world could have ended, and she wouldn’t have noticed. There was only you, the warmth of your touch, the taste of forever.

“They grow up so fast!” Rick exclaimed, wiping an invisible tear.

Ashley elbowed him sharply, muttering, “Don’t ruin the moment!”

“Forever,” you whispered.

“Forever,” Wednesday echoed.

And that was the first step into forever....

The house was modest, perched on a quiet street lined with old trees. It wasn’t grand or intimidating, but when you stepped inside together, it was surreal. The space was bare, the rooms echoing with emptiness, but there was a strange comfort in it. It wasn’t just a house—it was a blank canvas, waiting to be filled with your lives.

“I expected something more sinister,” Wednesday murmured.

You laughed, nudging her lightly with your shoulder. “Not every home has to look like it belongs in a horror movie, Wednesday.”

“Perhaps not,” she replied, the corner of her mouth twitching in the faintest hint of a smile. “But it could benefit from a few gothic touches. A gargoyle or two. Perhaps black shutters.”

“Baby steps,” you teased, “We just got here.”

“The lighting is acceptable,” she observed. “And the walls are a neutral enough shade to tolerate.”

You grinned as you followed her, imagining all the ways you could bring warmth and life into the space. “I can already picture it,” you said, gesturing toward the living room. “A big couch right here, some bookshelves there, maybe a coffee table that doesn’t look like it belongs in the Addams Family mansion.”

Wednesday’s eyebrow arched. “You speak as if the Addams aesthetic isn’t timeless.”

“Oh, it’s timeless,” you agreed with a laugh. “But I think this house deserves a little bit of both of us. Your timeless gothic vibes and my... whatever it is you call my taste.”

“Chaotic,” she deadpanned.

You laughed again, and it echoed through the empty house, filling it with the first sound of home.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of activity. Boxes arrived in a steady stream, each one carrying a piece of your lives. Unpacking was both a chore and an adventure. You quickly learned that Wednesday was surprisingly particular about where things went.

“No,” she said, her tone sharp as she watched you place a stack of your favorite novels on a shelf. “Those belong on the second shelf, not the first. They’ll ruin the symmetry.”

You looked at her with mock exasperation. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”

“Order is important,” she replied simply, taking the books from your hands and arranging them herself.

But for all her sternness, there were moments that melted your heart. Like the way she always did the heavy lifting, taking the heavy stuff away from you as if you would get hurt by them.

In the evenings, the two of you would sit together on the couch, sharing takeout and discussing plans for each room.

“Cozy, warm, maybe some fairy lights?”

Wednesday frowned. “Fairy lights?”

“They’re magical, you know?” you said with a grin.

She didn’t, but she nodded anyway. Compromise, she reminded herself. This was your home now. Your home together.

The kitchen was next. Wednesday had little interest in the room, declaring it “your domain,” but she indulged you as you picked out dishes and cookware, commenting occasionally on your choices. She vetoed anything overly cheerful, shaking her head firmly at the sunflower-patterned dish towels you tried to sneak past her.

The bedroom was the trickiest part. Wednesday insisted on black sheets and dark curtains, while you argued for something lighter. In the end, you compromised: deep gray bedding and curtains that were dark but sheer enough to let in the light during the day.

The final touch was the garden. It wasn’t much—just a small patch of earth in the backyard—but it was yours. You spent an entire afternoon out there together, planting flowers and herbs, your hands dirty and your hearts light. Wednesday also helped and you couldn’t help but marvel at how natural it felt to share this with her.

By the time the house was fully decorated, it felt like a reflection of the two of you, an unlikely combination that somehow worked. It wasn’t perfect, but it was home.

The two of you sank onto the soft blanket you’d brought, the world around you bathed in the gentle light of the fireflies. It was simple, just as Wednesday liked it, and just as you preferred. Grand celebrations had never been your style, and you knew Wednesday loathed them even more than you did. Here, it was just the two of you, in your special place.

“Three years together,” you said softly, your fingers tracing lazy patterns along the back of her hand.

“Three years together,” she echoed, her gaze fixed on the fireflies as they danced through the clearing.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Words weren’t necessary; the silence was comfortable.

After a while, you reached into the bag beside you, pulling out a carefully wrapped package. “I got you something,” you said, handing it to her.

She turned her head, her dark eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion. “I thought I told you—no gifts."

“It’s not much,” you said, handing it to her.

She gave you a pointed look but didn’t argue. Instead, she unwrapped the package, revealing an antique cello bow, the wood polished and smooth.

“I found it at this little shop in town,” you explained, watching her closely. “The owner said it was handcrafted in the 19th century. I thought… well, it reminded me of you. Timeless, elegant, and a little intimidating.”

Her fingers traced the polished wood, her dark eyes studying every detail. “It’s exquisite,” she said finally, her voice low.

“I’m glad you like it,” you said, your smile widening.

She set the bow carefully on the blanket before reaching into her pocket. “I suppose it’s my turn now,” she said, pulling out a small box.

"I thought you said- No gifts" you teased.

"I meant no gift for me." She said as she opened it. Inside was a delicate butterfly pendant, the wings were intricately detailed, catching the light as if they might take flight at any moment.

She stepped behind you, brushing your hair to the side as she clasped the pendant around your neck. The cool metal rested against your skin, a weight that felt comforting.

“Thank you,” you whispered, turning to face her.

She inclined her head slightly, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “It suits you.”

The two of you settled onto the soft grass again, her arms wrapped around you as you leaned against her.

Eventually, you broke the silence, your voice hesitant. “Wednesday… can I ask you something?”

Her gaze flicked to yours, sharp and focused. “You can ask me anything.”

You took a deep breath, your heart pounding. “Do you ever think about having a family? With me?”

She stilled, her expression unreadable, her dark eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “You mean children?”

You nodded, your fingers playing nervously with the edge of the blanket. “I mean… with me. I’d carry, of course.”

You could see the wheels turning in her mind, the way her lips pressed into a thin line as she processed your words. For a long moment, she didn’t speak, but you knew her well enough to understand that she was thinking deeply. You didn’t push her, letting her sit with the idea.

In her mind, she pieced it together. She understood why you might want this, why the idea of creating life, of being a mother, mattered to you so much. It wasn’t just about the future—it was about the past.

You had lost your own mother before you ever had the chance to know her, and deep down, she realized this was your way of finding something you had always missed.

Her chest tightened at the thought, a pang of something close to guilt twisting in her gut. She had never been the kind of person who dreamed of motherhood, of soft lullabies and tiny hands clutching hers. But for you… just for you, she could imagine it.

“I don’t know if I would make a suitable parent,” she said finally, “But if this is what you want, then I will consider it.”

You leaned into her, your hand finding hers and squeezing gently. “That’s all I can ask.”

The hallway was quiet, save for the soft, almost hesitant sound of Wednesday’s voice. She stood outside the door, her hand hovering just above the wood as if her knock might shatter you further.

“Y/N,” she called softly, her voice betraying a tenderness reserved only for you. “Please open the door.”

Nothing.

She pressed her palm flat against the wood, closing her eyes. “Whatever you’re feeling, I want to help. Don’t shut me out. Not now. Please.”

There was no response, only the suffocating silence pressing between you. She took a slow breath, trying to keep the tightness in her chest from rising to her throat.

“It’s going to be okay,” she tried again, her tone softer this time. “You and I, we will figure this out. But I can’t do that if you won’t let me in.”

For a moment, she thought you might not answer, that she would be left standing there with nothing but her own thoughts. But then, slowly, agonizingly, it creaked open.

The sight of you nearly brought her to her knees.

You looked utterly broken. Your eyes were red-rimmed and swollen from crying, your hair disheveled, and your shoulders hunched as if carrying the weight of the world.

Her chest ached at the sight. She had seen you vulnerable before, but this was something different. This was devastation.

“Y/N,” she whispered, stepping forward cautiously, as if afraid you might shatter at her touch.

You didn’t say anything, but the look in your eyes told her everything. The raw pain, the guilt, the unbearable weight of the news you had received.

She thought back to the hospital visit, the sterile walls, the doctor’s careful but ultimately damning words. “It’s too risky.”

The words had hung in the air, suffocating and cold. She had gripped your hand tightly as the doctor explained the risks. Your heart simply wouldn’t survive the strain of carrying a child. They couldn’t, in good conscience, give you permission to try.

She had been silent the whole way home, watching you retreat further and further into yourself. She knew you were hurting, but she hadn’t anticipated this.

Wednesday stepped inside, closing the door behind her. Without hesitation, she pulled you into her arms, “It’s going to be okay,” she murmured, her voice steady even as her heart fractured.

Your response was a choked sob, your arms wrapping around her as you buried your face in her shoulder. The sound of your crying tore through her, each sob a blade carving into her chest.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered between broken breaths. “I’m so sorry, Wednesday.”

Her brow furrowed, and she pulled back just enough to look at you. “What could you possibly be sorry for?”

“I—” Your voice cracked, and tears spilled down your cheeks as you struggled to get the words out. “I can’t give you what you deserve. I can’t… I can’t give you a family.”

Her jaw tightened, and she shook her head. “Stop that. Don’t you dare put this on yourself.”

“But it’s true,” you said, your voice rising in anguish. “You deserve so much more, Wednesday. You deserve to have everything you’ve ever wanted, and I… I can’t give it to you. I’ve failed you.”

Her hands came up to cradle your face, forcing you to meet her gaze. Her dark eyes were filled with something fierce, something unyielding. The truth.

“You have already given me everything, Y/N,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “You have given me love, something I never thought I would find. You have given me a reason to hope, to feel, to want more from this life. You have given me you. That is more than enough.”

Tears streamed down your face as you shook your head again. “But you deserve more. You deserve a family, Wednesday. A real one.”

She exhaled shakily, her thumbs brushing away your tears. “We can still have that,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t have to be the way we planned. There are other ways.”

You blinked at her, confusion and a flicker of hope mingling in your tearful gaze. “What do you mean?”

“We can adopt,” she said simply, her voice steady now. “There are children out there who need love, who need someone to fight for them, to protect them. We can be that for them. And we will love them just as fiercely as if they were our own.”

Your breath hitched, her words sinking in slowly. “Do you mean that?”

She nodded, her expression unwavering. “I mean it. I don’t care how our family comes to be, Y/N. As long as it’s with you, it will be enough. It will be everything.”

A fresh wave of tears spilled down your cheeks, “Wednesday,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice barely audible.

“So am I,” she replied, her voice soft but resolute. “But I've learned this a long time ago, from you, fear doesn't make us weak, it gives us strength. It compels us to protect what matters most."

“I don’t deserve you,” you whispered.

“You’ve got it backward,” she replied, her lips brushing against your temple. “I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you.”

She guided you to the bed, pulling you down with her and wrapping you in her arms. Your head rested against her chest, and her fingers combed gently through your hair.

Exhaustion began to weigh heavily on you, the emotional toll of the day finally catching up, her steady heartbeat beneath your ear a soothing rhythm that began to lull you to sleep.

As your breathing evened out, Wednesday held you close, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. Her mind was already spinning with plans, with hopes, with determination. She would make this right for you, for them.

“Violet is a sweet, curious child." The coordinator smiled warmly as she spoke, "She’s been with us for over two years now. She loves to draw, and she’s very imaginative but mostly, she loves to read. I think you’ll find her to be quite remarkable.”

Wednesday gave a curt nod, but there was a softness in her eyes that you recognized instantly. “We’d like to meet her,” she said simply.

The coordinator gestured toward the door. “She’s just down the hall. I’ll bring her to you.”

As the coordinator left, you turned to Wednesday, your heart racing. “This is it,” you whispered, a nervous smile tugging at your lips.

Wednesday’s dark eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw something unspoken there, a mixture of determination and tenderness. “Yes, it is,” she replied, her voice steady.

After a while, the coordinator entered, holding the hand of a a little girl with dark hair and piercing blue eyes that held a quiet curiosity.

Taking a deep breath, you crouched down to Violet’s level, offering her a gentle smile.

“Hi, Violet,” you said softly. “My name is Y/N, and this is Wednesday. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

She looked at you with wide eyes, her grip on the bear tightening slightly. “You have?”

“We have,” Wednesday confirmed, “Your love for books has not gone unnoticed.”

Violet’s lips twitched into a small smile, and she looked down at her bear, as if gathering courage. “Do you like stories too?”

Wednesday arched a brow and glanced at you. “Stories are… tolerable when told well. Though I prefer to write my own.”

Your laughter filled the space between you, and Violet giggled, the sound bright and pure. “She’s really good at writing,” you added, reaching out a hand toward Violet but not pushing her to take it. “Maybe she can tell you one someday.”

Violet studied you both for a moment, her eyes flickering between you and Wednesday before nodding shyly. “Okay.”

You spoke with her for a while, knowing her, learning about her favorite books and her dreams,

"I like to draw animals and… and stars.”

“That’s wonderful,” you replied. “You know, we have a lot of space at home where you can draw as much as you want. Would you like that?”

Her eyes widened slightly, and she nodded again, more eagerly this time.

Wednesday leaned forward just a fraction, her gaze steady but kind. “We’d like to give you a home, Violet. A place where you can draw, dream, and be yourself. Would that be something you’d want?”

For a moment, Violet seemed to study both of you, as if trying to decide if this was real or too good to be true. Then, her lips curved into a shy smile. “Yes,” she said softly.

You felt your chest swell with emotion as you exchanged a glance with Wednesday, who allowed the faintest flicker of a smile to grace her lips.

As Violet’s hand slipped into yours, something caught your eye. A movement near the doorway.

Standing just outside, half-hidden by the frame, was a little boy. He was watching the interaction, his dark eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and sadness. His skin was warm brown, and his clothes were slightly too big for his slender frame.

His big brown eyes watched you and Wednesday intently, a mixture of curiosity and sadness in them that tugged at your heart. He didn’t approach, staying just out of reach as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to join in.

Something inside you shifted. You could feel it in your chest, an ache that wasn’t just sympathy—it was recognition.

Wednesday shifted beside you, her gaze following yours. Her dark eyes lingered on the boy for a moment.

I watched as the others played with their mothers, your voice echoed in her ears...

You looked at the boy and gave him a small smile. His gaze flickered to Violet, then back to you, before he quickly ducked out of sight.

Without saying a word, you looked at Wednesday. Her eyes met yours, and for a moment, the two of you communicated without speaking. She gave you a single, decisive nod.

By the time the paperwork was completed and the day drew to a close, it wasn’t just Violet who was coming home with you.

“This is your home now,” you said softly. “Both of you. It’s yours.”

Wednesday stood behind you, her arms crossed, but there was no mistaking the softness in her expression as she looked at the two children.

