#(and even then his story would forever be incomplete)

[theetherealbloom]

It Only Falls Into Place When You're Falling To Pieces

Summary: There are a lot of people you thought would live forever. You swore Joel would be one of them.

Pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ HEAVY ANGST, Fluff, Crying, Tears, Sadness, Apocalypse, Cordyceps, Infected, Major Character Death(s), Funerals, Grief, PTSD, Depression, Kissing, Blood, Morgue, Star-Crossed Lovers, TLOU 2 Spoilers,

Word Count: 7.7k

A/N: Fml. I know that you know I don’t usually write angst, but fuck man, I need to mourn and maybe so do you… God I'm so sad. Like we knew the story and how it would end for Joel. Even if you think you're ready... But I know this from experience, even if you've braced yourself, brutality like this... will hurt a lot.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Still by Noah Kahan

Joel Miller Masterlist | MAIN MASTERLIST |

WYOMING, JACKSON — 2029

The mornings were slow in Jackson. Slow in a way that made you feel like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t living in the end times anymore.

Joel had a habit of waking up before you. Not out of routine or discipline, but out of muscle memory. The kind that sticks even when the world’s long since changed.

Sometimes, he made coffee. Sometimes, he just sat at the table, plucking at his guitar in soft, incomplete chords while the sun started to push through the windows. The house you shared wasn’t big or fancy. But it was warm. It was quiet. It had his coat always draped over the same chair, his boots by the door, the scent of cedar and pine from the little woodworking studio in one of the rooms.

It had Joel.

You found yourself drifting toward him more often than not. Whether he was sanding a piece of maple or trying to shape a leg for a rocking chair he swore he’d finish someday, he let you linger. You’d sit on the bench next to him, fingers curled around a warm mug. He’d hand you scraps to practice carving, smiling softly when you accidentally broke off a corner.

“‘S alright,” he’d murmur, brushing sawdust off your cheek with a thumb. “Takes time.”

Everything with Joel took time.

Loving him. Learning him. Earning the space between his heart and the pain he never quite put into words.

But the quiet in Jackson gave you time. Time to laugh with him over burned dinners, to slow dance in the kitchen when he played a familiar tune, to lay on the couch with your head on his chest while he told you about old country songs and the guitar he lost in Austin.

And it gave him time, too.

Time to lower his walls. To see you not as a danger, but as something steady—something soft he could rest in. Time to share pieces of himself he rarely offered to anyone, fragile corners he'd kept locked away.

He would look at you and think, If I were braver. If I could just say it.

He’d imagine the words on his tongue, how they’d change everything the second they left his mouth. But he wasn’t ready—not brave enough, not honest enough.

So he just looked at you instead.

And maybe you knew. Maybe you always knew.

Because he did love you.

In quiet, consistent ways. In the way he made your coffee just how you liked it. In the way he memorized the sound of your laugh. In every glance, every softened breath, every moment where he didn’t walk away.

He didn’t love you because he was lonely—Joel had long since learned how to survive in the silence.

He loved you because your light made the dark seem less like a prison and more like a place he could leave behind.

It started small.

A found thing—half-buried in the snow behind the stables. You’d been looking for spare nails in a busted old toolbox when you saw it: a film camera. Dusty, scratched up, but the click still worked. You brought it back like a prize.

Joel looked up from the guitar he was restringing, brow furrowed. “You went diggin’ around in that old junkyard again?”

You grinned, breath fogging the air. “Found treasure.”

He squinted at the thing in your hand like it might bite him. “You sure that ain’t just some broken plastic?”

“Only one way to find out.”

He watched you tinker with it all afternoon, wiping the lens clean with your sleeve, warming the roll of film between your palms to bring it back to life. You caught him staring more than once—chin propped in his hand, fingers idle on the frets of a guitar he’d been meaning to finish tuning.

When it finally worked, you snapped a picture of the sunset from your porch. Then one of his back as he worked, his brow furrowed in concentration, sleeves rolled up, calloused hands steady over the worn wood.

You took one of his profile too. He’d been humming low under his breath, unaware.

“Hey,” he said, catching the click. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“You’re handsome when you’re focused.”

He huffed a laugh, but he didn’t stop you when you raised the camera again.

Later that week, you asked him for one together.

“C’mere,” you said, tugging at the front of his jacket. “Just one. You might like the memory someday.”

He looked reluctant, like the idea of being frozen in time made him itch. But he let you lead him into the light. You kissed him on the cheek just as the timer clicked. He smiled, wide and surprised and real.

The photo came out a little blurry. But your mouth was pressed to his skin, his eyes crinkled with something close to joy. You kept it in your coat pocket like it might keep you warm.

Sometimes, he came into the kitchen just to touch you.

No reason. No words. Just drawn to you like muscle memory.

You’d be standing at the counter, elbow-deep in something mundane—rinsing mugs, slicing vegetables, stirring whatever was bubbling in the pot—when suddenly there’d be a shift in the air behind you. A warmth. A quiet presence.

Then, Joel’s arms would wind around your waist, firm and steady, palms pressing low on your stomach, right through the thin fabric of your shirt. His chest would settle against your back like it belonged there, like you were meant to carry each other’s weight.

“You makin’ somethin’ good?” he’d mumble into your hair, voice rough with sleep or fresh air or maybe just the softness you always brought out of him.

You barely had time to answer before you’d feel it—his nose brushing just beneath your ear, his scruff scratching tender against your neck. The kind of touch that made the air feel thick with heat and memory.

“You smell like cinnamon,” he whispered one evening, lips grazing the spot where your jaw met your throat.

You stilled, blinking down at the spoon in your hand. “You been sniffin’ me, Miller?”

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Can’t help it,” he murmured, slow and sweet, like molasses in summer. “You’re intoxicatin’, darlin’. Makes a man forget what he came in here for.”

His mouth followed the curve of your neck, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss against your pulse. Slow. Patient. Like he had all the time in the world to worship you.

You laughed then, breath catching in your throat. It wasn’t loud—it didn’t need to be. Just a soft, breathless sound that filled the space between your bodies as you leaned back into him, hips settling against his.

The laughter didn’t last long. It never did when his hands started to move—one curling around your hip, the other slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin.

The spoon slipped from your fingers and clattered into the sink, forgotten.

You turned slightly, enough to meet his eyes, and whispered, “The stew’s gonna burn.”

Joel kissed the corner of your mouth, smiling just enough to be trouble.

“Let it.”

One night, he kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

It was late, storm tapping at the windows, fire burning low. You were tucked beneath his arm on the couch, legs over his lap, your hand tucked into the worn flannel of his shirt. He kissed you once, then again, then a hundred more times.

Short, sweet little things.

He kissed your cheeks, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. You giggled, cheeks hurting from how hard you were smiling.

“Joel,” you whispered, nose scrunched, lips twitching. “What are you doing?”

His palms cradled your face like you were something delicate. Like he’d break if he didn’t touch you just right.

“Memorizing you,” he said. Then he kissed the giggle right off your lips.

Your hands curled in his hair, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, soft and slow, lips sliding together like they belonged there.

And when he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, his voice came out low and honest, barely above a breath:

“You’re everythin’ darlin’.”

He didn’t say he loved you.

Not with words.

But in every quiet moment, every gentle touch, every photo you took that he let you keep—he showed you.

And somehow, that meant more.

Love shows up in the quiet moments with Joel. Always has been.

Not in grand declarations or fireworks. Not in promises whispered beneath starlight or etched into stone. No, with Joel, love slips in softly—through the cracks of everyday life, in the pauses between sentences, in the silence he lets you share without needing to fill it. It’s there when the world is loud, and he chooses to be quiet with you. When everything aches and he doesn’t try to fix it—just stays.

It’s the way your hand always finds his, especially when he’s got that look about him—brows drawn low, eyes shadowed, body still as a storm about to break. You’ve come to know it well, that kind of tension that settles in his shoulders like he’s bracing against something only he can see. The kind of stillness that doesn’t feel like peace, but like he’s waiting to run or fight or fall apart.

So you reach for him.

You don’t announce it, don’t make a show of it. Just slide your hand into his, palm against his rough calloused skin, fingers curling between his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Because it is. Because you’ve done this before, countless times. Every time the ghosts get too loud or the silence feels too sharp. You hold his hand and he lets you, and that’s how you know—how you always know—he’s letting you in again.

He doesn’t say anything, not at first. Just breathes out slow, like your touch takes some of the weight off, even if it’s just a fraction. His jaw unclenches. His shoulders drop a little. You can feel it—the shift, the surrender, the trust.

“Y’okay?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper, soft enough that it could be mistaken for wind slipping through the seams of the old house, rustling the curtains just enough to remind you that the world is still turning outside these walls.

Joel looks at you. Not a glance. A real look. The kind that lingers. The kind that says more than words ever could. His eyes are tired, but there’s something else there too—something quieter, gentler, something that only ever surfaces around you.

His thumb moves in a slow arc across your knuckles, and when he answers, it’s not just with words. It’s in the way his grip tightens slightly, not desperate, just present.

“I am now,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm, frayed at the edges. Like maybe he’s been holding it in all day, maybe even longer. Like your hand in his unlocked something he didn’t know he needed to say.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. You lean into him instead, resting your head on his shoulder, letting the weight of you press gently against him like a tether. Like a promise. His arm slips around you, steady and sure, palm settling at your hip. He presses a kiss into your hair—right at the crown of your head, like a seal, like a prayer, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you.

The room around you is quiet save for the ticking of the clock on the wall and the crackle of the fire. Outside, snow falls soundlessly, blanketing the world in soft white. And inside, it’s warm. Not just from the fire—but from him. From this.

From the way he holds you like you’re something he never thought he’d have again. Like the simple act of your hand in his might keep the darkness at bay for one more night.

With Joel, love doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to.

It just stays.

And that’s always been more than enough.

The mornings are always slow.

Time feels syrup-thick when the sun hasn’t fully crested the horizon yet, and sleep still clings to your limbs like molasses. Your body is heavy, cocooned in the tangle of sheets still warm from the man who slept beside you. The air is cool beyond the bed, but the mattress holds the echo of his heat, and it makes you reluctant to move, even as your senses start to stretch awake.

You shift lazily, one arm reaching across the bed to where Joel had been moments ago. It’s empty now, his absence a soft dip in the mattress, but the scent of him lingers—cedarwood, a trace of leather, the faint hint of salt and earth from yesterday’s long walk back into Jackson. Comforting. Familiar.

You pry one eye open, squinting into the low light. Joel’s already sitting at the edge of the bed, the muscles of his back broad and bare, catching a gentle glint from the early morning haze seeping in through the window. He’s halfway through pulling on his shirt, slow and steady, the way he always is in the mornings. A quiet man doing quiet things.

Without thinking, without even fully waking, your hand slips out from beneath the covers and finds him.

Your fingers wrap loosely around his wrist—barely a tug, just enough to let him know you’re there, still tethered to him. And then you shift closer, burying your face against the small of his back, pressing a soft, languid kiss to the warm skin just above the waistband of his jeans.

“Mmm... good mornin’, Joel,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep, muffled by the skin beneath your lips.

He pauses. Still for a moment, like the warmth of your kiss stopped time. Then he breathes out, slow and fond, and turns slightly—just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His eyes crinkle at the corners, soft with affection, and that familiar crooked smile curves beneath the rough scruff of his jaw.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” His voice is rough and low, like gravel soaked in honey, warm enough to melt straight through your bones.

You hum in response, already halfway to sleep again, forehead resting against his back. The bed creaks softly as he shifts, brushing his hand over your tangled hair in a slow, affectionate stroke. His thumb lingers at your temple, then trails down to the curve of your cheek, gentle and grounding.

“Go on,” he murmurs, bending down to press a kiss into your hair. “Sleep a little longer. I’ll get the fire goin’.”

You don’t answer, not really. Just let out a sigh that sounds like peace and contentment all wrapped into one. He stands slowly, quietly, careful not to disturb the blankets more than necessary, and as he moves toward the hearth, you stay curled in the warmth he left behind—your hand resting in the space where his had been, eyes slipping closed again.

You listen to the familiar rhythm of him moving through the room—boots being tugged on, the scrape of kindling, the gentle snap of a match. The softest clink of metal on stone. And through it all, the quiet knowledge that this is what love is.

Not always words. Not always fire and thunder.

But this.

These mornings. These moments. Him.

Sometimes, when the world gets too loud—even in Jackson—you find yourself gravitating toward him without a thought.

It doesn’t matter if it’s the bustle of the market, the chatter of passing patrols, or just the quiet hum of a too-long day catching up with your bones. Something in your chest tightens, overwhelmed and aching for something quieter, something still. And so you find Joel.

He’s usually somewhere close—he always is. Maybe talking with Tommy, maybe checking the perimeter, maybe just standing there with his arms crossed like he’s holding up the whole damn sky on his back again. But the moment your arms circle around his middle, everything else seems to fall away.

You press yourself into him, chest to his back, arms around his waist, and your face buries instinctively in the crook of his neck. That space between shoulder and jaw where you swear the whole world could stop and you wouldn’t mind. The smell of him hits you instantly—faint cedarwood, worn leather, a trace of smoke from the fire pit, and something else too. Something warm and steady and Joel.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away or ask what’s wrong. He just lets out a quiet hum, low in his chest, and leans back into your touch. His hands find yours where they’re linked around his stomach, thumbs brushing idly over your knuckles. You feel the weight of his chin as he rests it gently on top of your head, and then the press of a kiss into your hair—soft, unthinking, like muscle memory.

It’s the kind of affection that doesn’t ask for attention. Doesn’t need an occasion. It just is.

You breathe him in like you’re trying to anchor yourself. Let your eyes flutter shut. Let the rest of the world blur into background noise.

“I missed this,” you whisper against the warmth of his throat, the words barely more than a sigh. You don’t even mean the moment, exactly—you mean the peace of it. The quiet. The him of it all.

Joel turns his head just a little, enough for the edge of his beard to scratch gently against your forehead. His voice is soft when he replies, but there’s something thick in it, something full.

“You’re right here,” he murmurs. “Ain’t gotta miss a thing.”

You shift your face closer, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. “Sometimes I still do,” you admit.

He nods once, like he gets it without needing you to explain. “Yeah,” he says, his hand trailing up to cup the back of your head. “Me too.”

And for a long moment, neither of you say anything more. You just stand there, wrapped up in each other, while the world spins noisily on around you—too loud, too fast, too much.

But here, in the shelter of his arms, in the crook of his neck, everything is quiet. Everything is enough.

Crowds were never your thing.

Too many people pressed in too close, too many voices overlapping, footsteps echoing off wood and brick. Even in a place like Jackson—safe, familiar—it could still feel like too much. You were used to being on alert, always aware of exits and shadows, always bracing for what could go wrong. Old habits from the world outside didn’t die easily.

Joel wasn’t much better with crowds. Maybe a little quieter about it, a little more practiced at hiding the way his shoulders stiffened when someone brushed past too close. But you’d seen it. The way his jaw would flex when he was trying to be polite but already had one foot out the door in his head. The way his hand sometimes hovered near his belt like he was missing the feel of his rifle.

And yet, here you were.

The town hall was full to bursting, the whole place humming with life. It was some kind of celebration—maybe a harvest, maybe a birthday, maybe people just needed a reason to dance and drink and pretend that the world hadn’t ended outside those walls. Whatever it was, it was loud. Laughter spilled from every corner. Music vibrated through the floorboards. Glasses clinked together and boots stomped in time with the beat.

You stood near the far end of the room, half-heartedly nursing a cup of water, swaying just a little in time with the song playing—more to keep your nerves from buzzing than for enjoyment. You scanned the room like you always did. Faces. Movements. That unconscious search for something familiar, something grounding.

And then your eyes found Joel.

He was on the opposite side of the room, shoulder leaning against a wooden support beam, arms folded loosely across his chest. He hadn’t joined the dance, hadn’t made a plate from the food table. Just stood there, scanning the crowd—and you knew in your bones he’d been looking for you.

When your eyes met, the noise dulled. Not all at once. It didn’t go silent or freeze like in the movies. But it faded. As if the current of the room moved around the two of you instead of through.

You were mid-sip when it happened, your fingers curled around the cool tin cup, lips barely brushing the rim. But as soon as you caught his gaze, you paused.

It wasn’t a grand thing. No sweeping declarations. Just a glance. A quiet, steady look that said you’re here, and I see you, and that’s all I need.

You tilted your head a fraction, the corner of your mouth twitching upward into the kind of smile you only saved for him—small, but true. Your chest softened. Your breath eased.

Across the room, Joel’s lips quirked into that familiar little half-smile, the one that never quite reached both corners of his mouth, but you knew what it meant. He gave a subtle nod. Nothing flashy. Nothing for show.

Just,  I see you too.

You held that look for a second longer, your body still surrounded by the warmth and noise and movement of the room, but none of it really touched you. Not in that moment. Not with his gaze wrapped around you like a thread pulled taut across the distance.

And even though no one said a word, something passed between you.

You smile again, this one a little wider, a little softer. A silent message of your own: I’m not going anywhere.

And Joel’s eyes softened like he heard it loud and clear.

You hum sometimes, without even knowing you’re doing it. It just slips out—soft and low, the way wind moves through tall grass. A half-remembered tune from before the world went sideways. Maybe it was from the radio, maybe from your childhood, maybe your mother’s voice singing over the hiss of boiling water. It’s not the melody that matters. It’s the feeling that comes with it—warmth, familiarity, something that once meant home.

Sometimes, when your mind is far away, you whistle it instead. Just a few notes, carried on your breath.

Joel never interrupts. Never tells you to stop or asks you to hush. He just listens—quietly, carefully, like the sound of your humming settles something in him too. Like maybe the song is stitching him back together in places neither of you can quite name.

He’s usually out on the porch when it happens, sitting on the old wooden steps with one of the guitars he’s been fixing up. Strings stretched taut, frets worn smooth by time and hands that once knew chords. His fingers—rough and weathered—move slow and steady as he tunes it. Every so often, he plucks a string, listens, adjusts. The sun casts a soft amber glow across his forearms, painting the scars in gold.

You’re nearby. Always. Curled up with your legs folded beneath you, back resting against one of the porch posts. A blanket draped over your shoulders. You hum like peace lives in your chest and is trying to find its way out.

Joel glances up when he hears it—mid-strum, his brow relaxed, lips parted just slightly like he’s about to say something but doesn’t. He just looks at you for a moment, and everything about him softens. His shoulders drop. The line between his brows disappears. Like the sound of you is the first deep breath he’s taken all day.

“What’s that song?” he asks after a while, his voice breaking the silence like it belongs there. Low and warm, barely above the hush of wind.

You pause, the melody tapering off in your throat. Your eyes flick toward the sky, as if the answer might be waiting somewhere in the clouds.

“Not sure,” you murmur, a smile tugging lazily at the corner of your mouth. “Mama used to sing it when she was cooking. I think it used to be on the radio, too. One of those songs that just… stuck.”

Joel nods, the kind of slow, thoughtful nod that doesn’t need words to follow. He strums another chord, something soft and sweet, and leans back on his elbows.

“Well,” he says, glancing at you with that familiar flicker of something unspoken in his eyes. “Keep goin’. I like it.”

There’s something in the way he says it—something that makes your chest ache in that soft, full kind of way. The kind of ache that’s not about pain at all, but about being known. About being seen and loved for the quiet parts of yourself you didn’t think anyone else noticed.

So you hum again, picking up where you left off. Joel doesn’t look away. He keeps strumming, matching your rhythm now. Not quite harmonizing. Just being there with you, in it.

And for a little while, the world feels like it’s made of nothing but warm wood, old songs, and two people learning how to feel safe again.

You’re curled up together in bed one night, everything quiet except the low pop and crackle of the fire burning in the hearth. The room glows in soft amber and gold, the shadows on the walls swaying like they’re dancing to the rhythm of your breathing. Outside, wind brushes against the windows, but inside, it’s warm. Safe. Still.

Joel lies flat on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped loosely around your waist. You’re pressed into his side, head resting just below his collarbone, your hand lazily combing through his hair—fingertips tracing gentle, aimless patterns. His hair’s soft tonight, freshly washed and still carrying the faint scent of cedar soap and woodsmoke.

Neither of you speaks for a while. There’s no need. Just the hush between heartbeats and the sound of Joel’s steady breathing, slow and even beneath your ear.

“I could stay like this forever,” you whisper eventually, your voice thick with sleep. Each word melts into the warmth of his skin. Your eyes are already slipping closed, lashes brushing his chest. You don’t even know if he hears you.

But then you feel it—Joel’s arm tightening around your waist, his hand sliding up under your shirt just enough to rest against your spine, warm and grounding.

“Then don’t move,” he murmurs, voice rough with tiredness and something gentler, deeper. The kind of softness he only ever shows in moments like this, when the world is quiet and his guard is down. “Ain’t no one tellin’ us to go anywhere.”

You smile into the dark, into the skin of his chest, feeling it rise and fall beneath your cheek. His heartbeat thumps slow and steady, and you swear you could fall asleep to that sound alone.

Joel shifts slightly, just enough to press a kiss into the top of your head. His lips linger there—like a promise more than anything spoken.

“You’re warm,” he mumbles.

“So are you,” you say, voice feather-light.

A comfortable silence settles in again. Your fingers slow in his hair, curling around a soft wave near his temple. His hand stays at your back, thumb drawing idle shapes you’re too sleepy to name.

The fire crackles. The wind hums. And you drift off like that—wrapped up in him, hand still in his hair, the weight of his love wrapped around you like a second blanket. Nothing else matters. Not out there. Not tomorrow. Just this.

Just him.

The temperature dips before the sun even brushes the horizon. The last of the daylight clings to the sky in hazy streaks of orange and violet, but the wind has already turned sharp, biting through the seams of your jacket. You and Joel walk side by side down the path back toward Jackson, boots crunching over patches of frost-laced grass and half-frozen dirt.

You don’t say much—patrols tend to leave a certain kind of quiet between you, a silence that doesn’t need filling. But you can feel the chill starting to settle deep in your bones, your fingers stiff and cheeks raw from the cold. You try to rub your hands together for warmth, but it’s useless. The wind is relentless.

