#Bittersweet Ending

[flixpii]

“Why you here?”

| fem!reader x remmick

word count : 10.9k

Synopsis :

It’s been five years since Remmick disappeared—right after he kissed reader for the first time. No goodbye, no explanation. Then one night, out of nowhere, he shows up at their door like he never left.

A/n : Y’all, please bear with me. I don’t know how to write synopses.

This is inspired by Smoke & Annie’s reunion 🫶🏾

Also, reader was an adult when she met remmick. There’s mentions of reader living in her family’s home during the time she was with Remmick, so I need to clarify that she was and still is an adult.

Warning : There is a sex scene, but it isn’t explicit.

————————————————————————

The kettle had just begun to whistle when you heard the knock.

It wasn’t loud. Barely a tap, really—like the wind brushing a loose shutter. But in the quiet hush of your cottage, nestled on the edge of a pine-wrapped clearing miles from town, it sounded louder than thunder. You stared at the door as the kettle screamed on behind you. For a moment, you wondered if you imagined it.

No one visited this late. Not in Winter. Not out here.

You slid the kettle from the stove’s flame and crossed the wooden floor with steady feet and a heart that betrayed you, thudding harder with every step. The lantern light cast long shadows behind you.

Who in their right mind would be so far out of town on a Winter night?

Your mind raced with millions of thoughts as to who could be outside of your door. A part of you said to keep from the door—whoever it was had to be out of their mind, and you wanted nothing to do with it.

But another part of you, the part deep inside, felt as if you already knew who was waiting outside that damned door. That part of you wanted so badly for reality to fall apart and rebuild itself so that he could be here.

You almost didn’t open it.

There was something in the knock—too soft, too patient—that stirred the back of your mind like a wind through old ash. The fire crackled low in the hearth, but it was your blood that warmed too quickly.

But when you did open the door, the cold evening air swept in—sharp and pine-scented. But what caught your mind wasn’t the intensity of the bite of the winter air, or the scent of the pine trees, it was the figure who stood just outside

He hadn’t changed. Not truly. Not in the way humans do. His coat was worn at the shoulders, his boots dusted with soil, his hair longer than it once was, curling slightly at the ends—but it was still him. Pale, proud, and silent as ever, standing beneath your porch light as if no time had passed.

You told yourself it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. He was gone. Long gone. Kissed you beneath the stars and left nothing behind but silence and memory and the aching ghost of his hands at your waist. You buried him with the rest of the dreams you no longer allowed yourself to feel.

The night curled behind him, but he made the darkness look softer. His figure was cut in shadow, lit only by the warm lantern glow behind you. And still—still, somehow—he stole your breath. Not because he was beautiful, though he was, achingly so, in that still, mournful way only he could be. But because it was him.

The him you used to imagine at your doorstep, soaked in guilt and rain, whispering your name.

The him you hated for leaving.

The him you loved anyway.

Your hands didn’t tremble, but they should’ve. You held the door like it might anchor you to this moment—because your heart was already slipping, pitching between fury and longing, sorrow and disbelief. You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to cry into his coat. You wanted to ask him if he’d thought of you even once during the silence, if he’d known what it cost you to wake up alone each morning and not hate the sunrise.

He looked at you like he hadn’t breathed since he last saw you.

And you? You couldn’t even speak.

Because five years ago, you gave your first kiss to a man who didn’t age, didn’t die, and didn’t sttay. And now, standing in the doorway of your little cottage, heart caged in your throat, you were staring at the same man—unchanged, as if time itself bowed to him—while every inch of you trembled with the weight of the years he stole.

“Hey, baby.”

A breath escapes you before words can.

Your heart stops in your chest, and your eyes widen just slightly.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Remmick.”

But it didn’t sound the way you wanted it to. It cracked. Like your heart, that night you realized he wasn’t coming back.

Remmick didn’t answer. Not right away.

And you hated that he still looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Even after five years.

——

It was late when he took your hand and led you past the willow tree at the edge of the field.

The church bells had long stopped ringing. Most folks had gone home. The lanterns in town flickered low, their oil nearly spent, and the air had turned thick with the smell of dew and wildflowers—like the earth had just exhaled after a long, hot day. Crickets hummed somewhere in the tall grass. Your feet were bare. You’d slipped off your shoes hours ago, and now the cool, damp ground kissed your soles as Remmick walked just ahead, his grip gentle but certain.

You knew, somehow, that this would be the last night.

You knew it in the way he looked at you when he stepped onto your porch—like he was memorizing your laugh. You felt it when he lingered a little too long, standing there in the golden hush of your candlelight like a ghost waiting to be invited in. And now, under the blanket of stars, with only moonlight outlining the slope of his cheek and the quiet between you pulsing like a held breath—you knew.

You’d never see him like this again.

He stopped beside the fence. The old one by the churchyard, half-swallowed by ivy and time. You leaned against the post while he turned to face you, his features caught in fractured silver light.

“You don’t belong here,” you said quietly. Not because you wanted him gone. But because it was true.

He gave a slow nod. “I know.”

“Then why do you keep coming back?”

His jaw clenched slightly. Then softened. “Because you make me forget.”

Your heart ached. Not from hurt. From something deeper. Like he was saying goodbye in a thousand tiny ways before the words even left his lips.

“Remmick…”

He stepped forward. You didn’t move.

“I shouldn’t.” His voice was low, barely a whisper. “But I want to.”

The space between you vanished.

His hand came to your cheek, the backs of his fingers cold, but they trembled. You’d never seen him falter before—not like this. Not Remmick, who never flinched when threatened by your father, who swore Remmick was the devil. Who never stepped back when others crossed the dark streets to avoid him. Who always stood like he’d already faced the end and survived it.

Now, he looked like a boy again. A boy on the edge of something vast and fragile.

He leaned in.

You didn’t close your eyes right away. You watched his—the way they darkened, the way they flickered down to your mouth and then back to your eyes like he was asking permission with every breath. Your lips parted, and just before he kissed you, he exhaled your name.

It felt like falling.

The kiss was soft at first. Barely a press. A question in the shape of a touch. And when you kissed him back—when your fingers curled into the front of his shirt and you rose on your toes to feel more—it deepened. Became real. Became everything.

His other hand found the small of your back, pulling you gently against him. His lips were cool but slow, reverent, as if he feared you might vanish if he held you too tightly. And you kissed him like you were afraid you’d never be allowed to again.

Because somewhere in the warmth, somewhere in the sweetness—you knew.

This was not a beginning.

This was a memory being made for the ache.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. His breath shuddered against your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

And you barely had time to ask why before he was gone.

No footsteps. No goodbye.

Just the wind in the trees, and the taste of him still on your mouth, and the echo of a kiss that felt like a promise he was always meant to break.

——

The memory clung to you like fog.

Even as you stared at him, standing just inside your doorway, your body still remembered the shape of that kiss. The way his lips moved like he was trying not to break something. The way he whispered I’m sorry like he knew he already had.

You wondered if he remembered it the same way.

You wondered if he’d kissed anyone else since then.

Your eyes drifted to his mouth before you could stop them, and your chest ached with something old and unfair. Five years had passed. Seasons had bloomed and withered and bloomed again. And you had learned to live without him—or, at the very least, learned how to quiet the part of yourself that still waited on the porch of your family’s home.

Time passed, and you changed.

Remmick stepped forward, just slightly, enough to graze the threshold of the door.

“I thought about you every night,” he said.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat was tight with a hundred things you hadn’t said.

“I told myself I’d forget. That it was just a kiss. That I didn’t feel what I felt.”

“And did you?” you managed to say. “Forget?”

He shook his head. Slow. Tormented. “No.”

You turned away, because his eyes were too much—too open, too full of the man who once held you like you were fragile and holy and forbidden all at once.

“I waited for you,” you said, your eyes not meeting his. “Not forever. But long enough to hate myself for it.”

“I know.”

“No. You don’t.” Your eyes flitted back to his face, hard, steam from the kettle curling behind you like breath as it began to scream. “You kissed me like I was something to hold onto. Then you vanished. Not a word. Not a sign. I used to lie in bed and wonder if you’d died. If someone had got you. If I’d made it all up. Because how could anyone love me like that ‘n leave?”

Remmick closed his eyes. Exhaustion flickered across his face like lightning behind clouds.

“I didn’t leave because I didn’t love you,” he said. “I left because I did.”

The air collapsed between you.

He stepped forward again, hands at his sides, like he could force himself through the threshold with enough pushing.

“Just let me in, darlin’. I promise to make this right—I-I’ll make it right.”

You looked at him. Really looked. He was older in the eyes now. Not physically, but in the weight of what he carried. The edges of him were more worn. Like he’d been running, but never from anything fast enough.

And still, your heart tugged toward him. Because he was Remmick. Because he was your first kiss. Your last kiss. Your undoing.

“No.”

Remmick’s eyebrows furrow slightly, and he lets out a soft sigh—his head shakes slightly as if he knew you’d say that.

“I can’t come in,” he finally said, his voice low, taut with restraint. “You know that.”

You did. Of course you did. You’d read the stories. Heard the whispered rules by the elderly women in your hometown. A vampire could never cross the threshold of a home uninvited. It was one of the last laws Remmick obeyed. Maybe the only one that mattered anymore.

You leaned your shoulder against the doorway, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

“I never told you to leave,” you murmured. “But you did anyway.”

He exhaled hard through his nose, like he’d expected this—but had hoped it would go differently. “I came back.”

“You left me in the dark.”

“I know.”

His tone sharpened, just barely, like a blade catching the edge of a stone. He stepped closer—still outside—close enough for the porch light to catch the hollow curve beneath his cheekbone, the flicker of something fierce in his eyes.

“I stood at that door for hours that night. I thought about knocking. About running. About throwing myself to the sun if it meant I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Your heart thudded, heavy and slow. But your lips stayed still.

“And now?” you asked, voice quiet.

“Now…” He clenched his fists briefly, then forced them to loosen. “Now I’m asking you to let me in. Not because i want something from you. Not because I think I deserve it. But because I can’t keep standing on the edge of your life hoping you’ll crack the door.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t move. Part of you hated him—truly, wholly, with every piece he’d carved out of you when he vanished. But another part, deeper and crueler, still ached to pull him into your arms and ask if he ever held someone the way he once held you.

Remmick’s jaw tightened again. His voice dipped low—quieter, but not gentler.

“This is gettin’ cruel,” he muttered. “You don’t have to forgive me. You don’t even have to talk to me again. But either invite me in or shut the door.”

The words hit like ice.

You blinked, slowly.

It wasn’t that he was angry. Not truly. You could tell he was tired. Frustrated. Worn thin by guilt and hope and years of imagining this moment and how he would earn it—or fail. But something in you twisted at the audacity of it. That he could give ultimatums now.

“You don’t get to call me cruel,” you said softly. “You don’t get to stand there, after five years of nothing, and act like I owe you warmth.”

“I’m not asking for warmth,” he said. “I’m asking for a chance to explain. To exist in the same room. That’s it.”

You watched him, heart hammering, lips dry.

He took one more step toward the door—and stopped just shy of the threshold. The space between you felt sacred. A breath away. A chasm. His voice dropped again, hoarse this time.

“Please,” he said. “Let me in.”

The word please hung between you like incense.

You swore you could feel it on your skin. Heavy. Sorrowful. Like a prayer whispered too late.

But still, you didn’t speak.

You stared at him. At the man who had once kissed you like you were the last light he’d ever see. At the man who left without a goodbye. You hated how part of you still felt drawn to him—as if your soul remembered something your mind tried so hard to bury. But there he stood, outside your door, and every second you waited felt like a match burning low between your fingers.

He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight, breath unsteady.

“Christ,” he muttered under it, almost to himself. “You really won’t make this easy, will ya?”