Violet clung to your hand tightly, her other hand gripping one of River’s. He was quieter, his eyes darting around the room as though he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“Would you like to see your rooms?” you asked, your smile warm and inviting.

Violet nodded eagerly, while River hesitated before giving a small nod of his own.

You and Wednesday led them upstairs to their rooms. Violet’s room was painted a soft lavender, with a small desk by the window and shelves waiting to be filled with books and art supplies.

“This is your room, Violet,” you said, kneeling beside her.

She looked around, her eyes wide. “It’s mine?”

“All yours,” you confirmed.

Wednesday, standing just behind you, added, “You can decorate it however you like.”

Violet’s smile grew, and she hugged her stuffed bear tightly. “Thank you.”

River’s room was a calming shade of blue, with a wooden chest at the foot of the bed and a space for toys you hadn’t yet bought. He stood in the middle of the room, his hands fidgeting at his sides.

“River?” you prompted gently. “What do you think?”

He looked up at you, his dark eyes wide and uncertain. “It’s…mine?”

Wednesday stepped forward then, her voice low but steady. “It’s yours,” she said. “Everything here is yours.”

He glanced between you and Wednesday, his lips pressing together as if holding back tears. Then, to your surprise, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your waist.

Your breath hitched, and you knelt to his level, holding him tightly.

“You’re home now,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “You’re safe, and you’re so, so loved.”

Wednesday stood nearby, her dark eyes felt a bit warm as she watched you. She knew you were going to be an incredible parent. You had a way of making people feel seen, of creating a safe haven out of nothing. And maybe—just maybe—she could be part of that too.

As River’s breathing slowed, his small body relaxing in your arms, Wednesday stepped forward, placing a hand gently on your shoulder. You looked up at her, your eyes still shimmering with tears.

This was your family. This was forever.

You had insisted on hosting the Christmas party this year, and though Wednesday had been less than enthusiastic about the idea of a house full of people, she couldn’t bring herself to say no to you.

Now, standing in the living room as the sound of laughter and conversation echoed around her, she found herself less irritated than she expected. Perhaps it was the way the snow was falling gently outside, the fire crackling in the hearth, or the sight of you darting between the kitchen and the living room, making sure everyone was comfortable and fed.

The house looked different tonight, dressed in its festive best. The tree stood tall in the corner, decorated with a mix of ornaments from you and the kids had collected over the years.

River had insisted on putting the star on top, despite his height advantage, and Violet had teased him relentlessly for nearly falling off the stepstool. Wednesday had watched from the sidelines, her lips twitching into the faintest of smiles.

Enid was chatting animatedly with your father,her hands gesturing wildly as she described some recent adventure. Her two children, twins with Enid’s golden hair and infectious energy, were playing a game with Violet by the tree.

Violet, now a young woman, had grown into herself beautifully, her confidence and boldness were the perfect balance to her brother’s shyness.

Wednesday’s parents sat on the couch, Morticia regal as ever, Gomez a beacon of cheer, joining in Violet's game with Enid's kids.

She caught your father glancing at you often, pride evident in his eyes. It wasn’t hard to see why. You made it.

River sat on the edge of the couch, his posture stiff, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his sweater. He was typically quiet, more comfortable in the background, but tonight he seemed… different. Nervous. Wednesday’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the way he kept glancing at the clock or the subtle way he glanced toward the door.

Wednesday couldn't give it much thought because her eyes were on you again, the way you floated from one person to the next, ensuring everyone felt welcome and cared for. It was the kind of warmth she never knew she needed until you gave it to her.

“Mom?” River’s voice broke through her thoughts, hesitant and quiet.

She turned her head to find him standing nearby, his eyes wide and uncertain.

“Yes?” she asked, her tone as steady and measured as ever.

He glanced toward the clock again, then back at her. “There’s, um… someone coming over.”

“Someone?” she repeated, her brow arching.

Before he could elaborate, the doorbell rang, the sound cutting through the festive atmosphere. River’s face lit up with a mixture of excitement and sheer terror, and before anyone could react, he bolted for the door.

You appeared at Wednesday’s side just in time to catch the scene, your eyes narrowing in curiosity. “What’s he doing?”

“I believe we’re about to find out,” Wednesday replied, her gaze locked on the door as River flung it open.

Standing there was a girl, about his age. She looked equally nervous, clutching a small, wrapped gift in her hands. Her blond hair was tucked neatly behind her ears.

“Hi,” River said, his voice soft but filled with affection. “Come in.”

The girl stepped inside, her eyes darting around the room before settling on River, who gave her an encouraging smile.

“Everyone,” he began, his voice wavering slightly as he looked around the room, “this is Ella… my girlfriend.”

For a moment, there was silence. Not out of judgment, but because everyone, yourself included, was caught off guard.

Your father was the first to react, letting out a hearty laugh. “Well, look at that! Our boy’s got a girl!”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed slightly, though her expression remained neutral as she studied the girl. Ella shifted under the weight of her gaze, but she didn’t falter, offering a polite smile and a quiet, “It’s nice to meet you.”

You stepped forward, breaking the tension with your usual warmth. “Ella, it’s wonderful to meet you,” you said, taking her hand in yours. “You’ve already made River’s night by being here.”

Ella blushed, her cheeks turning a soft pink as she glanced at River, who looked like he might melt into the floor.

Wednesday’s eyes flicked between the two of you, her sharp mind dissecting every interaction. She wasn’t distrustful of Ella, exactly, but there was a part of her that couldn’t help but scrutinize anyone who dared to step into her family’s world. Especially when it came to her son.

When the girl finally turned to her, she straightened, offering a respectful, “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Addams.”

Wednesday’s brows lifted slightly. “Is it?”

“Wednesday,” you said under your breath, elbowing her lightly.

Ella hesitated but didn’t look away. “Yes, ma’am. River talks about you a lot.”

“Does he?” Wednesday’s tone was unreadable, “I’ll be watching.”

River groaned. “Mom, come on.”

You bit back a laugh, stepping closer to Wednesday and slipping your hand into hers. She glanced at you, her expression softening just enough for you to notice.

“She seems lovely,” you said quietly.

“She’s bold, I'll give her that. ” Wednesday replied, though there was no malice in her tone.

“Like someone else I know,” you teased.

“And who would that be?,” she replied, though her lips twitched slightly.

You smiled as you leaned in, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

And when Ella laughed at something River said, her expression lighting up, the look in River's eyes, Wednesday saw something she hadn't expected... Herself.

You were pacing back and forth in front of her, your hands twisting together anxiously. “Why is it taking so long?” you muttered, glancing at the double doors down the hall for what felt like the hundredth time.

Wednesday wanted to offer some sort of reassurance, but the truth was, she wasn’t calm either. How could she be? Her son, her River, was about to become a father. That thought alone was enough to unsettle her, though she’d never admit it aloud.

River sat a few seats away, his leg bouncing nervously, while Violet leaned against the wall, trying to keep him distracted. She had her arm draped around his shoulders, speaking to him in a low, soothing voice, though it was clear her efforts weren’t doing much to ease his tension.

“She’s going to be fine,” Violet said for the third time, squeezing River’s shoulder.

“I know,” River replied, though his voice wavered. “It’s just… what if something goes wrong?”

“Nothing will,” Violet assured him, casting a glance at you and Wednesday.

You paused in your pacing to look at River, your heart aching at the sight of his obvious distress. “Ella’s strong, just like her husband,” you said, your voice filled with a warmth that seemed to fill the room despite the anxiety hanging in the air.

Wednesday’s eyes flicked to you, her sharp gaze softening slightly. Even in moments like this, you always found a way to bring comfort, to anchor those around you.

The sound of footsteps approaching snapped everyone to attention. You froze mid-step, your breath catching as the doctor pushed through the double doors, still wearing her scrubs.

“It’s a girl,” the doctor said, smiling warmly.

The room erupted. You let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, covering your mouth with your hands as tears filled your eyes. River shot to his feet, his face breaking into a mix of relief and joy, while Violet clapped him on the back with a grin.

Wednesday stayed seated, her hands gripping the armrests as the words settled over her. It’s a girl. She felt a strange tightness in her chest, an unfamiliar, almost overwhelming swell of emotion. She, Wednesday Addams, was a grandmother.

The word felt strange, as though it didn’t quite belong to her. But she could picture her mother’s delight at becoming a grandparent, could imagine you embracing the role with your boundless warmth, and maybe, since you are with her, she can too.

The moments blurred together after that. Eventually, they were led to the room where Ella rested, cradling a tiny bundle in her arms. River was at her side, his hand on her shoulder as he gazed down at his wife and daughter with unfiltered love.

You were the first to approach, your eyes wide with wonder as you looked at the baby. “She’s beautiful,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“She is,” River agreed, his smile growing. “Meet Viper.”

The name caught Wednesday off guard, Viper, from her book...

“Come on,” you urged gently. “Meet your granddaughter.”

Her granddaughter. The words felt strange but oddly comforting. Stepping forward, Wednesday gazed down at the tiny face peeking out from the blanket.

“She’s… very small,” Wednesday observed, her voice quieter than usual.

Violet laughed weakly. “She’s a baby, That’s kind of the point Mom.”

“She’ll grow,” you added, looking at Wednesday with a knowing smile. “Just like all of them do.”

Years passed, and Viper did indeed grow, “Gloomma!” Viper’s voice echoed through the living room, pulling Wednesday out of her thoughts.

The little girl—who was no longer so little at five years old—came bounding toward her, clutching a stuffed raven in her tiny hands.

“I told you not to call me that,” Wednesday said, though her tone lacked any real bite.

Viper giggled, clearly unbothered by the reprimand. “But you’re gloomy, and you’re my grandma, so you’re Gloomma!”

“Logic,” you said from across the room, shooting Wednesday a teasing grin. “You can’t argue with that.”

Viper tugged on Wednesday’s sleeve. “Come play with me, Gloomma!”

“I don’t—” Wednesday began, but you cut her off.

“Yes, she’d love to,” you said, giving her a pointed look.

Wednesday narrowed her eyes at you but allowed herself to be led toward the play area, where Viper had set up an elaborate tea party for her stuffed animals.

You watched as Wednesday awkwardly picked up a tiny teacup, her posture stiff and her expression one of reluctant resignation.

“She’s trying,” River said, appearing at your side with a knowing smile.

You smiled back, leaning into him slightly. “She is. She always does for the people she loves.”

The fireflies danced around the two of you as you stood together in the soft light of the evening. The world around you had changed so much over the years, but this place—this little patch of earth beneath the trees, lit by the gentle glow of flickering fireflies—had never changed.

Sixty years. It sounded so surreal, even to her. Time, a concept she had always viewed with apathy, now felt almost precious as it pressed upon her. It was a lifetime, and yet, standing here, it didn’t feel like enough.

You stepped closer, your hand outstretched.

“Dance with me,” you said softly, your voice carrying the warmth it always had.

Wednesday raised a brow, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “You’ve never needed to ask twice.”

You laughed, the sound like a melody in her ears, and she allowed herself to be drawn into your arms. The fireflies seemed to gather around you both, their soft glow casting a warm halo over the two of you as you swayed together.

“You’re so beautiful,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the night.

Wednesday’s gaze flickered, and she tightened her hold on you, almost as if she feared you might disappear. “I thought I was supposed to be the one saying that.”

You smiled, your fingers lightly brushing her jaw. “Your beauty never scared me, Wednesday. Not your darkness, not your sharp edges. They were always a part of you, and I’ve loved every single piece of who you are.”

The fireflies flickered around you like they were listening, like they understood the depth of what you were saying. You felt the familiar ache in your chest, not the physical one you’d lived with for so long, but the ache of love so profound it bordered on pain.

“This is our forever,” you said softly, your voice carrying the certainty of a vow. “This place, this moment. I will always be here with you, Wednesday. Always.”

Her lips parted, and for a moment, she said nothing. Her eyes searched yours, as if committing every detail of your face to memory. Then she leaned her forehead against yours,

Your fingers slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head as you closed your eyes, savoring the closeness. “Do you remember the promise I made you, right here? To spend forever with you?”

Wednesday nodded, her hands trembling slightly where they rested on your waist. “Of course I remember. You told me we’d have forever, no matter what.”

You inhaled deeply, steeling yourself. “I meant that promise, Weds. But I think… I think my forever might not look the way we wanted it to. Physically, I might not...” Your voice cracked, and you had to pause, your eyes stinging with unshed tears. “I might not be here forever. But I’ll always be with you. In your heart, in your memories, in your heartbeat.”

Her hold on you tightened, and she shook her head, her jaw clenching as she fought back the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. “Don’t say that. Not tonight. Not here.”

“I have to,” you said gently, your fingers brushing her cheek. “Because I need you to know that even when I’m not here, I’m still with you. You’re my home, Wednesday. You’re everything.”

Her breath hitched, and she pressed her lips to yours, the kiss filled with a desperation that neither of you wanted to acknowledge. It was slow, lingering, as if she could pour every word she couldn’t say into that single act. When she pulled back, her eyes glistened, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You can’t leave me,” she said, her vulnerability laid bare. “You promised me forever.”

“And I’ll keep that promise,” you replied, your own tears falling freely now. “I’ll keep it in every way that matters. Because love like ours doesn’t end, Weds. It doesn’t disappear." Your hand moved to her chest, resting over her heart. “It will be right here. In your heart, in your heartbeat. Forever. Just keep it there, as long as you can.”

And she had been keeping it there, that's why she was here now, again.

The fireflies still danced, their soft, flickering glow illuminating the darkened grove where time seemed to stand still. Wednesday stood in the center of it all, the same place she had so often shared with you, the very spot where you had made promises of forever. The trees, the earth beneath her boots, the quiet hum of nature—it was all unchanged. And yet, everything was different.

You weren’t there.

The stillness pressed down on her like a weight, suffocating her. Her dark eyes scanned the clearing, hoping—futilely, she knew—for a glimpse of you. Her fingers twitched at her sides, wanting to reach out, to hold you again, but there was nothing to grasp... nothing but the emptiness.

A sudden movement caught her eye, and she turned her head to see a single blue butterfly, far from the nest she had once made Eugene set here decades ago, just for you.

The butterfly hovered for a moment before drifting closer, circling her as if it recognized her presence.

And then it landed on her hand that was still clenched tightly beside her, as if taking her hand....

She stared at the butterfly, her heart hammering in her chest. And she felt it, She felt you.

Her anger had once consumed her, your touch had calmed that...

One look from your eyes had broken her walls...

Your secrets became her emotions, her vulnerability.

And your absence became her weakness, her pain.

Your diary became her promise.

Your light guided her shadow, she offered you the warmth of her cold hands in return...

But it had been enough for you, hadn’t it? Enough for you, idiot. Her idiot.