Joel notices, of course. His eyes flick over to you, worried in that subtle way he is—more tension in the jaw, more silence than usual. You know he’s about to offer you his coat or tell you he should’ve brought that extra scarf.

So before he can open his mouth, you reach out and grab a fistful of his jacket.

Without a word, you tug him in. Joel stumbles the smallest step forward, surprised but not resisting. You pull until you're chest to chest, until the warmth of his body bleeds into yours. Your frozen hands slip under the back hem of his coat and find the soft flannel of his shirt underneath, palms pressing flat against the heat of his spine.

“Jesus,” Joel mutters, letting out a breath that puffs white between you, his arms automatically sliding around your waist. “You could’ve just asked for my coat, y’know.”

“But then I wouldn’t be this close,” you reply, chin tilting up, a smile tugging at your lips despite your chattering teeth. “You’re warmer than any jacket.”

Joel huffs a soft laugh, the kind that melts around the edges. He leans in, resting his forehead lightly against yours. “You’re a damn menace,” he says—but his voice is warm and low, thick with affection.

You can feel his fingers pressing into your back, holding you tighter. His nose brushes yours as he tilts his head, and then—soft as snowfall—he kisses you. Once. Then again. And a third time, his lips barely touching yours, quick little pecks that make you laugh and shiver all at once.

“Joel,” you whisper, still grinning, your breath fogging between you both.

“I like the taste of your lips on mine,” he murmurs, the words brushing against your mouth like silk. He says it like a secret. Like it’s always been true.

Then he kisses you again—this time slower, deeper, his hand cradling the back of your head as he pours warmth into you one soft press at a time. The world falls quiet. No wind. No cold. No patrols or gates or the threat of anything waiting in the dark.

Just Joel.

Just this.

When you finally pull apart, you don’t go far. He keeps you close, your fingers still tucked against his back, his breath brushing your temple.

You smile into his collar. “Can we stay like this a little longer?”

He kisses your hair, voice barely above a whisper. “Far as I’m concerned, we can stay like this forever.” 

And in that moment, time slows. Your heartbeat settles into the rhythm of his, safe and steady. Warm, despite everything. Because love—real love—isn’t just in the grand gestures. It’s in this. A quiet winter dusk. A jacket shared. The taste of his kiss. The way he holds you like you’re something worth braving the cold for.

Then there’s Ellie.

She was nineteen now. Strong. Sharp-tongued and guarded in the way Joel used to be. You weren’t her mother, and she never treated you like one—but she was curious about you. Distant at first. Then, little by little, she started asking questions. Sitting with you on the porch. Bringing you a book she found and thought you might like.

She and Joel… there were things left unsaid between them. You could feel it like a splinter under the skin. Something tender and unresolved.

He finally told you one night, long after you’d both settled into the quiet comfort of shared sheets and a life you thought might last.

It was after dinner. After the guitar and the laughter. After you’d kissed the corners of his mouth and pulled him into bed.

“I lied to her,” he said, voice hollow.

You blinked in the dark, still half-tangled in sleep. “What?”

Joel’s face was turned toward the ceiling. Still. Tense. “I lied to Ellie. About the Fireflies. About the hospital.”

The room chilled. Your fingers reached for his without hesitation.

“I killed them,” he continued. “Every last one that stood between me and her. ‘Cause they were gonna cut her open. To find a cure.”

He didn’t cry right away. He spoke through gritted teeth, like the guilt was a weight he carried every damn day and had never quite set down.

“She would’ve died. She didn’t know—still doesn’t really. I told her there were others. That she wasn’t the only one. But it was a lie. It’s all a lie.”

You didn’t speak. Just curled into him. Held his hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

“She hates me for it,” he whispered.

“No,” you said. “She loves you. She’s angry, but she loves you.”

He shook his head. Silent tears rolled into his hairline. You kissed his shoulder. You stayed up all night, fingers running through his graying hair until his breathing steadied again.

That was the last night he told you something he’d never said out loud.

The screams had long gone silent. All that was left now was smoke. Gunpowder. Blood soaking into snow.

Your boots crunch through it—through the aftermath. Bodies, both friend and foe, lie crumpled like broken marionettes. The streets of Jackson, once humming with quiet life, are now a graveyard.

Tommy had held the line at the south gate. You saw him, blackened with ash and soot, flames dancing in the reflection of his eyes as he lit up a bloater with the last fuel of the flamethrower. His scream—raw, furious—cut through the chaos like a knife. You’d joined the others in the streets, turning bullets on the infected… and eventually, on the bitten.

Some of them you knew by name.

You don’t remember pulling the trigger. You only remember the stillness afterward.

The quiet after the roar.

By the time the last runner was put down, your hands were slick with blood—some of it not your own. And when they called for the dead to be gathered, you helped. You counted.

You lost count.

They winched open the gates sometime after. You were still standing by the old greenhouse-turned-morgue, watching Tommy collapse into Maria’s arms, his body shaking with the weight of what he’d survived.

And then—

The hoofbeats. The shuffle of footsteps. The drag of something heavy behind them.

You turned.

Jesse and Ellie rode in first. Dina followed, all their faces hollowed out by exhaustion and something far worse. Behind their horse trailed a shape wrapped in canvas, dark with frozen blood, limp in the snow.

Ellie’s eyes met yours.

Red-rimmed. Wide. Empty.

And you knew.

You knew.

Your legs gave out beneath you before the thought could fully form. The cold didn’t register. Only the scream that tore out of your throat—animal, guttural. You clawed at the snow, sobbing into the dirt and ice, your lungs heaving like they were trying to break through your ribs.

“No—no—no—!” It came out broken. Like you could undo it just by denying it hard enough.

Tommy grabbed you. Held you back. His own face soaked with tears.

You screamed again. You didn’t care who heard. Didn’t care that you were on your knees in the blood and the snow with your heart ripped open.

Maria stood nearby. Hands pressed to her mouth. Silent.

The bag didn’t move.

He was in there.

Joel.

You want to tear the canvas open. You want it to be a mistake. You want to see his face, alive. Cranky. Loving. Whole.

But you already know.

You don’t know how long you stay like that. How long your sobs echo off the ruined walls of Jackson. You only know this: he felt like home.

And now home is just… gone.

They carry him to the chapel. Ellie disappears inside, Dina trailing her silently. Jesse catches your eye and looks away.

You follow the corpse. Your legs move on their own. There’s nothing left to protect now, no fight to win. You’ve survived—but at what cost?

The snow keeps falling.

And somehow, the world keeps turning.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind. No birdsong, no wind. Just the thick, suffocating kind of silence that wraps around your ribs and squeezes until it feels like you might shatter from the inside out. The kind of silence that doesn’t leave room for breath, or hope.

The makeshift morgue is colder than outside, colder than anything should ever be. Too sterile. Too still. Too many bodies of people you once smiled at in passing. A metal table stands at the corner of the room, and he’s there—Joel—lying beneath a white sheet that feels far too thin. Like if you peeled it back, he’d stir. Grumble about the draft. Ask where his jacket went.

But he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t fucking move.

You sink to your knees beside the table. Wood floor biting into your bones, your hands trembling as they hover just above the edge of the sheet. Your throat burns like it’s been scraped raw from the inside out, but you haven’t said anything. Not really. Not yet.

Tommy sits down beside you, legs bent awkwardly, arms crossed over his chest like if he doesn’t hold himself together, he might fall apart right here with you.

“I don’t wanna say goodbye,” you choke out, voice so broken it barely sounds like yours. Your hands finally touch the edge of the table, and you grip it like a lifeline.

“I know,” Tommy murmurs. He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t try to fix it. Maybe because he knows there’s no fixing this.

You press your forehead against the cold edge of the metal, like maybe if you’re close enough, you’ll feel his warmth again. But there’s nothing. Only the chill of a world that kept turning without him in it.

“I needed him,” you whisper. The words break on your tongue like glass. “I still do. I need his voice—I need his arms. I need him to tell me this is all gonna be okay.”

A sob claws its way out of your chest, jagged and ugly. “He was supposed to be here.”

You think about the way he used to hold you—how his hands fit so easily around your waist, how he’d tug you close like the world outside didn’t exist. You think about his voice, low and rough, whispering “I got you, baby,” when the nightmares got bad. About the way he looked at you, like you were something worth protecting. Like you were home.

He was home.

And now he’s gone. And you’re nothing but a house with the roof torn off, standing in the rain.

“I don’t know how to be in a world that doesn’t have him in it,” you admit, tears falling freely now, soaking into your sleeves. “I was never scared of tomorrow when he was with me.”

Your head turns toward Tommy, eyes rimmed red. “How do I do this?”

He doesn’t answer. He just puts a hand over yours, squeezes it tight. It’s all he can give you, and you take it, even though it’s not the hand you want.

You close your eyes, breathing in like maybe you’ll catch some trace of him. Leather. Cedar. That soap he used when he tried to be fancy. But there’s nothing. Nothing but the dull antiseptic of this godforsaken room.

“I thought I knew grief,” you whisper. “But this… this is a whole new kind of broken.”

And it is. It’s grief with no bottom. No edges. No map. Like walking into a fog and never coming back out.

You reach up, finally, trembling fingers lifting the edge of the sheet.

You don’t pull it back.

You just press your palm over where you know his heart used to beat.

And you stay there, frozen in time, whispering his name like a prayer. Like if you say it enough, he might come back.

“Joel…”

He doesn’t.

And you know—no matter how many tomorrows come—you’ll miss him in every single one.

Because he wasn’t just the love of your life.

He was your life.

And now, all that’s left is the silence.

It’s three days later when Tommy finds you.

You haven’t spoken much since that day. Just shadows under your eyes and silence on your lips. People leave flowers near the mailbox. You go through the motions—eating when someone puts food in front of you, lying down when your legs give out—but you’re not really here.

You’re sitting on Joel’s porch when he approaches. Your knees are drawn to your chest, your hands wrapped in the sleeves of a jacket that still smells like him. It’s too big, and it doesn’t make you feel any less hollow.

Tommy stands in front of you for a moment, quiet.

Then he lowers himself to sit on the step beside you.

“I ain’t sure if now’s the right time,” he says, voice low. Rough. “But he… he asked me to give you somethin’. If…”

You look at him. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to. You both know how it ends.

Your heart stops. And then starts again, slower. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small envelope—folded and worn soft at the edges like it had been carried for a long time.

Your name is on it.

Your handwriting. Joel’s writing. It’s him. It's him.

Your fingers are shaking as you take it.

“I didn’t read it,” Tommy says, eyes on the horizon. “Didn’t wanna. Figured that was for you.”

Inside the envelope is a single piece of paper, folded once.

And a gold band.

Simple. Plain. No diamonds or carvings. Just a ring. One he probably bartered for quietly. One he probably kept in his pocket, maybe touched it when he thought about you. One he never got to give you.

Your vision blurs instantly.

The paper trembles in your hands as you unfold it. The ink is smudged in one corner—Joel had probably written it with those big hands, careful and slow. Trying to say something final in a way that didn’t feel like goodbye.

Your eyes find the first words.

Hey, baby.

If you’re reading this… then I’m not where I should be. I’m sorry.

God, I didn’t wanna write this. Been puttin’ it off for weeks. But the way this world is… well, you and I both know it don’t always give you time to say things out loud.

So I’m writin’ ‘em now.

First thing—I love you. You probably know that already. Hell, I’ve said it in a hundred different ways without ever sayin’ the words. In the way I hold you. The way I listen to you hum that song. The way I breathe easier when you’re near.

You gave me something I thought I didn’t deserve. Peace. A second chance. A home.

I hope I gave you the same.

Second thing—you’ll find a ring with this letter. Nothin’ fancy. I wanted to give it to you proper. Maybe on the porch. Maybe by the fire. Just… you and me. I had all these words planned. But none of ‘em matter now.

Just know this—I would’ve asked you to be mine. Not ‘cause I needed to prove anything. But because you already were. In every way that counts.

And I wanted the world to know.

I wanted to grow old with you. Wanted to find out what your hair looks like when it’s all grey. Wanted to kiss you goodnight a thousand more times.

I wanted all of it.

But if I didn’t make it—if you’re readin’ this now—I need you to do something for me.

Live.

Please. Don’t let this break you.

You got too much light in you to burn out now.

So wear the ring, if it helps. Or don’t. Keep it in your pocket. Toss it in the river. It’s yours, either way.

You’ll always be mine.

Forever and then some,  

Joel

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until Tommy places a hand on your back, steadying you as the weight of the words crushes you from the inside out.

The ring glints in your palm, catching the dying light of the day.

You bring it to your lips, kiss it once, then curl it into your fist and press it against your heart.

“I would’ve said yes,” you whisper into the air, broken and breathless. “I would’ve said yes a thousand times.”

And the wind moves through the trees like it’s carrying the words to him—wherever he is.

Because love like that doesn’t die.

It just waits.

It lingers in the quiet. In the echo of footsteps that aren’t his. In the smell of cedar and leather that still clings to the collar of his coat. It stays tucked in the corners of every room he touched, every breath he took beside you.

You will mourn him forever. You will miss him every minute.

Your hands will grow old holding a photograph of the two of you—sunlight on your faces, his arm around your shoulders like he always meant to keep you safe. Your bones will ache with the shape of him, your soul carved hollow where he used to be.

And when your time comes, when the world fades soft and slow at the edges, you’ll go with his name dancing on your lips. A whisper. A promise.

Because some loves aren’t meant to end.

Only to be found again.

[x4az]

𐂅 — [TFP] Various! With A Carthetyia! S/O Who Had An Alternate Form Like Fleurdelys From Wuthering Waves.

— Reader: Carthetyia! Reader, GN.

— Warnings: A little few suggestive stuff that isn't obvious Nsfw! Reader is a Cybertronian that had a similar alternate form like Carthetyia! Reader, My bad at cybertronian anatomy 😭

— Characters: Megatron, Optimus Prime, Starscream, Soundwave. [Transformers Prime]

#TAGS: Headcanons, Fluff, Romantic but can be interpreted as platonic, Potential OOC, Potential Subject would be changed in the future.

— Important Note: I had intentionally changed the original work into this because I've lost interest to Castorice so I rolled with this idea because it's more relatable to write, 😭 Due to the incomplete official canon of Carthetyia's backstory, I didn't put it all fully because the patch is still incomplete so I had to wait for more and cut the headcanons a little bit in half. (Special shoutout to my goat @soundwavesconjunx for giving me ideas 🙏)

— Megatron

— Finding out you have an alternate form? Oh, it'll definitely take a toll on him. Why didn’t you tell him earlier, right at the start of your relationship? And once he realizes how powerful you really are—expect some interesting changes.

— At first, he’s a little intimidated. What the frag do you mean you can slice the ocean with your blade? Potentially continents too?? AND SPACE? (Yes, Megatron. The ult had the longest range, and it aligns perfectly with the lore.)

— The more he processes it, the more it clicks. Yep—you’re the partner he deserves. He sees the resemblance: strong, commanding, powerful. Though… you might just be way taller than him, especially in your full chassis height.

— Suggestive part — Since you're potentially taller than him, he'll try to act like he isn’t constantly staring at your Fleurdelys form… but he absolutely is. You’ve definitely caught him more than once. He looks away and denies it every time.

— You wanna know why his optics don’t always sit straight? Because one’s tracking your movement, and the other is locked square on your chest like the down bad mech he is. 😭

— He would love to spar with you in your alternate form. A proper 1v1—Dark Star Saber versus your divine blade. (You both would have aura moments type shi) and going head-to-head until the match ends in a stalemate… until you activate all three Swords of Divinity. Then? He’s cooked. (But he’d enjoy it, not gonna lie.)

— Optimus Prime

— If you want to include where you like playing puppets the same way carthetyia does, He finds that adorable. He’d absolutely melt if you made a puppeteer version of him for your story scenarios. <3

— Even though your servos are larger and more structured than his, he loves holding them. He loved the feeling of holding yours when you let him, like pressing your palms together during quiet times whenever you are both alone, appreciating the different textures of your gloves that wielded your divine blade with might, Somehow, his gentle grip always finds a way to intertwine with yours.

— Intimate pressing helms together even though it may be awkward because of your horn so he goes a little under it and make it work by tilting his helm against yours so you can resonate with him, your tacet mark glows without any trouble and then closing your optics together as your resonance intertwined with his EM field, that is your language of "Forever." <3

— You two have definitely tried dancing before. At first, it was awkward—missteps here and there—but eventually, you both got the hang of it. Now it’s become a regular thing whenever you’re both free. Moments like these are considered dates in their own right.

— He’d absolutely want to learn more about you and your lore. Being isolated for 20 years before meeting him? That means you’ve got stories— a lot of them. He’d sit and listen without complaint, always attentive. Your world fascinates him, especially its cultural diversity. Rinascita, your homeland, would capture his interest the most—particularly the 'Echoes' that surround Whisperin Haven. :D

— Starscream

— Oh, this backstabbing little slabber. At first, he just thought you were small... until you proved him completely wrong. 💀

— He was definitely intimidated at first—but slowly, it started to turn him on.

— Like Megatron, he stares. A lot. Especially if you’re towering over him in your alternate form. He tries not to stare down your chassis, but you always catch him doing it.

— He’ll never admit it, but he likes it when you hold him like that. It bruises his pride, sure—but he never resists. Let him rest his helm against your chest when he’s tired; he won’t say it, but that’s his safe place.

— He can somehow relate to your appearance in terms of your horn, in which you sometimes would bump it into his red one as a gentle nudge during times whenever you both tease each other.

— He’d lose his shit when he finds out you can walk on water. But even with all that shock, he never looks away. And when you try to dance? He’ll act like he’s going to laugh—but secretly, he finds it endearing as hell.

— Soundwave

— Soundwave had your frame recorded in 100x detail the first time you transformed. You may not have noticed, but he absolutely stored that footage in his processor. He won't admit it, but he is interested in every detail of your framework and how it functions.

— Same goes for holding servos—except with his datacables. They wrap gently around your wrist and pull you just a little closer. Just enough for him to feel the texture of your hold, syncing with your energy through physical touch.

— Laserbeak? Obsessed with your thorned crown. It's basically his favorite nesting spot now. Wherever you go, he’s chilling up there. You’re basically wearing a living hat.

— He’s relentlessly protective. Even though you can handle yourself, he needs to make sure you're safe. That means monitoring you when you're outside—or discreetly sending Laserbeak to keep an eye from above.

— He's fiercely defensive of your space and your image. If someone insults you—or questions your divinity—expect that person (or bot) to mysteriously disappear the next day. (Starscream is sweating oil by now.)

— Much like Optimus, Soundwave would quietly research your origins—if you permit him. He’s deeply curious about how you came to be the "Blessed Maiden," and your ties to the Imperator and the Leviathan. This is his way of loving: silent, observant, devoted. He stores it all in his private database—never sharing a single detail. Your story belongs to him and him alone.

— And you can't tell me that Optimus, Megatron, Soundwave, would definitely carry you like this if you are Fleurdelys! Reader lmao

©x4az 2025 — Do not feed my work to AI or repost them.

[novaursa]

The Queen Who Was Not

- Summary: After Aegon broke his promise to you, he leaves you shattered. You decided to take your fate into your own hands. But fate is a fickle beast.

- Pairing: sister!reader/Aegon I Targaryen

- Note: This is an alternative version of The Broken Crown, with another set of events. This story was another suggestion made by @renasd , with slight changes in the plot.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @fiction-fanfic-reader @fireandblood-mharmie @poisonedsultana

You had loved Aegon since you were a child, when the world seemed small and the stars could be plucked from the sky with a word from your brother. He was the sun around which you orbited, his every word, every glance, every promise etched into your heart. When he promised you marriage, a union of love unlike any the realm had seen, you believed him with the fervor of a child who thinks dragons will live forever.

The bond between you and Aegon was forged in those early years, as strong as dragonsteel. You would watch him with wide, admiring eyes as he trained with Blackfyre in hand, his strength and determination unmatched. In turn, he would watch you with a quiet, almost protective affection, promising that one day you would stand beside him not just as a sister, but as a queen.

You thought that day would come when you turned sixteen. It was the age when a Targaryen girl came into her own, her blood singing with fire, ready to join with another to strengthen the family line. Your heart was aflame with anticipation, the promise of his words fueling the fire of your hope. Aegon was the Conqueror now, a king with two queens, but in your mind, you were always meant to be his third, his heart.

But then came the wedding of Visenya, the elder sister whose stern beauty and fierce loyalty had always been a shadow over you. You understood his duty to her, the need to cement the ancient bloodline with a union of strength. It was a bond of necessity, you told yourself, a marriage of fire and steel. And then, before you could even catch your breath, he took Rhaenys as well.

Rhaenys, the sister of the dawn, laughter always on her lips, her beauty a shining beacon that drew the eyes of the realm. She was the beloved, the one whom Aegon desired with a passion that left you cold. You saw it in the way he looked at her, the way his hand lingered on hers, the softening of his gaze that you had once thought was reserved for you alone.

The realization was a blade between your ribs, twisting deeper with each smile they shared, each touch that should have been yours. Aegon had taken Visenya out of duty, but Rhaenys he had chosen for desire. And what were you, then? A childhood promise, a girl left behind in the shadow of queens more radiant than the sun.

On the eve of your sixteenth name day, when the moon hung heavy and the sea whispered of forgotten hopes, you found yourself standing before Aegon. Your voice trembled as you spoke, asking him when it would be your turn, when he would fulfill the vow made beneath the stars of your childhood.

His answer shattered the last remnants of your hope. He wanted to marry you out of love, he said, and not out of duty or desire. He wanted to make you his queen, not because it was expected, but because he cherished you beyond all others. But not yet. Not now, when the realm was still fragile, when his conquests were still incomplete.

Your heart, already broken, turned to ash. Love. He spoke of love while he stood between his two queens, the weight of their presence suffocating you. He wanted you to wait, to be patient, to be his beloved someday, when the world was ready. But you had waited long enough. You could not be a shadow, a mere promise in the distance while he shared his bed, his throne, his life with others.

That night, you made your choice. Dressed in the colors of your house, your silver hair braided with blood-red ribbons, you climbed upon Tesaerix’s back. Your dragon felt your turmoil, your pain. She roared into the night sky, the sound echoing across Dragonstone, a cry of fury and sorrow that would not be contained.

