#BACK YOU WRETCHES I LOVED HER FIRST

[januaryembrs]

CROSS MY HEART | Spencer Reid x wife!Reader

Request: read here

description: Spencer's wife struggles with the aftermath of JJ's confession

length: 1.5k

warnings: JJ's 14x15 confession spoilers (big ick, pull yourself together Jennifer) infidelity, thoughts of worthlessness, reader thinks Spencer is going to leave her for JJ.

authors note: I have loved JJ for all of fourteen seasons and fourteen episodes. this was a BIG ICK for me watching this won't lie

She should have known something was wrong the minute they left that damn store. 

It took her all of two seconds to throw herself into her husband’s arms, her voice choked with tears that had threatened to spill when she’d seen the video of Casey shooting at him, and she swore Spencer had never grabbed her so tight. 

“I thought you,” She sniffled, running her fingers through the back of his scalp, the entire spanse of his huge hands ran along her spine, counting every vertebra to make sure she was still intact, despite the fact he had been the one held hostage, “I thought he’d shot you- it came so close,” 

He hushed her mewls, a hand reaching to the back of her head and tucked her into his neck further, the sob rattling through her ribcage almost, almost, taking his mind entirely off what JJ had said in that stupid game of truth or dare. 

What the fuck did she mean she had always loved him? She had a husband and children who doted on her; Will, who loved every shred of her being like it was his only purpose in the world. His godsons who had known him as uncle Spencer since he’d held them in the hospital, covered in goop and looking like the cutest little aliens he’d ever seen. 

And yet JJ, his friend, perhaps one of his longest friends, was willing to throw it away for him? He, who had a wife he adored more than there were birds in the wind, leaves on an Autumn floor, more than there were galaxies in the damn cosmos. His wife, who had been there for him since the moment they’d met, who he’d known was the one since that first day she’d ran into him in the lobby, their files mixing together because neither of them had been watching where they were going, like one of those romcoms she forced him to watch and he pretended to hate, or like the silly thing she called fate that she insisted was very much real. 

Spencer was a man of statistics and numbers and facts; things he could see. But he was sure there was nothing in any textbook that could have ever made sense of how the one person so perfectly created for him, the blob of cells that made up his wife that seemed to call to his own as if they were coming home to one another, would have just so happened to bump into him on a random Tuesday in August. 

Most people waited decades for that kind of love, or something close, and he’d managed to get it at the ripe age of thirty three. 

And yet in the space of ten seconds, of four little words in a wretched game, he felt like the carpet had been pulled from beneath him. Because why would JJ, who saw as clearly as anyone else how much he cherished his wife and the future they were planning together, try to take that away from him?

And as if his own odd spiral of thoughts wasn’t a kick to the gut enough, his sweet wife had quickly released him from her grasp and thrown herself at JJ, who seemed to just now be understanding the gravity of her words as she looked around with wide eyes, tear stains wetting her cheeks, the guilt gnawing in her gut already. 

“JJ! Are you okay? Oh, you poor thing, you must have been so scared,” She sobbed, wrapping her friend in a loving hug that was shakily reciprocated, like JJ was waiting for the second she would get a fat shiner to the nose for confessing such a thing. 

But that never happened. Instead, she pulled away from the frozen blonde woman, who looked like she could burst into tears then and there and apologise for everything until her face turned blue, and ran a kind hand over the JJ's hair, stroking it behind her ear tenderly as she tried to quell her cries because she wasn't the one who had been held at gunpoint. 

She didn’t know. It hit them both at the same time. She didn’t know what JJ had said, hadn’t even got an inkling into what had happened, and god did it make the sinking feeling in Spencer’s chest swallow itself up into something the size of the Mariana Trench. 

And what was left, what had for a second been a horrid mix of confusion, shock, fear and then another big dollop of confusion for good measure, quickly was dragged away by the current and replaced with anger. 

Anger that JJ could do something like this to his wife; he frankly didn’t care how her words had affected him, that if he had been single he would have been left feeling unworthy of her affection the first time it had been offered around, like there was something so disgustingly wrong with him this was what it took for her to say anything. He didn’t care about any of that. He cared that this would absolutely destroy his wife. 

And it was for that reason Spencer hurried the paramedics into fixing the small graze on his palm as he watched with boiling blood his wife tend to JJ like she would any other time her close friend was hurt in the field. He seethed whenever Jennifer would simper and avoid her friend's eyes, how his beautiful, caring, devoted wife would stroke the woman’s back and will her to talk, to tell her what to do to make it better.

Because it was her who should be fussing over his sweet wife, certainly not the other way around. 

But he couldn’t say that, not there at least, and so he didn’t, not until he had got the greenlight from the medics to leave and he had all but cut off the circulation in her fingers with how tight he’d held her hand as he led her to the car. 

Spencer said nothing, not wanting to fight when she forced him to sit shotgun as she climbed behind the wheel, not wanting to cause a commotion when there was a much bigger bombshell he was sitting on that he knew would change her feelings entirely. 

-

“What?” Her voice was soft still, a murmur in the quiet night air of their bedroom. She sat, fresh faced, minty breathed, kevlar vest long gone and replaced with one of his old Dr Who shirts and comfy bottoms.

She said the word again, like she hadn’t heard him, but judging by the way her expression had fallen into something dejected, he knew that wasn’t the case. 

Sighing, drawing gentle motions up and down her legs with his warm hands, shuffled closer where he kneeled down in front of her submittingly. “JJ said that she has always loved me; that was her ‘truth’ in the game,”

“Well, she-she was lying right?” His wife said quickly, her voice shaking, trying to make sense of it herself. She didn’t get an answer right away, just her husband’s eyes casting down as he tried to think of the best thing to say, “Right, Spencer?” 

“I don’t know,” He said earnestly, and he saw immediately the way tears sprung to her eyes, her bottom lip trembling, her face warming in wet-anger, “But it doesn’t change anything, sweetheart. It doesn’t matter, to me- baby, please don’t cry,”

“Ofcourse it changes things, Spencer, it’s JJ. She’s literally the hottest woman to walk the earth, Pen said you were like in love with her when you started the BAU, and now you have your chance,” She whimpered, fat tears rolling over her freshly moisturised cheeks, and he swore he felt his chest concave at her words. 

“My chance? I don’t want a chance, I want you,” Spencer said in earnest, his hands rubbing further and further up her legs until his hands went under her night shirt, grabbing onto the soft of her hips with pleading tenderness, “I want you forever, no matter what JJ or any other woman feels about me,” 

She sniffled pitifully, her eyes still unsure and he took it as a sign she needed more, so he leaned in fully to hug her to him. 

“But it’s JJ,” She said again, like that was going to change anything, and he shook his head, stroking over the back of her hair softly.

“I don't care,” He said, and she sniffed gently into the crook of his neck, his skin wetting with the contact. She finally wrapped her arms around him, and he knew he was close to getting it through to her, “I had the smallest crush on JJ, what, fifteen years ago? Honey, I want you for the rest of my life, and nothing and no one is going to change my mind about that, not even you.” 

“Really?” His sweet wife whispered tearfully, and he chuckled sadly, hating how hard she had cried that it had ripped the life from her voice. 

“Cross my heart,” He kissed her hairline softly, tipping her head upwards with one long, warm finger under her chin, pressing a gentle kiss to her wetted lips, “Hope I never die,”

She smiled sorrowfully, kissing her husband as if it was the last time she could ever do so, hoping it made up for how puffy and ugly her tears had made her face. But he didn’t care, he never had, he thought she was perfect just the way she was.

And he’d remind her of that any time she thought otherwise. 

–

[redflagshipwriter]

Snitches the cat and his favorite bat

I wrote up dpxdc fics based off of prompts I happened to see in the last day to add to the reading pile for anyone who didn't prep for the archive down time today.

EDIT

The idea for Danny as a cat came from @shycorvid, thank you so much for correcting me and letting me play in your sandbox!

Snitches the cat comes from @garbagewith-a-cherryontop (I think??? I couldn't find a definite first post!) but the fantastic linked post is the one with how I think Snitches the cat looks here.

Word count is 1053.

Tumblr reference

masterpost for my AO3 downtime fics

“Ugh- that's not- did we just summon a demon cat?”

“It's so messed up looking. Ew.”

Danny blinked and swayed on his feet. He'd had a tail a minute ago, speeding across the GZ to check in on Walker. There had been an unpleasant lurch in his stomach. And now he was on his feet. All four of them.

Wait, what?

“You fucked this up.”

His ears twitched at the sound of a slap. Danny swiveled towards the sound and then got distracted by the feeling of his ears swiveling back. Whaaaaat?

He looked down at his precious little feeties. They were adorable paws.

“Oh, you motherfuckers,” he said. It came out as a conversational yowl.

The humans looked at him from about ten feet away and five feet up. “Annoying…”

He was pretty sure they were high schoolers. There were five of them, two girls and three boys. They were all bigger than him. High schoolers were usually bigger than he was, but this was just ridiculous.

“Count yourself lucky, dimwits,” one of the older kids said. He took a step towards Danny. Danny pressed his ears flat against his head and hissed at the approach. “If you managed to sacrifice Patches to a demon, your Mom would straight up murder you.” He laughed when he said it, like anything about that was remotely funny.

Uh- what now?

Only now, Danny noticed a very distressed calico cat underneath a laundry basket on the other side of the room. There was a stack of textbooks weighing the basket down. A large rug had been rolled up and- he sneezed rapidly, eyes watering. Chalk! They'd drawn on the floor with chalk!

‘This is some incompetent summoning,’ Danny realized, way too late. ‘Did they- how did they turn me into a cat?’ He looked at his unfortunate brethren under the laundry basket. Her ears were flat against her skull and she looked scared.

He remembered the word “sacrifice” and his blood flushed hit with fury. They'd wanted him to eat her! They'd wanted something to eat miss Patches!

The teenagers froze and looked at him, aghast at the angry sounds that were coming out of his throat.

“Shut up!” One hissed. She took off her shoe and threw it at him. Danny dodged and then threw his head back to yowl even louder. Sonic attack! Aural damage, you big jerks!

“The neighbors are going to- make it shut up!”

Danny had to run, dashing over furniture and tearing his way across a crowded table to avoid being grabbed. He screamed the whole time, eager to alert whoever they were so afraid of. Someone should see!

The window burst in.

Danny stopped running, shocked. He hadn't actually expected-

Someone snatched him up from behind and smacked him on the face with a palm. His jaw exploded with pain. It cut off his yowling.

Stunned. He was still for a moment and then he struggled for his life. The grip on his ribs was way too tight-

He looked over at the sound of a sword being pulled from a sheath. Holy shit, that was bomb as hell. His eyes went wide at the sight of a heavily armored small child crouched on the windowsill. The boy's eyes were covered, but Danny could still see him look at Danny and the poor calico under the laundry basket. He sneered.

“Unhand the cat or lose your hands at the wrist, you wretch.”

Danny loved him.

The teenager dropped him. Danny caught himself with a stumble. He let out a sad mraow before he could stop himself.

Fight club baby was enraged. “What have you done to this animal?” He hopped down into the room, revealing he was at least a foot shorter than the smallest girl in the room.

Danny trotted to him and started winding around his ankles admiringly. What a good kid! He purred.

“I will be taking both of your cats with me. If you ever harm an animal again, it will be your head that is found in a chalk-”

“Robin.” A hugeass grown man squeezed himself through the window that the kid had broken. Danny craned his head up, up, up, to see him case the joint.

The older man radiated incredible judgment. “I see that you require education on animal welfare and demonic summoning. Go on, Robin.”

“That's my Mom's cat!” One of the teenagers protested. “You can't take her!”

Robin growled at her. Danny jumped in his skin at the sound.

“Then we shall return it to your Mother and her alone, when we explain what you've done.” Danny let murder baby scoop him up and purred at full volume. Hell yeah. He looked at the cowering teenagers with condescension.

“Not that fugly thing.”

Danny blinked. He ended up making an inquisitive mraow. Why was a finger being pointed at him? He was baby.

“That thing showed up, you can get rid of it. But Patches is Mom's cat, and you can't steal a cat because-”

“Batman can steal any cat!” Robin bit out, gathered up Patches, and jumped out the window with both cats in an expert grip.

That didn't sound right, but Danny just enjoyed the night air as a line pulled Robin up to where yet another masked vigilante was waiting, cackling himself to tears.

“Batman can steal any cat,” he wheezed. “Brilliant. Good detour, Robin. Can I hold one?” He held out his blue-striped palms expectantly.

He faltered when he saw Danny, visibly surprised.

Danny… was starting to feel bad. He curled into Robin, hurt. He wasn't ugly. Why did people keep reacting to him weird?

“No,” Robin said curtly. “You have damaged his pride, and Patches is still reeling from her shock.”

The man let out a sigh but let the topic go. “That's Patches, and this is…?”

Robin hesitated. “He is the Snitch.”

That unlocked cooing. “Snitches? Snitchy Snitch Sni- ow!”

Danny snapped at the hand that came way too close and he let out a warning growl. No baby talk!

Robin seemed very pleased. He rubbed behind Danny's ears. “Snitch… I suppose that Snitches will suffice. We are taking him home.”

“....Maybe, just for fun, we should take him to get treated for mange first!” The guy made jazz hands to go with his statement.

Robin and Danny both growled that time.

[bitchimasnake-sss]

HI SWEETIEEEE, LOVE UR WRITING

Can you PLEAAAAASEEE make reader with breeding kink? Like, how would Sanji, Luff and ussop react to their partner asking for being filled/breed?

Btw, tell me I'm cool for asking without anon or I'll cry.

UR THE COOOOLEST FOR ASKING WITHOUT ANON GIRLY!! i salute your confidence, also ur veryyyy pretty (i stalk you through your window) and also here's the filth you want mwuahh 😚😚

𐙚thinkin' about: the monster trio, ace 'n law! vs breeding kink!

NOT PROOFREAD. JUST PURE HORNY. cw: they all kinda wanna be dads. im sorry. i just wrote it. they wanna be dads now. its cannon. pussydrunk!men. nsfw includes: praise, a lot of overstimulation and talks of "being a dad" and "getting a mini-me", penetration, cunnilingus, loads of creampie [obviously.] and smex. lots of smex. m.list

🍒monkey d. luffy: going insane at the mere idea.

❤️"ngh~ hah again." from the way luffy said it, you're not quite sure whether he was asking or telling. but you weren't sure of a lot of things like where he ended and you began, which round were you on, yada yada. eitherways, you shouldn't worry that pretty little head of yours, not when you're the reason the captain of your ship was panting like this against you. hot huffs clashing against your skin with every strained movement of his hips. all because you had had the audacity to come up to the captain of the ship, pull him by his shirt to your room, strip and tell him to "fill you up." like are you insane?! did you want to kill him?! ❤️you're lucky that your captain has a strong heart, and an even stronger will... because now his hips were bucking into you wildly, hot stings against your thighs where he collided over and over and over again. whispering like a man gone mad, "fill you up, p-please. you wanted th-that right? you want me to fuck you like this? over 'n over 'gain?" and you must have been on a mission from the marines cause you just caught your trembling, bottom lips and hiccupped out a soft, "y-yes, please, cap'n." oh that wretched nick-name, goddamit. ❤️and now he's rutting into you harder, his tongue pushing against yours in such a lewd display of love. when he parted from from you, strings of glistening saliva connected you both. before they dropped downwards, stagnating against his bottom lips. "gonna have a little me runnin' around, i promise." monkey d luffy grinned, so pussy-drunk from the way you were clenching and gnawing at his aching dick. you wanted it just as much as he did, huh? with short, persistent thrusts into your gummy walls, he's cumming inside you once again, "one more time, p-pretty. promise this'll be the last. hah gotta make sure i get it right, y-yeah?" liar. he said that the last three times too.

🍀roronoa zoro: daddy or father? you choose. ps: both.

💚whatever you expected, this was not it. when you had waltzed into zoro's room while he was napping, closed the lock behind you, straddled his hips and huskily beg for him to fill you up, you didn't expect this. you didn't expect the man who was reluctant to even think about a family to prep you for his cock like he wanted a kid right fucking now. 💚you didn't expect the goddamn demon of the sea, former marine-hunter and the current first mate of your crew to caress your cheek so softly, to look you in your eyes with nothing but devotion as he thrusted his fingers into you so mean. "you're serious?" he mumbled against your skin and you nodded, half-delirious from the unfaltering pumps and your crescendo into another orgasm, "ye-yeah, i am, zoro." the swordman grinned, chasing his action with a mean slap to your aching cunt. fuck. and for a moment you saw something inherently holy in his action, "you want me to fill you up? you wanna make me a dad, angel?" "ngh ohmygod—" your eyes rolled back as his nimble fingers messily circle your clit before pinching the nub slowly. his voice husked, "my girl wants me to fuck her till i get a mini-me around?" 💚of course you cannot now blame roronoa zoro for the way he was fucking you without any breaks. not when you were the one who had nodded and assured him that a little him would be soo cute. "me? a dad?" zoro mumbled again. and for someone who only talked in grunt and groans and huffs when he was fucking you like he was going to ruin you, he sure was talking a lot. he repeated, "shit, my girl's gonna make me a dad?" "zoro, no-no more, please—" you pawed at his biceps, trying to pry him off of you. you could practically feel yourself filled to the brim, the milky white pouring out of your so obscenely and collecting at the base of his pretty cock with every little thrust into you. "no, no. no." he almost sounded cocky when he pulled his dick back and used his fingers to stuff them back in, "come on, now. don't waste any." he grinned, feral, "'m gonna be a fucking dad." jesus christ, what kind of demon did you let out tonight?

🫐vinsmoke sanji: living out his dreams (while buried in you).

💙honestly, you must have had courage pouring through you veins to ask sanji to fill you up. him and fatherhood were no joke. vinsmoke sanji had seen you for exactly 1.52 seconds when he realized he would have a family with you immediately, or get rejected over and over till he gets you and then have a family with you. ����"and th-then i'd get her whatever she wants." sanji rambled on, hips stuck in a periodic rhythm as his tip caught against your g-spot again and again. "s-sanji." you stuttered, trying to throw your head over your shoulders to meet his flushed face. he had held your back flush against his chest, face reddened and lips trembling as he kissed your neck. your heart fluttered at his reaction, "there's- we d-don't have a kid yet... y'know that, right?" because from the way he was planning, it sure seemed like the kid was alive and well in his mind. the blonde nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck, his finger slowly thumbing your clit, using your wetness to his leverage to bring yourself to destruction once more, "so, what, love? i'll fuck you till i get it, right?" 💙and who were you to deny him of that when his fingers glided through your folds easily and he rocked his hips gently, trying to coax another orgasm out of your tired bones. his breath was hot against your shoulder, "we're gonna have such a cute kid, r-right, love?" "mhm, w-we will." you nodded, the pit in your stomach tightening cruelly at his candied words. and he smiled against your shoulder, words slurring at the thoughts, "god, she'd be so cute." "sanji," you whined, your voice shaking as he finally pulled himself out. the warm fluid cascaded down your folds and sanji tsked in mock distress, "shh, looks like i gotta do it all over again." don't complain. you're the one who made him this way.

🦋portgas d. ace: don't ask for what you can't handle.

🧡"a-ace." your voice waivered pathetically as his hot breath played against your trembling pussy. his grin was cocky, eyes hidden by his hat as he husked against your wetness, "what?" "s-stop teasing." you tried, only for him to laugh at your pathetic efforts to sound stern. he tipped his face back, eyes glinting with something malignant, "you started it, baby." "i wasn't teasing." 🧡oh so you weren't teasing when you walked into his room, interrupted his paperwork and asked him so, so nicely to fill you up tonight? ace's eyebrows quirked up in part-surprise, part-delight as he slowly kissed your inner thigh. eyes never leaving yours. he smiled all over again, "you want me knock you up? give you my kid? awh, want me to fuck you till i get it right?" oh and the way you averted your eyes, looking oh-so-shy at his question, it had ace wanting to ruin you all over again. 🧡you were spread so deliciously on his bed, your glistening cunt on display just for him to edge you and watch you drip over and over again. the sheets underneath were soiled from your juices, he was sure his crew-mates would tease him to no extent with the way you were screaming his name but none of that mattered. when you writhed against him, your aching hands pushing his pretty face away and pulling him back into you all over again, ace hummed, "what? too much already? but we haven't even started." not when he took his hat off and gave you bestial grin. untamed, animalistic, primal. portgas d ace just made a promise, "when i finally give you what you want, don't you dare run away. or i think we both know how it'll end." it'll end with you stuffed full of him. it'll end with his finger past your pretty lips, with you choking on your own moans and his thick digits as he pumped you full. it'll end with him humming, "running away? no. don't you dare." after all, portgas d. ace never broke a promise.

🪻trafalgar d. water law: doc please don't knock her up.

💜your boyfriend was a doctor. surely, you must have more common sense than to bother him while he was already drowning under paperwork with the ideas of a little you and him running around. surely. "'s a terrible id-idea," he stuttered uncharacteristically as you has fiddled with his shirt, giving him such a sickly sweet smile, "why? you don't wanna?" "no—" his voice faltered as you slowly perched upon his lap and undid his button one by one. "'s just a kid is a huge responsibility, and we're not r-ready," his breath hitched when you kissed his neck. your words stilled against the column of his throat, "pretty please, doc?" it's like you lived to raise his blood pressure. 💜so, now back was was pressed into the cold wood of his table, your knees pulled apart on his broad chest. his dick slipped in and out of you as his tattooed fingers pinched your clit. "l-law, please." your eyes were brimming with tears. aching, fat droplets that fell down as he continued to fuck you on that creaking wooden desk. you babbled as he rut into you harder, flushed tip bumping against your abused g-spot, "'m done, i-i'm sorry ngh, c'mon." "you're hah— crying?" don't let anyone know but maybe law was a bit of a sadist with the way he grinned, "i thought you wanted this?" 💜good point. you were the one who wanted to be pinned down onto that wretched desk and fucked into till you lost the feeling in your legs and your body trembled with every shallow way he drilled into you. so, take it. any faltering whines and moans were pointless. his actions were unhurried, pace rhythmic even as you spasmed around him due to the overstimulation. as your velvety holes gnawed at him, the doctor found himself spilling into you with little to no sanity left in him. "hah fuck—" law breathed heavily, eyes going wide as he pulled out and saw his milky essence dripping out of you so obscenely. his gaze fell upon your flushed face. your eyes were clenched shut, mouth parted in utter bliss. all reason and rhyme left the man as he found himself nudging his tip back into your trembling cunt, "shit. come on, baby. you wanted this." he isn't lying. you did want it.

a/n: first time writing law, lowkey nervous teehee 🤭🤗. i come out of the writers block on and off so im sorry im shit at posting. also i know i wrote ace n law longer okay I KNOW DONT TELL ME SHHH. i just got carried away 👉🏻👈🏻. couldn't write ussop for the life of my but i hope you like it anyways @shinysp4rk mwuah <3 m.list

[targaryen-dynasty]

WHAT IS DESTINED CAN NOT BE AVOIDED. (4/4)

Cregan Stark x pregnant!Targaryen!Reader

WARNINGS: childbirth, swearing

WORDS: 3.5 K

NOTES: thanks to @arcielee for betaing this! <3

One hand is splayed out over the curve of your swollen stomach and the other clings to your maid’s forearm as you take your time climbing the edge of the bathtub to lower yourself in the tepid water, releasing a content sigh with it still being warm enough for some of the pregnancy pains to slowly but surely fade away.

“You may leave now,” you hum, head tipped back against the edge of the bronze tub. 

What you don’t notice with your eyes closed is the baffled look the two maids assigned for you exchange, visibly hesitant to leave you alone. One of them, a younger girl whose name you’ve learned is Elia, speaks up first, her voice soft but laced with concern that makes you look at them. “My lady… are you sure you will be alright by yourself? Should we not stay here to assist you?”

You sink down a bit further into the water, chest and shoulders now fully submerged as well. “I am with child, not sick. Rest assured I can take care of myself alone.”

The maid still looks unconvinced, and it doesn’t help that it’s now the older one speaking up. “My lady, ‘tis not meant as any disrespect. We are just concerned about your well-being. You are carrying the Lord Stark’s heir, after all, and–”

The door swings open with a creek that cuts the maid off mid sentence. Your eyes dart over, and you can feel your annoyance subside just slightly at the sight of him. Something about the stay in King’s Landing has changed him a bit. You notice it as you watch how he all but saunters into the room, wearing a loose fitted shirt made of linen with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, similarly loose trousers with a pair of soft leather boots. He has forgone Ice, the large sword resting neatly on the equally large desk standing in the chambers, and opted instead for a simple dagger strapped at his hip, hidden beneath the shirt. 

Yet you’d prefer seeing him in his usual leathers and furs rather in the light-eight attire he’s opted for given the warmer climate of the capital. 

“And Lord Stark is here to take care of his wife,” he ends the maid’s sentence, throwing his vest over a nearby chair.

Both women turn around to bow their heads politely upon his arrival, giving him a knowing look. “Pardon us, my lord,” the older maid says. “We were merely making sure the Lady Stark was tending to her pregnancy well.”

Nodding in acknowledgment to their words, you spot his gaze drifting back to you. “Thank you for your concern,” he says politely but with a hint of dismissal in his voice. “But I can assure you my wife is in good hands now. You may both go and tend to your other duties now.”

Exchanging a glance once more, the maids curtsey quickly and take their leave under the steel of Cregan’s gaze. 

“Thank the gods they’re gone,” you mutter and close your eyes again, sighing softly. 

“You make it sound as if they were tormenting you, my love,” Cregan says, undoing the first two buttons of his shirt before he comes closer to the bathtub. 

Opening your eyes once more, you all but glare at him. “They were hovering over me like a pair of mother hens,” you snap. “Ever since Munkun gave me that wretched tonic to bring the babe quicker, they have been treating me as if I am about to break, watching my every move as if I’ll faint any second from the smallest exertion.”

Completely unbothered by your grousing, your irritation has him chuckling. He leans forward to rest his hand on your belly, feeling the rather large swell of it. “They’re just concerned about you, my love,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “They want to make sure you’re well cared for during your pregnancy. Can you blame them?”

“Do they want to make sure I am well cared for, or is it a command of my brother’s council?” You cock a brow, bringing your hand to rest atop his. 

Cregan sighs at your words, knowing that you’re probably right. The council does meddle in far too many things, and neither of you would be surprised if they’d given strict orders to the maids to watch over you. 

“Perhaps ‘tis a bit of both,” Cregan says. “Aegon might be concerned for the health of his dear sister, and his trusted council is definitely influencing his worry. But they are not entirely misguided to look out for you, my love. You’re carrying an heir and your health is of utmost importance.”

Not quite satisfied with his reasoning, you roll your eyes. “Yes, I understand the importance of the heir, but I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself,“ you huff. “But I do not need a flock of overprotective hens following me around, tittering and fretting over every little thing I do. It would not have been like that had we just stayed in Winterfell.”

“Perhaps not,” he agrees, rubbing your swollen bump. “But we’re not in Winterfell, we’re in King’s Landing, and here your brother is king. His council sees it fit to be overly cautious with you. Complaining won’t change that.”

You can’t help the annoyed sigh falling past your lips as you lean your head back against the edge of the tub, sinking further into the water. “How do you think the wolves are faring without us?” 

The change of topic has Cregan laughing softly with the thoughts of your hovering maids quickly shifting to your dire wolves at home in Winterfell. “They are probably fine, my love,” he says, still rubbing your bump despite the rolled up sleeve of his shirt slowly soaking up water. “They are being cared for by our men. They’re tough creatures, those dire wolves. They can take care of themselves.” 

“Just like me,” you quip, raising a brow. “And I was not born a wolf – I am a dragon.”

“Oh, that you are,” Cregan agrees. “A fierce and dangerous one at that. But even a dragon might need a little bit of pampering and attention now and then, don’t you think?”

The earlier annoyance and irritation at the maids quickly melts away with your husband’s teasing but comforting manner, making you hum in agreement. Yet you have to admit it’s mostly Cregan’s attention and care showered upon yourself that you enjoy. “Perhaps you’re right.”

Your hand now journeys along the swell of your bump, while you bring the other to rest at the back of his neck, gently massaging it. His attention and care, however, aren’t enough to keep your light demeanor up as a sharp tug makes itself known in your stomach. Your body curls together at that, making you moan out in pain. 

Not wasting a moment, Cregan leans forward, trying to figure out what is going on. “Are you alright?” he asks with a concerned voice, his wide, gray eyes locked on your features. 

As another pang of pain grips your body, you gasp and clutch the back of his neck instinctively, your eyes widening in realization. “The babe…” you gasp, face twisting in pain as another contraction washes over you. “I think the babe… the babe is coming. Now.”

His eyes widen briefly in surprise, but his instincts kick in immediately. Quickly springing into action, he rises to his feet and reaches for a large cloth. “Let me get you in bed, and then I shall fetch the mae–”

“Just fetch the maester please, this shall be fine.”

Biting back a worried protest, knowing that arguing with a woman in labor would be a futile endeavor, much more with a woman as stubborn as you are, he rushes out the door with a nod of his head and a forced smile on his lips. 

As he leaves the room, you’re left alone, body wracked with increasing contractions that force one groan and gasp from your lip after the other. Your fingers dig into the rim of the tub, the realization dawns on you that you might have to give birth right here in the bathtub. 

The door pushes open again, and behind your wolf of a man barging into the room is Grand Maester Munkun, his expression not as concerned as your husband’s. 

“Maester,” you croak with a strained voice, looking at him as he moves to your side to assess your condition. “Is this normal? The pain, the–the rushed… labor?”

He grimly shakes his head. “‘Tis not uncommon for a tonic to bring on labor earlier than expected when the mother has surpassed her time. And the early onset of labor also does not necessarily mean anything is wrong,” he explains. “The pain you’re experiencing, however, should not be this severe. Let me examine you, my lady.”

You hardly notice your worried maids scurrying into the chambers with towels in their arms when the maester pressed his fingers against your swollen belly, eventually even going lower to feel inside of you. Cregan towers over him from behind, making sure that he does not make one wrong move and ensures your and the babe’s safety. 

And only at the maester’s next words seem you and your husband to be able to breathe again. “The babe seems to be positioned properly,” he announces. “And the pains are strong and regular. This is a good sign. For how long have the pains been coming, my lady?”

You grit your teeth through another wave of pain, meeting your husband’s worried gaze. “I’ve felt little… twinges all day,” you manage to say between labored breaths. “But they were so minor, I did not think them worth mentioning.”

“Sometimes the early stages of labor can be mild and easy to overlook, my lady. But now that it is progressing, the pains will become more intense as the babe prepares to make its entrance into the world.”

You suddenly feel a twinge of pain tear through your body like a hot knife, like you are being torn apart, making it impossible for you to hold back a scream. The maids all but hurry to your side at the sight, the older one bringing a soothing hand to your shoulder. “Take deep breaths, my lady,” she encourages, “and then push.”

Two other maids grab your legs and hoist them over the rim of the tub, making it easier for them to gauge the process through the slightly opaque water. 

Grand Maester Munkun has been forced away by your husband sinking onto his knees, peeling your hand off the edge of the tub to capture it with his own. Your nails dig harshly into his palm as you eventually bear down and push with all your might, your screams echoing off the walls. 

“Cregan…” you pant, completely abandoning any courtesies with other people present. “I… I have changed my mind now… I do not wish–” you’re interrupted by a contraction, forcing you to push once again. “I have no desire to give you an heir,” you pant during a short lived, pain-less moment. 

You’re a fierce and proud woman that has endured so many hardships before, yet this seems to be the ultimate test of your strength and endurance – and right now you’re not quite sure you can finish it. 

Cregan can’t answer before he’s interrupted by another of your screams, each contraction and push bringing more and more agony, pain shooting through you as your babe readies itself to slowly make its way into the world. 

“Keep going, my lady,” the maid says, dabbing a cloth on your forehead. 

“I fucking am!” you all but snap, the sharp tone of your voice solely directed at her even causing the anxiety to leave your husband’s face for a moment. 

None of their gentle touches and encouraging words ease the pain that ripples through your body – not when the pressure inside of you builds up so quickly. 

Beads of sweat drip down your forehead, caught by the maid’s cloth and leaving your skin glistening with the effort of birthing Cregan’s heir. 

The pain gets less for a moment, allowing you to breathe as exhaustion creeps up on you despite you not yet being done. Your head tips to the side, and your gaze meets the concerned one of your husband, an anxiety etched on his features that makes it clear his heart aches with your screams. 

He leans in and tips his forehead against yours, allowing you to close your eyes for a moment and take in a deep breath. “You’re doing so well, my love,” he whispers, a tremor in his voice that comes close to the one that shakes his large hands. “Hold on, just a little longer.”

The urge to push becomes adamant once again, forcing you to hunch forward from the force that bears down on you. You all but squeeze the life out of Cregan’s hand, the pain so overwhelming you hardly hear the words of the maid kneeling at the end of the tub. “Almost there, my lady. The babe is almost out.”

Every bit of your strength is focused on delivering the child, your energy almost completely spent at this point. The pain seems to consume your entire being, filling your mind with nothing but the agony of birthing your child. 

But with another push, all of your suffering suddenly is over. 

The pain starts to subside, replaced by an overwhelming sense of both relief and exhaustion. You collapse back against the tub, your breath coming in ragged gasps. 

That is the moment for the maids to go into action, their training and experience taking over. One of them reaches down to gently scoop the babe from the water, while another already is at her side to wrap a clean cloth around its tiny body. Where your screams have filled the chambers before, it’s now its cries that echo off the walls, easing all of your anxiety. 

“It is a boy, my lady,” the maid still kneeling at your side says, a soft smile on her lips. “A healthy, beautiful boy.” You smile softly as well, releasing a deep sigh of relief.

Grand Maester Munkun leans over the other two maids to assess the newborn, checking for any immediate signs of distress. As much as you want, you can’t keep your eyes open to watch how he peels the cloth aside, and you just smile weakly at his voice. “The boy indeed seems to be in good health,” he declares, clearly talking to Cregan who hasn’t left your side. “A good set of lungs, too, my lord.”

Cregan also sighs in relief, the tension in his body leaving at once at that. Bringing a hand to your cheek, he gently rubs his thumb over your sweaty skin. “Well done, my love,” he praises. “You have done so well. Our son is here and he is healthy.”

“Show him to me,” you demand softly, blinking wearily at him. 

With a nod, he rises to his feet to make room for the maids. One kneels down and presents you the small bundle, but as you reach out, a renewed wave of cramps not as harsh as the ones before takes over your body. You grit your teeth and brace yourself for a sharper pain that doesn’t come.

“Almost there, my lady. ‘Tis the afterbirth,” the older maid assures you, rubbing your shoulder. “You’re almost done.”

It’s been quite some time since your septa has told you about the process of birthing a child, yet you still know that delivering the afterbirth is another messy and unpleasant part of it – one that still has to be done anyways. 

After it has come out without any issues, one maid quickly takes care of disposing of it while another maid tries to detach it from your son. 

With the birth and delivery finished, the attention now shifts to getting you out of the bathtub and into bed to ensure your comfort and rest. The maids have handed your husband your son to gather around you, gently helping you up and out of the water. “Lean on us, my lady,” one of them said softly with her arm around your waist. 

Your exhausted body is dried and put into smallclothes and a nightdress until it’s eventually allowed to sink into the soft sheets. The maids fuss around you, making sure you’re comfortable, before your still crying son is finally brought to you.

They tug at the neckline of your nightdress to free your full breasts without a warning, yet you’re quick to swat their hands away despite having your son in your arms. “What are you doing?” 

“My lady,” one of them begins, “‘tis important that you begin to feed the babe as soon as possible. The first milk is the best source of nourishment for your son. We just wish to help you with the positioning and latching.”

Their words make you doubt yourself and your mothering abilities, although a part of you knows that it’s not their intention to make you feel that way. 

“I know how to feed him,” you snap suddenly, maybe even irritated at your son’s hungry crying, and the maids recoil at your harsh tone. They know that the first hours with a newborn are never easy, and they know that you are exhausted, sore, and overwhelmed by the recent events – hence their quick recovery. 

“Of course, my lady,” one says, her voice gentle. “We did not mean to overstep. We only want to ensure that both you and the babe are safe and well cared for.”

Letting out a deep breath, you meet your husband’s gaze and try to keep your irritation at bay. “I understand,” you reply, slightly opening your arms to allow them to continue. 

The earlier, chastened demeanor of the maids is replaced by a reassuring one as one maid grabs your hand to bring it to your breast, demonstrating how to help your babe latch on your little bud. “There you go, my lady,” she whispers as you eventually begin to nurse your son, offering quiet, encouraging words. 

Cregan, who has been silently observing the scene, finally interjects. “Thank you for your services,” he says, voice kind but firm. “You all have done an excellent job and you may leave now.”

The maids and grand maester glance at you and your son once more before filling out of the room, leaving your small family alone. Your husband contemplates sitting down in a chair close to the bed, but instead opts to occupy his side of the bed, scooting closer to you and bringing a hand up to brush your son’s cheek lightly with a finger. You shift a little to accommodate him right next to you.

Your eyes are fixed on the infant in your arms as you continue to nurse him, watching as he greedily sucks at your breast with soft smacking sounds filling the otherwise quiet room. Despite the exhaustion, a sense of contempt washes over you. 

“Can you believe he is really ours?” you ask softly, not tearing your eyes off of your son. 

Cregan chuckles softly and shakes his head. “I can scarcely believe it,” he replies. He leans in and presses his lips to your temple, speaking against your skin. “You are incredible, do you know that?” Pulling back, his gaze is filled with love and admiration. “Everything you went through… I have never seen anything more courageous and admirable.”

“What do you think about Eyron?” you whisper, eventually meeting his gaze. 

He repeats the name, testing the sound of it and seriously considering it. “I like it. It has a strong, northern feel to it. Suits him well, I think.”

Your smile mirrors his as your eyes drift back down to your son, who is still suckling at your breast, his tiny hand clutching at the neckline of your nightdress as he does so. You gently brush a finger over his head, feeling the softness of the light hair. 

Relaxing into your husband’s embrace, your body fitting against his like a missing piece, you close your eyes in contentment. “You do know you will not ride at the front with your men on the way back north, do you not?”

He kisses your temple yet again, chuckling softly. “That is something to discuss once you have recovered and ‘tis time for us to return, my love.”

[shehungers]

CARNAL

werewolf husband x reader | 18+ | 3k

your husband is a painter who makes a meager, but comfortable living for you both creating portraits for nobles. his love of painting stems from his adoration of the night sky and the moon. he disappears one night and returns three days later—changed, distant, aggressive, and ravenous. not long after, you discover the reason for his behaviors and face the consequences of curiosity.

story warnings; dead dove do not eat, dubcon, explicit sexual content, explicit details of genitalia (werewolf), breeding, knotting, kinda cockwarming??, mentions of feeling "bloated", cumshot on body, brief piss kink mention, size difference, brief handjob, mc gets head a few times lmao, classism, mc is kinda a shitty spouse in this, detail + prose heavy (extreme), roughly proofread — you are warned.

so, this all started when I was talking to @/peachdues about her fic and idk, knotting has just been in my head since. awesome. now it's out of my system, I hope 😭

this is also my first official new piece of writing on this blog! everything before this has been reposts of older work. hopefully it doesn't disappoint!!!

would love, love, love to hear your feedback! reblogs are so tremendously appreciated!!.🙏🏻❤️

note: this is not my personal canon interpretation of werewolves. this is just a werewolf fic, y'know?

He was the wretched thing you kept behind locked doors with the rising of each full moon.

Once, the pale moonlight had been a thing of beauty to you both; an exquisite, lustrous pearl which seemed so small pinched between your fingers, squeezed and blurred through narrowed eyes. He, on the other hand, admired it differently from you by staring adoringly at its craggy features and the wan, white halo it emitted.

By trade, he was a painter and made a meager living for you both from it. His portraits were most popular as nobles found his style palatable, brushwork concealing of all flaws that showed in their faded clothes, their tarnished jewelry, their ravaged flesh and inbred faces. He knew what they'd wanted in a painting and created these fabrications as they wished because it meant more than old bread and leathery meats for dinner.

For you, he endured such mundanity if it meant you could eat well and dress warmly and in an enviable way to the neighbors. He enjoyed your simple delight; how little it truly took to keep you happy, how easy your marriage had been up until that point. You loved him and you loved the things he provided for you.

When it came nighttime, far into the blackest hours where the world seemed seized in so forceful a hush, you made no objections when he pulled you from bed to go outside with him to view the sky. There, he painted by the orange embers of lantern light and tried to capture all the likeness of the night sky with its misty moonlight and glittering, starry veil.

Sometimes you held the lantern for him, sometimes you did nothing but sit on his side holding the paint palette and lean into his hip, leaching away warmth from his body. Most nights, you were a handsome fixture and most beloved companion, trying to squash the moon like a grape with your fingers while speaking every thought out loud.

But, one night he went out alone and did not return for three days. He had left with his easel and stretched canvas and precious paint board, yet had come back to stand in the doorway with none of it.

“Darling,” you hesitated, starting out firm in case he was inebriated, altered aggressively in some way. You looked at him as though he were some strange person. “Where are your things? Your paints? Your canvas? My love, where have you been?”

“I—I don't have much of an answer to that. I'm sorry.” Then, he strode past you to the bedroom, shuttered the windows to muffle light and sound, declaring he needed rest. “Please, let me be. I'll look for my things another time.”

Later, he was ravenous at the dinner table and ate more than you thought it’d ever be possible for one man to do. You sacrificed your own portion in hopes he'd be sated, but he only turned irritable and mute, as if he were aware nothing good would come of his words to you. At the time, you'd feared that you had upset him in some way, perhaps no longer thought you lovely and fashionable or dependable as his partner and wanted to do away with your marriage.

That would mean you could only return home to rural hardship, or to the slums in the neighboring kingdom. The world would know your unwanted status, how much of a disappointment you'd been to satisfy your own husband, and you would never know another moment of quiet luxury again.

You couldn't accept such a fate, so you bathed him carefully that night. Purposeful with how you dragged the soapy sponge down along his back, fingernails a featherlight graze between the valleys of muscle and flesh protecting his spine. You kissed the back of his shoulders, lips a smouldering touch against his neck.

Then, you felt from stomach down to his hips, swirling your fingertips against the bony protrusions and in the fragrant water before wrapping your hand around his cock, stroking him to hardness. He still said nothing as he kissed your lips, tongue relentlessly pursuing your teeth to get inside your mouth, and pulled you into the tub with him fully clothed.