You became her hope, her star.

You had called her your rose, but you were her rose. Beautiful, resilient, defiant against the odds, against her.

And made her go against everything she believed in.

You became her life, and your heart....

You heart had become hers.

Her fingers curled slightly, careful not to disturb the creature. She thought of you then, as she always did. Of your smile and the way it had softened the edges of her life. Of your voice, steady and kind, weaving words of comfort and love into the fabric of her existence. Of the way your hands had felt in hers—warm, firm, grounding her in a way she hadn’t known she needed.

The butterfly took off, its wings a blur as it joined the fireflies in their ceaseless dance. She didn’t move for a long time, her dark eyes following the butterfly as it disappeared into the night.

She could feel you here. She had always been able to feel you here. Even now, when the world had tried to convince her you were gone, this place remained untouched by that reality.

The fireflies continued their dance, but now, surrounding something invisible.

And yet, she could see it.

You and her, just you and her.

As you had been all those years ago. Young, hopeful, lost in each other’s arms as you swayed to music only the two of you could hear. She could see the way you smiled at her, the way her hands rested on your waist while yours settled on her shoulders. She could feel it too, the warmth of your touch. And she could feel it, she would always feel it, you made her feel it.

Her heartbeat.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is it, We did it, This is the end of this journey. Writing this has been a rollercoaster of emotions, and I hope reading it has been the same for you.

When I started this, my main objective was to make it angsty, without making it angsty lol, none of this would have been possible without you. Your comments, your reaction, your love, all these got me hooked to writing.

To all those, who had been here from the start, to all those, who joined in the middle, and to all those who are still here, Thank you, it has been an honor.

Don't forget to tell me your favorite part of this chapter down below!! While this story has ended, I will still write requested one-shots/prompts set in this universe, whatever you guys suggest!! So you can comment that below too! ]

Taglist: @ognenniyvolk @mally-ka @protozoario @machyishere @freakshow2501 @101rizzlrr @wifeofwandamaximoff

[wooziorgans]

Have you ever sit by yourself and thought about being in a dark room with your boyfriend!Jihoon, the corner in which the bed is placed near the window which is transparent showing the downpour outside, him on the bed and you on his lap, cuddling in the chill weather, your head in his shoulder while he is caressing your back, his little signs and whimpers when you kiss his sweet spots, sucks on them being totally drunk on his smell and touch, him looking down his hand reaching to hold your chin and plant a firm peak on your lips, your one hand automatically grabbing his short hair as the kiss deepens while he is slowly leaning forward make you lay on the bed, the thunder strikes making the rain more fast, while you and him were in your own world of love.....

Had this in my head since monsoon started, I love rain romance🤭💗 what about you?

— downpour

ohhhhh my god YES. god i feel like hes so fucking clingy and responsive when hes tired, especially if its raining because the atmosphere of the fog outside and the soft thump of it against the window just,,,, ohhh lord.

also i think he whimpers! i think he whimpers and i am willing to fight ppl on this. have u heard his little woozi noises? he definitely whimpers, especially when he’s sensitive and he’s the most sensitive when you’re all up in his shit, kissing and biting at his neck ohhhhh godddd.

i think the space right under his ear is the most sensitive tho. like neck kisses?? great! but if u rlly wanna hear him, kiss right by his ear right next to his jaw and he cannot hold back his little noises.

i love the rain so much and i have a feeling that when he’s not caught in the middle of it, jihoon does as well so here’s 1.2k words of me needing him! this made me feel a little bit insane what have u done to me.

Those soft early ‘mornings’ where both of you wake up too early to get out of bed and do anything, but at an hour that's acceptable enough for you to stay awake, just for a little bit before falling back asleep. The clouds block out what little light is available, so the early early hours of the morning look as though it’s the dead of night, and it technically is. Jihoon had forgotten to close the window last night, and with both of you being as tired as you were, you both opted to just lay down for the night and stay warm by sharing body heat. Neither of you were planning on falling asleep so early, hence the ungodly hour you had woken up at, and neither of you move much in your sleep, so the position you ended up cuddling in is the one you wake up in. 

Soft skin against soft skin, tired whimpers as you both wake up; you first from the eight hours of sleep you managed to accumulate by four in the morning, and Jihoon, from you pushing your head further into his shoulder in your fatigue. He murmurs softly, hands finding your hair first, brushing it out of your face as you look up at him. Jihoon gives you a sleepy little smile, slowly waking up with you, completely basking in the warmth you and the covers give him in the cold bedroom. “Can’t sleep anymore?” He asks, voice a little scratchy with sleep still drifting away from him. You hum in acknowledgement, pushing your face into his neck. 

Jihoon’s hand slides up your (his) shirt, his fingers roaming over the pit of your spine. His touch is barely there, fingers hardly grazing your skin. It makes you shiver softly against him, goosebumps rising on your arms involuntarily. Your hands find their way into his hair, threading through the strands as your nails scratch against his scalp. He preens like a cat, leaning into your touch as his head rolls back slightly. 

You place a careful kiss to his jaw, near his ear and he’s a goner. The spot under his ear is particularly sensitive; even when you just dig your thumb into it slightly as you hold his neck, it has him squirming in his spot. He whimpers softly, and it makes you smile softly before you begin to softly suck at the skin. He throws his head back against the pillow, giving you more access to the soft skin of his neck. Jihoon’s hands finally settle on your back, one over the fabric of the shirt and one under it. 

You place another kiss to his sweet spot, before you slowly move your attack down his neck, lips ghosting over his Adam's apple as you move to kiss and suck at the same sweet spot on the other side of his neck. Jihoon’s tiny whines and whimpers are the only other sounds that fill the room aside from the downpour outside. 

Angling your head slightly to gently bite at his earlobe, you catch a draft of his shampoo. His cologne had long worn off, but the sheets smell like him and his hair smells so fucking good that it starts to drive you insane as he takes over all five of your senses. You suck in a shaky breath, and Jihoon catches your face before you can even make it to the destination of his earlobe. Jihoon’s grip on your face is gentle, hand holding the side of your face with so much care and adoration. You lean into his palm, allowing him to pull your face closer for a soft kiss. He still tastes like the sweet sauce on the chicken you two had for supper, but he always tastes so sweet that it doesn’t really make much of a difference. His lips are plush and soft, as they always are, and all you can think about is him, him, him. 

Jihoon’s hand that was still on your back slips down your warm skin to your waist. He wraps his arm around you, gently shifting his hip against the mattress and curling his legs around yours as he slowly rolls you over onto your back. His lips never leave yours, somehow maintaining the slow and careful pace.

Displays of his strength, no matter how frequently they happen (and let's face it, they happen a lot; your boyfriend is just really strong), always knock the oxygen right out of your lungs. You gripped his hair a little harder and opened your mouth softly in a gasp. Jihoon takes the opportunity to push his velvety tongue inside your mouth. You let him. You let him kiss you stupid in the downpour as you gently tug and pull on his hair because what else can you do? 

Jihoon’s little whines pick up in frequency as you bury yourself in him. He’s everywhere, muscular torso towering over you, making you feel so much smaller than him as he kisses you until the only thing you’re able to think about is Jihoon himself.  

He pulls away softly when you start to pant against his lips, hands still in his hair but holding on him not as tight. His eyes sparkle in the dark room; the glow of the street lights reflecting back at you in the form of stars in his eyes. God, he's so in love with you. “Love, what time is it?” He asks softly, pressing his forehead against yours, noses rubbing against each other. 

“Four, I think.” You whisper. He laughs gently at the volume of your voice, like the two of you weren’t supposed to be up this early and were afraid of getting caught. The arm that’s not holding him up bends, and his large hand slides back under your shirt. 

He shifts again, knees cracking softly as he rests his weight on them. With both hands available for action, he uses the other to pull you to his chest as he sits up temporarily. You already know what to do, engaging your core to keep yourself upright as both of his hands grip the hem of your shirt. “We should head back to sleep soon then, hm? It’s too early.” His voice is still scratchy, face pressed against your neck so the vibrations of his speech ripple through your entire body. 

Your nails scratch his back as he pulls the shirt over your head, laying you back down on the bed. “Yeah, it’s too early.” You agree, holding the side of his face against your neck, fingertips digging into the small bruise you left by his ear. He hisses before it devolved into another gentle whimper. You giggle and do it again, and Jihoon melts against you. Soft moans mix with tiny whines echo around the room. Thunder cracks, making both of you jump softly, giving you both unexpected friction as you move against each other unexpectedly.

Jihoon feels like putty in your hands, giving into the early morning session of feeling each other up, cock hardening against your thigh as you make a mess of him. The rain picks up and you feel drunk on him; his scent, his size, his strength, his little noises, him. He’s everywhere and he’s everything to you. Something about the rain relaxes Jihoon, and it makes him more compliant when you need him like this. He places another kiss to your lips, jaws moving in sync with each other in perfect rhythm. You know Jihoon and he knows you, and that’s what makes this even better.

Safe to say, the both of you got a few more hours of sleep after working yourselves slowly into exhaustion as he brought both of you to completion with slow, deep thrusts and gentle kisses wherever either of your mouths could reach.

[toxinoire]

The craziest thing about Epic is that it didn't need Ody's canon to The Odyssey SA to show that Odysseus has lost his own autonomy anyway.

He embraces his side as "the monster" until you question, is he really? Or did he really have no choice?

Looking at the line of "I am not your kind and gentle husband" makes me think back to Just A Man.

It is shown that Odysseus really hates being soldier. He had no choice but to kill the infant because Zeus told him to. And Troy? If we look at The Iliad, he didn't want to go to war from the beginning. And this is the first real time he loses a part of him; his kindness makes him argue with Zeus, his gentleness makes him willing to raise the boy. But he couldn't defy the King of The Gods.

And then Polites tries to bring those parts back, even unintentionally. But Athena tries to tell him he can't do that--his mentor contributes to losing those aspects of himself.

Next is when Polites dies, and well, that's self explanatory.

Another is when Polyphemus kills some of his crew. Part of his identity is being a captain, a king. He knows how to lead people. But then shit went down and he slowly fails to be captain anymore.

And then Poseidon adds onto making Odysseus lose that side of himself more by killing majority of his men.

Circe's Island made him hold onto the scraps of being a captain he has left in him. But even so, Circe tried to lust him so she could kill him, which itself is bad. Though Circe lets them go, even though Ody was unaware of Circe almost killing him, that itself made him hold onto the husband part of him more. That's what got him out of it.

So the Underworld. He hears the screams of his men, and their last thoughts blaming him. Their last thoughts being "Captain, why would you let the Cyclops live when ruthlessness is mercy-" is them blaming Odysseus for their deaths. This makes him lose more of his captain side.

Then he sees Polites, and then his mom. He breaks down again after we last saw him do so in Troy.

And then Tiresias shows him his fate, which he misinterprets. Why? We all know the man is him, but why did he not think it was him? He was holding onto the husband part of him the most, so much that it blinded him.

So here comes song 20.

And in the Thunder Saga, we see him lose more of his gentleness and kindness. He's also barely holding onto being a captain by a thread.

Scylla is the entire explanation.

Mutiny is the last bit of that thread and it finally snapped during Thunder Bringer. He lost his leadership, he's no longer a captain. And quite frankly, it traumatized him so much already.

Calypso's island, though this version makes Calypso naive, she, like Jorge said, is ruthless in her own way. He was trapped. He was probably still holding onto the husband aspect of him subconsciously, as to why he never slept with her. But it was buried pretty deep.

"All I hear are screams" Who's to say he hadn't been hearing this for the past seven years, but that day he was so close to losing to those screams. He lost his side of being a captain, he lost his side of being a friend, he lost his side of being gentle and kind.

So his side as a husband is all he could hold onto anymore in The Vengeance Saga. During Full Speed Ahead, we see his king aspect through the lyric "Ithaca's waiting, my kingdom is waiting" but in Dangerous, he has no more king aspect. It's just him wanting to be home to his family at this point.

And then he loses himself more in Six Hundred Strike, as he lost his last bits of mercy when Poseidon offered him none. All that's left of him is wanting to be with Penelope, and his hopes of finally seeing his son.

The suitors' plans had been horrible. But honestly, he would have killed them anway even if they hadn't planned shit. He lost his patience for threats, he lost his mercy, his gentlessness. He is still cunning, but he's gone. Odysseus, King of Ithaca, is gone. "Old king" He's still king by title, but can he really manage a whole kingdom anymore? Like he used to since he was thirteen?

If it had not been for Penelope, he never would have embraced that he, no matter what, is still just a man, no matter how monstrous. But he lost so much of himself, and he knows. He lost his own autonomy, he lost what he knew of himself.

Finally holding his son and his wife yelling at him made him understand that he's still human, but post Epic/The Odyssey the man is already so traumatized, that he most likely forgot so many things of himself. He lost what made him Odysseus, King of Ithaca, which is a BIG part of him. Odysseus, husband of Penelope, father lof Telemachus, is all that's left of him. While those may be the most important parts of him, he's still traumatized, and only knows of himself as a monster now.

He is, quite frankly, no longer him.

[littleredgun]

Worship - Part Two.

18+ - better not see any of you minors knocking around here.

Warnings for all chapters: Established relationship, female reader, pet names, swearing, guns, violence, restraints, NOOSE, chloroform, knives, death, blood, angst, fluff, SMUT, soft Jason, p in v sex, unprotected sex, size difference, size kink.

I do not own any of the characters in this fic and GIF is not mine, credit to the owner!

My work is not to be translated, copied / posted anywhere else!

Part One

It was getting late and Jason couldn’t feel his fingers so he called it a night. He radioed Dick and told him he was done. He revved his bike and raced home to you. Only, when he got there, there was no trace of you. Furniture strewn across the apartment, curtains hanging by a thread and spatters of blood…everywhere. His blood ran cold as he stood in the middle of your shared apartment looking for clues as to where you could be.

His heartbeat boomed in his ears as he took tentative steps towards the bedroom. “Baby?”, he called out. “Stop playin’ games. You’re scarin’ me”. Silence. Fuck, fuck, fuck. That’s when he saw it. A pool of blood and a rag. Written on the wall in blood were the words. “ HA HA HA”.

“Joker”. Jason threw up, the fear was eating him alive. That bastard killed me with a crowbar, god knows what he’ll do to her. He took off, thundering footsteps echoed through the tiny apartment block. His motorbike roared to life as he sped to the one place he knew you would be.

He broke all sorts of traffic laws but he didn’t care. He needed to get to you. The stench of blood, sweat and gunpowder assaulted his nose the moment he stepped foot in the warehouse. His movements were calculated, silent. He took down goons one by one. His breathing was steady until he heard you. A piercing scream that made his mouth go dry.