You flew to Driftmark, the sea wind biting at your skin, tears freezing upon your cheeks. There, in the hall of High Tide, you found Aethan Velaryon, his eyes widening in surprise at your arrival. You barely knew him, this sea lord with salt in his veins and ambition in his heart, but that did not matter.

“I would marry you,” you said, your voice strong, unwavering. “I would marry you and be free of this cage.”

He looked at you, seeing the dragon fire in your eyes, the determination that could not be quenched. And he agreed. You were wed under the stars, the salt waves lapping at your feet, the cries of seagulls mingling with the distant roar of your dragon.

You were no longer the little sister left behind. You were a Velaryon now, a bride of the sea and sky, and Aegon’s hold on your heart was no more. As you stood there, your hand clasped in Aethan’s, you felt the first stirrings of something new—freedom, independence, the taste of a life that was your own.

And when Tesaerix took to the skies once more, her wings cutting through the night air, you knew there was no going back. You would never be his third queen, the last to be chosen. You were a dragon, and you would forge your own path in a world that had tried to bind you in chains.

The news reached Aegon like a dagger to the heart. You, his cherished sister, his beloved, had wed Aethan Velaryon. The words were barely whispered before he was in the air, his dragon’s wings beating furiously against the sky. He had never known fear like this, not when facing the flames of battle or the uncertainty of conquest. But now, it gripped him like an iron fist.

As he descended upon Driftmark, the sun barely cresting the horizon, he saw Tesaerix circling above the Velaryon castle, her gold-cream scales gleaming in the early light. Her roar was a warning, a challenge that cut through the air like a blade. He knew she sensed his turmoil, but he had to see you, had to make you understand.

You were in the courtyard when he landed, your stance regal, your eyes cold. Aethan stood beside you, a protective hand on your arm, his presence a barrier between you and the king. Aegon dismounted swiftly, his eyes locked on yours, desperation etched across his face.

“Y/N, what have you done?” His voice was strained, the words tearing from his lips. “Why would you do this?”

You lifted your chin, the hurt buried deep beneath a mask of resolve. “I did what you would not allow me to do, Aegon. I took my fate into my own hands.”

His hands clenched at his sides, his frustration barely contained. “I wanted to marry you, Y/N. I wanted to wait until the realm was secure, until I could give you everything you deserved, without the shadow of duty or desire hanging over us.”

“You speak of love,” you said, your voice icy, “but you made me wait while you took Visenya and Rhaenys. You left me to watch, to wonder when my turn would come. I am not some prize to be claimed at your convenience, Aegon.”

He stepped forward, his eyes pleading. “You are not a prize, Y/N. You are my heart. I thought you would understand. I needed to take Rhaenys—”

“Needed?” You laughed, the sound bitter. “You needed her because you wanted her. And Visenya, because it was your duty. What am I, then? A symbol of your love? A trinket you can set aside until you are ready?”

Aethan’s grip on your arm tightened, his eyes darkening as he watched Aegon. “She is my wife now, Aegon. You cannot undo what has been done.”

Aegon’s gaze flickered to Aethan, anger flaring in his eyes. “You have no idea what you’ve done, Velaryon. You have stolen something precious from me.”

“I have taken nothing that was not freely given,” Aethan replied, his voice steady, though his hand shook ever so slightly.

You stepped forward, placing yourself between the two men, your expression resolute. “I made this choice, Aegon. I am no longer yours to command.”

His breath caught, and for a moment, his composure shattered. “Please, Y/N, come back with me. We can make this right.”

“No,” you said, the finality in your tone cutting through him like a sword. “You had your chance, Aegon. I will not be your afterthought.”

He stood there, the wind whipping around him, his fists trembling with suppressed rage and grief. He looked at you, his eyes searching, pleading, but you did not waver. Finally, with a choked growl, he turned away, climbing back onto his dragon.

As he flew back to Dragonstone, his heart was a storm of emotions—rage, despair, regret. He had lost you, the one he had always thought would be by his side. The bitter taste of his failure burned in his throat, and he knew that this wound would not heal easily.

Days passed, the silence between you and Aethan slowly thawing as you adjusted to your new life. He was kind, considerate, his presence a balm to the scars Aegon had left behind. Though your marriage had not yet been consummated, there was a growing warmth between you, a tentative affection that could have blossomed into something more given time.

But time was not on your side.

It happened one evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sea in shades of crimson and gold. Aethan was found in his chambers, lifeless, his face twisted in pain. There were no marks, no wounds, nothing to suggest foul play, but you knew. In your heart, you knew.

Aegon.

The realization hit you like a blow, your knees buckling as you stumbled away from Aethan’s still form. The air seemed to close in around you, thick and suffocating, as if the walls themselves were pressing down. You fled to the sea cliffs, the roar of the waves below a distant echo to the storm raging within you.

Tesaerix found you there, her massive form looming behind you, a soft rumble in her throat. She could sense your anguish, your fury. You pressed your forehead against her warm scales, your tears mingling with the salt spray of the sea.

“He did this,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “He took him from me.”

Your dragon growled low, her eyes flashing crimson in the fading light. You knew she would burn the world at your command, that her wrath would mirror your own. But what good would that do now? Aethan was gone, his life snuffed out before it had truly begun, and you were left adrift, your heart shattered anew.

The days that followed were a blur of mourning, the Velaryons gathering to pay their respects, their faces shadowed with suspicion. They whispered of poison, of dark magic, of the king’s wrath descending upon them in secret. But there was no proof, nothing but the aching certainty in your heart.

And Aegon... Aegon was silent. No message, no word from Dragonstone. But you knew he was watching, waiting, his presence a looming shadow you could not shake.

As you stood before Aethan’s sarcophagus which his family lowered into the sea, you made a vow. You would not be broken, not by Aegon or anyone else. He had taken too much from you already, but he would not take your spirit. You were a Targaryen, a rider of dragons, a daughter of fire and blood.

And if Aegon thought he could bind you to his will, he would soon learn just how fierce a dragon’s wrath could be.

The months of mourning were a blur of quiet pain, the weight of grief settling like a mantle across your shoulders. Driftmark’s salt-soaked shores had been both refuge and prison, the sea wind a constant reminder of the life that had been stolen from you. But as time passed, sorrow hardened into resolve, and your thoughts turned to vengeance. Aethan’s death would not go unavenged, and the one who had wronged you would pay dearly.

You returned to Dragonstone in the dead of night, Tesaerix’s wings cutting through the dark sky like a blade. The castle loomed before you, a silhouette of ancient stone and flickering torches. It had been your home once, a place of childhood dreams and broken promises. Now, it would be the stage for your retribution.

Your father, Aerion Targaryen, the stern and unyielding Lord of Dragonstone, greeted you with a wary gaze. His hair, a crown of silver, seemed to catch the light as he watched you approach, your steps echoing in the great hall. There was no warmth in his eyes, only the cold calculation of a man who had seen too many battles, too much bloodshed.

“Why have you come, daughter?” His voice was gruff, suspicion lacing his words.

You met his gaze unflinchingly, your chin held high. “To make amends for my folly and to serve our house.”

His brows knitted together, curiosity mingling with doubt. “And how do you intend to do that?”

“By wedding Rhaegel,” you said, each word measured, deliberate. “It is time I returned to my family, to my duty. A union with my brother will strengthen the bloodline, bind our house tighter.”

Your father’s silence was heavy, the air between you charged with tension. You knew he would see the logic in your words. The union would solidify the family, secure the power of House Targaryen, and—most importantly—draw a line that Aegon would not be able to cross without dire consequences.

“Rhaegel is a gentle soul,” he finally said, his tone thoughtful. “He would not refuse you, and such a match would indeed serve our house well.”

The words were a victory, though they tasted bitter on your tongue. Rhaegel was a quiet, kind brother, one who had never sought power or conflict. But he would be your husband, and through him, you would strike back at the man who had shattered your world.

The wedding was held in the shadow of Dragonstone’s volcanic peak, the sky above churning with clouds that threatened rain. The hall was filled with the banners of your house, the air thick with the scent of burning incense and dragonsteel. Rhaegel stood beside you, his eyes soft, his hand trembling slightly as he took yours. He had not questioned your intentions, had not hesitated to join his fate with yours. He was a lamb led to slaughter, and you were the wolf at his side.

When you spoke your vows, your voice was steady, unyielding. Each word was a vow not only to Rhaegel, but to yourself, a promise that Aegon would never hold you again, never bend you to his will. The ceremony passed in a blur, the faces around you fading into insignificance as you sealed your fate.

And then, the news reached King’s Landing.

The ravens carried the message to Aegonfort, their wings a dark omen against the pale sky. Aegon’s rage, when he learned of your marriage, was a storm that shook the very foundations of the newly built keep. He was a dragon unleashed, his fury visible even from afar. The courtiers whispered of his madness, of the destruction that followed in his wake as he stormed through the halls, his voice a roar that sent servants scurrying for cover.

He tore through the council chamber, Blackfyre drawn, the gleaming blade slashing through the air. His advisors cowered, their faces ashen with fear as he raged, his words incoherent, his eyes blazing with a fire that seemed to burn from within. He cursed your name, cursed your defiance, the betrayal he felt like poison in his veins.

“How dare she!” His voice echoed through the stone halls, a thunderous bellow that seemed to shake the very walls. “She belongs to me, and she weds again another under my very nose!”

The destruction was swift, catastrophic. He smashed the great table that had been carved in the shape of Westeros, his wrath reducing it to splinters. Tapestries burned, the flames licking hungrily at the stone, and the Aegonfort quaked beneath the weight of his fury. The court trembled, for never before had they seen their king so unhinged, so consumed by rage.

From Dragonstone, you heard of the chaos, the whispers carried on the wind. Each word was a balm to the wounds he had inflicted, each report of his anger a testament to your victory. He would not have you, not now, not ever. Your marriage to Rhaegel was a shield, an unbreakable barrier between you and the man who had tried to claim you.

Rhaegel, sweet and oblivious, took no notice of the storm he had unwittingly become part of. He treated you with gentle kindness, his shy smiles and soft words a stark contrast to the tempest you had unleashed. He did not ask why you had chosen him, did not pry into the reasons behind your sudden return. Perhaps he was content to simply have you by his side, a sister and now a wife, his world made brighter by your presence.

But beneath the calm exterior, your heart was a roiling sea. You had won a victory, yes, but the cost was high. You had bound yourself to Rhaegel, a man who could never be more than a shield against Aegon’s wrath. The knowledge was a cold, sharp blade, but you wielded it with purpose, with a determination that burned hotter than dragonfire.

You would not be owned, not by Aegon or any man. Your life was yours to command, your choices your own to make. And if Aegon thought he could bend you, could break you with his fury, he would soon learn that a dragon does not bow to anyone.

In the halls of Dragonstone, you walked with your head held high, the whispers of the courtiers following in your wake. They spoke of your defiance, your strength, your unyielding will. You were a force to be reckoned with, a storm in human form, and you would not be swayed.

Aegon could rage and destroy, could tear down kingdoms and burn cities to ash. But he could not touch you, not now. You were beyond his reach, a dragon in flight, your wings spread wide against the sky. And you would soar, higher and farther than he could ever imagine, leaving him behind in the ruin of his own making.

The birth was a struggle from the very beginning. As the night waned and the dawn crept over the horizon, the air in Dragonstone was thick with tension. The cries from your chambers echoed through the stone halls, a haunting symphony of pain and desperation. The maesters and midwives worked frantically, their faces drawn and pale, their hands slick with blood and sweat.

When the infant’s wail finally pierced the silence, it was not the sound of triumph. The child, small and frail, struggled to draw breath, its cries weak and fluttering like the wings of a dying bird. And you, spent and broken, lay still upon the birthing bed, your skin ashen, your breath shallow. The life that had burned so brightly in your eyes was now a dim flicker, barely holding on.

Rhaegel sat at your bedside, his hands clutching yours, tears streaming down his cheeks. He called your name, his voice breaking, but you were already slipping away, your spirit drifting like smoke on the wind. As the sun rose, you drew your last breath, the light fading from your eyes as the shadows claimed you.

Grief settled over Dragonstone like a dark cloud. Rhaegel, the gentle brother who had loved you with a quiet devotion, was inconsolable. He held the child—a daughter, her silver hair fine as silk, her tiny chest struggling with each shallow breath—and he wept for the life that was already slipping away. She survived only a day, a brief flicker of existence that faded into darkness before she could even know the world.

The news reached Aegon in King’s Landing, carried by a raven whose dark wings seemed an ill omen. He read the message once, twice, his mind struggling to grasp the words. You were gone. His fierce, defiant sister, the one he had always thought would stand beside him, had been taken by death’s cruel hand. And the child—his niece, his blood—was gone as well.

The rage that gripped him was like nothing he had ever known, a tempest that tore through his heart and mind. He mounted Balerion without a word, the Black Dread’s wings spreading wide as they soared into the sky. The flight to Dragonstone was swift and furious, the great dragon’s roar echoing across the Narrow Sea as if the heavens themselves were protesting Aegon’s wrath.

He arrived on the day of your pyre, the castle’s courtyards filled with the somber faces of those gathered to pay their respects. As he dismounted, his eyes blazed with fury, his expression dark and terrifying. He stormed through the crowd, his presence a force of nature that parted those before him like a wave crashing against the shore.

Rhaegel stood beside the pyre, his face hollow, his eyes red from weeping. He looked up as Aegon approached, his grief turning to fear at the sight of his brother’s wrath. Aegon’s hand shot out, gripping Rhaegel by the front of his robes, dragging him close until their faces were inches apart.

“What did you do to her?” Aegon’s voice was a low, dangerous growl, each word trembling with barely restrained violence. “She was never yours to take.”

Rhaegel’s hands clutched at Aegon’s wrists, his voice shaking as he tried to answer. “I—she was my wife, Aegon. I loved her, I would never—”

“Your wife?” Aegon spat, his grip tightening, his eyes blazing with a fury that seemed to burn hotter than the flames that would soon consume your body. “She was mine! She was always mine, and you took her, you stole her from me! You killed her!”

The accusation hung in the air, raw and brutal, and those gathered around the pyre fell silent, their eyes wide with shock and fear. Rhaegel’s breath came in ragged gasps, his face paling as Aegon’s words struck like blows.

“Aegon, please,” he choked out, his voice desperate. “I did nothing to harm her. I tried to love her, to make her happy—”

“You are a fool,” Aegon snarled, shoving Rhaegel away so violently that he stumbled, nearly falling to the ground. “A weak, pathetic fool who let her die, who couldn’t protect her! She was too strong for you, too fierce, and you crushed her spirit with your weakness!”

Rhaegel fell to his knees, his shoulders shaking as he wept, his cries soft and broken. “I tried, Aegon. I tried to save her.”

Aegon’s laughter was a bitter, hollow sound. “Save her? You were never strong enough to save her. You should have let her be, let her come back to me. I would have protected her, would have given her everything. But now—” His voice broke, and for a moment, the fury in his eyes was eclipsed by a grief so deep it seemed to tear him apart from within. “Now she’s gone, and it’s your fault.”

Their father, who had been standing nearby, stepped forward, his face lined with sorrow and weariness. “Aegon, enough. This is not the time—”

“Not the time?” Aegon rounded on him, his rage flaring anew. “You let this happen! You let her marry him, let her throw herself away on someone too weak to protect her. You were supposed to be our father, supposed to keep us safe, and you failed.”

The old man’s shoulders slumped, the weight of Aegon’s words bearing down on him like a crushing tide. “I did what I thought was best. She made her choice, Aegon. She chose her path.”

Aegon’s face twisted with pain and anger, his voice a roar that echoed off the castle walls. “Her path should have been beside me! You should have made her mine, should have stopped her!”

The silence that followed was deafening, the air thick with the tension of words that could not be unsaid. Aegon’s chest heaved with the force of his emotions, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His eyes, wild and haunted, turned back to the pyre where your body lay, wrapped in the white shroud of death.

He took a step forward, his gaze fixed on your still form, and the rage seemed to drain from him, leaving only a hollow emptiness. “You were mine,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You were always supposed to be mine.”

And then, with a choked sound that was part sob, part growl, he turned and stormed away, the crowd parting before him in silence. He climbed back onto Balerion, the great dragon’s wings unfurling as they took to the sky. The wind whipped around him as they flew, the cold air biting at his skin, but he felt nothing but the gaping void where you had once been.

In the days that followed, the fire of Aegon’s wrath spread across the realm, his fury a wildfire that consumed everything in its path. He was a king unchained, his grief and anger a deadly combination that none dared challenge. The Aegonfort, now a place of ashes and ruin, stood as a testament to his pain, the once-proud symbol of his reign now crumbling beneath the weight of his loss.

And through it all, the memory of you lingered, a ghost that haunted his every step, a reminder of what he had lost, of what he had destroyed with his own hands. The realm would remember this day, the day a dragon’s heart broke, and the world trembled beneath the shadow of its rage.

[khloberry]

❝ Some feelings never go away. . .❞

Hate That I Love You

Nicholas Chavez x Reader | 18+ fluff/smut

Hi guys! So I wanted to challenge myself and write a fic that was more than just smut (it’s still here lol) but with a lot more plot, slow burn & fluff. What did Taylor say? It’s a love story. I really enjoyed writing this one and hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think!

I wanted him to tell me that he would always love me. I really wanted him to understand. I knew that I was breaking his heart along with mine, but I still wanted for us to be okay. If only we could have just been okay. Maybe that was unrealistic. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. I just know I never wanted him to hate me.

But what I wanted wasn’t what I got.

You’re so fucking selfish were the words that hit me hard. The explosive sound of the door slamming hit me even harder. It was the sound that rang through my ears and echoed through my heart long after he was gone. The sound that told me that we were really over.

And it was all because of me.

All because I chose my dreams. Why couldn’t he just understand that choosing what I loved didn’t mean that I didn’t love him. I loved him so much. But ever since I was a little girl in my first ballet class, all I wanted to do was dance. It was my joy, my passion, and when I got into the performing arts school of my dreams, it was no question. I had to go. But going meant transferring schools and moving across the country to New York. It also meant leaving him.

It had been three years since I left, and while I didn’t regret leaving, I still had those unavoidable moments where ‘what ifs’ occupied my mind. What if we never broke up? What if we had made it work? What if we were still together now? What if…

The truth was, I never stopped missing him. I had a lot of things that made me happy—dance, school, an exciting job, an amazing apartment, and a great group of friends. But I still felt incomplete, like a puzzle with a missing piece. No matter how much time passed or how happy I was in life, there was a dull ache in my heart that never seemed to completely go away.

I still loved him.

I probably always would.

He was my first real love—the one who I thought I’d be with forever. The one who was impossible to forget. I can still remember our first encounter like it was yesterday. I was 18 and at a college party that my best friend talked me into going to. I wasn’t much of a party girl and I rarely drank, but I decided to go with her, and it ended up being the best decision ever because I met him.

Nicholas.

The party was still going strong well into the night with no sign of ending anytime soon. I was ready to go, but my best friend had told me another hour, two hours ago. We shared many similarities, but when it came to partying, we were very different. My best friend was the definition of the life of the party, while I had a good time at parties, but I definitely didn’t party hard.

I was sitting on the couch with a soda when someone came and stood right in front of me.

“A soda?” he spoke, his voice low and teasing.

I looked up to see the most handsome guy looking at me with a raised eyebrow.

“What’s wrong with a soda?” I glanced at the canned soda in my hand before returning my attention to him.

“It’s a party. What fun is a soda?” he smirked.

“Oh, I didn’t know beverages had fun,” I said with a small laugh.

He smiled and chuckled. “No? Have you not met beer? How about vodka? She’s a real good time,” he joked.

“I’m not much of a drinker,” I admitted with a shy smile.

“That’s cool,” he shrugged easily. “Be the exception.”

I couldn’t stop laughing. He was really charming and funny. And he was insanely attractive. He had the most perfect smile and the dreamiest brown eyes I’d ever seen.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, already taking a seat beside me.

“Now what if I had said no?” I teased, turning to face him fully.

“You wouldn’t have.” He had a knowing smile. “You’re happy for the company. You and your soda looked so bored when I was walking past, I just had to come over. I would’ve felt bad if I didn’t.”

“Enough about my soda,” I laughed. “What are you drinking?”

“Rum and coke,” he raised his cup and gave me a playful smile. “See? I like soda too.”

I laughed again and then leaned in a bit. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“What’s that?”

“I’m not really big on soda either. I wanted a bottled water but there wasn't any in the cooler.”

He let out a disapproving sound and shook his head. “You’re killing me.”

“I know.” I pressed my hand against his chest and tapped playfully. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t know why I did it. It was a bold move touching him like that, but something in me wanted to. He lit a spark in me. He looked down at my hand and then back up to eyes with a smile that indicated he didn’t just mind it—he liked it.

And I already found myself liking him.

“So, tell me, does the pretty girl with the soda have a name?”

I blushed. “Y/N.”

He smiled. “Nicholas.”

That was how our love story began. I couldn’t imagine if I decided not to go to that party or if Nicholas didn’t come up and talk to me. The stars were aligned when we met that night; they brought us together, and every day for the next two years felt like a dream come true.

Then came the dreaded day when it went away.

Back in the present, I shook away the memory and gathered my things before leaving the dance studio where I worked. I had just finished teaching a class and didn’t have another until tomorrow. The rest of my day looked like rest and relaxation.

Before heading home, I made a stop at one of my favorite coffee shops. They made my favorite iced matcha latte, and whenever I was in the area, I couldn’t resist getting one. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee greeted me as I entered. It was a little busy with the afternoon rush, but patience was a virtue and their matcha was the best, so I didn’t mind.

After placing my order, I stepped aside to wait. I was scrolling through my phone when I heard the barista call out a name that made me look up. I nearly dropped my phone when I saw who was approaching the counter. My eyes had to be deceiving me. There was no way it was actually him. But the more I looked, the more I realized I wasn’t seeing things.

It was really him.

It was Nicholas.

Shock was an understatement. I was frozen in place, like a deer caught in headlights. I had no idea how to react, and it seems that Nicholas didn’t either when he saw me. He was visibly shocked and didn’t move for what felt like a long time. The barista called his name again and he politely apologized, snapping out of his trance-like state.