You didn’t flinch. “Did you expect I would?”

He let out a bitter sound—part laugh, part exhale. His eyes searched yours, dark and full of something wild, something breaking.

Then his mouth twisted, his voice low and guttural, like he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Fuck. Let me in.”

Your name followed, low and wrecked. His tongue curled around it like it hurt to say it. As if you were Christ, and sharing such profanity in the same breath as your name was blasphemous. And it was—the way he said it, like it bled reverence and fury all at once. Like your name tasted like guilt and godhood.

You stared at him, heart a drumbeat in your ears.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” you whispered.

He stepped closer—still outside, still bound by the law he’d never dared break—and his voice dropped like a stone into water.

“I don’t need you to trust me. Not yet. I just need you to understand me.”

“I understand you,” you said, and you meant it. “But you’re not the same man I knew.”

Remmick’s lips parted, then closed again. He looked down—at his boots, at the floorboards, at the edge of the world he couldn’t step into.

When he looked back up, there was something raw in his eyes. Not the vampire. Not the centuries he carried like chains. Just the man from that autumn night. The one who kissed you like a confession and vanished before sunrise.

“I know I’m not him,” he said. “And I probably never will be. I just want you to understand why I did what I did.”

You didn’t speak.

The wind shifted behind him. Leaves scattered along the steps. Somewhere in the trees, an owl cried out.

And Remmick… he stood still. As if his entire eternity had come down to this moment. A doorframe. A silence. A woman deciding whether to let a ghost step inside.

You should’ve just said it.

The words hovered at the back of your throat, aching for air. Two syllables. Come in. That was all it would take—a breath, a tremble, a simple gesture of mercy. But they wouldn’t come.

Not because you wanted him to suffer.

But because you were still suffering.

The past pressed itself into the hollows of your ribs. You could still feel the version of yourself he’d left behind—the girl who had stayed up for days listening for footsteps that never came, who flinched every time the wind knocked gently on the windows. Who had kissed him under moonlight and then had to carry the weight of it alone.

She wasn’t gone.

She was you.

And that version of yourself stood now, arms crossed and voice hollow, watching the man who had hollowed her out beg for an opening.

“I used to wait,” you said quietly, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder, where the trees swayed in the cold. “Every night for weeks. I’d leave the window cracked open even when it rained. I thought maybe you’d come back like the stories said. Pale and sorry. With flowers, or a poem, or somethin’ stupid like that.”

Remmick flinched—barely. But you saw it. Felt the sting of it in the way his jaw shifted, how his hands curled slightly at his sides.

“I came back with nothing,” he said. “Just me. Nothing else made it through.”

A beat. The ache in your chest twisted crueler.

You looked at him again.

He wasn’t the same. He carried too much now. Too many sleepless years. Too many choices with no turning back. The man you kissed that night had disappeared—maybe the moment he stepped away from you. Maybe he’d died in the silence he left behind.

And yet… something of him remained. The way he looked at you now, like you were the only light he remembered. Like he was terrified of what you’d say next.

You shook your head. “You can’t just show up and expect to pick up where you left off.”

“I don’t,” he said quickly. “I don’t expect anything. I just—I just wanted to see you. I didn’t even know if you were still alive.”

That did something to you.

Made something shift.

“You think I’d die before you?” you said, voice softer now. Almost bitter. “No. That’d be too easy.”

He looked at the ground again. His lips parted. But this time, he said nothing. Just stood there. So close. Yet still outside.

Your hand tightened on the doorframe.

You felt powerful and powerless all at once. He couldn’t cross unless you allowed him—and he knew it. But with every heartbeat, you realized this wasn’t just about ancient rules or myths or blood-soaked pacts.

This was about trust.

About whether you could let him near you again and survive it.

Your voice came quiet. Trembling. Unsteady.

“What if I let you in and you leave again?”

Remmick’s eyes met yours.

“I won’t,” he said.

“Promise?”

The word came out like a dare.

And his voice cracked as he answered. “Yes.”

Still—you hesitated.

The silence went on too long.

It curled around your ribs, stretched across the porch, filled every crack in the air like smoke that wouldn’t lift. And he—Remmick—just stood there in it, waiting. He didn’t speak again. Didn’t beg. His shoulders stayed tense, and his eyes, though tired, never left your face.

But you saw it now—in the tight line of his mouth, the slight tremble in his fingers.

He was afraid you wouldn’t.

And somehow, knowing that gave you back a little of your breath.

It was strange. You thought when this moment came—if it ever came—you’d slam the door in his face. Or scream. Or cry. But instead, you just felt tired. Like your heart had been holding its breath for five years and was only now remembering how to exhale.

You stepped back.

Not far. Just enough.

The invitation was wordless at first—a shift in posture, the gentlest yielding of space. But that wasn’t enough. Not for him. Not for what he was.

He still couldn’t move.

Your mouth was dry. Your tongue felt too big in your mouth. But your voice came anyway, low and almost uncertain.

“Come in.”

The wind hushed outside, as if it had been waiting too.

Remmick moved before you could second-guess yourself. One step—and then another—and then he was inside. He passed the threshold like it hurt. Like the warmth of your little home singed him where the cold of the world had frozen in. His shoulders relaxed, just barely. And for a heartbeat, he looked almost human.

He stood there in the middle of your living room, eyes wide, as if he were trying to memorize everything—the low flame in the hearth, the scent of rosemary drying on the windowsill, the chipped mug you’d left on the table.

Then his gaze returned to you.

You didn’t know what he saw. Maybe the same girl from five years ago. Maybe someone new. Maybe both. He didn’t speak. Neither did you.

But it was enough, for now, that he was in.

He closed the door gently behind him.

The sound echoed like the end of a chapter.

You stood across from him, arms still crossed, unsure what to do with the ache in your chest or the ghosts in the room. He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t ask for your hand. But his eyes—God, his eyes—still looked at you like he was waiting for the moment he could breathe again.

“Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse. “For letting me.”

You nodded once. “Don’t thank me yet.”

The kettle had gone quiet again.

You turned from him and went to the stove, reaching for it with hands steadier than they should’ve been. The heat kissed your knuckles as you moved the kettle, refilled the mug you’d left half full. You didn’t ask if he wanted tea. You weren’t ready for that.

Behind you, Remmick loitered—that was the only word for it—near the kitchen table. He didn’t sit. He hovered with his fingertips just barely grazing the back of one of the chairs, his shoulders rigid, his body angled like he still wasn’t sure if he belonged.

He didn’t know where to stand. Where to be.

You remembered that about him—even before he left. For all the quiet confidence he wore like armor, there was always something uneasy in him when he stepped too close to warmth. He didn’t know what to do with gentleness. Or with silence that wasn’t threatening.

You stirred honey into the tea. It gave you something to do with your hands. Something to focus on besides the way his presence filled the space like a second heartbeat.

“Are you going to sit?” you asked finally.

He blinked. “Should I?”

You turned, met his eyes. “You’re not just a shadow on the porch anymore.”

After a second, he pulled out the chair and sat—slowly, cautiously, like the wood might protest. His hands rested on the table, pale and long-fingered, one thumb absently rubbing over the knuckle of the other.

You set the mug down across from him. You didn’t sit. Just leaned against the counter, arms folded again, the ache in your chest blooming slow.

And then you asked it.

The question that had been pressing against your lips since the moment you opened the door.

“Why you here, Remmick?”

Remmick didn’t answer.

Not right away.

His eyes flicked down to the grain of the table, then back to you. You saw the war inside him—the way his mouth opened and closed, the way he leaned forward like he was going to speak, then pulled back like the words were teeth.

You thought he might lie. Or say something vague. Something that would spare both of you.

But he didn’t.

“I came back for you.”

The room stopped moving.

His voice wasn’t soft, not really. It was low and certain—like a verdict handed down after years in silence. You stared at him, every part of you taut with disbelief and heat. And maybe—maybe—some part of you had longed to hear it. But it wasn’t enough. Not after all this time.

“Why’d it take you so long?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He flinched.

A sharp fang found its way into his bottom lip. You saw it clearly—the slight glint of enamel just before it bit down, hard enough that blood might’ve bloomed if he still bled like you. Then, with enough force to give even the undead a headache, he wrenched his head away from you, eyes turned to the wall like it had something safer to offer than your face.

“I told you,” he snapped. The words came through gritted teeth, sharp, strained—not angry, but barely held together. “I had to leave.”

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t look at anything, really, except the knots in the old table where his palms pressed flat, white and firm. He leaned forward, using it to brace himself like the truth was too heavy to hold upright on his own.

And maybe it was.

But that didn’t soften anything in you.

Your feet moved before you realized it. Across the floor. Slow, quiet steps until you were close—close enough to feel the cold that came off his skin, close enough to see the fraying thread of guilt stretching between his shoulders.

“You ain’t utter those words to me,” you said, and the tightness in your voice surprised even you. “You didn’t say nothin’. Just… left.”

He didn’t move.

Your eyes traced the curve of his neck, the tension locked in his jaw. The scent of him rushed forward unbidden—dirt, pine, and that same death-like cold that always made you shiver, even before you knew what he was. It hit you like it always did—grounding, haunting, familiar.

You hated how much it still felt like home.

“You could’ve said something,” you whispered. “Anything.”

“I know,” he said.

But it didn’t sound like surrender. It sounded like a man swallowing a knife just to prove he deserved it.

You were so close now. His body tensed with your nearness, but he still didn’t look at you. As if facing you fully would make this all too real. As if your eyes were the final punishment.

“You kissed me like you were going to stay,” you said, and it came out too soft, too bitter.

His hands curled tighter on the table.

“I wanted to.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

The question landed like a stone.

Remmick let out a breath — quiet, but jagged. For a moment, the silence thickened again. His head still bowed, his fangs still peeking out slightly from where his teeth clenched. Then, finally, he looked at you.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he turned and looked down at the table, eyes flickering as if weighing whether to say what he hadn’t told anyone—maybe ever. His jaw shifted, but no words came.

You could feel something building in the silence, hot and wrong and old—not just guilt. Not just regret.

He was hiding something. Something big.

“Why’d you leave?” you pressed, your voice harder now, the hurt finally boiling over. “What were you even looking for?”

He still didn’t speak.

So you stepped closer.

Your voice dropped, sharp and low. “You said you came back for me. But that don’t mean much if you left in the first place to chase ghosts.”

That did it.

Remmick stood.

Abrupt. Tense. His chair scraped against the floor, and the sudden movement made the candlelight flicker in the glass. He walked to the other end of the table without looking at you, putting space between your bodies like he needed air—or maybe protection.

His side was to you now. One hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles pale.

You didn’t let him off easy.

“Who did you need to find?” you asked. “What was more important than me?”

His shoulders tensed, his fingers curling tighter.

And then—suddenly, sharply—he turned.

“I had a mission long before I met you,” he snapped. “Don’t act like I was ever whole.”

You froze.

The words struck like thunder. They came from someplace deep—not just his chest, but his soul, what little of it was still tethered to this world.

“I’m not some romantic ghost story,” he said, voice thick with something between fury and despair. “I didn’t crawl out of the dark just to fall in love with a girl and settle down in some goddamn cottage. I’ve been alive for thirteen hundred years. Do you understand that? Thirteen. Hundred. Years.”

You stared at him.

His chest rose and fell—not from breath, not really. From emotion. From centuries unspoken.

“I was cut off,” he said, quieter now. “Spiritually. Whatever gave other people peace—prayer, bloodlines, death rites—it abandoned me. When I died, something severed. My people… they’re gone. And I can’t feel them. I can’t reach them.”

He looked down. His voice broke like something old inside him cracked loose.