“Please, please stop”, you begged, only to be met with manic laughter. Jason knew that laugh well. “I’ll give you anything you want! Please stop”. Another blood curdling scream followed by the sound of gurgling. “Anything I want? Does that include the Red Hood?”. Through heavy breaths you managed to speak. “No. Anything but him”. Jokers crowbar clanged against the metal walls as he spoke. “Oh I think you will…Little”. His words were like salt in a fresh wound. “H-how’d you know that?”.

That spine prickling laugh found your ears once more. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it? Now, how about you meet a friend of mine, hm?”. Joker swung the crowbar in the air like a golf club ready to crack down on your head, his laugh echoed through the room like a taunt.

Then it all went quiet. You braced yourself for the impact of the heavy metal but it never came. Everything sounded fuzzy as a familiar distorted voice called out to you. “Baby?! Are you alright?”. More green and purple goons appeared and set their sights on Jason, he fought them off with might, dropping them one by one like sacks of bricks.

Adrenaline finally wearing off at the presence of Jason, you slipped in and out of consciousness. The attempt to watch the fight and guide him in some way was poorly executed. You couldn’t speak, it like your words were being held back by something tight around your neck.

Sounds of splintering bones and spattering blood accompanied by Jason’s uncontrolled breathing filled the room. Just one left, then I can take you home.

The last big, stumbling goon headed for Jason. With his last drop of energy, he took him down. He fell to his knees and coughed. A faint whimper caught his attention and his eyes darted to you. Tied up on a splintered wooden chair and a noose around your neck.

All the adrenaline shot back through his body, he untied you and removed the piece of rope from around your neck. “Baby, sweetheart, it’s me. You’re safe”. You threw your arms around his neck and he picked up you. He carried you out of the warehouse into the stormy weather. “We’re goin’ home, princess”.

[witchezandwonderz]

Whispers of the Seer

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word Count: 1.8 k

Ivar’s fist thundered onto the wooden table before him, in turn almost breaking it clean in half. The sudden noise caused your breath to catch and your heart to flutter slightly, although you steadied yourself in a desperate attempt to show as little emotion as possible.

He looked at you, curiosity clouding him. He wanted a reaction from you. In fact, he could almost say that he needed one, for you had shown not an ounce of feeling since he had met you a mere days before. Ivar was used to evoking emotional reactions; it was fair to say that most, if not all residents of Kettegat were scared of Ivar, and his unpredictable ways. You were different.

You had appeared in the dead of night days before, for you had been experiencing the most intense, vivid visions. You had experienced visions since you were a mere child. Your mother and father had kept it quiet, as they knew what would happen if you were found to be a seer. They were not ready to let go of their little girl.

But, as you grew older, so did your visions and connections. You felt yourself growing more powerful, and you wanted to know more. You ran away from home once you felt restricted; you knew that your parents had your best interests at heart, but the gods had chosen you, and that was more special than any human love you felt.

You had visions of people often, both ones whom you recognised, and whom you had never seen before. Ivar was the first that you felt compelled to seek and guide. His bright blue eyes were scratched into your memory, and you felt the need to be close to him. As close as possible. You had always seen Ivar, since you were a child, but not often; a few times a year, perhaps. You did not know his name, you only knew what you saw, and that was not a lot. As you grew older, you pieced information about him together as though it were a puzzle.

You had known that his father, Ragnar Lothbrok had died; that night, you lay as you saw a brief picture of Ragnar in a snake pit. Since that night, your visions of Ivar became more intense and frequent than ever before and you knew that it was finally time to go and visit Ivar, and tell him everything.

“Do you know who I am?” Ivar's voice was low, venomous, but with a thread of curiosity woven through it. “What I am capable of?”

You tilted your head slightly, your hands clasped before you. “I do,” you replied, your tone even. “I know more of you than most, Ivar Ragnarsson. I know the weight of your pain, the fire of your ambition. And I know what the gods have shown me of your future.”

The room grew still, the air charged with unspoken tension.

Ivar breathed, a wide grin stubbornly stood on his lips as his eyes bore into you. Using both hands to grip the steel chair in front of you, you leant forward, ensuring to not break eye contact.

His eyes squinted slightly. “How convenient,” he began, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “that the gods have sent me a seer—one who just so happens to be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

You stiffened but kept your composure, your hands remaining clasped before you.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his grin widening as he spoke. “Do you know how many women have tried to impress me? How many have thrown themselves at me, hoping to worm their way into my favour?” He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And yet none of them were what I wanted. Not one of them matched the image in my mind of what the gods should send me. And now, here you are.” He peered up at you, expecting some sort of reaction. But much to his dismay, you stared at him with the same blank expression, despite your thundering heartbeat.

“I’m supposed to believe,” he continued, his voice now low and sharp, “that out of all the women in all the kingdoms, the one who stands before me now—the perfect match for my tastes, my desires—was sent here by the gods?” He laughed bitterly, shaking his head again. “It sounds like a story a fool would believe.”

Your eyes narrowed, "you are a fool to think that the gods are so against you." You snapped, the echo of your works ricocheting throughout the room. Ivar's head consequently snapped up, his eyes widening due to the sheer shock of how you would dare to speak to him in such a way. His lips curved into a small smile; he liked it.

Ivar nodded his head, in turn encouraging you to continue. To which, you obliged. "Ivar, when your father died, my visions got stronger. I have always seen you, since I was a child. The gods are trying to tell me something. Destiny is not kind, Ivar. But it is powerful. And the gods do not make mistakes. I have seen you, in every vision, as clearly as I see you now. You are everything I have ever pictured, everything I have ever longed for, even when I didn’t understand what it meant. And I believe they sent me here because we are meant to shape each other’s fates." Your words came tumbling in a chaotic manner. This is the first time that you had shown any slight inkling of being a human being.

Ivar's grip tightened on the table in front of him. Silence rang in the air, as he quite clearly fought with his thoughts. You almost turned around and walked away, however, Ivar's sudden words broke the quietness.

"Everything you have ever longed for, you say?" His words were low, and teasing. You looked up at him in disbelief; after all that time, and all that tension, that was all that that he could think of?

"You do not understand both the weight and importance of my words." You shook your head. "You must start taking life seriously now, Ivar. You need to focus, if you want to be a leader." You spoke loudly, frustration soaring through your body.

Ivar was both shocked and overwhelmed. He did not understand why he was allowing someone to speak to him in such a way, and yet he knew exactly why. You were everything that he had ever dreamed of, and more. You were telling him your exact thoughts and feelings, while also making him feel as though he were the most important person in the world, and he could not fathom why.

"Prove it to me. Prove that you are who you say." He demanded, now a sense of seriousness planted on his face. He looked at you expectantly, an arrogance in his demeanour, in an attempt to mask his vulnerability.

You stepped forward, closing the distance between you, not faltering in the face of his simmering anger. You had seen his past—his childhood, his memories. The pieces of him that no one else knew, that he himself had buried. It was now time to lay them bare. You began to tell him stories of his childhood; his mother telling him stories about the gods, waiting for his father to come home.

"Lucky guess, perhaps." He said, his eyes darting between your eyes and lips.

You took a deep breathe. "Fine." You said. "You want something more personal?" You asked, your eyes peering up at him. He nodded in response, clearly amused. "You remember the first time it happened," you whispered, watching his face closely. " She was little, and blonde, the complete opposite to me. The first time you gave yourself to someone, thinking it would make you feel more… more like a man. More powerful. But it didn’t. It didn’t feel the way you thought it would. It was messy, uncertain, and for all the bravado you showed, there was a deep, gnawing loneliness underneath. It wasn’t just about taking what you wanted. It was about seeking something more—seeking connection, seeking validation. But that connection didn’t come from anyone but yourself."

Ivar's jaw clenched, he could not believe that you knew the details of his life- personal details, personal memories. His lips parted, as though he had intended to speak. He however, did not.

"And all the women that came after that, and I believe that there were many, were not good enough. You did not enjoy them, any of them." Your voice became low, as you stepped forward, closing the gap between you.

His gaze intensified, a mixture of confusion, longing, and something else—something dangerous—flaring in his eyes.

You smiled softly, a confident smirk curling at the corners of your lips. “You’ve always been searching for me, Ivar. And now, here I am, standing before you. No other woman could ever compare to what we’re meant to have. To what we’ve always had.”

In one swift motion, he reached for your waist and pulled you towards him. He looked at you for a moment, his breath hitching and his body stiffening for a moment. And then, just like that, his lips crashed onto yours with an intensity that left no room for hesitation or doubt.

The kiss was hungry, desperate. His hands found their way to your back, pulling you into him, his touch urgent and possessive. Your knees weakened at his actions, for his touch felt right, and his possessiveness was something that you yearned for.

Your hands tangled in his hair, deepening the kiss as the heat between you both soared higher.

Ivar pulled away just enough to look at you, his lips swollen, eyes dark and searching. He stared at you, as though trying to memorise the very essence of you in that moment. “Do you know what you’ve done?” he rasped, his voice husky, thick with desire and something else—something deeper. No woman had ever made him feel this way; he had never wanted someone so much, respected someone so much.

You barely had time to respond before he kissed you again, more urgently this time, his mouth claiming yours with a raw intensity that left no room for hesitation. His hands moved to the small of your back, lifting you up against him, the need to be closer, to feel every part of you against him growing unbearable.

He pulled away suddenly, causing your eyes to flutter open as you look up at him. His eyes darkened, "You will guide me." He stated, causing you to in turn nod your head. His grip on your waist tightened. "You are mine." He stated, his words laced with emotion. His words caused your stomach to erupt with a feeling unfamiliar to you, nervousness.

“I’ll kill anyone who dares go near you,” he growled. You could feel the raw intensity in his words, the promise of violence that came with them. You had proven yourself to him and it was as though he saw you as something precious, something irreplaceable, and he would protect you with every ounce of his being.

“And if anyone dares doubt your visions,” he continued, his voice low, “if they question the gods or the fate that binds us, they’ll meet the same fate. No one will ever dare challenge you or the truth you carry. No one will harm you.”

[ssinboo]

Midnights To Come

summary: After finding campus heartthrob Kim Mingyu absolutely butchering his trousers trying to fix the hole he'd busted in them, you offer his your sewing abilities. As retribution, he thinks that nothing is more fitting than his ultimate mission: getting you laid.

or

You and Mingyu spend an unforgettable night together.

pairing: University!AU - Popular!Mingyu x Unpopular!F!Reader, reader does read on the thicker side? Nothing specific.

word count: 6.8k (30~ minute read)

warnings: protected sex (finally), fingering (F rec), drinking, partying

a/n: Thank you so much for the love <3 This is mostly inspired by Taylor Swift's older music lol I'm starting a new job soon, so I'll be mostly MIA for march and perhaps april TT

Kim Mingyu was the ex-boyfriend of a friend’s friend’s cousin, unforgettably handsome with the sort of beauty that belonged in Hollywood. A very tall glass of gorgeous with an incredible personality to boot, that’s why everyone adored him. He was majoring in business to follow in his father’s footsteps but was a star at football and made sure no one would forget just who was the best lineman on their amateur team. 

And you’d met once or twice, briefly. Definitely not enough for him to come even close to becoming acquainted with your existence, but more than sufficient for him to leave his mark. He was a campus Idol, a guy you admired for his popularity and his way with people.

It was at a senior’s party your friend had dragged you to, that you met again. You were quietly searching for some solace in an empty room upstairs, when you saw him fiddling with his pants – It was hard not to notice his large frame struggling with a pair of jeans in the dark bedroom corner.

Being quite fair, at first you believed he was relieving himself, carnally. That was a puzzling sight as horrifying as it would be— I mean, the man had lines of women throwing themselves to be his, why would he just jerk off?  And then, you noticed the stapler he was using to completely butcher the fabric in a desperate way to fix the large hole. 

“Oh my God, just stop!” You exclaim, not being able to watch such abuse any longer. He was known to wear brand-name goods and just the thought of high quality fabric being assaulted by staples made your skin churn.

You, however, had totally forgotten to announce your presence. 

Mingyu jumps, falling off the bed in a split-second, clashing into the carpet with a thunderous thump. Eyes blown wide like a moose in headlights, he stares at you from his half-down half-on-the-bed position, suddenly, completely aware of his nakedness.

“Oh- Fuck–!” He exclaims, stumbling off the bed and pulling the jeans to cover his brand-name boxers.

“OH!” You also seem to realise how inappropriate it was to simply barge into his intimate moment with the stapler. “I’m sorry!” You yell from behind your palms, eyes tightly shut. 

“...No problem?” It sounds more of a question than anything. I mean, it was the polite thing to say when someone says “I’m sorry” however, there was a problem. 

“Do you need any help?” You ask, still muffled and hidden behind your hands. Mingyu has no idea on how to reply, he is familiar with those words, especially coming from a lady, but this scenario is totally different from the sexy ones he’s accustomed to. “I’m a seamstress,” Your brain urges for an explanation, as to make the situation somewhat less awkward.

He seems to be content with that. “You are?”

“Yes!” You turn around, fishing around your purse for a small sewing kit, pink plastic box with teeny tiny everything. “I have some needles and thread.” 

“Oh, thank God!”

That’s how you find yourself sitting on some stranger’s bed with a half-naked Mingyu – You’re carefully patching up the seams on his jeans while he sits cross-legged with a pillow between his legs. 

Who would’ve known that years into University, your closest call with a boy would be such a weird scenario. Sitting with the campus heartthrob as you stitch up his busted trousers. What a story to tell your friends. 

“I’m Mingyu, by the way,” He breaks the awkward silence, reaching out his hand; He then realises you are occupied and takes it back.

You tell him your name, eyes glued to the intricate detailing on the garment.

“Are you new here?” He asks, curiously studying your face.

“No,” You mutter, holding a needle between your lips so you can inspect your stitches. 

“How come we’ve never met?” 

“We have.”

Mingyu adjusts himself, leaning closer, “No”

“Yes?” 

“No!” 

“You dated my friend’s friend’s cousin,” You explain, though it doesn’t help.

“I’ve dated plenty of friends’ friends’ cousins’,” Mingyu half-chuckles, practically patting himself on the back for that one. 

You roll your eyes, “We met once or twice, nothing major.”

“I would’ve remembered you.” 

“You didn’t,” Laughing, you don’t even notice he’s taken offence to his own forgetfulness.

“I don’t forget a pretty girl,” It is said as a matter of factly, a worldly known truth of sorts.

“You haven’t.” 

“I forgot you, apparently,” Mingyu is more frustrated than you’d expect – Than anyone would expect for such a laid back guy.

“I’m not pretty, though?” 

Oh, he is furious at such a statement, “What?! Of course you are. You are a solid 7.5, no joke, dude.”