I know it was the last thing I should've been focused on, but I couldn’t help but notice he picked up two cups and wondered who the other was for. Was he seeing someone now? Of course he was. It had been three years and any girl would be lucky to have him. I was lucky. The thought of seeing him with someone else now hit me like a punch in the gut.

When my legs finally decided to move, I grabbed my almost forgotten matcha and walked over to Nicholas. My heart raced as I stood in front of him. He was still so unbelievably handsome, even more so now. How was that even possible?

“Nic?” I said his name disbelievingly, still trying to convince myself that it was really him. “What are you doing here? Well, not here in the coffee shop… I mean here in New York,” I rambled and suddenly felt like an idiot when all he did was stare.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but this was the worst. Was he really not going to speak? Not even a hello? At the very least, I thought I would receive a greeting. This coldness wasn't something I was prepared for. Unsure of what else to say or do, I just gave him a small smile that he didn’t return. And he still hadn’t said anything. The silence was growing more uncomfortable, and I was seconds away from leaving when I heard an approaching voice that I instantly recognized as his sister’s.

“Y/N! Oh my God!” she exclaimed, her voice bubbling with excitement as she pulled me into a hug.

I hadn’t seen Nicole since before I left for school. We still kept in touch through social media, but we obviously weren’t close like we’d been when Nicholas and I were together. I knew through Instagram that she was getting married, and then it dawned on me that was probably why they were here in New York.

“Look at you, girl. Still so pretty,” she smiled.

“No, you,” I smiled back.

She grabbed one of the drinks Nicholas was holding and took an eager sip. “Hello caffeine. Exactly what I needed. This morning has been so busy.” She then squealed excitedly, “I’m getting married tomorrow!”

“Congrats, Nicole.” I said, genuinely so happy for her. “I know it’s going to be so beautiful.” Inadvertently, I looked over at Nicholas, who was now looking down at his phone with an expression that said he wanted to be anywhere else but here right now.

“Thanks, Y/N.” Nicole smiled and then her eyes suddenly lit up. “Wait, are you busy tonight? We’re having a bowling party instead of the usual rehearsal dinner. It’s gonna be a lot of fun. You should totally come.” She glanced at Nicholas. “We would love that. Right, Nic?”

“Sure.” He finally spoke, not even bothering to look up from his phone.

He didn’t want me to go.

I didn’t either.

But since she invited me.

“Okay,” I agreed despite myself.

“Great! I’ll send you the address and see you tonight.”

I gave her a parting smile before I made my way to the door. I couldn’t help but notice Nicholas still had the same tight expression on his face when he finally looked back up. With a heavy sigh, I pushed the door open and left.

It wasn’t too late to change my mind, right?

I should have and just made an excuse that I couldn’t make it. That’s really what I wanted to do, but later on when she sent me the address and expressed her happiness, I decided to go.

When I arrived at the bowling lounge, the party was well under way, with music and happy sounds of everyone enjoying themselves. I sent Nicole a text to let her know I was here, and she met me at the entrance a few moments later.

“So happy you made it,” she said, giving me a quick hug before adding, “I know it might not seem like it, but my brother is too, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.”

I wanted to believe it, but the earlier encounter with Nicholas in the coffee shop didn’t give me much assurance that it was true. I hoped for the best but anticipated the worst again.

We walked over to the bowling lanes and she introduced me to everyone, a few familiar faces. They were all wearing matching bowling shirts and reality struck me that although I was here, I wasn’t a part of their lives anymore, no matter how much I still wanted to be. Nicholas surely reminded me of that.

I spotted him talking with someone near one of the lanes. When I waved at him, he just gave me a quick nod and carried on with his conversation like I was nobody who mattered. He didn’t want me here, and it was painfully obvious. It was still hard to believe that this was us now. I remembered how he would look at me like I was the only girl in the world. Like I was the center of his universe.

Now he acted like I didn’t even exist.

As the night went on, I tried to just ignore how Nicholas was making me feel and focus on having a good time. After bowling, the party moved upstairs to the karaoke section of the lounge. One of Nicole’s bridesmaids had just finished a song when Nicholas headed towards the front. I watched him as he scanned the song selections and chose the one he wanted.

With a bright smile, he picked up the mic. “This is for someone special. She knows who she is.”

Was he talking about me? I suddenly felt nervous.

It didn’t take long to get an answer.

He looked right at me as the instrumental to Bon Jovi’s You Give Love a Bad Name started to play.

My heart immediately sank.

Like most humiliating moments, it felt longer than it actually was. The song seemed to go on and on, like a slow torture, my heart sinking deeper and deeper as Nicholas sang the song to me.

Shot through the heart and you’re to blame…

…you give love a bad name

I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. There was a gleam in his eyes, like he was actually enjoying this. I sat completely mortified, and even more so when it suddenly felt like every pair of eyes in the room were on me. I could’ve sworn that I even heard a few whispers. Then Nicole gave me an apologetic look that somehow made me feel even worse. Sparing myself further embarrassment, I got up to leave.

Standing outside the lounge, I fought back tears. Crying on the New York City streets wasn’t something else I wanted to add to my humiliation. The only thing on my mind now was why did I even come. I had never been more humiliated in my life. How could he do that?

I was reaching for my phone to request an Uber when the door opened and Nicholas walked out.

“So, you were just going to leave?” he asked.

Was he serious? After what he just did?

“Nicholas, please. Just leave me alone,” I said quietly as I walked off. I was embarrassed, emotional, and I couldn’t deal with anything more. I got maybe two steps before his hand closed around my arm.

“No.”

“No?” I shot him a look of incredulity.

“You heard me. No.”

“God, you’re a fucking asshole,” I told him as I reached my limit with the way he was treating me. Did he have to be such a dick?

He scoffed and let go of my arm. “That's a bit rich, coming from you.”

“Say what you will, Nicholas, but I have never done anything intentionally to hurt you. And I never would. That, in there, was fucked up.”

“Let’s not talk about fucked up.” He was visibly becoming more agitated.

I sighed. “Nic, I’ve tried to apologize so many times. You never wanted to hear it. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I know I left, but it’s been three years and I just thought—”

“Thought what? Thought that everything was good now?” He let out a humorless laugh.

Silence.

“You know what really kills me…” he said, running a hand over his face. “It’s the fact that after all this time you still don’t get it. How don’t you fucking get it?! It really blows my mind that you don’t get that it was never because you left but how you just blindsided me with a breakup.”

His gaze pierced into mine, his eyes filled with hurt and anger that suddenly broke something inside me.

“All I ever did was love and support you. How could you make a decision for me, for us, without even a conversation with me? You got your acceptance letter and then the next thing I know is you’re telling me we can’t be together anymore. That was just it. You want to talk about fucked up? That was fucked up.”

The more Nicholas released, the more I wanted to break down and cry.

Because he was right.

Because I’d hurt him.

Because I still loved him.

“Two years together and you just fucking ended it. Just like that… like it meant nothing.”

“No, Nic…” I started, the tears that I’d been trying to hold back falling. “It wasn’t just like that and it meant everything. Believe me, it was the hardest thing I ever had to do. I loved you so much. I didn’t want to end things.”

“Yeah, but you did. And the way you did it…” He shook his head. “I deserved better.” He made a motioning gesture between us. “We deserved better than that.”

“I’m sorry.” I sobbed. “You’re right. I should’ve done it differently. I wish I did. But even if I had, Nic, tell me how it would've worked?”

“Maybe it wouldn’t have,” he admitted. “But I know I wouldn’t have given up on us without trying.”

“I’m sorry.” I told him again.

“Yeah, you’ve said that.”

“And I’ll keep saying it until you believe it.” I reached for his hand. “I never ever meant to hurt you. I’ve spent the last three years still thinking about you.”

I felt a bit of resistance before his hand finally held mine. We stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, the weight of everything we’d said hanging heavy in the air. As I looked into his eyes, I watched him struggle with whatever was going on inside him. Anger? Maybe forgiveness? Did he believe me? I didn’t know, and as much as I wanted to ask, I couldn’t find any words. All I could do was make the most of this moment with him, holding his hand, not wanting to ever let it go.

Then I heard Nicholas release a heavy sigh.

“Why am I doing this…” he said quietly, more to himself than to me.

Before I could ask what he meant, he leaned in and kissed me, taking me by complete surprise. It was a kiss that, for a moment, was soft and almost hesitant, like he wanted to pull away. But when he couldn’t fight it, and when I kissed him back, the kiss became heated, a mixture of shared passion and frustration. I felt his hand move to the back of my neck, pulling me closer. Any thoughts of doubt and hesitation faded as our tongues touched and bodies pressed even closer. For a fleeting moment, it was just Nicholas and I again. No problems. No worries. Just us.

And then it was over. He pulled away slowly, his eyes dazed like mine, like we’d both just woken from a dream that once seemed so close, but now was so far away. Once upon a time, we were deeply in love, living our very own fairytale, and now, I’m not sure what we were—if we’d ever be anything again.

“I gotta get back in there,” he said quietly.

I nodded silently.

Nicholas looked at me, his deep brown eyes reflective, like he wanted to say more, but without another word, he turned and went back inside. My Uber arrived shortly after, and when I got into the car, I sank into the back seat and shut my eyes.

What really just happened?

The next day, I was still thinking about Nicholas and the unexpected kiss. I couldn’t stop it from replaying in my head. I wondered what it meant, if it meant anything. He had been so cold towards me and then… he was kissing me? I couldn’t make sense of it. My mind was racing with questions I had no answers for and thoughts I couldn’t escape.

I had just gotten home from work that evening when my phone chimed. I glanced at the screen, and to my surprise, it was a text from Nicholas. It was five words that stopped me in my tracks and made my heart skip a beat.

I need to see you.

An hour later, he was standing outside my apartment door. I had no idea what to expect after yesterday, but I was certain that I couldn’t handle things going left. I breathed deeply and silently hoped that everything would go right.

I opened the door.

“Hi,” I said, stepping aside to let him in.

“Hi,” he replied, putting his hands in his pockets as we fell into an awkward silence.

“Can I take your jacket?” I offered when the silence went on for a bit too long.

“Oh yeah, sure.” He took off his jacket, handing it to me to hang.

“How was the wedding?” I asked as we walked further into my living room. When we were both seated on my couch, I noticed that he sat a bit closer than I would have thought.

“It was really nice,” he said with a smile that warmed my heart. “I’ve never seen my sister happier than she was today.”

I smiled back. “I can’t wait to see pictures. I know it was beautiful.”

Nicholas was quiet for a moment. “Look, I came here to say that I’m sorry for how I acted yesterday.”

“It’s okay.” I said softly.

I didn’t like what happened, but I knew it came from a place of hurt—hurt that I had caused. Maybe he just wanted me to hurt too. But I had already been hurting since that day when I told him we couldn’t be together anymore.

“It’s not okay,” he sighed. “I could’ve handled it better. I was, in fact, a fucking asshole.”

We both looked at each other after he repeated my words from yesterday and let out a laugh. Sharing a laugh with him felt good. I missed it.

I missed him.

“I don’t want you to hate me, Nic,” I said quietly.

“I don’t hate you,” he admitted. “I’ve tried to. I really did. But I never could. I think I hated that I still loved you. I was angry with you for a long time, and seeing you again brought it all back…”

Nicholas trailed off for a moment, trying to find his next words. It was a short silence before he spoke again.

“I felt angry about the past,” He took a deep breath. “But then I couldn’t get you out of my head and all I wanted to do was kiss you. At the wedding today, you were the only thing on my mind. I guess it just hit me that the reason I could never hate you is because…”

The room fell silent again as he looked into my eyes. My heart was racing and my stomach was suddenly in knots as I anticipated what his next words would be—words that I thought I’d never hear him say again.

“…I still love you,” he finally said. “I don’t think I ever stopped.”

My heart nearly stopped beating and it felt like the air had left my lungs. The words echoed through my head, impossible to forget. He said that he still loved me. I almost couldn’t believe it was real. Was it real? Maybe I’d wake up to find it was all a dream. It sure felt like one.

Then it happened again, Nicholas leaned in and he kissed me. Only this time, it wasn’t unexpected. It wasn’t uncertain. It was the kind of kiss that said more than words ever could. It was everything that I missed, wanted, and never wished to lose again. I could kiss him forever if I had the chance.

Kissing quickly turned into passionate touching as my hands roamed his body—over his arms, his shoulders, his back, the feel of him sending a rush of heat through me. I grabbed the bottom of his shirt, desperate to get closer to him, and he quickly pulled it over his head and tossed it somewhere behind him. My breath hitched at the sight of his smooth skin and hard muscles, the veins in his arms making my mouth water.

“Somebody’s been in the gym,” I smiled, running my hand over his chest and down his abs.

He smiled back. It was a sexy smile that was both appreciative and assured. “Just a little something.”

“Not so little,” I teased as my hand traveled further down, stopping at the waistband of his pants.

Nicholas chuckled softly as he stood up to take off his pants, my eyes following his every move. He reached out to grab my hand, pulling me up from the couch and standing me in front of him. He kissed me again as his hands moved to lift my shirt and unhook my bra, both falling to the floor.

The feel of his lips on mine, the taste of the kiss, the way his hands explored me—everything about the moment had my body screaming for more. I moaned between kisses, dripping in arousal. I felt his hands slide down my back, and then over my ass, grabbing it firmly, pulling me closer into him. With our bodies pressed together, I could feel him hard and ready. It sent a rush of anticipation through me so intense I nearly shuddered.

“Your room,” he said, his voice rough with want.

I reached for his hand and led the way. We couldn’t get there any faster. I needed this. I needed him.

All of him.

His body covered mine as he pressed me down gently against the bed. He wasted no time kissing me again, hands all over me, like we couldn’t get close enough fast enough. He kissed from my mouth down to my breasts and then further to my stomach. Each kiss and every touch had my body on fire. The years had passed, but the burning passion between us was still there, like a flame, burning intensely and nonstop.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” I whispered.

“I can’t either,” he whispered back, placing a kiss right below my navel, making my stomach clench.

Then his kisses went lower.

He held my gaze as he slowly slid my shorts and panties down. The intense look in his eye made me burn with anticipation.

“You missed me?” His hands pushed my legs further apart as he lowered his head between them. The feel of his breath against my skin was enough to make me quiver.

God, yes. He had no idea how much I missed him. How much I missed this.

“Tell me how much.” He pressed kisses along my inner thigh. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

I wanted it so bad I was nearly desperate.

“So fucking bad,” I managed to say through breaths.

His mouth was so close.

“You know,” he whispered, placing another wet kiss to the inside of my thigh. “I can still remember how you taste.” Another kiss. “How you used to sound.” And then another. “How it would drive me crazy.”

“Nic, please,” I whimpered.

He didn’t make me wait any longer.

The first feel of his tongue sent a rush of pleasure surging through me, making me gasp. His mouth was always amazing, but now it felt even better than I remembered. With my eyes closed, my head fell back against the pillows and a soft, breathy moan escaped me.

“That’s it,” Nicholas groaned, his voice low and rough. “God, I’ve missed that fucking sound.”

I wasn’t going to last long. Not with the way he lapped at my wetness with his tongue, first soft and then with more pressure. Not with how his fingers moved inside me, stroking that sweet spot within. Not with the way he licked and sucked my clit, stimulating every single nerve ending. No, I wasn’t going to last long at all, each lick and each touch bringing me closer and closer.

“Nic,” I gasped. “Fuck,”

I felt it coming. He did too. His hands gripped my thighs, holding me in place as his lips closed around my clit and sucked in such a way that it made my entire body shudder. I didn’t just see stars, it felt like I was ascending to another dimension. It was beyond any orgasm he’d ever given me before. It was almost too good and I nearly cried in pleasure when his tongue didn’t let up and took me back into the stars.

Oh God.

I lay breathlessly, my body still trembling from the mind-blowing orgasm. I felt him press a soft, loving kiss against my thigh before he came back up and kissed me, his lips glistening with the taste of me on them.

“This is real, right?” I asked softly, a part of me still believing this was all a dream that I was going to wake up from any minute now.

Nicholas grabbed my hand and guided it down to feel him. Full. Hard. Ready. “I promise you it is.” he said just as softly, letting out a low groan as I stroked him gently.

“I’ve missed you so much,” I told him.

And then he slowly pushed into me, our eyes meeting when he was fully inside. One look at him and I knew he felt it too. How perfect this all was. How it wasn’t just sex but our love story continuing.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You feel even better than I remember.”

And so did he. It was amazing, almost overwhelming, the intensity of everything I was feeling. His words, the sounds of his breaths, the way he hit every right spot in every right way, made me feel an emotion so strong it almost brought me to tears.

“I love you,” I whispered, meeting his every stroke with a rock of my hips. “I never stopped.”

We moved together in perfect rhythm. My walls hugged him tightly, pulling him in closer, wanting him to feel just how much I wanted him. How much I loved him. How much this moment meant. Each stroke of his seemed to convey the same thing as he thrust into me again and again, bringing me closer and closer. I was almost there.

A little deeper.

A little harder.

A little more.

And I was crying out his name, the pleasure rushing through me so intensely it left me trembling.

“Oh, my God,” I moaned breathlessly, my arms wrapped tightly around his back, holding him close.

It was at that moment that Nicholas reached his peak and a rough groan ripped from his throat as he filled me completely.

“I love you too,” he said, his body collapsing against mine.

Nothing could’ve felt better.

In the quiet moments that followed, Nicholas held me in his arms. With my head resting on his chest, I listened to the steady beating of his heart. Tonight had been nothing short of perfect, and all I could think of now was how I wanted to make it last forever. Where did we go from here?

As if he could read my thoughts, Nicholas pulled me closer and placed a soft, reassuring kiss to the top of my head. “We’ll figure it out together this time.”

His words melted my heart. Our love story was far from over. It was a new chapter being written.

This was just the first page.

Tagging all the Nic girlies I follow ♡ @oliviaambs @torikitten @anemoiars @iamsebastiansstan @fiftyshadeschavez @chavezwifeyy @nicholaslut @nickchavezs

[halfadiamond]

Love in Trimesters

Chapter Two

Masterlist

The funeral is small and personal. Just how Maxwell wanted it. It’s mainly filled with people that Maxwell served alongside with, you look around and don’t notice anyone from your old town.

You don’t know anyone here, you’re the widow and yet when people are coming by to offer their condolences, you have to ask how they knew Maxwell. It’s filled with different stories from some who were with him during his rookie days to those who joined him on his first deployment, then those… who were there the day he died. It’s a somber yet beautiful moment to see how many people Maxwell managed to have an influence on.

You see the stares, you see how people look at you, at first they look at you with sympathetic eyes as they express their condolences. It is when their gazes go down and they notice the slightly swollen stomach that the gazes turn into pity as they realize that you’re both a widow and an expecting mother.

You hate it. It’s already hard enough, trying to get out of bed, trying to move forward with your life, knowing that your husband is gone and isn’t coming back. You don’t need their pity. You don’t want it. You want them to focus on Maxwell’s life and his legacy. After this, you have no plans on trying to keep in contact with them. You want to focus on you and Thumper.

That’s what Maxwell would’ve wanted.

—

The service goes peacefully with many people going up to give their speeches.

Everyone laughs when someone tells the story of how Maxwell got caught sneaking in junk food and his drill instructors made him watch them eat it.

There’s silence when one person talks about Maxwell, giving them the motivation to continue on with the military because he knew they had what it takes.

Then there’s sniffles as one man, who introduces himself as Kyle Garrick, talks about how Maxwell served under him and how he was an outstanding soldier. And how he would’ve made a fine leader one day.

Then lastly, there’s the stares as everyone sees you get up from your seat to head up to the podium. If you were trying to hide your pregnancy from the rest of the soldiers, it failed, as everyone could see from the fit of your dress that there was a slight baby bump. You’re pretty sure that’s why Kyle extends his hand to you as he helps you up.

You stand in front of the podium and see everyone staring at you. You can feel the pity in their eyes as you read over your speech.

You give a brief introduction before beginning.

“Me and Maxwell. We were high school sweethearts, we met when he caught me getting into trouble. He should’ve reported me, but he didn’t instead he chose to keep guard.”

There’s a slight chuckle in the crowd as you continue.

“He… was everything to me. Even if he didn’t realize it, he was the one who worked his butt off to provide us a new home. He would’ve done anything to give me a better life.”

You don’t realize it until you look down to check your spot on the speech that you see little teardrops on the paper.

You swore you wouldn’t cry. Swore it.

You didn’t want the last time you would see Maxwell be blurry because of your tears. And yet… you couldn’t stop it. But you had to pull it together for now, then later you and Thumper could go home and mourn the family that would forever be incomplete.

—

Burying Maxwell was the worst part of your day. Seeing his casket get brought to the plot and seeing the workers get everything ready to place him under.

You had to stand there, and watch as Maxwell’s casket slowly got lowered into the ground. Well.. you could’ve sat down, that’s what Captain Price kept urging you to do, he kept by your side during most of the funeral. But you didn’t feel like sitting. Not now.

A worker came by and gave everyone flowers—white roses, Maxwell’s favorite—to toss onto the casket. You see how some throw it, say a few words, then leave, then you see Kyle Garrick again followed by two other men throw the flowers and stand there for a while, not saying anything.

It eventually became your turn. You and Captain Price went to the plot and both of you guys threw in some flowers. Price chose to step back and let you have a moment with him. Nobody said anything as you eyed the casket down in the ground, that was where Maxwell was, that was where your husband was, that was where Thumper’s dad was.

You wished you could turn back time. Turn it back to where you could’ve convinced Maxwell not to join the military. Tell him to get a job doing something else. Just do not go and give up your life, not when he knew he had two people who still needed him.

But you can’t do that now. The most you can do is silently wish for Maxwell to rest well and to look after you and Thumper.

You’re a strong man

That’s what you think as you take a step back and head back to your spot by Captain Price.

And just like that, Maxwell was gone.

—

You’re one of the last ones left, aside from Captain Price, Kyle Garrick, and the two other men who Kyle introduced as Johnny MacTavish and Simon Riley.

A part of you wants to tell them to head on home. That you would be okay, but you never get that chance too when Kyle speaks up.

“What are you going to do now?”