“I had to go looking. I thought maybe, just maybe, there was someone—somewhere—who could help me reconnect. A seer, a walker-between-worlds, a blood priest who still remembered what it meant to be part of something older. I had to try.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Because for the first time, you saw it—really saw it—the full shape of his exile. Not from the world. But from his own legacy. His ancestors. His people. His place in the story of everything.

You watched him, chest burning.

And he said, softer now, “I needed to know if I could still belong to anything.”

The silence after was unbearable.

It wasn’t just pain in his voice now. It was loneliness so ancient it smelled of blood and salt and fire.

The room felt colder now.

Not from the night air—the door was shut tight, and the fire still flickered steady in the hearth, but from the quiet. From the way his words seemed to cling to the walls, to the wood grain beneath your bare feet. They filled the space like smoke.

You didn’t move. Not toward him. Not away.

Just stood there, arms limp at your sides, fingers twitching uselessly as if they were supposed to reach for something but didn’t remember how.

He didn’t turn back to look at you.

He stood by the table, spine drawn taut, as if afraid that facing you would undo what little dignity he had left. His hand pressed flat to the table like he needed something solid to keep from breaking.

You’d never seen him like this.

Not even back then—when he kissed you like you were the first thing he’d ever wanted just because he wanted it. Back then, he was quiet, yes. Sad, sometimes. But this—this was different. This was something hollow and hurting and ancient.

You swallowed hard. Your voice didn’t come.

All you could hear was the wind outside, the slow pop of a log in the fire, and the quiet thud of your heartbeat behind your ribs.

He was thirteen hundred years old.

And for thirteen hundred years, he had walked in the skin of the forgotten—untethered, unseen, unclaimed by the very people he once bled for. That kind of grief didn’t pass. It settled in the bones. It made a home there.

And you hated him for leaving. You did.

But now, watching the rigid line of his back, hearing the strain in his voice, you realized something.

You weren’t the only thing he’d abandoned.

He’d been running from himself long before he ever touched your mouth with his.

And that was almost worse.

Your throat ached. But you said nothing.

You let the silence stretch—not as punishment, but as a kind of mourning. For what he’d lost. For what you never had a chance to hold. For what neither of you knew how to name.

And he just stood there, in the quiet, like a statue of a man still waiting for the gods to speak.

You took a breath.

Slow. Unsteady.

And then you took a step.

Just one, toward him. Toward the man who now stood by your window like he’d forgotten how to be a person. The man who had finally cracked open the vault of his silence and spilled centuries across your floor. You didn’t know what you were going to do. Touch his arm, maybe. Say his name. Sit beside him and share the weight of what he carried.

But before you could take another step, he spoke again.

“…I shouldn’t’ve said all that.”

His voice was quieter now. Tighter. A sharp turn inward.

You froze mid-step.

He shook his head, one hand dragging roughly through his hair, fingers catching at the strands like he wanted to tear the words back out of the air. “Christ. You didn’t ask for any of that. I shouldn’t’ve—” he broke off, breath catching, jaw tightening again.

“You think I came back noble and bruised with purpose, but I’m not. I’m just—” he laughed once, but it was brittle. Empty. “I’m just tired. Tired of chasing ghosts. Tired of trying to outrun what I am.”

He turned slightly, just enough for you to see his face in profile. His lips parted, his brows drawn in, the gleam of his fang still barely visible where it caught the candlelight. There was something hollow in the way he held himself now—like all the certainty he had just minutes before had collapsed beneath the weight of your silence.

“I shouldn’t’ve come here,” he muttered. “Not like this. Not after what I left you with. I-I didn’t mean to drag you back into my ruins.”

Your chest tightened.

It wasn’t that he was angry. Not really. It was shame. Pure and bitter. The kind that turns into a blade when it sits too long. You saw it in the way he curled slightly inward, like he was bracing for rejection before you could even offer it.

He thought he’d said too much. Thought you’d turn away now, disgusted, or maybe worse—pitying.

You hadn’t even opened your mouth yet, and already he was retreating.

It hit you then—a sharp, sudden ache.

He expected to be unloved.

Even now.

You took another slow step forward.

“Remmick,” you said.

And his name in your voice—spoken softly, with nothing but weight and warmth—made his shoulders flinch like a wound had reopened.

He still didn’t turn.

You moved again.

Quieter this time.

No words followed his name—not yet. You didn’t have the right ones. You didn’t know if there were right ones. But your body moved on instinct. On ache. On the pull that had never left you, not even when the pain was freshest.

The floor creaked softly beneath your weight.

He didn’t react. Not to the sound. Not to your footsteps. He stayed still, staring out the window like maybe he could find his ancestors in the dark beyond the trees—like maybe if he didn’t look at you, this would hurt less.

You reached out.

Your hand trembled as it hovered for a breath above his arm—just above the worn leather of his coat. You hesitated. Not out of fear. But out of reverence.

Then you touched him.

Just a gentle press of your fingers to his forearm, near the bend of his elbow.

It was like touching stone that had once been warm. Cold, yes—always cold—but there was tension beneath the surface, something alive. Something trying not to fall apart. You felt him flinch, barely. A tightening of the muscle. A breath that never left his lungs.

“I don’t need perfect,” you said, quietly. “I never did.”

His head turned slightly, but still not all the way. His eyes shifted toward you, not quite meeting yours, as if afraid he’d see disappointment in them.

“You think you ruined me,” you whispered, thumb gently brushing the sleeve beneath your palm. “But the truth is, you didn’t break nothin’ that wasn’t already cracked.”

That made him go still.

You stepped closer—so close now, your chest nearly touched his arm. Your voice trembled, but you didn’t pull back.

“You came back to your ruins, you said. Well, you’re lookin’ at one. I ain’t been whole since the night you left. And I hate that. I hate that you still live in me like a ghost I can’t exorcise.”

A pause.

“But I still touched you.”

Remmick finally turned.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just a slow, tired movement of a man surrendering to gravity. His face tilted down toward yours, the candlelight catching his cheekbone, the sadness in his mouth, the storm in his eyes.

Your hand stayed on his arm.

He looked at it. Then at you.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t have to.

Because your touch was saying everything neither of you could voice just yet—that the wound was still there. That the pain was real. But so was the longing. So was the tether that no silence, no time, no centuries of grief could quite sever.

The silence held—but it shifted.

It thickened into something breathless. Something just barely tethered to the ground. Your hand still rested on his arm, but you weren’t sure when your fingers had curled slightly, holding him now, not just touching. And he wasn’t looking at the floor anymore.

He was looking at you.

Not just your eyes—but your mouth. Your breath. Your face like it was something he’d spent a century dreaming of and wasn’t sure was real even now. His gaze moved slowly, reverently, and your heart kicked in your chest so hard it hurt.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

And then, so gently it barely registered at first, Remmick leaned in.

His head tilted slightly, the space between your bodies trembling as he moved toward you with all the hesitation of a man who’d once had this—and lost it. His brow hovered near yours, and he didn’t touch you anywhere else. Not your cheek. Not your waist. Just that one arm beneath your hand, steady like a bridge between lifetimes.

His breath ghosted over your lips.

He stopped—not even an inch away. And when he looked at you, really looked at you, you saw it.

The question.

Not in words. But in his eyes. In the tremble of his mouth. In the way he waited.

It was everything you hadn’t been able to say since he walked back into your doorway. All of the pain, the longing, the ache you’d buried in your chest and tried to forget—it was in that look.

You didn’t speak.

You just nodded.

Slow. Barely.

But enough.

And then he kissed you.

There was no rush. No hunger. No sharp edges. Just a deep, aching softness that carried five years of silence and the heavy press of what might have been. His lips were cool, as they always had been, but they warmed quickly against yours, molding with a kind of reverence that made your throat tighten.

He kissed you like a man who hadn’t touched anything real in centuries.

And you kissed him back like someone who’d waited every night for a knock that never came.

The kiss deepened slowly—his hand finally, finally lifting to your waist, careful like you were made of glass and grief. You reached up without thinking, fingers brushing along the line of his jaw, and felt the shiver that ran through him at your touch.

It wasn’t just want.

It was remembrance.

And surrender.

And hope.

And the question that pulsed between both of your mouths as you breathed each other in:

Can this still be ours?

When the kiss broke, it was slow, like neither of you wanted to part—just enough to draw breath. His forehead rested lightly against yours. His hand stayed at your waist.

The silence after the kiss wasn’t empty.

It buzzed.

Low and hot, like a wire pulled tight between your bodies. You could feel the echo of his mouth on yours, the cold of his lips warming against you, the tremor in his breath where it touched your cheek. And you knew—without words, without doubt—that he felt it too.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t ask.

But his hand stayed at your waist, and when his forehead slipped gently against yours again, the smallest sigh escaped him—something between relief and admiration.

Then he kissed you again.

Softer this time. Slower. A question with a fuller answer.

Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the stillness beneath. No heartbeat. No rise or fall of breath the way a human’s would move. But he felt alive all the same—alive in the way he touched you now, in the way his other hand slipped up along your spine, fingers splaying wide at the middle of your back to draw you closer.

You let him.

You melted into the cold of him like it had never left you. Like it had always been yours to return to.

He pulled you tighter, and his kiss deepened—not urgent, not rushed. Just full. Like a long drink after drought. Like he was afraid of overwhelming you but hungrier than he’d ever admit.

You didn’t realize you were moving until your back touched the edge of the kitchen table.

His body had pressed yours backward, his steps slow, deliberate, until the wood met your spine. You gasped softly into his mouth at the contact—not from pain, but from the thrill of knowing he was still following you. Still wanting you. Still choosing this, after all the years lost.

Remmick’s hand slid down to your hip, firm but careful, like he still feared you might vanish if he held you too hard. His other hand brushed along your jaw, thumb stroking just beneath your ear as he pulled back just enough to look at you.

His eyes flicked between yours and your mouth, lips parted, fangs just barely visible now.

“You’re still warm,” he whispered, voice rough with ache.

You swallowed, heart thudding. “You’re still cold.”

A flicker of something passed through his expression—pain, longing, devotion all tangled together.

But then you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down again.

And this time, when your mouths met, it wasn’t just a kiss.

It was reclamation.

It was every unfinished second. Every breathless night. Every aching dream you’d forced yourself to forget.

His hands roamed now—not frantic, not wild— just slow, admiring. He touched your waist, your ribs, the dip of your spine as if relearning a place he thought he’d never feel again. You clutched at his coat, fingers curling into the fabric, anchoring him to you.

His hips pressed closer, and you felt it—the tension he carried, the restraint he held onto with every ounce of control he had. He could’ve taken more. But he didn’t. He waited.

Letting you decide how far this went.

His breath shuddered against your throat as he kissed along the edge of your jaw, your neck, pausing just above the pulse point, fangs hovering—not touching, not daring.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, voice hoarse, barely more than breath. “Tell me now, an’ I will.”

But you didn’t.

You tilted your head back, eyes closed, hands tightening around his shoulders, and your body answered for you.

You didn’t tell him to stop.

And that silence—that permission—made something shift in him.

He kissed you deeper now, fuller, his hand sliding beneath the hem of your dress, fingers tracing the warmth of your waist like he was trying to map what had changed in five years… and what hadn’t. You weren’t sure when your breathing had quickened, only that it matched his now—uneven, shallow, as if the two of you were speaking in rhythm without words.

His coat rustled softly as your fingers pushed it from his shoulders, and he let it fall, never once breaking the kiss. The chill of his skin bled through his shirt, but you didn’t care. You wanted him closer. You pulled at him. Needed more of him, not just the memory, not just the ache.

His mouth left yours briefly, trailing along your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat. He moved slow—as if he were reminding himself this wasn’t a dream. That this was now. You felt the press of his lips where your pulse beat hard, and though his fangs hovered, they never broke the skin.