He fucked you deep and hard that night bent over the edge of the tub, hips pistoning up against your ass, skin slapping raw, thrusting into your wet walls at an angle that had you writhing with a face warped in equal parts exquisite bliss and agony. It wasn't until one of his hands gripped you around the neck, levering you against him, that you noticed a wound on his forearm right below where purple and green veins pulsed under his skin, translucent.

They were tooth marks—two rows of them. Crooked and sharp, arranged in a way that reminded you of the jagged spears wetted by sea spray at the base of a cliff. They looked deep, like whatever had bit him held on, yet hadn’t the intention to tear his arm off of the rest of him. The punctures were purple-red and abyssal as you studied them, vision jarred by his cock ramming you, his panting in the crook of your neck, and the bruise surrounding it bloomed a concentration of colors resembling an inkspill.

How had you not noticed it before?

“I fear what may come on certain nights from now on. When I ask it, lock the bedroom and shutter the windows from the outside. Don't ask me questions for I have no answers to give you.” He did not offer you the reassurance you had wanted, but it was enough to help you confidently stride through the days, knowing that your marriage wasn't in crisis.

Afterwards, it became imperative for you to act as someone educated because you needed to understand what was happening to your husband some nights.

It started days before a full moon: he became impatient, easy to displease, indignant upon any perceived blunder you made. He did not gorge on wine, but whatever meats were preserved in storage and what you could afford now with his inconsistent employment. You tried hiding these poor portions in thick stews with vegetables that had been infused in simmering beef stock for hours, but he was never fully sated by it.

At the same time he started to demand distance from you, he ravaged you at strange hours in your shared bed, tearing at your clothes to suck on your nipples, lap the glisten between your legs. New was his biting to leave marks and sup the blood mixed with his own saliva. More than once, he came on your body with hot, thick ropes and squirted piss on you like an animal marking territory.

When the night of the full moon arrived, he was transformed and horrifying. You had heard furniture crashing and shattering in the bedroom where he'd barricaded himself. Even his yowls throughout the evening had changed, no longer sounding like agony in the cries of the man you'd married, but something far more beastal. It came from within the chest, in the lungs behind the ribs, and was not human.

You had made the mistake only once to check in on him during this point in his shift, as you hadn't known any better. Your voice was a panicked flutter, a whisper of fear that something else might have broken through the fortress of wooden boards nailed against the windows from either side of it.

“My love? Darling, are you alright?”

He was there. You thought he was there because of the silhouette clambering across the broken remains of your shared dresser and vanity. The difference was that this thing was enormous. A creature with a bristling back, hair or spines standing out like a porcupine threatening with its quills.

It stood and was forced to hunch from the low ceiling of your house. A canine-like countenance glowered at you, red eyes partially obscured by patchy fur. Raw skin shined in the barren spots in the lantern light you'd forced into the room, and that hair didn't fully cover his abdomen nor his groin.

He was as much still human as he was this ugly beast. You'd thought to take another step into the room when he snarled and lunged towards the door. A shrill shriek pulled from your throat as you fully withdrew from the room, bolting the door shut with an iron key. He never made a ruckus against the door, and you left for the neighbor's right after, claiming that your husband had wanted space after an argument.

The next morning, your husband had somehow managed to escape the bedroom and sat in the kitchen clothed from the waist down, disoriented by the sunlight and his placement at the table. He didn't remember his transformation into the beast, but he did remember you.

Perhaps that's what gave you the courage to try to enter the bedroom the night of yet another shift. His yells of anger and pain had cooled after several hours, quieting to beastal groans and his heavy footfalls endlessly pacing the floorboards inside.

The door squealed, a call out to the darkness and creature within, and that creature responded with a growl—low, reverberating in darkness, a warning that you wouldn't be tolerated. You invaded the space carefully, meat and fish and other morsels for offering in a basket you'd woven yourself, that he had told you he thought was particularly artful at completion.

“Darling, I've brought you something. It's food. I've put fresh milk inside, too.” You caught sight of him near the boarded window, massive back rounded as he crouched low into a posture which looked as unnatural as when he tried to stand on his bent legs. “I know it—I know it won't ease your suffering, but you must still eat.”

He approached you, but it was unlike times before where he'd jump at the door to scare you away. This time he crawled towards you instead of intimidating you with his height—he wanted you to stay, and tried to appear small by dragging his long tail across the floor. The fur sounded like coarse bristles on a broomstick.

“Oh, my love. My love. My love. What has happened to you?” You moved away from the coverage of the door into the dark space, using your body to close it behind you so that he couldn't get out. You couldn't be sure how he'd behave if he could leave the house. “I'm here. Oh, you're so sweet. Look at you.”

You'd placed the basket aside neatly, making your movements obvious so as not to inspire ire, and didn't react when his long snout pressed into your abdomen. Stubble and whiskers pulled back to reveal long, stalagmite teeth which chewed mindlessly at your clothes. His damp nose nudged under your layers, pressing flush to your skin, startling you with a nasally gasp.

It was the instance where his nose left your stomach and went lower, pushing between your legs to lick you through your pants that you tried to cower, sidle out of his reach. He must've retained some semblance of himself because his arms rose to flank you at the waist, claws digging to the grain of the door, his strong snout pinning you, tongue knowing your shape even through cloth.

The fabric between your legs was wet, sticking flush to you, giving him as much nearness he could achieve without stripping off the layers separating him from your taste. The luscious imprint of you was unfulfilling, not even a teasing drop of what he instinctively knew he could have.

Your pants were removed unkindly; ripped at the waist, torn through impeccable artistry and threads and delicate fabric he had once paid for. Neither complete fear nor anger kept you silent, motionless for him to do as he pleased by yanking the pants off of your legs, but swelling curiosity. You wondered how much of your husband still remained inside this beast when the full moon was high.

The same unkindness followed him shredding through your underwear with his strange teeth, gnawing the fabric to a thin, sopping string before he could finally have you. Inhale you. Taste you with the paddle flatness of his tongue and make you squirm when his teeth skimmed that part.

“O-oh—” this wasn't like when he did it with his human tongue, as masterful as it was. He licked you with fervor you'd never felt, like he was reaching for something deep inside your viscera and blood and gore. Every subtle change of his immense nose and tongue was white heat behind your eyes, jostling pulses of electric, immodest moans, your hips driving forward on their own accord to help him find the treasure he sought within you.

Then, he stopped and hauled you to the floor with a single arm twice the thickness of that of his human counterpart. He knew no gentleness even now, dropping you onto your knees and palms against splintery floorboards which vented cool air up through the gaps, into your skin from the draft rising from underneath the house.

That cold reached deeper, seemed to lift off the ground to meet you as your husband—the beast—thrust your chest against the stiff boards and spread your legs apart with his mass. His claws sank around your hips without piercing your flesh, though their sharpness was undiminished to you regardless.

You knew agitation would not serve you here, neither would bursts of courage to escape. He would catch you with those talons, eat your insides with them and fuck you all the same.

He mounted you clumsily, then.

Enormous, coarse-haired hips grinding against your bare ass, prickling you, making you wince from where your face was nearly pressed into the wood below. You shivered at the first pass of his cock between your legs. Stiff and girthy, arched so well that you felt the moist tip drag across you, catching on spots he'd licked to flinching sensitivity, eagerly prodding at you.

The beast made a sound; a suffering groan with the tremble of his hips before he was thrusting inside of you. The sheer viciousness of his hips hammering against the globes of your ass and his heaviness forced you flat to the floor, where you reached out from the sides of your body for something to hold and grip for comfort. It was barren everywhere you touched.

Your walls were still tight around his cock even as the moments passed, growing no closer to accommodating his size than before, strokes animalistic and messy. While his fur muffled the friction of your skin, the airless dark of your bedroom was compacted with lewd squelching and moans you'd never known you were capable of making. Your noises were high-pitched and vile, paced with his hips, the curve of his cock stroking your velvety insides, and the wet suction releasing when he'd partially withdraw.

Above you, he panted with his long tongue lolling, dripping strings of saliva onto your back where they cooled upon contact and made you feel filthy. Your body ached from his weight pinning you to the inflexible floorboards, cold numbing your skin, hardening your nipples, grinding them down with each of his thrusts.

The enclosed space held an unusual smell, one apart from what you knew was sex. How sweat and salt and cum clung to the mustiness of old places. This was more pungent; earthier and heavier as it filled the room and leaked out of your hole, oozing down your thighs like nectar from a weeping peach.

You continued to let the beast—your husband—fuck you into the wood, the grain, to become an impression in the floor as nothing else could be done. But you were sore now and sure to be swollen, as you were an uncomfortable fit for him again; virgin tightness which gripped every vein and ridge in his cock.

The grinning beast bared even more of his teeth, clicking them together as he released a shuddering sound, too distant to be human but not entirely monstrous. He rutted you carnally, pushing your legs as far apart as they could go from where you were on your stomach, and went deeper inside of you still.

Something about the depth was so wrong—not meant to be, not meant to be experienced by a creature so simple as yourself. It was divine pleasure and pain, it was a threshold that shouldn't have been crossed, yet he had persevered and fucked you into screams.

His hips stuttered violently and he growled; he snarled; he whimpered like an actual beast mortally wounded. You gasped in awe at an enormity of sensations: his cum gushing inside of you, spurting out in thick ribbons to join the rest that had dried on your thighs, and his knot stretching your walls, locking his hips against your ass.

You fidgeted from the bulbous growth, clenching around it, whining wanly while he insistently humped you to burrow the knot as far as it could go. He was trying to breed you; plug his spend inside of you just as he would have had another creature of his sort. Because you were his spouse, perhaps he was only able to perceive you as his mate.

His movements soon slowed, calmed in a way of someone who'd been taken by blows of exhaustion and draped his large body across your back, prodding you with his spinose furs. There was some tenderness in how he kept his arms outside of you, bracing his weight onto them so as to not smother you. He did it to adjust his knot and half-hard cock inside you as well, unforgiving to the idea that you might have forgotten his fullness, that you were brimmed with his cum and felt bloated from it.

Nothing would come from this, only the shame of knowing you'd moaned and screamed for this beast, but not the human you'd married.

[hyukascampfire]

𝓐T 𝓢WA𝓝 𝓛AKE ﹐､﹒ c.bg ˏˋ੭ꠥ ¸ˎ

as both equals and opposites, white swan and black swan, it is paramount that you and choi beomgyu do not touch. the curse of your natures did not even make exception for incidental brushes. that was never an issue for you—not until the day the prince took it upon himself to break every rule you’d ever known. ⋆˛ ˛

⸺ listen to the playlist .ᐟ ‧˚

⸉⋆ ᧔ 🦢᧓ ･ 10.3k

𝒫airings ˒ black swan prince!beomgyu 𝓍 white swan princess!reader

𝒢 ‎⍪ smut ˒ fantasy ˒ forbidden romance

𝒲arnings ˒ smut, angst and longing, unprotected sex, lots of teasing, jealousy…, yearning and yearning, he cums on her, theyre both desperate, pathetically in love!beomgyu, shes all he wants, virgin!reader, loss of innocence, he talks her through it, he gets a little whiny… hmm i can’t remember if i’m missing anything. this is not proofread!! i’m gonna nap first.

✎୭ ashlynn's note @hmusunoo … baby you did your big one with this. i can not explain to you how excited i’ve been for this one. this is absolutely my favorite. it’s just so me, u know me so well and i think we should kiss. THANK U!

﹙⋞ ﹚... back to the 𝓂asterlist

Around you, mist and delicate flurries sit over white, fluffy blankets. Where it sits over the lake, it turns the horizon of the lake’s expanse into an obscured uncertainty. If you hadn’t spent so much time right here, you might think that it goes on forever. 

It’s a beautiful, clear winter’s morning. Sparkling air wraps you in sweet and crisp tendrils, every breath to your lungs almost bitingly fresh. But in all its lightness, your chest only feels heavier. You had hoped that coming here would be a little, momentary respite. The air is so free around you, though, the weight doesn’t float away with it—it just leaves nothing but the feeling for you to contend with. No skittish wildlife rustle the foliage, and a thin film holds the crystalline lake from lapping at the bank. It seems that not even the wind moves. Just you.  

It’s not your tears that you hide here. Sadness is a soft, gentle thing; an acceptable thing for a Lady like yourself to indulge in. It’s what the people expect of their princess. The demure and always prim White Swan. Always correct, always just how you should be. 

Your tears are more like scalding, molten licks of fire than the slow, darling tears that are expected of you, though. They’re angry. It clashes up against the walls you’ve built up within yourself, against the role you’ve assumed. 

That’s why you’ve come here. Coarser emotions are unbecoming of you, and it’d be a shame to feel them in front of others. It’s a shame that you’re letting yourself feel it now, even. You summon a thin sigh, funneling up all the tangy bitterness on your tongue to let it fall out into the air before you. 

It doesn’t do much for you, really. This—feeling like this, so beyond the reach of your usual ways to shove down ugliness—is unfamiliar. Your entire life has been this, why do you struggle with it now? In the center of you, mingling with that anger, it’s as though a blackness blooms. Like a wretched flowering of some invasive plume, or perhaps the floating of inky black feathers through your bloodstream, you feel painted dark and unpleasant. 

Holding the dappled fur of your shawl closer, you decide to watch chunks of crystal white ice float on the water’s surface. Or maybe the on-and-off snowflakes that float down around you. Even tracing the lengths of barren branches, lined with white fluff so still and serene, with your eyes. Anything but delving into what that tainted tug inside is, or what it might mean about you.  

Snow crunches, or maybe a branch shifting, beckons your attention. But the foliage isn’t too thick, and trees are sparse around the lake, and there is always some small winged creature fluttering between branches out here. So, you brush it off. 

A tingling about your person, some sort of whispering premonition, whisps and tugs just around your form. You straighten up at another thick step crunching in the snow from behind you. This time, you can’t explain it away.  

A figure greets you. Dark, raven strands of silken hair fallen over eyes of the same, his skin so stark against it, black shoulder cloak on his shoulder flowing like velvet water against his billowing sleeves all ruffled and enamoring. He glitters like the frost, twinkling silver threads and black crystals sewn in to catch the light and make a show of him. Standing there, looking at you, he doesn’t look caught or frozen. 

But you are. Wholly still, all of you like a sculpture of frost, you gawk right at him. You’d never interacted with the prince, the black swan. Never even seen him. It was never in the cards. Fear like ice curls clawed fingers over your heart and grasps it.  

All your life, grand warnings of terrible things of him and what might happen should the two of you ever touch fell from the mouths of those around you. It was the constitution of who the two of you are—born to be the balance to each other, never to touch. Just an incidental brushing of fingers meant turning the world’s balance over on its head. They told you that the world would begin to fray at the seams, reality would warp, and that it’d be all your fault. And they also told you plenty about who the prince was as a person, too. Not only do you fear him for the curse of your nature, but also for all the nasty things you’ve heard of him. This, meeting him, was a thing of your deepest-cutting nightmares. 

And, there, he stands in front of you. 

“What are you doing out here crying?” Beomgyu says, curious eyes darting over your face. Under his gaze, you’re not sure how to feel. But you feel every last bit of it, regardless. 

You wipe at your cheek, where he must’ve seen the wet streaks glistening in the light. Summoning some poise up from where you keep it in handy, you say, “It’s no matter. I was just looking out on the snow.” You fix up your hair and your dress.  

The prince frowns, studying your face once again. Utterly unconvinced by what he finds there, he gestures toward you. “You’ve been crying, princess,” he says. “I didn’t think that lying was in the cards for you.” 

Lying? Not in the cards for you? Lying is all you do. You lie to yourself and to others more than you are honest. “Maybe, but I’m well,” you say, and then you lift the soft skirts of your dress to step without treading it in the snow. “Really, I ought to get home before the snowfall gets heavier. It was lovely seeing you.” You try and make sure to keep a good and proper distance from him as you make for where you arrived here from. 

Beomgyu reaches out for you, only pulling back from grabbing your arm at a frighteningly slim realization. “Wait,” he says, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he realizes what he’d almost just done. “You don’t have to leave. Why is it that you cry?” 

He’d almost touched you. That close—you’d come that close to tragedy in only the first moments of your meeting. Your heart pumps out sizzling, frantic energy that has you looking at him wide-eyed and shaken. “I think you and I both are the most aware why it’s best that I leave,” you tell him, keeping it curt. You hold your arms to you.  

Strong brows knitting, he shakes his head and takes some big steps back. The snow, sat powdery and calf-high on the ground, creaks beneath them. “I’ll stay back here,” he says. “Just don’t go. Won’t you entertain me? It’s a gentleman’s duty to help a weeping Lady.” 

You falter. The words might have you blushing and offering him a modest thank you, but the way he says it—it’s rather taunting. It’s taunting in a way that gets right up under your skin and ruffles your feathers. “And why does it bother you so?” you ask him, arching a dainty brow. You’re not even sure why he’s come out here in the first place. This is the one place that you ordain your own. It seems that not even here can you be totally alone. “They’ll have a fit if they know I was here with you.” 

The prince, with his clear, ethereal features cracking into a wicked amusement that you’re not sure how to digest, says, “Perhaps they will.” He tilts his head at you, wispy strands of hair moving over his shadowed eyes with it. “But, princess, that’s the fun in it. That they will admonish you for it. Is that why you’re crying?” 

Fun? Nothing about what your people, your parents, might do should they find that you’d not only been near but spoken to the black swan, is fun. You level him wary eyes. And, though sense tugs at your feet and asks you to get going, you do not. You do not know why. 

“I think it is.” He’s got an obnoxious tilt to his lips. “I think that’s why you cry.” 

A scoff, an abrasive and distasteful sound coming from you, falls out from your mouth. There’s that awful imprudence and temerity that you’ve heard of the black swan—everything you ought not to be. “You seem the type to know everything,” you say. 

He laughs, delighted. “Is that snark?” 

Pursing your lips as though confused, you spin spiced threads of patronization into your voice. “Not snark,” you say. “Just an observation.” 

 “Hmm.” Beomgyu slides his hands into his pockets to warm his hands. “Might I make an observation about you, princess?” 

There’s interest written all over his face—you know he’s playing some sort of game. You also know that you shouldn’t indulge him in it. Still, you do. A slight raising of your brow, or maybe the interest twinkling in your eyes, too, tells him to go on. 

“I think that you are too dutiful for your own good,” he says.  

In a slight, testy step, he inches closer. Not so close that you worry, but the two of you are not even supposed to be in the same room. Anything is too close. You mirror it with a step back. “You don’t know me,” you say. Against your better judgement, though, your lips twitch into a soft smile. The kind of smile that is insistent, no matter how you refuse it. “So, I believe your wonderings to be entirely groundless.” 

Hair blowing gently in the wisps of a winter wind and his nose and cheeks gone pink, he says, “Oh, princess. Hardly. I think we know a great deal about each other.” 

Well, that’s true enough. All your life you heard of him and your curse. You’re sure it was no different for him, no matter your differences. “And what do you know about me?” you ask.  

Beomgyu’s laugh falls out in a white puff of curling frost. “I know it’s been arranged that you’ll marry a superior Lord,” he says. He observes you. “Am I right?” 

So fast, just with that, lightness falls from your face. You hadn’t wanted to be reminded. Your feet itch to be off, so that you can feel it elsewhere. Not here; not in front of him. Leveling yourself so that your voice doesn’t come out as stilted as you feel, you say, “Yeah. You are.” 

With his eyes narrowing on you, he says, “You know, it’s weird. I’ve never seen a girl excited to be wedded look like that when it’s brought up.” 

You reign in your face and shake your head. “I am perfectly excited. It’s a blessing to be married into such a family.” As much as you smooth over the furrowing of your brows, or make your expression pleasant, it’s not so easy to tame the picking of your fingers. 

Anything other than excited, you might be. But absolutely not that. In fact, you are beyond yourself with anger, and you have nowhere to go with it. It bubbles hot just under your skin and demands a release that you cannot give. 

Being who you are, it’s been a truth you’ve known your whole life. Someday, you were going to be offered like a shiny, silver pawn to the highest bidder. And you, as the world’s white swan, are quite the enticing thing to own. You thought you’d banished the hope for a union of love right where you’d left the sense of self behind: years ago. The time’s come now, but you aren’t as at peace with it as you should be. No matter how hard you try, you are more human than you’d like to be, and far too human to be what the world expects you to be. 

If you’re going to be frank with yourself: you do not want to marry him. Living as something bought, expected to live forever as this mellowed out, poised version of yourself by the side of some man who you don’t even know or love... Of any fate you might be made to live, you think that this one is the worst. 

Beomgyu begins working on taking off his jacket, a white and pretty thing with thick, winter fabric. He offers it to you. “You don’t have to lie to me about it. Maybe them, but not me.” 

You look between him and his offering hand—his perfect features that are so elegant, and yet, there’s a wildness to him in those hard black eyes. If you didn’t already know so much about him, you might still be able to see the untamed in him. Who couldn’t? He wears it plainly; without remorse. You’re not sure how to interact with it, but, in a way, you envy him. 

Reaching out, you accept the jacket from his hand. Tentatively, with great care so as to avoid touch, but you do.  

It’s nice and soft against your frost-kissed shoulders. But it’s not enough to fix the bite against the skin on your face, so you trudge through the snow over to the sparse tree line, where the trunks might protect you better from it than the flat expanse of the lake’s surface. You press your back to a tree, and he mirrors it on the tree opposite to you. Looking over the great lake, so very serene. It twinkles with an ice film like sugar crystals atop its surface. “I guess I’m just... scared,” you say. The words come out soft and uncertain. 

He nods. Listening. So, you continue. “I don’t even know him. I haven’t spoken to my betrothed once. Maybe I’ll get to know him, and maybe he won’t be bad, but...” 

“But he’s not who you want,” Beomgyu says. “Not who you love.” 

Licking your winter-chapped lips, you eye him for a moment. You nod slowly and say, “...Yeah. I suppose it’s selfish, but...” 

Ignited, Beomgyu pushes off the tree to say, “Selfish? You give your whole life to being their saint. Maybe they think they do, but they don’t own you.” 

You, not us. Frowning, you ask him, “Are you not set for some marriage of convenience?” Marrying is different as a woman, but you don’t doubt that the prince’s family intends to strengthen alliances by offering his marriage up to some optimistic, lesser family with a daughter to bargain the way yours has done with you. Every last girl and boy born as you two have been��destined to a life bigger than yourself, a force in the world as much as you are a person—have lived just the same. All of them. Each incarnation of the white swan, and you’re sure every black swan too. The people of this world paint you as embodiments of balance and life, but use you more like power plays. Even your own parents. You were born from your mother all the same as all your siblings, but as much as it aches to admit it, you are not their child. In the back of your throat, hurt and bare anger wells up thick. 

He half laughs, half scoffs. “They could try. It doesn’t matter to me. They’d have to kill me before I do their bidding. Is it our fault that we were born this?” he says. “I’m going to live my life how I want, no matter what.” 

You tuck your hands into your sides, where they warm between the jacket and your body heat. His words and how he looks at your lives, it’s everything you’re not. Sense of self and determination to live for more than just your predetermined role—while you’d surrendered it all, he lives thrashing and fighting against it. A product of your mirrored and opposite natures.  

“Why?” you say, teeth chattering a bit under the cold’s caress. “You have a girl in mind?” 

That sounds nice. Being so hopefully devoted to someone, and them to you, that you might war against destiny for it. The thought only nurses hurt somewhere deep in your chest, though. Not for you. Never for you. You could be the prettiest on this Earth, the kindest, the most disciplined, or the least even. Still, that would never be yours. You know that, so why does it taste so bitter?  

A quick look, something new, passes over him. In his eyes, you see it. He looks at you for a long minute, the morning so quiet that nothing but tranquility hangs in the air for a moment, and then finally says, “Yeah. Something like that.”  

Entirely intrigued, you ask, “Who? Is she a Lady?” 

Beomgyu nods his head, that strange look lingering. “Of sorts,” he answers, crossing his arms over his chest to lean back into the bark. “And your betrothed? Some well-off Lord?” 

A smile ghosts over your mouth. “Probably. I haven’t a clue who it is; but I’m sure he’s got enough coin to spare, if my parents settled on him.” 

The lines of his face gone playful, he says, “Not possibly more well-off than me.” 

Your nose crinkles. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you say. A husband with money is nice. You can’t pretend that you don’t think of that, especially that none of your family’s wealth belongs to you, nor will it follow you into your marriage. Your heart revolts regardless.  

Shrugging after a few beats of silent considering, he turns his attention on the lake. His face turned like that, you admire the straight slope of his nose and his eyelashes as they flutter with his heavy eyes. Like the rest of him, his side profile is a contradiction. Strong and noble, but elegant like hewn from marble. It’s perfect. With all the talk in your ears, you’d pictured something far off from the youthful, wry man stood before you. Why you’d come to imagine him brutish, you’re not sure; he’s as much swan as you. Different and mirrored all the same. 

“I used to come here all the time,” he says. 

“Here? To the lake?” You perk up. This had been your hideaway as a girl; where you’d come at times like this when you needed to bury something away. You thought it’d been just yours. “I wonder how we never ran into each other. I used to do the same. I guess, I still do.” 

When his eyes fall back on you, they’re softer. More deep brown than black, but maybe it’s because you’re closer now. He says, “Well, I came here once or twice on my own, maybe when I was five. I didn’t really start coming back until I saw you. You were crying, all snotty, and throwing bread out for some ducks.” 

Your face twists up, maybe at the memory or maybe with confusion. It seems like if he’d really come here so often, and had even seen you here, you’d have noticed. “You must have thought I was weird,” you say, the words coming out around a shiver.  

“Maybe,” he says through a wry smile that’s cracked over his lips. “But mostly, I just wished I could talk to you.” 

He’d watched you, because he couldn’t approach you? You were under the impression that the prince had never cared for the rules, not even one so paramount as that. But, it seems that his brashness came to him later. He stands in front of you now, doesn’t he? Maybe it was just that innocent trust that, as children, you levy out to those arounds you. Especially toward adults; and all of those had preached over moments like this. You imagine a young, curious Beomgyu, hiding himself away between bushes, itching to approach or play with you. But he never did; you hadn’t the slightest clue he’d even been there until now. Could you two have been friends, if not for the curse? 

“You never came out,” you say. “Or introduced yourself?” It’s all you can really think. 

His mouth twitches. “Would you have stayed?” 

No. Then, you don’t think you would’ve. Even now, you’re stricken with the innate fear of touching him, no matter how surprised you are at how different he is. Different from what they said he’d be. You think you would’ve darted, should you have known who he was. For some reason, that makes your heart ache. A dark ebbing wave of ache that you are unfamiliar with. 

A slight knowing smile danced over his features, eyes gone to sweet crescents that turn them, usually so dark, into something rounded. Not so abrasive. He tilts his head off to one side and says, “You’re freezing. How long have you been out here?” 

Cheeks long been numb, you answer, “An hour. Maybe and a half?” 

“I’ll walk you home.” 

You grimace. Arriving with him by your side, the man you quite literally were not supposed to even speak with, is the very last thing you should do. An awful idea. “I wouldn’t bother you. It’s probably not the best idea to show up after disappearing, with a man by my side. Especially not as a to-be-married woman,” you say. “But, thank you. Really.” 

He knows what you really mean, though. A muscle in his jaw feathers. “Alright,” he says. “I suppose we wouldn’t want that, would we?” 

As he begins to turn, making for wherever he’d come here from, you call out to him. “Hey, wait. Your jacket.” You pull it off your shoulders and joust it out at him. Against your skin which it had warmed, the air is bitterly cold. 

“Keep it, princess,” he says, giving you a parting nod. “Get home warm.” 

Today, you are to give your hand to a man that you do not know.

In the air, the rich nuttiness of fire-toasted chestnuts dance and mingle with the roar of chatter. Hundreds of familiar and unfamiliar faces line long tables with runners decorated by platters of plump, sugar-dusted plums and fruit pies. They’ve all come in their winter’s best—whites and reds and luxurious furs lining thick, velvety fabrics or embroidered with sparkling threads and studded with crystals that twinkle in the low firelight. It’s warm and lovely and all just for you. 

But, you don’t feel any of that. All you feel is a heavy belly. Each smile you tug over your mouth feels like dead weight. You’re familiar with this—putting on the act. Smiling in faces that you know will turn around and have something else to say about you, pretending like you don’t know that it’s all false sweetness. You’d been trained in noble propriety since you could walk and talk. 

But, considering that they’ve all come here to shower you with gifts and lovely words for a marriage in which they could really not care about beyond how they make it a profit, it’s all a bit more sour. 

You’ve met your promised. The man you’re supposed to wed and spend the entirety of your life beside. You spoke with him for... what, two minutes? Two very awkward, very awful minutes. What should you have to say to each other? You’re meeting for the first time today. At your engagement feast. It’s a real conscious effort to not take your lip into your mouth and gnaw, or to not fuss over your hair, or honestly anything that might show these people that you are anything but pleased. 

So, you relent to their gaudy pleasantries. You listen to them tell you that it’s such a blessing to be married to a man of high society—and a wealthy one, too. They tell you that they knew your marriage would bring a great dowry; that all the white swans have. That they were watching and expecting it. All you hear is the dripping of greed; all you see is hungry eyes and fingers crossed behind backs. 

You relent to it until your stomach is sick and wrought with it. And then, the older lady ahead of you singing praises of your beauty, of how she wishes her daughter might catch the eye of a husband as advantageous as yours, does something out of the ordinary. Her eyes drift behind you, her snooty, pinched features twisting up into something new. You follow her gaze. 

Dark and beautiful and his eyes trained right on you, the black swan prince stands beside you. He’s lazed, a heavy cup of some thick, spiced and wintery drink in one hand, as he does. In the clear light of morning, he’d looked so out of place. But here, soft and hard planes of his face illustrated by the flickering orange firelight, he looks so right. 

You blink. And then blink again. Never once had Beomgyu made any sort of appearance at any hosted thing by your family. You just stand in place for a moment, registering his presence.

“You look lovely, princess,” he says. His eyes fall up and down you. The way he says it—it’s liquid smooth, but it’s taunting in a way. “The perfect image of a bride-to-be.”

He can’t be here. He can’t be here at all. When you look to the side, the woman is already gone. You have no doubt in your mind that she’s whispering in somebody’s ear right now.

“Prince,” you say, gritting your teeth while also dipping into an elegant curtsy. 

“Do you feel that way?” He raises his eyebrows at you, his gaze heavy with underlying tension. “A perfect bride? Happy?”

Making the conscious decision to not look around you, because you can already feel the burning interest of the eyes that you’ll find on you, you say, “I do. Isn’t this quite the feast?”

“I told you that you don’t have to lie to me, princess.”

You shouldn’t even be standing here talking to him. They’re all watching. Stepping back to cut conversation with something witty, you stop in the onslaught of a chorus of surrounding gasps.

Beomgyu had reached out to grab you, and only stopped himself short the same way he had the first time you met him. A muscle twitches in his jaw as he brings his hand down, curling the fingers as if to wash away the urge to reach out.

He’s closer now, too. His breath smells sickly sweet with the liqueur he drinks. A sarcastic grin over his lips, he says, “Did he pay for all this?”

You do a dance of give and take. You step back, and he meets it with a step toward you, all the way until you find yourselves in a quieter corner. “He did sponsor the feast, yes.”

“Well, isn’t that just great,” he says, voice carrying over the many layered sounds of the gathering. “And that makes you happy? You feel fulfilled by that? Is that the purpose of the lovely white swan?”

You’re not sure what he’s getting at, or why your marriage is any of his business. For some reason, though, despite those rational thoughts, some faraway memory whispers that it makes every bit of sense. “He is a lovely man.”

Barking a laugh, Beomgyu says, “Don’t make me laugh. You don’t believe that, no matter how many times you tell it to yourself.”

You curl your fingers into the obnoxious, glittering material of your dress. “Seriously, what makes you so sure?” you say. “What makes you so sure you know? This is good for me. This is the way things are supposed to go. Not everybody in this world can get away with serving only themselves and doing whatever they want. Maybe it works for you, but not for the rest of us. I’m glad your life is fun, though. Really.” 

His face doesn’t sharpen into offence, though you brace for him to. You’ve never spoken to anybody like that. Ever. Shaking his head, raven locks glowing warm around the edges, he says, “Because I know. I know. Are you listening to me? You don’t have to lie to me.”

Balking at him, you don’t know how to answer. That was nowhere near the answer you were expecting from the prince, known and notorious for his chaos and fire.

“I am listening,” you say, keeping your voice measured. Thick emotion slips through the seams. “Honesty has never done me any good. This is going to happen; all honesty is going to do is hurt me. So, I’m sorry.”

His mouth opens to fire something back, but you don’t hear it. Somebody digs their fingers into your upper arm, dragging you without a word away from your conversation. You stumble, letting them take you without a fuss. This was to be expected. You shouldn’t look back. If today was already going to be the last day you ever see him, it certainly is now that you’ve been caught not only in touching distance to him, but making conversation with him.

Tossing a self-betraying glace over your shoulder, you find his figure. Hand in pocket and his lips turned down, he watches you go.

You wish you wouldn’t have. You have no explanation for the emptiness it casts into your chest.

Recently, you’ve been crying so much. You might believe that it’s because you’ve been letting yourself feel freely, but you don’t feel free.

Your palms are soaked against your cheeks, face fallen into them as you shudder with it. Their words pin and scrape in your head, forcing you to contend with them before bouncing off the walls and you hear them again and again until your stomach has gone sick. Your parents had given you an earful. That’s been your whole life; you can handle that. The moment you saw him there, intending to speak to you, you’d prepared for it. Instead, it was their contempt and sneering faces that bleed your heart like this. 

In this life, you are alone. Totally, wholly alone. Who you are—your role in life—is not the blessing they claim it to be. Is it selfish to ask to be understood? For somebody to just understand, without your pleading or begging?

Maybe. It feels that way, anyway.

“Why is it that I always find you crying?”

His voice freezes you to where you sit sprawled on your floor. Spinning to him, you say, “What are you doing?”

Beomgyu shrugs, as though he hasn’t snuck his way into your room. “I felt bad for getting you dragged off. Wanted to come see how you’re doing.”

Maybe his insisting on being around you should be annoying, but right now… You think you appreciate the company, even from the forbidden likes of him. “You can’t be here,” you hiss. “How did you get in? They’ll… if they find you here…”

His boots squeak against the polished flooring as he approaches you, and then settles down on the floor with you. The fire flickering behind him, his back to it, casts an orange light around the edges of his figure. He looks terribly inviting, like this: strewn on the floor, no holier or better than you, his face not sickly sweet nor cold and devoid of love, and his eyes curious to know how you feel. 

“I don’t care what they’ll do to me. I want to see you.” He tugs his jacket off, letting it fall on the dirty floor. Improper for a prince, but Beomgyu doesn’t care. That’s who he’s always been—that’s the one thing that was entirely true out of all the things you heard about him. “Who the hell cares about their approval? We don’t need it.”

You know what he means by they and we. Only a few days ago, you’d still believed that Beomgyu was other; that he was your total opposite, and that you should fear his darkness for all your lightness. All it’s taken is being around him the once or twice that you’ve been able to for you to realize the falsity that drips from that. When you’re around him, your soul, feathery and wispy in your chest and your veins and all the rest of you that constitutes you beyond what is physical, tugs. It’s impossible to ignore—it consumes you. Where your soul longs for him around the edges, like torn and searching for what’s been lost, you feel stuff that is beyond yourself.

Rather than your opposite, you think that Beomgyu is your other half. You think that they’ve gotten it all wrong. 

“How do you do it?” you say, back up against a white, whorling table leg. “How do you not care? I don’t understand.”

Inky eyes shining, he says, “I did. When I was young, I believed everything they told me. It’s hard not to, when it’s all you hear. Them, telling us that our purpose is to surrender ourselves to be something Saint-like. But when you catch one lie, you begin to catch the others, too. I saw their excuses and reasonings peel. Princess, it’s all lies. Everything you know is lies.” He says it with such conviction. Each and every word reaches down into that part of yourself that is missing something. “We’re not their Saints. That’s never been our purpose. I hate that shit; I hate that they’ve made you think that this is all you’re for. Marrying him? Never doing anything, because you’re scared of what it’ll mean for you? It’s not fucking fair.” He pushes himself closer to you. Now, your criss crossed knees are so close that a stray move might mean the world’s end. This time, you don’t panic. There’s no room for that among the swarm of your other thoughts. “So, of course I don’t give a shit about what they tell me to do. I’m going to live this life the way that it’s supposed to be. I wish that you could join me.”

“This life?” you blurt. It’s the one thought that appears clear to you, so it’s what comes out. Frowning, you add, “What lies?”

Deadpanned and as though he’s not delivering something that changes the world’s fabric around you, Beomgyu says, “There is no curse. There’s never been a curse.”

Your room is silent for a few moments, and then you shake your head and laugh. “How would you know that?” you say, nose wrinkling. If you don’t laugh, you’ll begin to actually consider the possibility of that. Just the very surface of the notion makes you nauseous. You couldn’t handle exploring the thought deeper. 

Beomgyu doesn’t laugh along with you. “The curse is a lie, and everything that comes with it. All of it is just excuses or justification for the hate for the other people. The whole reason that they ever decided on it was because of their hate. Maybe to the people alive now, it’s not a lie. But that’s what it started as.” His face, dark and soft as he reads your face, twists up. “Of course, we can touch. We are two halves of a whole. There is you in me, and I in you. Do you not feel it? The tug? That’s it. The black swan and the white swan were never meant to be apart and opposite. We are meant to be together. We’re meant to be the only ones that understand each other. It’s us against the world, princess.”

Your ears ring with the pierce of each word cascading out from his mouth. “Beomgyu, I don’t understand. That doesn’t… Make sense. How?” He can’t just make claims about that. Not something like this. It’s not fair.

“I know it’s hard to believe, princess. It’s all you’re ever made to believe. But you have to trust me. Do you trust me?”

Tongue darting out to wet your lips and your fingers stilling where you fuss at the fabric of your chemise, you take a good look at him. Roaming over his features, the contradiction in them and the strange familiarity that constitutes him no matter the fact that you’ve only just met, you consider it. Everything he says is absurd, and it does go against everything you’ve ever known. You should turn your nose up at him for even suggesting it; should suspect that he only has some sort of plan to coax you into bringing the world’s end.

But, you do. You trust him beyond explanation, as though intrinsically.

You nod slowly, holding his eyes in yours. “But I don’t understand,” you say. “How do you know?”

He smiles ruefully. “I saw something—had a dream when I was young. I saw us, in every last lifetime. We have lived again and again, as we are, in so many different ways. But the one thing that was always there was that they couldn’t keep us away from each other.”

The world does a few spins around you. Lightheaded, you try to stay up under the oppressive gravity of that. You want to stick your head in the ground and shake your head and yell no, but that deep tugging that has plagued you beginning the moment you’d met him, and all the emptiness before it, tells you yes. 

How poetic is that? How tragic? You, two souls born to be one, made to live apart at the interests of the world around you. Made to do it across every lifetime, and yet, in each you meet. In each, the twinkling thread of fate prevails nevertheless. 

“Do they all love?”

That soft smile still playing on his lips, his cheek to his knee as he looks at you with the veneration of somebody who might’ve loved you in a thousand lifetimes before, and perhaps in this one, too. “No. Some of us were secret lovers, but so many of those lived how you do for the entirety of their life. Halved,” he says. “And never did any of them touch.”

Heart fluttering with wings in your chest, you say, “So, how do you know that the curse is a lie? If it’s never been done before?”

“Let me show you,” he says. “That I can touch you.”

All the blood in your body pulls back. You trust him; you do. But is trust enough to risk a touch that could be the end of the world? Is trust enough to be so selfish to do so? 

Seeing you blanch, Beomgyu’s eyes go glassy. “Please,” he says, voice breaking as if to touch you might mean more than just proving something to you. As if the weight of everything he’s ever wanted rests on the back of it working—that if this works, and the world does not fall apart around you, then he can love you how he does, and how he had so many times before. Inevitably. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“Beomgyu,” you say, looking between his eyes and the twitch of his hand as it itches to touch you. “I don’t… I’m scared.” Your voice drops to nothing more than a whisper.

“It’s okay,” he says, bringing that longing hand up. Your heart jumps when he raises up by your face. “You can be selfish this once. I want to see you do something because you want to, not because it’s what you think others might want.”

Your throat burns and tightens. Every last sparkling bit of your being longs to lean into his touch—to do what you two have wanted to do so many times before, and finally bring your souls back together. “What if it happens?” you ask, your eyes soft and true like an animal turning its soft underbelly to receive affection.

“Then let it,” he says. “At least we would have touched. Just this once.”

Gritting your teeth and swallowing hard, your belly does itself up into knots. You don’t answer him, but your quiet speaks enough. His hand hovers beside your face with the weight of the world in it.

The first touch of the white swan and the black swan happens in a gentle cupping of your cheek. And, the world does fall down around you. The walls melt, air leaves, and the seams of everything that’s even been good or true are ripped out and sewn with something new and beautiful. It’s as explosive and cosmic as you imagined it, but it is not terrifying. It’s lovely.

Your breaths shudder, your lungs trembling as you look into his eyes and realize what this means.

“Fuck,” is all Beomgyu breathes. It looks as though that it’s all he can manage. His touch grows more solid as the both of you realize that the both of you are still very much here, and so is the world. Thumb pad grazing over the softness of your cheek, his throat bobs with a swallow. You think that if you were to press your hand over his chest, you might feel it thudding there to the same thunderous rhythm that yours beats to.

So, you do. Because you can touch him. His heart sings beneath your palm, even through fabric and flesh. You can’t help the wobbling of your lip and the hot tears that spill out past your eyes and roll down your cheeks.

The second touching is the bringing together of your lips. His mouth is soft and hard against yours, contradictory as the rest of him. He brings his other hand up to hold your face into his kiss. It’s not sweet and slow—it’s as ground-rumbling as the kiss between intertwined souls coming together after an eternity of being away. Each nip and lick and clash of teeth are like the claps of thunder of the storm that will end the world, his hand sliding up the back of your neck to card his fingers through the hair at the back of your head like the claws of a beast sent to ensure its end.

And, maybe Beomgyu is the beast that has come to end the world. You wonder how he’d waited so long to bring the truth to you, or if he was torn about ever telling you. What changed things, after so many years of him watching you from afar? Your engagement? Perhaps that’s what that drink in his hand had been: a thing to forget with.