A solid seven point five? Wow. Coming from anyone else, that could be taken as an offence, I mean, what about you made them go so high up the scale yet not even give a full number? But you were talking about THE Kim Mingyu.

That not only tickles your ego in the right spot, but does get a good laugh out of you. Mingyu laughs along, not fully grasping the humour of it, but enjoying the sound of your giggles. 

“Thanks,” You smile, pulling out your scissors to clip the last of your thread. “Here, it’s done.” 

He widens his eyes, “So fast?!” 

With a nod, you put everything back in your pocket kit. Mingyu excitedly inspects his trousers and his jaw falls open once he can’t locate where your repairs are. 

“It’s perfect!”

You smile, “Great!” 

“Wow. You are some kind of sewing genius! Thanks! You saved my life”

Mingyu proceeds to rant about how great you are and how amazing your skills are and you should totally work with sewing – you are, and that you should make clothes – you do. All because you are just that good – from a small repair. 

You were happy with just helping him, seeing it as a finished mission, ready to pack up and head home but he would not have that, oh, no. Mingyu was laser focused on repaying your kindness – he said he hates owing people so you had to accept.   His manner of retribution? Partying and maybe, if you got lucky, getting you laid. It was his mission now.

So he dragged you downstairs to meet his inebriated friends, all surprisingly welcoming and not nearly as douchy as you’d expected – Soonyoung was especially keen on having you accompany him on the dance floor. Even drunk, his abilities surpassed any of your own and he absolutely demolished the floor with his intricate choreo. 

Seokmin pulled you from the dance floor to join him on a cheesy karaoke battle, the one feat no man can accomplish being as stone-cold sober as you were. His usually impeccable vocals suffered under the alcohol and strained over high-notes. So you just plucked the first poor soul you saw in the crowd to substitute you as Seokmin’s duet.  

Stumbling through the crowd and away from the karaoke, you finally find Mingyu, giving him “Help me” eyes. He laughs softly at your predicament, stumbling from his friend’s shoulder to wrap his arm around your neck — his exaggerated stature almost sent you crashing down. 

“Come on, no one caught your eye?” He slurs his words, wild tongue running over his pretty lips, classic red solo cup dangerously dangling from his long fingers. You can see from up close the drunken blurriness that glazes his pretty eyes with unhinged impulsiveness.

You chuckle, remembering his goal was to set you up for a “Hot date”. 

“Not at all. But I had fun.” 

“Whaat?!” He whines in frustration, stepping forward so you’re facing each other. His arm is still heavily draped over your shoulders. “You didn’t have fun!” 

“I did!” You argue.

“No…” Mingyu pouts.

“I did! I promise,” Offering him a smile, you await his response. 

“Have a drink with me?” 

God, he was a pro at puppy-dog-eyes. With pouty lips, glistening under the remnants of his drink and sparkling eyes with furrowed brows. 

“I don’t– I don’t drink,” You’re so upset with the idea of disappointing him and his adorable pout though he barely pays it any mind. 

“Then we can do something else! Come on!” 

“No, Mingyu–!” 

But he’s dragging you away from the party, placing the edge of his cup between his teeth so he can snatch his coat from the hangers on his way out. You’re stumbling under his weight and hurried steps, but the night air feels so refreshing after the stuffy frat house you practically forget his intentions. 

The house behind you thumps under the song that blasts through its brick walls, colourful LEDs flashing from open windows. The front yard feels almost completely separate from the party inside, a world apart from the drunk atmosphere that holds the stifling rooms. 

Mingyu drags you toward the pavement and standing before his car, you feel your stomach drop once you see him press the button to open the door. 

“Mingyu– You– You’re drunk. You can’t drive,” You stumble over your words, nervously fidgeting with your clothes, even if you left right now, would he still drive?

“I won’t. You’re sober,” He says as a matter of factly and you hadn’t even considered driving this insanely expensive sports car. 

Mingyu opens the driver’s door and stands there, gesturing for you to get in. A true gentleman. With a relieved breath, you do. 

It’s a convertible – Of course, it is, no other car would fit his personality as well. The chassis is coloured a blinding firetruck red and the rims are a polished silver, it’s so clearly well-maintained you feel nervous about driving it. The leather seats smell so vividly of his cologne, woody and fresh.

Mingyu closes your door and jogs to his seat, he jumps over his door with ease, settling onto the beige leather seat with a soft thump.

“Here’s ignition, turn signals, speed and all that,” He leans over and points to each item. 

“Is it stick?”

“Nah, I had it modified, it’s completely automatic.” 

“Wow, disappointed in you… I thought you’d drive stick like a real man,” You tease, leaning over to check the height for the seat – It’s obviously too far back so you adjust it forward.

“Too busy getting my dick sucked to worry about changin’ gears,” He sticks his tongue between his teeth, leaning back with a proud smile. 

“Oh, god,” You groan, “Should I be touching any surface on this car?”

“Nope.”

You laugh.

After putting on your seatbelt, you look over and notice that of course, he’s not wearing his. With a roll of your eyes, you lean over and pull the seat belt over his chest. Mingyu would’ve flinched had he not been tipsy, his eyes linger on your body over his, how your left hand holds the belt at his chest while your right hand fiddles with the lock. 

And you have such pretty long lashes that flutter along your cheeks as you focus on finding the clip for the belt. A soft furrow between your brows, you’re sighing and biting on your lower lip; He notices the pretty shade of red that you wear.

But you’re already done and it’s clipped on with a satisfying click. 

“Driver’s rules, shotgun shuts his mouth,”  You say before he can protest the safety measures.

You smile so brightly, happily turning back to the wheel, excited over this incredible machine that lays in your hands. More than the alcohol in his bloodstream, your joy is intoxicating.  

And the car comes alive with a satisfying roar, you feel the soft vibrating from the wheel course up your wrists. For you, following the speed limit felt perfect, the wheel turned so smoothly and the pedals felt the perfect height. But the little devil on the passenger’s seat kept egging you on to go faster. 

Caving to his wishes, you take the highway out of town, breezing through asphalt with no sight of other cars. The confidence that such a smooth ride gives is true, you feel yourself steadily increasing the speed much to Mingyu’s satisfaction.

The wind in your hair, caressing your face with the exhilarating night air, the thrilling constant hum of such a potent engine working to your heart’s content. Nothing could beat the constellation of artificial lighting that lit the night scenery, every building held its own collection.

“Where should I go?” You ask, suddenly remembering you’re supposed to have a destination, your eyes absolutely glued to the road. 

“Somewhere nice,” Mingyu hums, thinking for a second.

He leans back, his left hand is carelessly draped over your headrest and you can feel his fingers fidget with your hair so unconsciously. Any of his go-to destinations were made for getting hot and heavy, which wasn’t the goal tonight; He wanted to repay you for helping him out and you hadn’t shown any interest in… other manners of payment. So it left him with only one option. 

“Take a left next turn,” He says, leaning forward to dig through the glovebox. 

Mingyu finds a pair of sunglasses, putting them on despite the very obvious lack of Sunlight. He offers you a spare set, and though you’d love to enjoy wearing Prada sunglasses that probably cost more than your entire net worth, you also enjoy seeing anything on the road. So you push them on top of your head, pushing your hair back. 

Somewhere along the deserted road, Mingyu grabs the AUX cord, connecting it to his phone and going through his very generic musical taste. But the atmosphere is so perfect you can’t help but enjoy the bubblegum pop blasting from the dashboard. You even sing along. 

It’s a comfortable silence, filled with Pop music and laughter. 

You drive for almost an hour under his strict directions, until you reach a dirt road. There’s an alarm blaring in your mind, realising that you’re far from civilization, in the middle of nowhere with a total stranger. I mean, serial killers were always described as charismatic, right? 

Making a deal with yourself, you decide that if he does anything even remotely suspicious you’re running the car off the road. You’ll die, but he’ll go with you.

Against your anxiety, however, he tells you to pull up at a clearing just ahead and once you arrive, there’s no doubt on why he chose this place.

From atop this hill, you can see far into the city, its blinding lights nothing but tiny stars on the horizon, the noise pollution of a bustling metropolis is totally gone and replaced by the calming murmurs of nature. Before he can even say anything, you’re leaving the car to admire such a view. 

The moon is full, a pale veil over both of you, standing in the starry sky as the queen, ruling over her stars. The light caressing your body with the warmth of the perfect Summer night.

“What do you think?” Mingyu asks, leaning against the hood of his car. 

You can’t help but to briefly admire the picturesque scene he paints with his playboy aura and Hollywoodian beauty, leaning against this straight-out-of-a-movie convertible. He has this side smirk, knowing this breathtaking landscape can’t be topped by any of your past experiences. 

“It’s…” There aren’t words you can find to describe such a view.  “I– Thank you. It’s gorgeous.”

He visibly relaxes, as if he was waiting anxiously for your opinion, “It’s my favourite place.”

“I can see why,” You laugh, joining him, though you have a little trouble stabilising your butt over the hood.

“Everything feels small when I come here,” He explains. 

Turning to face him, your stomach is filled with annoying little butterflies that flutter around and tickle your insides with foolish thoughts. 

His moonlit profile is somehow prettier than his beauty in any other lighting, his perfect nose and high cheekbones and his eyes, God, his eyes. They hold in their dark orbs, all of the stars and worlds, in its ethereal shine. 

You hum, prying your gaze from him before your brain gets any outlandish rushes of dopamine and creates unattainable ideas. 

Mingyu leans back, his lanky body hitting the windshield, his eyes stare up at the stars. At this moment, he wishes he knew constellations from the top of his head, then maybe, he could impress you with his astronomical knowledge. 

“You look like a movie star right now… I feel like I’m in a movie,” Joking, you lean on your elbow, unconsciously following his body with your own. 

“What do you wanna be when you grow up?” He asks on a spur of the moment.

You laugh, “When I grow up?”

Mingyu realises what you meant by your question and laughs along, “You know what I meant.”

Though you’re caught aback, there’s not much thinking to be done, “I want to design clothes.”

He hums, “It suits you, I think.” He didn’t know you that well, but it seemed fitting.

You chuckle, “You?”

Mingyu lets out a long sigh, leaning on his elbows to stare up at you, “CEO, I guess.”

“Have you always wanted to be a CEO?”

His lips press into a thin line and he hesitates on how much he should tell, throwing caution into the air, Mingyu decides to open up. “I honestly… Don’t want to.”

You furrow your brows, “Won’t you take over your father’s company?” 

He nods, “That’s what I should do.”

“Then what do you want to be?”

It’s such an innocent question and in all honesty, sort of childish almost? Something you would ask a small child and just agree with whatever they come up with. But it’s something he was never allowed to question.

“I… Don’t think I know.” 

You hum, “You could be an actor,” It’s a bit of a tease as much as it is the truth. 

Mingyu raises an eyebrow, sitting up so he can face you properly. You have this soft smile on your face that holds so much warmth for a stranger like him, it almost feels undeserving. 

“An actor?” He prods. 

“Yeah,” You shrug, “You just have the vibes for it… Living a thousand lives in just one, I think you could play any character really well. Plus, you have the looks. I always told my friends you have a face that belongs in Hollywood.” It comes out so naturally, you barely realise what you’ve said until he’s staring at you. “I– Sorr–”

Mingyu smashes his lips into yours. 

You squeak, but don’t shy away from his plush lips. 

His left hand reaches for your jaw, fingers softly tracing your cheek with certain hesitancy but you lean into his touch so willingly he can’t help the bubbling feeling that comes to life deep in his belly. 

When your lips part, you feel the night breeze caress the parts of your body he touched and you find your body misses his warmth. 

Your brain simply can’t function. 

In your brilliant academic journey, romance had never been an aspect you entertained. You quickly learned at thirteen that a fairytale story only happens to cute girls with nice hair and pretty bodies. And not the one repeatedly being used as the butt-end of a cruel joke. 

Mingyu represented everything you would never have; A popular, rich guy with amazing hair and looks out of this world. And he was nice, too. Took time of his day to hang out with you and to repay what had been an instinctive action; help out someone. 

It could only have been a mistake, right?

Mingyu, noticing the dread that paints your pretty face, can’t help the cold shiver that takes over his body, “I… I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine! I won’t tell anyone.” You reply all too fast.

“What?” He blinks a couple of times, “What do you mean?”

“Y’know, I won’t ruin your reputation…”

He practically jumps from the car, standing in front of you, “Say it again.” 

You look up, his towering height has never once been intimidating, until now, “...I won’t tell anyone. I promise.” 

“No, what the fuck do you mean ruin my reputation, why would kissing you ruin it?” His voice possesses such anger you couldn’t even think he was capable of. But you feel yourself getting upset, how long will he torture you with this? Do you need to say with all words how undesirable you are?

“Because no one in their right mind should be seen with a girl like me!” You blurt out, feeling his anger seep into your body.

“A girl like you?” He huffs in disbelief. “A girl that indulged me, was nice to my friends and let me drag her to the middle of nowhere?” Mingyu leans forward, caging your body in between his arms. “ A pretty, kind girl, who helped me without asking anything for it? What kind of girl, tell me.” He orders, his voice in a low, hushed tone that tickles your nose when he speaks.

Speechless, you’re sitting there, face to face with a guy that genuinely shows interest in you, told you you’re pretty for the nth time tonight and has the most kissable lips you’ve seen. 

His jaw is tight with anger, almost as if he’s got a personal vendetta against you self-hatred, but your stupid lustful brain can’t focus on anything but the sharp cut of his jaw, deep veins bulging from tanned skin. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, so quietly you think you hallucinated it. But it’s very much true. 

He looks so irresistible, half-lidded eyes staring at your lips while he bites his own. 

“Please,” you exhale, melting into his body when he leans forward. 

You were never a woman of action, preferring when others make the move, but in this moment you have this newfound confidence, meeting his lips halfway, crashing into a fervorous kiss.

It’s nothing like your first, you feel the heat emanating from his body, scorching hot seeping into your skin, burning every nerve it touches with fervorous want. 

His tongue is in your mouth, anxious and exploring and he is humming against your lips such an intoxicating melody that for a second, you’re a stranded sailor falling for the voice of a siren and dipping into the arms of unimaginable beauty.

Saliva drips from your connected lips but he refuses to end the kiss, no. Because you taste of cherry flavoured hard candies, provocatively luscious with a delicious aftertaste that can only leave you longing for more. 

He parts the kiss, leaning back and practically tearing his varsity jacket from his body. You’re watching closely as he lays it behind you, over the car.

Right hand moving to your waist, Mingyu pushes forward until you’re laying on the hood, so pretty. Your body is still finding his, your chest leaning forward so you can mould into his warmth, hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, closer, closer. 

You’re breathless, eyes trained on his every move with such incredulity as if you believed you were in a dream, hallucinating every moment so far. 