“I missed this,” he whispered into your neck. “I missed you.”

The way he said it—strained and quiet, almost broken—made your fingers tighten at the nape of his neck. You guided his mouth back to yours, and this time the kiss was hungrier. Not rushed, but desperate in a way that only years of loneliness could explain.

Then he reached down.

His hands slid beneath your thighs.

Your breath caught.

And with a strength that made you feel small in the safest way, he lifted you.

You gasped softly into his mouth, hands clinging to his shoulders, and before you could say a word, your back met the cool wood of the kitchen table. His body stood between your legs, eyes hooded, breath shaking, the tension in him almost unbearable.

But he paused again.

Always waiting for you.

His hands pressed to your hips, thumbs brushing small circles there, grounding himself.

“Is this alright?” he asked, voice low, almost lost.

You looked at him and there was no monster before you. No ghost. No predator. Just Remmick. Cold and trembling and human in all the ways that mattered.

And you nodded.

“Yes,” you whispered. “It’s alright.”

He leaned forward again, and when his lips found yours this time, there was no more hesitation.

Only the steady unraveling of everything you’d both buried, finally rising to the surface—breath by breath, touch by touch.

His hands never rushed.

Even now, with your body perched on the edge of the kitchen table and your breath coming in soft, uneven bursts, Remmick touched you like you were still something holy. Like each part of you had to be reacquainted with his palms, his mouth, his memory. His fingers splayed wide along your hips, thumbs grazing bare skin, cool and steady as he stood between your legs.

You drew him closer with your thighs, wrapping around his waist without needing to ask. He came willingly—as if that was where he’d always belonged. His mouth found yours again, slower this time. No longer asking. Simply being.

The kiss was deeper now—mouths open, breath shared, the weight of his body pressing gently between your knees as he leaned in. You tilted your head to meet him, hands sliding beneath his shirt to find the skin of his back. Cold, yes—but firm, strong. Familiar. You mapped each line with your palms like a song you never forgot how to hum.

When he pressed forward, you arched to meet him.

Your bodies fit in a way that felt fated—not perfect, but true. Like two lives made jagged by time and grief finally finding alignment again.

Clothes slipped away slowly, piece by piece, not in a frenzy but with reverence. You felt his hesitation every step of the way—not from doubt, but from awe. As if he still couldn’t believe you were here. That you were letting him stay. Letting him have this.

And yet you were.

Because your fingers trembled as they undid the buttons of his shirt. Each one undone slowly, like he was afraid to rush the moment. Like he needed to memorize every inch of you he uncovered.

You watched him.

The way his eyes drank you in, like you were light after centuries in shadow. The way his lips parted with something like awe when your bare skin was revealed to him. And still, he moved carefully, never all at once. His hands slid up your ribs, along your waist, grounding himself in the warmth he could never possess fully, but still longed for.

And when he leaned down again, pressing kisses to your collarbone, to your sternum, to the top of your stomach, he sighed against your skin like he had finally found his way home.

You arched into him.

Not to provoke, but to be nearer. To give him more.

His hands curled beneath your thighs again, lifting you further onto the table, angling your hips with the slow precision of someone not rushing toward lust but toward remembrance. His forehead pressed to yours again, and his lips hovered over your mouth as your fingers pushed his shirt aside, revealing the cool, unchanging skin beneath.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his hands gathering up your dress so that it hiked up to your waist.

It wasn’t lust that cracked his voice.

It was the weight of everything he was, everything he carried, terrified that this was just one more dream he would wake from.

You nodded. Slow. Sure.

And then his body met yours—fully, completely—a slow, reverent joining. Not fast. Not rough. But steady and aching and real. His lips found your mouth again, and this time there was no space between you.

The table creaked gently beneath the shift of bodies. Your breath mingled with his. His hands moved beneath your thighs and along your waist with worshipful care, every touch a vow. Every press of skin a memory rewritten. His fangs, now elongated and aching, ghosted over your flushed skin.

The rhythm built gradually—not frantic, but inevitable. Like tides returning to shore. His eyes stayed on yours, even as pleasure pulled at his features, even as your hand tangled in his hair and your hips met his with slow, desperate need. You felt the tremble in him. The restraint. The sorrow and relief wrapped around every motion.

It wasn’t about hunger.

It was about returning.

It was about touching someone who was gone for too long, and finding they still lived in the same rhythm as your heart.

You gasped his name once—broken, breathless—and he kissed the sound from your mouth like it was sacred.

And when it ended, you didn’t move right away.

You stayed wrapped in him, arms around his shoulders, his forehead pressed to your temple, both of you breathing the same air like it would keep the world from spinning too fast.

The world was still spinning when you exhaled.

Your body felt heavy and soft all at once, your skin flushed with the afterglow of everything he gave you—and everything you gave him in return. Remmick’s weight rested against you, not crushing but grounding, his chest pressed to yours, his arms still curled tightly around your back like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

You were still joined.

Still breathing him in.

And for a moment, everything felt… quiet.

Then you felt his mouth against your neck.

Not kissing. Not gentle.

Just resting there. Fangs pressing against your skin.

At first, you thought it was comfort. Some strange kind of closeness. But then his grip shifted—tighter. His breath warmed your throat. His jaw twitched.

And then he whispered.

“I’m not leaving without you again.”

The words made your breath catch.

“What…?” you murmured, dazed, unsure what he meant. Your fingers twitched against his shoulders , mind still hazy from the rush of it all.

Then you felt it.

A shift in his mouth.

A pressure.

His fangs, barely-there at first, began to press in.

Slow. Deliberate.

The pain didn’t come immediately. It was the realization first. The sickening clarity. The way your body tensed in warning before your mind could even process the threat.

“No,” you breathed.

You pushed at his chest.

He didn’t move.

“Remmick,” you said louder, urgency breaking through your haze. “No.”

But he growled.

Low. Deep. From somewhere far older than the man you knew. It vibrated through his chest, into your ribs. And his grip tightened.

Your spine arched slightly under the pressure as he pressed closer, mouth still hovering at your neck, fangs teasing the edge of skin. You felt the warm slide of drool—thick, inhuman—spill from his mouth onto the curve of your collarbone.

He wasn’t biting.

Not fully.

Not yet.

But he was on the edge.

You shoved harder against him, eyes wide. “Remmick—!”

You felt the tremor in his body—not weakness, but restraint beginning to fray.

He wasn’t speaking now. Just breathing—shallow, irregular, mouth still pressed to your neck like he could already feel your blood humming beneath the skin.

“Remmick,” you whispered again, this time not just with fear, but with sorrow.

And still, he didn’t move.

His arms locked tighter around your waist, not crushing, but binding. His chest rose and fell against yours, colder than it should be, but shaking like a man on the edge of breaking.

You tried again, pressing harder at his chest. “Let go.”

But his growl deepened.

It wasn’t rage.

It was need.

Low and guttural and mournful—like something ancient had cracked open in him and was spilling out.

His breath dragged heavily along your neck, lips trembling now as his fangs hovered just above your skin. Not plunging in. Just pressing. Threatening. Tasting what could be his.

And then—a whisper.

Hoarse. Barely spoken.

“I can’t lose you again.”

You froze.

He wasn’t talking to you like a lover now. He was talking to you like a man speaking to a god. Or a ghost. Or the last fragment of a life he never got to keep.

His grip trembled, but he didn’t let go.

“You don’t understand,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “You’ll die. You’ll leave me. You’ll vanish like the rest. And I-I can’t—”

His words broke apart.

And you realized then: he didn’t just want to taste you.

He wanted to turn you.

His desperation wasn’t about blood.

It was about keeping you. Binding you to him. Forever.

As one of his own.

As something that could never slip away in the passage of time.

His fangs pressed in again, slower this time. As if this act would save him. As if you could be his answer, his redemption, his final tether to something real.

You pushed harder, panic flaring, voice trembling. “Remmick—no. Not like this.”

But he didn’t pull away.

His jaw twitched.

His breath stuttered against your skin.

He was close.

So close.

And still, somewhere in his silence—you felt the war inside him.

Because he didn’t want to hurt you.

He wanted to keep you.

But keeping you meant crossing a line he had vowed never to cross. A line soaked in blood. A line he had watched destroy love before.

You were right there—body against his, heartbeat beneath his lips—and still, he hesitated.

Your heart was pounding loud enough for him to feel it. You knew he could—the way his body stayed pressed to yours, the way his mouth hovered at the pulse in your neck like it called to him. Your blood wasn’t just scent anymore—it was music, and he was being dragged into it note by note.

You felt it.

In his breath.

In the tremble of his lips.

In the restraint that was fracturing.

You were losing him.

Not Remmick the man. The lover. The ghost that came back through your door.

But Remmick the thing beneath.

And still—even through your fear—you knew this wasn’t cruelty.

It was longing. It was need. It was the desperate, cloying ache to keep you forever, wrapped in the only kind of permanence he understood. You weren’t dying—not yet—but you could, and that was unbearable to him.

So you did the only thing you could.

You reached up—slowly, deliberately—and you cupped his face.

Your hand shook.

But your touch was sure.

Your fingers pressed into his jaw, your thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, right where the fang pressed against his lip. “Look at me,” you whispered, voice thick. “Remmick, look at me.”

He stiffened.

Your voice cracked.

“Don’t do this. Please. Not like this.”

And for a moment—for a terrifying, suspended second, nothing happened.

Then, with a sound halfway between a growl and a gasp, Remmick ripped his head back.

A jagged sound tore from his throat—part growl, part cry, as if he hated himself for what he almost did. His chest heaved even though he didn’t need the air. His fangs glinted in the low firelight. His eyes glowed red—sharp and unnatural, too ancient for the face that had once looked at you like you were soft and holy.

But he didn’t run.

He stood there, trembling.

And then… slowly… he stepped forward again.

Not to take. Not to finish what he started.

But to ground himself.

he pressed his forehead to yours.

Your breath hitched, hands gripping the fabrics of your dress that you pushed back down over your knees.

You could still feel the heat where he had nearly sunk into you. Still feel the weight of his body, the tremble in his arms. And yet here he was now—no longer devouring, no longer pressing. Just holding. Just… there.

And for a moment, you were both still.

Two bodies suspended in silence.

Your hand found his jaw again, gently, thumb brushing across the cool skin beneath the gleam of his eye. The red began to fade. Slowly. Dimly. Like the storm had passed, but not far enough to forget.

“I can’t stay,” he whispered.

The words cracked open something in your chest.

They weren’t harsh. They weren’t cold.

They were broken.

He was broken.

You closed your eyes. Tears burned at the edges, rising fast—not just from fear, or heartbreak, but from the awful understanding of what he meant. Why he meant it.

He was still dangerous.

Still not safe.

Not for you. Not for anyone. Especially when he wanted so much to love you the right way—but didn’t always know how to stop himself when the old hunger rose.

Your breath shook as you nodded.

Slow. Barely.

But enough.

Remmick pulled back just enough to look at you. Your eyes were glassy now, tears slipping quietly down your cheeks. He reached up to wipe one with the back of his hand—his touch featherlight, reverent.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice hoarse.

You gave a tiny shake of your head. “I know.”

And though nothing else passed between you in that moment—not words, not promises—the ache that filled the space said everything.

He couldn’t stay.

But he didn’t want to go.

And you?

You would’ve let him in again, even knowing it would hurt like this.

Because it was Remmick.

Because he’d always been the wound you never wanted to heal.

The silence hadn’t left.

It stayed between you, softer now, but heavier somehow—like dust settling after a storm. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows against the kitchen walls. The kettle had gone cold.

You moved slowly, almost without thought, fingers trembling slightly as you tugged your dress down further and smoothed the wrinkles at your waist. Your legs still felt unsteady beneath you. You could feel where his hands had held you, where your bodies had fit together like they’d never stopped.