It hadn’t worked. As he kisses you for all the lifetimes in which you couldn’t, you know that he couldn’t have accepted that and moved on. Of all the black swans that have lived and passed, Beomgyu must be the most stubborn and strong-willed. That’s why, out of every single life, this is the first that you touch. He would take the world on, or play with the existence of it, for this. Just for you. All for you—you’d found somebody who will do something just for you. Curling your fingers into the front of his tunic just over his chest, you pour the fire of that revelation into your kiss.

He roams his hands all over you, mapping your shape. You kiss and kiss, lips tugging and twisting against each other, and still it isn’t enough. Bracing a splayed palm over your lower back, he does not stop kissing you even as he lays you back onto the ground. The flooring is cold against your burning body. He supports his weight on one hand beside your head and straddles your hips to do nothing but run his fingers through your hair and just kiss you. 

Only when your lungs are too hungry to ignore does he free your mouth. His soft black hair dangles over his starry eyes as he looks down at you with them. Lips swollen and smeared with you, his chest heaves. Bringing his free hand up, he wipes your wet cheek.

“Oh my god,” you say, breathless. “Beomgyu.”

Pressing his forehead to yours, he laughs. “I like when you call me that. I think I want to make you scream it—scream it until they come breaking down your doors and see that we are each other's. Until your fiancé hears it.”

Body bursting at the seams at the prospect, you nod frantically and dip your face into his neck to dust starry kisses there, too. He shudders. “I want it so bad. Can you please?”

“Of course I can. I’m going to make love to you, okay?” He pushes off you, crawling back so that he’s sat squatted just before your knees as you pin them together. “Open your legs, princess. Show me how pretty you are—I’ve waited so long for it.” He pats on the outer side of your knee.

Thrill spiraling up from between your thighs like sparks, you oblige slowly. You let your legs fall open for him, and choke on your own heart as he begins to slowly work your dress up the expanse of your legs, and then your thighs, baring to him the plush and unseen skin there. He eats it up wildly, his eyes gone ravenous and even blacker.

“I’ve never done this before,” you say, voice trill and unsure. “I don’t know what to do.”

A wicked grin cracks over his features. “I know, princess.” The fabric bunches at your thighs, now. You tremble with the stifling anticipation. “I’m going to take care of you. It’s going to feel so good—I’m gonna make you feel so good. I have so many things I want to do to you. Lifetimes of things I want to make you feel.”

Doe-eyed and laying your trust in his hands, your thighs twitch and you nod. He reveals your cunt at last, finally catching the glistening sight of it for the very first time. And, he does not disappoint. The look that washes over his face—the twitching of his lips, the tightening of his jaw in a flickering muscle, and the fire razing your cunt in his eyes—is something so dreamlike, but lucid nonetheless.

“You just lay down and let me help you. Treat you how a princess should be treated.” He works on his pants, silver belt clinking and then loosening, and then he’s just as exposed as you when his length pops free. It’s hard already, tall and pretty like the rest of him, but pink and obscene at the tip. He leaks from the little slit at the top. “Look at you. You look like you want to taste it,” he says, laughing while collecting the liquid to pump himself a few times. “Next time, baby. I’d love to see the proper mouth of the world’s princess choking on my cock.”

The air is cold against the mess between your legs. It sends a chill up your spine—or maybe that was the crudeness of his words. You suppose you should’ve expected nothing less from him. When he goes to climb back over you and line himself up with you, your thighs twitch and try to snap shut.

He pins your hip to the floor. “Don’t be shy, baby. I wanna see that pretty pussy. It’s not fair to hide it from me.”

“Sorry,” you say, cheeks burning.

Taking that hand and sliding it up behind the back of one of your knees, pressing that thigh up to your torso, he laughs a teasing laugh down at you. “Don’t say sorry,” he says. He holds his length adjacent to your slit and then begins to slip up and down the length of it. “Just let me fuck you. I need it so bad.” He hisses in tandem with you. The drags of his length, harder than how you thought a cock might feel, is like undiluted liquor. “I can’t believe this… shit, princess. I’m about to fuck you. I thought I was going to have to sit here and watch you by his side.” 

You take your lip into your teeth when he pushes in. It stretches. You bring your hand up to cup the back of his neck and the other to dig into his tunic, mewling softly.

“It’s okay, princess. Hold on to me, you can take it, right? You cunt was built for me. Everything about you was made for me. Your heart, your pretty hands for me to hold, your sex, all of it. Do you feel how I fit right into you? How I was made to?”

You do. When he finally is balls-deep, his cock nestles exactly where it should. Not an inch too deep or an inch too scarce. The two of you were sculpted by something holy, fit just for each other. “Yes,” you breathe.

He can’t even linger sitting still  in you. He begins pulling himself out, all the way until the tip of him threatens to pop out lewdly, before shoving back in right up against that spot. He doesn’t even have to search for it. Head falling into your chest, he licks and bites. “The taste of you,” he says. Then, he presses his tall nose right over that spot in your neck where your heart’s gone wild. “The smell of you.” Wincing, he lays into you with more vigor, hips slapping against your skin. “The feel of you. You drive me up the fucking walls. How was I ever supposed to live without this?” he says. “I refuse.”

Your belly begins to tighten in a way that you’ve never known. Tears prick the corner of your ears, clinging to him as he fucks you into the floor like he’ll never have to opportunity to have you like this again. The wood cradles your back and the back of your hips, receiving each of his thrusts. You curl your toes and will back the lewd cries that threaten to spill over with each.

His voice is taut and wobbly. “Feels good, huh? I know. It feels… so good.” Dropping your thigh to cup your face, he says, “Cry. Cry for me. I said I wanted you to scream.”

Face burning and squirming against the hardwood behind you, you shake your head. “I can’t, gyu…”

“Yes you can,” he says, face twitching. “I want you to start letting it out, or I’m gonna stop. Do you want me to stop?”

Covering your face, with the back of a forearm, you grit your teeth through each punctual and yet sloppy grind up into you. Your bodies sweat and meld, and you’re sure that anybody walking by your quarters would know just by the hollow smacks of skin and grunts that you’re fucking a man. You, an engaged woman, are letting the prince turn your brain inside out.

But, there is nothing you want less than for him to stop. So, you let your mouth drop open and allow the sweet mewls to come with each rut.

“There we go. Louder.” He braces himself, digging his feet into the floor, and then he really starts driving into you. Sparks fly in your belly—each yellow and glowing and scalding. “Do I need to fuck you harder? C’mon, louder, princess.”

Thighs squeezing his hips so tight that they ache, you squirm. You struggle against your sounds—turning from sweet moans and mewls, you groan and gasp and your voice breaks. Each collision of your bodies breaks your sounds.

Curling your fingers into his silken hair, you grit out, “H—hoooh fuck, Beomgyu, Beomgyu, I feel… like…”

Bangs sticky and his eyes growing wilder, he knows something you don’t. The knowing, taunting grin on his mouth says enough. “Let it happen. Don’t fight it.  Just stay—stay right there, and I’ll give it to you. No running from it; it’s gonna feel so good.” His muscles go taut, and he doubles down on his efforts, panting through his nose and his neck sheened. He drops his head into your chest. “Fuck. Fuckkkk, I love you so much, princess. Thank you—thank you, so much.”

You don’t know why he’s thanking you. You don’t have the cognitive function to worry about that. Your mind has gone to two things: the growls and whines that rumble and tear from his chest, and the frightening tightness that only goes more dangerous. Your chest tightens—it feels as though, if he feeds that hungry beast gnawing deep down in your belly with any more of what he’s doing now, it will snap and take you down in its wake. Warbled cries crawling up your throat, you arch your back up into his chest to try and dig your hips into the floor, away from the bliss and the power of it.

“No,” he says, cursing. “No—don’t run from it. Don’t… Baby, please take what I’m giving you. It’s gonna be alright.”

Pushing back on the dark throes of the tide as it creeps up over your shoulders and sends shocks through your body, the hair on the back of your neck rising with the effort, you choke. Beomgyu takes a hand down the seam of your bodies and rolls your aching clit. They’re succinct and intentional—pressure right on the sensitive underside, sending your belly rippling as he pairs it with a few more sharp, more meaningful thrusts.

You see white. It’s white and hot. You are the sun, beaming and writhing like stardust. You curve off the floor once more, raking nails down the lengths of his back. Are you even making sound? You don’t know; you can’t hear it past the ringing piercing sharp in your ears. You shake beneath him, cunt gripping him frantically with flutters of your walls. 

He grunts, voice strained and shaking as he begins to follow his own release.  “Holy shit—look at you. You’re so f-filthy. So pretty, cumming on me.”

You bare each brush of his cock against your still twisting walls, trembling as he fucks you through your orgasm. Your thighs jump and your toes curl, and it’s all too much, but not enough. He needs to come tumbling over the edge right along with you—if he comes with you, it doesn’t seem so hard. You chant his name, smooth voice gone hoarse.

Stilling inside you, he whines, “Shi—it.” A war wages behind his eyes for a long second before he slips his cock from you with a wet, squelching pop, strings of your release breaking as he lays his cock on your belly. His stomach goes tight, and with one last slide of his length, slick with your mess and staining your belly, his cock jumps. He shoots all over your skin, pretty glistening spurts like ribbons a milky white. 

He sits back on his haunches, slowly rubbing himself off to give you some more and come down. Your room is quiet now, aside from your heaving chests and the buzz of something new in the air. Letting his head fall back, wet strands of spiky black hair dangle around his neck, a bead of sweat catching light as it rolls down it.

“Feel okay?” he says, looking down on you with softened eyes. He pulls cloth from his pocket, unfolding the fine fabric, and he wipes himself off your belly.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, leaning into the palm he cups your cheek with. “I’m okay.”

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “The world didn’t explode, did it?” he says.

You share a stolen laugh with him, feeling every last honey wave receding from the spot between your thighs. The world hadn’t ended, and yet, in every way, it had. Savoring the abated rises and falls of his chest and the content sagging of his shoulders, your belly tightens anew. 

What happens now, when everything else has been a lie? When you don’t believe that you can survive that lie for any longer?

So many hands work on you. One of your ladies in waiting laces you up in the back, and another works on your hair even while you stand, and one bounces a wintry, snow-kissed rouge over the plush of your cheeks. 

Yesterday, your world changed. And today, you’re expected to go on living in it.

When Beomgyu slipped out from your room last night after hours of holding each other under the covers, indulging in your ability to touch, you let your heart crack in two. You shouldn’t have. Why had you let yourself think that it was going to end up anything other than like this? You, getting prettied up to be sent away with your expecting husband, and the dreams you’d let build up to the clouds in the prince’s arms all shattered on the floor at your feet.

What else can you do? Loving Beomgyu freely is out of the question. Your parents would laugh right in your face, or maybe lock you away and make even more sure that you never get to see him again.

You try to burn the image of his eyes into your memory. Black, big and round and cunning all the while. You commit the broadness of his shoulders, and the pretty straight line of his nose in profile, and the pink plushness of his lips, and the little freckles you’d discovered yesterday, and the sound of his voice in your ear, and the feel of his touch on your skin, too.

“We’ll leave you until it’s time to come collect you,” a Lady says, bowing at the waist to you as the others finish up, tying the fastening of your dress up quick and sprinkling their final touches over you before following her out.

Your room goes utterly quiet. More quiet than it’s ever felt.

Dragging your limbs over to your bed, you let yourself fall onto it despite all the care they’d taken to get your skirts right. Resting your cheek to your palm, you let your eyes fall closed as you memorize the feel of your own bed, too.

When you flutter them open, there’s something peeking out from the pillow across from you. You furrow your brows and reach for it.

The paper is folded up with haste, torn from the edge of somewhere else and scribbled on with a quick hand. How long has that been there, without you noticing? Pushing yourself up from the bed, careful to at least maintain the smoothness of your hair, you unfold it.

ℳ𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝓉 𝒮𝑤𝑎𝑛 ℒ𝑎𝑘𝑒. 

Your soul comes back to life and seeps through your bloodstream. Sitting there for a few moments, idle at the largeness of what you’re about to do, you loose a breath. 

And then, you curl your hand around it, shove yourself up in a flurry of white, crystalline skirts, and you go.

The curious faces of the palace hands you pass do not stop you, nor does the morning’s bite as you find your way outside, nor does the almost-slip over ice, and absolutely nothing else stops you as you run. Is he still going to be there when you make it?

God, please let him be there. Don’t let this be almost.

Fists full of the abrasive fabric of your skirts and darting by barren bushes and trees, you do not stop until you clear the little tree line and the lake stands vast and frosty ahead of you.

When Beomgyu spots you, and you spot his figure against the background of the lake crisp in the morning, the sweet cooing of the birds and the rest of the bustle falls away. None of it compares.

“You came,” he says, dragging his feet through the snow until he’s right in front of you, his features elegant once more in the clear morning haze. “I didn’t think you would.”

You reach up to dust away snowflakes resting on his hair. It’s an excuse to touch him—that’s all you find yourself wanting to do, now. Brows pinching, you say, “Why?”

“I don’t know. I just… was scared.”

“No, no, I came,” you say, feeling now the bare expanse of your arms. You run your hands up and down them. Heart in atrophy all the while feeling full just being here with him, you add, “Why did you want to meet here?”

The world is serene for a few long moments as he just looks at you, his gaze searching. “Don’t marry him. Don’t leave with him.”

You know where he’s going with this already. Letting your dress fall from your hands, the one they’d fashioned you in to do exactly that, you say, “And do what?”

“Be with me. Marry me. Be my wife,” he says, the lines of his face solemn. “Let’s elope and find a corner of the world that’s just ours, so that we will never have to hear another word from them again. Let’s just… be together. Finally.”

Chest swelling with something so hopeful that it’s painful, reality comes with its pin point and pops it. “Is that really what you want? You’ll take me, even though I’m promised to somebody else?”

His lip curls as though the thought were detestable. “What the fuck is a dowry to this? To the approval of the fates? The world could try snuff that fact out with whatever they’ll try, and a man could offer your parents a dowry of all its money, and still, you’d be mine. No matter what, our souls belong to each other.” His hand is frozen against your cheek. He’s been out here waiting for you for so long. “I’d take you, promised to another man. I’d take you no matter how you are; in a thousand different lives, I’d have you each time.”

That’s all you need to hear: that you are cherished for more than just your nature, but for yourself. That he loves you unendingly and undyingly, and all you have to do is leave by his side. You’ve already left it all behind—thrown any attachment to the wind, because truly, what is that to this? You don’t know where you’ll go, and you think Beomgyu hasn’t a clue either. But you’ll find that somewhere together. 

Together, your half sings. His answers with a thrilling beat.

“This time,” he says, eyes blazing with conviction. You know he feels the tug, too. “We got it right.”

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[milawritess]

what cannot be said will be wept – gojo satoru

pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader synopsis: following the events from wherever you go, that's where i'll follow, the reader becomes incredibly sick. Satoru drowns in his guilt and reader struggles to grapple with the loss of her cursed technique. tags/warnings: angst, fem!reader, swearing, depression, guilt, dark thoughts, loss of identity, loss of powers, descriptions of gore/horror, tragedy, mentions of blood, breakdowns, reader is sick, Satoru doing everything he can to keep you afloat word count: 3.3k next entry: ii series mlist

The first few nights were unbearable. You made it—you survived, but you weren’t the same. Not even close. You were a fragmented, splintered hallow. You were nothing but a ghost haunting your own body. The weight of your fragility sat heavily in the corners of your home, creeping into the space where laughter once lived.

At night, you’d become so still, so quiet of breath, that Satoru would have to put his finger under your nose to see if you were still with him. There were nights when your heart betrayed you, skipping several beats or stilling altogether, long enough to drive him to the edges of panic. 

Baby, baby, wake up, Satoru would whisper in dread. It was only when you groaned that he sucked in a breath, drawing in the air his lungs were burning for. 

What? You would murmur, confused and disoriented. He’d suddenly pull you close, resting his head between your breasts as he listened to the only rhythm that brought him solace. 

Satoru found himself waking you up often. Soft kisses graced your face—your eyes, cheeks, and brushes against your lips. Other nights, he’d shake you awake in fear and trepidation. Your heart was too weak. The second sleep found you, it began to give. 

He could hear it, see it. 

Sleep was lost on him. He couldn’t risk it—could grapple with the chances of waking to find you—his entire world gone. You had come back to him, yet, for weeks, you straddled the line between being alive and moving to a place he couldn’t reach or follow. 

He couldn’t grasp, couldn’t fathom that even now, he was on the verge of losing you. 

“There are just some things I can’t heal,” Shoko told him one night. She arrived at his estate after he called her in a panic. You were cold as ice, and you struggled to draw breath. “There’s scarring in her frontal lobe… and there’s other damage that looks like it’s been there for a while. Maybe if I had caught this sooner-“

The damage was too great. He knew that’s what Shoko really wanted to say. 

There was so much more he needed to say to you, so much more he needed to make up for. 

Some nights, he grew bitter. You couldn't leave him—you wouldn’t dare. Not after everything you’ve been through together, not after loving him and making him feel love's perfect ache; not after you stripped him bare as you deprived him of pride and all resolve, rendering him down to nothing but a man on his knees, worshiping at the gates of your light. 

You undo him so wholly and completely. 

This wasn’t fair. Even with the powers most gods craved, he couldn’t protect you from this. What good was all this power if he couldn’t keep you? The best parts of you, the dark and wretched—all of it, everything—belonged to him. He loved the darkest shades of you, the brightest, and every color in between. 

When you were consumed in an unholy flame, one only he could ever reach beyond, he was housed by your warmth—reborn into something more glorious than the last. 

When had you fallen so cold? 

You had ascended onto him like nightfall, only to ignite and burn his world to ash. Yet, you sparked something within him in the echo of oblivion—a fire born of devotion was marred to his heart. 

He wasn’t going to let you off that easy. Death wouldn’t be enough for you to escape him. 

”You don’t get to leave me,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “You’re not going anywhere. Not from me.” 

It was a rare moment of wakefulness. Your eyes flutter open, a dopey smile gracing your lips. You say his name. “Satoru,” you murmur. ”what are you talking about?”

He brushes the hair from your neck, kissing your cold skin. “I’m talking about you, sweets,” he moves up, kissing your cheek. “I need you to get better. We’re not out of the woods yet.”

You take in a long, shuddering breath. You couldn’t deny what you said now when you felt it in your bones. “I won’t leave,” you promise him gently, breathing slowly as sleep tugs at the corners of your consciousness. “Where else would I go?”

He takes time off from work shortly after. Well, he more or less just stopped going to work. He kept your condition close like a secret. Outside of the kids, Principal Yaga, and Nanami, no one knew what happened to you, and he would keep it that way. He didn’t need the higher-ups catching wind of this. 

It was just a precaution, his way of protecting you when you couldn’t protect yourself. You had enemies just as much as he did. He thinks he’d break the world in two if they ever touched you. 

However, Gojo couldn’t just wait and do nothing. He had to keep you comfortable, keep you warm. After cranking up the central heat and lighting a fire, he noticed you responded positively. It was far from comfortable for him, but it wasn’t about him, even if, most nights, sweat beaded on his chest and forehead. It was about your recovery and giving your body what it desperately needed. Heat. A heat, he fears, even as he eases you into a tub of the hottest water he could get from the faucet in his master bathroom, wasn’t enough. 

However, this was a start in the right direction. Your eyes fluttered open as your body sank into the steaming water. “This is nice,” you utter. “Really nice…”

“Hm, good,” Satoru says, grabbing the shampoo bottle. “Glad to be of service.”

You hum pleasantly as he starts massaging shampoo into your hair. “How many days has it been, Satoru?”

“Not sure what you mean, sweets.”

“Satoru,” you sigh softly. “How many days since the incident?” 

He pauses for a moment before his fingers continue rubbing the suds into your hair. “Fifteen days.”

“And yet, I don’t have a lick of cursed energy…”

“Hey, easy there,” he wipes the subs that threaten to fall into your eyes with his hands before grabbing your face and pinching your cheeks together. Just as you were about to swat him away, he kissed the pout off your face with one long smooch. “Take it easy, grumpypants. You’re still recovering.”

“Yeah, but for how long,” you mumble. “It’s never taken me this long to recover my cursed energy before. I just– I don’t feel the same.” Satoru takes a deep breath, watching as you stare down at the water, your fingers mindlessly fiddling with the necklace around your neck. “You shouldn’t have to be taking care of me like this or taking time off from work. They need you, the kids need you–”

“You need me,” he gently corrects. “The kids are fine, and Nanami has been covering for me.”

“Yeah, but–”

“You act like this isn’t something you’d do for me if I needed you.”

You look at him, eyes misting over. You reach for him, your arms wrapping around his neck. He didn’t care if he got wet as he held you, his hands rubbing softly at your damp back. “I really love you,” you tell him, burying your head into his neck. “I really do. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, silly girl. I’m here. I’m with you.”

-

Weeks pass, and things only seem to get worse. 

You could hear their whispers, see their pitiful glances, and see how they all tiptoed around you. It made you furious. It wasn’t a loud, fiery rage that once fueled you. It was quiet and insidious—burning cold and cutting deeper than any wound you’ve experienced. You hated their pity, their careful steps, and how they looked at you as if you were a ghost. 

You had once been a force that could not be ignored or buried away—a wild inferno in a world that always tried to snuff out the smallest of embers. Your power was born of defiance, a testimony of your will, even vengeance. 

You weren’t always good. At times, you think Satoru forgets that. 

Yet, against all odds, every attempt to diminish and erase you from the annals of time, you remained unbridled, unbroken. You bore no titles and came from no golden lineage; it was your strength alone that helped you carve your place in the world and carve your name into the sun. You were powerful. Unforgiving. You weren’t something to be protected and admired; you were destruction, born of dark weather and chaos.

And yet, you fell. 

A part of you wonders if this was the price to be paid for your transgressions—a quiet, unrelenting suffering that hollowed you out from the inside. It was almost poetic in it's cruelty, as if the weight of your sins could only be balanced by the weight in your chest.

Your flames, once roaring and defiant, sputtered and dwindled. For a while, you believed it was exhaustion, but you knew, deep in your bones, you weren’t the same. At first, you told yourself that you had endured far worse. You strappled the line of death more times than you could count. Sometimes, it was fury that had you crawling from your grave. Others, it was vengeance fueled by the fire meant to burn the pyre of your enemies and all those who wronged you.  

But, your fire hadn’t just dimmed and weakened. It was gone. The power, once flowing through your veins like lava and liquid gold, was replaced by a cold and suffocating emptiness. Even if the taste of ash lingered and the scent of black smoke permeated your nostrils, you weren’t the same. 

You were only six when your cursed technique appeared. You’re incapable of remembering what led to such depravity, such evil, or maybe you couldn’t bring yourself to remember why the people of your village tried killing you. You didn’t remember much of your childhood, but you remember those laughs that still haunted you in your dreams—the same laughs you heard as you were thrown into a ditch your small hands and feet couldn’t have hoped to crawl out of. 

They doused you in rum and lit a match. When the fire ignited, you were left to burn into nothingness. You remembered the feeling of each nerve ending igniting, the excruciating pain that consumed you. You remembered how your scream became a soundless cry as your vocal cords were scorched. You remembered the smell of your burning hair and flesh, the way flames licked at your eyeballs until you were blind. You remembered the end coming suddenly, but not quick enough. You remembered crying for a mother you couldn’t remember, a father that never protected you. 

Then, you remembered how suddenly the word came back. The flames became nothing but a gentle sting. Your flesh mended, and when you drew breath, a black smoke filtered into your lungs, giving you strength. You could taste the ash, and the blood in your veins began to boil. You were born again amongst the flames that once brought you so much agony. You ruled them—fire incarnate: destructive, yet devastatingly alive. 

You hadn’t just lost your technique. You were stripped away of everything you had ever been. Perhaps what stung the most was how the world kept spilling. You were a woman of no renown, no legacy to speak of. And now, you had no fire to prove you had ever been worth anything at all. 

You wonder—had you ever been as strong as you truly thought? Or were you a flame burning on borrowed time, destined to extinguish into nothing? 

You wanted to be forgotten. You wanted to disappear, to return to your flames. You had once despised them; you thought they cursed you with the wickedness they were born from. But, even so, it had been yours. Even if the world always thought you were more of a monster than a sorcerer, perhaps one more terrifying than the curses conjured from the worst parts of mankind, they were yours. And yet, you were lost without them.

You had survived because you had felt the touch of love, came to learn to accept it, and nurtured it with a darkened heart and two hands. Love yanked you back to the surface, yet a bitter and selfish part of you wondered at what cost? 

You wondered if he thought of you differently, if his love was slowly fading along with you, but you were too afraid to look. He had already told you once that you weren’t nearly as strong as you thought. He was right. You were a failure.

You still loved him. You don’t think you could ever stop loving him, but that love became so twisted—tangling with your hurt, your pride, and your inability to forgive everything but yourself.  His kindness became suffocating; his attempts at assurance only ever reminded you of what you lost. Every look of concern or sympathy—real or imagined—was a dagger to the chest. He would leave eventually. He’d grow tired of your ups and downs and how your sweetness could so quickly transform into bitterness.

Even as your strength slowly returned—enough to move without sleep constantly tugging at your consciousness or being teethed to IV drips—the hallowed absence of your cursed energy remained. It had become stagnant, hitting an invisible barrier you couldn’t push or break, no matter how hard you tried.

-

“Baby?” Satoru whispers out for you one night. You don’t respond, but he knows you can hear him. “Can I come in?” 

You make no effort to move or stand. You were frozen, lost in a grief you don’t think you could ever escape. You were on your bathroom floor, heaving over a toilet with a hand pressed to your chest as if it were the only thing keeping it from caving in. He wonders if you still have the ability to sense his presence—if you could sense that he was there waiting for you. 

“Go away,” you told him. You didn’t want him to see you like this, not with blood poring from your nose and dripping from your lips. You were sick. You were scared, angry, and so fucking confused. You didn’t know what was happening to you or how to make it stop it. 

“You know I can’t do that…” 

He wouldn’t leave you—not when you needed him; not when the love remained, even if it was buried under mounds of hurt and pain. It would be the greatest betrayal, even if you begged for it.

However, he wouldn’t push you. So, he lies on the cold wooden floor, his back pressed against the door. Even with five feet between you two, he felt as if you were going somewhere far, somewhere he couldn’t reach. Again.

He goes silent for a moment, searching for the right words that seem so out of reach. He doesn’t think there is anything he could say to make this better, but he could try.

“I used to think for a while that my life had no happy ending,” he says, voice low and steady. “But, then, I met you. Your power drew me in, yeah. But do you know what else did? Those rare smiles. I wanted to be responsible for them—all of them.” Even as you remained silent, there’s no shying away from the emotions his words sturs. There's no escaping him. 

“It was how you demanded a whole room with just your presence. I admired how you loved and hated in equal measure. I loved your wickedness and cunning wit. You dared to challenge the world, and I–” His voice dips lower. It's only to you that he reveals these fragile, intimate parts of himself. “... You made me believe in something more than myself.”

“I’m not the same,” you swallow hard, throat tightening as tears threaten to spill once again. “I’m not… I’m nothing like the woman you met.” 

“Good,” he says simply, voice firm. “Because I don’t need her. I need you. Even when you’re angry and hurting or think you’ve lost everything, I’ll still need you.” 

You turn your head to the door, his words settling over you like a blanket, heavy and warm. Your gaze falls to the floor, finding the faint shadow of him waiting for you. 

“I’ve hated myself for so long for not being able to stop what happened to you. I feel like I failed you—failed you in every way that mattered.” His head falls back, thumping against the door. He loved you. He knew he did because he could feel it in the way his heart ached for you—in the way your pain became his pain. You’re still the woman he admired; you were still the woman he longed for. You’ve never needed power to rule over him, yet he doesn’t know how to make you believe that. All he has is his heart, which he bears to you with two trembling hands. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” 

And finally, as tears gather in your eyes, you realize he wasn’t here because he pitied you. Satoru wasn’t conditional—he didn’t know how to love in halves. You had always felt it, the lingering truths caught between two hearts. But now, he was here, baring it all—leaving no room for doubt or space for denial.

He loves you.

“Your fire isn’t just in your technique—it's in everything you do, angel. It's in the way you look at the world, how you fight for what you believe in, and even the way you love… it used to scare me,” he chuckles gravely. There wasn’t ever a moment, he thinks, that he wasn’t enraptured with you. He can’t recall a time when he hadn't been caught in your obit and seized in the invisible weight of your gravity. 

Your eyes fluttered close, your breath catching as his words settled over you. For the first time in a long while, you feel something other than the crushing burden of loss. You feel him, steady and unwavering. You don’t know if you should cry or let yourself fall into him entirely. 

“Satoru,” you trembled. “What’s happening to me?”

One thing Satoru could never do was lie to you. Not even about this, as his heart nearly fails him. “You're displacing more cursed energy than you’re retaining. It’s making you sick.” 

A shuddering cry slips past your lips. “... Am I dying?”

You hear him move behind the door. His voice, steady but tense, cuts through your panic. “I’m coming in.” 

“No, don’t–”

But it was too late. A locked door wasn’t enough to stop him. The knob crumbles under the force of his grip, a deafening crunch filling the room. Yet, despite the raw display of his strength, he pushes the door open with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. 

You were terrified, your hand pinching harder against your nose that refused to stop dripping blood. It was everywhere—soaking your shirt, trickling down your arm, dripping to the floor, and piling between the cracks of the tiles. You tried to clean it up, but it just wouldn't stop.

His eyes are a bit wide as he takes you in, but he doesn’t reveal much. His expression is unreadable as he drops to his knees. You crawl backward until your back meets the tub. “No, no, no, stop–” but it was futile. 

Blood stains his shirt, his hands, and smears across his cheek as he drags you into his arms. He doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he doesn’t care. 

“Satoru–”

“I don’t care,” he says sharply. His hands cup the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he presses you to his body. “I don’t care about that. Just… stay still. Breath,” he murmurs. “In and out. That’s all you have to do right now.”

You cry with such an unalloyed and raw pain that robs you of breath. It starts low, guttural, crawling from the deepest parts of you. It carries jagged edges, and swells into a sound so consuming, it drowns out everything else. Shaking, shuddering, choking—you fall apart, gasping for air between waves of anguish.

Satoru loses track of time suspended in the purgatory of your suffering.

“I’m not leaving,” he promises, trembling against you slightly. “And neither are you. I already told you before that you’re stuck with me.”

-

a/n: since my first fic did so well, i decided to make a mini-series depicting readers recovery :) feel free to send requests if you have any. i can either make a small blurb, a headcannon, or even make an entire chapter out of it. also, sorry if there are any typos its getting late lol

on a different note, i sincerely hope you enjoyed this chapter. my goal was to capture the readers suffering and Gojo's guilt, and i truly hope i did it justice. i also added a little bit backstory for the reader! i wanted to add layers and reveal that she's an imperfect character. regardless, i sincerely hope you enjoyed. please let me know your thoughts!! I would love to hear them :)

also, i know the kids weren't in this chapter but don't worry! they'll be around very soon!

lastly, thank you all so much for the overwhelming love and support on my first fic. i'm beyond grateful that so many of you enjoyed my writing. it genuinely means the world to me! your encouragement and kind words warmed my little heart.

as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated <3

[emilys-bangs]

baby, if your love is in trouble | e.p

Tags: emt!reader, flirty!emily, blood and injury, established relationship (we won’t question how they went from point A to point B), canon typical injuries, quite a few mentions of blood in this one oops, medical inaccuracies, use of petnames, reader is pissed but emily’s a smooth mf with big brown eyes

Summary: You get called to a scene and find your girlfriend—yet again—all bruised and bloody. She flirts, you don’t reciprocate. Requested here.

Word count: 2.2k

Part one (you don’t have to read it to read this part)

When you arrive at an abandoned warehouse, the last person you expect to see is your girlfriend. The surprise is muffled; you were aware this wasn’t outside the realm of possibility once Emily told you two weeks ago that the unsub they’re hunting is local.

Even in a messy, crowded scene like this, crawling with FBI agents and police officers alike, it’s easy to spot her amidst the chaos. She doesn’t notice you, leaning against a cop car and shying away from a lanky guy who reaches out with his finger, attempting to prod at her bleeding nose. A crumpled tissue is held between her fingers; it’s soaked through with blood, barely an inch of it unblemished white. Emily doesn’t seem to mind it as she glares and avoids the guy’s touch, swatting at his hand with hers.

“It’s not broken, Reid.”

“I’m just saying, it looks a little swollen—”

“Emily.” You say unthinkingly. She turns, her ponytail swishing as her eyes meet yours. 

The first thing you notice is the bruises on her face, a violent galaxy etched around her right eye. The cut on her cheekbone, dried blood crusted around the skin you just recently discovered you loved to kiss. Not the way her brows lift in surprise, her mouth parting to breathe out your name.

“Hi,” she says. Her voice is muffled into the hand holding the tissue.

You can’t reply for the nausea in your throat. Emily’s coworker is frowning at you, no doubt mentally tearing this interaction to pieces. It kickstarts your brain into action, practicality forcing its way over the queasy roiling in your stomach. 

“Are you hurt?” You ask him.

He shakes his head.

Jaw set, you meet Emily’s eyes and try to pretend they’re anyone else’s. “Come with me, please.” You say tightly, one hand listlessly extended to her body.

This time, it’s easier to wrestle her into the back of the rig. Emily wordlessly shoves off of the cop car and lets your fingers grip her elbow, lets you drag her to the ambulance and force her to sit on the hard metal ledge. The heat of her eyes follows you as you get your kit, burning holes into your face when you set it down next to her and pinch the sodden tissue she’s holding. Her hand falls away, exposing the bottom half of her face; a blooming cut on her lip stains her chin red.

Your mouth flattens into a thin line.

“Hi,” Emily says again, softly. “I, uh, didn’t know you’d be here.” She tilts her head to meet your gaze.

You don’t let her.

She exhales a low sigh. You ignore it as you toss away the bloodied tissue and scan her face, surveying the damage but not settling on the near magnetic pull of her eyes. What you find is harrowing: bruises on her temple and brow, a black eye, a cut on her cheek. They’re quickly darkening into deep reds and purples, visciously marring her ivory skin. Oh, and not to forget her bloody nose and split lip. Her face is a kaleidoscope of color.

Jesus.

“What happened?” You ask, reaching for the straps of her kevlar. Velcro separates, screeching as you rip the wretched vest off of her body. Shoulders, hips; you free her, then toss it carelessly into the ambulance.

“Can I get a hi first?” Emily retorts tiredly. You finally meet her eyes, the weight of them a physical blow to your gut. The black eye doesn’t help. “Hi?” Her fingertips skim yours.

You swallow thickly. Grab her hand, squeeze. “Hi.” You say back.

A smile flickers over Emily’s face. “Hi, sweetheart. I’m okay, I just got a little banged up.”

A little.

Your lips purse. “What happened?”

Emily laces her fingers through yours. You need to pull away, but you can’t help the way your shoulders loosen under her touch. Her skin is warm, thumb skating over the back of your hand with her head ducked. 

“Doesn’t matter.” She murmurs.

“Emily.” You take your hand back. The movement isn’t quite so gentle; Emily’s brows dip into a frown as she winces, a low curse escaping past her lips. “What?” You demand. Taking her hand again—carefully—your eyes travel until you find a dampness on her shirt sleeve, the blood almost invisible against the navy blue fabric. You cut it off to expose a long cut, the width of her arm, just above her elbow. It’s still bleeding sluggishly, most of it staunched into her shirt.

Nausea stirs again. 

Your jaw is tightly set as you let go of Emily’s arm and snap on a pair of gloves, eyes fixed on your hands and the forceful sting of the elastic. If you look up, if you find the face of the woman you’re half in love with rather than some nameless stranger’s face, you’ll fucking lose it. Already your breathing is shallow, not enough oxygen filling your lungs as you try your best not to breathe in the scent of Emily’s blood.

“Hey,” she says quietly. You let the silence answer as you clean around her cut. It looks deep, deeper than you can manage, but at least it’s clean. Emily’s ragged inhale sours your mouth when you place pressure on it, stopping the flow. Blood blooms on the gauze, and—maddeningly—she still persists. “I’ll be home tonight.” Her voice is only slightly choked. “All on my lonesome. Would you like to keep me company?”

There’s a few things you’d like to do to her right now. You voice none of them.

When you’re certain the bleeding has stopped you grab a roll of gauze, wrap it around her arm. “We could order pizza. Get that cheese crust you like.” The first layer dampens; the second doesn’t. Neither does the third, but you still wrap another layer for good measure.

A low sigh tickles your ear.

“I miss you,” Emily says, velvet soft. 

Work had gotten in the way more than usual these past few days, both yours and hers. You missed her too, more than you think is in any way logical, but you can’t rise to her flirtations when she’s half beaten and bloody. Just the sight of the bruises on her pale face turns your stomach.

You snip the gauze and tuck the end under the layers. Her shirt is in tatters now; you don’t linger on the fact that it was one of your favorites on her.

“It’ll probably need stitches,” you lift your gaze from the bandages around her arm and grab another antiseptic wipe. You don’t mean to catch her eyes. It’s accidental, a stupid move that freezes you in place, stops your hand from meeting the cut on her cheekbone.

Her pupils are blown wide with adrenaline, the black carving out her irises until all that’s left is thin brown rings. And still they’re captivating. Emily shakes her head, tongue darting over her lip. “Honey, talk to me.” She says desperately.

You exhale a short breath through your nose. “What do you want me to say?” You murmur, dropping your eyes from hers and focusing your attention on cleaning her wound. The skin scrunches beneath your touch as she winces; guilt stabs you in the chest. Your heartbeat quickens, the pace of it making your hands shake. Briefly, ever so briefly, your eyes fall closed.

You can’t do this. Fuck, you can’t, not when it’s her.

“I already asked you what happened and you didn’t answer.” You toss the wipe away. Looking down, you take a moment to breathe in before grabbing the antiseptic ointment. She’s fine now, you try to remind yourself. Mostly. At least she’s in one piece.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that.” Emily says. Her fingers find your chin; she pinches it gently and tilts your face up, to her tentative smile. It tugs at the cut in her lip. “I’m fine now.”

You can’t tell if it’s profiling or if she can genuinely read your mind.

An exasperated breath parts your lips. “You have a skewed definition of fine.” You huff, dabbing ointment on her cut. Emily’s lashes flutter closed, a frown digging its way between her brows. You bite down on your lips, immediately hating yourself. “Hurts?” You ask quietly.

“Mmm,” she doesn’t verbally confirm nor deny. It’s answer enough. By the time you peel a bandage and are placing it over her cheek she’s opened her eyes. “Maybe you can kiss it better?”

“You’re bleeding.” You say flatly.

“Babe,” she murmurs, frowning as if you’re being unreasonable, “don’t be like that.”

Her too calm tone sparks fire in your blood.

“Like what?” You bite out. “Like someone whose girlfriend is beaten and bloody because of god knows what trouble she was in? How exactly do you want me to act, Emily?”

“Girlfriend?”

You falter. “W-What?”

Emily grins stupidly. “You called me your girlfriend.” Her eyes glitter.

Heat rushes to your cheeks. It knocks over the guilt, the nausea, swarms of butterflies crowding your lungs. God, what are you, fifteen? 

You huff out a flustered breath. “Well, aren’t you?”

You’d had this conversation weeks ago. Not over an intimate, candlelit dinner; rather Emily had found romance in the early morning light of her bedroom. Body warm over yours, she’d grabbed your sleep-pliant hand, murmured into your knuckles if you would be her partner, let her be your girlfriend.

It had taken a few slow blinks of your eyes, chasing the blurriness from your vision and sharpening her tentative silhouette, before you’d said yes.

“I am. It’s just the first time you’ve called me that.” Emily’s arm goes around your waist. Her smile is transcendent and bloody.

“Don’t try to distract me,” you rub at your temple. “I’m still mad.”

“I’m fine,” she says quietly. Her fingers squeeze your side. “Cross my heart.”

The childish promise makes you huff out a humorless laugh. It thins out quickly, dissolves into the air between the two of you.

“You can’t look me in the eye and honestly tell me you’re fine, Emily.” You sigh. This close, you can’t help yourself. You gently cup her jaw, your thumb just shy of the broken skin at her bottom lip. It’s wet with fresh blood, the cut deepening with her careless smiles.

Emily gives you another one. You internally wince, wishing she’d stop. “Okay, well, I’m banged up.” She murmurs, leaning into your hand and blinking long lashes at you. “At least I have you to stitch me back together.”

Stupidly, thoughtlessly, your heart jumps. With no regard for the violence on Emily’s face or the complete lack of privacy of the scene around you. It’s basically your first meeting, reincarnated.

“And if I wasn’t here?” You mumble half heartedly, beginning to crack under her persistent flirtations. “Do you flirt with all your EMT’s or just me?”

Emily gives you a soft smile, a dizzying flash of dimples. “Just you, sweetheart. Only ever you.” 

The saccharine drip of her voice only makes you feel more like shit. Here she is, actually, physically hurting, and taking the brunt of your sour attitude because you couldn’t stand seeing it for yourself. You don’t know how she wipes the pain almost clear from her voice, how she can brave injuries that make you squirm at the thought of bearing them yourself, but somewhere beneath all the worry, there’s awe. 

“That’s reassuring,” you say lamely. You give her fingers a squeeze, attempting to convey what your dry tone can’t as you lean away. “Just please don’t get so banged up next time.” Reaching for another patch of gauze, you gently press it to her bottom lip. Her knee bumps into yours. “You do already have my attention, y’know.” 

A whole lot of it. Who are you kidding, probably all of it is hers.

Emily tucks the gauze into the corner of her mouth. “Like to have it at all times.” She mumbles.

You shake your head, breathing out a slow breath through your nose as the corner of her lip turns up. The ring of bruises around her eye has darkened into purple, capillaries bursting in blooms to chase away the unblemished expanse of her skin. It’s a terrible contrast, unmistakably stark and dripping violence. Still, you try your best not to shy away from her gaze.

“Will you come home with me?” Emily asks again.

You’re nodding before you know it. “Yeah, baby. Is that okay?” It’s a miracle she still wants you around after your wretched demeanor.

“That’s a stupid question, Y/N.” She says, so bluntly a laugh is forced from your lungs. It bubbles past your lips, making Emily’s smile stretch into a beam.