You look at Kyle and see the slight concern in his eyes. You’re not exactly sure as to what Maxwell told them about his family, but you’re assuming that he told them that you guys were surviving only on his paycheck.

“I’ll manage. You don’t have to worry.”

You spoke softly, trying to be as reassuring as possible.

But that was a lie. You didn’t know your plans after this. You didn’t know what you would do now. You would have to make a bunch of calls and see what would happen. More than likely, you’ll probably have to go back to work or you’ll have to suck it up and go back to your hometown with your parents.

There’s a brief silence before Johnny spoke up.

“We could help ya. Maxwell told me that you guys weren’t in contact with your families.”

“It’s okay Mr. MacTavish. I’m sure you guys have your own families to worry about.”

“We don’t.”

Simon spoke gruffly. Quick, to the point you noticed. But hearing him say that they didn’t have their own families to worry about, tugged at your heartstrings a little bit, they were just like you. They had nobody else in this world.

“Maxwell was a valued member of our team. We wouldn’t be honoring his memory if we let you go out on your own. Especially now.”

Kyle explained as he looked to Price as if asking for permission to continue and once he saw the nod, he did.

“Just until your baby is born. At least let us help you out, and once they’re born, we’ll give you space.”

“Why do you want to help? Is it something you guys promised to Maxwell?”

There was no response, but you could tell from their gazes that there was something they were keeping from you. You weren’t sure what it was, but a part of you can’t help but think that Maxwell probably had made them promise something.

You thought about it. You could use the help. You weren’t sure as to what it was but you were barely entering your second trimester, it would be harder to do things to prepare for the baby. Maybe they could help you out in figuring out how to find work. Or they could help, at least with the heavier stuff.

Like they said… it was only until the baby was born then after that they would give you and Thumper space. You could barely find any cons as you agreed to their help.

“Okay.”

Maxwell 😭 I’m still deciding on what gender the baby will be because I think in like two chapters from now it’s going to be the gender reveal. I feel like Maxwell would’ve definitely been a girl dad but I can kinda see him being a boy dad too

Pretty sure I mentioned it but it’s not like going to be like where they get together very quickly. It’ll take quite a while for them to first off realize they love each other then for them to even get together. That’s why I think this story will be more longer than Lost Dog. Also that’s why I’m not really tagging it, x reader, yet. But maybe I should.

[cool-and-grizzled]

Keith glances up from the sketchbook in his lap, comparing the drawing to Lance as he naps next to him leaning against him with Kosmo at their backs, the warm spring afternoon sun washing over them.

There's a calmness in all of this that they don't get a lot of, not with running humanitarian and relief missions all over the literal universe. It's been several years since the end of the war, the Coalition is going strong as ever, but there are still hostile planets. They take those missions themselves with a few trusted members.

They've come back to Earth to visit Lance's family and spend some time with them, and get a bit of rest from all the running around. There's a calmness in Lance's face that he hasn't seen in a while, even in his sleep, and guilt pools in his stomach that he didn't realize it sooner. He knows Lance wouldn't fault him for it, they're both very busy both during missions and between them, and even in the calm moments they can't fully relax -- the years and years of fighting are so ingrained in their bodies that they're always expecting something to go wrong.

Looking back at the sketchbook, it hits him just how much of Lance he has committed to memory. The way his bangs sweep over his forehead and how Keith brushes them aside to press a kiss on it when he leaves early in the morning and Lance isn't awake yet. The thin brows over his deep blue eyes, ones he's smoothed his thumbs over before pulling him into a kiss. The gentle slope of his nose, with the bump where he broke it during a mission a few years back. The freckles dusting his cheek, the ones that Keith connects like constellations. His thin lips, soft and warm against his. The small, white cut that's barely visible on his chin where he cut himself shaving once. The mole under his jaw, near his ear that's made for Keith to kiss.

The blue Altean marks under his eyes, a reminder of what they've gone through that left them a little broken and incomplete, but also a comfort that those who left them will live on through their memories and stories.

He has all of Lance's expressions catalogued, tucked away in a neat little box. The furrow of his brows, the way he gnaws on his lips when he's deep in thought. How his eyes light up, crinkling at the corners and how his grin is lopsided, revealing his slightly crooked teeth whenever Keith makes him laugh. The way he scrunches his nose when something doesn't go his way. He thinks he could fill shelves upon shelves with all the different ways he could draw Lance, and he wouldn't even need to look at him.

Lance stirs next to him, burrowing his face in Keith's shoulder. Keith lifts his free hand, and cards through his hair.

"Sleep well?"

Lance only nods, and takes a deep breath. "I wanna stay like this forever."

"Even when it rains?" He asks, trying and failing to suppress a smile. "Even during hurricane season?"

Lance lifts his head to look at him properly. "Don't be stupid. Of course even then. You and Kosmo give off enough heat for me to steal."

"And what about the water?"

"We're not made of sugar, we're not going to melt."

Keith just laughs, and presses a fleeting kiss to Lance's lips. "You'd be the first to complain about how the clothes stick to you."

"I would not," he pouts, and Keith can't help it.

He brings Lance closer, their breaths mingling in the small space between them before he captures Lance's lips in a proper kiss. He loses himself in the feeling, the way Lance's fingers find their way into his hair, the softness of his lips, the way he has to swallow a little whimper as he kisses Lance at just the right angle.

The sketchbook and the pencil fall off his lap, and Lance pulls away to pick it up. He looks at the page Keith was drawing on, and a teasing smile pulls on his lips.

"What, do you have a crush on me that you drew me? That's so cute."

Keith just looks at him with his eyebrows raised. "We literally just made out and have been dating for years, but sure, go with that."

"Don't be a grumpypants, babe," Lance says, his eyes twinkling happily.

"Don't call me that."

Despite having years to get used to Lance's pet names, they still make him blush, but honestly, he's just so in love that he doesn't care. Not anymore.

"What, grumpypants?"

"Yeah."

"Or what?"

"I'm gonna make you regret it."

"Will you, now?"

"Absolutely."

[allfearstofallto]

Nice

Yandere childe x reader

1.7k

Synopsis: He'll buy you absolutely anything your heart desires, but he longs for you to describe things as more than just "nice"

TW: Yandere, abusive themes, bribery, NSFW themes, toxic relationship, Dub-Con

AN: I haven't written in FOREVER so forgive me if it's not awesome or if it feels incomplete. My last account got shadow banned :(, doesn't help that I was already pretty depressed before that. No time for sob stories here, it's been two years since I've written anything and I miss writing, thanks for joining me!

Gems that dazzled and gleamed stars in the night sky, silver that was carved painstakingly from the mines in Liyue, an appearance that was beautiful, but still kept up with the most current fashion trends. He had truly outdone himself with this one, this has to be the one that would take your breath away. The one that would make you leap into his arms and pepper his face with kisses from your sweet lips that he rarely got the chance to taste.

When it came to gifts for you, there was no price tag. Childe would spend every mora he had if it meant he could even get a smile out of you and spend he often did. Money meant nothing to him, being a Fatui harbinger, his paychecks were larger than he knew what to do with. After sending money back home to his family, he still had so much left and nothing that he longed for other than your affection. So, why not spend it on something else he cared about?

Your eyes ghosted over the ring he was showing you, encased in a black velvet box with red satin holding it up. It wasn’t an engagement ring, he’d assured you of that multiple times after you were taken aback by him holding it up to you. He knew you weren’t ready for that just yet, and he was willing to respect your wishes, but he still wanted to give you something to wear on that pretty little finger to show that you were his while you waited for the real deal. Your engagement ring would be much, much larger than the one he was gifting you now and it would incorporate details from both of your home countries.

The expression on your face was unreadable. It wasn’t quite a grimace, but it wasn’t a smile either. It was the usual face you made when you were given something. An equal mixture of discomfort and unease. “It’s…nice.” you mumbled quietly as he slipped the ring onto your finger.

There was that word again. Nice. It made him sick to his stomach every time he heard it fall from your pretty lips. But that was always what you said about his gifts, as if you couldn’t think of another word to describe how you felt about them. Rare spices imported from Sumeru? Nice. A custom hanfu made from only the finest silk to wear to the lantern rite? Nice. Wine aged for almost a decade and shipped straight from Mondstadt? Very nice.

You spoke that one word, but even then it felt like you were straining yourself to say that much. On multiple occasions, your displeasure with receiving such expressive gifts was expressed, but he told you that that didn’t matter. Mora was just an object to him, something that held no value, and yet you still held each gift as if they would collapse under your touch.

“You can tell me if you don’t like it,”

“No!” you quickly retorted back, holding your hand up to examine the ring once more, “Its…” you purse your lips to stop yourself from saying the word, knowing that he would only be upset with your lack of what he considered to be a proper answer, “I like it.”

With a sigh and a dramatic slump of his shoulders, he reached up and cupped your face. His hand felt like solid ice against your cheek. Childe often claimed that that was another thing he loved about you so much. How warm your body was in comparison to himself. He told you that when he someday took you to Snezhnaya to meet his family, you would be his personal heater, that he wouldn’t let you go for even a second during the duration of your stay there.

“You don’t even wear the earrings I got you anymore,” Childe’s long fingers traced from your cheek to the lobe of your ear, grazing the empty hole where jewelry would go.

“You know I can’t wear those at work,”

“Then quit your job,” He spoke those words so quickly, with no hesitation, a part of you was convinced you imagined it. But you working was a constant conflict of interest between the two of you, something you’d even argued about before.

The situation grew heated that day. Both of you, yelling back and forth about what you thought was right. You remembered seeing his eyes glow at the same time as his vision that rested on his hip, making your stomach drop. Childe would never hurt you, would he? But even you didn’t know the answer to that, you could never be too sure about what was going on in the mind of a harbinger. So you backed down slightly, telling him that it was something you would consider, and that answer sufficed with him for the time being.

“Childe-”

“Ajax,” he cut you off. He hated when you used his codename, claiming that as his future wife, you alone should be allowed to call him by his given name.

“Ajax," you exhaled harshly after speaking his name, "I really would like to work and be independent,”

For just the briefest of moments, his eyes went dull, his smile fell, his facade faltered and he was his true self. It only lasted for less than a second, the average person might not have even seen it, but you’d spent so much time with him. You knew his tells. You knew that even though he was smiling again, it was completely fake. He was angry, even if the gleam in his eyes didn't show it.

A cold kiss was pressed against your cheek, just a peck to get his point across. When he pulled away, still making eye contact, he was still so close that you could feel his shallow breath on your skin. He squatted down slightly to meet your eyes and whispered against your lips, “I don’t plan to let my wife work. Why don’t you quit now, have a little practice before we’re wed?”

He said that as a suggestion, but you knew it wasn’t one. With Childe there were only orders and threats, nothing in between. You had no choice on whether or not you’d get to work, on whether or not you got to live alone, on whether or not you married him. In his eyes, you were already his, and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it.

A lump was caught in your throat as you tried to figure out what to say. Could you even tell him that the prospect of marrying him was something that seldom crossed your mind? Something that even when you did think about, it brought a twinge of fear into your heart. That on multiple occasions, you considered leaving him, but your unease around him was what was making your stay.

“I…” you finally met his gaze as you tried to force words out of your tense body. His eyes felt so cold and the hand that he had managed to snake its way down onto your shoulder was gripping your flesh tightly. It was a warning that what you said next would matter, “I should just-”

“You should quit,” he spoke the last part of the sentence for you, not caring about what you truly wanted to say.

Eyes turned downcast, you gave a slow nod. There wasn’t much of a choice with him anymore, he was hellbent on that being your answer. He had given you an order, if you didn’t react the way he wanted you to, you would regret it.

The grip that was on your shoulder loosened, exhibiting that you had pleased him and another kiss was placed on your cheek as a reward. This time his lips touched just below your eyes, where tears were threatening to fall, “That’s my girl,” another peck right against your lips, “How about I buy you something special, huh? For being so good.”

You swallow slowly, trying to keep yourself from falling apart in front of him, clenching and unclenching your fist as a way to self soothe. Your voice was shaky as you delivered your stiff answer, “Sure. That sounds lovely.”

“How about a new pair of earrings,” he followed this up by lightly biting the side of your ear, “or maybe a new necklace,” you felt his warm tongue slide down from your ear to your collarbone, making all the hairs on your body stand up, “Or maybe even a new dress,” he spoke into your neck, his hand reaching down and trying to slide the dress you were wearing up your thigh, exposing your your bare skin to the air.

You jolted your body backwards, your hands placed against his chest in an attempt to keep the distance between the two of you. He was moving so fast. Too fast. Even though it had been a while since you and him had last been intimate, for him to try it again so suddenly was worrisome.

You didn’t dare look at his face. There was no doubt about it that he was upset at your response to his touch, he never liked when you rejected him. The hand that was placed against him, was taken into his. The way he held you was gentle, but you could still feel force behind his movement. The thumb of his hand traced the back of your palm as he held you, before lifting it up and placing a kiss against it. Right on your finger, right on the very expensive ring he’d just bought you, almost as a way to draw your attention to it once more.

“What’s gotten into you? Hm?” he had an eyebrow cocked and a grin on his face, “Pushing me away like that after I got you something so precious? You’re going to hurt my feelings.”

“I just don’t think I’m in the mood for this right now,” you mumbled, switching between looking at your dress you were fiddling with and his borderline unblinking eyes.

Silence fell over the two of you, to the point where you could hear your own heart beat, the sound of blood pumping in your ears, the sound of his breaths that were slightly heavier than normal. Childe was rarely quiet. It was hard to get him to keep his mouth shut. In a way his anger was scaled based on how loud he was, the quieter, the worse.

His large hand came into your sight again, making you flinch about what was coming ahead, but rather than being struck, he used his thumb to trace your lips, “Figure something out.”

[turn3tifosi]

III. my love, my life

logan sargeant x girlfriend/ex!reader

you and logan have been dating since forever, and one day he realizes he doesn’t know himself without you.

series masterlist | main masterlist

There’s a look on Logan’s face, a look you instantly recognize. 

“We should break up,” he says quickly, as if afraid that if he said it more slowly, he might change his mind halfway.

His words hit you like a tidal wave, washing over your entire being. The world around you blurs as you focus on Logan’s eyes, the eyes that once looked at you with so much love and warmth. Now, they’re filled with a determination you’ve never seen before, a resolve that tells you he’s not wavering.

You swallow hard, trying to find your voice. 

“Logan, why? What happened?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

“It’s not something you did. It’s just... I need to find myself. I need to figure out who I am without us.”

You know that trying to convince him otherwise would be futile. You can’t control him, can’t make him stay if his heart isn’t here anymore. So, you nod, even though it feels like your heart is shattering into a million pieces.

“I understand,” you say, even though you don’t. Not really. But you respect his need for self-discovery, even if it means losing him.

Logan’s shoulders sag with relief. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, as if he didn’t expect you to take it so calmly. 

“I’ll pack my things.”

As he moves around your shared apartment, collecting his belongings, you sit on the edge of the bed, memories flooding your mind. You remember the nights spent talking until dawn, the lazy Sunday mornings, the way his laughter would fill the room and make everything seem brighter. He is your love, your life, and you can’t imagine a world without him.

When he finally zips up his suitcase, he turns to you, hesitating. 

“I’ll always care about you,” he says softly.

You force a smile. 

“And I’ll always love you.”

With a final, lingering look, Logan leaves. The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds like the end of everything you’ve known. You sit there, staring at the closed door, feeling a hollowness you’ve never felt before. It’s as if a part of you walked out with him, leaving you incomplete.

Days turn into weeks, and you find yourself going through the motions, existing but not truly living. You see Logan’s ghost in everything—his favorite coffee mug, the sweater he left behind, the photos of the two of you still on the walls. Each reminder is a knife twist in the wound, a painful echo of what you had.

There are moments when you almost call him, moments when you’re convinced that hearing his voice will make everything better. But you stop yourself, knowing that he needs this time apart, needs to find himself without you. Loving someone sometimes means letting them go, even if it breaks your heart in the process.

You throw yourself into work, into hobbies, into anything that can distract you from the ache inside. Slowly, you begin to rebuild your life, piece by piece. The pain never fully goes away, but it becomes a part of you, a scar that reminds you of what once was.

You see Logan sometimes, in the places you used to go together. There’s always a moment of recognition, a shared smile that says, “I remember.” But you never approach him, never try to rekindle what you had. You respect his journey, just as he respected yours.

In time, you find a sense of peace. You realize that love doesn’t always mean holding on. Sometimes, it means letting go, allowing the person you love to become who they need to be. Logan was your love, your life, and though he’s no longer by your side, he’s still a part of you, a chapter in your story that will always be cherished.

[eodred]

Boromir Week | Day 7: Freeform

Prompt filled for: @boromir-week

Title: Boromir’s NSFW Alphabet

Word count: ~4.1k

Summary:

This piece portrays Boromir as a passionate yet attentive lover: dominant and strong, but always deeply in tune with his partner’s pleasure and boundaries. It’s not just about sex — it’s about desire, care, intimacy, and the quiet vulnerability that lies beneath all the steel and honor.

Note:

I came across a similar NSFW Alphabet for Boromir on AO3, and noticed that under Dirty Secret it mentioned multiple encounters with Aragorn. While I respect different interpretations, I personally don’t ship Aragorn/Boromir — and in my version, this pairing is not part of Boromir’s story. I follow a different take on his character, one that aligns with a different kind of intimacy, background, and emotional truth.

AO3

A = Aftercare (what he likes to do after sex) Boromir is a mix of rugged strength and quiet tenderness. He doesn’t let go right away — he likes to hold his partner close, stroke her hair or back, often keeping one hand resting on her chest, as if to silently say, “Mine.”

He rarely talks in these moments, preferring the language of touch. But inside, his mind is a storm of questions: “Did she enjoy it?” “Was it too much?” “Should I keep going?”

He loves the feeling of closeness — slow kisses that stretch on and on. At first deep and heated, then softer, gentler, until the final ones are barely brushes of lips, as if he can’t bear to break the connection. If the world allowed it, he could lie like that forever, holding her in silence.

He makes sure she’s comfortable: gets her something to drink, pulls the blanket over her if it’s cold. But he doesn’t fall asleep easily — the habit of staying alert never quite leaves him, even in moments like this.

B = Body Part (favorite body part) On himself: His chest and shoulders. He knows they’re broad and powerful — and he takes pride in that. He feels his strength most vividly when he’s holding his partner close, carrying them, or pinning them beneath him.

On his partner: Hands. He loves being touched, gripped, clawed at in the heat of passion. When his partner digs their nails into his skin or clutches him tightly, it drives him wild.

C = Cum Boromir is a man who likes control. He’s not the type to finish quickly — he knows how to hold back, how to bring both himself and his partner to the edge and keep them there until the tension crests and crashes in perfect unison.

He prefers to finish inside. For him, it’s not just physical — it’s intimate, instinctual, almost sacred. The act speaks to legacy, to connection, to the raw closeness of shared breath and heat. He wants to feel her body taking him in fully, to be surrounded by that warmth even in the final moments.

If the moment calls for something else — if she asks, if they’re experimenting — he’ll finish on her belly or mound, but it’s never his first choice. Firstly, he doesn’t like the mess. Seed on the skin feels misplaced to him, almost wrong. It belongs either within himself or within her — anything else feels like a disruption of the natural order. Secondly, it distances him from the moment. Without that final deep joining, without her muscles clenching around him, it feels incomplete.

But what turns him on most isn’t the release itself — it’s her reaction. The way her body trembles, the sharp catch in her breath, the small involuntary sounds she makes when she feels him inside — that’s when he knows he has her fully, utterly, and completely.

D = Dirty Secret He sometimes fantasizes about sex in partial armor — leaving on a few leather straps or a piece of his gear. The clash of steel and flesh, the primitive edge it adds, the way it highlights his strength — it all feeds something dark and primal inside him.

But he would never bring it up first. If his partner makes the move, hints at it, he’s more than willing — but he’ll never be the one to initiate.

E = Experience He’s experienced, but not promiscuous. In Gondor, pre-marital relations — even for men — are frowned upon, and he’s not one for flings.

Still, he knows what he’s doing. He listens to his partner’s body, pays attention, and takes his time. He’s not spoiled, not jaded, but he’s attentive and intuitive.

And if his partner wants to explore something new — he’s open to learning, as long as it feels natural and doesn’t go against his instincts. His pleasure is rooted in giving, in closeness, and in mutual desire — not performance for the sake of novelty.

F = Favourite Position Boromir loves positions that give him full control without sacrificing closeness. His favorites are the ones where he can see his partner’s face, read every reaction, and hold them close. The classic missionary — her body beneath his — or lying on their sides, where he can easily caress her and keep her pressed to him, are what he truly enjoys.

But it’s not just about eye contact. For him, being able to kiss is essential. Kissing is the thread that ties the whole act together — deep, slow, lingering kisses that pull him into the moment and keep him there. Without them, the intimacy feels broken.

That’s why he absolutely refuses any position that takes that closeness away — especially doggy style. Taking a woman from behind, like some brothel whore? Unthinkable to him. Even if she enjoys it, even if it’s brought up again and again — his answer will always be a quiet but firm “no.”

When she’s on top, it’s mostly for her. He likes watching her move, watching the pleasure take over her face — but it’s not ideal for him. He rarely reaches climax that way. It’s more about prolonging the moment, letting her lead, and giving her all the space she needs to enjoy herself. He loves seeing her unrestrained, feeling her take control — but deep down, he’ll always prefer to be the one setting the rhythm.

G = Goofy Boromir is generally serious in bed — just as he is in life. But with trust and comfort, he can loosen up. If they get tangled in clothing, someone stumbles, or a dramatic strip turns awkward — he doesn’t freeze or get flustered. Instead, he might huff a short laugh under his breath and press on with even more enthusiasm, like the messiness excites him.

But there’s one thing he can’t joke about — losing his erection. Even if it’s brief and he recovers quickly, the simple fact that his body betrayed him gnaws at him. He may continue, but he won’t be relaxed. His expression tightens, his movements sharpen — like he’s trying to wrest control of the moment back from himself.

If the problem lingers but the desire remains, his hands turn desperate — gripping her thighs, her waist, her back with almost obsessive heat, like he’s pleading with his body to respond. He’ll run his palms over her skin, breathe her in like she’s the answer — and try again. But even if he succeeds, there will be a flicker of self-directed frustration in his eyes.