But all you could hear was the echo of his voice.

I can’t stay.

Remmick sat on the edge of a kitchen chair now, elbows on his knees, head bowed as he wiped his mouth and jaw with a clean rag you’d handed him. His shirt lay discarded beside him, crumpled and forgotten, its buttons undone, its sleeves twisted from where you’d pushed them aside in the heat of need.

Now, you lifted it with careful hands.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

You moved in front of him, the fabric trembling in your grip. He didn’t stop you when you stepped between his knees. He didn’t protest when you helped him slip his arms back through the sleeves, didn’t flinch as you began to rebutton the front of his shirt one small piece at a time.

Your fingers brushed his chest. Light. Steady.

Button by button.

And all the while, your mind wouldn’t stop echoing the same thing:

I can’t stay.

The words looped behind your ribs, behind your eyes, over the rhythm of your breath. You tried to swallow them down, to focus on the simple motion of fastening each button. But they came back, over and over again, louder in your bones than in the air.

I can’t stay.

He hadn’t said it like a man who wanted to go.

He’d said it like a man damning himself for having to.

Your fingers slowed near the middle of his chest. You lingered on the fourth button. Not because it was hard to fasten—but because your hands didn’t want to finish.

Didn’t want to reach the end of this moment.

Didn’t want to let it become past tense.

He looked up then.

His eyes weren’t glowing anymore. But the red still lingered at the edges, like the ghost of a fire that refused to die. He didn’t say anything. Just watched you.

And still, the words repeated in your head, cruel and unyielding.

I can’t stay.

You finished the last button.

And let your hand rest against his chest, just over where a heart would beat if it could.

You didn’t follow him to the door right away.

You stood in the kitchen, fingers still curled around the front of his shirt. He hadn’t moved since you’d finished dressing him—like he was waiting for the moment to change, for time to bend backward and offer something kinder.

But it didn’t.

So eventually, he stood.

His movements were slow, precise—like he feared if he moved too fast, something inside him might splinter. His coat was draped over the chair. He lifted it in silence, shaking the folds loose, slipping it back over his shoulders like armor.

You followed.

Each step toward the door felt heavier than the last.

Outside, the wind had died down. The moon was low. The trees stood like sentinels, dark and unmoved, watching the threshold where you stood with him one final time.

He opened the door slowly.

The air outside was cold, but not cruel. It whispered through the open frame, brushing against your face like breath. And still, neither of you spoke.

He stepped out onto the porch, boots creaking on the worn wood.

Then he paused.

He turned—just slightly—his profile bathed in moonlight, casting his cheekbone and jaw in pale silver.

And he looked at you.

There was something sharp in his eyes, even now. Not hunger. Not danger.

Just grief.

You saw the way he hesitated—the way his body leaned slightly toward you, the way his mouth parted, and his gaze dropped once, just once, to your lips. You saw the way he almost stepped forward.

But then his shoulders pulled back.

And his eyes closed.

“I want to kiss you,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “Gods, I want to.”

You didn’t speak. Your breath hitched.

“But if I do…” he opened his eyes again, gaze full of something raw, unnameable, “I won’t leave.”

A pause.

“And I have to.”

Your throat burned.

Your chest ached.

But you nodded.

Slow. Hollow.

Because you understood.

If he kissed you again, it would unmake him.

So instead, he just looked at you—like he was memorizing your face. Like he was taking your breath with him. Like he’d already begun to turn into a ghost again.

Then he stepped back into the night.

The wind pulled at the hem of his coat.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

And you didn’t move.

You stayed in the doorway long after he disappeared into the dark, eyes burning, breath held—listening for the sound of his footsteps in the leaves, already knowing you wouldn’t hear them.

He was gone.

Again.

And this time, he didn’t even take your kiss.

Only your heart.

[artepti]

I love happy endings, but gosh am I a sucker for bittersweet/bad endings, too!

So here's some art for a potential bad ending for "How to Accidentally Seduce Your Ex-Nemesis"! :D

(Looks at LLR... I see a pattern--)

[melanchol1cs]

WHAT GOOD IS SORRY?

ex husband!leon x f!reader

word count: 3.3k summary: why does one wound those they love so deeply? masterlist | taglist | wips

18+ MDNI. mentions of divorce, cheating/infidelity, awkward leon stuff, guilt, yearning, leon and reader have a child together — and i named her denise for whatever reason, getting stood up by a date, drunk texting, kissing, oral(r!receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, bittersweet ending(?) i guess.

a/n: old wip,, this was supposed to be super gut wrenching and angsty but for some reason, my brain didn’t want to cooperate and decided that this would be the ending. also, i’ve been contemplating whether to address this or not and even tho its not a big issue, PLEASE interact with my posts. it’s the only way i’m able to know that you guys actually like the stuff i write, and ever since i’ve started writing on here 7 months ago, i’ve been noticing a decrease in interactions. im honestly losing motivation to write because i truly don’t know if people actually read my shit and like it. anyway, enjoy my mediocre writing ^___^

leon regrets everything he’s done up to this point. running into ada on a mission, going to the bar with her afterwards, and the kiss. the stupid kiss that eventually led up to this.

the divorce.

it all felt wrong, so wrong. yet here he was, driving his car to your doorstep, his stomach in knots despite having done this several times before.

for the sake of your daughter, the two of you had decided that shared custody would be the best option.

he stands at the door, hesitating before knocking, his knuckles hovering anxiously. clearing his throat, he gently raps his knuckles against the door, hoping for an answer. he's already second-guessing himself, wondering if he should have texted or called first.

your door eventually opens, and he's met with a familiar face. you.

you greet him with a civil smile, pressing a kiss into your daughter’s hair before ushering her inside.

he fidgets, adjusting the brim of his leather jacket nervously as he takes in the sight of you.

you reach to shut the door, catching a glimpse of him awkwardly hovering over you porch.

“you okay?”

he tries to find his voice. "yeah, i just, uh... i was just thinking..”

he looks down at his feet, kicking the ground with the side of his scuffed boot, as if trying to buy some time or maybe just willing the floor to swallow him up. when he speaks, his voice is low and sheepish. “when i was— last night, i thought… uh, do- do you remember when.. shit. are you free this weekend?”

”what?” you muse at his question. “leon, i really don’t wanna have this conversation with you again,”

he winces at the rebuff, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets as a defensive measure.

leon’s adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows hard, his ears burning at your words. he looks anywhere but at you, his eyes darting over the porch railing, the foliage, the sky — anywhere but your eyes. oh, those eyes he adored so much.

"no, wait, hear me out,”

"listen..." he takes a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever fallout this might bring, knowing he's already on shaky ground. “i just wanna talk.. to you.”

he shifts his weight, glancing up at the roof of the house as if the heavens themselves could offer a solution. when he does meet your gaze again, his eyes are pleading, his jaw clenched with a mix of anxiety and something akin to desperation.

“i’m sorry, leon. i’m busy,”

he scoffs and his face scrunches up, a pained grimace contorting his features as he cuts you off. “c’mon, please?” he's standing too close now, invading the personal space he once knew so well. “i.. i know it isn’t what we do anymore but—“

“no, seriously. i literally can’t. i have something up.”

“oh.” he deflates slightly at your dismissal, shoulders slumping in defeat. a soft, regretful sigh escapes his parted lips, and his eyes drop, gaze wandering aimlessly. "can- can you can you cancel? is it really important? what about on sunday-? i’m sure we can..“

“leon.” it's not a question this time, you stare at him with the tiniest hint of pity. “i have a date.”

ouch. he freezes, his chest constricting as if he's been punched. a date? the words echo in his mind, each syllable like a dagger to his pride, his ego, his everything. a muscle in his jaw twitches, his hands clenching and unclenching in his pockets. leon swallows hard, his throat suddenly parched.

"oh," he repeats, the sound barely above a whisper. he takes a shaky breath, trying to calm the storm brewing inside him.

he rubs a hand over the back of his neck, jaw working in agitation as he grapples with the blow of your words. a snarky retort rises in his throat, a cutting remark to deflect the sting, but it withers on his tongue, a futile attempt at salvaging pride he knows is misplaced.

leon swallows hard, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he finally finds his voice, laced with a wry bitterness. “yeah, no worries.. guess that's that," a bitter, hollow chuckle escapes him as he shifts his weight. his tone is flippant, trying to mask the sting of rejection, but the defeat is palpable as he turns to leave. he starts down the porch steps, his boots thudding against the wooden slats.

you finally close the door on him, standing by the door, hand on the knob, unease prickling along you skin like a thousand tiny needles, each one stinging with the weight of guilt. you sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose as she tries to process her feelings. guilt, regret, a twinge longing — it's all so confusing, so messy.

the weight of his pleading eyes, the desperation in his tone — he had no right acting like a dejected puppy after he cheated on you.

you shake your head, face between your hands. he made his choices, just as you had, and now it was time to move on. you squared your shoulders, took a deep breath, and stepped away from the door, determined to let go of the ghost of what was and focus on the life you were building. for you, and your daughter.

but it’s not really easy.

not when you’re sitting alone at a restaurant, waiting for a date that never bothered to show.

your phone buzzes and you hold your breath. hoping for some sort of confirmation, but it's quickly snuffed out.

‘hey, sorry i couldn’t make it. something important came up’ the simple text reads. the same stupid excuse. every. single. time. your heart sinks, a dull ache forming in the pit of your stomach.

a bitter, derisive chuckle escapes your lips. serves you right. you knew he was trouble from the start. yet, your heart aches, a dull throb of pain and disappointment. you feel so foolish, sitting there, waiting for someone who never shows. though, it isn't really new.

now you lay in your bed, having already kicked off your heels and changed out of the uncomfortably tight dress you wore.

you pull the blankets up to your chin, suddenly feeling cold. you toss and turn, brooding and wallowing in misery, and it seemed like you’ve been doing it for hours till you’re startled out of your fitful doze by the buzz of your phone.

it's a text from leon, of course it is. it’s another one of his ‘where are u? i miss u’ ‘can’t stop thinking about you. please let me c u’ meltdowns.

he's drunk again, you can tell by the sloppy caps and the desperate pleas. every time he has a rough night, he always thinks coming over will magically fix everything. and you always refuse, knowing he’s only drunk and alone. but tonight, you feel particularly lonely.

your thumb hovers over the keyboard, and before you know it, you're typing. ‘come over.’ you hesitate, then send the message.

by then, he’s already halfway out the door, stumbling out and nearly falling as he trips over his own feet in his haste. he takes the stairs two at a time, a goofy, shit-eating grin plastered on his face. when he reaches your door, he pounds on it with a fist. his breath comes out in short puffs as he waits, anticipation making his heart race.

click.

the door creaks open a fraction and his eyes lock onto you, looking all soft and domestic in a robe. leon's breath catches in his throat as his eyes drink you in.

he tumbles in, arms outstretched as if he's about to catch something. he's immediately in your space, arms around you in a tight, needy embrace. his face buries itself in the crook of your neck, breathless with relief and something else, something suspiciously like love.

“leon—“ he smashes his mouth against yours, tongue pushing past your lips, the taste of beer and regret in his breath. his hands roam, sliding up your back, gripping your hair, fingers splayed wide as if to assure himself you're real. a low, desperate sound escapes him, half-groan, half-moan as his body presses against yours. he's desperate, sloppy, but undeniably passionate. when he finally breaks for air, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes glassy with drink and longing.

“missed you s’ much, baby,” he presses a kiss to your neck, tongue tracing the pulse point with a reverence that borders worship.