“Don’t fucking do that,” you scold, grimacing when fresh blood soaks the bandage. “God, you’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot girlfriend.”

It’s no use trying to staunch the blood. Her grin is so wide you discard the gauze and reach for her jaw instead of another one. 

When you finally kiss her, the metallic taste of her blood flooding your mouth, you know you’re in too deep.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu@ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi@temilyrights @professorsapphic

[cthulhus-curse]

Surprise, Surprise

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5,561

Warnings: Ghostface WandaNat, Darkfic, Mommy Kink, Daddy Kink, Murder, Knife Play, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Degradation, Strap-Ons | 18+ Minors DNI

Summary: In which you find out the culprits of your former partner's death and receive more than what you bargained for.

On the one year anniversary, you failed to open your eyes in time. Regardless of the insistent beeping from the alarm, the voice from downstairs shouting your name along with the mocking chirps of the birds beneath your window, you remained still. The sole humoring of yet another year without your one and only, the person who you once deemed as the love of your life, made your bones chill while your blood ran cold. 

But of course your parents simply brushed it off. They knew of the difficulty you had to carry on leading up to the days of the first anniversary, and yet your mother didn’t do much but bark at you to get ready as the bus was leaving. Another morning in the hellish town of Westview. Oh how you longed to gain independence once the final semester of your senior year had passed. Only a few weeks left and school would be out. Then you’d finally move to the other side of the country leaving all your dismay and fury towards the town behind. 

Upon your arrival at school, a brown bag filled with half a sandwich and an apple you didn’t have the appetite for, all eyes were on you. It hadn’t missed you. The pity each person felt, the laughter behind closed doors at your loss. And yet no one dared utter her name. Kate Bishop. Was it that hard? For someone who hadn’t dared mutter it out into the world since the day of her disappearance, the presumed death you had long accepted to be true, you ought to cut everyone else some slack. 

“Good morning. I didn’t think you’d show up today,” came the greeting from your best friend. Thor was many things, but easy with his words was not one of them. “You know, with Kate’s death and everything. You didn’t take the day off.”

Each sound coming from his wretched mouth made your blood boil. “Yeah no shit Sherlock. I’m here, aren’t I?” You didn’t need to turn as the two of you waltzed down the packed hallways dripping with pity for you to know his worry faltered into hurt. “Sorry. I’m just a bit shaken up today for obvious reasons. Mom and dad didn’t think it was that bad so here I am. They said we didn’t know each other that well for me to be depressed. I mean, fuck, we knew each other since we were kids. How can they say that?”

“I’m sorry,” Thor mumbled, placing a sympathetic arm upon your upper back. “We can skip together if you want.”

“I’m not skipping class. They’ll kill me for that.”

“Oh like they killed Kate?” came a voice you knew so well from behind you. “I can’t wait until her body is found. It’s going to be so gross.”

Since the dawn of middle school, one Natasha Romanoff had taken it upon herself to reign hellfire down your life. A day didn’t go past where your classmate treated you with even an ounce of dignity. Somehow she got worse as time passed, especially once the whole incident with Kate occurred. 

You hadn’t attended school for weeks when she suddenly disappeared back in junior year. Your girlfriend of almost a year, a friend for longer, had left you behind to fend for yourself. Regardless of how many manhunts the police went on, the tedious nights you ran through the forest with the hopes of finding her until Thor had to drag you back to safety, Kate was gone. She probably skipped town so she didn’t have to deal with your sorry ass, was what Natasha always repeated. After weeks of such treatment, you began agreeing. 

“What’s wrong? Oh you’re not gonna cry, are you?” Natasha teased as she smacked your arm. Her reddened hair was up in a french braid, viridescent eyes darting down your body. “How pathetic. Does the little baby need a tissue, huh?”

Before you dared reply with a peace of your mind, there came her savior flying down the hall.

“Nat, stop. Don’t be such a dick.” Wanda Maximoff, the feared bully’s girlfriend, stood between you and the redhead. She flashed you an empathetic smile that you took as Thor’s nostrils flared. He didn’t like the so-called feigned kindness Wanda showered you with. “Are you alright today, sweetie? I can’t even begin to imagine how horrible you must be feeling. You know that if there’s ever anything you need, I’m right here for you. We all miss her so much. We got your back, Y/N.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Natasha grumbled low enough beneath her breath so that it was only hearable to her girlfriend. 

“Thanks, Wanda. You’re always so nice to me. I think I’m just a bit checked out today. Here’s to hoping the day goes by quickly.”

“It will if we skip class,” Thor pointed out. 

“As president of the student body I could never endorse that,” Wanda giggled. As a hand held a few of her books, Natasha’s arm wrapped carefully across her waist, she placed the other one on your arm with friendly banter. “You take care of yourself, honey. Take some breaks throughout the day, drink some water, and focus up on good things. The day will go by before you even know it.”

Never did you notice the hunger which Natasha eyed you with as she found herself exhilarated by the way her girlfriend held you so close – the disgust she felt towards your friend was lost in the air. Gripping Wanda’s waist, she silently begged for permission to strike. A knowing look from the shorter brunette forced her to lay back and wait. Soon enough they’d have you. 

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

“Did you hear the news?”

Those five words were ones you hadlong accustomed yourself to feel great disdain for. Upon the sound of them through the door of the last class of the day, you shuddered. You didn’t dare look up, losing yourself within the dread that overtook your soul. The seat next to your own had been empty throughout the period. 

Thor never skipped without giving you a head’s up. 

Upon hearing through hushed whispers and more stares your way, you ran out of the bathroom. The hint of bile which rose from your throat was held off until you reached a stall where you threw yourself, dumping out all the remaining torturous grief still carried from Kate’s loss alongside Thor’s. News spread quickly through the school, of course they did, but being shown a picture posted on a sock account on social media of Thor sprawled across the football field, eyes wide shut with a pair of knives lodged in his chest made you fall. 

You hadn’t found it in you to remove yourself from the floor. The walls across you turned, mocking your misery. The image of your best friend was clear in your mind. He was sweet, a caring man who wouldn’t dare hurt a fly, a complete lovable idiot who spent his days either playing sports or taking Jane out to whatever movie was being shown that weekend. No one hated him, but then again, no one had a reason to hate Kate either. 

Seeing him that morning so full of life made it impossible for you to humor the death, the macabre gore you had taken a slight look on someone’s phone, upon his cadaver. 

The day had ended there, the school dismissed halfway through the final class. The student body couldn’t be more thrilled to escape their prison as they grieved Thor’s surprise death in their own ways. As you strode through the halls ignoring the loudspeaker, calling your name to the school counselor’s office, and numerous classmates sobbing against the lockers, you carried on a somber expression. No sound was hearable, no hint of emotions or life within your features as people tried expressing their pity your way. 

Wanda’s cheerfulness creepily crawled out as she held onto Natasha’s hand, dragging her away to follow you. They’d get what they wished for, what they had longed for years. It was only a matter of time before they broke you entirely. 

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

“I’m really sorry about what happened, kid. I can’t imagine it’s easy to lose the two most important people in your life like that. You know, we’re all here to talk about it if you’d like. Me, your mom, your dad, and some of your other friends. You’re not alone, okay?”

 And yet it felt that way. 

You couldn't muster hearing another word that came from your therapist. Since Kate’s death she had been there every step of the way. Although not by choice, you visited Dr. Danvers twice a week for almost a year. She was nice enough, the sole person who at least pretended to not pity you in a believable manner. But you knew that beneath every ‘sorry’ thrown your way, there was feigned sadness. 

“Do you want to tell me more about Thor?” Carol questioned softly. Each bout of words were like a dozen daggers crackling through your skin, a painfully lonely existence without your favorite two people alive. “We can talk about something else if you’d like.”

“It’s fine.” Those were the first words you had spoken upon your arrival – almost half an hour into the session. “I just miss him. I miss her.” It took all your willpower to not break down in front of your therapist. Never would you dare bring yourself to uttering their names again. “He died the day he went away. How is that even possible? I just…I can’t do this anymore. I can’t go back to school and have everyone staring at me like I’m a sad freak. Just the thought of going back makes me think of them. Why did it happen? Why on that day?”

Carol held herself back from speaking, taking a second to revise her verbiage before responding. “Honey it was probably just a coincidence. Maybe someone was playing a sick joke. I really don’t have a good answer for you, I’m sorry.”

All that went through your brain was the image of Thor ingrained, burnt to ashes into your mind. Countless nights had been spent with lifeless eyes staring into the ceiling, boring your misery into your sole safe place. When tormented with agonizing experiences, you simply hid beneath the covers of the bed which shielded you from the outside. Numerous calls and texts from friends and family members had gone unanswered. Not even your parents could do more than to leave a plate of food by your door that was returned half-eaten. 

“Do you have thoughts about hurting yourself, Y/N?”

Within the depths of your darkest desires you wished to pull the knife from Thor’s body and throw it Carol’s way. “Are you fucking kidding me? How dare you?”

“It’s just something we have to cover because-”

“Because what? Jesus, Carol, my girlfriend disappeared a year ago and I had to see my best friend dead in the fucking school yard. And the only thing you care about is whether I’m killing myself or not?” The selfishness of it caused your distress to turn to fury as hands turned to fists. She cared about her job before your own well-being, about making sure you didn’t do anything which could taint her reputation. “I’m done with this. Don’t bother about rescheduling for later this week.”

Storming out the therapist’s office, you didn’t pay any mind to a peculiar couple sitting together at the waiting room, a redhead’s arm wrapped around a brunette. When green eyes twinkled, the smaller woman mumbled. “That's our next target. We can have a bit more fun with this one. Let’s make the bitch bleed, shall we?”

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

A gruesome amount of blood coated the horribly sharp beam across her features. Wanda looked down, pleased to watch the pattern her partner followed. She had long memorized what to do, what tools to use, where to carry out such fun, and how to clean up. Never would she get caught with the intricate manner in which the young woman took her victims. Since her rather adventurous adolescence she had grown used to the mesmerizing way a person lost their sanity, their life, at her hands. 

“Right there, baby. One across her neck like that,” she tenderly instructed. “Just like I taught you.”

Natasha had come to her in the early years of high school. The firecracker was easily set off by her constant anger targeted at everyone around her, but as a confident force herself, Wanda tamed the beast that lay within the redhead. Little by little she was morphed into a willing pet who, although impulsive, required care and guidance over their fun pastime. 

Rather than follow the advice, Natasha kept slapping the knife down on Carol’s chest. Unadulterated fury was thrown over the therapist after she had made you cry. The fixation with you had begun in her younger years, always watching you prance around the halls, a lone-wolf who she knew desired to be claimed. No one dare step up and take what the world knew was rightfully hers. Her wishes were solely to get you on your knees, to push you down far enough to the point you required her support to get back up. She wouldn’t let a lowly shrink and your friend get between that. Wanda only went on with her obsession. 

“Don’t tell me how to do it. I’m not an idiot,” Natasha spat between gritted teeth. Her body was coated in a fresh set of scarlet paint. Although she was new to taking such a brutalistic approach to her need for you, she wouldn’t allow herself to be dominated by someone like Wanda. Of course little did the redhead know that she was fully wrapped around her girlfriend’s finger already, their shared grip upon you being far too delicious to let go – the thought of you always fresh in their minds as one got the other off. 

“Watch your tone.” While much softer, Wanda wouldn’t dare allow herself to be treated lowly.  “Here, let mommy help. Don’t you want to be a good girl for me? Don’t you remember that it was me who showed you how to get your prized puppy?”

“Yes.”

Wanda’s smirk was wide at that. To have both you and Natasha under her control was far too exquisite – she drowned in the power she held, playing god as she took the lives of those who defied her. “Yes what?”

“Yes, mommy.”

As soon as the defeated words were sighed, the thumping against the chest cavity of the blonde was put to a rest. Natasha sagged her head as she ran a palm oozing with blood against her face, humming at the safety it brought her. Soon enough they’d break you; soon enough you’d be theirs.

Taking a life in her hands with a lost one beneath, Wanda, the deity, tilted her head. She ran a hesitant thumb across Natasha’s cheek to take in all the exhaustion carried upon those muscular shoulders, her arms weak as she submitted. The shining promise rings upon each of their left hands signified the momentous devotion towards the other. Long had they waited for freedom. 

The separation the two of them had with you was torturous. Unabashed ire was cast upon those who they saw fit to be their lab rats. Nothing but trash which they rummaged through to find the perfect way to have you. Such displaced aggression was only the beginning of their turbulence coming undone. 

“There’s my good girl. Now look at how mommy does it, Natalia. Cut her like this.” Wanda allowed Natasha to remove herself from on top the therapist. The taller of the two kneeled before her master, green eyes in a frenzy as they watched on carefully. The previously dull, red blade was substituted by a mint knife coming from Wanda’s side. Although wearing just a plaid skirt, a white button-down, and high-knee socks covered by Converse, she found it to be a perfect outfit. Nothing could compare to the surprise they’d have for you. “See?”

Wanda took her time, exuding patience across the office as she dragged the freshly sharpened blade across Carol’s neck. Choked sobs, her breathing becoming shallower by the second as she could barely take in any air, was music to the young women’s ears. The orchestra that was desperation mixed with ghastly sloshing sounds whenever the skin was punctured was exquisite. 

With her chest covered with ruptures, Carol was nearly thrown over the edge, Wanda holding her back so she could spend her last few moments facing harrowing pain. 

“That’s beautiful. I like how red it is,” Natasha pointed out as she licked her lips, noting exactly how her partner danced the knife on Carol’s throat – not too deep or shallow. “Is she in pain? How can you tell if this hurts more than what I was doing?”

“You didn’t take your time, sweetheart. You need to go slow, let them feel every single second of it. The poor thing can barely breathe, let alone call out for help. You did good there, but you can’t let yourself get carried away like that. Give your pets special care. Have some fun with them,” Wanda explained as she drew copious bouts of blood from Carol’s neck, the woman losing consciousness as her eyelids grew heavier with the stench of death surrounding the four walls. “The red treat is really yummy too, but not hers. This one is tainted, she hurt our prized possession. That’s why she has to pay. Anyone who keeps us away from our angel needs to suffer the consequences. When we get to Y/N you can taste her. Maybe I’ll even let you take the lead once you’ve had more training. Would you like that, daddy?”

“Yes,” Natasha was breathless with excitement. “Yes, mommy.”

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

With the end of school looming over, you spent your days crawling across the woodboards of the house. Since the unfaithful day where you had to first hand experience the shame of waltzing around the packed hallways wallowing in your own grief, you hadn’t left the safety of the four walls of your bedroom unless it was to go outdoors for a few minutes, gathering food, and simply returning to your cave. 

A handful of your other friends had visited. Steve brought flowers and your favorite dessert, Bucky by his side offering a sympathetic smile while handing you a bag filled to the brim with only your favorite foods, movies, fuzzy socks, and even a stuffed animal. Little by little, they trinkled by, but as time kept moving forth, they left you behind. 

Thor’s funeral was the only chance you gave yourself to escape the house. Throughout the somber ordeal at the town’s sole cemetery you gripped Jane’s hand, remaining unfazed as she sobbed against your shoulder. ‘Bring him back’, she repeated, the mantra stuck in your mind for sleepless days, arms wrapped around a goat stuffed animal Thor had once won for you at a carnival. The pain which his girlfriend felt, the misery embodied by her pleas and cries over his casket, was an exemplary manner in which the two of you were joined by the hip. 

Even afterwards the two of you strode aimlessly around the area, Jane attempting to let out incoherent words of sadness through choked cries, you didn’t have an ounce of emotions that barreled down what you concluded was a cold heart. You didn’t dare cry at the funeral, the rain allowing you to camouflage beneath its wetness and remain hidden in shame. Tears had already dried up when Kate disappeared. You only wished Thor could forgive you for the lack of sentiment that you displayed. 

Then yet again it was time to return home to your depressed, ragged, unconscious state. 

You parents had long given up on so little as attempting to interact with you. They didn’t have to spew their venomous words for you to realize that being by your side drained them. The agony which you were in was humorous to them. Late nights you find yourself hearing them chat from down the hall in their rooms, mumbling about how you’d be better off moving away, how they were the ones to suffer at the loss of their daughter, not you when never so much as being allowed to say goodbye to your loved ones. 

Rather than incite an argument which would not easily culminate, you hid out in your bedroom until the day they set off on their vacation. You were old enough to be alone, and yet you knew that according to Carol it was best to be surrounded with support – the thought of the woman made you frown momentarily, rummaging through the hot mess that had been your last appointment. Oh how you wished she’d answer your texts apologizing for your outburst with the hopes of scheduling another session. Radio silence was your best friend. 

In the moment your parents went away, you merely hugged them goodbye. Without their judgemental gazes you allowed yourself to further grow, to explore areas of the house you had barely set foot on during the lowest moments of your life. Truth be told most of your hours were spent on the terrace watching mother nature’s cool dance welcoming the summer – Kate’s favorite season. 

When nightfall overtook the town of Westview you sprawled yourself over the bed. The lack of parental guidance gave you the motivation to take everything at your own pace, to sparse out the food through the day, but still make an effort to keep yourself alive. If only your parents didn’t wish to shove a plate of food down your throat every waking moment then perhaps your mind wouldn’t refuse the slightest bit of pasta curated for yourself. 

It was a shame, really. Not taking care of yourself only left room for someone to swoop in and do it for you. With a peculiar redhead and a lanky brunette sitting in a heating car outside your home, they volunteered to take the vacant position.

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

“Shhh you have to be quiet, baby. Otherwise you’ll wake up mommy and then I’ll have to punish you. Do you want that, sweet one? Oh I don’t think you do. You’re a good girl. I know you can behave for mommy and daddy.”

Stuck in your dreams, the imagined soothing voice of Wanda Maximoff brought you peace. You hummed at it, snuggling closer to your stuffed animal, your guardian, as you pretended for it to be her. She’d be the sole saving grace of your livelihood regardless of the interesting choice of words spewed your way. 

“Pretty girl. Just look at how fucking pathetic she looks. Can we start now, mommy?” At the sound of Natasha’s voice, you frowned. The tenderness within it was not lost in you. “I want to destroy her, to take every single ounce of life she has left and make it my own. When can we take her away?”

“Silence, malyshka. We have to be patient with our angel. She’ll come to us when she’s ready. For now we just have some fun, perhaps train her a bit,” as serene as the words were spoken, the devilish nature that lay beneath was a cause for panic. In all your nightmares you had been feasted with images of an onyx creature with a ghostly mask, but never your classmates. It almost felt…real. “Would you like to start?”

Burning hands crossed your body, pulling down the sheets hiding it along with your pajamas. Within the clarity that you face, a groan came. Eyes fluttered across the dark room as you were groped, hips squeezed when a phantom creature danced against you. A bulge settled between your legs, mocking your existence with a different set of gloved hands that wrapped around your throat. 

When meeting the two figures upon your bed, breaking the illusion of a dream, you screamed – yet no sound came from your taped mouth. 

Your trunks were torn apart, a humiliating wet patch forming upon your underwear that was mocked with insistent laughter. The two ghost-like beasts pulled at it, nearly ripping it off as their pleased noises filled the frightening air. 

“Fill her up, sweetheart.” Wanda’s familiar voice instructed, her face, you noticed, covered with the same sinister mask you had once dreamed of. “Show her who she belongs to. After all we’ve done, don’t you think it’s time to have a little reward? Be a good girl and destroy our pet, daddy.”

“Yes, mommy.”

Natasha followed the steps she had rehearsed many times when using Wanda as a guiding proxy. She helped her robes up, plucking the zipper of her pants that lay beneath and swooping them down. A rather large, girthy dildo sprung from the confines of its makeshift prison. It was jerked off by a rather flushed Natasha whose face contorted into a desperate one. 

As an audience member Wanda sat back and enjoyed the way her perfectly trained animal rubbed your cunt, all slick and drenching itself more by the second. She ignored your muffled pleas and squirms, using sturdy cuffs to restrain you against the headboard of the bed. You looked much better all tied up anyway. 

Wanda found herself enthralled by the fear in your eyes, her own downcast, dark, and dripping with delight. Tenderness touched your wet cheek that was overtaken by tears. Although you couldn’t see her face, the sympathy displayed through the Ghostface mask caused your heart to slow down, to normalize as she overcame you.

“Look at you. You’re nothing but a filthy whore who is begging to be fucked. That’s what I told Wanda the first time we talked about you. She laughed, but it’s true. This desperate puffy pussy is proof of that,” Natasha growled as she swiped a thumb across your slit, coating it with your juices before swirling it against your cunt. Involuntarily your body shuddered; the redhead would never let you live that down. “How many times did you fantasize about this, huh? For mommy and daddy to claim this slutty body once and for all? You’re so pathetic. I’m barely touching you and your little cunt is already this wet. How cute.”

“Oh I want a go at her once you’re done, malyshka,” Wanda hummed, one of her hands landing atop Natasha’s to feel your oozing apex. “For now I think I’ll stick to marking her. Our names deserve to be on our property, don’t you think?”

“Ours.”

Fire trickled across your skin as the tip of the dildo was rubbed against your throbbing cunt. Natasha was desperate to fill you up, so rather than keep her needs at bay basking on foreplay, she simply grunted, slapping her cock against your clit before lining it up against your aching hole. 

No matter how hard you tried to moan, it was all for nothing. 

A knife was produced from Wanda’s belt swiftly as the way they slipped into your room at night. She sat back watching in awe as her partner pumped her entire cock into your depths, grabbing you harshly until the whole length filled your pussy. Tilting her head, a tongue stuck out to lick her lips. It was far too late to dare remove the tape without alerting the neighbors and potentially being caught – not to mention Natasha’s demeanor would turn sour and her hands would quickly wrap themselves around your neck until your breathing ceased – but oh she knew you’d be so loud for them. 

The cool blade of the knife felt wonderful against you. It was hesitant at first, exploring the expanse of your body as you, lying in wait, taking in a deep breath. Nostrils were fueled by pure hypnotic rage. All but your mind gave into Wanda. She was intoxicating, a true image of beauty even covered from head to toe with onyx garments. 

Numerous cuts were left upon your body by a blade that resembled those which were twisted upon Thor’s chest, the ones that were later compared to the wounds Dr. Danvers carried on her mutilated body only days after she had brutally murdered, her body thrown across an alley with nothing, not even her dignity, left the cover the humiliation. 

“That’s it, you little whore. Take daddy’s cock just like that. Oh you’re nothing but a good fleshlight, huh?” Natasha spewed out, slapping a gloved hand across your face before smirking beneath her mask – an action you practically heard in her tone. “You like it when daddy stuffs your tight pussy with her cock? Huh? A cumrag just for us. I can’t wait until you finally give in. we’re going to ruin this slutty pussy for everyone.”

“Maybe we can fill her up with your pups one day, daddy,” Wanda piped up as she maniacally cut your body. You were adorned with bloody carvings of varying sizes, one of those being a heart with the words ‘Mommy & Daddy’s Pet’ alongside ‘Wanda & Nat were here <3’ right beneath the breasts which she groped. “Do you want to have your daddy’s babies, sweetheart?” The lack of hardness within her voice drove you mad. All you could do was nod, a mind completely blank with the way Natasha fucked you. “Yeah? There’s a good girl. So good for her mommy and daddy. Oh we’ll take such good care of you. Now no one can take you away from us. It’s just us against the world.”

It was the first time you happily felt anything in months.

Bloody breasts were squeezed, Wanda quivering with excitement as she encouraged Natasha to keep going. The innocent stench of your scarlet fluid took the brunette aback. She was drunk in it, desperately wishing to tug at her mask to get a taste. Instead she settled for playing with it, although the gloves preventing the feel of your blood disappointed her. One day she’d drain every last drop within you to manically explore your body. 

With a lazy thumb running against your clit, Natasha’s cock stuffing your cunt until you were a sobbing mess, and Wanda’s cheers as she maimed you, you easily give yourself in for the women to take, arching your back and letting out a choked moan once you came undone. And yet that never stopped them. If anything, your admirers had only begun. 

Both spent hours merely using your body as though it was another limp mess for them to dispose of, a fleshlight ready to please them. They switched positions eventually, Natasha angling herself perfectly so as to shove her strap on down your throat once taking off the tape to keep you quiet, your juices coating her cock that you tasted, while Wanda gave your gaping cunt the same treatment with her fingers once removing her gloves. Regardless of how long it had passed and how spent you were, you didn’t dare force them to leave. 

Their visceral need to own every ounce, every breath, every fiber of your soul drove them to claim you. Watching you from afar, taking pictures, settling for others or each other to hide the itch for you was torturous enough. It was about time they got your attention once and for all that didn’t come from Natasha annoying you constantly to get a reaction, or Wanda sweetly interacting with her soon-to-be pet as a means to hold even an ounce of you. 

Once you were barely conscious, heavy eyelids threatening to close as you gargled over Natasha’s dick, it all came to an end. 

“Such a good girl,” Wanda mumbled, a hand caressing your face, thumb brushing against a cheek. Although the mask remained intact, you heard her fiery features temper down. “Y/N, you’re a perfect pet just like I thought you’d be.”

“Hmm just look at that. You’re already tainted,” Natasha pointed out as she ran a hand against your nude, fileted body. The bed was a mess, blood drying out among the sheets, your being stuck frozen without a sound coming past your lips. All you did was grunt, throat hoarse and exhaustion overtaking you. With a proud smile, both women were pleased with how far they broke you. “Should we give her the surprise, mommy?”

“The poor thing deserves it. Look at how much she’s been through. Oh don’t worry, sweetness, mommy will nurse you back to perfect health. Then in a few days we can put even more pretty scars on your body,” Wanda giddily announced. Cupping your face, she leaned in dangerously close until her mask brushed against your fallen face. “We have a little friend here who’s been dying to play with you. Be a good girl and say hi.”

From the shadows a third figure arose. It carried the same mask as the others, its waltz slow to the tempo of the swirling air felt through the crack of your window. It simply remained standing at the foot of your bed, a hand waving you a greeting, excitement fueling deep beneath the face covering. 

Upon the removal of the mask, your tired eyes widened, Natasha and Wanda having to hold you down from moving with devilish mocking looks upon their faces. 

“Hi Y/N.” The voice was once you dearly longed to hear again. “Did you miss me?”

[agaypanic]

Hii I’d like to request Regina having a crush on reader but reader has a hard time liking her back cause of what was written about reader in the burn book (with a fluff ending??) thank you!

Who Wrote This? (Regina George X Reader)

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Request Something!

Summary: Even though all that had happened junior year was forgiven, what was written about you in that wretched burn book still tugged at you mind. It makes it hard for you to warm up to Regina, who just wants to be with you.

A/N: regina wrote mean ass shit in the burn book so a warning for that ig

***

“Regina, if you keep staring at her, she might think you’re crazy.” The lacrosse team giggled as they watched Regina watch you. She was packing her bag after practice when she caught sight of you coming out of the school library.

“Oh, shut up.” She said, not bothering to take her eyes off of you. 

This wasn’t the first time Regina’s friends had caught her looking at you. Ever since sophomore year, after being sat next to you in one of her classes, it was like she couldn’t get you out of her head. No matter how many boyfriends, or more like boy toys, she had, or how many people she slept with. When it was all over, she still thought about you, who was nothing but kind and sweet to her despite her reputation of being an evil Plastic.

“When are you gonna go talk to her?” Dina, one of Regina’s teammates, nudged her arm. “You’re clearly, like, in love with her.”

“I can’t.” She answered, now somber. “I’m pretty sure she completely hates me.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but Regina didn’t know that. From how you acted now, like she repulsed you, it seemed like you despised her. And she knew it was all her fault.

Everyone except for you had gotten over what was written about them in the burn book. The moment you read what had been written about you, what people seemed to think of you, you realized that Regina George was a two-faced mega bitch and would never change. It didn’t matter how nice you were, or how many notes or pens you had let her borrow, or how genuine she seemed around you. She would always think she was above everyone, and the people below were as meaningless and bothersome as gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

You knew she was different now, like she had really grown. But you didn’t buy it for a second. So you kept your distance, speeding off or changing seats whenever Regina tried getting close to you. Yet there was a small part of you that was hopeful about the fact that she was better now, that she wasn’t so mean.

After zipping up your bag, you looked up and locked eyes with Regina on the soccer field. Even though she was far away, she could see you clench your jaw before storming off to your car.

She couldn’t do this anymore. No matter how much you tried to avoid her, she needed to talk to you.

***

You loved spending your free period in the library. You were able to catch up on homework or studying without getting distracted. Plus, Regina never came in here.

You heard the door open but didn’t look up from your notebook, where you copied notes from your textbook. Footsteps came near you, but you figured they were going to a seat past you.

But then someone sat down in the chair next to you. You looked up in the confusion, but that soon turned into an expression of annoyance.

“Please,” Regina whispered, grabbing your wrist before you could try to back your things and leave. You glared at her, and she had to force herself not to wince at your harshness. “Please, Y/n, I just wanna talk.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Just hear me out.” Regina pleaded, trying to stay quiet. She scooted her chair closer to you, and was surprised that you didn’t lean back or scoot away. “Hear me out, and then when I’m done, I’ll leave you alone forever. I promise.” 

It pained her to promise you that, but she figured it was the only way you’d listen to her.

You stared at her momentarily before you sighed and relaxed slightly in your seat.

“Fine.” You said. “But make it quick.”

Regina nodded, trying to get her thoughts together. To be honest, she didn’t really think she’d make it this far.

“I’m sorry.” She started. “Really, really sorry. What I wrote about you in that book, I didn’t mean it, and I regret writing it every day. You were one of the only people in this school that I genuinely liked, and I ruined what little we had because I wrote something stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid.” You interjected, bitterness in your tone. “It was mean, Regina.” You turned your seat to face her better. She was glad that you were finally looking at her without running away, but hated the look of disdain and hurt on your face. “I think about what you wrote about me every day. It’s practically burned into my brain at this point. ‘Y/n L/n is a skank that no one would touch with a ten-foot pole. That-’”

“‘That nerdy bitch will end up alone.’” Regina finished the quote, her voice meek and cheeks red from embarrassment. “I remember.”

“I’m glad you have such a good memory.” You said sarcastically. “If you wrote that about someone you say you genuinely liked, I wonder what you’d write about your own mother.”

“Y/n…” Regina sighed. This was definitely not going the way she had wanted. But at the same time, she expected this to be a sour interaction. “I didn’t mean what I wrote.”

“Oh really? What, was it just a spur-of-the-moment decision to cut out my school picture and write that?”

“I had to write it, Y/n.” The absurdity of that statement shocked you into silence, so Regina took it as a chance to continue before you told her you didn’t want to hear it. “I put myself in there to frame Cady, Gretchen, and Karen for making the book. But then I remembered that you weren’t in there. I never wanted you in that book, but I didn’t want you to be blamed for it if Mr. Duvall realized you weren’t in it.”

“So…” You were trying to wrap your head around Regina’s words. “You wrote all that stuff… to protect me?”

“I hated every minute of it.” Regina seemed so serious; she looked so desperate for you to believe her. “It was so hard to write that, because I didn’t believe any of it. The truth is… I’ve actually liked you for a long time, Y/n.” You looked at her bewildered, and she took your silence as a cue to continue. “That’s why I had never put you in the book. I remember always pretending to forget or lose my pencils so I could talk to you because you’d always let me borrow yours. Or I’d leave one of my books at home, hoping that you’d share yours with me.” Regina took a deep breath, reminiscing on the little moments she had with you before she ruined it all. “It’s so corny, but I never felt as on top of the world as I did when you were talking to me.”

You stared at Regina, completely shocked. This was not at all what you were expecting when she begged you to listen to her. At the most, you thought it’d be a little apology, and then she’d leave. Instead, you had gotten a full-on love confession from Regina George, who, for the first time probably ever, looked scared as she waited for your response.

“I’ll leave you alone now.” She said after another minute of awkward silence. “I promise I won’t try to bother you anymore. And again, I’m really sorry.”

Regina stood up, but your hand shot out and grabbed her arm to stop her. She looked down at you to find that you were already staring at her.

“I…” You started, still trying to process the situation. “I guess I can forgive you. And I suppose I could give you another chance. You know, like a do-over.”

“Really?” Regina smiled hopefully, lowering back down into her chair. You realized your hand was still clasped around her arm, so you let go and cleared your throat.

“Yeah. I mean, after all, you gotta make it up to me. Emotional damages and all.” 

You returned to the notes and textbook you had neglected, found where you had left off, and started writing again. Regina took this as her cue to leave, and she wondered what would happen after this. But before she could stand up again, your free hand drifted to hers on the table, pinky laying over hers. She smiled and curled her small finger around yours.

You stayed there until the end of your free period. And when the two of you went to your next class, which you shared, Regina was both relieved and ecstatic when you sat in the seat next to her without a second thought.

[screampied]

if u write wlw i’d love a shoko fic! gentle sex with aftercare :’)

❤︎ ໋𓈒 letting shoko go down on you for the first time.

warnings. fem! reader, cūnnilingus, praise, slight dirty talk, fingering, mdni.

“a….are you sure?” you’d mumble, your lips twisting into a needy pout as you lay flat on your back. the softness of your pillow brushes against your skin as your eyes flicker down at your girlfriend. “you promise you don’t mind?”

a smile curls onto her glossed lips. “. . honey, i’m very sure,” and you shudder once she plants a few soft gentle kisses towards the very crevices of your thighs. “i just wanna make sure that you feel good at the end of the day,” and her voice was as smooth as silk. you could listen to it all day if you could. she always treated you right, treated your body with care. so delicate with her fingers, they would strum down your legs as you let off a candied moan the minute she plants a kiss against your panties. she could smell your arousal, her dark eyes gleam once she stares back up at you, whispering a soft, “may i?”

“please,” you immensely reply, a tiny tremor in your voice and she found it so cute. she found you so cute. the way your eyes sparkle, she wanted to do nothing more than to take her sweet time with you. after all, you were her favorite girl.

“lie down then, cupcake,” she murmurs, her warm breath going against your skin—you whine, feeling her thumb strum against the outline of your panties. she’s so gentle with her touch, so precise. she’s right up between your thighs before she gives the middle part of your underwear a sweet kiss. “let me take care of you, let me take care of my pretty girl.”

relaxing, you breath in and out, in and out.

whilst you’re focusing on your irregular breathing patterns, staring at the drywall of the ceiling—you gasp once you feel her slide your panties to the side, gently inserting a single finger into you.

shoko grows substantially quiet, making you listen to the sounds of wet squelches of your cunt. so excited, so aroused. she could practically feel your heat radiate off of you.

“s-shoko, don’t tease me,” you whimper. her fingers were so slender— easily stretching inside of your walls.

your pussy accepted her digit openly, clamping down around it before she curls it even further inside of you. “fuck, f-fuck,” you gnaw at the bottom of your lip, already feeling your thighs start to tremble and ache. you wanted her, you wanted her mouth. you couldn’t wait, the build up, the pure anticipation was making you squirm even more in utter desperation. “please, p-pleaseee.”

“shh baby, i hear you,” she chuckles—even her laugh was so sweetly pleasant. her voice, you could cum from just alone at how smooth it was. shoko then dips another finger inside of your sopping wet cunt. the way you squeeze around her was so cute, she couldn’t exactly wait herself either. shoko then inches towards your cunt, slowly lolling out her pretty pink tongue before gifting your clit with a long stripe lick. “m-mhm.” she moans, just a single lick and she was addicted.

her tongue felt so warm against your clit, she still pistons her fingers inside of your entrance—yet this time, it’s a bit more faster.

you lean back, mouth opening and you couldn’t stop yourself from moaning—each direct moan that gets wretched out from your throat reverberates across the entire room.

it doesn’t take long for her to find your clit.

in fact, it doesn’t take her long to locate your g-spot either.

“so sweet, so ready for me,” she whispers, warm breath aerating against your folds. her tongue— it lays itself flat and she starts to lick against your pussy again and again. “ahh,” she sticks out her tongue, already feeling her own pussy start to twitch underneath her skirt. shoko relaxes her facial expressions, savoring your taste once more before she slowly pulls out her fingers. “my my, you’re such a sloppy girl today.”

her words were so sweet, so honeyed, succulent..

your back leans against the cushioned mattress before you briefly bite down on your tongue. her fingers . . she pulls them out before moving closer towards your heat. she licks her own lewdly covered fingers clean before grabbing your chin softly. “taste yourself for me, baby.”

you moan, taking shoko’s fingers happily into your mouth. long digits of hers pry your jaw open, reaching way down until the tips of her two fingers brush way further back against your uvula. you almost gag, swirling your tongue against the taste. you savor the taste, shoko watches with amused eyes before hurriedly taking her fingers right back out. you cutely pout, your lips now smothered and smeared with a sheeny coat of your own glossed spit.

“so cute,” she mutters, bringing her attention back towards your cunt. shoko then rolls her tongue against your folds— taking in the syrupy slick that your pussy provides. “mhm,” and she uses both hands to spread your legs open just a bit further. she’s so into it too—you moan, having a literal staring contest with the beige colored ceiling as her tongue continues to roam inside of your entrance.

shoko proceeds to press sloppy kisses against your folds. her own gossamer having spit departs from her lips and you shudder from her touch. she’s so thorough, your back starts to arch the more she runs her tongue inside and outside of your clit. she laps it up a few times, only to spit directly on it.

“gonna make my baby just a liiittle more wet for me,” she whispers in a melodic tone, flickering her tongue against your swollen entrance. you’re whining out, so loud that she giggles once you create a cute attempt to grab onto her hair, using it as leverage. her long strands—usually she has it tied back but not this time. “pull it harder, cupcake. yeah, mhm. like that. just like that.”

you tug harder on her darkened strands before you feel shoko start to cup her mouth near the top part of your slit. once she starts to suck against your pussy, you’re an entire mess. her mouth mimics the movements of a vacuum, edging you closer and closer towards your sweetened climax.

“s—sho, shoko,” you mewl, her tongue sliding against your clitoral hood—so sensitive, each nerve that’s inside of your cunt pierces all throughout your body. it feels indescribable, she makes sure to have her tongue move in a circular rotation. side to side, up and down, various movements with just a few long languid licks. “close, ‘m gonna cum soon, shoko.”

“wait for me, baby,” she smooches against your cunt, her nose briefly rubbing against your slick entrance—you’re starting to slowly drag shoko’s face into you and she purrs a seductive purr. “ooooh. gettin’ impatient are we? you’re adorable.”

her sucking against your pussy only fastens more before she drags a single thumb down your slit again.

you coat her oh so well. she stares at the mess you give her before staring right into your eyes. a few strands of hair run down her face as she’s tending to her meal, warm breath brushing up against your folds just to have you quaver for the umpteenth time of today. it wasn’t anything you’ve ever felt before, shoko’s tongue—the entire feeling of it was simply unmatched. “gonna make a mess on my face, pretty?” and her voice was so soft—so tender, your legs fail to remain still as you’re just shaking within her gripping hold. she holds onto your thigh, another focusing on your pussy before you end up cumming a tad bit earlier than you originally intended.

it comes out in waves, high tense waves that leaves your legs shaking—you whine, feeling your neglected nipples perk and your ears burn up to a staggering rising temperature.

shoko giggles, the tip of her button nose still swiping against your cunt as she watches you fall into a state of pure bliss. “s-shoko,” you stammer over your words, her touch alone sending you to straight blissful convulsions. the suction she had against your pussy drags out such whines before she suddenly gets up.

with droopy glossy eyes and a hung open mouth, pants escaping entirely— shoko lifts up her skirt, shoving her panties to the side.

“you’re so perfect,” she whispers, and you moan once she aligns herself against your sensitive entrance. so wet, sopping wet— she sits her own cunt against yours, and you whine before you instinctively sprawl your legs open a bit more. she didn’t even have to say anything, you knew she wanted nothing more than to rub clits with you. “good girl, spread ‘m for me like that ‘n just lie back, okay? let me r handle everything from here, baby.”

“o—okay, shoko.” you gasp out in short breaths, feeling the own slick arousal of her pussy slide against you. she moans, leaning up close to your chest, starting to grind before she pulls you into a sloppy sultry-filled kiss.

immensely, you taste yourself all over her tongue. soft hands of hers grab onto the plushy mounds of flesh that stuck against your chest. you feel yourself still pulsating from your recent teeth-shattering release, a hand grips onto the fat of her ass and she lets off a cute squeal.

“mhm. good, spank me, cupcake,” and her voice lowers an octave before she licks a stripe near your neck. once she starts up a frantic rhythm, you spank shoko only before babbling out cute whimpers at the feeling of her wet pussy grind against your own sweet sensitive folds. “good girl,” she whispers, her own words starting to get a bit shaky as much as yours. dragging a thumb down your bottom lip, she stares right into your eyes before giggling at your dumb state. with droopy eyes, you lean in towards her for another kiss—yet instead of returning it, she murmurs soft breathy words against your mouth, sliding one of her fingers into your mouth to suck on again. “my good girl.”

with after care— after shoko would finish pleasing you with such tender care, she’d hold you right into her arms. a soft smile could be seen on her lips as she strokes your hair, leaning in to kiss the top of your forehead. “you’re so pretty like this,” she’d purr out, leaning against your chest before kissing near your tender skin. you inhale deeply, holding onto her hand before she giggles. “hm. how about we take a nice bath together, baby. i wanna spoil you a bit.”

[kingkat12]

fuck-me eyes and first times (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: 18+, piv sex, loss of virginity, inexperienced sex?, oral sex (female receiving), mutual masturbation, awkward real moments lol, dry-humping, use of contraceptives, drunk driving, Roman using his powers for good?, blood, FLUFF, a dash of angst

summary: you've been unlucky with your first times all your life-- but tonight, you're sleeping with the equivalent of your shooting star.

word count: 12,140 (i love you guys, do u see)

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11

a/n: FINALLY THEY’RE FUCKING ISTG?? tihiii this is a bit of a different chapter!! i'm dead tired of reading smut where everything goes perfectly the first time and they barely communicate, so hopefully this will be a bit more realistic (hopefully!!) sorry for the wait, and hope you enjoy!!!!!!;)

The first time I broke a bone, I kicked my foot into the wall in a fit of rage.

The first time I got an A on a test, I cheated by writing the answers under my skirt. 

And the first time I lost a friend? That was the story of how I got here in the first place.