He can feel every curve of your body pressing tightly against his. It’s evident the effect you’re having on him, blood boiling in his veins with unadulterated desire.

There has never been a moment in his life where he genuinely cared to go slow, to show his passion and intent; Every partner of his had been as much into the act as he had been. 

But you, you’re so fragile and every moment he spends in your presence feels so ephemeral, he can not help the panic that rushes into his body to make it worth it, to make every second last.

His lips trace along your jaw, saliva coating the path he trails down your neck until he reaches your collarbones. And his lips are so gentle and enticing, with their sugary kisses that you lean into because you’ve never felt something so wonderful. 

He nibbles and kisses on your exposed skin, teeth grazing across the teeniest bit of cleavage showing from your borrowed dress. So far, you had done an amazing job at keeping the sounds he elicited from leaving your lips, however this once, you couldn’t hold the breathy mewl that escapes. 

Mingyu freezes, eyes slowly rising up until they meet your face. 

“Oh my god, do it again,” He huffs against your sensitive skin.

“W-What?” You ask.

“That sound you just did, god, you sound so fucking hot,” And he slurs against your chest. Not because of alcohol, no, he had sobered up on the windy car ride, but intoxicated on the effortless warmth that you exude. 

You lit a flame on his chest that burns incandescently with nothing but greedy lust, burning its way through his body with an unfathomable hunger that could only be satisfied by your sweetest moans. 

He struggles with the buttons that decorate the cleavage of your dress, trying to undo them and seriously questioning his soberness when they do not separate.

“It’s got a zipper,” You admit, but he looks so relieved. 

Mingyu leans back, pulling you by your hand until you crash into his chest and he can finally reach the back of your dress. You’re breathing so heavily against his skin, your soft hands grazing along the nape of his neck, fingers tangling into his hair; He can hardly focus on the task at hand. 

His right hand runs under the skirt of your dress, clawing at your flesh with heavy hands, almost as if he wanted to hold you fully in his touch. Toying with the band of your panties, he sighs, watching your chest heave at the contact.

You pull your dress sleeves off, letting the fabric bundle around your waist, though you can’t be arsed to properly take it off. Mingyu does not mind at all, no, he’s absolutely hypnotised by the sight of your tits.

Shoving his face onto your cleavage, he’s pulling you closer into his body by your hips, sucking love bites on your unblemished skin. Leaving a trace of him that would last longer than your moments together, a mark of momentary possession that allowed his brain to indulge.  

And you’re contaminated with his boldness, clawing at his shirt with relentless anticipation. You suddenly have this peculiar urge to feel his skin on yours, unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. 

Mingyu smiles against your skin, finding your hands that touch him fervently, wrapping his fingers around yours. And for a brief moment, you feel as though you might’ve wronged him, but he pulls your hands to wrap around his neck as he finds your lips again while his hands are pulling on the hem of his shirt.

The kiss is only parted once, when he pulls the white shirt above his shoulders and discards it somewhere across the soft grass; completely unimportant at the moment. 

And god, Mingyu is divinely sculpted with defined pecs and hardened abs that tense under your touch. You sigh at the dreamy sight of his tan skin completely exposed for your viewing only. 

He relishes in the adoring look you exhibit, eyes dripping wholly in an exquisite hunger you’ve never felt before; And he coerces this scandalous reaction from you with pride. Your hands are eager to touch him, so you do. You run your fingers down his supple skin, fingernails grazing in teasing lines. 

Smoothing out your hands up his chest, you find his neck and pull him toward your lips, wanting to feel his bare skin on yours, stealing his heat until your bodies are running at the exact same temperature.

His hands, large and calloused from playing professional sports, lay heavy on your thighs. Mingyu pulls at the waistband of your panties and takes a second to lock eyes with you, guaranteeing your approval. 

You can only hope you’ve got the good pair of underwear on. 

But it doesn’t matter, because he pulls it off at once, discarding it above his shoulder to fall somewhere along his shirt. 

Your dress is bunched up around your waist and you should’ve felt more embarrassed to be completely exposed before him but Mingyu looks at you with such reverent eyes, taking every inch of abundant flesh with care. 

“Fuck–” He groans, eyes glued to the spot between your legs. You can’t even close them in an attempt at modesty because he is standing right there and not going anywhere. 

He runs a slender finger across your slit, breathing heavier at the sight of moisture that pools along the lips. 

When you bite your lower lip, unknowingly coquettish and staring at him all bright eyed and pleading, Mingyu let out a strained sound that could barely be classified as a groan. 

“Can I?” 

His finger dances around your slit and he looks unsure. You nod with a soft “Yeah.”

Nothing like anything you’ve felt or done before.

That’s the only way to explain the feeling of having his long finger prodding at your hole with gentle movement. He soon joins another one, stretching you out with delicate scissoring motions, he’s not focused on making you cum, he wants to prepare you for him. 

And that very thought makes your stomach tighten in anticipation. 

You don’t even realise when your hips are thrusting against his hand, matching his pace. And you’re definitely not thinking when you ask in a gasp:

“A… Another one–”

Mingyu stills. 

“You don’t fuckin–” He leans forward, forehead flushed to yours, uneven breath tickling your sensitive lips. “You have no idea what you’re doin’ to me, babygirl.” 

You feel your body consumed with an unstoppable amount of confidence, knowing the grip you hold over Mingyu at this moment, you’re dizzy with power.

“Show me, then,” The lazy smile that finds your red stained lips is a sight to bear.

He smirks, knowing he will make you eat your words soon. 

As he pulls his fingers from your cunt, there is a thick string of arousal that coats his skin in a sinful glaze. With a confident smirk, Mingyu 

But he doesn’t expect when you lean forward, letting your tongue run all over, cleaning his fingers and tasting first-hand the pleasure he brings you. 

Oh, fucking hell. 

Mingyu could’ve cum right then and there. 

You’re giggling as he fumbles with his belt, he wishes he could’ve stopped to appreciate such a sweet sound, but he was way too horny to think about anything other than plunging his cock into you at once. 

When the night breeze hits his throbbing erection, Mingyu shivers.

You’re chewing on your lower lip, equal parts excited and terrified at his sheer size. He is large. And fat, with bulging veins running down his length and a thick head that’s trickling with pre-cum. 

“Oh my god.” 

Mingyu cowers at your gasp, “What?”

“You’re huge, fuck.” 

Oh, your praise runs straight down to his erection. His chest puffs out with absolute pride.

“Do you have a condom?” It was a silly question when aimed toward Mingyu, of course he did. He always does. 

He fishes out his wallet and pulls a fresh packet, tearing the foil apart with his teeth and pulling the pre-lubed rubber. Mingyu is about to roll it over himself when your hands find his. 

“Can I–?” You ask and he almost sighs. 

He watches you with bated breath. You’re delicate, small hands quietly rolling the condom over his seemingly unending length until you’ve reached the base. Your fingers linger in curiosity and he can’t help but to find it adorable.

Properly protected, Mingyu grasps his length as you position yourself better on the hood, legs wide open, dripping in anticipation. Oh, you couldn’t fault his desire to tease, could you?

Running his tip over and over your drenched core, he groans. You’re clenching around nothing, hands fidgeting with the bunched up fabric of your dress. Mingyu has a stupid confident smirk on his lips, watching you squirm at his minimal touch. 

“Mingyu!” You whine when he brushes against your clit. Reaching your right hand, you claw at his heaving chest. He doesn’t budge, however.

“What?” He plays dumb, toying with your hole. 

“F-Fuck me? Please…?”

Fuck seven point five, you were a ten, a twenty, a one-hundred, no fucking numbers could quantify your allure, no. You could charm your way out of any crime if you pursed your brows and pouted your lips like this, smeared red lipstick painting your soft skin, saliva dripping down your chin so indecently. 

And your hand was still, caressing his stomach, like a succubus ready to pounce and devour him like a five course-meal. Consume him whole, body and soul until he has nothing left to give. He would let you have him, any way you wanted, you just needed to say the word.

Just needed to let his name fall out of your pretty lips in a breathy gasp and he would be at your call. 

Mingyu enters you slowly, stretching out every millimetre of your walls with a burning feeling of fullness.

“Fuck–” He groans, “Relax for me, baby.” 

You take a deep breath, allowing your body to relax as much as your brain allows at the moment and he takes the chance to stretch you out further, hips pistoning forward. 

Mingyu feels the pleasure seep into his body in one fell swoop, dissolving in his bloodstream, filling his lungs with heat. You’re snug around him, clamping down on his sensitive erection, pulsing alive and throbbing. 

“Are you in?” You ask, not risking looking down and disappointing yourself at the remaining length. Mingyu is hovering just inches above you, hand taut on the hood, using every bit of restraint imaginable to not pound you into tomorrow.

“Just a little more,” He breathes out, head coming to rest on the crook of your neck as his hip comes to meet yours.

He allows you a moment to let the stretch lessen, to allow your discomfort to slowly morph into pleasure. And soon, you’ve got your arms wrapped tight around his broad shoulders, his almond eyes have completely surrendered to the dark gaze of lust, devouring you alive with their insatiable hunger. 

“You can move now…” You breathe out, fingers tangling around his silky smooth hair. 

“You sure?”

“Oh, yeah.” He smiles against your lips, hips finding themselves a languid, slow and torturous pace until you’re begging for more. 

The way his body feels against your is something unforgettably wonderful, every curve of his torso giving into your own, every inch of you filling into the gaps of his in an imperfectly perfect little puzzle.

With every thrust, you’re pulling at the roots of his hair, gaining yourself sharp hisses from Mingyu. Though he enjoys the tugging, leans into your scratching, presents his lips to you with total eagerness.

He fastens his movement, thrusting into you with sheer fervour. His hands are exploring your body, kneading at abundant flesh with excited fingers that leave trails of crescent moons shapes along your skin. 

Out here, in the middle of nowhere, caressed by the breeze and the moonlight, you’re whispering his name in an unanswered prayer, letting the syllables dance around in your tongue before you let them slip away into the starry night sky to be forgotten. 

You’re clenching around him with pleasure, feeling the knot in your belly tighten and tighten. 

“Feels– So good,” Mingyu hisses against your kisses, hips not stuttering even once. 

Brain an absolute mush, you can’t find any words to respond other than strained moans.

“So– Fucking good…” Nuzzling along your jaw, he grazes his teeth on your neck, painting your skin with love bites.

“I–” You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. He doesn’t even need you to finish your sentence to know what you meant.

“Yeah? Me too– Let go, baby.” 

Digging his hands into your hips, Mingyu hurries his thrusts, hitting your sweet spot again and again until you’re melting in his arms, singing praise of his name with your candied voice and luring him into his own orgasm. 

He leans forward, capturing your lips in a harsh kiss, hips slowing down as he comes undone, tainting the condom with heavy spurts. 

You’re both gasping in complicity, blanketed in the summer night.

Once the condom is discarded, Mingyu lays by your side and pulls you into his heaving chest. You both lay there in comfortable silence, letting the orgasms fade out into strained sleepiness. 

“Will you promise to remember me?” You ask, watching the twinkling stars that lay before you two.

“Where did that come from?” Mingyu chuckles. 

“Do you promise?” Your voice is a soft whisper that dissipates into a shaky, hesitant breath, “Do you promise to remember me?”

He laughs, but your eyes hold such urgency, he can not ignore the human need to sympathise with your woes. “...Why– Why do you say that?”

“Because…” You sigh, “Because I’ll remember you, – this,” Hands vaguely gesturing toward your conjoined bodies, “For the rest of my life… And I’m afraid even a decade from now, you won’t be able to recall my name or what I look like.” 

It’s serious, it’s a concern that has plagued your mind since the moment you laid down. However, Mingyu can only focus on the fact that you’ve assumed the two of you won’t see each other again, ever. 

Leaning forward, his slight smile does nothing to hide the clearly confused look that is plastered across his handsome face, “It’s like you plan to disappear. We’ll see each other again.”

You shake your head, “What are the chances, Mingyu? We’re just… Fleeting seconds in centuries. What are the chances alumni – Not even from the same major, – will meet again?”

“What if we promise to meet?” Oh, he’s absolutely set on it, but you find it adorable; this fervorous intent on defying the hands fate has laid before you.

“Then, what happens when we’re bored of each other?” You chew on your lower lip, but he discards your argument. 

“That might not happen,” He points out.

“We’re too different. It defeats fate to force it,” You sigh.

Mingyu doesn’t have an answer right now, but he’s seeking one with furrowed brows and pouted lips.

“Remember me like this, no wait–” You run your fingers through tangled hair in an attempt to fix the messing he’d done before. “Done. Like this.” You flash a smile, posing your body in the best angle it has, to construct the perfect memory.

But Mingyu sees your flustered cheeks, smeared lipstick that leaves behind a stained trail of hot red over swollen-kissed lips. Sleep hazed eyes that gaze at him with such warmth, that hold a longing he wouldn’t be able to grasp for another decade. You liked him, you truly did. And that’s why you would never allow your memories of him to be tainted by the grasps of time. 

You’d forever remember his dorky smile and dad jokes, his clumsy hands and warmth.

And Mingyu doesn’t realise it yet, but he would forever remember you as someone who marked him forever. To disregard the cards you’re dealt, make your own memories, remember it all fondly. 

Maybe in a couple years, you will have a wild dream about this very moment, a fuzzy memory that leaves behind a nostalgic smile that will follow you for the day, reminding you of this perfect feeling. You’ll look back with wistful thinking of the good days. 

And will keep it close to your heart.

Where it belongs.

You thought about it often the day after, but days turned into weeks, turned into months, turned into years. And a decade later, you found yourself having a dream about the distant memory, and the sweet nostalgic feeling accompanied you throughout your routine. 

After university, you had found a simple job in your area that sufficed the need for experience and filled the empty stop in your resume. Though it was far from fulfilling. There was no creative liberty allowed and you often found yourself overworked and constricted by tight deadlines. 

The dream of your own line had yet to die, however. That’s why you had volunteered for such a demanding gig: designing for a historical movie. Luckily, your resume had allowed you a good position, overseeing the wardrobe and designing the pieces that would be forever captured on film.

The main character, a pretty young thing with curly hair, was extremely excited to work with you and almost cried when she saw the dresses she would be wearing. 

Today, you would be fitting for the lead male role and designing him some characteristic James Dean style clothes. Your assistant led him to your office while you were gathering your materials. 

When you enter the room and you’re met with those gorgeous almond eyes, you can’t help the stupid smile that finds your lips.

“This is the lead actor, Kim Mingyu,” Your assistant explains. 

“Yeah, I know,” You laugh. 

He stands up, a charming smirk plastered on his pretty face, “Hey.”