“let me make it up to you, please,” he looks up at you with those big, puppy-dog eyes, an expression so pathetic it’s comical. yet, the desperation behind them makes it anything but.

his hands skim down your sides to your hips, fingers digging in as if to keep you anchored to him. his face buried in the crook of your neck as his hands knead the meat of your ass, claws digging in through the fabric of your robe. his breath hitches as he nuzzles into you, inhaling deeply as if committing you to memory.

he trails a string of open-mouthed kisses down your neck, pausing to nibble on your collarbone before continuing his journey south. his hands never stop moving, roaming over your body with an insatiable hunger.

you let out a soft whimper, arching into his touch. "bedroom," you breathe out, and he happily obliges.

once inside, he kicks the door shut behind him and spins you around, backing you up against the bed. he begins to undo your robe with shaking fingers, your heavy breathing and the rustling of silk the only sounds in the charged silence between you. when the robe falls open, he pushes it off your shoulders, letting it pool at your feet.

the thin, sheer fabric of your nightgown offers little resistance as he practically rips it off you. a shaky breath escapes his parted lips as he reaches for you again, fingers grazing your skin as if he's not quite trusting his own touch.

he guides you to the bed, pushing you to sit on the edge. he immediately drops to his knees before you, face between your legs.

“these ‘re pretty,” he slurs out, before he fucking tears your underwear off.

“leon!”

he chuckles at your reaction, a low, rumbling sound in the back of his throat. “sorry,” he murmurs against your inner thigh, his hot breath causing goosebumps to rise in its wake. “gonna buy you new ones,”

his stubble scrapes against your sensitive skin as he slowly trails open-mouthed kisses up your thigh, savoring every inch of you that you’re willing to give him.

he buries his face between your legs, licking and sucking with a single-minded devotion that makes your toes curl and eyes roll back in your head. his scruffy cheeks hollow as he sucks a hickey into the soft flesh of your inner thigh.

god, it’s been so long. the feelings practically foreign.

his tongue begins to lash at your slit, long and flat, with a dexterity that belies his level of inebriation.

“you still mine?” he huffs. “‘course you are, ‘m the only one that can get ya this wet,”

slurp, smack, suck, repeat.

his tongue is relentless, probing your entrance, swirling around your clit with increasing fervor. he's sloppy, uncoordinated, but it only serves to heighten the intensity of it all. every time he pulls back, you can hear his heavy breathing, feel the vibrations of his moans against your most intimate flesh. your fingers thread into his hair, tugging him closer as your back arches off the bed. a keening whimper escapes you, the sound muffled by your clenched teeth as you struggle to maintain some semblance of control.

“fuck, leon—” your words trail off into incoherent mumbles as he drives you closer to the edge, tongue darting in and out with a pace that’ll make a grown woman go crazy. “d-denise, were gonna wake her up,”

a low growl rumbles in his chest as he responds to your whine. there's a hint of accusation in his gaze, but it quickly morphs into a look of raw, desperate need. “don’t matter,” he's relentless, persistent, refusing to back down even as you tremble and writhe beneath him.

he grunts, his attention snapping back to you, blue eyes squinting as he looks up from between your thighs. his tongue is a damn metronome, lapping and smacking with a relentless rhythm that has you chasing the edge of oblivion.

it's like every drunken fantasy he's ever had is being poured out onto you. messy, uncoordinated, desperate. and you’re eating it up. “gonna make you forget all about that stupid date," he mutters through slurred words. "’m the only man who can make you feel this good,"

he's not wrong. the way he's attacking you with his tongue, it's like he's trying to prove a fucking point.

"leon, please," you gasp out, and he takes it as an invitation to continue. your entire body is wound up tight, a taut string ready to snap. he slips a finger in, then two, curling them just right so that they’re pressing against that spongy spot that has you seeing stars.

your legs wrap around his head, fingers threading into his hair as you pull him in as close as humanly possible. his name is a chant on your lips, a prayer to the gods of pleasure. "leon, leon, leon,". denise could come in right now and catch you like this — legs splayed, back arched, eyes squeezed shut in bliss. he's that good. or maybe that bad. you dont know. and you don’t care to find out.

"yeah, just like that," he praises, voice a low, gravelly growl. "love my fingers in this greedy little cunt, don't you?"

your thighs clench around his head, heels digging into his back as you ride out the pleasure. "gonna cum, leon, please—“ yours words trail off into a wail, a keen of pure, unadulterated euphoria.

your back arches, toes curl, and your fingers dig into his hair, holding him to you as the wave crashes over you. he tugs you down to the edge of the bed, practically burying his face in your groin. he laps at your slit, in and out, in and out, until the last bit of resistance melts away.

he lifts his face from between your legs, eyes hazy and unfocused as he fumbles to unbuckle his pants. once he has it off, he's back, pushing your legs apart as he kneels between them. the thick of his length throbs against your lower belly, and you can feel his racing heartbeat through every inch of him that's in contact with you.

he notches the head of his cock at your entrance, pressing in just enough to make you feel the pressure, gathering your juices before giving a long, slow stroke up and down, coating himself in you. he's throbbing, pulsing with need, and you can practically taste the desperation in your mouth.

he presses in, just the tip at first, then a bit more. slow, shallow strokes, in and out. his hips rock against yours, the motion slow and languid. one of his hands cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your closed eyelids to check if he was dreaming. the other hand palms the small of your back, fingers digging in as if to anchor himself. your legs wrap around his waist, ankles locking behind his back as he slowly sinks into you.

he's quiet for a moment, just holding you, his heart racing in his chest as if he's trying to communicate something without using words. his hips move, the action slow and lazy, as if he's trying to spoon you into submission.

he pulls out, just to the tip, before pushing back in. the motion is slow, sensual, a deliberate teasing that has you whining and writhing beneath him.

sweat beads on his brow, tracing down the lines of his face, but he doesn't slow. if anything, he's driven by a desperate need to make up for lost time, to prove himself worthy of you. your back arches, hands scrabbling for purchase on the sheets as he pistons in and out, the force of his thrusts rocking your entire body. he's not gentle, not soft, but rough and demanding, just like he always used to be when he was trying to stake his claim.

he nips at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh before he sooths it with his tongue. “fuck, feels so good,” he gasps out, his words punctuated by the slap of skin against skin. “can't believe i ever let you go.”

"leon," you whimper, the name a plea, a prayer. his lips find yours in a sloppy, frantic kiss. he's drinking you in, devouring your mouth, your moans, your gasps, trying to consume every ounce of you.

he's sweating, hair a mess, face scrunched up in concentration, but those blue eyes remain locked on yours.

you're lost in the sensation, every nerve ending on high alert, screaming for friction, for relief, for release. "leon, leon, gonna cum," you pant, your voice raw, your throat dry. "please, i—" but your pleas are swallowed by his next thrust, his cock dragging against your sensitive walls.

he leans forward, his forehead pressing against yours, noses nearly touching. his hot breath mingles with yours, the scent of his beer-soaked breath and the musk of his arousal mingling together in the most intoxicating way. "love you," he suddenly whispers, the words a quiet, a desperate confession that hangs in the air between you.

“love you, love you, fuck—“

the way your walls squeeze him when you cum drags his own orgasm from him. for a long moment, he stays frozen, buried to the hilt, his chest heaving against yours as he tries to catch his breath.

the heat of your body seeps into his skin, chasing away the chill of the night air. he collapses against you, a boneless heap of satisfied male. his cock throbs, pulses, and drips onto the bed between your legs as he tries to catch his breath. the room is silent, save for your joint heavy breathing, and the occasional groan as his softening length slips out of you. eventually, he rolls off, lying on his back beside you, one big hand coming to rest on your stomach, thumb stroking in a slow, idle pattern. his eyes are hazy, unfocused, but they find yours and hold. a small, sheepish smile tugs at his lips.

"sorry," he slurs out, the word garbled and slightly off-kilter. "i shoulda been better, should’ve tried harder, i... i‘m gonna make things right, i swear,"

he peppers your neck with soft kisses, his stubble rasping against your tender flesh. he's warm, solid, and comforting. gentle and tender, a stark contrast to the desperation that drove him mere moments ago.

he's not reaching for grand gestures or flowery declarations. he's asking for something simple, intimate, and achingly human. a chance to hold you, to sleep beside you, to maybe, begin to rebuild something from the rubble of what once was.

and for a moment, you let yourself believe that he’ll be different this time. that he's not just trying to relive past glories, but genuinely wants to make amends, to start anew.

tags: @crowleyco @withonly-sweetheart @fanilkychae

[justaz]

battle of camlann but merlin wasn’t ancient as shit. he blasts the warriors around arthur away and arthur turns to see a glowering, golden-eyed merlin. he tightens his grip on his sword but isn’t able to raise it. the inconceivable notion that merlin has betrayed him runs through his mind but he cant quite grasp it. his father is screaming in his head to kill the wretched sorcerer but all arthur can see is his friend wearing a face that looks too much like morgana’s. merlin glances up at arthur and the expression of rage fizzles into one tinged with fear and concern - all too confusing for him to unpack in the midst of battle. merlin is slow to approach his side and even then he keeps his distance. before either of them can say anything, mordred appears, sword in hand, glaring at arthur.

merlin tries to draw the former knights attention away from arthur, tries to goad him into fighting merlin instead, but mordred is deadset on fighting arthur. he calls morgana over instead and says emrys’s fight is with her while his is with arthur. with the extra seconds of back and forth, arthur isn’t as shocked when he raises his sword against mordred’s. morgana and merlin blast each other great distances until they’re far away from modred vs arthur and land on the front line between the two armies. both armies back off and watch the light show as morgana and emrys battle until morgana’s army uses the distraction to close in on camelot’s army.

three battles occurring at once until morgana gets a lucky hit in and merlin goes flying. he lands next to a gwaine who is currently bleeding out. he smiles when he sees who’s next to him “merlin!” which sounds so much like his greeting every time they ran into each other before gwaine became a knight. he reaches out and heals gwaine’s wound and leon just looks up at him for a moment before going “you’re always full of surprises, aren’t you merlin?” merlin grins and goes “i got one more” he stands up on surprisingly steady legs and calls on kilgharrah. in for a penny, out for a pound. arthur is already fuming at him, might as well rip the bandaid off right?

kilgharrah attacks morgana’s army while merlin orders aithusa to stand down. camelot’s army is able to march through the charred army and bring down those who remain, mordred is loosing but persevering through rage and spite alone, morgana is screaming (like she always is nowadays). merlin and morgana battle once more until mordred and morgana’s armies have fallen. merlin makes a tactical retreat to arthur who is still staring at him wearily (and definitely irate). he requests permission to kill morgana which is baffling but she is his sister and he’s always cared for her even after her betrayal so he supposes it makes sense. once he gives it, their fight doesn’t last longer than a minute. emrys was always stronger than her, he was just buying time.

camelot emerges victorious though they don’t seem all that excited about it. the other warriors cheer and clap each other on the back, but arthur is just watching merlin. the knights watch them uneasily. merlin returns arthur’s gaze. “is that the fucking dragon i killed?” merlin looks up at kilgharrah who is needlessly burning the remains of morgana’s army. merlin turns back to him “yes.”

[aventurineswife]

So idk how to make a request. So I hope this is ok??

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNeT75Hpt/

Hear me out a fic about this Aventurine with mermaid reader , and he captures her. I’ll leave the rest to you, so you have your freedom when writing 🫶

Don’t fell pressured :)

Beneath the Waves, Beyond the Game

Summary: Aventurine, a flamboyant and cunning pirate, thrives on risk and games of chance, but his life takes an unexpected turn when he captures you—a mysterious, defiant being of the sea—after your haunting song lures his ship to wreckage. What begins as a clash of wills slowly evolves into a fragile bond, as shared vulnerabilities and unspoken understanding unravel the masks you both wear. Amid storms, trust, and bittersweet goodbyes, the game between the gambler and the mermaid changes them both in ways neither anticipated.