To say my track record for first times was bad, was an understatement. I didn't see myself as an angel of the world. However, as I glanced to the side for a brief moment at an intersection, I looked directly at the man who'd often joke he was the devil. Roman had spread out in the passenger seat, still a little drunk as his long legs rested against the dashboard. It didn't matter how many times I told him to take them down, that if I were to crash his car he'd fold in two and die-- he didn't care. 

We were still a little intoxicated from the party, but I was in a better condition than him, which was why I was driving; something he'd never let me do if he wasn't in this state. Roman's head lolled back against his seat, his eyes closing as he hummed along to the music. Space Song by Beach House was always my favorite song to drive to at night, and I was glad he seemed to like it as well.

The first time I heard this song, I had been driving home after getting introduced to Letha at a party. I was over the moon, happy to have finally found a person in this wretched town that I could enjoy the company of. I had been so dreadfully bored of all the others. 

Letha was a good hugger. A good listener-- never scared to tell the truth, especially as we grew closer.

"Roman is my baby cousin, I love him to death, but damn he can be annoying," she had said, smiling at me as she leaned against the kitchen counter. "The amount of friends I have lost to him is just crazy. Every single one seems to fall over like dominoes whenever he's around, and honestly? I don't get it. Maybe it's because we're related and all, but there has to be a fucking limit to how many times something like this can happen? How many times can he sleep with my friends and get away with it? Him doing that is the same as me sleeping with Peter, it's just not okay! I would never fucking do that! This situation is becoming hysterical, to be honest."

I remember frowning-- "Hysterical?"

"Yeah... If I wasn't so pissed at him, I'd just laugh at the absurdity," Letha's green eyes remained kind despite the heaviness of the topic. "But at the end of the day, I'm glad I get to keep you to myself. My previous friends were nothing compared to you."

Letha's words were sweet, but something felt off. I smiled as I spoke, hoping to keep my query a light one; "What do you mean, keep me to yourself? Gonna chain me up, Letha?" I gave her shoulder a nudge as she laughed. 

"Not like that, you freak! I mean that Roman doesn't seem interested in you at all, so I feel safe that you'll stay. And if he were to be, you'd never do anything like that to me," She put away her empty can of beer, and something in her eyes shifted just a smidge-- I wouldn't have caught it if my senses hadn't been sharpened by the mention of his lack of interest in me. 

"... Right?" Letha asked, urging a response. It seemed to dawn on her that she sounded on the brink of bitterness, and she broke out into an even wider smile to compensate; "You don't seem like the type to sleep with my cousin, but maybe I'm wrong?"

"Never," was what I had answered that night.

Never... Gosh, I was delusional to think I could behave. 

Once again, I glanced at Roman at the next red light, watching the way one strand of hair strayed from his stylings and laid in a soft wave over his forehead. He opened his big, green eyes, smirking as he realized he was being watched-- "Eyes on the road,"

It was embarrassing how fast I blushed. I quickly nodded, gripping the steering wheel harder as I fixated on the red light above us. "Was it the next intersection I needed to get off on?" I asked, hoping not to linger on the subject of my peeking. "Could you maybe turn on the GPS on my phone just in case you fall asleep?"

"I'm not sleeping," Roman prompted, holding out his hand to take my phone.

As I reached for it in my back pocket, I felt it vibrate as the lights turned green. I gave Roman my phone, in a rush to not miss the light even though we were the only ones on the highway. "Who's calling?" 

Roman didn't answer me-- I pieced together who it was when he started greeting my mom.

Oh no. 

I freed one hand from the steering wheel, trying to get a hold of my phone as Roman quietly laughed at my attempt. I didn't succeed; "Yeah, she's here," he said, grinning as he motioned for me to keep driving. "I hoped to have her stay over at my place tonight, as my mother is desperate to meet your lovely daughter."

I rolled my eyes, mouthing a simple fuck you. Roman had to bite down on his lip to suppress a laugh-- we both knew his mom was out of town and that his intentions were far from anything as pure as to introduce me to her. 

My mom seemed flustered by his pleasantries on the other side of the phone, but I couldn't make out the specifics of what she was saying. It didn't sound like she was objecting, though. 

Roman nodded along as he turned down the music on the stereo and (finally) removed his legs off the dashboard. "No, of course, I wouldn't dream of giving your daughter any alcohol! Yes-- Yes, we were at a party just now, but we're both sober as rocks!" He glanced at me, mischief dancing in the green of his eyes.

The look on his face now was priceless. Although he was lying to my mom right up her face (her ear?), he still looked damn charming as always.

"Uh-huh..." Roman mumbled, now reciting his phone number at her request. "We'll probably be up having dinner, so you can call me anytime if you have any questions!-- Yes, I know it's late to have dinner, but my mother is European like that. Your daughter is in good hands, don't worry!"

I rolled my eyes once more, knowing how fond my mom was of him and how easily she'd eat all of this up. When Roman finally got off the call, he broke out into a string of laughter-- "Your mom is so damn sweet, but I can tell she's terrified we'll have sex. It seems you've taken after her,"

"I'm not terrified!" I whined, turning left to get off the highway.

He snorted; "I was two seconds away from telling her I have a stash of condoms, and that she shouldn't worry about having to take care of a mini-me when you leave for college,"

I did my best not to blush-- this conversation was getting more and more suggestive. "Shut up," I mumbled. "I'm not terrified."

Roman's eyes softened as he sat back in his seat and watched me drive his car. I knew I was giving away my true feelings regarding the matter with the way I was anxiously tapping my fingers against the steering wheel. I continued; "I just had you locked in a closet trying to convince you I'm not. It's not that big of a deal,"

"Relax, I'm just teasing you," Roman ran his fingers through his hair, gazing into the rearview mirror to check how messed up it had gotten. His red car had an open roof, after all. He sighed, trying to choose his next words wisely. "Not a big deal, you say?"

"Well..." I was unsure whether to be honest or not.

Roman nodded, looking out at all the trees passing us by. His silence was unnerving, and I turned up the music to tune it out. I couldn't stand this. Something in him switched; Maybe he was upset that I said it wasn't a big deal? Or maybe he was realizing it was a big deal to him? I needed to change the subject; "This is the right direction, no? I feel like I'm just driving deeper into the forest--"

"I've never told you this, but after the first time we kissed, I kept having the same dream where never left the seven minutes in heaven closet," Roman placed his head in the palm of his hand as he leaned his elbow against the car door, sighing. "Over and over, every night. Nearly drove me mad. And in the dream, there were no seven minutes, no time limit. So it was just you and I, and we were going at it like fucking crazy."

I held my breath, my eyes widening further with every sentence. What? Was he drunk-rambling or was this something else?

Roman sighed again, attempting to relax as he closed his eyes and stilled in his seat. Like this, I could nearly mistake him for being asleep. "It all started with me wanting to fuck you," he mumbled. "But every night, at the end of the dream, I got greedy... Because suddenly, I also wanted you to love me." 

Had I not been good at keeping calm, I would've probably crashed the car into the nearest tree. I didn't get much time to process, to feel the weight of his confession, until Roman snapped out of it like a character taken straight out of an animation, now sitting up; "Turn here,"

I drove up to a huge gate, stopping the car as I tried to steady my breathing. "Roman--"

"Two seconds," he said, getting out of the car to walk up to the intercom. He was as good as normal now.

I was left still gripping the steering wheel for dear life, my mouth opening and closing as I tried to find the right words. I watched as Roman typed in a code, and the massive gate slowly opened as he jumped back into the car. 

My breath was still held in my chest as I turned to him, eyes wider than plates of expensive china. 

Roman glanced back at me with an innocent smile; the mood had completely switched. "Breathe," he cooed, reaching forward to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "It's just a mansion." With a sharp intake of air, he glanced at the backseat and the crumbled-up hot pink crop top we had brought with us (stolen, actually) from the party-- "A mansion with a possibility to put that anomaly in the fucking laundry."

I turned towards it as well, returning to my mind at the sight of the obnoxious colour of the top-- Knowing I had made him cum into the fabric of it merely an hour ago still felt like a triumph.

... Was it maybe my turn, now?

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

And he was right-- this was an absolute castle of a house. I had suppressed the truth about Roman's wealth for as long as I could, not wanting to think about it in case my mind went haywire about it, but now it was smacking me in the face.

Still, Roman's hand on the small of my back was a comfort as he led me through the mansion on the most impromptu show-around I've ever witnessed. "This is the room where I learned how to shoot darts," he mumbled, pointing at the small dents in the wall. "I didn't know the darts were actually stuck to the wall and not the printed dartboard I hung up..." He bent down, picking up the painting his mother had hung up to cover the indents.

I couldn't help but laugh, clinging to his arm as we moved from room to room. The mansion was gothic, vampy, but that might've just been my imagination playing with me. The tall ceilings were intimidating, yet beautiful-- judging by my surroundings, there was no denying that everything around me cost a fortune.

I was yanked out of my trail of thoughts when Roman led me behind a red curtain by one of the big windows in the next room, and I giggled as he wrapped it around us. My back was pressed against the wall, engulfed by both the curtain and Roman's embrace; "This is where I learned how to French," he whispered, smiling as he pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth. "And it was horrible. She fucking bit me and I squealed like a girl."

If Roman was trying to distract me from what he had said in the car, he was certainly doing a good job. The mental image of his first French kiss kept me beyond entertained, and we both continued laughing as he got us out of the wrap of the curtain.

However, it was the walk up the circular stairs that truly made it dawn on me who I was dating-- Roman Godfrey, the future heir to a billion-dollar company. Fuck. I stared up at the painting above us, the one of him and his mother posing with a rather regal-looking background. He couldn't have been more than fourteen in that picture, and I could see his classic intimidating stare through the painting and the way he clutched the chair his mother was posed on. It was clear that the boy in the painting didn't want to be there at all.

Roman turned, realizing what I was looking at; "I fucking hate that one," he grumbled, giving my hand a squeeze. "I refused to smile at that age. I look like I'm on the brink of killing myself."

"Not true," I squeezed his hand back. "Give yourself some grace. How old were you?"

"Fourteen,"

There you go. "Judging by the painting, I think we could've been friends at fourteen,"

Roman stopped in the middle of the curved stairway, his brows drawing together. "How so?"

I shrugged, trying not to focus on how much taller he was than me. If I thought about it for too long, I'd jump him. "Because I wore all black for about a year. If you refused to smile, and I refused to show any joy, I think we would've been a killer duo,"

Roman blinked twice before cracking into a chuckle. "That's unexpected,"

"Bet,"

"You're all... cute and bubbly now,"

"You think?" I wasn't sure how much I agreed. "The girl that's fucking around with her ex-best friend's cousin?"

Roman had to bite down another laugh. "What do you mean, fucking around? I haven't as much as touched you compared to how I could've,"

Oh.

Oh God.

I held back a shiver, staring up at him as he resumed leading me up the stairs. "But... you have touched me,"

"Sure," Roman proceeded to get a proper look at me in the darkness of the night when we reached the second floor. The green around his widened pupils practically shone-- it was impressively cat-like. "Impossible not to, with those fuck-me eyes of yours."

"Hey!" I wasn't sure why I was protesting, but I knew his snicker egged me on. "I don't have... that!"

I could see that Roman was on the brink of cooing at me, and he sucked in a sharp breath as he sunk his teeth into his bottom lip. I hadn't seen him this amused in a while. "Right," he purred. "You don't. Not a trace at all." With a short kiss on my forehead, he moved away from me and started walking down the dark corridor. "Keep those fuck-me eyes in the hallway, and I might let you sleep tonight."

I sighed before gearing up into a walking sprint to catch up with his long strides-- If only he knew that sleep was the last thing on my mind. 

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

When we finally reached Roman's bedroom, I couldn't believe the size of it. My room was nothing in comparison. I had certainly not expected the posters-- there were many rare classic horror films and some bands I was sure his mom probably loathed. However, I was surprised by the lack of half-naked models on his walls which I had always imagined; I let out a short, relieved breath. "Your room is nice,"

Roman hummed, throwing his jacket on a chair nearby. "Not too boyish for you?" 

"Nah," I mumbled, walking up to the posters on the opposite wall. There were a lot of movies I hadn't seen yet-- still, I couldn't help but laugh a little when I saw The Godfather. "It's very you."

"How great that you like me, then," 

"Lucky for you, yeah," There was something about this room that I couldn't help but love-- this was where Roman woke up and fell asleep. This was where he probably spent most of his time. I wondered whether the pillows smelled of his going-out cologne or the lighter one he usually wore to school. I wondered whether he'd been caught smoking in here, whether he'd done coke with Peter on his desk, and how many girls he'd had up here. By the likes of it, I somehow doubted anything like that ever happened at his place. If he had waited this long to have me over, I decided it was highly unlikely he'd invite someone he didn't know very well. 

I clasped my hands behind my back, taking long strides as I scanned the many posters on his walls.

Roman sat down on the chair by his desk, spreading out as he watched me with a smirk. "Not what you expected?"

I turned to him, my brows drawing together; "Why? Are you nervous or something?"

"I'm not nervous," Roman huffed, folding his arms over his chest. Now that I was looking straight at him, it was clear that he was. "I'm simply asking."

A knowing smile crept up my cheeks-- it felt like I had the upper hand, for once. "You're nervous,"

"Am not!"

"And now you're fidgeting,"

I was correct; Roman's right leg had given into a slight bounce. He rolled his eyes, muttering curse words under his breath. "It's not every day that I have girls up here, okay? I'm never here, stuff always happens at someone else's-- well, now your room. Because this is, like... my lair,"

I had to bite back an amused smirk; "Your evil lair?"

"Bingo. This is where I dissect people and stuff," He pointed to the table next to him. "So... yeah. Your opinion matters to me, I guess."

"Oh, does it now?"

"On some things, sure,"

I nodded, focusing on how the moonlight was dipping into the dark brown of Roman's hair. He didn't have to be so pretty all the time, did he? How rude. "Such as...?"

With a shrug, Roman now gazed at the tall ceiling. Like this, he almost looked bored. "Your opinion of me is the one that comes to mind, I guess,"

"My opinion of... you?" That was new. 

Roman met my eyes again, this time with a new emotion-- his head was slightly tilted to the side, and he was looking at me through his brows. I had a feeling he didn't intend the look to be as intimidating as it was. "It fluctuates,"

"My opinion?"

"Yep," he said. "Some days, you look at me like I'm everything. And then, the next day, I'm the biggest asshole in the world."

My lips drew together in a tight line-- this was unexpected. "And here I thought I was the only consistent thing in your life," I mumbled. "I don't know, Rome, every couple has its ups and downs, no? But I don't want them to make you doubt what I feel for you. Because... you know, right?" I started taking wary steps across the room. "You know I adore you, there is no way you've managed to miss that?"

With a sigh, Roman sat back in his chair with a smile. "Sure, I know that," he murmured, watching my every step with anticipation. "And I bet that tree you carved our initials into can attest."

Goddamn it. "You're never going to let go of that, are you?" 

As I finally approached him, Roman led me between his legs with a gentle hold around my waist. "Nope," He pressed his lips against my clothed chest, his fingers slowly digging into my top. My arms draped around his neck, and my next words were muffled against his hair; he reeked of his usual cinnamon-flavored cigarettes-- "But sure, if the tree ever starts talking, it will agree. You know I'm crazy about you,"

"Crazy is the keyword here,"

"Oh, shut up," I muttered, pulling away to get a proper look at him. Roman was so damn beautiful-- I had missed the sight of him in the past twenty-four hours I had been unsure of the state of our relationship. "I still can't believe you thought I was going to break up with you... Do you know how shitty you would have to be to drive me to that point?"

Roman pulled me back in again, enjoying the scent of my perfume with his next deep inhale; he pressed a short kiss to my neck. "Let me be paranoid," The next kiss lingered for longer, the warm exhale through his nose grazing my skin.

"But I don't want you to be," I tried. "I don't ever want you to doubt us like that. Never, ever again."

Roman stilled. With a sigh, he spoke; "Okay... but that's where you step into what people in my family call a deathtrap," He motioned for me to sit down in his lap, and with wary movements, I draped my arms around his neck and sat down, allowing him to place a sweet kiss to my cheek. "Deathtrap?" I echoed.

"Deathtrap," Roman shifted, placing one arm around my waist as his free hand traced small circles into my thighs. "Otherwise known as... hope." And just like that, it was as though his mind went elsewhere, as though something in his eyes shifted. 

However, I'd had enough of that-- I wasn't having any of it tonight. Knowing Roman saw hope as a deathtrap made my heart burn. Wary of not being too abrupt, I slowly placed a finger underneath his chin, catching his attention. "If you don't want to harbor any hope of your own, I'll lend you mine," I whispered, gently nudging his nose with mine. 

Roman's pupils dilated as his hot breath fanned against my upper lip. I could smell the beer on him, the cigarettes, yet the most prevalent was the anxiety-- it brushed upon my skin, and caressed my heart. "All of it, Roman," My hand went back into his hair, stroking through the softness of his locks. "All my hope, all my love... it's all yours to borrow. To keep, to mold, to steal, to hold, for as long as you like. It's not a trap of any kind. You're safe with me."

That was all it took, and so he gave in; with the smallest of sighs, Roman closed his eyes, relishing in the moment. "You make me feel... you make me feel," he echoed, almost in disbelief. "It's a painful thing, is it not?"

I dared to let my hand brush down the side of his face, my thumb gently ghosting over his closed lid to feel the softness of his lashes against the pad of my finger. "It doesn't have to be. It could feel really, really good,"

Roman let out a shaky breath against me; "I want that for you," he said, opening his eyes. The green in his eyes shone in the white shimmer of the moonlight, illuminating the intent in his words. "Want to make you feel good... in every way possible." 

Something about the drop in his voice nearly made me shiver-- I couldn't allow myself to, not in his lap. It took a few seconds for me to notice that I was holding my breath, staring back at him with a look on my face which I hoped didn't give away too much. Maybe I had misinterpreted his words? Maybe Roman meant that in a romantic way?

However, with the following upward curve of the corners of his mouth, so small I could barely notice it, I knew my intuition had been right. Roman definitely meant that in a different way. 

... I needed to listen to my intuition more, didn't I?

Roman's hand on my thigh lifted, now removing the vial of blood around my neck to place it on the table nearby; he proceeded to put his palm against my cheek with the gentlest touch, softly caressing my skin with his thumb. This was when it dawned on me that we were alone. Completely alone. Possibly for the first time ever. No interruptions, with no one to hear anything. Had this been a month ago, that fact alone would've been enough to make me jump off his lap, and I would've probably paced up and down along his room with nervous steps to soothe my anxiety. Being alone with him meant that I wouldn't be able to contain my need for him, I was sure of it.

But now? I believed Roman could do that for me. Soothe me. He could calm me down like no other. Now, I knew he wouldn't run off after getting what he wanted-- because now, I knew that what he truly wanted was me. 

"Could you let me do that?" Roman breathed, the green of his eyes finding my lips. I was confused as to how I hadn't melted into his lap already. "Make you feel good?" He leaned forward, just a few inches, now brushing the pad of his thumb across my bottom lip, transfixed. "Or... are you sure you want to do this? Have your first time with someone like me?"

There was something about the fact that he was even asking-- the old Roman would never. "Who else would I have my first time with? It's always been you," My lips parted in a soundless intake of breath, my gaze darting to his plush, pink lips. Like this, I could almost feel them against me; we had kissed so many times that my body remembered the sweet push of his lips simply by gazing at them. Still, I was afraid it would never be enough, and every kiss was as thrilling as the first one. "Just being with you like this feels good already."

Roman hummed, absentminded. "Not what I'm getting at,"

"I know," I breathed. "But I can't help but worry that--" I had to clear my throat, swallowing. Why was I getting so damn nervous? It was getting harder to breathe, and I was sure my cheeks were flushing. "Well... That I won't know what to do."

With a sigh, Roman bit down on his lip to hold back a laugh. "It's your first time, you won't have to do much," Despite his lids hanging heavy over his darkening eyes, I could see the want building in him. "I'll take the lead, okay? You just relax." He steadied me with his palm over my cheek before leaning forward-- my body hitched with caution as he brushed his lips across mine, slanted, until I allowed myself to give in. 

The soft pillow of Roman's lips was the sweetest pressure I had ever known. I could feel my blood heat with the intent of the kiss, and I suddenly got the urge to cross my legs to calm myself down-- I knew I couldn't. Roman's breath fell softly against my cheek as my hands went up into his hair, tugging gently at the tips of his dark locks as I kissed him back with my lips slightly parted, moving against his as though he was whispering me a question.

Maybe I didn't hear it-- maybe it was a warning? Had he actually whispered something, or was I imagining things? Because with the next second, Roman hooked his arm under my knees, lifting me off the chair as I yelped into the kiss. It didn't take long before I eased, telling myself he had lifted me many times before, and that he would never drop me. Never, ever. Roman smiled against my lips, humming just slightly as he carried me bridal-style across the room. It felt silly, cliché, until it dawned on me-- was he playing the cliché out for me? Was this what he perhaps imagined I wanted, something pure, something classically virginal?

In the few seconds our kiss was broken, Roman placed me down on the bed and watched as I giggled; it was impossible not to laugh as the recoil of the springs threatened to bounce me up in the air again. He tsked, now grinning as he made space between my legs, drawing me closer before he kissed me once more. It was bolder this time, pressing the soft fullness of his mouth against mine-- there was nowhere else for me to go but to him. 

My hands wove into Roman's hair again, pulling him closer as my heart thumped hard in my chest. Was this really happening? Or was this maybe something I was imagining, maybe the alcohol hadn't left my system yet? "Rome--"

Before I could continue, his lips were on mine again like a magnet, drawing us together, unable to separate the magnetic forces long enough to let me speak. It was confirmed; he was definitely here. This was real. There was an urgency to Roman's stubborn kisses-- you're mine, just accept it. Being kissed into submission was something I had never imagined was possible, yet here I was, my lips parting with a soft whimper, feeling his tongue against mine; it filled me with a complete and utter satisfaction, a final statement. 

I wanted him to devour me. As I coiled my fingers around Roman's dark hair, tugging him closer, I so desperately wanted only that. To melt into him, to become one-- was that maybe the core concept of sex which I had misunderstood all up until this exact moment? Just the thought of being connected with Roman like that, knowing he could possibly be inside me-- that thought had never evoked the physical reaction in me before as it did now. 

Well, fuck. I realized I was screwed before it had even happened.

Sucking in a sharp breath, the silk of Roman's expensive duvets kept me grounded as he softly groaned into my mouth. His tongue circled mine before gently sucking the tip of it into his mouth, and he listened to my whimpers as he withdrew shortly after, a lone string of saliva still linking us. I was unsure why I was left so speechless, why every little thing he did made me feel like my body was on fire, but I knew there was no rationality in need. The innate need ravaging through your veins. There was no way to make sense of it, and I was certain Roman was aware of that too. Yet suddenly, he was near-motionless, blinking twice as if he was a little lost on what to do, which I immediately thought was odd--

Oh. There it was. I was wondering when that would happen. 

So... Roman wasn't lost. Far from it. Flustered might be a better word-- I felt his erection poke into my stomach, and it made me realize how big his pupils had gotten. That was quick. "Uh... Surprise?" He awkwardly cleared his throat as his green eyes nearly devoured me whole. "Fuck it, there's one thing I want to do before we go on. It'll take a second."

I held my breath-- with Roman, that could mean anything. "... Okay?"

"Don't look so scared," he teased, getting off the bed and walking to his nightstand. In my head, I wondered whether he was grabbing condoms, or whether he was about to impose something kinky on me. I was ready to start my rehearsed lecture on going slow with me, that it was my first time and everything, until my mind blanked at the sight of a... candle?

Roman got a lighter nearby, looking back at me with a trying smile. "You once said that me and sweet don't go together," he explained, lighting the candle. "On our first date, I believe, if we can call it that. The blackmail part of it was probably not ideal, but it counts in my head. Anyway, I thought you might be right about the sweet part... but it doesn't mean I shouldn't try to be."

I was afraid I'd melt much, much faster than that candle. "Don't tell me you went out and bought that candle just for this?"

Roman shrugged, hoping to brush it off. "Well... I was determined to prove you wrong. And I had a candle for my first time, and I guess it eased me a little. But, uh... I think this is actually a funeral candle," 

"I see," I had to contain a laugh. Sitting up, I reached for his fingers as I longed to touch him again; "Well, no one's dead yet, but the night is still young."

Unable to hold it, Roman snorted, placing the lighter back on the nightstand before he interlocked our fingers. "I'm never doing anything like this again, so I suggest you cherish it,"

"What? But now I'm growing fond of the funeral candle, you're breaking my heart!"

Roman rolled his eyes, sinking down on the bed again, and he brought our intertwined fingers above my head. "If that's what I need to do to get you in my bed, I'll buy the whole fucking candle company," 

There was something exciting about the fact that Roman genuinely could. It wasn't just an empty threat. If he got high enough one night, I was sure he'd know who to call. I was surprised to feel he was still hard now that his erection was pressed up against me once more, but I didn't get much time to think about it-- Roman freed one of his hands, and he managed to make his way under my top as he kissed me once more.

My breath hitched against the soft push of his lips as it hit me that I might have to get fully naked for this. Fuck. Okay. Yet my anxiety eased at the thought of him being fully naked too-- I found my hips keening up against him, my need for friction growing with my arousal. 

Roman smiled into the kiss; it was a ravenous feeling. "Impatient?" he asked, barely leaving my lips.

"Yeah," It was merely a breath-- I felt his hand ghost over my bra, slowly tracing the hem. I could barely think, too excited to function anymore.

"No need," Roman pulled away, letting go of the remaining hand above my head as his fingers now toyed with the edge of my top. "We have all the time in the world."

His tone was enough to bring scarlet to my cheeks, but I nodded, swallowing when he bunched the fabric up in his hands and lifted it up and off of me. I raised my arms, pouting just slightly at the loss of contact-- who would've thought I'd get more drunk from kissing Roman than the beer Peter gave me earlier? 

With a sigh, Roman's eyes consumed me; the smirk with which he looked down at me only made me more flustered. "Rome," I whined, reaching my hands out for him. "Stop that, get back here. This isn't anything new." That was true-- me in my bra wasn't a sight he hadn't seen before. 

Roman tsked, sending me a stern look. "You're disturbing my thought process,"

"Your thought process?--"

"Yep," he said, shrugging. "I'm just thinking about how I want to cum right..." Roman trailed a line across my lower abdomen with his finger, using a touch so light it immediately made me squirm. "... here."

The squirming quickly turned into a small shiver, and my hands went straight to my face as my blush deepened. 

There was a change in Roman which was noticeable by the way he lost his smile, lost in whatever images he had in his head as he now leaned back down, pressing eager kisses to the apex of my collarbones. His lips trailed down my body, his fingers digging into the sides of my waist-- his mind was gone. I tugged at his hair as he inched further away, and I whimpered at the sensation of his tongue tracing a circle around my belly button. I never expected myself to like anything like that, but damn-- heaven. This was heaven. 

I was reminded of how much bigger Roman was than me when I was suddenly yanked to the edge of the bed, and I could only yelp as I did nothing to fight it. His hands trailed down the sides of my hips, now hooking his fingers around my panties, not yet taking them off-- instead, he was kissing me through my soaked underwear, humming. 

Christ, this was something I could get used to. I managed to register the fact that he wasn't on the bed anymore, and I propped myself up on my elbows with the last remaining power I had to confirm my suspicions. Roman stopped for a moment, pulling away to glance right back at me; "What?"

"You're... kneeling,"

"... Yeah?"

It didn't register in my head. "You don't kneel for anyone," The Roman Godfrey didn't get on his knees for anyone in the world. In my mind, he thought the world should be kneeling to him, and that he would never stoop so low.

However, the look he gave me in return told me everything I needed to know. Come on, now. Roman pulled my underwear off as he spoke, peeling it down my thighs; "I kneel for you," To him, that was as simple as a fact. The most logical thing in the history of the universe. He didn't even seem to deem the subject worthy of a further conversation, now grabbing my hips to bring me even closer to the edge of the bed as I let out a small squeak. Roman led my legs to hang over his broad shoulders as he leaned forward, rings of desire around his eyes as he licked a broad, flat stripe up my sex.

Fuck-- I did my best not to mewl as my fingers reached for his hair once more, twirling into the soft curls of his hair. "Rome--"

At this point, I was sure he wouldn't hear me no matter how loudly I spoke. Roman sensed I was about to start keening against him, and he pulled my legs back and held my thighs in place as he slicked his tongue in between my slit, mouth moving as though he was pressing deep, heavy kisses against me. I whimpered, my grip on his hair loosening as I felt my conscience slip into its usual drugged-on-Roman state. A very, very dangerous state of mind, if you ask me.

Giving me some time to breathe, Roman moved to leave soft kisses up along the crease of my thighs. "Keep your legs like this, okay?" he said, slowly trailing one hand up my thigh. Roman's finger teasingly tapped my clit, and he turned to watch the thin line of slick connecting the pad of his finger to me. It was hard not to squirm, and I brought one hand up to my mouth to hopefully suppress any noise. "Rome, what are you?--"

Oh. My breath hitched as he eased his slicked middle finger into me, careful to go in with slow strokes. I whined against my hand when Roman's mouth returned to me, sealing his perfect lips around my swollen nub, adding pressure. It was almost too much-- I felt myself clench around his finger when he curled it upwards, just as his lips covered my mound, sucking me in. 

"Christ," I breathed, reaching down to grab a hold of Roman's hair, the slick sounds of his mouth making goosebumps appear along my skin as I contained a shiver. "Shit, Rome, it feels-- so, so good--"

My mindless ramble came to an end with the next hitch of my breath; Roman added another finger, humming against me as an answer. With how nervous I was, it was a tight fit, and the sting that followed made me instinctively tighten my fist in his hair, my skin straining over my knuckles. It was hard to keep still, a string of whimpers escaping my lips. 

My hands shook as Roman continued slowly stroking his fingers into me. I wondered whether he could feel my anxiety seeping into my lust-- it was becoming so real. Roman's green eyes darted up at me, stilling his fingers, giving me time to adjust. He pulled away from me, leaving his digits in me as he spoke; "I'm not gonna last long if you tighten up like that later," 

His words conjured a deep blush to my cheeks, and I brought my hands up to my face to hide. "Sorry," I breathed. "I don't-- don't know what's happening."

Roman shrugged, placing a wet, gentle kiss against the inside of my thigh. "You're nervous. It's normal," His hot breath ghosted over my soaked sex as he moved to the other thigh-- "I think it'll help if I make you cum like this. You'll relax more. And I'll keep my fingers in, get you used to the feeling... Unless you want them out?"

For a man who said he didn't deal with virgins, he certainly knew how to talk one down from the cliff. I let out a shaky breath, peeking down at him past my fingers; "N-No, it's okay,"

Roman seemed to be holding back a laugh; "You look a little spooked,"

"I... do?" Knowing my boyfriend, I knew he probably found that incredibly hot.

"A bit. Wanna stop?--"

"No!" That was a little too quick. Fuck. 

Roman chuckled as he proceeded to bite down on the inside of my thigh with a teasing smirk-- I squeaked, clenching around his fingers. "Good," he purred, leaning forward to press a short kiss to my clit, drawing out another squeak from me. Something told me he liked the sound of my pleasured panic. "It's been some time since the last time you let me do this. I've missed the taste of you."

"... It's been, like, four days,"

Roman let out a groan, and I could see in his eyes that it was building in him-- the innate lust. "A fucking eternity," he breathed, a new rasp appearing in his voice. With that, Roman didn't lose a single second leaning back down, slicking his tongue between my folds, returning to suck down on my clit with a moan. 

Oh, well-- I knew I was done for. Still, knowing his goal was to make me cum, knowing I didn't have to hold back, I let my hands wander back into his hair with a whimper of pleasure. It didn't take long before I clenched around his fingers again, the burn of the stretch subsiding with every flick of Roman's tongue. 

"Fuck," I breathed. "Fuck, fuck--"

Any attempt to speak dissolved into incoherent cries, teetering on the edge while pleasure surged through me like a relentless wave. Still, it didn't take more than two more sucks to ease me over, and I felt my climax drawing out long and slow against Roman's mouth, tightening around his fingers with a whimper. 

My head lolled along the duvets as I tried to catch my breath. With every time Roman did this, it only got better-- it was hard to believe that was even possible. I came to my senses when I felt his fingers slide out of me, the twinge of pain having long passed. 

"Fuck," Roman said, a laugh to his voice as he pressed kisses up along my stomach, getting up from the ground. "Best fucking pussy in the world."

God-- I hid my face again, my blush deepening. That dirty mouth of his. "That was so good," I purred, reaching out for him; "Come here, Rome. I miss you up here."

Chuckling, Roman shook his head, motioning for me to scoot further up the bed. "Just a sec," he said, walking back over to his nightstand, opening his drawer again and shuffling around. I did as told, watching him with a sigh; he was right, that orgasm had relaxed me. However, my zen didn't last long-- I suddenly felt all my muscles tightening when I watched Roman bring the fingers he just had in me to his lips, absentmindedly sucking on them as he now held up a silver wrapper with his free hand as though that was the most normal thing in the world. I also spotted a clear bottle which I could only assume was lube. 

What the fuck? The sight of him doing that made me want to disappear into the bed-- why was the sight so... thrilling? It must've been the look of enjoyment on his face. "Oh, that's hot," I mumbled, my eyes immediately widening with the realization of what I had just blurted out.

Roman cocked a brow as he unclasped the vial of my blood around his neck, placing it next to the candle before he got back on the bed, now trailing the residue of spit and slick on his fingers across my thighs. "Well, you taste nice,"

"Not that nice?"

A hum; "Wanna try some, make up your mind?" he asked, a teasing smirk spreading across his plush lips as he brought his hand up to his mouth, wiping off the remnants of my slick to coat his fingers. 

I shivered, grimacing— "No, thanks," Hoping to distract Roman from trying to convince me, I sat up, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. Frankly, I had enough of being the only one that was undressed.

Roman hummed, following my hands with his eyes, grinning from ear to ear as he threw down the condom and the lube somewhere on the bed. "More for me, then," he mumbled, licking my slick off his fingers as he kept his gaze on me-- it didn't take long before he pushed me back down on the bed, unbuttoning the last of his buttons with ease I could never match. 

My heart had probably never worked this hard before in my life. "Rome," I tried, watching him discard his shirt. Fuck-- he was gorgeous. I could feel myself blushing in an instant, shamelessly looking him up and down; I knew he didn't mind. Why was I reacting like this? Roman being breathtakingly handsome wasn't news? "I think... I think--"

"You're still thinking?" Roman's hands gripped my waist as he leaned down, kissing up my torso as I whimpered beneath him, reaching for his hair again. "Stop thinking. No thinking."

"No thinking?" I echoed, giggling as his eager kisses reached my neck, getting ticklish. "You're asking for too much." Now that he was finally close again, I draped my arms around him, trailing my fingers across his broad shoulders with a sigh. Being skin-to-skin like this was my favorite thing in the world-- being connected.

Roman hummed, his erection once again pressing into my lower abdomen. "Either you stop thinking of your own volition..." he said, pulling my chest up against his. "... Or I'll have to fuck your brains out. Your choice."

I shivered, feeling my mind start buzzing. That was a damn easy choice. "That sounds rough," I mumbled, my breath hitching as Roman pressed a kiss to my ear. "You said you'd be gentle..." To be completely honest, this was the part I was nervous about-- would he maybe not be able to be? I was a little scared he'd be like one of those horror-story guys Letha had told me she'd been with, one of those guys that just slap you all of a sudden or start choking you cause they've seen it in porn and think that's normal behavior. 

Roman pulled away, hovering barely an inch above my lips; his breath grazed my cheek, and the green of his eyes were glazed over with a look of confusion. "Am I not being just that?" he asked, nodding to the candle.

Oh-- I turned to the supposed funeral candle. 

It allowed a sweet kiss to my cheek, the tip of his upturned nose pressing into my cheekbone; "Trust me. I wouldn't want to hurt you, you know me,"

He was right-- from the very first moment we got together, he had told me just that.

Still, it was only when I felt Roman's lips against mine with the softest of pressures, that I pushed my concerns away. It was the sort of kiss that made my heart burn, the sort of kiss that made my hands trail up into his hair to keen him closer. I pushed all my thoughts of horror into a heap, churned it in my mental grinder, processed it, and allowed the product of it to slip past my lips; "I want you," I breathed, feeling myself grow needy against him.

Roman hummed, a small roll of his hips onto mine following-- I didn't expect it to make my breath catch in my chest. "I want you too," 

Something in me ignited; I wanted him to do that again. Disoriented, I reached down for the zipper of his jeans, moaning into the kiss that followed. "Want you more," 

Roman smiled; "Not possible," 

At this moment, I was thankful to be made up of solid matter-- if not, I was sure I'd have melted straight into the bed, a puddle of pure horny. I wasn't sure when Roman lost his pants, too consumed in the kiss to function. My state of arousal only heightened when my hips bucked up, feeling the hard outline of his cock between my legs; I was suddenly reminded of the time we did something similar in an alleyway on our first day. But this was different-- this was a direct contact of his clothed length brushing up against my clit with repeating strokes, a motion which had my breath hitching as my nails dug into his shoulders.

Roman let out a soft groan, nipping at my neck as he ground down against me. "This," he breathed. "This is what you do to me. I wanna be in you so fucking bad."

With the next roll of his hips, I whimpered; the buzzing of my mind refused to still. "Have me, then," was all I managed to say, tugging at Roman's hair as the tips of my fingers burned.

What followed happened so fast, I barely registered it. I heard the ripping of the silver wrapping in the midst of our heated kiss, adrenaline and dopamine coursing through my veins as every little sweet word rolling off Roman's tongue filled me with that familiar warm feeling I always got around him.

For this, it was all worth it. All the drama with Letha, all the tears, all the pain-- it was all worth it. 

"You're everything," Roman whispered, rubbing the head of his cock along my soaked sex as my hands skimmed the muscular range of his back. "You're my everything, do you know that?"

God, how I wanted to be one with him. Wanted him in my head, wanted him in me, wanted to melt into him and become one single entity, never to part. From the first moment I met him, from the first moment I laid eyes on him in class, from the first moment he smiled at me, I knew it was Roman. It would always be Roman, it would always, always be Roman for me, and knowing he thought the same of me as well, that I was his everything-- all my longing, everything, had been worth it. Because I was his everything too, finally, just like he had always been mine. 

However, as Roman angled his cock and gently pushed the head in, kissing my cheek with the sweetest touch, I didn't expect the painful, sharp sting-- I wasn't sure how loudly I gasped, how far my nails dug into his back, but I was really damn certain that this hurt. 

Roman was out of me within the blink of a second; "Shit," he breathed, a panicked look in his eyes. "Should've-- Should've warned you."

The sting remained as I did my best to breathe through it. "That's a stretch," was all I managed to say, stroking over where I had scraped his back. 

"I'll take that as a compliment," Roman mumbled, scanning me. He didn't seem bothered by the crescent moons my nails were leaving behind. "You okay?"

"Yeah..."

He cursed under his breath, leaning down to press a kiss to my forehead. "I forgot about this part... My brain doesn't work when you're naked," Roman sighed, reaching for one of the hands I had on his back. "If you want to go on, I might know a way to make it a little easier."

I met his eyes as he brought the back of my hand to his lips; "I guess it's supposed to hurt a little, Roman, just... just do what you usually do, I trust you," Maybe I needed to push through it? I could take a little pain, couldn't I? That was until I remembered the pain again-- it made me clench. Ouch.

With a certain look I knew too well, he shook his head as he now wrapped his fingers around my wrist. "No. It's not supposed to hurt," he said. "And I said I wouldn't hurt you, so..." Roman trailed my hand down along my body, watching as my eyes widened. "In my experience, it helps if you... help."

"Help?"

"Help yourself, so to speak," Roman purred, his signature cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Cause I doubt this will be your first time doing this."

"Doing what?-- Oh," As he placed my hand over my sex, he slid two fingers above mine, guiding me to rub my clit. Roman was right; it wasn't my first time doing that to myself. Still, this was a different feeling-- My hips immediately bucked up into our hands, and when Roman leaned down to kiss me, I knew I was done for. 

Everything felt warm, everything felt right. "Just keep doing that," he whispered, sinking his teeth into my lower lip. "Wanna?-- Again?"

Roman didn't need to use more words than that; I knew what he meant. I nodded, feeling my cheeks redden at the fact that I was touching myself in front of him like this-- however, I didn't have time to think much about it.

Soon, I wasn't the only one touching myself, anyway.

"Should've used this from the start," Roman mumbled, cursing under his breath as he poured a dash of lube on his cock from the clear bottle nearby. "Got too excited... fuck." With a lazy grip, he wrapped his hand around his length, spreading the lube with slow strokes. 

My mind was buzzing. I watched as Roman's lips parted, a shaky breath escaping him. "It's okay," I tried, rubbing mindless circles around my clit. "It's just me."

"Yeah, and I care about you," Roman's eyes were halfway closed as they met mine, darkened with growing lust. "Ready?"

I nodded-- yeah.

This time, when Roman's cock pushed into me again with the slowest of strokes, the pleasure from my clit dulled the sting. The only thing left to adjust to was the stretch; my breath hitched as my free hand went back up into his hair, wincing against his lips as his thick length stroked me open. 

Roman cursed as his parted lips hovered above mine. He held me tightly against his body, watching out for any signs of discomfort before he spoke; "Shit... This feels better than I--thought," 

My head rolled back against the duvet, breathing against Roman with small heaves. "Rome," I whimpered. "Fuck, this is--" I didn't expect the feeling, didn't expect the tips of my fingers to burn more as I grasped at his hair, didn't expect the way my whole body reacted-- it was different from anything else I had ever felt or thought I could feel. Being filled up by Roman was...

It was everything.

Everything I had ever dreamed of. 

It felt good, it felt right-- I moaned, clenching at the feeling of his cock slowly sinking into me at a steady pace, my body aching with love. This was as gentle as I bet anything like this could possibly be, and I squirmed a bit beneath him, adjusting to the feeling of having his cock inside of me. 

Roman let out a shaky breath, containing the urge to pound into my warmth like I supposed he usually would. "Hurts?"

"No, no-- Ah," 

With his next thrust, Roman kissed up my jaw, keeping every stroke careful. "Want me to put it in all the way?"

"The-- There is more?"

"Baby..." he breathed, containing a choked laugh. "I'm only halfway in."