Your assistant looks at you with a puzzled look, “You know each other?”

Mingyu nods. 

“Yeah, I never forget a pretty face.” 

[novaursa]

The Wolf Who Challenged Fire (extra chapter)

- Summary: A few extra moments that were removed from the story.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Brandon Stark

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for adult content this time)

- Previous part (the whole story): 1

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The grounds of Harrenhal were alive with nosie. Rows of colorful pavilions stretched out like a patchwork quilt under the pale spring sun, banners snapping in the brisk breeze. Lords and ladies from across the Seven Kingdoms had begun to arrive for the much-anticipated tourney, their entourages filling the castle grounds with a cacophony of voices, horses, and laughter.

Brandon Stark stood near the stables, his broad frame casting a shadow over the trampled grass. His wolfish grin was in full display as he clasped hands with Robert Baratheon, who had just arrived with his usual swagger, his booming laughter echoing through the air.

“Gods, you look as if you’ve been dragged behind your horse,” Robert bellowed, clapping Brandon on the shoulder with a force that nearly made him stumble. “What’s the matter, Stark? Lost your taste for ale and mischief?”

Brandon chuckled, shaking his head. “Not all of us can carry a cask of wine under our belt, Robert. Some of us have to keep our wits about us.”

“Wits?” Robert snorted, his dark blue eyes glinting with amusement. “That’s what I have Jon for.” He gestured toward Jon Arryn, who was just dismounting nearby, shaking his head at Robert’s antics.

Brandon opened his mouth to reply, but his attention was drawn to the far end of the grounds, where a procession of crimson and black had begun to arrive. The Targaryens. The unmistakable silver hair of Rhaegar caught the light as he dismounted with practiced grace, his indigo eyes scanning the crowd with a calm intensity. His armor, polished and gleaming, reflected the sun’s rays, making him look every bit the prince he was rumored to be.

And behind him, trailing with a regal but subdued air, was the unmistakable figure of Y/N. Your gold-and-silver hair caught in the wind like threads of fire and moonlight, your lilac eyes bright even from a distance. Aerys had placed you at the head of the entourage, parading you like a prized possession. Brandon’s chest tightened as he watched you, his heart thundering against his ribs. He hated seeing you like this—used as a pawn in your father’s twisted games.

Robert followed his gaze, his expression turning sly. “Ah, so that’s why you’ve been brooding. The dragon princess has caught your eye, has she?”

Brandon forced his gaze away, shaking his head with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot, Robert.”

But Robert’s laughter died as another voice, calm and cold, interrupted their exchange. “Brandon Stark.”

Brandon turned to find Rhaegar standing a few paces away, his face composed but his eyes steely. The prince’s voice carried a weight that silenced the noise around them, and the animosity between the two men was visible.

“Prince Rhaegar,” Brandon said, inclining his head slightly. His tone was respectful, but there was no warmth in it.

Rhaegar’s gaze flickered briefly to Robert, who lingered for a moment before giving Brandon a pointed look. “I’ll leave you two to it,” Robert muttered, clapping Brandon on the shoulder before walking away.

When they were alone, Rhaegar took a step closer, his voice low. “I know.”

Brandon raised an eyebrow, his wolfish grin returning. “Know what, exactly?”

“Do not play coy with me,” Rhaegar said, his tone bitting now. “You think no one notices, but I see the way you look at her. My sister.”

Brandon’s grin faltered, replaced by a harder expression. “And what of it, Prince Rhaegar? Y/N isn’t yours to command.”

“She’s my blood,” Rhaegar said, his voice firm but laced with something that sounded almost like jealousy. “And your obsession with her is reckless. You put her in danger every time you come near her.”

Brandon laughed bitterly, crossing his arms. “Danger? From whom? You? Your mad father?”

Rhaegar stiffened, his indigo eyes narrowing. “From herself. From the court. From whispers that could ruin her—and you. You think Aerys won’t notice? That he won’t act?”

“I’m well aware of what your father is capable of,” Brandon snapped, his tone icy. “But I’m not going to stand by and let her rot in that cage you call a family.”

Rhaegar’s jaw tightened, his composure slipping for a moment. “You have no idea what you’re doing, Stark. You’ve already humiliated your betrothed, Lady Catelyn, by going behind her back. Do you think you can take what isn’t yours and not face the consequences?”

Brandon stepped closer, his voice lowering to a dangerous growl. “What isn’t mine? You speak as if you have a claim, Rhaegar. But she’s no more yours than she is your father’s.”

Rhaegar’s eyes flashed, the jealousy unmistakable now. “She deserves better than you, Brandon Stark. Better than a reckless wolf who drags her name through the mud.”

“And what would you offer her?” Brandon shot back, his voice cutting. “A lifetime of being paraded like a prize? A future as another piece in your father’s madness?”

Rhaegar said nothing, his hands clenched at his sides. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words and simmering rage.

Brandon shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “You don’t care about her. Not really. You’re just afraid you’ll lose whatever game you’re playing.”

Rhaegar’s composure returned, his voice steady but cold. “This isn’t a game, Stark. If you care for her as you claim, you’ll leave her alone before more damage is done.”

Brandon’s gray eyes met Rhaegar’s, his defiance unyielding. “You don’t tell me what to do, Targaryen. And if you think I’ll walk away, you don’t know me at all.”

Rhaegar exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. “Then you’ll both pay the price.”

Without another word, the prince turned and walked away, his crimson cloak trailing behind him. Brandon watched him go, his fists clenched, his chest heaving with the force of his anger.

From the distance, you caught his gaze for a fleeting moment, a subtle smile playing on your lips as Aerys’s entourage passed. Brandon’s resolve hardened. Whatever price there was to pay, he would bear it. For you.

The Godswood near Harrenhal was cloaked in shadows, its ancient weirwood whispering secrets to the cool night air. The faint glow of moonlight filtered through the canopy of leaves, casting silvery patterns on the mossy ground. It was a place of quiet reverence, but tonight, it was a sanctuary for stolen moments.

Brandon Stark waited, his breath misting in the chill of the night. His wolf’s-head cloak lay discarded on a nearby boulder, leaving him clad only in his simple tunic and breeches. He leaned against the trunk of a weirwood, its pale bark cold against his back, his thoughts a chaotic storm of longing and despair.

The crown of blue roses he had placed in your lap during the tourney still lingered in his mind, the way your lilac eyes had softened, the faint curve of your lips as you accepted his defiance of duty and expectation. It had been a reckless act, one that had already ignited whispers throughout the realm. But for Brandon, it had been worth it.

The rustle of leaves broke the stillness, and his heart leaped. You emerged from the shadows, your dark cloak wrapped tightly around you. Even in the dim light, your silver-gold hair caught the faint glow of the moon, a beacon that drew him toward you.

“Brandon,” you said softly, your voice carrying a mixture of relief and apprehension. “Are you mad to summon me here?”

His lips curved into a faint smile, though there was a shadow of sadness in his gray eyes. “If I am, it’s because of you.”

You stepped closer, the tension in your posture easing as his warmth enveloped you. “You’re a fool,” you murmured, though there was no heat in your words. “We shouldn’t be doing this. Not here. Not now.”

“And yet you came,” Brandon countered, his voice low and steady. “Because you feel it too.”

You hesitated, your gaze searching his face. “This is dangerous,” you whispered. “We’ll ruin everything.”

Brandon reached for you, his hands gentle as they settled on your waist. “Everything’s already ruined,” he said, his voice heavy with the weight of the inevitable. “This might be the last time I see you. Let me have this. Let me have you.”

Your chest tightened at the raw emotion in his voice, the vulnerability that he rarely let anyone see. “And what happens after?” you asked, your voice trembling. “When we go back to our separate lives? When duty pulls us apart?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his forehead resting against yours. “But I know that right now, I can’t let you go.”

The walls you had built around yourself, the ones meant to shield you from pain and regret, began to crumble under the intensity of his gaze. “Then don’t,” you whispered.

His lips were on yours before the words had fully left your mouth, the kiss fierce and consuming. There was no hesitation, no pretense, only the overwhelming need to feel, to remember, to claim a fleeting moment of happiness in a world that would never allow it.

Brandon’s hands moved to your cloak, slipping it from your shoulders as his lips trailed down your jaw to your neck. You arched into him, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic as the heat between you grew unbearable. The layers of clothing separating you were shed with desperate hands, discarded onto the soft moss below.

“Gods, Y/N,” Brandon murmured against your skin, his voice thick with longing. “You’re everything I’ll never deserve.”

You cupped his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Don’t say that. Don’t ruin this moment.”

His eyes softened, the storm within them giving way to something gentler. “You’re right. Let me show you instead.”

He lowered you onto the ground, the cool moss a stark contrast to the warmth of his touch. His movements were unhurried yet deliberate, every kiss, every caress a silent promise. When he finally entered you, he paused, his gray eyes locked on yours.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, his voice trembling.

You shook your head, your hands running along his shoulders. “Don’t stop. I want this.”

The rhythm he set was slow at first, each movement deliberate as if he were memorizing every moment. But as the passion between you intensified, the pace quickened, your bodies moving together in a feverish dance. The quiet grove was filled with the sounds of your shared desire, the world beyond forgotten in the haze of your union.

Brandon’s hands clutched your hips, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both tender and desperate. “I love you,” he whispered against your mouth, the admission raw and unguarded.

Your heart clenched at his words, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “And I love you,” you replied, your voice breaking.

When the peak came, it was like fire and lightning coursing through your veins, leaving you both trembling in its wake. Brandon collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms as his chest heaved with exertion.

For a long while, neither of you spoke, the only sounds the quiet hum of the forest and the steady rhythm of your breathing. Finally, Brandon broke the silence.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Leave all of this behind. We can go anywhere, be anyone.”

You shook your head, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Every time you ask me this. You know I can’t.”

“Why not?” he demanded, his frustration evident. “Why do we have to live by their rules? Why can’t we be free?”

“Because it’s not just us, Brandon,” you said softly, your voice tinged with sorrow. “If we ran, it wouldn’t just be us who suffered. Your family, my family—everyone would pay the price.”

He closed his eyes, his jaw tightening as he held you closer. “I’d burn the world for you.”

“And that’s exactly what they’d do if we tried,” you replied, tears slipping down your cheeks. “We have this moment. Let it be enough.”

Brandon didn’t reply, his silence heavy with unspoken words. Instead, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, his touch lingering as if trying to memorize the feel of you.

When the first rays of dawn began to break through the trees, you sat up, gathering your scattered clothing. “I have to go,” you said, your voice trembling.

He nodded, his gray eyes filled with anguish as he watched you dress. “Will I ever see you again?”

You paused, your back to him as you fastened your cloak. “I don’t know.”

As you disappeared into the early morning mist, Brandon remained in the grove, his heart heavy with the knowledge that this had been your last night together. And yet, the memory of your union, of your love, burned brightly within him—a flame that would never be extinguished.

The First Meeting, before Harrenhal

The air around Riverrun was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth and river reeds as the royal procession arrived in a cascade of color and sound. Black and crimson banners fluttered in the breeze, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen stark against the muted gray sky. Trumpets blared, their sharp notes cutting through the hushed murmurs of the gathered crowd.

Brandon Stark stood near the gates of Riverrun, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his wolf’s-head cloak resting heavily on his shoulders. He had never been one for pomp and ceremony, and the sight of the royal entourage left a bitter taste in his mouth. His father, Lord Rickard Stark, stood beside him, his expression unreadable as they awaited the arrival of the Targaryens. Nearby, Lord Hoster Tully looked equally somber, though there was a flicker of nervousness in his eyes.

Brandon shifted his weight impatiently, glancing toward the banners. "All this for a mad king," he muttered under his breath.

Rickard shot him a warning look. "Mind your tongue, Brandon. Aerys may be mad, but he is still king. And we are here to settle your future, not ruin it."

Brandon grunted but said no more, his gray eyes scanning the procession as it drew closer. The clatter of hooves and the creak of wagons filled the air as knights, courtiers, and servants passed through the gates in a seemingly endless stream.

At the heart of the procession, seated in an ornate litter draped with silken curtains, was King Aerys II. Even from a distance, Brandon could see the disheveled pale hair, the too-thin frame, and the fevered gleam in his eyes. Aerys looked more like a ghost than a king, his presence both unsettling and magnetic.

But it wasn’t Aerys who caught Brandon’s attention.

Trailing behind the king, astride a white mare, was a woman who seemed to have stepped out of a dream. Her hair, a shimmering cascade of gold and silver, caught the light like molten fire. Her lilac eyes, bright and keen, scanned the crowd with a mixture of curiosity and caution. She rode with the ease of one accustomed to grandeur, her posture regal but not rigid. The gown she wore, a delicate blend of black and red silk, clung to her figure in a way that seemed effortless yet impossibly elegant.

Brandon felt his breath catch in his throat. He had heard whispers of Princess Y/N Targaryen, the Jewel of the Realm, but no description had done her justice. She was beauty incarnate, her presence commanding without being overbearing. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

"That’s her," Hoster Tully murmured, leaning slightly toward Rickard. "The king’s youngest daughter. A rare sight outside the Red Keep."

Rickard gave a curt nod, but Brandon barely registered their exchange. His gaze remained fixed on you as you rode past, your head turning slightly to take in the unfamiliar surroundings. For a brief moment, your eyes met his, and Brandon felt as if the world had shifted beneath his feet.

The look was fleeting, but it was enough. Enough to send his thoughts spiraling, enough to set his heart racing in a way it never had before.

Later that evening, the lords of the Riverlands and the North were invited to a feast in honor of the royal visit. The great hall of Riverrun was a blaze of light and sound, the long tables laden with food and wine. Minstrels played lively tunes, their music weaving through the hum of conversation and the clatter of dishes.

Brandon sat beside his father, a goblet of wine in hand, his attention divided between the boisterous conversation of Robert Baratheon across the table and the occasional glimpse of you seated at the high table. You were beside your father, who alternated between loud proclamations and quiet mutterings that made the courtiers around him shift uncomfortably. Rhaegar sat on Aerys’s other side, his expression calm but distant, his eyes occasionally flickering to his sister with something that resembled worry.

Brandon tore his gaze away when his father nudged him. "Focus, boy. Lord Tully is speaking."

Brandon turned his attention to Hoster, who was discussing the details of the upcoming wedding. Catelyn Tully, seated farther down the table, blushed at the mention of her name but said nothing, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

"The arrangements are nearly complete," Hoster was saying. "With the royal visit, we can finalize the dowry and announce the betrothal to the court."

Brandon nodded absently, his thoughts drifting back to you. His father’s scolding voice broke through his reverie.

"Brandon," Rickard said pointedly. "Are you paying attention?"