Tags: Pirate!Aventurine x Mermaid!Reader, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, Captivity & Freedom, Pirate/Mermaid Dynamic, Forbidden Connection, Emotional Vulnerability, Found Family Themes, Bittersweet Ending.

Warnings: Themes of Captivity and Loss of Autonomy, Emotional Manipulation (Light), Storm/Peril Scenes, Brief Mentions of Betrayal and Guilt, Melancholy/Bittersweet Tones.

A/N: Y'ALL ARE FAST AFF!! 😭😭

[Part 2]

Aventurine had always thrived on risk, gambling with lives, fortunes, and fate itself. The sea, for all its temperamental fury, had always been his ally—a rolling canvas of danger and opportunity. Yet nothing in his decades of games and gambles had prepared him for you.

You were sprawled across the floor of his private quarters, your tail shimmering with iridescent hues as seawater pooled beneath you. The moment he'd heard your song—a haunting melody that echoed through the mists and lured his ship to the wreckage of a treasure-laden galleon—he knew he couldn’t let you slip back into the ocean’s embrace.

You glared at him now, your once-melodic voice reduced to silence, replaced by a defiant scowl. Aventurine lounged in his throne-like chair, one leg crossed over the other, his flamboyant coat draped behind him like a cape.

"Do you make it a habit to lure ships to their doom, or am I just special?" he drawled, adjusting his jeweled eyepatch with deliberate flair.

You said nothing, your shimmering tail flicking once against the wooden floor, splashing droplets onto his polished boots.

He chuckled, leaning forward, the feather in his hat catching the low lamplight. "Silent treatment, is it? Fair enough. I've always enjoyed a challenge."

You clenched your fists, your lips pressed into a thin line. Your freedom was gone, and this man—this gaudy, insufferable pirate—seemed to delight in your captivity.

Weeks passed aboard the ship, and the game between you and Aventurine began in earnest.

He spoke to you daily, spinning tales of his exploits, offering you trinkets from his plunder, and even playing games of chance where the stakes were your freedom. You refused every gamble, your pride unyielding even as your curiosity grew.

In turn, you sang only when you thought he couldn’t hear—a mournful tune carried by the waves. But Aventurine always listened, his sharp mind piecing together fragments of your story.

"You sing of loss," he said one night, his voice unusually soft. He stood at the door to your makeshift prison, his silhouette framed by moonlight. "Of betrayal. You’ve felt it too, haven’t you?"

You flinched at his words but said nothing.

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You think I don’t know what it’s like to be trapped, to have your fate decided by others?" He tilted his head, his eyes glinting like twin flames. "But I broke free. And so will you—if you’re clever enough to play the game."

For the first time, you spoke. "You don’t understand the sea’s bindings, pirate. My freedom isn’t yours to give."

The slow burn of trust began with small acts. Aventurine loosened your chains, allowing you to roam the deck under guard. You, in turn, offered him warnings of treacherous waters ahead, saving his ship from disaster more than once.

"You’re not like the stories," you admitted one evening, your voice hesitant.

"Flattered," he replied, grinning. "But you’d be wise to keep your guard up. I play to win, and I always do."

"Always?" you challenged, meeting his gaze.

His grin faltered for the briefest moment, but he recovered quickly. "Luck’s been kind to me so far."

Yet you saw through his bravado. Behind the jewels and theatrics was a man haunted by choices, a survivor who carried his guilt like a hidden scar.

The breaking point came during a storm. The ship was battered by relentless waves, its crew scrambling to secure the sails. Aventurine himself took the wheel, his usual calm replaced by a rare intensity.

When a rogue wave threatened to sweep you overboard, he abandoned his post to pull you to safety, his hand gripping yours with a desperation that surprised you both.

"Don’t you dare die on me." he hissed, his voice cracking.

For the first time, you saw him without his mask—a man terrified of loss.

The aftermath of the storm left the ship battered but intact. Aventurine found you sitting on the edge of the deck, your tail dangling in the water.

"You saved me..." you said softly.

He shrugged, his usual grin forced. "Couldn’t let you take all my secrets to the deep, now could I?"

But you weren’t fooled. Slowly, you reached for his hand, your touch tentative but firm. "Thank you."

He stared at your joined hands, his guarded expression faltering. "You’re not supposed to thank me," he muttered. "I’m the villain here, remember?"

"Villains don’t bleed for their captives," you countered, your voice steady.

The ending was bittersweet.

Aventurine kept his promise, releasing you near a hidden cove where the sea glittered like liquid sapphire.

As you slipped into the water, you turned back one last time. "You’ll always be playing, won’t you?"

He smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "What can I say? The game’s the only thing keeping me afloat."

"Then I hope you win, pirate." you said softly, your voice carrying the weight of unspoken understanding.

And with that, you disappeared beneath the waves, leaving Aventurine standing alone on the shore, the ocean stretching endlessly before him.

[laseracronym]

Do you think you can make a part two To the Yandere Tenya ?!

Sure! ^u^ I've got some more headcanons up my sleeve!

No NSFW this time. More angst ahead, and kind of an unhappy resolution, unfortunately XD;

Part 1

Yandere!Iida Headcanons Part 2

Iida's quite taken by the intoxicating thought of you pregnant with his child, belly rounded with life and stunning in your maternal glow. It would be good to have an heir to the Iida lineage, of course, but it's more than that. The idea of you bound to him in something as precious as the creation of a life, the family that would come from that, the future together, it all nearly has him hard with want. He loves you, of course he would want a family with you, but the appeal is a lot darker than that for him. It would mean that no matter what, for the rest of your life, you would always have some form of connection to him. In his more self aware moments, the way his mind twists such a precious concept has him sick with disgust in himself.

Iida's always been possessive of you when you're around what he would call "potential rivals." His friends always teased him for being a bit stiff and a stickler for the rules, and perhaps a bit of insecurity has settled in him that you might fall for someone more carefree, more "fun." So he gets jealous, and clingy, and insists others keep a respectable distance from his girlfriend. His friends think it's cute, how worked up he can get, who would have thought that the former class president could get so jealous? Surely you have him wrapped around your little finger. But is it really so cute? When his eyes darken and his jaw clenches, a fist forming at his side just out of sight? When he takes you home and considers never letting you out again?

It wouldn't be accurate to say that Iida's friends never catch on. Some of them do see the darkness in him, and it worries them probably as much as it worries Iida. While a few just have faith that Iida would never take things too far, others, well... After everything they've been through as a class, they're not going to let their friend fall. For some, that means interfering before things get too serious, for others, that means making sure Iida doesn't get caught. He's not the only one in the group with dark inclinations.

You would find out about Iida's darker side from his very own mouth. One day he goes too far, in his jealousy, in his brutality towards a villain that harmed you, whatever it is, it brings you to call him out when you're at home. You've been noticing worrying changes with Iida for a while now, and you demand to know: what is wrong with him?

What's wrong with him? There's too much that's wrong, and the fact that you can see it, which is his worst nightmare, breaks him. He falls to his knees in front of you, arms around your middle and face pressed into your stomach as every dark, alarming thought he's ever had comes out of him.

It shatters your perception of him irreparably. The good man you thought you knew wants to keep you in a cage, wants to possess you so wholly it scares even himself. You try to draw away from him, try to be gentle as you tell him, "Tenya, you need help..." and it confirms to him that he's lost you.

He doesn't let go.

This was the beginning of your brief captivity. By this point, Iida had already been taking more and more of your agency away from you, controlling the finances and steadily closing you away from your old social circle. It might not have been with this outcome in mind at the time, but it worked in his favor now. A few emails and calls and you could be gone for weeks without anyone sounding the alarm, and those that would look for you were mostly Iida's friends, too.

It was misery being locked away, physically restrained and constantly monitored to keep you from leaving the house. The locks were changed, your phone and computer taken away, the only way out was through Iida, himself, who definitely had the physical advantage.

Throughout it all, Iida was a bizarre combination of remorseful and resolute. He felt so bad for putting you through this, begging for your forgiveness and hating what he'd become. That said, he didn't feel so bad as to let you go, and it was obvious that he was still hoping to continue your relationship, with or without your approval. You didn't recognize him anymore. You tried to reason with him, and when that didn't work, you fought him, desperate to escape, but Iida was a tough opponent, and you found that getting out on your own was a hopeless endeavor.

But your capture didn't last forever. As stated, it was a brief captivity, no more than a few weeks, maybe a few months at most (though that time felt like forever). He hadn't planned for this, after all. It would be Iida's friends that got you out, subduing Iida and bringing him to see reason and seek help. However, you would find that it was mostly for Iida's sake, not for your own. There would be no justice for your kidnapping and imprisonment. The former Class A was a tight knit group, and they would ensure that Iida would still have a chance to be the hero he wanted to be, even if it meant keeping your ordeal from seeing the light of day.

Through help and support, Iida would slowly learn to control his possessive urges, but they would still remain at the back of his mind. He would always, always desire to get that happy ending with you.

(Requests)

[fallen-w1ngs]

'' SEND ME NO FLOWERS ,,

|| pairings: bucky barnes x gn!reader

|| warnings: fluff-ish? , really bittersweet , 1940s bucky

|| word count: 1k words

"No, please? Stay the night?"

You gave the best puppy dog eyes you could as you looked up to your partner. Your everything. Your Bucky. He was enlisted and getting sent out first thing in the morning. The two of you had gone steady a few months ago, but you'd known him for years before that.

"Dolll, I-" Bucky snorted and held you close to his chest, his forehead resting against yours before he pressed a small kiss to the tip of your nose. His lips gentle, and his touch was like clouds. "How can I say no t'you?"

A small chuckle left your lips as you ushered him into your home. You agreed that, after the war the two of you would get married. Move in together.. Ah, well, you don't wanna dwell on that right now. You're going to focus on the man right in front of you and that's all.

"You can't say no t'me!" You hugged his waist before pushing him down to the couch. With gentle touch, you grabbed his coat and threw it to the side. He's complained before about how it was tight and hot in it. "And I thank God for it everyday"

"You're so bad, hun"

"You love it"

In a graceful movement, you sat nicely on his lap. Your hands cupping his face as you looked over his face. Trying to remember every wrinkle, every hair, every bump and crevice. You weren't going to see him for months..

"What's on your mind, sweetheart?" The man in front of you asked with a worried smile. His hands were placed on your waist, making sure you weren't going to fall or move or anything of the sort. "Why're acting like 'n eager beaver?"

".. You promise you'll be back, right?"

A beat of silence spread between the two of you. James Buchanan Barnes left wordless for a moment. His shoulders tensed, no one would notice. No one but you. He licked his top lip before he captured your lips on his.

"I promise." He whispered against you. "I'll be back quicker than y'can say my name"

You ran a hand through his hair, it was so soft under your touch. You're going to miss moments like this. The sweet man you met gradeschool. You remembered when he was a lanky 12 year old boy, all confident at being 'the fastest kid in the whole school.' Honestly, when you were kids you didn't like him. He was a popular kid in school, everyone loved him

Except you. Which was strange for Bucky. So, of course, he made the great decision to talk to you in the library. You were reading The Great Gatsby.. Which was a heavy book for a 12 year old to read. But that just made Bucky even more enraptured with you.

Ever since then, he'd been glued to your side. After that, you, Bucky, and Steve had become a close knit trio. Everyone knew wherever you went, Bucky and Steve were close behind.

It was only inevitable that you'd fall for one of them.

Ah, well. That's enough reminiscing.. The front lines were the one place you wouldn't be able to follow Bucky to. You weren't enlisted, nor did you want to join the army. Much too violent for you. You wanted to open a bookshop for crying out loud!

"You'll stay safe though, okay, James?"