I was sure I was about to faint. How the fuck?-- No, I couldn't think clearly in this state. No more thinking. I decided to trust him; I knew Roman would pull back if it hurt, anyway. "Okay... Let's try,"

As Roman pushed in more of his length, the quiet moan escaping him blended in with my string of panicked whimpers. I didn't even know I had space inside me for more-- my eyes sprung open, my legs giving into a tremble. "Rome, I-- a-ah, this is--"

"Shh, look at me, breathe," Roman brought his hand to my face, guiding me to look into his eyes. His voice was soft, caring; "You okay? Is this too much?"

The shock was the thing that had gotten to me, I was sure of it. Because after a few more deep strokes, a few tighter circles around my clit, my fear eased as I realized this was a sensation I would be chasing for the rest of my life.

"Feels good?" Roman asked, his voice nearly breaking-- I imagined it was hard to not give in to the pleasure of the tight embrace around his cock.

Still, I could only nod, twisting my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him towards me to smother him with a heated rush of my lips against his, moaning into the kiss as I pulled my hand from between my legs-- it was starting to brink the line of overstimulation. 

"Good," Roman muttered against my mouth. 

The kiss didn't last too long; my shock was still coming and going in waves. "I'm-- we're having sex," I blurted out, my cheeks flaring red. The truth was hitting me like a blow to the head. The thing I had dreamed about since the first day I laid eyes on him was actually happening.

Roman contained a laugh, looking rather endeared by my realization; "Yeah, you're doing it, you're having sex... I'd give you a high five, but-- hah, that wouldn't work,"

Why were we laughing? Why was this... fun?

Caught between the fire in my chest, the twinge of humor, and the ache pulsing low between my legs, I whimpered as I realized I wanted-- no, needed more. Still, a small, meek call of his name was all I managed to stutter out.

Roman shifted, pushing my body so that my knees were bent at his sides; "Speak your mind," 

How was I supposed to conjure a cohesive sentence in this state? "I want-- you, more--"

"We're going-- hah, back to that?" 

"Not that! More, Rome-- just, more, I need--"

He let out a breathy moan, smiling back down at me; he knew exactly what I meant. "Thank God," Roman's cock filled me over and over, his thrusts growing harder, faster as he found a steady pace to rock into me. "You're taking me so good, aren't you?"

My head felt like it was spinning. This couldn't be real. I couldn't possibly be as lucky as to finally sleep with Roman Godfrey. 

His voice brought me back; "You're doing so well," he murmured, burying his face into the crook of my neck, muffling a quiet moan against my skin. It was the most magical of sounds-- my heart was threatening to beat out of my chest, and I was sure the warmth of skin against mine probably helped with the overheating of my brain. "Doing so, so well for me... I've wanted you like this for so long."

"Me too," I breathed, my hips keening to take his thrusts. "Wanted you-- since forever."

My words only seemed to reel him on; Roman hips snapped harder into me as I whimpered. "Forever?" 

"Forever-- a-ah,"

Something in Roman's breathing changed. It was almost as though I could read his thoughts, feel his new reality form. Was it maybe the last push he needed to believe I was his till death? That there was a person out there walking this earth, breathing the same air, that could possibly want to be with him for an eternity? "Forever," he breathed, latching onto my neck with repeated needy kisses in an attempt to drown out the noises threatening to spill past his lips. "You and-- and I, forever."

As Roman's cock repeatedly pushed into me, I could only whimper; the stretch was still something to get used to, and my nails bit into his back as I tried to steady myself. "Forever," I managed to breathe out, hearing him moan into my neck at the sharpness of my nails against his back-- I knew he'd like that. I knew Roman too damn well. 

"Forever," he echoed, breath washing warm against my ear as he raised himself, his cheek nuzzling mine in an intimate embrace. 

I clenched around the girth of his cock, shivering. This was so unbelievably sweet, nothing I had ever expected from him. Roman was so much taller, and his broad build served as a comforting weight through the wave of new pleasure my body tried to comprehend. With the next surge of love washing over my chest, the next pump of Roman's cock, I felt my chin give in to an involuntary quiver as I gripped him tighter. 

It was at this moment that it truly dawned on me;

I loved him. 

I loved Roman Godfrey.

Tears swarmed my eyes as one of my hands went up into his soft hair, hoping he'd take it as an urging for him to kiss me again. I didn't want to have a chance to talk, to blurt it out and scare him away-- which is why, when Roman shifted and crashed his lips against mine, I only felt relief. 

I was safe. I was cared for. And damn, I felt good. 

However, what I hadn't expected, was for the shift of angle to brush past a spot inside of me I had only ever felt when Roman's fingers curled into me. But this was far greater, far more stimulating-- I let out a choked moan against Roman's lips, my eyes springing open as my head tilted back into the duvet, heaving for air as my legs gave in to a tremble. 

I didn't have to look up at him to know the exact look on his face, yet I dared to take a peek; he was too hot to resist. And there it was, those parted, perfect lips paired with that dark look in his green eyes of victory. This is exactly what he had wanted to reduce me to all along, wasn't it? Roman's hair had never been this messed up (courtesy of my hands), and the sheer look of it nearly made my heart swell. "Good tears?" he asked with a whisper, scanning the look in my eyes.

Fuck, yeah. I could only nod. 

Knowing Roman, I was wondering when he'd-- oh, hello, you. I was waiting for the eventual switch. A man like Roman Godfrey couldn't stay sweet forever. 

At the sight of my tears, I knew something new in him ignited. He placed a hand over my mouth, placing more of his weight on me as his other hand pulled me tighter against him, the wet snaps of his cock pushing into me growing louder as I moaned out against his palm. "Listen to this," he purred, a sinister smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he made me listen to the sound of our union. "This is sex, you're damn right. This is what you'll be craving from me." 

God-- I squeezed my eyes shut, the continuous push of the tip of Roman's cock against my sweet spot inside sending my brain into a frenzy. 

"I get why you've been reserved... You'll never be who you were before this again," With a grunt, the next snap of his hips only grew harder, knowing I could take it and adjust. It certainly didn't help the tremble of my body. "Gonna get you fucking addicted to this feeling. To me. Cause you've given yourself to me now, do you-- do you realize that?"

My wet lashes fluttered as I slowly dared to open my eyes, my heart thumping harder than ever before. If only he knew how addicted I already was. 

"This is it," Roman breathed, the green hues of his gaze engulfing me; "This is us. This is you. This is who you are from now on. My girl... Only mine. Forever. Gonna help you cum on this cock, okay? Gonna give you the first time you deserve, h-hah--"

Something about the look in his eyes unnerved me, despite the hot nature of his words-- What? There were many ways for him to make me cum, surely, but the second my fingers started numbing up, my mind started flaring red with a passage from my most hated book;

The upir's ability to mesmerize is an ancient and powerful form of psychic influence, capable of bending a victim's will. This control often manifests subtly, with suggestions that feel like one's own thoughts. If one is being mesmerized by a upir, it is often accompanied by a stilling of one's inner monologue, or a numbing sensation. Prolonged exposure can lead to disorientation, memory lapses, and a gradual erosion of autonomy. The key to resisting lies in anchoring oneself to reality—through pain, strong emotions, or focusing on a meaningful object. Beware: once under an upir's thrall, distinguishing truth from illusion becomes a perilous challenge.

Beware. 

Beware.

The last time my fingers had numbed up like this, was the time Roman forced me to tell him what had happened between Jasmine and I. It felt like the autonomy of my thoughts evaporated, seeped out of my ears, and disappeared into Roman's grasp. 

However, at this moment right now, this moment of blinding pleasure and complete rapture of my soul and love, I wanted nothing more but this. I knew I wasn't being mesmerized of course, because upirs weren't real-- but as Roman kept my face still and my eyes on him, it felt like it. It was almost like I heard him telling me to cum. A few more thrusts were all it took, the complete transfixion of Roman's unnaturally dilated pupils swallowing me as I only saw green, green, green-- his hand quickly left my mouth to hear me cry out, a choked moan escaping me as the fear toppled me. This was an orgasm unlike anything else I had experienced, and I felt myself pulse around Roman's length, practically milking his cock as I struggled to grapple with the most intense climax of my life. "Fuck-- Fuck!" I whimpered, my nails digging further into his back as tears welled in my eyes. 

The mere sight of it was enough for Roman to nearly buckle over, and I was ripped out of the trance, heaving for air as he spilled into the condom, teeth grazing my shoulder as he tried to bite back his moans of pleasure, hips keening into my tight warmth. 

I slowly slid my hands off Roman's broad back, realizing we had both dripped sweat onto each other's skin as I hoped my breath would soon go back to normal. My body ached in a way it had never ached before, and I winced as Roman eventually pulled out of me with a sigh. 

There was a long moment after he rolled off of me where we simply gazed at each other. I watched the heave of his chest, the way his brown hair laid over his dangerous green eyes, and wondered how on earth I had been so lucky as to have him fall for me too.

However, suddenly, amid my awe, a small droplet of blood gathered at Roman's nose. To my surprise, he was completely unbothered. The look in his eyes told me he had an inkling this would happen, and it further confused me.

I leaned forward to wipe away the blood pooling at his upper lip with my thumb. "You're bleeding," I echoed, aware that I was stating the obvious.

Roman's eyes softened; "Are you, though?"

"... What do you mean?"

Shifting, he wrapped an arm around me, pulling me closer as his other hand slid between my legs, sliding a finger against the wetness of my sex as I squirmed, a short giggle escaping me as I nuzzled up against him. Roman then scanned his finger as I continued to wipe away the stream of blood coming from his nose, watching as it smeared against his cheek. He hummed; "You didn't bleed. At least that's good?"

"I guess?"

Roman kissed my bloodied thumb, a shaky breath escaping him at the taste of the iron; "How was that for you? You okay?"

If only he knew. "You were great," I purred, nipping at his jaw. "It was lovely, Rome."

He let out a breath; "Thank fuck," Roman murmured, visibly relieved. "And you were really damn sweet. I knew those fuck-me eyes would be the death of me... Sorry if it got a little intense at the end, there."

"No, no, that was-- fuck, that was so hot,"

Roman smiled. My sweet boy. Another kiss; "But now, there's one thing I wanted to do." He propped himself up on his elbow, and I closed my eyes as he made sure I laid with my back against the bed-- I was too tired to focus. The ache between my legs refused to subside, making me worried about the state of my thighs tomorrow. They better not fucking cramp up with every step, similar to the day after a hard session at the gym.

And just as I was about to ask him to return to me, to stop doing whatever the fuck he was doing, I suddenly felt a warm, slick substance drip onto my lower abdomen. With a gasp, I snapped out of my drowsiness, only to be met with the sight of Roman holding the condom above my stomach with a devilish grin, letting the content pour down on me.

He chuckled at the sight of my widened eyes, my speechless state-- "Didn't manage to cum here, as I said... so this will do,"

"Roman, for fuck's sake!" 

"What? You look good with my cum all over!--"

"Roman!"

"Fine!" he huffed. "Gonna go grab some wipes, I'll be right back. Anything else you need? Water?"

I wondered whether Roman realized how sweet he was being-- I glanced over at the candle flickering in the moonlight, the vial of my blood lying neatly next to it. The sight made my heart swell; God, how I loved him. It killed me that he couldn't know. I knew he'd run in the other direction if he did. "Water would be nice," I breathed, watching as Roman got dressed again. 

It all hit me like a wave, now;

The first time I got my heart broken, I had been at fault. 

The first time I got a black eye, I had swung the first punch.

But the first time I had sex? It had thankfully been with the man I loved. Still, I was sure the cosmic imbalance would catch up to me again and drag me back down into the dirt soon enough. 

But not right now.

Not right now.

Here, I was safe with Roman. The universe couldn't get me now, no-- not with the equivalent of the moon lying next to me. He had returned to me in no time, holding me close in his nearly immediate slumber after having lent me a shirt of his to sleep in. The cosmos wouldn't dare to touch me now. 

I adjusted the cover on top of us, kissing Roman's forehead; "Are you sleeping?" I whispered, poking his cheek with the gentlest of touches. 

No response. Phew. 

And just as I started to fade into sleep as well, I ran my thumb across the softness of his cheek. I connected our foreheads with a content sigh before I pressed my lips against his in a loving kiss. Roman looked so peaceful-- the universe wouldn't dare to take me now, wouldn't dare to wake him up. 

"I love you," I whispered like I would be put to death if I awoke him. With one last glance at the candle, my heavy lids fluttered as my heart cried;

"I love you,"

(a/n: thank you SO MUCH for reading this monster of a chapter!!<33 if you've made it all the way down here, here are all the other chapters if you're interested!!<33 MWAH)

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11

tagging those that seemed interested!!<333

@mentallyscreamingsincebirth @putherup @corawithfanfiction @vladsgirlxx

@iamaslytherin0 @sexualparkour @the-universe-is-complicated @heavenly-bratt

@lafemme-nk @namiusedbubble @useyourwandbro @strmborns @literally-lani

@virgosapphire79 @star-girl-04 @veyzus @ddipotassium @pecxiebu

@mil88691 @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @katifefe @sn0wybowie-blog

@lilithskywalker @likecherriesinthespring @sadheartjellyfish @vadersangel

@shehangsbrightly @burningmiraclekingdom @dollforaswan @austinswhitewolf

@nico-velvet @shiiiii-okayyyy

[loganhowlettshousewife]

something something dark!logan who puts reader in dangerous situations so he can save her and then convince her that no one is safe and he’s the only one she can trust. is it bad that i find the thought of logan baby trapping me hot?

(this is not proofread, i wrote this in like 30 minutes)

-

the first time he sees you, something primal unlocks in him. you’re suddenly the only thing he can think about, your sweet smile taking over his dreams. he wants you in a way he’s never wanted anything before, willing to do anything you ask of him, willing to kill anyone who so much as looks at you the wrong way.

every time he sees your smile drop he’s filled with a murderous rage. 

but when he’s around you, the world slows down. there’s only you and him and the tension between you. your friends tell you that he’s dangerous, he’s angry and drunk all the time, but you just stare at them in confusion because he’s never so much as raised his voice at you.

so you wave off your friends worries, telling them that he’s an absolute sweetheart and maybe he just has a bad reputation, but you know him.

he invites you to go to a bar with him and you agree enthusiastically. you love spending time with him, and this is sounding almost like a date. you get all dolled-up for him, hopeful that something in your relationship will shift tonight. 

you agreed to meet at the bar, so you wait outside the building for logan, bouncing on the balls of your feet. that’s when a man approaches you, big and burly and asking what you’re doing all dressed up and alone. he drags you into the alley beside the bar, but before anything can happen, the man is being thrown into the wall.

logan stabs the guy in the chest with his claws, letting the blood run down his hand. because while he was the one who paid the guy to do this to you, he still couldn’t stand the sight of another man’s hands on you. so he brings his fist down again, claws puncturing the man’s lungs. and again and again and again, until you have to pull him off the bloody corpse.

the minute his eyes meet yours, it's like he becomes a completely new person. he drives you home, a hand on your thigh. he holds you close when you cry in his arms, whispering that he’s so sorry he wasn’t there to protect you, that he should have offered to drive you, that he should have known someone would try to hurt you, because you’re beautiful and pure and the world is a wretched place that wants to destroy souls like yours.

you start dating and logan becomes even more protective and jealous. now that he knows what it's like to have you, he’ll do anything to keep you.

so he stages dangerous situations, manipulates you into falling right into the traps he’s laid out, and every time he comes to rescue you. he’s the hero of your story, and you tell him that, laying with your head on his chest one night.

but he still doesn’t feel like it's enough. the animal in him longs to call you his, to claim you permanently. to mate with you, to breed you. 

so he convinces you to move in with him, something that’s pretty easy after he hires someone to break into your apartment. he observes your routines, memorises your little daily schedules, and when you’re in the shower he switches out your birth control pills for placebo ones.

when he fucks you it’s hard and rough. it’s the only time he lets himself be something other than gentle with you, because he knows how much you love it, can smell your arousal growing with every thrust, can feel how wet you are around him. you cry out his name, grasping desperately at his arms, shoulders, back, anywhere you can reach really, for some sort of support.

you’re so out of it that you don’t notice when he cums deep inside you instead of pulling out like you’d asked. he keeps fucking his cum into you, pushing it deeper. when the afterglow of your orgasm fades and you feel his cum leaking out of you, you freak out, pushing him off you.

but he asks, “aren’t you on birth control?” and after a long conversation he convinces you that it’ll be fine, that’s what birth control is for, and besides, doesn’t it feel better raw? don’t you love the feeling of his thick cum shooting inside you, coating your insides, claiming you?

you’re terrified when you find out you're pregnant, and logan acts just as shocked, as if he couldn’t smell when you were ovulating and hadn’t planned to breed you as many times as he could during that period to make sure it stuck. 

he tells you that no matter what he’ll be by your side, that he’s never really thought about settling down and being a family man but that he’s never felt for anyone what he feels for you, and the thought of having a child with you, someone that’s half your dna and half his, your love for each other in a physical form, sounds wonderful.

and then one day, after your daughter is born, as you’re watching logan holding her in his large arms, you admit that you knew he was borderline stalking you before you two started dating, and you knew after the third time that the men attacking you were being hired to do so, and you knew when he switched out your birth control.

and you confess to him that no one’s ever really loved you the way logan does, completely and unconditionally, and even if logan’s a little unhinged and obsessive about making sure you won’t leave him, you appreciate that quality. because he wouldn’t go through all that effort and all that trouble if he didn’t care about you.

logan, who thought it was impossible to love you any more than he already did, feels himself fall in love all over again at that confession.

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ludos Imperiales 6

Summary: More battles and more bargains come into play as things go from bad to worse.

Content Warnings: Blood and Gore, Violence, Character Death (Unnamed); Mentions of Slavery/Assault/Incest (the twins are back)

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

-------

I’ve aged a decade in the time it takes to get inside the Imperial Palace. The blistering heat makes sweat bead down the back of my dress, every inch of heavy fabric feeling like it’s plastered to my skin. Everything feels too heavy on my body. I need to get home and into the tub, maybe with enough soap and water I will be able to purge the oppressive weight that clings to my skin.

Though I have my doubts. It’s not just the heat or the dirt, it’s this whole place. Everything I have known and loved about the city feels like it has been stripped down to nothing but the oozing, wretched thing that has been hidden beneath golden arches and layers of stark white marble. It reeks of a decay that has nothing to the crucified bodies hanging outside our doors.

Senators and Commanders mingle, wives dripping in expensive jewels hanging from their arms, laughing and talking about how magnificent this celebration for Amarantha is. I’d be shaking with the rage I feel clawing up my insides were it not for the way Rhysand still held me in his mental grip.

“Steady,” he warns for what feels like the fiftieth time today. I don’t know how he’s managed to stay so calm, especially when his men have been taken through the back streets of the city. There is a prison on the outskirts of the capitol, on the eastern wall, hopefully there will be less cruelty on the streets now that they’re away from the parade, but it is still a fate I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It cannot be easy to be forced to stay here, with the enemy at every turn, while your men labor in a dungeon, yet he and Cassian, stand with their heads high behind me.

One of the guards untethered them from the back of my horse, but holding their chain in my hands is just as bad as leading them on horseback. Cassian gives me a wide berth, far enough away that if I take two steps ahead I’ll drag him by the throat. Azriel, however, hovers near my left shoulder, head down like he’s trying to hide, even as I watch his shadows slither down the back of his legs and scatter across the floor in search of something. One still remains coiled around my ear, hidden by my hair.

“Be careful around the twins,” I warn as my cousin catches my eye and makes her way towards us. She’d been too far behind us in the procession for me to see her reaction to the horrors, but, judging by the grin on her usually stoic face, I’d say she enjoyed it. 

Rhysand shifts so he’s standing behind my right shoulder, so I’m framed on either side by a towering Illyrian. Their presence is soothing, especially when Brannagh’s grin could peel paint. She obviously wants trouble. I’d be a fool to think the bloodshed outside was enough. She’ll need something to sink her fangs into before the night is over to be satisfied with the day. 

“There you are, cousin!” We have the same slate colored eyes and that is where the family resemblance stops. Everything about her is rigid and uniform and for so long being near her had made me feel like a lamb being watched by a lion. Yet, with the males at my back, I don’t feel so small anymore.

“I’m surprised you made it,” she says, eyes raking over Rhysand, then Azriel, then Cassian, sizing each of them up to see which would be an easier meal.

I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to punch in her teeth. 

“First the Games, now this,” Dagdan says as he abandons an attempt to woo one of the Senators with his bullshit war stories, and joins us. “Maybe we are related after all.”

Rhysand withdraws his mental presence from my head and I draw my mental shields back up to make sure I keep the twins out. 

Brannagh walks a slow circle around us, tongue running over her lower lip. “I really didn’t think you were capable of this.” Her bony fingers reach out to flick the chain looped around their throats. “It’s a little… what’s the word you always throw at us? Barbaric for you?”

“All it took was Mommy Dearest to lose her head for you to grow a spine, huh?” Dagdan sneers.

Azriel’s shadow hisses angrily in my ear as his head jerks up off his chest. The glare he throws over my shoulder could melt a glacier, the heat in it seering across my skin. 

“This one’s pretty,” Brannagh coos at him, her fingers reaching out to brush across his cheek.

“Don’t touch him,” I bite out through my teeth. 

“Careful, we bite,” Cassian snarls.

This only makes Brannagh grin further and my first instinct is to draw all three of them behind my back, as if they were small children in need of protection and not three fully grown warriors. As if I had not seen them kill a Giant and a handful of Wargs in the Arena just yesterday. 

“Were they fun?” Brannagh teases, making another circle so she can draw her nails over Rhysand’s nearly bare chest.

Red tints my vision. 

“They look like they’d be a good fuck.”

I clench my hands into fists to keep my power from erupting and taking out everything in the room. Rhysand can’t save me from this one, not without them sensing his mental presence. And if we are to play this game, I need to be able to stand on my own two feet. I might not be the most skilled fighter in this room, but I have plenty of other weapons in my arsenal. 

“How would you know? The only thing you’ve ever fucked is Dagdan.”

She flinches like I’d punched her right in the stomach. It was all rumors of course, but the whispers were there. The twins still insisted on sharing a room; still went everywhere together. They were toxically co-dependant and on more than one occasion they’d mentioned old practices of keeping bloodlines pure. I knew it was a sore spot, I didn’t care very much if it was true. As long as the blow landed; as long as I had something strong enough to cut her, so the bond screaming in my ears didn’t prompt me to cut off the hand still lingering too close to my mate’s skin. They were not hers to touch. 

Cassian chokes out a cough, trying to keep back a laugh as Brannagh’s face twists. 

Dagdan’s teeth flash in a snarl.

I merely grin as I give the chain in my hands a very subtle tug. “I think we’re done catching up, cousin. Do enjoy the rest of the celebration.” I do my best to leave them in the dirt as we head deeper into the palace. I’m sure she’ll find a way to make me pay for the remark later, but for now, I’ll count it as a victory. 

The exchange took place in the open foyer, the roof held up by pillars and the outside world only separated by billowing sheer curtains. I mount the steps that lead us into a secondary foyer, where bubbling fountains and a pool of multicolored fish take up much of the space. Standing guard atop the fountains are twin statues of our gods of war and victory; the golden bowls at their feet overflowing with coins left by worshipers as they come and go from the Palace. We need more than a little luck and victory on our side and I leave a handful of coins on Victory’s altar. I will go to the Temple later and beg the Mother for forgiveness for how blind I have been, and seek a Priestess to make an offering for her blessing in what is quickly becoming an act of outright treason.

I feel Rhysand’s violet gaze on me as I make the offering. 

“The twins really are… like that?” Cassian asks as we round the fountain. It has to be morbid curiosity that prompts the conversation, but the fact that he’s speaking to me at all makes my heart race in my chest. I’ll take whatever scraps he’ll throw my way, if it only means he doesn’t hate me as much as he did yesterday.

“I’d be more surprised if they weren’t than if they were,” I say, unable to suppress a shutter when thinking about it. “They’ve always been… together… and weird about it.”

“Sure, and we’re the animals.”

I can see the back of Amarantha’s blood red head as the inner circle makes its way towards the atrium for food and whatever entertainment could be dragged into this den of vipers for the afternoon. Servants carrying goblets of wine drift through the clusters of visiting dignitaries and soldiers. There’s more than a couple armored gladiators, acting as guards for their sponsors, in attendance. I try to keep track of who belongs to who as we go, in order to give us an edge for the next match. Senators Beron and Tamlin, former lords from Prythians courts, now given new titles within the Empire for merging their kingdoms, both have sponsors shadowing them. The males have to be half Giant, with arms and thighs thick as tree trunks. Their armor has to be custom made to be able to fit them. I don’t know the names of either males, only that they’ve been employed long enough for their conditions in the Arena are they don’t fight Amarantha’s Attor. Too much money has been put into them to let them get torn to ribbons by that beast. 

I slide my way through the throngs of people to get closer. To play this game, there is no doubt that they will have to go back into the Arena a couple times. I need to start finding ways to give them an edge. I can start by seeing up close just how much taller they are then Cassian. If they have to go hand-to-hand in the future, I want to see how they compare next to each other so I can plan to get around it. 

The gladiators have at least two feet on Cassian, which makes me basically an ant in comparison. I already have to tilt my head up to look my mates’ in the eye, these males make me have to keep distance between us to be able to see anything other than they’re stomachs. 

Cassian is fairly nimble, from what I’ve seen so far, as long as the wound on his leg is healed by the next match, he can use that to his advantage. But the thought of having to watch him fight males this size makes my stomach twist. I’m going to need to do more than size up the competition. 

Beron is accompanied, as always, by several of his sons, but it is always Eris by his side. The well dressed male turns a grin in my direction when he catches sight of me. “Highness,” the bow is graceful, fox-like in a way that reminds me of Lucien, wherever he is in the crowd to avoid his Father. It’s not like him to leave Tamlin alone in these situations, they’re usually joined at the hip.

“It does me good to see you outside,” Eris continues, as he reaches out to take my hand and press a chaste kiss on the back of my knuckles.

Azriel’s shadow hisses in agitation in my ear as something hot flickers down the bond.

“It’s been too long since you’ve graced us with your presence.” I’ve known the Vanserra’s for a long time, Eris is not quite the flirt Lucien is, but he has no shortage of sway over females, males too for that matter. It had always surprised me that Father hadn’t tried to arrange a union between us. Eris was known, from time to time, to share the same savage brutality the Emperor valued in his court; it should have pleased him to have Eris for a son in law. 

“Are you finally feeling better?”

“It took longer than I expected to recover,” I say honestly. Better to not oversell anything; all lies have a little truth woven in. “But getting some air has been good.”

His russet gaze jumps to the males behind me, and the grin I’ve known for decades turns serpentine. “And profitable, I’d imagine?”

“For the Empire, of course, all earnings will go to aid the far reaches.”

“So I heard,” he nods, still studying them. “You always did have a bleeding heart, Highness. It is good to see it benefit you.”

The compliment feels underhanded, but so do most things around here. 

“When will we get to see them in action again?”

Talking about them like they’re not standing here makes me want to start smashing things, but I reign in my temper. “I was just about to ask you the same about your Father’s gladiators.”

He glances back at the male and shrugs. “Felix is always ready, but we’ve gotten no summons.”

Interesting. The Gamesmaker should already have a match-up in place, even if the Arena will be closed for repairs for a few days still. 

“How unfortunate, it’d be quite the fight for Cassian.”

I feel Cassian shift a little closer, the scent of sandalwood and snow-capped mountains invading my senses. It is an effort not to step back and lean into him, he’s never dared be this close before. 

“It would be quick,” he states.

Eris huffs a laugh. “For your neck to be broken, brute? Yes, we’d be in agreement.”

There’s a snap as Cassian’s wings ruffle and whip closed again, his agitation so clear I can taste it. The frayed edges of our bond simmer, but I can’t tell if the rage is his or my own. We are alike in that aspect.

“Who was summoned, then?” We can’t linger too long here, especially not for information I do not yet need. Rhysand still needs to get a better look around and we’re starting to linger on the stairs, people clustering behind us.

“Not Tamlin’s man either,” Eris says with a shrug. “I’m as in the dark as you.”

“You?” I force a teasing smirk to my features. “I thought you knew everything around here, Eris?”

His russet gaze darkens as his perfect teeth dart out to bite his lower lip. It’s a move I’ve seen thousands of people swoon over. “I’ll happily find out for you, Highness.”

Azriel’s shadow snarls in a language I can’t make out, but it is Rhysand’s side of the bond that ripples with promised violence. Is that jealousy I feel? I try to shove the thought aside; hoping that they feel this thing between us is too much to ask for. I will only hurt myself if I start to hope that I am more than a means to an end.

“Please do. I’d be indebted to you.” That’s all it takes for the Autumn male to bow and disappear into the crowd.

Senator Thessian and his large entourage of guards pushes past us on the stairs, the armored guard slamming into Rhysand from behind hard enough that he stumbles forward, hands reaching out to catch himself on my hips before he can take both of us to the floor. My whole body freezes under the contact, the warm press of his body against mine enough to make all rational thought fly out of my skull.

He leans in, like he might offer an apology, breath ghosting over my neck as his lips brush the shell of my ear. My whole body shivers in anticipation. “Clever, little vixen.”

The low baritone of his voice makes heat rush between my legs, something hot coiling in the pit of my stomach. Now the citrus and jasmine scent of him invades all my senses and I really, truly have no thoughts left in my head. 

My knees wobble as he gives my hip a squeeze, even as the bond roars at the loss of contact as he steps back. Maybe it’s just been awhile since I’ve been intimate with anyone, but that small amount of contact feels like an electric current beneath my skin. It is an effort to keep moving up the stairs and not turn and do something foolish, like press my lips to his and slide my fingers into his hair. 

The atrium is a wide, open room with tables piled with food lining the far walls. On the left are floor to ceiling windows, thrown open to let in the warm summer breeze, a few Praetorians standing at attention amidst the billowing curtains.. There are low couches along the walls, some of which are already taken. If not by anyone with a gladiator, I don’t linger on who sits where. 

A servant with a tray of wine passes and I snag one to try and calm the sizzling beneath my skin. I didn’t realize one of today’s many battles would be trying not to throw myself at my mates. 

There is a raised dais against the far wall, the couches and lounge chairs far more plush and ornate than the rest. Father has found his seat, a slightly less gaudy throne than usual, and reclines as a servant fans him with a palm frond. Amarantha has taken her usual seat on his right, reclining against one of her pleasure slaves. The male wears little but a strip of crimson fabric between his legs, every inch of bare skin lean and smooth. There’s another perched on the armrest of her chair, holding a goblet of wine for whenever she needs it; a third sitting at her feet, running idle fingers up the side of her calf. All that attention, and yet her dark gaze still tracks the males behind me with enough hunger I debate how much trouble I’d be in if I threw my own wine glass at her head.

She is not the only one who pays such close attention to the Illyrians. A couple dignitaries’ wives and high ranking soldiers gawk blatantly at how much skin they have on display. More than one head turns to get a better look at Rhysand’s ass in this get-up.  He neither cowers or preens under the attention; it’s like he doesn’t even register it. I can’t help but wonder if that was the point: Everybody is so busy ogling him, they’re not really paying attention to what he’s doing. It’s a good mask, it shields his intentions and lets him observe without it being obvious, but the way they look at him, like he’s a piece of meat makes me wish I had claws to scratch out their eyes. 

I take another sip of wine, trying not to look too desperate for the emptiness it’ll bring as I head in the direction of the dais. 

“You’ve surprised me,” Father says as we approach. It’s the first real acknowledgement he’s shown me all day.

The shadow curled around my ear burrows a little deeper under my hair to avoid detection, the soft ether brushing against a sensitive spot on my temple that has me gripping the wine glass a little tighter to keep from reacting.

“As I said, I am trying to do better, Father.”

His gaze flicks to the chain in my hand, down the length of it like he’s inspecting the strength of each wrung before finally arriving on the occupants tethered to it. He grins in triumph as he takes in their attire. Maybe they were right to ignore what I’d brought out. It certainly looks like I’ve intended to humiliate them by dressing them in the same attire many of the Senator’s slaves are sporting. 

“Tell me how you managed to bring the three of them to heel when Amarantha couldn’t?” 

Amarantha bristles in her seat, her perfect teeth flashing in her pale face.

Another small victory. 

“Tell him you instructed the healer to give us a sleeping drought in our wine.” The twins haven’t reappeared and his sudden return in my head nearly makes me jump out of my skin. “And faebane in the water this morning.”

I repeat his instructions as I move to take the seat that is mine on his left and force myself not to think about how it’s a couch instead of a chair like his because it used to be shared with my Mother. 

“You’re hoping to acquire mirthroot in the city to keep us docile until the next match.”

I repeat that too, making a mental note to ensure that I follow through with it. He will monitor my every move in the city, if I don’t follow through, he’ll know it and then we’re dead. An issue that seems far less pressing when Rhysand’s hand brushes over my wrist. Watching him in the Arena did nothing to show just how agile he is, not when he expertly maneuvers my hand towards his chest, the chain blocking his part in this. The next thing I know, I’m moving to sit and he’s falling into the couch behind me so it looks like I pushed him down into the seat so I could recline against his chest. The motion takes him seconds, it looks like he rehearsed it down to the exact placement of the chain to hide the fact that he’d been the one moving me and not the other way around. 

Azriel seats himself on the armrest wordlessly; Cassian grunting as he sits on the floor with his back against the couch. I get the distinct impression he is only keeping his shoulder against my knee because being any farther away would mean his wings were in reach of Father’s hands. 

It takes me a minute to find my bearings again as my brain short circuits over how close they all are. Rhysand’s heartbeat is steady against my back, his skin warm even through the fabric of my dress. He lets his head lean back against the back of the couch, feigning exhaustion or maybe repulsion from being “forced” to be this close to me. I’m close enough that I could run my hand up Azriel’s thigh if I wanted, and damn me do I want to. Or close enough to Cassian that my fingers itch to brush through the thick strands of his hair. It is a cruel trick of fate that my mates are close enough for me to touch and I can’t.

At the mention of the mirthroot, one of Amarantha’s males leans around the Emperor to offer a rolled cigarette, even dried the hint of mirthroot is obvious. The male’s eyes are glassy, shining under the effects of it himself, the grin on his features lazy and unbothered. Far too soft a male to be shackled to Amarantha. 

I tap Cassian on the shoulder to prompt him to take it. A mistake because he flinches like I hit him and I think I might have undone any effort I’d made to get him to at least tolerate my presence. He snatches the offered cigarette, and the liter that follows and passes it back to me with a huff.

The Emperor watches the exchange with more interest than he’s ever shown me in my life. “What would you have done, Amarantha?” He asks.

“The same,” she says through her teeth. 

I take a deep breath through my nose to keep from making a disgusted face at her. “Ember said that’s what she used to do for Amarantha’s slaves before she came to my keep, so I simply took a page out of her book.” 

I pass the cigarette and liter to Azriel, and pray the sight of the flames doesn’t cause the same reaction it had when he’d been branded. He grits his teeth, but there is no angered flash down the bond or hiss from the shadow to indicate it’s anything other than a show as he lights it and takes a long drag. 

“I’m glad to see that in your seclusion you’ve finally grown half a brain,” Father says. “I was beginning to worry that your Mother’s poisoned tongue had gotten to you.”

I flinch despite myself and all three of the males tense around me. Cassian’s jaw ticks, the flutter of movement brushing across my knee. For the first time all day, his hazel gaze flicks to me, and  maybe it’s a trick of the light, but I swear I see a flash of pity there.

“No, it didn’t,” I whisper, unable to put any feeling into the words. I haven’t been back here since the execution. I’d found every reason to avoid it. Being back feels like peeling a scab off the wound and letting it bleed all over the floor.

Azriel takes another drag and I wish more than anything to take a hit of it myself and numb this feeling in my chest. What I would give for the empty numbness that had filled me in the early months of my grief. There are so many tangled emotions here, between the loss and my mates and the horrors of what we just witnessed outside. I cannot pick just one to focus on; can’t find some outlet to expel the building pressure. It all tangles and lodges itself in my throat like it's trying to drown me.

Rhysand’s fingers brush over my arm as he draws his hand up to take the cigarette from Azriel. To an onlooker it looks accidental, maybe it is, maybe I’m just reading into it, but even that faint brush drags me back to the surface for a bit of air again. At least I am not alone in the water anymore. Mother had always been emotionless, nothing got to her. I was always the one that felt too much. At least now the emotions can be shared.

“Your actions yesterday inspired me,” the Emperor says after a beat. 

Apprehension licks its way up my spine.

“I haven’t taken a champion of my own in a long time. It’s become dull, betting on someone else’s man.”

Shit!

Azriel’s shadow dares to peek out around my bangs, observing the crowd as they begin to settle in their seats with plates of food, as if on some silent command. Brannagh and Dagdan join us on my left, on the seat closest to the dais, the stare they level at me hot enough to melt glass. So much for Rhysand being in my head the rest of the evening. 

With a wave, the Emperor motions over a creature I have no name for. It walks on two legs like a man, but is covered head to toe in thick, brown, fur. Horns curl from the top of its head; a beak with a hooked tip jutting from its face. Its hands end in talons like that of a bird, but there are five on each hand instead of three. Its tunic has been folded down around its waist, leaving its chest bare, revealing a spider web of scars gouged through the heavy layer of fur. A thin, whip-like tail ending in a spiked tip flicks back and forth behind it as it walks, each step sending a shutter through the Palace. 

My skin pricks with goosebumps. Some strange sort of alchemy made this thing.

“I was hoping to test it in the Arena, but with the repairs in order, I thought a smaller show would do just as well.”

My stomach hurdles into my throat.

“Why don’t we pick one of your champions to break it in, daughter?” The Emperor suggests as if this is a thought that just came to him and not something he’s been planning from the beginning. 

I take another sip of wine as I turn to look at him, trying to steady the rapid pounding of my heart. I can’t let one of them fight this thing! Its maw opens and snaps shut with a clack as it stands before us, growing impatient.

“I’d personally like to see Cassian’s thick skull get crushed like a watermelon,” Amarantha chimes in from her seat.

I’m really going to throw up right here in front of all these people.

“A splendid idea from our woman of the hour, don’t you think?” He grins like he’s caught me, like he knows I’ve been playing games and have walked right into his trap.

“Nothing can be as bad as listening to you speak, Amarantha,” Cassian snarls as he gets on his feet, effectively making the decision for me.

He cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders, wings ruffling behind him, but before he can step into the center of the room, he turns to face me, much to my surprise. Hands scarred from swordplay reach out to give the chain around his neck a little tug. “Mind letting me off the leash, Princess?”

One of the Praetorian steps forward to unchain him but I stand and snag the key from his hand instead. I’ve seen enough males get stabbed or injected with something right before a fight to give the opponent an upper hand to know I can’t trust anyone near him. And, maybe, just maybe, the act of giving him a little relief from the chain might make him not hate me so much.

My hands shake as I reach up to his neck to unclasp the chain. I know better than to take the whole collar off while there are so many people watching even if I wish I could. His breath is warm on my face as he watches me, waiting for his moment of freedom. The urge to stretch up on my toes and kiss him for luck is overwhelming; maybe in another life we could have. 

I step back with the chain in my hand and return to my seat before I can follow my impulses. 

Cassian turns to face his opponent and even though I saw him perform yesterday, I can’t shake the sinking feeling that I have just sent him to his death. The creature sizes him up like it's calculating the best spot to take a bite out of him and its beady eyes settle on the bandage tied around his bare thigh.

Rhysand leans forward, resting his chin on my shoulder to watch, arm loosely looped over my waist. It looks casual. No one bats an eye at the gesture, but I am pretty sure he’s done it so he can keep me from jumping off the couch.

Azriel leans forward, bracing himself with his knees on his elbows, hazel gaze tracking the steps of Cassian’s opponent as he also calculates its weak spots. 

“Let’s make it interesting, shall we?” The Emperor asks, leaning over to be heard over the rush of excitement the audience gives to the challengers.

I tear my gaze away from where I’m trying to memorize every line in Cassian’s wings, every curve of tattoo over his back and shoulders, just in case. “How so?”

“Cassian wins and I’ll let you pick their next opponent in the arena,” he suggests. 

I like the offer; it gives them a better chance at surviving. 

“Cassian loses, and you give Rhysand to Amarantha.”

The world flips and spins and the roaring in my ears has me clutching my hands in my skirts to keep a surge of power from destroying the room. My power singes the fabric, only the smoke from the mirthroot hides the smell. 

There is no way in Hel I am making that kind of bet!

Rhysand stiffens behind me, heartbeat skipping for half a moment before he pretends to be unbothered by the comment and takes another drag of the mirthroot. 

I’d rather throw myself on a blade than chance that. Cassian is an exceptional fighter, but I cannot take that risk. I am already risking his life by letting him fight like this, how can I risk both of them?

My chest aches. There are too many opportunities to lose them. Too many things that can go wrong. 

“And let our people think I am weak and incapable of following through on the deal we made yesterday?” I challenge. My voice trembles as I fight to hold his gaze steady. 

Azriel’s shadow hisses what sounds like a warning in my ear.

“You know if we split them up now it makes me look as if I can’t handle them.”

“Attached, are we?”

“No, but I am tired of looking weak,” I hiss. “If Amarantha wants them, she can challenge me for them herself.”

Rhysand stiffens behind me. The twins are too close for him to slip into my mind again, but I can practically feel him shouting at me down the bond.

She huffs a laugh around the other side of him, “As if you’d stand a chance in that!”

I ignore her as I hold my ground with my Father, “You have always thought so little of me.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“So if you really want to make this interesting, then fine. If Cassian wins, I pick when and who all their matches are with. And if he loses, well, you’ve already chosen a husband for me I’m sure, so you can speed up the process and I’ll provide them the heir you so desperately want by the end of the year.”

The bond shakes so hard in my chest it feels like Azriel’s screaming in my ear. Rhysand has gone still as death behind me and I didn’t think I said it that loud, but Cassian’s head whips in our direction, eyes wide.

Father throws his head back and laughs at that. “This new found confidence is amusing. I will allow you to pick the next two fights, but not all.”

Better than nothing.

“Deal.”

I think I can hear Azriel’s teeth grinding together beside me, so I force myself not to look at him. The bond thrums like he’s in physical pain and I hate that I have caused it, but I will not barter with their lives.

“To first blood!” The Emperor calls to the room.

“To the death!” Brannagh chants instead. 

When this whole Empire goes up in flames, I’m pushing her in first.