If she’s able to gently reassure him, he might calm down. If not — he’ll carry that moment with him through the rest of the night.

H = Hair (Hi @emmathefanficgal , we talked about this letter earlier, and I promised to share my take on it — so here it is! 😅) Thanks to his Númenórean blood, Boromir’s facial hair grows a little differently — barely anything on his cheeks, but his beard is thick, dark, and well-kept. He takes pride in it, believes a man should look groomed. After all, who wants the sting of post-shave stubble? A neat beard is far better than irritating scratch.

His arms and legs are naturally hairy — as expected from a man of his world. His pubic hair is also untouched. Grooming down there isn’t something he even considers — in his culture, and in his sense of masculinity, that would be unnecessary at best.

As for his chest? Barely any hair at all. A few light strands, maybe, but that’s it. He doesn’t think much of it — his body is what it is, and he sees no reason to change it.

He’s a man of a harsh world, where function comes before vanity — and his attitude toward body hair reflects that.

I = Intimacy Boromir is a sensual lover, but he expresses emotion through action, not words. His affection is felt in the way he holds his partner — how long he keeps her close after, how deeply he kisses her, as if trying to steal a piece of her breath and keep it for himself.

He rarely speaks sweet nothings, but his gestures say everything. A slow trace of his fingers along her skin. The way he goes still just to listen to her heartbeat. How he buries his nose in her hair and breathes in like he’s trying to memorize her with every sense.

He’s especially tender when it comes to her comfort. If he senses tension, he’ll pause to slide a pillow under her head or support her gently. He treats her like something delicate, almost sacred — with a carefulness you wouldn’t expect from a warrior his size. Don’t let such beauty break, the thought flickers through his mind more often than he’d admit.

J = Jack Off Boromir is a man of action, not fantasy. Masturbation isn’t a ritual or habit for him — it’s a release, something natural. If he has a partner, he’ll always choose her over his own hand. But if the desire builds and there’s no one to share it with, he won’t deny himself.

Most often, it happens in moments of extreme tension — after battle, on the road, when exhaustion and adrenaline blur into hunger. It’s physical, instinctual — his body’s way of shedding the weight of stress.

Sometimes it helps him reset. When something frustrates him, when his temper flares — this simple act brings him back to himself. But it’s never about fantasy or indulgence. Just need, met quietly.

K = Kink

Power & Control Boromir needs to lead — to feel that he’s guiding the rhythm. But it’s not about dominance through force. What excites him is knowing she gives in out of trust, not fear. He craves the way she clings to him, how her nails dig into his skin, how her body yields and responds to his. Her reaction fuels him like nothing else.

Scent Scent stirs something primal in him. Not perfumes — her. Her natural warmth, the faintest musk of her skin after a bath or sleep. That quiet, misty scent makes his blood rush. He buries his face in her neck, her hair, inhaling as if he could burn the memory into his lungs.

Boots & Riding Gear Her riding boots drive him mad. Soft, high leather hugging her calves — the way they shape her legs, hinting at strength and grace. And because he most often sees them when she’s in the saddle, that image becomes inescapably tied to his desire.

When she’s on horseback, in those boots, wearing her riding cloak with slits at the sides — he’s undone. He imagines her wearing only those boots and that cloak, no skirt beneath. If she came to him like that, he wouldn’t speak. He’d just look. Let the need consume him. Then take her — wordlessly, urgently.

Climax Touch At the height of release, his instinct is always the same — bury his face in her neck and breathe her in. It’s reflexive. He needs that closeness, her warmth, her scent in his lungs.

He also loves interlacing their fingers — feeling her squeeze his hand, sensing her pleasure through her grip. That single touch makes it all feel deeper, as if what they’re sharing goes beyond just flesh — into something sacred.

L = Location Boromir is a man used to the hardships of travel, but when it comes to intimacy, he values comfort. He prefers a bed: soft, warm, and reliable. There, nothing distracts him. He can fully focus on his partner, knowing they’re safe, undisturbed.

Yet there’s something primal in him, a wild call that sometimes makes him yearn for something different. He’s drawn to places where he can feel nature around them — by a fire on a chilly night, in a forest, a tent, or even a stable, where the smell of wood and warm hay mingles with their breath. The feeling of cool air, the scent of rain, the crackle of fire — it heightens everything.

Still, that’s more fantasy than habit. Finding a place that can accommodate his size and give them privacy isn’t easy. Sure, he’d try sex outdoors if the moment was right. But if he could choose, nothing beats her bed. Her bed isn’t just about comfort — it’s about trust, peace, belonging. There, he can let go of war, duty, and all thoughts of tomorrow. There, he feels at home.

M = Motivation His biggest trigger is the need to protect — and to possess. Seeing his partner reach for him, seeking his warmth, his strength, ignites a deep, primal desire.

But the real switch is the idea of claiming. If he so much as thinks about leaving a mark, about making her the mother of his children — he hardens instantly. That thought alone is enough to undo him, even if things were only meant to stay playful.

N = NO Doggy style. Not just a position to him, but a symbol — one he rejects. It turns the woman into something used, faceless. He needs to see her, touch her, feel the full intimacy of the moment.

Humiliation. He won’t tolerate it — not toward himself, and never toward his partner. He can dominate, yes, but only if it comes with trust, not degradation. And he would never allow himself to be treated with disrespect in turn.

Faking it. If he senses she’s pretending — fake moans, forced responses, doing things just to please him — the fire dies instantly. He picks up on dishonesty fast, and it ruins everything for him.

Public play. A hard no. Sex is too personal for him to turn it into performance. The thought of someone hearing or seeing them doesn’t excite him — it repels him. He wants total focus on his partner, without fear or shame.

Receiving oral. A blowjob, to him, feels degrading — for her. He won’t accept it, won’t ask for it. He sees it as dirty and undignified. And yet… kissing her between her thighs? That, to him, is sacred. Somehow, he doesn’t see it the same way. Perhaps it’s a contradiction, but it’s real — in his mind, those acts are worlds apart.

O = Oral Giving:

Here, Boromir has no doubts or restrictions. He loves to kiss, to feel skin under his lips, to trail his tongue along sensitive places while watching how his partner reacts. To him, it’s not just foreplay — it’s another way to fully connect, to give her pleasure, to witness her trust bloom under his hands.

The first time he kissed her lower lips, he hadn’t expected to enjoy it this much. He’s utterly captivated by her response — how she softens under his touch, lets him lift and part her thighs, accepting him fully. To him, it’s not just an act of desire, but of devotion.

He’s intuitive — he can sense what she wants, and often teases, slowing down intentionally until she’s writhing beneath him, begging for more. And in that moment, he locks eyes with her, as if reading every flicker of emotion, absorbing her pleasure until she unravels completely.

Receiving:

This one’s trickier. Boromir believes oral sex — on him — is degrading and dirty for her. But deep down, that belief is more inherited than self-formed. Something heard, seen, or impressed upon him earlier, not something he’s really thought through.

This block in his head may not be permanent. With enough trust, affection, and clear desire from his partner — if she wants it, not out of duty but out of joy — it could shake his foundations. He doesn’t get turned on by the act itself so much as by her eagerness to be close to him in that way. If he sees her enjoying it? That could undo him entirely.

However, even in such a case, there’s one unbreakable rule: only after bathing. Boromir is pragmatic. No matter how passionate he may be, he won’t consider oral without absolute cleanliness. If the moment isn’t right, the thought makes him more awkward than aroused.

P = Pace

He’s not the type to rush headlong into passion. Boromir always starts slow — almost lazily — as if waiting, letting her adjust, feel him fully. His initial thrusts are gentle, exploratory, letting her set the rhythm. If she moves faster, he follows. But he never hurries.

As arousal builds, so does his intensity. His movements grow stronger, more deliberate — but still controlled. He tunes into every reaction, every shift in her breath or muscles. Sometimes he’ll slow down again on purpose, drawing out the moment, edging her until she’s nearly begging for release.

But when his own climax nears, his control starts to fray. His thrusts become quick, shallow, body taut with tension. His rhythm falls apart — no longer smooth or measured, but raw and driven by pure need.

When he comes, he continues to move — slow, deep thrusts — drawing out the feeling. Then he stills, staying inside her for several long seconds. He wants to feel her around him, clenching, pulsing, warm. It’s in that stillness he finally lets go — no battles, no duty, no fear. Just her. Her breath, her warmth. And the sense that, for a moment, he belongs wholly to something beyond himself.

Q = Quickie

If there are no other options and it’s the only release available, Boromir won’t refuse. But in his ideal world, intimacy should be done “with care, purpose, and depth” — not rushed, but slowly, so he can truly savor his partner.

Ideally, he prefers to be fed, rested, and unhurried. Rushing kills the beauty of the act for him, so he always favors long, deliberate moments of connection over quick flings.

R = Risk

He’s used to taking risks on the battlefield, but in bed, he’s rather conservative. Stepping outside the familiar isn’t something he actively seeks — he finds deep satisfaction in intimacy itself and the trust that comes with it.

He rarely initiates experiments himself, simply because he doesn’t feel the need. However, if his partner brings it up, he won’t dismiss it. He’ll listen carefully, think it through, and if it feels right, he’ll try — but only with full seriousness and intention.

S = Stamina

Boromir has impressive stamina — he can hold back for a long time, carefully controlling the pace, taking his partner right to the edge before letting himself go.

If he feels he’s close to climax while his partner isn’t there yet, he’ll stop rather than finish too early. In such moments, they might lie together while he shakes, gripping at random parts of her body, trying to steady himself and not fall into the abyss of release too soon.

These touches aren’t soft, like afterglow caresses — they’re frantic, needy, as if he’s trying to anchor himself. He especially tends to grope her breasts or stroke her mound, as if trying to resist, even though each touch makes it harder to hold on.

T = Toy

He’s not particularly interested in toys — he prefers using his hands, his body, and raw passion. Of course, in Middle-earth, the concept of toys is practically nonexistent, but he’s discovered he really enjoys sex with a blindfold — it heightens sensation, turning the moment into something more intense and immersive.

Immobilization also excites him, but never with force — more like pinning her wrists or gently restricting movement, just enough for her to surrender to the moment.

He absolutely refuses anything that causes pain. Spanking, hitting, harsh punishments — these are hard nos. The idea of violence, even in play, repels him. If his partner asked for such things, he’d decline firmly but kindly.

U = Unfair (Teasing)

He can tease intentionally, especially if he’s in a playful or dominant mood — slowing down just to hear her beg, drawing out the tension until she’s trembling. He enjoys the buildup, not to be cruel, but to make the eventual release that much more powerful.

At the same time, he loves when she turns the tables — when she teases him until he loses all control. After such nights, his partner might find bruises from his grip or dark marks from his mouth — and he never quite knows how to feel about them. Part of him feels guilty, but another part is secretly thrilled. They’re proof of just how deeply the moment took him — and that thought excites him all over again.

V = Volume (Sounds)

Boromir doesn’t stay silent, but he’s not loud either. His sounds are deep, restrained rumbles — heavy breathing, low, almost vibrating groans that only escape him at the height of tension. Sometimes, he’ll hold his breath for a few seconds before letting out a harsh, controlled exhale, as if trying to keep himself in check.

He’s not fond of loud moaning from his partner — it feels theatrical, artificial, too over-the-top. But soft, suppressed sounds — especially when she tries not to make a sound — drive him insane. If he feels her tense beneath him, biting her lip to stay quiet, he’ll slow down even more, going deeper, savoring every twitch and tremble until she simply can’t keep silent anymore.

When he nears climax, his breathing becomes ragged, his chest heaving — and sometimes, at the peak, a single, torn groan breaks free. Not a moan, not a cry, but a sharp, low exhale filled with the raw power of release.

W = Wild Card (Random headcanon)

After a battle, his adrenaline spikes so high he becomes ravenous and insatiable.

He might barge into his partner’s chambers without waiting for the right moment — unwashed, still slick with sweat, the scent of steel and blood clinging to his skin. Or he might grab her right there in the armory, driven by nothing but primal need.

Normally, he’s the master of control — taught from boyhood to restrain his voice, his strength, his emotions. Especially sound. Any creak of a bedframe, rustling curtain, or distant footstep puts him on edge. Even in perfect safety, his senses are tuned to listen — always translating noise into threat or no threat.

He doesn’t “lose himself” easily.

She comes first. He only takes when he’s sure he can give.

But… there are exceptions.

When she pushes him — slowly, deliberately, with that smile of hers. When she arches her back just so, pretending not to know what it does to him. When she moans — just once — in that particular way that breaks something inside him.

Sometimes he’s held back too long.

And then — to hell with caution.

He grabs her tighter. His hands become possessive.

If she’s angled wrong — he’ll fix it. With his hands. With force. He’ll place her where she needs to be.

He might mutter an apology, half-laughing, half-pleading: “Just… I need this. Say I’ve earned it — please.”

And after?

Silence. Heat. He buries his face in her neck, breathing hard, holding her like she’s the only solid thing in a burning world.

She is his peace. And his madness. All at once.

X = X-Ray (Size)

Let’s just say… Boromir does not disappoint. Everything is proportional to his broad, powerful frame — not a giant, but that perfect balance between impressive and comfortable.

He’s not the kind to overwhelm with sheer size, but far from average. At rest, there’s not much difference — but once things get going, his presence and strength become impossible to ignore.

Y = Yearning (Libido)

Boromir’s libido is moderate — but when he desires someone, it becomes an obsession. He knows how to keep control, but the desire doesn’t fade; it simmers, building slowly until it consumes him from the inside out.

Sometimes, it strikes at the worst possible times. He might be sitting in a council, listening to talks of war strategy, but his thoughts are nowhere near Gondor’s politics. Frustration brews — because right now, his priorities lie elsewhere.

When is he most in the mood?

🔹 Midday — this is his peak energy. If he could choose the perfect time, it would be during the day. Responsibilities often get in the way, but if there’s a rare break? A quickie becomes a very appealing option.

🔹 Evening — when there’s no rush, when the world is quiet. If neither of them is too tired, it’s the perfect way to end the day — slow, unhurried, deeply present.

🔹 Morning — he’s not opposed, especially if she initiates. But he hates getting up early. If there are duties ahead, it’s hard to balance sex and proper rest. So he’s on board… as long as morning starts late and there’s no need to hurry.

Z = ZZZ (Sleep)

Boromir never falls asleep right away — not even after the most intense night. He stays close, running his fingers along her skin, savoring every moment. He kisses her for a long time, touches her gently, soaking in the closeness until he’s finally at peace.

But before he allows himself to drift off, his sense of order kicks in. First, the mess — clothes that were tossed aside get folded, any obvious signs of their night are quietly cleaned up. Not immediately, of course — only after he’s had his fill of cuddles and kisses. Then comes water — a quick wash, a freshened face, the need to feel clean before rest. And finally, a mental checklist: is everything ready for tomorrow?

By the time he’s done with his routine, she’s usually fast asleep. He’ll gently tuck her in, slide into bed beside her, and wrap himself around her.

And may the Valar help him if he wakes her.

Because if she opens her eyes, she’ll start biting, licking, demanding attention — and he’ll be too far gone to stop her.

[minoulapin]

Chapter Four: A Game of Teeth - Between Giving & Taking - Y. JW

Pairing: Demon!Jungwon x Angel!FReader

Genre: Forbidden Love, Fantasy, Romance, Mystery

Wc: 6.7k

Tw: This chapter contains subjective content, implied jealousy, and mild violence with brief mentions of blood. The characters and their actions are purely fictional and do not reflect the real-life personalities of the individuals they are inspired by.

Synopsis: A love unspoken, a fate unwritten, An angel and demon, forever forbidden. Bound by the laws of heaven and hell, A story of longing they dare not tell. At the Academy of the Occult, angels and demons coexist under a fragile truce. But when a celestial heir is assassinated, war looms, secrets unravel, and forbidden desires ignite. In a world where their love is a crime, will they defy fate or be consumed by it?

A/N: Coucou… okay, I’m sorry I lied. It did take me longer than expected to post this chapter. The truth is, I was literally just brought back from the dead to celebrate Beomgyu’s birthday… I actually died because of Buff Beomgyu last week (not fiction, it actually happened), but now I’m back. Okay, I think this chapter is kinda fun!! I did use my favorite plot development device… Heeseung, my love! Hee main character era? But guys, don’t misinterpret Hee☹️ Heeseung is not the villain. He’s just a little shit😌 As always, if you have any questions or want to just scream at me or discuss anything, feel free to send me an ask!! So, on that note, enjoy this long-awaited chapter. -Joe

Tag list: open!! @stormy1408 @miraeluv @indigoez @riribelle @iifrui @m3l4nchol @bamguetismee @w1dyvnn (Comment to be added)

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The Celestial Heir was more than a ruler.

He was a beacon. A legend passed down through generations, his name woven into the fabric of history like divine scripture. His deeds were not merely recorded, they were carved into the foundation of their world, upheld as absolute truth.

The savior of the First War.

The leader who drove the demons back into the depths of their domain.

The strategist who sealed the Rift, ensuring peace for centuries to come.

Without him, the celestial world would have fallen. That was the belief. That was the story.

His existence was proof of the Dominion’s divine power. His leadership had delivered them from ruin. His death, the single greatest tragedy of their time. But history was a fragile thing. A story told by those who had the power to shape it.

And the more Y/n searched, the more the cracks began to show. The heir had disappeared for years before returning as a hero. No one questioned it. No one wondered why. His name was revered, yet few could recall the specifics of his rule. His victories were celebrated, yet the records of how he had achieved them were incomplete. Vague.

Carefully constructed. And now, with his murder unraveling the foundation of their world, one question lingered like an unspoken curse.

What was the Heir’s true role in the First War?

The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew-damp stone and freshly brewed tea from the Academy kitchens. The early sunlight cast long shadows across the marble pathways, its golden hues giving the illusion of warmth even as the air remained sharp from the lingering chill of the night.

Students filtered through the courtyard in slow-moving clusters, chatting lazily, finishing the remnants of their breakfast, or hurrying to their first lessons. It was an ordinary morning. But Y/n felt anything but ordinary.

“I swear it was there, Jake,” she said, voice tight with frustration. “The door was real. I saw it. I was standing right in front of it.”

Jake gave her a long, level look, the kind that said he was listening but also deeply debating whether or not to believe her.

“And yet…” He gestured to the empty space in front of them, voice unimpressed. “It’s not here now.”

She gritted her teeth. “That’s exactly the problem.” They were walking toward the eastern wing of the Academy, past arched windows that overlooked the training grounds below. The same dimly lit corridor where she had seen it, the heavy, ancient-looking door at the end of the hallway, its presence almost wrong in how it had drawn her forward.

And yet, now that she was back—

It was gone.

Y/n came to an abrupt stop, staring at the empty space where it should have been. The corridor stretched before them, plain, normal. Nothing out of place.

Jake raised an eyebrow. “So where’s your magic door?”

She ran a hand through her hair, scowling at the perfectly ordinary wall. “I don’t know. But I’m not crazy.”

Jake sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “I never said you were crazy.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was considering it.”

She shot him a glare, arms crossing tightly over her chest. “It was here, Jake. I know it was.”

Jake studied her for a long moment, then turned back toward the wall, squinting like maybe, just maybe, he’d see something she didn’t. He wouldn’t. She had already checked. Already searched for anything that would prove she hadn’t just imagined it. A hidden mechanism, a leftover trace of magic, anything. But there was nothing. No markings, no symbols, no hint of what had once been there.

Jake clicked his tongue. “If the door was there…” He trailed off, rubbing his jaw. “Then what the hell was it doing there in the first place?”

She exhaled sharply, her fingers twitching. That was the real question. Why was it here at all? And why was it gone now? Doors didn’t just disappear. And it wasn’t just that it had vanished, it was that it had felt important. Like something was waiting on the other side. Like something had called her there. And yet, Someone, or something, had erased it.

Y/n clenched her jaw, frustration simmering beneath her skin. “It has to mean something. If that door wasn’t supposed to be there, then why did I see it?”

Jake exhaled, hands finding his hips. “I don’t know, Y/n.” He gave her a careful look. “But I do know you’re spiraling.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but Jake held up a hand.

“You barely slept,” he pointed out. “You spent half the night chasing something that apparently doesn’t exist. And now you’re dragging me across campus to stare at a wall?” He gestured toward the empty space. “It’s not here. What do you want me to do?”

She clenched her jaw.

“I want to know why.”

Jake gave her a tired look. “Of course you do.”

She gritted her teeth, willing herself not to snap at him. She knew how it sounded. But that didn’t make it any less real. Because something had happened last night. And Professor Aldric knew it.

Y/n’s fingers twitched, pulling at the hem of her sleeve. “Aldric was there.”

Jake blinked. “What?”

“Professor Aldric.” She turned to him, voice dropping slightly. “He found me right as I was about to open it.”

Jake frowned, his interest piqued.

Y/n’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He wasn’t surprised to see the door.”

Jake’s brows pulled together. “What did he say?”

She hesitated, remembering the professor’s words. The way his voice had been measured, almost cautious.

“He told me I shouldn’t be there.” She met Jake’s gaze, jaw tight. “And then he said something else. ‘The Academy isn’t as safe as it used to be.’”

Jake’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know,” Y/n admitted. “But it sure as hell wasn’t just some warning about wandering the halls at night.”

She let out a slow breath, rolling her shoulders like she could physically shake off the unease curling in her chest.

Aldric knew something. Something about the door. Something about the Academy. And he hadn’t wanted her to find out.

Jake exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his head. “Well. That’s suspicious as hell.”

She nodded. “Exactly.”

Jake studied her for another long moment, then exhaled sharply. “Alright. So let’s assume the door was there and Aldric knew about it. Why show up right as you were about to open it?”

She swallowed, suddenly feeling the weight of that thought. Maybe it wasn’t about her. Maybe it was about what was on the other side. Jake must have caught onto her silence because he nudged her with his elbow.

“Think, Y/n.” His voice was lower now. “Have you found anything in your research that could explain the meaning behind it?”

She exhaled sharply. “No.”