"Yes, Father," Brandon replied, though his tone lacked conviction.

Hoster leaned toward Catelyn, giving her an encouraging nudge. "Go on, my dear. Speak with your betrothed."

Catelyn hesitated but eventually stood, smoothing her skirts as she approached Brandon. Her steps were light, her face flushed, though her eyes darted nervously to her father for reassurance. Brandon rose out of courtesy, forcing himself to focus on her even as his gaze kept drifting toward the high table where you sat.

"Lord Brandon," Catelyn said softly, her voice trembling slightly. "It’s… good to see you again."

"And you, Lady Catelyn," Brandon replied, his tone polite but distracted.

She fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, glancing at her father for support before speaking again. "I hope you’ll find Riverrun to your liking during your stay. My family is… eager to welcome you properly."

Brandon nodded, his attention only half on her words. "Riverrun is a fine place, Lady Catelyn."

His gaze flicked back to you, catching the way your eyes sparkled as you spoke briefly to a courtier. You laughed at something Aerys said, though the sound didn’t reach him. He saw the stiffness in your posture, the mask you wore to hide whatever emotions lay beneath.

Catelyn noticed his distraction, her expression faltering. "I… I hope you’ll find our match agreeable, my lord. My father has worked hard to ensure—"

"Of course," Brandon interrupted, his voice distant. He forced himself to look at her, offering a small, strained smile. "I’m sure we’ll do well together, Lady Catelyn."

Her face reddened, and she lowered her eyes, clearly unsure of how to proceed. Hoster called her back to her seat, and she offered Brandon a quick curtsy before retreating.

Brandon sat back down, his fingers tightening around the goblet of wine in his hand. His eyes found you again, lingering on the way the firelight caught the golden strands of your hair. Whatever the future held, he couldn’t deny the truth that burned in his chest.

He would marry Catelyn, as his father and duty demanded. But his heart, reckless and wild as a wolf, had already chosen with a little more than a single glance.

The moon hung low in the night sky, its silver light spilling over the quiet gardens of Riverrun. The day’s festivities had given way to the soft hum of crickets and the occasional murmur of guards patrolling the castle grounds. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of river water and blooming jasmine.

Brandon Stark moved through the shadows with practiced ease, his cloak blending into the darkness. His father would have skinned him for slipping away from the feast, but Brandon couldn’t stay. Not when he’d caught a glimpse of you stepping out of the hall, the faintest flicker of exhaustion marring your otherwise regal demeanor.

You were not alone, of course. Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, trailed a respectful distance behind, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. A silent sentinel. Brandon had watched as you’d wandered into the gardens, drawn to the quiet solitude they offered.

Now, he stood at the edge of the garden, his heart pounding as he caught sight of you beneath an ancient weirwood tree. The pale bark glowed in the moonlight, the red leaves rustling softly in the breeze. You sat on a stone bench, your head tilted back to gaze at the stars, the soft glow of the night casting an ethereal light on your features.

Brandon hesitated for a moment, his usual confidence faltering. What would he say to you, a princess of the realm? But then your voice broke the silence, soft and melodic, as you hummed a tune he didn’t recognize. It was enough to draw him forward.

“Princess,” he said, stepping into the moonlight, his voice low and steady.

You startled slightly, your eyes widening as you turned to face him. For a moment, there was silence between you, the night holding its breath. Then, your lips curved into a small, polite smile.

“Lord Stark,” you replied, your tone cool but not unkind. “Should you not be enjoying the feast?”

Brandon shrugged, his gray eyes studying you intently. “I’ve had my fill of wine and empty words. The gardens seemed a better place to spend my time.”

You tilted your head slightly, curiosity flickering in your gaze. “And yet you seem to have followed me here.”

Brandon chuckled, the sound low and warm. “You caught my attention, Princess. I’d be a fool not to introduce myself.”

Ser Gerold shifted behind you, his presence a subtle reminder of the distance that should remain between a Stark of Winterfell and a princess of the Iron Throne. But you raised a hand, a silent gesture that eased the tension.

“And so you have,” you said, your voice carrying the faintest hint of amusement. “Brandon Stark, son of Lord Rickard. Your reputation precedes you.”

He raised an eyebrow, his grin wolfish. “Does it, now? I hope it’s a good one.”

“That depends,” you said, your gaze steady. “Are you as reckless as they say?”

Brandon’s laugh was softer this time, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Only when the occasion calls for it. And you, Princess? Do you always wander the gardens alone, or am I just fortunate tonight?”

You smiled, a genuine one that softened your regal bearing. “I needed air. Riverrun is lovely, but the court can be… stifling.”

Brandon nodded, his expression turning more serious. “I can imagine. Aerys doesn’t seem like the type to let his children wander freely.”

Your gaze flickered downward for a moment, a shadow passing over your features. “No, he does not. My father values control above all else.”

The vulnerability in your voice caught Brandon off guard. He had expected haughtiness, the arrogance of royalty, but instead, he found a woman weighed down by chains she could not escape. He took a step closer, his tone softening.

“You deserve more than this,” he said, his voice low. “More than being paraded like a prize.”

You looked up at him, your lilac eyes searching his face. “And what would you know of what I deserve, Lord Stark?”

He hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding. “Enough to know that you’re more than what they make you out to be. More than just a Targaryen princess.”

Your lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across your face. Then, to his astonishment, you laughed—a soft, melodic sound that sent a thrill through him.

“You’re bold, Lord Stark,” you said, amusement dancing in your eyes. “Most men wouldn’t dare speak to me like this.”

“Most men don’t have wolves at their back,” Brandon replied with a grin, his confidence returning. “And I’m not afraid of dragons.”

You studied him for a long moment, your gaze lingering on his sharp features, the way his gray eyes burned with unspoken intensity. “Perhaps you should be,” you said softly, though there was no malice in your tone.

“Perhaps,” Brandon said, stepping closer still, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But I’m not.”

The air between you seemed to crackle with unspoken words, the distance narrowing as your gazes locked. Ser Gerold cleared his throat pointedly, breaking the moment.

You stood, smoothing your gown as you straightened your posture, your regal mask slipping back into place. “It’s late, Lord Stark. I should return.”

Brandon inclined his head, though his eyes remained fixed on you. “Of course, Princess.”

As you turned to leave, your steps graceful and measured, you paused for the briefest moment, glancing back at him. “Goodnight, Lord Stark.”

“Goodnight, Princess,” he replied, his voice tinged with something deeper.

He watched as you disappeared into the shadows, Ser Gerold following close behind. For the first time in his life, Brandon Stark found himself truly captivated. You were fire and ice, strength and vulnerability, a contradiction he couldn’t ignore.

As the night deepened, Brandon leaned against the ancient weirwood, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. He knew, even then, that this was only the beginning.

The secluded bank of the Tumblestone River lay bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, its surface shimmering like liquid silver. The air was cool and damp, the gentle murmur of the river blending with the rustling of the willow trees that framed the hidden spot. Brandon Stark stood beneath one such tree, his broad frame partially concealed by its drooping branches. He shifted his weight, his hands resting on his belt, his gaze fixed on the path that led to their meeting place.

She would come. He knew she would. And yet, his heart raced as he waited, the thrill of the forbidden coursing through him. Every fiber of his being told him this was madness—treason, even. But when he thought of her, her eyes filled with a fire that mirrored his own, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The faint crunch of footsteps on the damp grass broke the quiet. He turned sharply, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his sword before he saw her emerge from the shadows. You.

You moved with the grace of a cat, your black and crimson gown trailing lightly behind you, the silver threads glinting faintly in the moonlight. Your hair, a cascade of gold and silver, was left loose, and the sight of it made his breath catch.

“Lord Stark,” you said softly, your voice carrying a playful edge. “Do you always skulk about like a wolf in the shadows?”

He grinned, stepping forward to meet you. “Only when I’m waiting for a dragon to appear.”

You laughed lightly, the sound sending a thrill through him. As you drew closer, his eyes drank in every detail of you—the way your lips curved, the delicate rise and fall of your chest, the faint blush that dusted your cheeks.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Brandon admitted, his voice low.

“Neither was I,” you replied, glancing around as if to ensure no one had followed. “But here I am.”

He stepped closer, his voice softening. “Why?”

You hesitated, your gaze locking with his. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About the way you looked at me. About the things you said.”

Brandon’s grin faded, replaced by something deeper, more intense. “You haunt me, Y/N,” he said, his tone raw. “Every moment I’m not with you, I wish I were.”

You looked away briefly, your hands fidgeting with the edge of your gown. “You shouldn’t say such things,” you murmured. “If anyone found out…”

“They won’t,” Brandon said firmly, reaching out to gently take your hand. His touch was warm, grounding, and you allowed it, your fingers curling around his. “No one has to know.”

For a moment, the two of you stood in silence, the river’s gentle song filling the space between you. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, Brandon stepped closer, his free hand rising to brush a strand of hair from your face.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Tell me to stop, and I will. But if you don’t…”

You didn’t reply, your lips parting slightly as your gaze flickered to his mouth. That was all the encouragement he needed.

Brandon leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both tender and searing. Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you froze, caught between caution and desire. But then you melted into him, your hands finding his shoulders as you returned the kiss with equal fervor.

His hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space between you. The kiss deepened, growing more urgent, more consuming, as the thrill of everything forbidden wrapped around you like the night. Brandon’s fingers found the ties of your gown, his movements deliberate yet trembling with restraint.

You broke the kiss, your breaths coming in shallow gasps as you looked up at him. “Brandon,” you whispered, your voice trembling with both fear and longing. “This is dangerous.”

“I don’t care,” he said, his voice rough. “Not tonight. Just let me have this. Let me have you.”

Your heart pounded as you searched his face, seeing the same desperate yearning that mirrored your own. Slowly, you nodded, your hands moving to the clasp of his cloak.

The cloak fell to the ground with a soft thud, and his hands resumed their work, loosening the laces of your gown. The cool night air brushed against your skin as the fabric slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet. Brandon’s breath hitched as he took in the sight of you, his eyes darkening with desire.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice reverent.

You reached for him, your fingers brushing against the edges of his tunic. “And you’re wearing too much.”

His grin returned, wolfish and full of promise. “Allow me to fix that.”

Piece by piece, his clothing joined yours on the ground, the moonlight painting his skin in silver as you ran your hands over his broad chest. His warmth enveloped you, his touch igniting a fire that burned away all thoughts of duty, of consequence.

Brandon’s hands were steady yet tender as he explored every curve of your body, his calloused fingers igniting sparks wherever they touched. You shivered beneath him, your skin warm against the cool night air. The world beyond this hidden grove seemed to dissolve, leaving only the sound of your breath and the rustling of leaves.

He leaned over you, his gray eyes searching yours for any hesitation. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered, his voice rough with restraint.

You nodded, your hands sliding up his broad shoulders, holding onto him as if he were your anchor. “I trust you.”

Brandon’s lips brushed against yours, a fleeting kiss that carried both passion and reassurance. Slowly, he positioned himself, his movements deliberate as he gave you time to adjust. As he began to push into you, a gasp escaped your lips, your body tensing slightly at the unfamiliar sensation.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked, his voice strained, his forehead pressing against yours.

You shook your head, though your breaths were uneven. “It’s… different,” you admitted, your fingers digging into his arms. “But don’t stop. Please.”

His jaw clenched as he fought to keep his movements gentle, giving you time to acclimate. The initial discomfort ebbed, replaced by a growing warmth that spread through you like fire. You let out a soft sigh, your body relaxing beneath him.

“Brandon,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “You can move.”

His eyes darkened, the restraint in his expression melting into something raw and unfiltered. He began to move, his rhythm slow at first, each thrust measured and careful. But as your hips rose to meet his, a quiet plea on your lips, his control slipped. His pace quickened, his passion no longer tethered as the two of you lost yourselves in each other.

The intensity built between you, your bodies moving in perfect harmony. His hands roamed your body, his lips pressing kisses along your neck, your collarbone, your shoulders. You clung to him, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, your breaths mingling as your moans filled the secluded grove.

“Gods, Y/N,” Brandon groaned, his voice hoarse. “You’re… everything.”

You couldn’t find words, your own voice caught in the overwhelming sensation that consumed you. You arched into him, your body meeting his with wild abandon as the two of you chased the peak together.

When it came, it was like a storm breaking—a rush of pleasure that left you gasping, trembling in his arms. He followed you moments later, his body shuddering as he buried his face against your neck, his breaths ragged.

The two of you lay tangled together, your hearts racing in unison, the cool night air wrapping around your heated skin. For a while, there was only the sound of the river and the quiet murmurs of your breathing.

Brandon broke the silence first, his voice low and filled with a bittersweet edge. “I don’t want to let you go.”

You turned your head to meet his gaze, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “Neither do I.”

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumb tracing your cheekbone as he looked at you with a mixture of longing and determination. “Say the word, Y/N. If you want to leave, I’ll take you. Wherever you wish to go, we’ll go together. I’ll keep you safe, I swear it.”

Your chest tightened at his words, the sincerity in his voice making your heart ache. You wanted to say yes, to run away with him and leave behind the chains that bound you. But reality was a cruel mistress, and you knew the truth.

“It can’t be,” you said softly, your voice tinged with sorrow. “You know it can’t.”

Brandon frowned, his hand dropping to your shoulder. “Why not? You don’t belong in that cage. You’re not theirs to control.”

“And yet, I am,” you whispered, your fingers brushing through his hair. “If I left, it would bring ruin to my family, to yours. My father… he would burn everything to the ground.”

Brandon cursed under his breath, his frustration palpable. “I don’t care about the consequences. I only care about you.”

You smiled faintly, your hand resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “And I care about you. Which is why I can’t let you destroy yourself for me.”

He pressed his forehead against yours, his breaths heavy as he tried to reign in his emotions. “You deserve better than this,” he said, his voice cracking. “Better than him. Better than all of them.”

Your thumb brushed against his cheek, wiping away a tear he hadn’t realized he’d shed. “For tonight, I had better. I had you.”

He kissed you again, this time slow and tender, as if trying to memorize the taste of you. When he finally pulled away, his hands lingered on your waist, reluctant to let you go.

“I have to go,” you said, your voice heavy with regret. “If I’m gone too long, they’ll notice.”

Brandon nodded, though every fiber of his being screamed to hold you close and never let you leave. “Go, then,” he said quietly. “But don’t forget this. Don’t forget us.”

You smiled softly, your fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. “I could never forget.”

With a final kiss, you rose, gathering your discarded clothing and slipping back into the shadows. Brandon watched you go, his heart heavy with the knowledge that this might be the last time he held you.

And yet, he knew this night would stay with him forever, a memory burned into his soul like the heat of your touch. For you were fire, and he was a wolf drawn to the flame.