The crowd begins to murmur to themselves, debating. “I’ll put some money on it if they fight to the death,” Tamlin tosses out. 

“As will I!” Shouts a commander whose name I’d never learned.

The motion goes around the room in a full circle, by the time the Emperor concedes, I’ve drank my full glass and abandoned it on the couch. Didn’t we just do this?

The Praetorians provide blades for the two males, but the Emperor’s creature can’t hold the blade with its claw tipped hands and tosses it to the ground with a screech. Its barbed tip tail draws back behind it as it drops into a defensive stance. 

I forget how to breathe as Cassian drops into his own.

Time slows in a familiar sensation of undiluted horror as the creature moves first, striking forward with its tail like a spear. Cassian pivots back a step, rearranging his feet as he blocks with the sword.

The crowd cheers excitedly and I distantly recognize coins changing hands as they take bets, but cannot tear my eyes away enough to watch who is participating in it. Cassian remains on the defensive as the creature rears its tail back and attacks from the other side of its body this time, testing the Illyrian’s reaction time. When the strike is blocked a second time, it switches tactics and goes for a punch, talons extended towards Cassian’s face.

While the creature is taller, it is not as agile, and Cassian side steps out of the way of the blow, using the momentum to lunge into the next step and strike the tip of his sword across his opponent’s stomach. Its ear shattering screech shakes the room as the blade makes contact, drawing black blood. If it wasn’t for Brannagh, the challenge would be over, Cassian would have won. It would have been easy for once.

Enraged, the creature strikes with its talons again, missing a second time, but catching Cassian in the jaw on the backswing. The whole room can hear Cassian’s teeth clack together as he stumbles backwards.

It takes everything in me not to squeeze my eyes shut, not to wince and react to every blow. I have to keep telling myself that this is part of the game and I cannot give them away, but by the Mother it is harder and harder with every passing second!

Rhysand remains with his chin propped up on my shoulder, the bulk of his weight keeping me in my seat. I so desperately want to reach out and take his hand, give myself something to ground in, but I can’t. I have to accept that this might be all we’re ever allowed to touch, especially after today.

The creature strikes again with its tail, once, twice, a third, each like a punch. The third blow shatters Cassian’s sword into pieces and my heart plummets into my stomach as he dodges a fourth assault. He’s not so fast on the fifth and that barbed tip punches right through his bandaged thigh! Blood splatters as the tips hurdles through muscle and sinew until it pushes through the back of his leg.

One of the dignitaries' wives reaches for a bucket and wretches as Cassian’s roar of pain rattles my teeth. 

Azriel flinches, looking like he might just jump into the fight and stop it, but then catches himself. 

The bond screams and bashes against my insides as my powers flare again, singing more of my skirts as I hold them in a death grip that only worsens as the creature yanks the barb back out of Cassian’s leg, bringing him to the floor. Blood pours from the wound from both ends, cascading down his calf to make a puddle on the stark white tile.

There’s enough of my skirts to hide the motion, Rhysand buries his hand beneath them to hold onto my hip tight enough to bruise. I don’t know if that’s to keep me in place or himself. 

The creature snarls out a noise that sounds like triumph as it pulls its hand back, aiming to use its claws to sever Cassian’s head.

Not again! Not again! Not again!

I have to stop this! I have to do something!

At the last second, Cassian throws himself out of the way, knees tucked to his chest as he rolls out of reach, right to where the creature’s discarded sword lies. He snags the blade with a grunt, one hand pressed to the gaping wound in his thigh as he pushes himself back onto his feet. His face twists in pain at the slightest movement, but he manages to stay upright. 

Rhysand breathes a little easier behind me, but his grip on my hip hasn’t let up.

The Emperor frowns beside us, displeased with the outcome thus far no doubt. He really expected this to be easy. 

The creature strikes again, sticking to what it has found successful, and it becomes a mistake. Cassian twists at the last second, blade raised so when the strike comes, he doesn’t need to block it. At this angle, not only does it miss him, he has a height advantage and he brings the sword down as hard as he can, cleaving the tail in half. The barbed tip hits the floor twitching as the creature reels backward and wails.

Holy shit! I’ve seen a lot of warriors in my life, but I don’t think I’d ever describe them as beautiful until now. Each move is calculated, backed with training and muscle. His tattoos seem to come to life with his body as his muscles shift and strike. 

He doesn’t let up as his opponent stumbles back either, he uses the distraction to his advantage and plunges the sword into the creature’s shoulder. He might have been aiming for the heart, but the wound in his leg gives him too great a limp to lunge far on. The blade catches in bone, the resounding crunch deafening in the domed ceiling, and when he reels back to pull it out, he twists it just enough to make his opponent’s arm absolutely useless.

With two of its preferred methods of fighting gone, the creature bends at the waist and charges with a roar, hoping to use its horns like a battering ram into Cassian’s chest.

An otherwise horrifying sight, if Cassian didn’t laugh and step dramatically out of the way so the creature rams right into the wall. “Is that really all you’ve got?” He taunts as a rain of dust falls on his head. 

The creature screeches as it yanks itself free from the wall and shakes its head, clearing the debris from its beady eyes. 

Cassian spins the blade in his hand, adjusting his grip, and I think it might be one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen in my life.

He can’t crouch with his leg, but he doesn’t need to. The creature tries to ram him again and he dodges and brings his hilt down on its neck, knocking it to the floor. He wastes no time in rearing back with the blade and bringing it down, easily cleaving the creature’s head from its shoulders. 

Amarantha throws up her hands in a huff at the sight.

I finally take what feels like my first breath in an hour as Cassian tosses the blade on the floor. He did it! He won!

Azriel removes his elbows from his knees and reclines back against the armrest, clearly satisfied with the outcome. 

“Excellent! Excellent!” Praises the steward as he goes about helping anyone who placed bets collect their proper earnings. 

I tear my gaze away from the carnage to the nearest guard, “Find him a healer, now.” Before he bleeds out on the floor or Father decides he has another champion he wants to test. 

The Emperor takes a long drink from his goblet, eyes narrowed on the severed head the staff has to now clean off the floor. Around him, his dignitaries drink and argue over why they bet the way they did. It is business as usual, completely unbothered by the blood around them. 

When he finally turns to me, I have to brace myself against the anger simmering in his eyes. This is usually the part where I put my chin to my chest and try to make myself as small as possible. Usually. But not today. 

“It seems I’ve underestimated their talent for bloodshed.”

Cassian hobbles back over to us and I make a show of telling Azriel to help him before he gets blood everywhere, so no one thinks I just let them wander off on their own. 

“The Games will continue at the start of next week,” the Emperor continues.

That gives us days. I try not to look at the gaping hole in Cassian’s thigh. Thank the Mother it looks like it missed bone, but how is he supposed to participate with that? There’s no way it heals in time, even if I have Ember work twelve hours a day on him.

“I expect you to have their opponent picked out by the Senate meeting in the morning. You still have that end of your bargain to uphold.”

This victory will not be without repercussions, but it is still a victory nonetheless, and we have to take what we can get.

--

Managing to procure the mirthroot I need to trick my Father into thinking I’m following through with the regime I’d given him, as well as finding horses for the Illyrians to ride back on takes longer than usual, given the massive partying happening in the streets. We have to take the backroads home to avoid being pelted with more rocks, or outright mobbed. Compared to the rest of the day, the journey is uneventful, spent mostly with the others ensuring Cassian doesn’t pass out on the horse. 

The sun is already changing colors by the time we return to the River House, but I know if I try to prepare for bed now I’ll never sleep. Instead, I leave Anise with instructions to look into potentially safe opponents in the Arena, so when I see Eris again tomorrow I can compare their notes, and then set out for the Temple built on the edge of the property. 

I doubt there are enough blood offerings and animal sacrifices to cleanse the sins of this Empire, but I offer as many as I can in apology for my part in it. I don’t know how I’ve been so blind to all of it. I can’t stop seeing it now, it should have always been so obvious to me.

The Priestesses do not ask why I linger for over an hour, praying long past the time it takes for my offerings to burn atop the altar. I’d hoped that, if I said them hard enough, the weight of the day would slip off my shoulders. I’d thought, with enough sacrifices, the guilt would ease, but I can still feel my mates’ agitation and pain clearly through the bond. 

I return to the House as weary as before. Tomorrow will be a whole new set of problems. I cannot put it off by lingering in the Temple. 

The walk doesn’t clear my head, or loosen the tension, and I climb into the tub with that same heaviness still clinging to my skin. I heat the water as hot as I can, hoping it might cleanse me in a way my sacrifices couldn’t.

Exhaustion creeps its way in as I scrub and scrub and scrub until my skin is pink. Every time I close my eyes I can see the crucified bodies, gasping for air as they slowly suffocate under the weight of their own body pinned to the wood. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that sight; I can only imagine how it would feel to know each of those males before this. The bond still swirls beneath my skin, heavy with agitation the hot water can’t touch. 

I wish there was a way to take that from them, but how can I do that without calling attention to the mating bond? 

I give myself a few extra minutes in the blissful heat before dragging myself out and tossing a silk robe over my waterlogged skin. My brush is on the vanity where Anise left it this morning and I have just started to brush the knots out of my hair when I hear the bedroom door open. My hand stills halfway through my hair; it is unlike Anise to not announce herself when it’s this late. 

The door clicks shut again, the eerie silence that follows enough to make my heart drop into my stomach. The darkness of the room makes it hard to see beyond the candlelight that fills the bathing chamber and my hand goes instinctively into the vanity drawer, where my Mother had always kept an extra knife. The blade is cool in my fingers, the handle smooth and undamaged from never being used. The benefit of having constant guards is you usually never see the threats against you, though there are always exceptions.

There’s no footsteps on the carpet, but I can practically feel movement next to my bed. 

I’m a sitting duck here among all the candlelight, but if I step into the darkness beyond I’ll be totally blind. Better to wait for something to make itself known. 

I suppose there’s enough guards around, I can always start screaming for help if it comes down to it.

A heartbeat passes before something dark and snakelike comes slithering across the floor. The ether loops itself around my ankle and crawls up my thigh like a purring cat before the shadow takes its perch behind my ear.

I set the knife on the vanity with a sigh of relief as Azriel steps into the light. “You scared the shit out of me!”

His shadow caresses the back of my ear in apology, far more expressive now than it was earlier. “Sorry.”

He side steps out of the doorway, but not in my direction, which is odd until Rhysand steps out of the shadows behind him.

“How did you two get in here?”

“Found the lever on the door to your secret tunnel,” Azriel says as his eyes trace up my bare legs, brazenly taking in all the damp skin I have on display.

Heat flushes up my cheeks and I have to look away from him. The candlelight and the hour of the evening makes this feel more intimate than it should, given the way Rhysand looks like he might burst out of his skin. I certainly shouldn’t be entertaining the idea that Azriel would look at me as anything other than a means to an end. Hope is too dangerous a thing to have right now. Just because we agreed to do this, doesn’t mean they’re anxious to accept me as anything other than help. Besides, I need to remind myself that it will be even more dangerous for us than it already is if we were to acknowledge the bond.

 “We were careful, no one saw us,” Azriel assures.

I should be relieved that they’re being safe about it, but the frown on Rhysand’s face makes me rethink it.

“What the hell were you thinking back there?!” He snarls.

Normally, that kind of outburst from a male would make me jump back in surprise, but at this point I’m too exhausted to move, let alone figure out what the hell he’s referring to. “I’ve had a lot of thoughts today, Rhysand, you will have to be more specific.”

The chain rattles around his neck as he steps further into the room, like it's fighting to hold back his powers. “Your bet with Hybern!”

Ah, right. That. “What of it?” Is he really still upset about that? Cassian won, nothing was lost.

Azriel winces and the shadow at my ear hisses in warning. 

“What of it?” He repeats, his voice rising to an octave just shy of shrill, like he can’t believe he heard me right. “You can’t just offer yourself up like that!”

“And what was my alternative?”

“He gave you an alternative!” He seethes. “All you had to do was say yes!”

I fold my arms over my chest in irritation, but I don’t miss the way both their eyes dip to my chest at the motion. “Oh so it’s ok for you to put your body on the line, but I can’t do the same with my own? Seems a little hypocritical, if you ask me.”

“That’s different!”

“How so?”

He’s inched his way into my space step by step, until I’m very aware of the jasmine and citrus scent of him. Sometime after he returned home he’d changed into the clothes I’d had laid out for him, the swirl of ink along his chest just barely poking out around the dark collar. Even hidden, the urge to reach out with my hands and trace the swirls with my fingers remains. 

“Because,” he says through his teeth. “It’s not a deal I can live with.”

“You don’t have to live with it because Cassian won anyway,” I retort, tearing my gaze away to look at Azriel. Rhysand is too close to me like this. I can barely think past the urge to touch him, let alone hold the argument like I need to. “Tell him he’s being ridiculous.”

Azriel folds his arms over his chest and frowns. “He’s not. You shouldn’t have made that deal.”

I throw my hands up and push past Rhysand, trying to give myself room to breathe. “You two are impossible!”

They follow like I’m still holding onto their leashes, footsteps somehow impossibly silent despite their size.  

“You’re honestly going to stand there and tell me you’d rather I offered you up to Amarantha?”

“If it meant you were safe,” Rhysand snarls. “Yes.”

I find myself gritting my teeth, a snarl working its way up my throat. “Well that’s not a deal I could live with, Rhysand.” 

Their legs are a hell of a lot longer than mine, Rhysand manages to snag my arm and turn me back around to face him before I make it more than three steps into the darkness of my chambers. 

His face looks strained, eyes rimmed red. He has to be exhausted. The bond feels fragile, strained from all the emotions that have been blared down it today. “I need you to find a way to deal with it,” he says, voice verging on pleading. 

I hate myself, but I can’t help but wonder what the hand holding onto my bicep would feel like travelling down the rest of my body. 

“Whatever you have to tell yourself, whatever you have to do, I… We need you to find a way to live with it.”

Azriel comes to stand on the other side of him, so they’re nearly shoulder to shoulder. “If Cass had lost and you had to…” even in the dim light coming from the bathroom I can see the heaviness in his eyes. 

I glance back and forth between them. “You’ve all suffered enough, I can handle myself. I knew what I was doing.”

Rhysand shakes his head, “I can bear a lot of things, but not that.”

Hope is a cruel bastard, and I’ve never learned to master it. “Why? What does it matter to you?”

He lifts the hand not holding onto my arm, fingers just barely brushing over my damp cheek and my heartbeat is suddenly very loud in my own ears. His mouth opens like he might say something, and then he clamps it shut again, debating with himself over the words.

While he can’t seem to find the words, Azriel’s scarred hand reaches out to gently grab my chin and tilt my face in his direction. “It matters,” he huffs, voice low and rich and the reverberations of it send shivers down my spine. “Because you’re our mate.”

------

Author's Note: Hehe was gonna wait for the reveal at the end but couldn't bring myself to do it. Let me know what you thought about it! And as always, if you want to be added to the taglist, let me know :)

@sirenpearldust, @saltedcoffeescotch, @littlemissfix-itfic, @waka-babe, @raisam

//

@anainkandpaper, @rafeecameronsbitch, @whothehelliskayleigh, @lifetobeareader, @blimpintime,

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@hjgdhghoe, @krowiathemythologynerd, @urfunnyvalentin3, @mack234-blog1, @kissfromnovalie

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@marrass , @lia-h-r, @celestialzdiviner, @daughterofthemoons-stuff, @tenshis-cake,

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@of-outerspace, @erencvlt, @corvusmorte, @lindsayjoy444,

[hoseoksluna]

INFINITY | jjk

pairing: boyfriend!jungkook x f. reader

genre: fluff

word count: 2.7k

summary: your birthdays have never been happy until jungkook became your boyfriend.

note: IT'S MY BIRTHDAYYYYYY. and i wrote this little light fic in just a day for the occasion. no smut, just pure fluff and cuteness. i want you all to go back and read this fic on your own bday and imagine you have such an amazing bf like jk:( enjoy! i love you guys. MWAH.

He was supposed to be here. 

Or at least that’s what your brain kept telling you throughout the longest workday of your life as your fingers tapped away on the keyboard and you used your sweet sing-song voice to talk to customers—something you do five, sometimes six days a week, although today was different. 

Today was your birthday. 

A pitifully miserable day that celebrates the moment you came into this world, only to realize, fifteen years later, that you don’t fit in—that it doesn’t have a place for you, where you belong and where you can be happy. A wretched day that your mom doesn’t want to celebrate because the preparations stress her out and because she thinks your family doesn’t really like you and she doesn’t want you to get sad, when they buy you gifts that are disappointing. 

As if that mattered. As if you didn’t love your family enough that the gifts aren’t what’s important about this day. 

This year shall be different, though. For the first time in your life you have a serious boyfriend that you’ve been with for a whole year now. A round but tall and muscular boyfriend. A Harley-Davidson driving, gold Marlboro-smoking boyfriend that you met a day after your birthday that should’ve been special but wasn’t. You spent it in tears because your mom made you feel guilty about wanting to celebrate it with your family, so you went out the following night with your girls to get drunk, go forget and met this man outside the bar that smoked alone and smiled at you a bit too often whenever you felt his gaze and turned around, your arm half-bent in the air, the cigarette smoke of your own swirling around your shivering form from the cold and the dull excitement that you caught the attention of someone so attractive and adorable at the same time. 

The way his eyes glinted in the yellow lights, starry and tender, as if they had never seen the ugly in this world—or perhaps they have, but they never accepted it. 

The way they rounded even more when you met them with your own, and the way his mouth parted because he seemingly couldn’t believe that you would notice him. 

Your friends knew something you did, innerly, as well—that this man was special and that he was yours. Your best friend, the mom of the friend group, stubbed her cigarette and leaned inside the waterfall of your hair and instructed you what to do. 

Stay here and have another cig. We’re going inside. 

You felt that it was the right thing to do, and so you smiled and you nodded. Your best friend patted your head, smirked to herself and left without any other word. 

You lit up another cigarette. 

And Jungkook… he was a moth, transfixed by the flame, gravitating towards you and sparking up a conversation about the happy birthday headband you were wearing. And you stayed there with him until your fingers were numb with the iciness of the night and until you ran out of cigarettes. 

But you didn’t go back to your friends all empty. 

Jungkook slid two Marlboros of his own into your pack, infiltrated hope into your heart by talking to you so gently and so purely—a hope in a better life and a better world and a better birthday, and infused your lungs with poetry by the way he looked at you. 

Like you were the prettiest girl he’d ever seen.

And a month later, after many dates, you had a taste of infinity on his lips. The infinity of the universe, of the world, of the love that had been brewing in you for him. The infinity of life that likes you, that had mercy on you and gave you someone like him. You had shared that with him on many occasions, but the first time he heard it, he sobbed into your hands. And just like you knew it then that he was yours, you couldn’t doubt it at that moment. 

He was engraved into your veins, written on the page that has your name within the Book of Life. 

And now, a year later, you ponder the hope that has not left the chambers of your heart since that fateful night as you enter your dark, deserted apartment that carries his scent but not his presence. 

You expected him to be here, waiting for you to come home after your afternoon shift. Your manager let you leave a half an hour early, an information you texted your boyfriend as soon as you received it, but now as you click on your messages with him, you perceive that he hasn’t even seen it. 

It hasn’t even been delivered. Only sent. 

Your heart cracks. The infinity thins out. You throw your brown leather purse onto the ground and try, with all your might, to keep your emotions at bay. The words of your mother flood your brain and your spine rounds at the heft of its innermore truth, your tiredness due to your long workday helping, breaking your back until you walk upon the debris of your own bones. 

So much for having hope. So much for believing that you could be loved by those closest to you. Why is this happening to you? Why do you have to be so eternally sad? Having the wholeness of the world against you as if you were nothing, as if you weren’t a human being deserving of love—

The rapid railroad of your thoughts is halted by the three-seconds long beeping of your passcode being accepted and when you turn around, the world you thought was against you turns to face you, ready to immerse you in its kindness. 

Jungkook enters. And it’s not a bouquet of flowers, whose petals graze against his sweaty temple. No, it’s a humongous pot of a white orchid that swallows all light of the room, only to spit it back down your throat when Jungkook crosses the distance and kisses you until your mind gets woozy, spinning around and around. 

A hard, alarming kiss that contains many, many questions. 

The light mends your heart, the softness of his lips, despite the harshness of the long peck, gluing all those broken parts together, and your lungs bloom with new flowers of poetry that he’s more than capable of taking care of in you. His free hand grips your waist, intensifying the questions in the kiss and when he pulls back, they thump in his big, round eyes that are never brown, but endlessly black. 

They thump so vivaciously that they plunge out of his mouth almost immediately. 

“Where were you? I waited for you outside of your work. I wanted to pick you up,” he says, panting, so out of breath as if he ran all the way here and broke a sweat. A bead of perspiration trickles down his other temple—and there, behind his ear, you notice a singular cigarette with a brown butt. 

Gold Marlboro. 

The sight is an electricity that drives life into your heart, making it beat as if it was never broken in the first place. 

Your lips are dry, your throat parched, and you think you need another one of his kisses. As a matter of fact, that’s all you want. His kisses, his sweat, his warm presence. 

Him. 

“My manager let me go home half an hour early,” you explain, gripping the hand that holds you, feeling guilty. Jungkook’s eyes pierce you, paying the utmost attention to you, coaxing your words out of you. You can vividly see that he needs them. “I texted you. I thought you’d be here.” 

Jungkook sighs, closing his eyes for a split second. A wave of relief washes over him and he purses his lips before he presses them not against your own, but against your cheek, his free hand migrating to the back of your head. And the warmth of his palm slaughters all of your bad thoughts, makes space for happy thoughts and happy emotions—and the act is so severely profound that you have to hold onto him, grip his waist like he gripped yours, and take the transformation as best as you can. 

“I was so scared,” he whispers onto your cheekbone, resting his face against yours, sinking his fingers into your hair. “If it weren’t for your coworker who told me that you left early, I would still be standing there.” He withdraws, looking down at you and pointing your face up at him. “My phone died. I didn’t get your message. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I wanted to surprise you.” 

Your heart enlarges, escaping out of your throat and into the pot he’s still holding. You shake your head, thinking he doesn’t need to be sorry for anything, and pucker your lips to ask for another kiss. Jungkook nearly whimpers at the sight, leaning down and obliging, softening the kiss he’s so willing to give you, melting it into a hundred more kisses that make your tummy flutter. And there, there the hope, which he had suffused you with a year ago, comes to a full circle and you comprehend that as long as you have him, you’ll never spend your birthday in despair. 

And because of that, you deepen the kiss. 

The tears streaming down your cheeks feel so terribly faint owing to the overwhelmingness of your emotions. It is gladness that clutches your whole being, gratitude second, and your expanding love for him in third place. And all those emotions dissolve into his cheeks in the infinity of your kiss and it is when you press your body against his and wrap your arms around his neck that you realize that the orchid pot isn’t the only gift he has for you. Around the same wrist, belonging to his hand that holds the flower, are hung small gift bags that prevent you from fully dissipating into him—and that is the matter that severs the kiss, which holds the entire universe. 

And it’s not the contents of the gift bags that makes it collapse. 

It’s the red ring box that he fishes out of his pocket. 

Jungkook doesn’t get down on his knee. His hands tremble, very much like your heart, your blood system, your muscles, as he opens the box and allows you to see the gift for your very first special birthday. A diamond ring, held up by a gold lining shaped into an infinity sign. The infinity of his kiss, the infinity of your love for him, the little things you observed that made him cry—all made true in a singular ring that flits in his tattooed, trembling hand. The orchid gets placed on the nearby round table and the foreign emotions, which go beyond the ordinary happy emotions you’ve ever felt, suffocate you. So much that you begin to tremble just the same, sobbing as you turn your gaze away from the magnificent ring to the greater, blurry magnificence of his eyes just to catch the same, identical tears drenching his red, red cheeks. 

“Jungkook…” you mewl, sniffling, your constricting lungs not letting you say anything else, and you cup his hands like a flower. Perhaps to still their quivering, perhaps to just simply hold them—feel his warmth, feel the vibrancy of his tattoos—because, truth be told, you have no idea what’s happening.  

Jungkook calls you by your name in order to have your full attention and you anticipate finding in him the meaning of this all, stability and groundness. And he doesn’t hesitate. Hell, he doesn’t waste a second. 

“My little princess,” he starts but pauses momentarily, his bottom lip quivering as he holds his tears and you fall apart. At the pet name, at the unfolding of his emotions that bear nothing but raw beauty you’d readily die for.  “This is my promise to you that I am yours for all infinity. Nothing can break it, nothing can stop it, and that defines our life together. I want to spend it with you until we’re the last two people on this Earth. I know our love will keep us alive.” Tears spurt down onto his cheeks against his strong will and you wipe them away as you feel yourself swelling up with love, with something beyond joy, and with utmost, utmost adrenaline. “I love you with everything in me.” His voice breaks and you break in tandem. Jungkook envelops a buff arm around you, burying you into his chest, and for the last part of his speech, he draws close to your ear. “Happy birthday.” 

And he kisses that little seashell, kisses the planes of your cheeks until he finds your lips that he seizes, violently, with his until the infinity bursts at the seams, imbuing you with its eternal, yet different energy that promises that everything from now on shall be joyful and beautiful. His sob entangles with yours and, pulling away with a smack, he grins down at you. No piercings, just the flush of his cheeks and the love for you he radiates adorning him—and you love him. 

You love him so awfully devastatingly. 

And you tell him. You tell him as he takes your left second-last finger and slides the promise ring down that digit. And you tell him again when you meet his eyes, as if for the first time all over again and jump into his arms. The diamond reflects the light, stealing it, hiding it for you and him, the size of the ring fitting so perfectly that another set of tears gush through. 

And then he’s patting your bum, telling you to open your gifts and he kneels with you on the floor and goes through each bag he got you. A red lipstick, a perfume, a black silky dress with matching stilettos—all of which he wants you to wear on a Saturday night with him to celebrate. Then, all your favorite ‘you’ things that you love. Face masks, even lip masks, bath bombs, shower gels and body creams. Fluffy socks, pajamas, granny panties. A bottle of red wine and four packs of grape ice vape. 

Jungkook leaves you stunned. And you don’t have time to process all those wonderful things because suddenly you’re up on your feet and you’re led into a rhythm of a song he begins to hum, slow dancing with you in your living room. One hand firm on your waist, the other just as firm clasped around your hand, his eyes fixed on you, mouth in that everlasting pout. 

And you fade into him. Don’t think about your mother and the hurtful things she said. They cease to exist in the atmosphere of your shared life with him, more now than ever. You focus on the stability of his grip on you, the smoothness of his hand, the tightness you feel on your waist that grounds you, your feet that get on well with his in this dance and your hips that he loves to see moving. You focus on yourself; you focus on him. On the way he dressed up for you, ironed his black shirt and on the way he still smells so good, even though he broke a sweat. 

On the way he just committed his life to you. 

And then, he’s dressing you in the pajamas he bought you. Baggy and banana-patterned, beige and yellow colored, sitting you down on your couch and lifting your legs, one by one, to keep your feet warm with your matching socks. He’s taking your make-up off, brushing your teeth and smoothing down a face mask on your forehead, cheeks and chin, pecking you sweetly. And you’re straddling him, putting the same one on the planes of his face, and as you’re focusing, he meditates on something within his heart. 

And Jungkook shares it with you, all ruffled, sleepy and puffy. 

“I love you, my little princess. For all infinity.” 

You breathe it in, believing him. 

“I love you, Jungkookie. For all infinity.” 

You fall asleep like this—on his bare chest with your face mask still on, one that he peels off after the fifteen minute mark. And you dream about what your infinity with him looks like as your age no longer matters and stops here. 

Infinitely young, infinitely loved. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @jjk7k , @tkslovechild , @euphoricmyth , @cinmmongirl , @ririkookiemonster , @perfectiondazesworld , @https-mei , @bangtansonyeondanue , @jungkoock , @cinmmongirl , @hoseokkie-caeks , @kam9404 , @fr0ggieth1nk , @parkinglot-nights

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved

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[boneblushed]

Labyrinth

Uh oh, I’m falling in love / Oh no, I’m falling in love again

synopsis you’re reunited with your ex-boyfriend, Rafe, at an Outer Banks wedding.

tags Rafe Cameron x fem!reader, exes to lovers, second chance romance, slowburn-ish, A LOT of angst, an equal amount of pining, an awful breakup but a wonderful reconciliation 💓

wc ~11k

“You look,” you murmur, squeezing Brooklyn’s shoulder gently, “perfect.”

She’s sitting in front of a round, gold-rimmed mirror, the windows on either side of her painting her skin a warm aureate. You stand in shadow behind her, the sunbeams unable to reach your pretty features. There’s a wistfulness to them that’s almost imperceptible.

Almost. If she weren’t your best friend, someone you’ve known since forever, she probably wouldn’t have noticed the way you were hiding from them. The smile on her face falters as she looks up at you through the mirror.

“Look,” she begins tentatively, frowning, “if this is too hard —”

“Do not,” you interrupt. You try for an encouraging smile; what you hope is an encouraging smile. “I’m totally fine, okay? I’m over it.”

A pause. Brooklyn’s reflection sends you a long, hard look. “No one would blame you if you weren’t.”

You know what that means, the insinuation behind her words: you were supposed to be the first one. It’s all anyone in the Figure Eight was saying when they first found out about your break-up: you’re meant for each other, though, we can’t imagine you not being a couple!

Well, neither could you, not that it really mattered. Six months on with half a heart and pulseless motive, you’ve come to realise that wretched pining comes at a costly price.

You can’t afford it anymore.

“I know,” you reply quietly.

The spaghetti strap of your cowl neck falls as you straighten, the periwinkle fabric shimmering forebodingly. An image of the Rafe you knew flashes in your mind, slipping it down to press a kiss on your skin. Your stomach drops.

“But I am,” you add, louder. As though you’re trying to convince yourself more than you are her. “I promise.”

Brooklyn stares at you for a long time before her gaze falls, acquiescing with a sigh. “I hate that you still don’t believe it.”

“Believe what?”

“That he could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve you.”

You bite back another wince, the fresh sting of forgotten feelings pricking at your eyelids. “I do believe it,” you say quietly. “I do. That’s what makes all of this so fucking hard — that I know we’re never getting a second chance. That he chose to throw all of it away and I’m never going to be able to forgive him for it.”

“You shouldn’t have to, though!”

“We were together for half our lives, Brooke!” You turn away from the mirror, taking in a jagged breath. “We — his mom had promised me her ring before she died, for God’s sake. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to walk away from what we had?”

A long pause. Brooke’s voice is gentle, but her words cut like a knife. “It’s not as though you had a choice, Y/N/N. He didn’t give you one.”

You look around at her, unshed tears making your pretty eyes shine. “What does it say about me that I’m no closer to accepting that than I was six months ago?”

“Babe.” A tear falls. Brooke’s features soften, and she pulls you into a tight hug, enough pressure to wring out the melancholy in your chest. “It says that you’re human.”

She rocks you for a moment before you’re forced to pull apart, a knock on the door breaking your reverie. “God,” you self-reproach, sending Brooklyn a watery smile. “I would find a way to make your day about me, wouldn’t I?”

“Maybe I should ditch Kelce,” Brooklyn replies faux-seriously, catching the stray tears wetting your lower lids. “We can elope or something.”

As though on queue, the Universe intervenes before she can go through with this idea. Perhaps it knows, having watched the pair of grow close throughout college, that there’s a part of her that really would call this all off if you asked her to.

“Sweetheart!” Comes Brooklyn’s father’s voice from behind the door, punctuated by the sharp rap of his knuckles. “It’s nearly time!”

The tension ebbs. Suddenly, everything about this wedding—the same one you’ve been helping her plan forever—becomes entirely too real. Your melancholia is a tide in this way, flowing forth and receding as its surroundings permit. Never fading away; ever-present. Though it may not be as unbearable now as it was when you first broke up, it lingers.

You’re afraid that it always will. You push down this fear like you’ve done every other.

Focus. Your eyes widen in anticipation, mirroring Brooklyn’s as they transform into nervous excitement.

“Come in!” Brooklyn calls anxiously, biting back a squeal. You’re grateful for the fact that you haven’t ruined her mood completely. “Oh my god. Oh my god!”

She stands up and turns around just as her father enters the room, his lined face shining with a wistful sense of happiness. As the atmosphere in the room shifts, she glances back at you, and your insides twist in cruel mocking. More repentant than jealous. I was supposed to be the first one.

You don’t let your expression falter. The first few chords of the processional float into the room through the ajar door, and you spring into action, smoothing out your dress and readjusting your bouquet of flowers.

“That’s my queue,” you say, squeezing her arm once more before slipping past her and her father.

In true Kook fashion, Brooklyn’s wedding ceremony is taking place on the Island Club green. Upon exiting the storage room you’ve transformed into a vanity, you find yourself in the entranceway that leads to the venue, the set-up just visible beyond its oak doors.

Benches of beige driftwood sit on either side of the aisle, twined with buttery white lilies and ivy-like viridescence. They face a brilliant floral wedding arch, where the officiant and Kelce stand talking in hushed whispers. And the sky above you is a vibrant, cloudless blue, golden sunlight fanning down upon the crowd, bathing them aureate.

In the beat that passes, you search for someone you shouldn’t.

The last time that you saw him, he was hunched over his father’s office desk. His eyes were bloodshot and his tired gaze dull; half-finished documents stared up at him in mocking, and a nagging ache was making home in his chest.

The week prior, you hadn’t seen much of each other. And it wasn’t as though he’d requested this space—he rarely did, rarely asked you for anything—you’d just taken it upon yourself to give it to him. Stay in control. If you proposed time apart before he did, maybe it would feel more deliberate; hurt less.

You were dead wrong.

“Look,” he sighs, this cruel, heavy sound that splices right through your chest, “I realise I’ve been neglecting our relationship a lot recently.”

“Yes,” you respond tentatively. “But you’ve been under a lot of pressure recently. I get it.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” He glances up at you through red-rimmed irises. “I… I don’t know how long it’ll be like this. With everything that’s happened… my dad dying, and me taking over the firm —”

“I’ve seen you through all of it,” you interrupt quietly, your voice cracking. “I’ve — no questions asked, I’ve done it. I get it, Rafe, you’ve got different priorities at the moment. But we’ve loved each other for so long now that I —”

“But that’s the thing,” he says then, swallowing hard, “I just don’t know if I do anymore. Not as much as I used to.”

The silence that follows feels as though it’s suffocating you. You haven’t said a word, and Rafe’s said plenty, but it’s you with the lungs that heave for loveless oxygen.

“Oh.”

Rafe’s Adam’s apple jumps again, and he breaks eye contact as unshed tears brim to the surface. “I’m sorry.”

It doesn’t make any sense.

“Maybe,” you try, grappling hard for a logical explanation, “maybe your grief’s fucking with your ability to feel anything.”

Rafe’s gaze lifts to your face again, teardrop tracks making your pretty cheeks shine. His heart aches, hard, and he finds it difficult to catch his breath. “But… I’ve dealt with it,” he says quietly. “I’ve had to.”

“How can you have?” You throw back, exasperated. “Rafe you — you haven’t had a moment to yourself since his funeral last month, you’ve holed yourself up in his office and acted like everything’s fucking okay!”

“Because it is!” He replies, his face hardening momentarily. “I’m — I’m fucking fine, alright? I just need to be alone right now.”

“Because you don’t love me anymore.”

Rafe winces. Your lower lip trembles. “Yeah. Because something’s missing… the — the fucking spark, or whatever… and right now, I can’t give you the sort of love you deserve.”

He was tired of hurting you through his abjection, he’d said. As if breaking things off wasn’t the most hurtful thing he ever did.

Thankfully, you aren’t able to spot him in the crowd; if you had, walking down the aisle would have been infinitely more difficult. Out of courtesy to you—and Brooke forcing his hand, of course—he hadn’t asked Rafe to be a groomsman either, so you were well safe from an untimely encounter at pre-wedding festivities. And from standing opposite him in front of the altar. You aren’t sure such close proximity in holy matrimony would be healthy for either of you.

It’s unfair on him though, you know it is. He has as much a right being best man as you do maid of honour — the four of you were thick as thieves once upon a time; in fact, it was you that’d introduced Kelce to Brooklyn.

It feels like so long ago when you think back on it now, being nineteen-years-old with a naïve heart and nothing to lose.

You and Rafe had seemed invincible then, high-school sweethearts that were somehow surviving college-borne distance. Forever, that’s the word that ended every drunk call or late night text; forever, and the promise of a proposal and beach-side villa.

“Shi—did you not see the sock on the door, Smith?” Rafe groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder in defeat. He’s spent the past half hour getting you into a compromising position, his rough hands awry and his wet mouth on your soft skin. The amaranthine imprint of his kisses have made home on your neck. You’re straddling him with your arms wrapped around his shoulders, and he really doesn’t want to sacrifice any amount of closeness.

Kelce enters the room tentatively, his hand firmly pressed over his eyes. “Hard to miss. You two decent or what?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You let out a peal of laughter as Rafe glowers at his roommate, his calloused palms dropping from your hips to your thighs. You push the fabric of your dress over his hands, but he kneads the flesh anyway, the skin on skin like spare oxygen.

Kelce peeks at you from between his fingers before pulling them away, an unimpressed look on his face. “C’mon, surely you’re done with her Cameron. I’ve given you guys the entire fucking day together.”

“Half an hour,” Rafe replies, his blue eyes narrowing.

“As if you need more than five minutes,” Kelce snorts, plopping down on the bed opposite Rafe’s.

“Oh fuck—” Rafe’s large hands circle your thighs and tighten, standing up and advancing toward Kelce with you in his arms, “—right off—”

“Rafe!” You gasp, suppressing another surprised laugh. “Put me down, you asshole.”

“No way, Y/N/N,” Kelce says then, raising his arms in preemptive surrender. “Your PDA’s the only reason he hasn’t given me a shiner yet.”

Rafe affirms this sentiment by pressing a chaste kiss to your temple, his eyes still narrowed as he glares at Kelce. “You’re lucky I love my girlfriend more than I do my fucking reputation.”

Kelce makes a face, keeling over and mock-gagging. “Yeah, yeah, you guys have been bethrothed since fucking pre-K, I get it. Now will you stop being so possessive and let me have a conversation with her?”

You look over your shoulder at him, untangling your arms from Rafe’s neck so he can let you down gently. When he does so, it’s with great reluctance, and he doesn’t hesitate to circle your chest so he can pull you back against him. His strong bicep is warm against your neck, solid pressure.

“What’s up, Kelcey?” You ask, surveying him with interest.

“Ghosted,” he says gloomily, falling back against his duvet, “again.”

Rafe glances down at you at the same time you look up at him, a sage, sympathetic emotion passing between you. In the weeks after your break-up, you’ll come to yearn for this emotion more than anything else — that feeling of being immune to inadequacy, of having found the love of your life so effortlessly.

“You’ve gotta stop coming on so hard, bro,” Rafe says, resting his chin on your forehead. “These sorority chicks are probably all looking for something casual.”

“He can’t help the fact that he’s a lover boy, Rafe,” you defend, frowning. “You’ve just gotta find a girl that wants what you want, Kelce.”

Kelce raises his head hopefully. “Know anyone like that, Y/N/N?”

“Well,” you pause, chewing your bottom lip thoughtfully, “I am thinking of inviting my roommate Brooklyn to the Bahamas over summer break —”

“To Rafe’s?” This piques Kelce’s interest. He props himself up onto his elbows, a hopeful grin transforming his features. “Sold.”

How times change.

Today, Kelce stands at the other end of the aisle, waiting for the same Brooklyn that was once your roommate, now his almost wife. He’s wearing an elegant black tuxedo with a lily tucked into the breast pocket, its buttery white petals shining in the sun. He looks so, unimaginably, happy. It should’ve been you and Rafe. Your heartstrings twinge.

“You’re not ready,” you murmur as you pass him on the altar, finding your place opposite his best man, Topper.

Kelce smiles at you, a little nervous, a little unshed. “Will I ever be?”

You shake your head, smiling in tandem.

The wedding procession is a brilliant display of love, and you find a way to make it about your lack thereof. Seconds blur, minutes melt into each other, and your poor mind strays to when things were far simpler. The Island Club was your date night spot, once upon a time. It’s where you’d envisioned you’d get proposed to; where you would get married one day, too. Just like this.

You’re happy for them, you swear it. It’s just a difficult emotion to maintain when the opposite comes so naturally.

Rafe doesn’t arrive until the reception itself.

He wants to believe that this is entirely accidental — he’s had a long day at the office, filled with several meetings with prospective clients. He can’t though, his wretched conscience won’t let him. He chose to go to work today, chose to schedule important meetings at the same time as Kelce’s nuptials.

He thinks he knows why this is, and isn’t sure whether he can handle the why in a satin slip and strappy heels. He wants to believe that he meant everything he said to you six months prior, but the dreadful ache in his chest crescendos in mocking every time he tries this.

He’s made a mistake. He won’t admit this if it killed him. But he knows, deep down, that something isn’t right about all of this.

If he really didn’t love you anymore, if that fucking spark was missing, there shouldn’t have been anything to move on from—the ship should have already departed. But he’s struggling, hard, and his thoughts juxtapose his actions. Despite telling you that he needs to be alone for the time being, you remain unmoored in his mind, rocking back and forth but never sinking.

He’s done his fair share of fucking up over the past few months. Got into something else too quickly, tried that no contact thing and failed miserably. There’s no going back after everything that’s happened. And yet…

“Hello?” He greets you like it’s a question; like greeting you isn’t second nature anymore. Your stomach turns.

When you respond, your voice comes out jagged, pained. “Look. I get that you’re doing this ‘no contact’ thing, or whatever, but Sarah told me something pretty fucked up and I think you owe me an explanation.” Your voice is far weaker.

Rafe winces, a familiar ache pulling through his chest. “If this is about Elle —”

“It’s been a month, Rafe. You may as well have cheated.”

…that fucking hug.

After you’d confronted him about shamelessly flirting with Sarah’s friend, Elle—in front of Sarah, no less, who told you the second it happened—he’d asked to meet up in person and explain himself.

You weren’t quite sure what to make of it all, which is probably why you’d foolishly agreed to hear him out. Ward had hired Elle as an intern before his death; she’d been around a while, long enough for an affair.

It shifted bile into your throat.

And when you’d met him, the exact opposite of what you’d hoped had happened. He’d had the gall to tell you that he thinks something’s there, that he feels that bullshit spark that he swore was missing in your relationship.