And that was the problem. She had found nothing. Everything she had read so far, the records, the archives, the official documents, was too neat. Too perfect. Everything was either too normal or incomplete. Nothing new. Nothing interesting. It was like she was going in circles. And she hated going in circles.

She clenched her fists. “I need to get inside the restricted archives.”

Jake’s brows shot up. “Y/n.”

She ignored his tone. “If the books we have access to are just carefully selected versions of history, then I need the ones we’re not supposed to see.”

Jake exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. “This is a terrible idea.”

She smirked. “Wouldn’t be the first one.”

Jake gave her a flat look. “I mean it, Y/n. If you get caught—”

“I won’t.”

Jake narrowed his eyes. “That’s what you said the last time you—”

She waved him off, already turning toward the main building. “I’ll figure it out.”

Jake groaned. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

But Y/n wasn’t listening anymore. Because for the first time since she had started this investigation. She finally had a real plan.

They started walking again, cutting through the main courtyard where students milled about, finishing their breakfast or preparing for morning lessons. The soft hum of conversation filled the space, ordinary, predictable.

But Y/n barely noticed. Because she could feel it again.

That weight on the back of her neck. The sharp, unshakable awareness of being watched.

It wasn’t the first time. And somehow, she had grown familiar with the feeling. She didn’t know why. Didn’t know how she could recognize his gaze so easily. But she did.

She didn’t need Jake to tell her. She already knew who it was.

Jungwon, stood across the courtyard, under the shadow of the archway, arms crossed, his gaze locked onto her. Not subtly. Not casually. With an intensity that made something in her chest pull tight.

Jake noticed too. “Did you do something new to piss off the demons?”

She frowned. “What?”

Jake nodded toward Jungwon, lowering his voice. “Because he’s been staring at you like you cursed his entire bloodline.”

She scowled, shifting her weight. “Maybe I did.”

But she was already thinking about it. Because Jungwon had been everywhere lately. Always watching. Always present. Like he knew something. Like he was waiting for something.

And the more she thought about it, the more she realized it had started long before today.

Their first encounter had been nothing but a battle of sharp words and pointed remarks. She had expected him to ignore her after that. Expected him to forget her, the same way she had tried to forget him.

But he hadn’t.

Instead, he had been there.

Watching her during class, lingering a second too long when their paths crossed in the halls. There was something about the way he looked at her, like he was waiting for her to slip up.

Like he was trying to figure her out.

And Y/n?

She hated to admit it, but she had started noticing him too. Because Jungwon was strange. Unpredictable. When he spoke, his words were sharp, calculated. But there were moments, small, fleeting moments, where something flickered behind his eyes. Something unsaid. Something she couldn’t place.

And Y/n hated not knowing. She had tried not to care. Tried to convince herself that Jungwon was just another demon. Just another obstacle standing in her way. But every time she looked at him, every time his gaze held hers for a moment too long, it felt like his presence lingered even after he was gone. Like she could still feel his eyes on her. And she wasn’t sure if she was imagining it. Or if he was doing it on purpose.

She exhaled sharply, tearing her gaze away.

Did he want to know the truth, too? Or was he just trying to stop her?

Because if Jungwon had been keeping tabs on her, if he had been watching her this whole time, then he already knew she was looking for answers.

And that meant he was either curious. Or he was waiting for her to make a mistake.

The thought frustrated her more than it should have. She hated things that didn’t make sense. She hated questions without answers.

And Jungwon?

He was all of those things at once.

Unreadable. A walking mystery. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to figure him out Or tear him apart just to see what was inside.

Jungwon wasn’t watching her. At least, that’s what he told himself.

His gaze was on the courtyard, drifting past groups of students, past the idle chatter, past the ordinary rhythm of the Academy. But even as he tried to focus elsewhere, his eyes kept finding her, kept catching flashes of her, the curve of her posture, the subtle furrow in her brow as she spoke to Jake.

She was a problem. A problem that had nothing to do with him. And yet, He was aware of her in a way he had never been aware of anyone.

It was more than just noticing her. More than just keeping track of where she was, what she was doing, who she was talking to.

It was deeper. More instinctive. And he hated it.

Jungwon had spent years learning control. It was what made him different. It was what made him better. While others acted on impulse, he measured his steps. While others let emotions cloud their judgment, he remained detached. That was why he had survived this long. That was why he had risen above the rest.

So why—

Why the fuck did she make him feel like this?

“You might as well admit it at this point.”

Jungwon didn’t react, but his jaw clenched.

Heeseung slid up beside him, moving with that insufferable ease, hands tucked into his pockets, his ever-present smirk already in place.

“You’re watching her again,” Heeseung drawled. “Honestly, it’s getting embarrassing.”

Jungwon exhaled slowly, refusing to take the bait.

“What did you tell her yesterday?”

Heeseung arched a brow.

“Oh? You mean last night?” He tilted his head slightly, smirk deepening. “You should’ve seen her, Jungwon. Out past curfew, wandering straight toward something she shouldn’t have seen. It was almost cute.”

Jungwon’s fingers twitched.

Heeseung let the words settle, then leaned in slightly, voice dipping lower.

“You don’t even have the excuse of following orders this time,” he mused. “No one told you to keep an eye on her. And yet…”

Jungwon finally turned his head, gaze sharp, cutting. “What did you tell her?”

Heeseung sighed, long and theatrical.

“You’re asking the wrong question.”

Jungwon’s patience was hanging by a thread.

“Enlighten me.”

Heeseung hummed, as if savoring the moment.

“The question isn’t what I told her,” he said slowly. “It’s why you care.”

Jungwon’s breath stilled for half a second, just enough for Heeseung to notice.

Heeseung grinned.

“Oh, that hit a nerve.”

Jungwon’s fists curled at his sides. “You’re full of shit.”

Heeseung simply laughed, unbothered.

“Relax,” he said lazily. “All I did was offer my help.”

Jungwon’s stomach twisted.

Heeseung smirked. “Didn’t you know, Jungwon? Your little angel’s been digging. Searching for answers she has no business looking for.”

Jungwon went still.

Heeseung chuckled. “Come on, she’s not exactly subtle about it. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

Jungwon gritted his teeth.

This was bad. Heeseung knowing was bad. Y/n was reckless, but Heeseung? He was opportunistic. He could be the reason for her downfall if he wanted to be. If he got bored. If he needed some entertainment. And worst of all, he wouldn’t hesitate.

Jungwon exhaled, steady. Controlled. “Stay out of it.”

Heeseung tilted his head.

“Now why would I do that?”

He sighed dramatically. “Such a shame she turned me down. I could’ve been a wonderful… stress reliever.”

Jungwon stiffened.

Heeseung grinned, sensing an opening.

“You know, I don’t usually go for angels,” he mused. “But Y/n…? I’d make an exception.”

Jungwon’s nails bit into his palm.

Heeseung continued, deliberate. Cruel.

“I wonder what she tastes like,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Sweet, probably. That holier-than-thou attitude can’t be real. Bet she’d fall apart just the same—”

Something inside Jungwon snapped.

The image flashed unbidden in his mind, Y/n, tangled in Heeseung’s sheets, flushed and breathless under his touch, her mouth forming curses or maybe his name, Heeseung’s hands where they had no business being.

Jungwon moved before he could stop himself.

His hand fisted into Heeseung’s collar, yanking him forward. Cold steel met Heeseung’s jaw. A blade, sharp and gleaming, pressed just below his skin.

Jungwon’s voice was quiet. Dangerous.

“Say another word.”

Heeseung went completely still.

For the first time, his smirk wavered.

“Oh, there it is,” Heeseung murmured, a slow grin stretching across his lips. “There’s the demon.”

The shift.

The change.

Jungwon was always so controlled. So composed.

But this, This was something else.

Heeseung had found his breaking point.

And he loved it.

“You know,” Heeseung said, voice smooth as silk, “for someone who insists he doesn’t care, you sure do have a lot of feelings about who she spends her time with.”

Jungwon’s breath was slow, measured, steady. But his fingers twitched against Heeseung’s collar. Heeseung watched him carefully. Then, voice dropping lower, mocking.

“You should watch her sleep too, since you’re already watching her every move.”

Jungwon yanked his hand away like he’d been burned. The moment stretched between them, thick with something unspoken. Heeseung smirked, straightening his clothes like nothing had happened.

“Careful, Jungwon,” he mused. “You’re starting to act like she actually matters to you.”

Jungwon didn’t dignify him with a response. Didn’t look back. He just turned, exhaling slowly, forcing his body to relax as he walked away.

Because Heeseung was wrong.

Y/n didn’t matter.

She couldn’t matter.

Jungwon clenched his fists.

But Heeseung couldn’t have her.

The classroom was warm, the flickering lanterns casting long, slow-moving shadows over the stone walls. The faint scratch of quills on parchment filled the air, a steady rhythm that should have kept Y/n grounded in the present.

It didn’t.

She sat stiffly at her desk, elbow braced against the wooden surface, her chin resting in her hand. Her notes lay open in front of her, ink drying on a half-finished sentence, but she wasn’t reading them. She wasn’t even really in the classroom anymore.

Her mind was elsewhere. Because she was getting nowhere. She had combed through the records. Searched archives until her eyes blurred with fatigue. And yet, nothing. No inconsistencies, no conflicting accounts, no whispers of doubt in the official retellings.

Everything about the Heir’s past was pristine. Too pristine. The Heir was a hero. The greatest warrior in celestial history. The savior of the First War. His victories were endless. His strategies unparalleled. His fate, tragic yet honorable.

And yet, someone had killed him.

Someone had taken down the most revered figure in their history. And no one seemed to be asking how. She hated that.

Her fingers tapped absently against the desk, frustration simmering beneath her skin. She wasn’t just hitting dead ends, she was hitting walls. Walls that had been deliberately built. Every record she found was meticulously written, carefully preserved, as if history itself had been scrubbed clean.

She needed another way forward.

“History,” the professor’s voice cut through her thoughts, sharp and deliberate, “is only as permanent as those who write it.”

She blinked.

The words felt too precise.

Her back straightened slightly as she turned her attention to the front of the room. Professor Aldric stood before the class, his gaze sweeping methodically over the students.

“Records are kept,” he continued. “Some are lost. And some…” He paused. “Are erased entirely.”

The words struck something in Y/n’s chest, cold and certain. This wasn’t just a statement. It was a warning. A challenge.

“Knowledge is power,” Aldric went on, voice even, unreadable. “But power attracts danger. Be careful what truths you chase.”

Y/n’s breath stilled. He knew. Maybe not about her search, not exactly. But he knew that someone was looking. That someone, somewhere, was asking the wrong questions. Her fingers curled against the desk. This meant something. The only problem? She didn’t know what. But the thought lodged itself in her mind like a hook, sinking deep. What if the answers I’m looking for aren’t in books? If the Academy had only preserved the history it wanted remembered, then whatever had been erased wouldn’t be found in libraries. It wouldn’t be in the records. It would be buried. Hidden. Or worse, kept by the people who were never meant to have it.

She exhaled slowly.

A door that had vanished overnight.

A professor who spoke in half-truths.

A past that had been rewritten.

There was only one person she knew who operated outside the Academy’s carefully laid rules.

Only one person who had already made it clear that he knew something. Only one person who had been waiting for her to come to him. She clenched her jaw.

Heeseung.

She hated the idea. But she hated getting nowhere even more.

She finds him exactly where she expected, leaning lazily against one of the Academy’s stone pillars, the flickering lantern light sharpening the amused glint in his dark eyes.

He was waiting for her.

The realization only pisses her off further. Heeseung’s smirk deepens the moment she stops in front of him, arms crossed, gaze sharp.

“Took you long enough,” he muses, like this is all one big joke.

she exhales sharply. “I’m reconsidering.”

Heeseung doesn’t even blink. His smirk widens, slow and knowing, like he’s already won.

“Knew you would.”

Y/n clenches her jaw. She hates that he’s right. Hates it more that he knew she’d be back before she even did.

Heeseung pushes off the pillar, stepping closer, unhurried, deliberate.

“So,” he drawls, voice dipping lower, “what changed?”

“Nothing.” She lifts her chin. “I just realized I don’t have time to waste.”

Heeseung hums, dragging his gaze over her. Not just looking, assessing. Like he’s peeling back layers just to see what’s underneath.

“Impatient,” he muses. “I like it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Are you actually going to help me, or are you just going to be insufferable?”

Heeseung smirks. “Why can’t it be both?”

She exhales sharply. “Forget it.” She turns to leave.

But Heeseung is quicker.

He catches her wrist, not rough, not forceful, just there. Just enough to make her pause, to remind her that this is his game, that she walked into it the second she sought him out.

“Relax, angel,” he murmurs, his tone a little too smooth, a little too amused. “I’ll help you.”

She eyes him warily. “On what terms?”

Heeseung tuts, shaking his head like she just doesn’t get it. “Terms? Now, that’s a dangerous word.”

She doesn’t budge. “I don’t trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.” His smirk sharpens. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have what you need.”

She hates this. Hates standing here, entertaining this game. Hates that despite everything, he’s her best shot at finding something real.

Finally, she mutters, “Fine.”

Heeseung grins, slow and satisfied. “Smart girl.”

Before she can react, he steps in.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t react, but Heeseung notices the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her breath hitches for half a second.

Of course, he does.

She’s about to snap at him when he reaches into his coat and slips a folded piece of parchment into her hand. His fingers brush against hers, deliberate, lingering, his touch warm and slow.

Y/n yanks the paper away, glaring. “What’s this?”

Heeseung leans in slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “An invitation.”

She narrows her eyes. “For what?”

“Answers,” Heeseung says simply. Then, after a pause, he smirks. “Or fun. Depending on how much you’re willing to give me.”

Y/n’s grip on the parchment tightens.

She unfolds it.

It’s a room number.

She looks up sharply. “This is your dorm.”

Heeseung grins, tilting his head like he’s enjoying her realization.

“That a problem?”

She scowls. “Yes.”

“Shame.” Heeseung exhales, feigning disappointment. “Because if you want what I know, angel, you’re gonna have to come get it.”

She doesn’t trust him.

But she needs something. Anything.

She shoves the paper into her pocket, shaking her head. “This better not be a waste of my time.”

Heeseung chuckles, stepping back just enough to let her breathe. “Wear something nice.”

Y/n scoffs, tilting her head. “Choke.”

Heeseung’s smirk deepens. “That an invitation?”

She rolls her eyes.

She flips him off, middle finger high, sharp as a blade. “Fuck off.”

Heeseung just grins. Like he loves it. Like he loves pissing her off.

She doesn’t react. Doesn’t look back.

She tells herself she isn’t actually affected by him.

But in the back of her mind

She knew she had made a mistake the moment she walked away from Heeseung.

She had barely made it a few steps before the weight of it settled in her chest, pressing down like a stone.

Because she didn’t trust him. She shouldn’t trust him. But she had no other options.

And now, here she was, slipping out of her dorm in the dead of night, moving like a shadow through the Academy’s empty halls, the silence pressing against her ears.

Y/n had snuck out a hundred times before. At this point, she knew the Academy halls better in the dark than she did in the daylight. She knew which steps creaked, which doors had loose handles, which corners the professors patrolled more frequently.

And yet, tonight felt different. Maybe it was because of where she was going. Or who she was going to see.

She kept her steps light, her breath measured, every sense on high alert. The faint crackling of lantern flames flickered in the distance, casting elongated shadows that stretched across the stone like reaching fingers. Somewhere deeper in the halls, the Academy bells chimed softly, marking another hour passing.

The cold bit through the fabric of her uniform, sharp and unforgiving.

She ignored it. Just like she ignored the voice in the back of her mind telling her to turn back. She had made a deal. And she was going to see it through. Even if every part of her was screaming that this was a mistake.

She hated this. Hated that she was doing this. Hated that, despite all her efforts, she was getting nowhere.

The Heir’s past was too polished. Too perfect. Every lead she followed turned into a dead end, every book she read repeated the same story, the same curated, carefully preserved history. No gaps, no contradictions. Too clean.

She clenched her fists. She needed something. A new angle, a new path, anything to push her forward. And Heeseung was the only one who had given her a way out of this maze. Even if she had to walk through fire to take it.

The deeper she moved into the Academy, the heavier the air became. The lower halls weren’t unfamiliar to her, but she rarely had reason to be here. The walls were darker, the architecture slightly different, less polished, more severe.

It suited them.

The demons.

It suited him.

Y/n barely caught herself before the thought fully settled in.

Jungwon.

Her pace faltered for half a second, irritation flaring hot in her chest.

Why the hell was she thinking about him?

She forced her steps to steady, clenching her jaw. Of all the things that could occupy her mind right now, of all the actual problems she had to deal with, why was it him?

Because you’ve noticed him more. Because he’s watching you, always watching, like he knows something you don’t. Like he’s waiting for something.

She scowled.

No.

She wasn’t going to entertain that thought. She wasn’t going to waste time trying to figure out Jungwon when she had much bigger things to deal with.

And yet, her mind wouldn’t let it go.

The way their eyes met across the room, the way she could feel his stare before she even saw him. The way their first conversation had ended in an argument that still lingered in her mind, like a puzzle left unfinished.

Like a challenge she hadn’t yet solved.

Every time their paths crossed, it was the same.

His gaze lingered too long.

And somehow, it still felt like it followed her even after he was gone.

She exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders like she could physically shake off the unwanted distraction.

Then, finally, she rounded the last corner, coming face to face with the heavy wooden door that led to Heeseung’s dorm.

Her pulse wasn’t uneven.

Her hands weren’t shaking.

She was fine.

This was just another step forward.

Just another bad decision waiting to be made.

She lifted her hand and knocked.

Y/n wasn’t expecting much when she stepped into Heeseung’s dorm.

But still, this wasn’t what she expected.

She had imagined something chaotic, messy, and unpredictable, something that mirrored the reckless way he carried himself. Instead, the space was disturbingly neat. Dimly lit, heavy with the faint scent of something sharp, smoke laced with something sweeter underneath.

His uniform jacket was lazily tossed over a chair, his tie undone, his blouse slightly open like he hadn’t fully bothered to dress after class.

And Heeseung was already waiting for her.

Leaning against his desk, hands braced on the surface, smirk perfectly in place, like he had been expecting this exact moment.

Like she had just walked into a game she didn’t even know had started.

She met his gaze, unimpressed. “If you’re about to say I knew you’d come, save it.”

Heeseung’s smirk widened.

“Good.” His head tilted slightly, sharp eyes scanning her from head to toe, slow, unhurried. “That means we can skip the denial and get right to the fun part.”

She clenched her jaw. “If your definition of fun doesn’t include actual information, I’ll leave.”

Heeseung let out a soft chuckle, like she had just told him a joke. “Come on, angel. Don’t act like you’re not enjoying this.”

Y/n exhaled sharply, stepping further inside. She wasn’t about to let him dictate the tone of this conversation.

She crossed her arms. “I want answers.”

Heeseung watched her, eyes gleaming with amusement. “That’s all you came for?”

Y/n clenched her jaw. “What else would I come for?”

He pushed off his desk, closing the distance between them with slow, measured steps.

“Power,” he mused, voice low, deliberate. “Danger. A little bit of both.”

Heeseung reached up, trailing a slow finger down the collar of her blouse before smoothing it out, like he was fixing it, like she was already his to adjust.

“Or maybe,” he added, a smirk tugging at his lips, “you just wanted to see what would happen if you let yourself have a little fun.”

Y/n scoffed, shoving his hand away. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” Heeseung’s gaze was locked onto hers, the sharp edge of something knowing lurking beneath his amusement. “Then why are you still here?”

She refused to react. Held his gaze. Waiting.

Heeseung sighed, dramatic. “You’re impatient. And a little predictable. I like it.”

Y/n’s patience was hanging by a thread.

“I don’t have time for your games, Heeseung.”

Heeseung smirked. “Then why are you playing?”

She had enough.

She turned sharply on her heel, heading for the door. But before she could take a single step, Heeseung moved.

Fast.

One second, her hand was reaching for the door handle, The next, she was caged against it.

His palms braced on either side of her head, his breath warm against her temple.

Not forceful. Not dangerous.

Just testing.

She stilled.

Not out of fear.

Out of sheer, burning irritation that she had let it get this far.

She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Move.”

Heeseung didn’t. Instead, he reached for her tie, undoing the knot with practiced ease.

“You need to loosen up a little,” he murmured, slipping the fabric from around her collar and tossing it onto his bed.

She clenched her jaw. “You really don’t know anything, do you?”

Heeseung hummed, stepping even closer. “That depends. Define ‘know.’”

She swore under her breath. I hate him.

Then, he reached for the buttons of her uniform jacket.

Slow. Deliberate. Taking his time.

One button. Then the next. Then the third.

By the time he was slipping the fabric off her shoulders, his gaze had darkened, the smirk softening into something more insidious.

“It’s too hot in here,” he mused, voice smooth as silk. “You’ll think better once you take off a few layers.”

She let him.

Not because she was falling for it.

Because he was.

She softened her posture, let her gaze shift, let her shoulders drop just slightly, just enough for the sharp edges of her irritation to smooth out, just enough to let something vulnerable slip through the cracks.

Heeseung noticed.

And his smirk widened.

Y/n let her lips part slightly, exhaling like the warmth was actually getting to her, like her guard was finally lowering.

She reached for his tie. Slid it off completely.

Undid the top button of his blouse. Then another.

Heeseung didn’t stop her.

Of course he didn’t.

His ego was too big to think she wasn’t falling for his trap.

She took a slow step forward. Then another.

By the time his knees hit the edge of the bed, he was grinning.

“Oh,” Heeseung murmured, hands settling at her waist. His grip was light, almost teasing, fingers ghosting over the fabric like he had all the time in the world. “Now this is interesting.”

Y/n didn’t move. Didn’t push him away.

Instead, she leaned in, her breath warm against his skin, lips just shy of brushing the shell of his ear.

“Tell me what you know,” she whispered, voice smooth, unwavering.

Heeseung’s chuckle was low, rich with amusement. “You want answers?”

She nodded, slow. Calculated.

He smirked. “Then work for it.”

And before she could react. His hands slid downward, grazing the front of her blouse, fingers slipping against the fabric as he undid one, two, three buttons.

She saw red.

Her body reacted before her mind fully caught up.

She moved fast.