What were you meant to say?

But then he’d apologised, recognised it was too soon, begged to stay friends. Friends—like a platonic relationship is in any way gift receipt redeemable. And ironically, hearing him out wasn’t even your biggest mistake, it was that wretched hug goodbye that you’d permitted you get.

It was as though that hug held everything unsaid. Your figure had moulded against his quite perfectly, and why wouldn’t it? He’s the only romantic embrace you’d known since you were a teenager.

And when you’d finally pulled away, separated the pieces of your heart that were finally greeting his again, you hadn’t realised that he’d think about that hug for weeks gone by, just like you.

All the way up until Christmas, which occurred two months after your sudden break-up.

It was the last time you saw him under the pretence of amicability, when you came by Tannyhill to drop off presents and see his family. Mostly him. It felt pathetic, even then; for all you knew, Elle was on his mind and you were somewhere insignificant.

Rafe’s pretty sure he’s fucking doomed.

Your laugh reverberates through Tannyhill like a siren song, and he’s pretty sure he’ll never not recognise the sound of it. It’s as though every bone in his body vibrates in tune to it—so unabashed, so freeing. Far more painful now than it used to be.

You’ve become so many Taylor Swift songs and none of them end happy.

He follows your sweet timbre to the hallway before he can help himself. Once upon a time—God, it feels so long ago now—he’d have been the first person you’d have texted before dropping by the house. Instead, as he stands paralysed at the foot of the stairs, it’s Sarah who’s hugging you, who gets to hold you in her arms.

Luckily for him, your eyes are closed in the embrace, and he’s afforded a second to recalibrate after taking you in. He’s known that you’re beautiful like his first memory on Earth, but that doesn’t mean your proximity leaves him any less winded. You’re fresh-faced with limbs that have an untouchable quality to them; you aren’t his to mark anymore, no longer his to ruin.

He can’t remember the last time he kissed you. He wants to remember so fucking bad. You’re slipping through his calloused fingers and fragments of you are all he has.

“You didn’t have to get us anything!” Sarah exclaims, pulling away faux-disprovingly.

“Hey, don’t do that, of course I did.” Your arms fall back to your side, and you open your eyes in tandem. When they flit past Sarah’s face and find Rafe’s instead, it feels as though someone has tipped ice-cold water down your singlet. A pause. “You’re family.”

Sarah notes the change in your tone with a frown, turning to look over her shoulder. “Oh,” she says, her expression hardening. “Sorry, Y/N/N. I didn’t know he was home.”

You swallow. “It’s no big,” you reply, forcing yourself to look back at her. “We’re alright, really. But I should go, I have a few more presents to drop off.”

Sarah frowns harder. “You sure you don’t want to stay a bit? I know Rose’d love to see you, we’ve all really missed having you around —”

“I’m sure,” you interrupt, handing her the bag of presents you’ve wrapped. “I’ll send her a text, okay? And listen,” you pause, your expression softening a little, “I know this holiday season’s going to be hard without your dad, and I want you to know that I’m here for you, whenever you need me.”

Sarah’s eyes well with tears. “It’s going to be hard without you too, Y/N,” she murmurs. “You’re my sister.”

Your features sadden in tandem, and you give her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “And I always will be. You know that.”

“You should come to Christmas, then,” she says hopefully.

“I —” you falter as your voice cracks, grimacing slightly, “— I’m sorry. I don’t think I can.”

When you turn around, something in Rafe’s chest cracks too. He’s still hanging on to that expression-softening catalyst from a moment prior, yearning hard for the feeling of being on the receiving end of your love.

“Why the fuck,” Sarah fumes, rounding on him once you’re out of earshot, “do you have to ruin everything you touch?”

Rafe doesn’t even have it in him to wince. “I don’t know,” he responds quietly, with an honesty that aches. “If I did, maybe I’d have found a way to fix it.”

Sarah takes pause. Slight disbelief transforms her features. “You have to still love her. How can’t you?”

“I don’t know, alright?” Rafe runs his hand through his hair slovenly. “I just — I’m not happy anymore. It’s not fucking there… I don’t know if it’ll ever come back.”

“What isn’t?”

“The… the spark.”

“Bullshit,” Sarah spits out, accusatory. “The ‘spark’ is fucking bullshit, Rafe. You’re telling me you’ve felt it the entire time you’ve known her? You’re telling me this doesn’t have anything to do with dad’s death?”

Rafe swallows thickly, discomfort coating his throat. “I don’t, alright? All I know is I can’t give her what she needs right now; I don’t know if I ever will.”

To this day, he doesn’t know about your detour that evening — how instead of driving home, you took a left to the look-out where you shared your first kiss. He doesn’t know that the waves crashing ashore bore witness to your heartbreak; that sunset orange painted your tear-streaked cheeks a gentler amber. Caressed them, subdued them, where he no longer could. He doesn’t know you agonised over how much his hair had grown in your absence, the subtle stubble on his jaw, the stark outline of his biceps.

The him that’s foreign to you, now; the him that’s Elle’s and not yours.

At twenty-four years old, Rafe Cameron doesn’t know fucking anything.

Of course, once he does eventually recognise that his ‘something there’ with Elle is a rebound, it’s too late to entertain returning to you with his tail between his legs.

He can’t. Not after everything he’s put you through in the past. So he allows regret to caulk his limbs and bitterness to coat his insides, and Rafe Cameron does what he does best — pushes it down and ignores it.

Which brings him here, a non-attendee to his best friend’s wedding and an hour late to his reception.

He sidles into the venue through a pair of double doors, and the first thing he notices is the dimmed sconces and muted fairy lights. It’s the first thing, because perplexingly, the crowd is hard to discern but you glow anyway. A spotlight illuminates the centre of the room where Brooklyn and Kelce share their first dance, but they don’t draw his gaze, your beautiful features do.

Of course you do, in your strappy cowl neck slip. There’s less periwinkle fabric than he’d anticipated, more exposed limbs, and Rafe feels like he’s run a fucking marathon as he takes you in. And your pretty eyes and glossy lips cascade into a bare neck; soft skin that’s forgotten his rough touch, his bruising kisses.

It’s momentary lust that his regret promptly squashes. He can’t think those thoughts about you anymore, even if they’re almost second nature. Even if he’s spent more tangible years of his life as your boyfriend than he has a fucking stranger.

That’s what you guys are meant to be right now: strangers. His stomach coils. His tired eyes search for the open bar on instinct.

Once he’s acquired a whiskey neat and a glass of champagne, he pulls through the crowd and makes toward your figure.

You aren’t as lucky as he is to mentally prepare for a reunion. When he holds out the shimmering flute and prompts your gaze toward him, there’s a split-second of slack-jawed diffidence before you find your common sense.

God, you wish he wasn’t so easy to stare at.

He’s wearing an expression that isn’t yours anymore, with his thick brows furrowed and lips slightly parted. Yearning, but he can’t be. His blue eyes make your heart leap. Your gaze lifts before it falls, taking in his damp hair, his larger than ever frame. Both feel unfamiliar; he’s shed the skin and aureate curls your fingers once traced. Same notes of patchouli on his neck, though you note the absence of the silver chain you once bought him for Christmas.

Does he still have it, somewhere, hidden in a shoebox under his bed? (His hand is so close to your chest, it feels like you’re dying.) Is it as painful for him to see you like this after months and months of no contact?

Can’t be. Shouldn’t be. The ache may linger, agonisingly, but you’re stronger now than you were when he first ended things.

“Oh,” is all you can muster, accepting the flute of champagne. When your fingers brush, you reprimand the jolt of static. Lust may be hard to shake, but you resolve to let logic prevail. “Thanks.”

Rafe feels it too, harder, more unbearable. “Don’t mention it.”

You break eye contact to look out into the crowd, though it’s a struggle finding anything to focus on. “When’d you arrive?”

“Five minutes ago,” he admits, staring at your side profile for a second longer than he probably should. He analyses the glittery stuff on your cheekbones—highlighter?—for traces of a familiar feeling. “Work shit.”

“Ah,” you reply, raising your eyebrows at him. “Some things never change, huh?”

Rafe winces. “Look, Y/N, I —”

“I’m kidding, Rafe, relax,” you interrupt, sending him a small smile. It makes his stomach turn. “It’s all going well, I hope?”

“It is, yeah,” he responds, smiling in tandem. “Ish. Still doing a fuck tonne of late nights and weekends.”

“Bummer.” It feels strange, making small talk in this way. Strange, though not particularly as awful as you’d predicted. “How’re Rose and your sisters?”

“Yeah, they’re good,” they miss you, “Sarah’s going to UCLA in the fall.”

You nod. “She told me.”

Something in Rafe’s chest drops. He turns to you, his piercing gaze making your skin burn. “I didn’t realise you guys kept in touch.”

“We’ve always been really close. You know that.”

Because of me. “Right.” His eyes fall to your throat as you take another pull of champagne, smooth and unblemished and painfully foreign. “I’m glad.”

You turn to him then, an unreadable expression on your face. “Me too.”

A beat. The pair of you stare at each as the surroundings buzz into static.

“Listen, Rafe, I —”

“Y/N, I’ve been —”

You falter first, scrunching up your face abashedly. “Sorry. You go.”

“I…” Rafe pauses, running his calloused palm through his hair, “I guess I just want to apologise. For everything.”

Your eyes widen, and you turn away from him abruptly. “Rafe, I don’t know if now is the best time to have this conversation.”

“Shit, I know. I know I’m about five months too late and don’t deserve to be heard out.”

“Well,” you pause, chewing on your bottom lip apprehensively. Your voice quietens. “Maybe not at a wedding.”

Or ever. You tip back the rest of your champagne just as the slow dance fades out, breaking away from him. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Rafe fucking hopes so. He needs a clean slate if it’ll kill him. He nods reluctantly, watching you disappear into the crowd in front of him. The ache in his chest crescendos as the physical distance swallows you completely.

—

“We love you,” Brooklyn mouthes, blowing you a kiss through the open window. The limousine she’s in stretches forward with jet-black grandiosity, its ignition blaring alive as you catch it in mid-air.

When you blow one back, Kelce peeks over her shoulder and sends you a wink. The pair of them wave to the wedding-goers surrounding you before the vehicle pulls forward, leaving you in its dust. You watch them exit the Island Club gates, and a sense of bittersweet melancholia finds home in your chest.

That should’ve been you. You turn around as the crowd begins to disperse and find yourself face to face with Rafe once again.

“Oh,” you say, looking up at him in surprise. When your expression relaxes—in recognition—his chest pulls in tandem. “They’re sweet, huh?”

Us; that should’ve been us. Rafe nods, smiling wistfully. “Can you believe you’re the one that set them up?”

“At your holiday house,” you return, smiling in tandem. “This was a two-person wing man job.”

“Nah. You were the one that saw their potential.” A pause. “You’ve always been really good at that.”

Your brow furrows. “At setting people up?”

“At seeing their potential,” Rafe corrects. An unreadable emotion crosses his blue irises. “Even when they don’t deserve it.”

Your expression falters. You aren’t sure what to say to this, so you don’t say anything at all.

“Listen,” Rafe tries again, scratching the back of his neck, “d’you need a ride?”

“Well…”

You hesitate, looking over his shoulder for your parents. When you spot them, they’re in avid conversation with some family friends; they look extremely comfortable, like they’re going to be dawdling until God knows when.

You’re searching for justification even though he doesn’t deserve it. After all the pain he’s caused you, your wretched heart still yearns for more.

Fucking sadist.

“Actually, yeah,” you finish after a beat, bringing your gaze back to him. “That’d be great, thank you.”

His shoulders relax. “Yeah, of course. You have all your things?”

“Uh huh.”

“This way.”

You allow him to guide you to his pick-up trunk, pretend that you didn’t discern it right away. Besides, you were meant to have forgotten the location of his unofficial ‘official’ parking spot. So you follow him toward it, deny the familiarity of its number plate, and act like every dent and wretched scratch isn’t a piece of your heart.

“Shit—ow!” You curse, hurtling forward as you stall, again. “This is fucking impossible, Rafe. I quit.”

Rafe grins perplexedly, giving your shoulder a squeeze. “Baby,” he placates, “if Top can learn to drive manual, anyone can.”

You make a frustrated noise, crossing your arms over your chest. “Not me, clearly.”

Rafe lets out a laugh, unbuckling your seatbelt so he can pull you into his lap. “C’mere.”

When he does so—with entirely too much ease—he pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb so he can guide your lips against his. It’s an unhurried kiss, a sure press of emotion, as though he’s rousing the embers that live within your ribcage.

He has this funny way of leaving you out of breath no matter how chaste the embrace. You break away reluctantly, raising your eyebrows at him. “So is this the reward system you used when you were teaching him to drive, hot-shot?”

Rafe makes a face, dipping his head to sponge a kiss to your neck. “Why? You jealous?”

“Never,” you sigh, running your fingers through his hair. “You wouldn’t dream of leaving me for someone else, Rafe Cameron. The Figure Eight wouldn’t forgive you if you did.”

“I wouldn’t forgive myself if I did.” Another teeth-scraping kiss. “I’d be crazy to let you go. I’ve been in love with you since we were freshman.”

He doesn’t open the passenger’s side door for you after unlocking his pick-up truck. That isn’t his place anymore.

He wants to, anyway. You want him to, badly. This revelation passes unsaid between the two of you as you climb into the seat yourself, unscathed by chivalry.

Once you’re buckled in, your gaze lifts to the new air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. “Huh,” you say, flicking it absently, “you replaced it.”

He wants to say, you left me no choice. He wants to say, old spice smells like you. “Oh yeah,” he replies instead, clearing his throat. “Rose got me it.”

“It’s nice.”

“Thanks.”

He shifts into reverse and backs out of the park, and there’s a split second where he almost places his hand on your headrest. He can’t do that anymore. Too close; not close enough. You notice it too. An ache passes from his heart to yours.

“Are you going to take any time off over summer break?” You ask, keeping your gaze on the road ahead.

Rafe pulls out onto the main road before turning to you and responding, “I wasn’t planning on it, but I think I might need some.”

“I think you might need some too,” you agree, sending him a fleeting smile. “Bahamas?”

You don’t expect the tears in his eyes that follow. You straighten abruptly, your eyebrows pulling together. “Sorry, I didn’t mean —”

“No—shit, I just—” he falters as his voice cracks, clearing his throat again, “I don’t think I could go back there any time soon. Too many memories.”

Your expression softens. “Your dad, of course. I get it. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry about.” He takes in a jagged breath. “Shit, I’m the one that should be apologising. For everything.”

“Rafe —”

“No, listen…”

He pauses as he turns left onto your street, pulling onto the side of the road as soon as he can. He’s still a good mile away from your house, but it feels an injustice to keep you waiting for an explanation. When he turns and angles his body toward you, there’s a brokenness on his face that makes your miserable heart falter.

“I’m… I’m so sorry for everything I put you through after I broke up with you. Even if that was what I needed at the time, even if it was the right decision, I shouldn’t have been so fucking heartless and I regret not reaching out to you more often.”

You swallow thickly. He takes your silence as encouragement to keep going.

“You deserved better than the way I treated you… you’ve always deserved better than me. I didn’t know how to deal with all of my grief and I pushed you away in the process. It was… fuck, it was so selfish of me, and I’m sorry. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t hate myself for it.”

He’s taken all of the oxygen in the car, and you find yourself struggling for air. You turn to him, every drunken rationalisation manifest. “Thank you,” you whisper, “for saying that.”

“And listen, the Elle thing —”

Too much. “Rafe,” you interrupt, swallowing again. “Stop. It’s fine. I accept your apology.”

Rafe frowns, the furrow in his brow painfully evident. “Yeah? Because… because I’d understand if you didn’t.”

“Yeah,” you affirm, turning away from him. “Besides, it’s ancient history. I forgave you a long time ago in my head.”

“You did?” Rafe’s asks, searching your features in earnest. “Why?”

The champagne you’ve consumed swirls uncomfortably in your stomach. “I had to,” you say quietly. “It was the only way I was going to be able to move on from the situation.”

Rafe’s stomach drops. “Which you have.”

“Which I have.”

The smokescreen between you smothers any semblance of hope you might’ve shared. He nods, turning on the ignition once again. “I hope that means you’re happy, Y/N.”

“It does,” you reply, “I am.”

“Good.” It doesn’t feel good at all. “Maybe this means we can be friends.”

You turn to him again, raising your eyebrows. “Friends?”

“Like we were before,” he affirms, putting the car into drive. His fingers brush the bare skin of your thigh near the gearshift. A very unfriend-like jolt of static shoots into your chest. “I… I don’t know. Sometimes I think I just miss my best friend.”

Your heart sighs. “Me too.”

“Friends then.”

“Yeah,” you reply, sending him a small smile. “Friends.”

—

You haven’t been to Shake Shack since you broke up with Rafe. You didn’t even realise you’d evaded it so long; perhaps it was a subconscious thing, too many painful memories to bear.

You remember when it first opened up in the Banks, this egalitarian refuge nestled between the Cut and Figure Eight.

Rafe Cameron remembers too, remembers bringing you here on your very first date. Roguish at fourteen with endless charm and a handsome face, he had far less creases etched onto his forehead then; far less familial expectations to deal with.

If only you knew he’s evaded it too. When he pulls into the carpark, the aforementioned date comes forth in fragments.

When memories lie dormant so long in one’s head, they tend to lose the stitches that hold them together. Nervousness, excitement, cherry coke and a lilac singlet. The strange feeling of forever before either of you could place it. He doesn’t remember any of your conversation, nor how long the date lasted, but he remembers the cloudless sky, the flutter of new love in his stomach.

The pair of you share a look before exiting his pick-up truck. A look that says: uh oh, and insinuates far more than that.

“So how’s work going, anyway?” Rafe asks, shoving his hands into his front pockets. He’s a beat behind you head toward the entrance, and you can feel your neck burn where his eyes remained trained on you.

“Yeah, alright, same old,” you say, sending him a fleeting smile over your shoulder. His blue irises are dappled golden in sunlight, and their brilliance unsteadies you, the eye-contact like a firestarter. You clear your throat. “Sam quit.”

Rafe’s eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”

“Not kidding,” you shake your head, “he ended things with Peyton and booked a Contiki in South East Asia.”

“Shiiiiiit,” Rafe wolf whistles, shaking his head in tandem. “Is he going through some kind of quarter life crisis?”

You shrug. “Who would let someone like Peyton go, huh?”

Rafe resists the urge to wince. He can think of one person in particular who threw away something far more special. He clears his throat significantly, regret like molasses coating the sides of his windpipe. “Yeah. How’s she doing with it all?”

“Oh you know Peyton, she’s the queen of acting unbothered,” you reply, sounding reproachful. “Even when she’s heartbroken, she refuses to tell me about it.”

Rafe frowns. “Fuck that.”

“Yeah?” You send him a wayward glance, raising your eyebrows knowingly. “Cause to me, it sounds like someone else I used to know.”

There’s a pause as he meets your gaze, a frightening wistfulness passing between you. It lingers.

“Right.” You’re at the entrance to Shake Shack now, and Rafe grapples for purchase on the one thing he can control—friends. He pulls open the door and beckons you forward, “So. Is today the day you branch out and order something new, Y/N?”

When you pass by him, a tendril-like brush of shoulder on chest, the buttery scent of your vanilla perfume lingers. A lot about you does, a lot more than he’d care to admit.

Rafe’s wretched heart cycles between the old and new you like it’s trying to make them both fit within its chambers.

“Don’t think I have a choice,” you reply, sending him a smile over your shoulder. “They’ve completely revamped their menu since the last time we were here.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows at you. “They have?” You checked?

“Uh huh,” you reply, nodding. “I was going to make a reservation here for our anniversary way back when.” You clear your throat. “When I went on their website to do so, I realised that their menu was totally different.”

You leave out the part where you’d stopped by soon after, asked—no, begged—the manager to serve you the originals when you came. You know, when old time’s sake was a sacred concept. When that sweet, lovesick version of you still existed.

“Oh shit,” Rafe says. Though it’s subtle, he catches the smidge of diffidence in your voice, like the ghost of relationship’s past rearing its ugly head. You checked, for him, and you’re so nonchalant about it. Like it may have mattered then, but right now it matters far less.

He feels an awful twinge in his chest. He adds, “That sucks.” He isn’t sure whether he’s referring to the change in menu or the change in your heart’s purpose.

“I know.”

“I was looking forward to ordering the usual.”

“Me too.” You shrug. “We’re just going to have to find a new usual, I guess.”

What you mean is, make new memories that’ll replace the old ones. What you mean is, erase the nostalgia being here brings.

Also, though you’d never willingly admit it, start anew.

Rafe nods, stepping forward and glancing up at the menu. Though it’s different to the one he remembers from his youth, the interior of the diner is comfortingly familiar — same ugly yellow track lights, same checkered linoleum underfoot. Same fingerprint-smudged counter and broken drinks machine, same uniform on the workers, same greasy smell permeating.

And the same booth you were partial to nestled in one corner, it’s retro cushion covers faded as ever.

The menu, and the girl beside him. The only two things that feel different.

“Hm.” You frown, deliberating over the menu. “I’m thinking the ‘classic’. You want to split some curly fries?”

Rafe raises his eyebrows, his blue eyes full of mirth. “So the one that’s exactly your old order, minus the pickles. Got it.”

“Yes,” you decide. “Except I’ll ask them to add pickles.”

“Of course you will.” Rafe grins. “I’ll get the same.”

You gasp, faux-scandalised. “Rafe Cameron eating pickles? Now I’ve seen everything.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows. “How d’you know I’m not just ordering it to pawn ‘em off to you?”

You balk. “I don’t, I guess.”

“And yes, to the curly fries,” he adds, quick to change the subject. The bashfulness on your features dissipates, but the tension in the room weighs ever-present.

You nod, sliding your wallet out of your back-pocket. “Should we just split the bill, then?”

“No way,” Rafe says, clasping your wrist to hold it in place. Your pulse feels funny. “I got it.”

“Rafe.” You frown, shaking your head. “Look, it really isn’t a big deal —”

It is to me. “Exactly,” he interrupts. “Which is why I got it.”

Maybe you should argue some more, insist on paying until he gives in. But you don’t. Between the pulse-jolting closeness and mocking sense of nostalgia, you aren’t sure you have it in you to retaliate.

Though in an act of rebellion, you avoid your usual booth. Once you’re seated at a new table and separated by your burgers, you re-enter this stupid friendship thing you’ve adopted. The one that boasts no-strings like the red one isn’t obvious.

“So,” you say, popping a curly fry in your mouth. “You remember Maya, right?”

Rafe makes a face. “That psycho roommate you had in senior year? Yeah, pretty hard to forget.”

“Well, she hit me up a month ago to let me know she’d be in the Banks to see her boyfriend.” At his audible gasp, you nod significantly. “I know. Asked if I wanted to catch up while she was here.”

Rafe wolf whistles in amusement. “No fucking way. After the Hell she put you through?”

“I fucking know,” you reply, grimacing in disdain.

Rafe raises his eyebrows, swallowing down a handful of curly fries. “Tell me you said no.”

You raise yours in tandem. “What do you think, casanova?”

“Y/N!” He groans, shaking his head. “Why do you put yourself through this shit?”

You frown, reaching for your soda and sipping stubbornly. Condensation rolls down your palm, the soft skin shining. “C’mon! It was useful, I swear. I got the intel on Maya and her mystery OBX man.”

Rafe leans forward in interest, taking a pull of his soda too. “Go on then.”

“God, I’ve been sitting on this information for ages,” you say, your pretty eyes full of excitement. Rafe’s heart leaps. “I wanted to tell you as soon as I found out, but we weren’t talking and you were avoiding me and I didn’t know whether I should break no contact.”

It deflates just as quickly, sinking into his stomach like deadweight. “I wasn’t… I don’t know, I thought it’d be best if I kept my distance.” He sighs, sitting back and raking his fingers through his hair. “Clearly that was a mistake. I haven’t been this relaxed in fucking ages.”

You smile small. “Yeah. This is nice.”

“Nice.”

“Anyway,” you clear your throat, this sticky, molasses-like something rising from your chest, “it’s Dylan. Like Dylan fucking Young that had a crush on me in freshman year.”

“Fuck off, seriously?” Rafe replies, mirth evident on his features. “Not kidding, think it’d be grounds for a restraining order if she ever found that out.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” You exclaim, raising your eyebrows significantly. “You promise to take this to your grave, Cameron?”

Rafe nods, faux-somber, extending his pinky toward you. “He won’t hear it from me, Y/L/N.”

When your fingers entwine, you wonder whether he feels it too. It’s a jolt of static that leaves your skin warm and your insides funny, and you wonder whether the effect it has on you is endearing or pathetic.

The latter, you conclude. The red string of fate disagrees.

“Good,” you say, retrieving your hand. “Oh, and,” you take a generous bite of your burger, “did you hear that Taylor’s moving to Texas?”

“I did, actually,” Rafe replies. “From Top, funnily enough.”

You frown. “He’s still pining, huh?”

“Unfortunately.” He pulls apart his burger to pick out the green pickles, placing them onto your plate before re-assembling. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. In the offensive, fluorescent lighting, they shine up at you in mocking. “Anyway, I should probably learn to get used to it. I’m moving into Kelce’s room now that he’s happily wed.”

Your jaw slackens in surprise. “You’re moving in with Topper?”

Rafe grins. “I know. Who would’ve thought, huh?”

“But,” you pause, popping another curly fry into your mouth, “why?”

“Needed to get out of Tannyhill, I guess.” He falters, swallowing down the bile-like rise of emotion from his chest. “Too many memories.”

Your expression softens. “That makes sense.”

“Besides, Sarah’s starting college soon, and Wheeze’s off at boarding school for the majority of the year anyway.” He shrugs. “And Rose… well, she’s at the Bahamas house more than she is in the OBX.”

“Too many memories,” you repeat, frowning sadly.

“Yeah. I guess.”

There’s silence then, the comfortable kind. An emotion passes between you that feels both familiar and new at the same time.

It matters less when you finally finish, what you speak about, whether you’ll meet again. All you know is, something feels different now, as though there’s embers that this reunion has reignited in your ribcage. Dormant though they had once been, you’d always hoped that the renewed hope would set them aflame.

The next day, you wake up to a text from Rafe.

thank you for yesterday. It was really nice.

You don’t have it in you to reply; Rafe doesn’t mind. He knows you feel the same way.

—

It’s a few weeks before you see him again, at a farewell party for Brooklyn and Kelce.

Prior to embarking on their honeymoon, they were shifting their lives to Chicago; laying down the foundations of stability so they could return to a clean slate.

It upsets you to no end. You’d always assumed that her marriage to Kelce would guarantee that she settles down in the Banks.

Rafe Cameron must remember this, the way he does everything else. He hands you a beer and clinks his own against it, beads of condensation sliding over his calloused hand.

“Huh,” he murmurs, shaking his head in faux-disappoint, “so much for staying here and ruling the Eight with an iron fist.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” You exclaim, taking a generous pull of beer. Rafe’s gaze falls to the bare column of your throat, and he temporarily loses his bearings. “Does loyalty mean absolutely nothing around here?”

Rafe grins appreciatively. “They’re bound to come back, you know.”

“And how can you be so sure?”

“Because,” Rafe pauses, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “we were all cursed by the hometown witch when we were babies.”

You let out a peal of laughter. “Is that why I came back here after college?”

It isn’t lost on you that Rafe is standing far closer to you than he should. His spicy, cedar-wood cologne presses over your figure in waves. He bows his head to eye level, still grinning his mirth, “It’s why we all did. It’s also why they aren’t going to last more than a year in Chicago, I’m calling it now.”

“Who isn’t going to last more than a year in Chicago?” Comes Brooklyn’s voice from behind him, pulling the pair of you from your reverie.

He breaks away and turns to find her standing behind him, her eyebrows raised accusatorially at your closeness.

You smile guiltily at her, raising your arms in surrender. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t deny it either!” Brooklyn reproaches, faux-scandalised. She sends Rafe a playful glare, reaching for your arm and pulling you away. “I’m rescuing her from your bad influence, Cameron.”

Rafe nods sagely, taking a sip of his beer. “I think that’s wise, Astor—” he balks, shaking his head, “—sorry, Smith. Shit, Brooklyn Smith, huh? Guess I can’t do that last name thing ‘round here anymore, can I?”

“Not with us,” she replies, turning the pair of you around. She sends you the ghost of a wink before adding, “Y/N’s fair game, though. You know she’d rather die than take a guy’s last name.”

Something in Rafe’s chest deflates. “Yeah?”

You frown at him over your shoulder, mildly bewildered. “You knew that, Cameron.”

Maybe I thought I was different. “True.” He raises his beer bottle in acknowledgement. “Besides, Y/L/N suits you too much.”

Not as much as Cameron would have, once upon a time. You nod approvingly, the twinge in your heart conveying the exact opposite. “Doesn’t it just?”

Brooklyn steers you to the kitchen under the pretence of grabbing a drink, her true intentions becoming obvious when Kelce pivots into earshot on his barstool.

“So?” She prods, rounding on you once you’ve halted. “What’s the deal?”

“Deal?” You echo, feigning confusion. “What deal?”

“Don’t do that,” she replies, narrowing her eyes accusatorially. “Are you guys seeing each other again?”

You swallow. Your gaze darts to a helpless-looking Kelce. “Why? Has he said something?”

“That’s the thing,” Kelce mutters, shaking his head thoughtfully. “He hasn’t. But he’s… different.”

You frown. “Different how?”

“I don’t know… chiller. Happier. Like he was before Ward passed away.”

“Of course he is,” Brooklyn snorts, not buying it for a second. “He’s finally being absolved of all his guilt!”

“Brooklyn…” you sigh.

“What? It’s true!” She asserts, crossing her arms across her chest. “He’s… listen, Y/N, whatever you think this is, you need to snap out of it. He’s proved time and time again that he doesn’t have the emotional capability to deal with his shit, and you’ve been made collateral too many times to forgive him this quick.”

“Quick?” Your chest feels on fire. Isn’t seven months of torture enough exoneration?

“C’mon baby, you’ve gotta cut him some slack,” Kelce assuages, gentle but firm. “He fucked up, sure, but he also lost his dad, remember?”

“Grieving or not, he shouldn’t have pushed her away.”

“Granted, but we’ll never know exactly how he was feeling —”

“We shouldn’t have to, you just don’t do that to someone you love —”

“I’m still here, you know,” you interrupt quietly, frowning. “That someone that Rafe doesn’t love.”

A pause. Its silence that’s distilled in the overhead lighting, the scene beneath it awash in dim regret.

Brooklyn’s features are softer when she breaks the silence. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I just… I worry about you.”

You know she does; it isn’t her fault. She’s the one that slept over for four weeks straight post break-up, forced food down your throat and wiped away all your tears.

“Don’t apologise, Brooke, I get it,” you say, sending her a small smile. “But I’m fine, I promise. This isn’t even… this feels different.”

“Different how?”

“Like… you know that saying: ‘You’ll never find the same person twice, not even in the same person’? That’s how this feels. We haven’t fallen back into old habits.”

Brooklyn regards this for a moment, surveying your features carefully. “But you’ve been hanging out?”

“Only once,” you reply honestly. “Sent a few texts back and forth, that’s all. If… if anything were to happen, it’d be like a new relationship, not like restarting the old one. You know?”

“I do.”

Kelce smiles. “That’s… shit, that makes sense.” There’s a wistfulness to his voice. “That’s why I couldn’t figure out what it reminds me of, this different him that’s chilled and happy.”

You furrow your brow. “Hm?”

“It’s freshman year him all over again,” he explains. “You know… when the two of you got close the first time ‘round.”

“Oh.” Your heart soars. “Square one, huh?”

Kelce shrugs, sharing a meaningful look with Brooklyn. “Square one I guess.”

You’re about to respond when Rafe’s figure pulls your gaze, his crossed arms and broad shoulders blocking the kitchen entrance. He’s wearing a handsome expression and his hair is perfectly unkempt, the heady scent of his cologne juxtaposing his lack of proximity.

Sometimes, life is unfair. Your ex-boyfriend, now new friend, eliciting such un-platonic thoughts is one of those instances.

And it isn’t as though you’ve given Rafe much of a break, his blue eyes caught on your figure like a moth to a flame. You aren’t wearing a dress he recognises, which is both a delightful and agonising revelation.

Delightful, because it reveals bare expanses of skin that make his wretched hands itch in longing. Agonising, because it’s a reminder of the seven long months that he’s had to spend grappling with your absence.

Having a smile as pretty as yours is extremely unfair, all things considered. And eyes. Soft skin. He needs to stop staring before he does something stupid.

“Perfect,” he announces brusquely, “are we hosting our intervention now?”

He looks at you expectantly. You raise your eyebrows. “You know,” he adds, “the one where we beg them to stay in the Banks?”

“Hey!” Brooklyn exclaims, her green eyes full of mirth. “What d’you mean stay in the Banks? Newsflash, I’m not even from here.”

“You’re not from Chicago either, Ast-Smithy,” he returns significantly, sending her a meaningful glance. “Besides, you married into a Figure Eight family. You are very officially one of us now.”

“Not for long!” Brooklyn sings, sending you a wink.

“C’mon, Smith,” Rafe tries, turning to Kelce and feigning disappointment. “What happened to our sacred pact?”

“We were eight, Cameron.”

“And already privy to the tragedy of small-town life,” Rafe sighs faux-dramatically, nodding in agreement. “I’m bitter, alright? I thought I’d be the first one to get out of here.”

He glances over at you fleetingly as he says this. We’d be the first ones, his heart corrects in vain.

“As if,” you scoff, raising your eyebrows. “Mr Cameron fucking Development leave this place before me? No chance.”

Rafe grins roguishly, his blue eyes shining with amusement. “You’re all talk, Y/L/N. We both know it.” He sends Kelce and Brooklyn a meaningful glance. “We all are.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re going to be here all fucking night if we keep arguing about this,” Brooklyn decides, patting Kelce’s thigh to prompt him to stand. “C’mon, baby, we should probably get back to mingling.”

“You know,” she adds, narrowing her eyes playfully. “‘Cause it’s the last time we’ll see some of these people.”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head bemusedly. Any retaliation on Rafe’s tongue fails at the timbre of it.

Once they’re out of sight, you turn to him, adopting a faux-somber look. “If we are truly doomed to a life in the Eight, will you promise me something?”

He’s still grappling with the fact that he’s a man starved of your beautiful laugh, now reborn. “Go on.”

“Should you find me yelling at Island Club employees about flower arrangements or charcuterie boards, shoot me.”

Rafe laughs, and it reverberates through your bones warmly. “And suffer alone? No way. I’ll meet you in the middle. Lobotomy?”

“No thoughts in my brain? So generous,” you tease. “Alright. It’s a deal.”

Rafe clinks his beer bottle against yours in confirmation, taking a generous pull of the bubbly liquid. “Can we trade promises?” He asks.

You take a sip in tandem, maintaining eye contact as you do so. There’s tension in the air, that familiar-new feeling manifest, and it’s no longer frightening, but rather a comforting embrace.

You marvel in it. Breaking free feels fruitless. “Yes.”

“If you make a plan to settle elsewhere, will you tell me?”

“Of course I will.” A pause. “Although, I think you’re right. I don’t think any of us are truly capable of leaving permanently.”

“If anyone is though, it’s you,” he says, so matter-of-factly, like he actually believes it. “I mean… you’re the only one who had the balls to go to a college out of state. The rest of us just accepted a cushy offer at UNC.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you dismiss. “I was back here so often I barely left.”

Rafe raises his eyebrows. “Only because you had a reason to come back.” You still do, if you’ll take me.

I still do, if you’ll take me. “True.” You frown, thinking on this for a moment. “Even so… I don’t know. Maybe it’s that hometown curse talking, but I wouldn’t want to raise my kids anywhere else in the States.”

Rafe’s gaze steadies, pulsing through you in waves. “I get that. We had a pretty sweet childhood, all things considered.”

You make a face. “Like, I don’t think I can deal with this iPad kid epidemic. Least we were sheltered from all that crap, you know?”

“Yeah,” Rafe replies, raising his eyebrows significantly. “Even if there were plenty of other things to jade us with.”

“Shit, I know,” you respond, laughing bemusedly. “See, only people from the Eight know how political beach clean ups can get.”

Rafe chuckles in tandem, taking another sip of his beer. “God, our lives are fucking ridiculous.”

You raise your bottle in agreement. A comfortable silence falls between you.

After pause, Rafe speaks up again. “You know,” he says quietly, an unnameable emotion flickering across his blue irises. “I don’t even think it’s everyone in the Eight.”

You balk. “Hm?”

“The whole, knowing each other thing,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “You’ve always understood me better than anyone else.”

Your traitorous heart leaps, and you force yourself to ignore it. Actions have always spoken louder than words, and you decide now’s as good a time as any to confront him about this.

It’s time to be brave, you decide. You say, “I find that hard to believe.”

“Why?”

“Elle.”

Rafe’s miserable heart falters, penitence like a lump in his throat. He’s been preparing for this accusation since your very first reunion, but it still doesn’t feel like enough; he’s a coward trembling at the frontlines, anyway.

“I’ve… we’ve… my therapist and I have talked about that situation at length.”

You eyes widen in surprise. “Your therapist?”

“I’ve been going to therapy, yeah,” Rafe replies, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “For a month or so now, every week without fail.”

It isn’t lost on you that Brooklyn and Kelce’s wedding was a month ago. The rift in your ribcage widens.

“Has it been helping?” You ask.

“A bit,” Rafe admits. “Mostly just to validate what I knew all along, I guess.” At your silence, he continues, “That… shit, that I’ve got this problem where I push people away when I need them the most. The Elle thing, there’s no fucking excuse for it, none, but it became pretty obvious after you confronted me that she was just a rebound.”

“A rebound,” you echo.

“A distraction, an escape… I don’t know.” He rakes his fingers through his hair slovenly. “All I know is, I didn’t care about her, so I didn’t have to push her away. She didn’t make me talk about my dad, my grief, anything, so she was easy enough company to have around when I felt like it.”

“Oh.” You swallow. “But I did.”

“But you did,” Rafe affirms, grimacing sheepishly. “Shit, all you fucking did was care about me and all I did was push you away.”

You try to be pragmatic. “Grief makes people do shitty things.”

“It doesn’t matter. You didn’t deserve it.”

“True.” A pause. Your gaze falls over Rafe’s face in paces, his haggard expression making you soften. “Listen. I’m glad you’re going to therapy, seriously. I know that’s a pretty big step for you to take.”

For you. “Thank you,” he replies quietly. “It… I just wish I’d listened to you the first time, you know? When you’d told me to go to therapy before I’d ended things.”

Your throat feels funny. “No use living in the past.”

“You’re right,” Rafe replies. A pause. The ghost of a smile flickers over his features. “What did I ever do to deserve your forgiveness?”

You smile in tandem, a little rueful. “Maybe you were a martyr in your past life, Cameron.”

“And you’re one in this one,” Rafe responds. “You know, after I lobotomise you over flower arrangements and charcuterie boards. Does that count as a full circle moment?”

You grin. “Not when you live on the Eight. Infinity sign, baby.”

It slips out before you can stop yourself, the ghost of pet-names past pushing Rafe’s pulse to fibrillation. Your eyes widen abashedly. “Should we rejoin the party?”

Rafe nods, “Probably,” and then, when you’re just out of earshot, “I’d do something stupid if we didn’t.”

—

Over the next few weeks, you begin to see more and more of one another.

A few texts back and forth become more than a few virtual trysts, and every spare moment you have is dedicated to being in each other’s presence.

And it isn’t as though you’re mending old love, this feels like something else altogether. Though old memories may flit through your brain on occasion, they are boundless and free — they don’t define this connection.

You’re starting anew. Rafe realises it too.

He still remembers how it felt to tell you he loved you the first time around, fourteen years old with a bashful smile and enough hope in his heart to ache. He still remembers what you were wearing the first time he drove you around; the first time you came to UNC to visit; the shade of lipgloss you worshipped from Sephora. And you remember it all too, the feeling of being in his pick-up, of being with this roguish, freshman boy that had so much charm your insides soared.

Going through it all again feels like receiving a new lease on life. How lucky are you to love a different person in the same man?

Currently, the pair of you are sprawled out on beach towels, velvet dusk revealing the bespangled sky stretching above you. Beside you, take-out boxes and sodas lie in the sand, discarded. Every now and then, his wrist brushes yours with a jolt of static.

You’re lying closer to each other than you should, his body heat pressing over you in paces. He’s pretty sure his clothes are going to smell like your soft-toned, vanilla perfume later, and he quietly delights in this.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says finally, breaking the silence.

You smile. “Shocker.”

He nudges your shoulder with his in faux-admonishment, turning his head toward you. It lingers; he’s closer. Your pulse feels boundless. “I’ve been thinking,” he repeats. “And I’ve realised something.”

You turn your head in tandem, his proximity making you balk. “What’s that, Cameron?”

“If we hadn’t broken up in the first place, I’d probably never have gone to therapy.”

A hush falls. “True.”

“And I’d never have worked through my emotional unavailability and all the problematic shit that comes with it.” He pauses, a heavy emotion making his blue eyes somber. “We’d have stayed together, but I’d never have become the man that you deserve.”

You swallow. “Is that what you are now?” You murmur, your voice unsure. “The man I deserve?”

“I don’t think so,” he answers quietly. “Don’t think I ever will be. But… but I’m working on it, properly this time. And getting to know you again, for real, has made me realise just how worth it this is.”

It’s too much. You make to turn away but Rafe’s hand stops you, gentle but firm on your face. His thumb swipes over your warm cheek in comforting circles, and you find yourself leaning into his touch inadvertently.

Uh oh, you’re falling in love. You sigh. “It feels inevitable, huh?”

“D’you believe in soulmates, Y/N?”

Your lashes flutter shut in response. Rafe inches closer still, his hand slipping down to your jaw, and when he kisses you, old embers create a new flame within your heart. It’s chaste, unsure, a second first kiss. And yet, though it’s soft, the press of his lips is a ravaging embrace.

“Do you, Rafe?” You return, opening your eyes tentatively.

His gaze is still trained on your pretty mouth, less iris than pupil as his yearning transcends everything else. He presses his thumb on your lower lip gently. “Only if it’s you.”

“I think I am,” you murmur.

Rafe smiles. Oh no, he’s falling in love again. “I think you are too.”

—

I thought the plane was going down / How’d you turn it right around?