Before Heeseung could blink, her hands were in his collar, gripping tight, twisting the fabric as she yanked him forward—

Then threw him back.

His back hit the mattress with a forceful thud.

A sharp inhale, the ghost of a curse under his breath and before he could process what just happened, Y/n was on top of him.

One knee dug into his ribs, pressing just hard enough to steal his breath for half a second.

A fist tangled in his half-open shirt, keeping him right where she wanted him.

Then—

She swung.

Her fist connected with his jaw, sharp and satisfying.

Heeseung let out a breathless laugh, head snapping to the side as blood beaded at the corner of his lip.

He grinned.

“Oh, angel,” he murmured, voice laced with something amused, something dark. “I didn’t know you liked it rough.”

Y/n’s grip tightened. “Tell me what you know. Now.”

Heeseung’s smirk didn’t waver. If anything, he looked thrilled.

“You’re looking in the wrong places, angel.”

Y/n’s jaw clenched. “What the hell does that mean?”

Heeseung tilted his head slightly, studying her.

Then—

“Books will only tell you what they want you to know,” he murmured, voice smooth despite the split in his lip. “But if you want to find something real…”

He trailed off, letting the silence stretch, his smirk deepening.

Y/n’s patience was hanging by a thread. “Finish your sentence before I break your nose.”

Heeseung’s laughter was quiet, rolling through his chest like a dangerous secret.

“Try looking beneath the library.”

She frowned. “There’s nothing beneath the library. Just stone and dead air.”

Heeseung smiled, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Is there?”

She stared him down, searching for the lie.

He could be bluffing. He probably was.

But she had nothing else.

And she wasn’t leaving empty-handed.

She shoved off him, rolling off the bed in one smooth motion.

Didn’t bother grabbing her tie. Didn’t even spare her uniform jacket a glance.

Heeseung sat up, watching her go with an infuriating smirk. He ran his tongue over his bloodied lip, tasting the split, eyes still gleaming with amusement.

She didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

She had what she came for.

And for once, she had won.

Jungwon had spent too much time searching for Y/n.

Too much time slipping through the halls, lingering in the shadows, waiting, always waiting, for that glimpse of her.

But tonight, she wasn’t where she usually was.

Not in the library. Not in the secluded hallways she favored when she thought no one was watching. Not in the training grounds, where she always pushed herself too hard, too fast, too recklessly.

Jungwon clenched his jaw. This shouldn’t bother him. She wasn’t his responsibility. And yet, Irritation sank its claws deeper, sharp and unrelenting. His patience was thinning by the second.

Then, he caught something.

A scent.

Smoke. And something sweet underneath.

Jungwon exhaled slowly.

Heeseung.

His thoughts snapped into place like a blade sliding into its sheath.

Y/n was missing.

And Heeseung’s scent was the only lead.

His feet moved before his mind could fully process the thought.

By the time he realized what he was doing, he was already storming toward Heeseung’s dorm.

He didn’t bother knocking.

Didn’t wait for an answer.

He shoved the door open—

And froze.

For the first time in a long time, his mind emptied. His eyes swept over the room, cataloging every detail in an instant.

Heeseung.

Sitting lazily on his bed, jacket off, shirt unbuttoned, lip faintly bleeding.

The bed itself, sheets wrinkled, twisted, like someone had been pushed onto it.

And worst of all, The celestial uniform jacket, messily abandoned on the floor.

The matching necktie, tangled in Heeseung’s sheets.

Jungwon’s vision blurred with rage.

The thoughts hit him too fast to process.

She was here.

She was here, with him.

Heeseung, of course, saw the storm brewing in Jungwon’s expression.

And he grinned.

“Oh?” His voice was smooth, amused, dripping with satisfaction. “Jealous?”

Jungwon snapped.

He moved before he could think, before he could stop himself—

A hand fisting into Heeseung’s collar, shoving him back, slamming him against the wall so hard the wooden frame of the bed rattled.

Heeseung let out a breathless laugh. Blood from his split lip smeared against the corner of his mouth.

“You’re acting awfully possessive, Jungwon.” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with delight. “You sure she belongs to you?”

Jungwon’s grip tightened.

His heart was hammering.

Something ugly, something sharp, something new curled up in his chest like a vice.

Heeseung was playing with him.

And it was working.

Jungwon’s voice was low, dangerous. “Tell me what the fuck you did.”

Heeseung’s smirk widened.

“You mean besides letting her take my clothes off?”

Jungwon’s patience shattered.

His fist drove into Heeseung’s gut, knocking the smirk right off his face.

Heeseung grunted, bending forward slightly.

But he was laughing.

Laughing.

Jungwon’s grip didn’t loosen. He yanked Heeseung back up, slamming him into the wall again.

Heeseung coughed out a chuckle, wiping his lip.

“Damn,” he mused, voice breathless but still far too amused. “I knew you’d react, but this?” He lifted a brow. “You’re kinda scary when you’re pissed, y’know that?”

Jungwon didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

His breath came slow and sharp, his pulse thundering.

Heeseung sighed, stretching slightly against the wall, like he wasn’t being held against it by force.

“Well,” he drawled, voice smooth. “If it makes you feel better—”

He leaned in slightly, grinning.

“She was the one who punched me.”

Jungwon stilled.

His fingers twitched.

Heeseung smirked, knowing.

“Oh yeah. Pretty little thing hits like a devil.”

The realization slammed into Jungwon all at once. His gaze swept over the room again. The jacket. The tie. The bed.

But—

No blouse. No skirt. No actual sign that Y/n had been here for longer than a few minutes. Jungwon’s mind worked fast. Too fast. The pieces weren’t adding up. His eyes flicked back to Heeseung. The smirk on his lips. The laughter in his eyes.

It was all a game.

A calculated, deliberate setup.

And Jungwon had fallen for it.

Heeseung saw the realization dawn on Jungwon’s face. And he grinned. Jungwon’s stomach twisted, rage flaring in his chest.

“You’re full of shit.”

Heeseung stretched lazily against the wall, grinning like a predator.

“And you’re fun to mess with.”

Jungwon’s fists curled. His jealousy had been for nothing. His anger was misplaced. And Heeseung had played him like a goddamn fiddle. Jungwon wanted to rip that smirk right off his face.

But he didn’t have time.

Y/n was in danger. Real danger.

And he needed to get to her. Jungwon finally released Heeseung with a shove, stepping back.

His voice was clipped. Cold. “Where is she?”

Heeseung licked his split lip, still grinning.

“She’s gone,” he said simply. “Went looking for answers.”

Jungwon’s stomach dropped.

His pulse thundered.

“Where.”

Heeseung wiped at his lip again, careless.

“Beneath the library.”

Jungwon cursed.

Because he knew.

That area was heavily guarded. Locked down.

And Heeseung knew it too. That was the only reason he had sent her there. Not to help her. But to watch her fall.

Jungwon turned sharply on his heel, already moving for the door—

Then—

“Careful, Jungwon.”

Jungwon didn’t stop. Didn’t turn back.

Heeseung’s laughter followed him.

“Acting like you care about her,” he mused. “Like she’s anything more than a distraction.”

Jungwon ignored him. He was already gone. And if he didn’t get there in time.

Y/n would be, too.

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT CHAPTER

[vinelark]

what r some fics that shaped your psyche? you have so many good recs im currently rereading the to an athlete dying young series

hello! you sent me this ask ages ago and i've been meaning to get to it ever since. (it took me so long to answer that i'm sure you've reread to an athlete dying young by @sonosvegliato many times over by now but hell yeah, what a good one.)

these are a few fics--dc and beyond--that have been in my "in case of emergency" epub folder (aka fics i want to have on hand immediately to reread on bad days, or good days, or even average days) for a few years now. so here is an extremely incomplete list of fics that have shaped my psyche!

for dc specifically--if i tried to list all of them i would just end up repeating my whole fic rec tag, so these are just a few of the ones i read when i was getting into this fandom that stayed with me/made me want to seek out more for these characters:

📸 surveillance series by @smilebackwards

this series located the tim drake center of my brain and lit it up like the vegas strip.

🎒 like a hinge, like a wing by @bonesbuckleup

one of my go-to rereads for pangs; chapter one is a masterclass in tension. also, one of my favorite pre-robin tim pov fics of all time.

💻 nominal by @unpretty

"you don't get it, batman is a comedy" --conversation i've had with multiple people using this fic as my thesis statement.

🌃 the jingle jangle morning by @audreycritter

the moment somebody in my vicinity says "i love dick grayson" i'm on their doorstep with this fic url.

🚉 a meditation on railroading by @eggmacguffin

there's a moment in this fic known among my friends as "baby wipes jason" and it has successfully converted no less than three people to the fandom.

and then for non-dc fic:

🌌 atlas by @megafaunatic (mdzs & tgcf)

did i read this before i had a single clue who the characters were? yes. did i return to it once i did and lose my mind a little? yes. lore etymologyplayground writes that “so so so in love and pining so hard the lines between us are blurring and we haven’t made a move yet but it’s inevitable” flavor with such a deft hand; it is in fact called the lorezone. if any friends-to-lovers pining i write can achieve even 50% of a lorezone i will have done my job.

🪿 If they caught you by @feyburner (tgcf)

i go back to this when i think about setup and payoff, when i think about subtle misdirects, when i think about the monumental task of creating whole compelling new characters in 6k words.

🧪 away childish things by lettered (hp)

one of the best de-aging trope stories i've ever read; i think of this when i want to take a trope to its maximum potential and then go: no wait, there's even more.

(another fav de-aging fic is grow by @cafecliche; shorter plot but no less pangs 🌱)

🏡 in defiance of all geometry by @idiopath-fic-smile (les mis)

a fic that's a perfect reread when i need something cozy and full of character, and a perfect touchstone when i'm pondering something where the world may not hang in the balance but the stakes still matter.

📔 The Absolutely True Story of the Yiling Patriarch: A Manifesto in Many Parts by aubreyli (cql/mdzs)

paragon of metahumor, basically. i think of this when i want to write something that's funny in both text and form.

🍚 and his wanting grows teeth by @yuebings (cql/mdzs)

masterclass in pangy backstory reveal; the way the first scene loops back around to punch you in the gut long after you've forgotten it will forever be seared into my brain.

also, most answers on this list fit the bill!

(apologies again that this answer is so belated; it took me ages to write up partially because i kept stopping to reread these fics every time i tried.)

[geeeemmmmmmm]

Gem's Masterlist!

Ordered latest to earliest for each character.

I do not write smut but all my fics should have relevant warnings!

Please keep it kind! I am taking time out of my life to write for free so just be mindful if my fics have issues or I'm taking a long time for updates or anything like that.

Last updated: Bucky Barnes - cold snap 30/6/25(nz date format)

There are more characters to be written for in time:) Requests are open

Bucky Barnes - Marvel

Series

Tomorrow never came - incomplete - You and Bucky were lovers back in the '40s. You were captured by hydra and decades after escaping you harbour the infamous winter solider while navigating the grief the one man you wanted to be with forever. (edited)

- one shots

Cold snap - Bucky lets you in on some of the unique ways hydra has kept themselves in his mind.

pretty boy - A new pet name you called your boyfriend means a lot to him even if he won't admit it (edited)

Night after night - Bucky wishes with everything that you could be his (edited)

Picture perfect - Bucky always finds a way to help keep his memories of you and him (edited)

Talking in your sleep - Something Bucky said in his sleep managed to surprise you(edited)

Asgardian Liquor - Bucky thought he could never get drunk, turns out he never tried Asgardian liquor(edited)

Serenity - Bucky managed to pull some strings to make you able to stay in bed all day with him (edited)

Can't take my eyes off you - A pure summers night is everything with Bucky (edited)

Baby I'm yours - A creepy receptionist causes Bucky to become more protective (barely edited)

When I sleep on your couch I feel very safe - Another night with your boyfriend yet this time he tells you what this means to him (barely edited — first fic ever omg)

Logan Howlett - Xmen

one shots

Everything - A training mishap causes Logan to try muster up his feelings for you (barely edited)

Too hot to cuddle- reverse writing prompt (barely edited)

Detective Loki - Prisoners

Series

Stubborn Love - complete - A slow burnish mini series of your rocky experience working with Detective Loki (mostly edited)

one shots

Vanilla and Cinnamon - David never understood the appeal of baths but somehow you made them worth it(edited)

Late nights - You spend another night of making sure your boyfriends home safely(edited)

Requests

Pregnancy - You couldn't predict how your husband would react when you told him your pregnant (edited)

Clingy - David doesn't wanna go to work without you and spends his day missing you (edited)

Protection - You find out how protective your boyfriend can be(barely edited)

Only you - Your rope finally breaks causing a fight with David, the only man who you thought you'd never fight with(edited)

Sweet love story - You recall your first meeting with the love of your life(edited)

Not the same - David learns that someone being drunk doesn't mean it will recreate his childhood trauma(edited)

Donnie Darko

One shots

Twisted Reality - Yet again Donnie comes to your house for comfort in the middle of the night (edited)

[atelierlili]

In-Panem/Not Reaped Everlark AUs

Got asked to give some fanfic recommendations for In-Panem/Not Reaped Everlark AUs so here we are. Most of them (if not all of them) are gonna be fluffy and happy tbh because i can't take my pookies being hurt ):

Completed:

A New Path (138k words) by Endlessnightlock

The day after aging out of the Reaping, Katniss crosses paths with Peeta. She thanks him for the bread and to her surprise, a tentative friendship begins.

One of my favourites. I love the direction the author took with this story. Always made me want more!

Go Slow, Peeta (20k words) by Oakfarmer

The era of the Hunger Games has come to an end. How Everlark slowly happened anyway.

This was the one that started it all for me. Short, simple and to the point! A classic in my opinion.

Nothing Owed for a Gift (10k words) by orphaned account

Lately, Merchants have taken to flirting with unwitting Seam folk as a joke, sometimes going so far as to ask them out on a date. I've even heard of a couple instances of a Merchant asking someone from the Seam to marry them, and then laughing hysterically when the poor recipient says 'yes'. So, when Peeta Mellark approaches me after the reaping, red with nerves and pushing his lips together as if he's trying very hard not to do something like laugh, I'm immediately wary. Peeta can't possibly be asking me to marry him for real. ... right?

Urgh. Literally one of my favourite one-shots.

Inevitability (44k words) by Xerxia

What if? What if Peeta and Prim hadn't been reaped?

Definitely not the fluffiest fics in the list, but Katniss absolutely SHINES here. And Peeta stays very true to his character as well. Absolutely worth the read.

It Takes A District (55k words) by MTK4FUN

Thinking her mother is dying, Katniss Everdeen marries Peeta Mellark to keep her sister out of the Community Home.

I love this fic. I don't know what it is, but there's something about it that makes it standout on its own.

Katniss Everdeen Is Not A Stalker (241k words) by MegaAuLover

Katniss as a little problem, she can't stop looking through Peeta's window, trying to find a way to pay her boy with the bread back but as time goes on she realizes she wants more. But there is a problem the District is flooded with Peacekeepers and everyone faces danger as the Capitol tightens its reigns on the district. Can love bloom in the middle of adversity? Or will it shrivel in the face of surmounting danger?

This is the one. Easily one of the bestest AUs imo. Very long read- but I will be naming my first born after the squirrel. The Everlark relationship here is A+++.

Incomplete/Ongoing:

( I know its weird to recommend incomplete fics, some these ones are legitimately my favourite fics and think are still worth the read.)

Cavedweller (79k words) by Jennajuicebox (last update: 2021-01-25)

Her mother once told her she was brave. A word Katniss wouldn't have chosen for herself. Brave implies that you run headlong into the scary unknown. Brave implies you face the things that want you dead. It dredges up thoughts of conquering armies and swords raised over head. Katniss isn't brave. As much as she would never admit it to herself she is scared out of her wits. She is staring into a gaping chasm, waiting for it to swallow her whole.

I love AUs that explore Katniss otherside of the family so much. As always, the Everlark development here is absolutely heartwarming and delicious. 10/10

On the Threshold ( 97k words) by ghtlovesthg (last update: 2020-06-26)

Nineteen and free from the Reapings forever, Katniss finds a token on her doorstep commemorating her passage over the threshold of adulthood. Discovering the identity of the sender will start Katniss on a road that leads toward life's other milestones.

This is exactly how I envisioned Everlark would get together had it not been for the Reapings. So so so so good. There is just enough here to be satisfied that the fic is unfinished ; w;

hope you find something you like! I always have more if you want more to sink your teeth into <3 Happy readings!

@heartforeyes @the-tiny-fangirl

[my-castles-crumbling]

card - @wolfstarmicrofic - word count: 309

It was the last present of the evening.

The whole friend group had all gathered around and exchanged gifts, all the while drinking Firewhiskey and swapping stories about their new jobs now that they'd all graduated.

It was one of those rare moments when everyone was there- nobody was caught up with another obligation that made their little family incomplete. Lily and Pandora were curled up on the couch, Dorcas and Marlene in an armchair. James and Regulus were sitting side-by-side on the floor whispering to each other and grinning while Barty and Evan took turns throwing wrapping paper into the fire. Peter and Mary could be heard joking in the kitchen with Alice, Frank, Gideon, and Fabian.

As Sirius smiles softly and took in all the people around him, he almost missed Remus elbowing him, passing him the small parcel. "For you," Remus murmured, smiling a bit.

"What, no card?" Sirius teased. Remus was known for writing long, heartfelt cards that could make anyone tear up.

The taller boy chuckled, looking a bit nervous for some reason, but didn't answer.

Shrugging, Sirius opened the paper to find a small box. It looked oddly like something one would put jewelry in. But Remus had already given him a beautiful necklace earlier that evening, at their apartment. "What-?" he began to ask, but broke off when he opened it.

Inside the box was a ring. Is was simple in design, with moons and stars etched on the outside, and the word 'forever' engraved inside the band.

And when he looked over to Remus for confirmation that this was what he thought it was, he realized at once that the entire room was quiet. And staring at them. And that Remus was on his knee.

"I didn't think I should put this in a card," Remus said with a teary grin.

[chynandri]

I’ve got so much on my mind! Eva/Neil stuff To the moon beach episode spoilers

While I’ve always liked the Eva/Neil ship I have seen it as more one sided, or maybe just UNdecided. Neil I think it got increasingly obvious that he liked her, but it was hard to tell with Eva. I think in this game she definitely showed Interest in him. peeking at his shirtlessness and whatever’s in his pants at the pool lmao. plus wanting to believe the real Neil would want to protect her and do nice gestures. I think my most satisfying personal interpretation is that she’s just isn’t all that sure how she feels about him besides that obviously, this was her best childhood friend. After all I think it’s hard to have feelings for someone who was so distant and secretive at the same time. But there’s definitely still Something there that just… never got the chance to become something more.

I think a feeling of ‘incompleteness’ is prominent after finishing this game. Somehow having some of the truth confirmed/spelled out to you just leaves me with more questions. And perhaps that’s the whole point… the incompleteness of their feelings for each other, the incompleteness of the beach trip, the incompleteness of the simulated beach trip, the incompleteness of Neil himself as a person. I feel like the life lesson here was that you got to be ok with not having all the closure but realize that things have an end in spite of it. And you’ve got to move on once you’re ready to. The game giving you one final chance to linger on a perfect moment of Neil and Eva at their most vulnerable, letting You choose when the story ends was really profound. It’s like Kan Gao was saying to you ‘yeah, you’ve known all along Neil was dying/is dead. And that this series wasn’t going to last forever. You can keep returning to it again and again, but that fact remains and eventually you will stop playing the games and move on.’

I’m not sure if I’m articulating the metaness of this ending well enough, but Eva and the player feel in parallel here. Eva’s relationship with Neil, and the players relationship to this series.

Just wow. What an incredible ending. It almost felt too quick that the biggest theory of Neil being dead all along was confirmed but, it’s not too quick at all considering this story’s been going on for 13 years I guess. Still leaves me in shock even though that’s honestly what the games have been Strongly hinting at.

Will try to remember To the Moon for as long as I can. What an impactful game series…

[merain]

"Looking into the eyes of my death, I remember all those people who crossed my path by chance. Those brave souls who dared to disturb my sanctuary, and I myself was not against letting them in due to a constant feeling of incompleteness and consuming loneliness. As I look at a scrap of paper and write with a worthless ballpoint pen, devoid of any poetry, I inscribe on the empty page, as empty as my soul, from your diary, Laura. I did everything carefully, bound the diary, and left only small traces of interaction. I took just a tiny piece of your world, unlike you, who took my heart and broke it like an ordinary mechanism. Gear by gear, you pulled parts out of me, pressing me with your claws to the cold, soulless ground, relishing the power and triumph over such a pitiful little person in your life. I sincerely believed that I had finally found a friend, someone with whom I could share my loneliness, someone with whom I could share stories: mine would be from books, and yours real and tangible. I would listen to all your romantic escapades, all your tales of the boys you wrapped around your finger, and I would continue to passionately wish that you would never leave me. But Laura, you made me a dirty, corrupted lump of bones and organs. I still remember that night and every second of how you drained my soul.

I justified you so much, thinking that you wanted to show me the light, to show me what it was like to be desired, to be vulnerable, but I was wrong after realizing that people are irredeemable. And your Donna is too. But if BOB is real and he has sullied your holy name on the lips of many, tell me, Laura, would you have done the same to me? I seem to have loved you… but I still do not know the whole truth; I do not dare to touch your diary, for it is yours, like mine, a sanctuary. I hope that at least after my eyes close forever, in the depths of great darkness, I will see the flame of truth.

Laura and Donna, I dedicate this piece of my flesh and blood, thought and the remnants of my heart in this short farewell letter. You both liked the same kind of orchids (or perhaps you just decided to pretend and equally deceived me), so I will bury this piece of paper in a pot with this flower, just as your souls are buried in your darkness, debauchery, and lust. My home was the only sanctuary you took from me." ------------------ I love Harold Smith and his actor Lenny von Dohlen (rest in peace) very much, I watched every scene with Harold in detail, read Laura's entries about him in her diary, and to be honest, I can't even imagine what my precious boy went through 😔😔😔 I tried to write a kind of his su-cide note, which you can see in the background of the art and in the post. I hope Twin Peaks connoisseurs and Harold fans will find all the references here :)