"Oh no, y'called me James, am I in trouble?" He had his signature smirk on his lips, trying to lighten the mood. It was a, uh, a failed attempt.

"Promise me."

His gaze softened as he kept his eyes locked on yours, his thumbs rubbing small circles on your back. Something he learned to soothe you one day after you had a low grade on a math test.

"I promise, doll."

A small sigh left your lips before you kissed his forehead softly. "I'll send you flowers, 'kay?"

"No."

You huffed and leaned away, your brows furrowed at his quick answer. A small frown on your face. "Why? Embarrassed of me?"

"Not one bit, doll, don't even joke like that," His grip on your waist tightened before he pulled you closer. "I don't want'cha to send me flowers, 'cause I want'cha to save that for our garden."

A small, confused chuckle left your lips. "Garden?"

"When we live together after the war," He whispered and kissed your lips, a quick soft one. "We'll have a big garden, somethin' we can take care of together."

"Buck-"

"We'd have the best front yard in the whole neighborhood," His eyes bore into yours. His blue eyes locked on yours as he looked at you.. Only love and admiration. Unlike his usual teasing nature, he looked at you as if you're the only person in the world. As if he wasn't leaving the next day. In fact, he looked at you as if you'd spend your whole life together..

That was his plan, at least.

"So no flowers, got it, sweetheart?"

You rolled your eyes and leaned forward, your forehead resting against his. "I got it."

"Doll?"

"What is it, Bucky?"

"I love you."

Your heart skipped a beat before a giggle escaped your lips. Your arms wrapped around his neck tightly as you placed scattered kisses around his face. You've said you "i love you's" before. But the magic hasn't weared off, not for you at least. Not ever.

"I love you too, James Buchanan Barnes. I love you more then you'll know."

The two of you sat there in a comfortable silence for a while. Quiet conversations between you two before Bucky carried you to your room. Where the both of you cuddled all night and whispered sweet nothings to each other.

You kept him close, stealing away any and all his warmth in the dark of the night.

Sadly, the morning came by, and your Bucky was swept away. Of course, he spared you a kiss before he had to go, promising he'd be back before you could say his name.

If only that promise was kept.

I LOVE 1940S BUCKY. I WANT A WHOLE AHH SERIES ABT 1940S BUCKY BARNES. :(((

[nanamineedstherapy]

His Chrysanthemums

Widower!Toji x GN!Reader

Summary: Grief lingers like a shadow, following even the strongest hearts. Toji’s world was shattered, and though time moved forward, he remained anchored to the memory of what he’d lost. A new presence offers a chance to heal, but unseen and unheard, someone fights to return to him, defying the laws of life & death. This ones for all those who wanted the mysterious hunk to be Toji, hope you guys are satisfied with this in the meantime I finish that story and cook up something for him. First time writing Toji in lead hehe.

Chrysanthemums, often referred to as "mums," with their vibrant blooms, carry a heavy weight of sorrow, frequently symbolizing grief and mourning in many cultures. Associated with death, they serve as poignant reminders of lost loved ones, evoking a deep sense of nostalgia and regret for moments that can never be reclaimed. Their presence speaks to the transience of life, a bittersweet acknowledgement of beauty that fades too quickly, leaving behind aching memories of separation and unrequited love. As the petals fall, they whisper of heartache and longing, setting the stage for a story steeped in loss and the haunting echoes of what once was. Song Rec. WC: 2,061

The cold wind sliced through the night like a dagger, sharp and unrelenting, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth and dying flowers. Toji Zenin roamed the streets like a ghost of the man he used to be. His broad shoulders, once a symbol of his unyielding strength, now sagged under the weight of an emptiness that seemed infinite. His hands, scarred and calloused from a lifetime of battles, trembled as they clutched a bouquet of pale chrysanthemums.

The flowers weren’t for you.

The streets were quieter now, the hum of life dulled as the world prepared for sleep. Toji’s boots crunched against the gravel, his gait slow and deliberate. He hadn’t planned this walk. His feet simply carried him forward, driven by an unspoken need to escape the walls that seemed to close in tighter with every passing night.

The first year after you died was chaos—a storm of anger, grief, and regret that left him reeling. He’d lost himself in whiskey and violence, trying to drown the sound of your laughter that echoed endlessly in his mind. The second year was no easier. He numbed himself with work, burying every ounce of himself into missions, pushing his body to the brink just to feel something—anything—besides the ache of your absence.

But grief has a way of changing shape, of dulling its sharp edges into something heavier, more insidious. By the third year, Toji found himself hollow. The pain no longer roared; it whispered, constant and cruel. That was when he met her.

She wasn’t like you. She wasn’t trying to be.

Her kindness was quiet, unassuming. She didn’t pry or push. She simply sat beside him when he needed silence and spoke when the silence grew too loud. For the first time in years, Toji felt the faint stirrings of something he couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t joy—he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel that again—but it was a spark, a flicker of warmth in the cold expanse of his heart.

She didn’t try to fix him. She didn’t pretend she could. And for that, he was grateful.

Still, guilt clawed at him every time he caught himself smiling at something she said or leaning into her gentle touch. The weight of your memory was ever-present, a specter that loomed over every quiet moment, every tentative step forward.

Tonight, as he walked with the bouquet in hand, his chest felt tighter with every breath. The chrysanthemums, pale and fragile, seemed to mock him with their delicate beauty. He’d bought them without thinking, a reflex from a life he no longer lived.

He wasn’t sure when he decided he would confess his feelings to her. The thought had come unbidden, growing stronger with each passing day. It felt wrong, like a betrayal of everything you had shared, but it also felt necessary.

Yet, as he approached the park where they often met, the memories surged like a tidal wave, threatening to drown him. He saw flashes of you—your laughter, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when you smiled, the warmth of your hand in his. He clenched his jaw, trying to shake the images loose, but they only grew stronger.

The park was nearly empty, the streetlamps casting pools of golden light on the cobblestone path. Toji hesitated at the entrance, his heart pounding in his chest. The bouquet felt heavy in his hands, as if it carried the weight of every unspoken word, every unfinished moment.

He hadn’t even seen her yet, but already he felt like he was making a mistake.

His mind raced with doubts. Would she even want this? Would she understand the shadows that clung to him, the parts of himself he could never share? Would she see him for what he truly was—a man broken beyond repair, trying desperately to piece himself back together?

He took a deep breath, steeling himself as he stepped forward. The sound of his boots echoed in the stillness, each step heavier than the last.

What Toji didn’t know—what he couldn’t possibly know—was that someone was watching him.

---

The afterlife was a void—silent, endless, and suffocating. It wasn’t the peace you’d been promised, nor the oblivion you might have welcomed. Instead, it was a cruel limbo where every moment stretched into eternity, and all you could feel was the unbearable ache of his absence.

The gods had taken you too soon, tearing you away from Toji with no warning, no time to say goodbye. You had begged for another chance, pleaded for mercy, but the heavens were indifferent to your suffering. Fate is immutable, they told you. The dead cannot return.

But you weren’t one to accept fate.

Your love for him was a force stronger than death itself. It fueled you, driving you to claw your way through the afterlife. You bartered with ancient spirits, battled celestial beings, and endured trials that shredded your soul piece by piece. You became a warrior in death, a ghost consumed by purpose. Every moment, every sacrifice, was for him.

The gods warned you. He has moved on. You will not find what you seek.

You didn’t care to listen.

Your resolve burned brighter than the stars, a flame that refused to be extinguished. You tore through the veil between life and death with sheer determination, leaving behind fragments of yourself in the process. When you finally returned, the world felt alien, like stepping into a life that no longer belonged to you.

What Toji didn’t know—what he couldn’t possibly know—was that you were watching him now.

Your spectral form lingered in the shadows as he walked through the park, his steps deliberate. You had dreamed of this moment for three long years, imagined his face lighting up with joy when he saw you again. But as you followed him, the truth began to sink in.

The chrysanthemums in his hands were not for you. The softness in his eyes was not for you.

You watched as he approached a woman sitting on a bench, her smile warm and inviting. Your heart clenched as he handed her the flowers, his voice low and hesitant as he spoke words you couldn’t hear.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

You had imagined this moment a thousand times. You had dreamed of the look on his face when he saw you again, the way he would pull you into his arms and swear never to let you go. But this? This wasn’t the reunion you had fought for.

You stepped closer, your ghostly form trembling with the effort. The world around you felt heavy, the air thick with the weight of your grief. You reached out, your fingers brushing against his shoulder, but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t see you.

He couldn’t.

You stumbled back, the realization crashing over you like a tidal wave. You had fought gods and torn apart the fabric of your soul to return to him, only to find that you were nothing more than a shadow—a forgotten memory lingering in a world that no longer needed you.

You ran.

The forest loomed ahead, dark and endless, but you didn’t care. Your sobs echoed through the trees, raw and heart-wrenching, a symphony of pain that seemed to reverberate through the very earth.

You found yourself in the graveyard.

The air was cold, the silence broken only by the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of crickets. You stood before your own tombstone, the sight of it stealing the breath you no longer had.

Beloved Wife. Forever Missed.

The words carved into the stone felt like a mockery.

You weren’t missed.

You were forgotten.

You collapsed to your knees, clutching at the earth above your grave. The soil was damp, a cruel reminder of the finality you had fought so hard to defy. Your sobs tore through the quiet night, raw and unrestrained. You had given up everything to return to him, only to find that the world had moved on without you.

You clutched at your chest as if you could rip the anguish out of yourself.

“Why?!” You wailed, your voice breaking. “Why did I come back? Why did I fight for this?!”

The heavens remained silent.

---

You didn’t notice Toji at first, too consumed by the overwhelming weight of your despair. The forest around your grave blurred into an endless haze of muted greens and grays, your wails swallowed by the indifferent silence of the world.

Then you heard it—the crunch of gravel beneath heavy boots.

You looked up, your ghostly form trembling. Toji stood there, his figure clear against the hazy backdrop. He held chrysanthemums in his hands, the same ones you’d seen him give to her.

Why were they here?!

Your heartbeat—or what remained of it—sank in your chest.

He approached slowly, his movements cautious, as though stepping into sacred ground. His face was a canvas—grief, regret, and something you couldn’t quite place.

He sat by your grave, his head bowed. For a long moment, he didn’t speak, the silence between you both as suffocating as the chasm that separated you.

When he finally did, his voice was barely a whisper. “I tried,” he said, the words cracking under their own weight. “I tried to move on. But it’s not the same. It’ll never be the same.”

You felt your chest tighten, the ache in your soul almost unbearable.

“She’s with someone else,” he continued, his tone laced with bitter amusement. “Gojo, of all people. Should’ve seen that coming.”

Relief flooded through you, unbidden and unwelcome, a bitter reminder of your own selfishness. You hated yourself for it, for the small part of you that found comfort in knowing he hadn’t truly moved on.

He didn’t deserve this; your baby didn’t deserve this. Wasn’t his family’s torment enough misery to last a lifetime? He deserved peace, love, and happiness—things you could no longer provide. The weight of your absence pressed heavily on your heart, a constant ache that reminded you of all the moments you would never share again.

You wished for him to find solace, yet the thought of him moving forward without you felt like a betrayal. It was a cruel twist of fate that left you longing for his happiness while knowing you could never be a part of it.

“I keep seeing your face,” he said, breaking you out of your own spiral, his voice trembling. “Hearing your voice. Every time I try to forget, it’s like you’re right there, haunting me.”

Your heart shattered all over again. You wanted to scream, to cry out, I am here! I fought for you! I came back for you!

But no sound escaped your lips.

Toji placed the flowers on your grave, his hand lingering on the cold stone. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “For not being enough when you were here. For even thinking I could replace you now that you’re gone.”

You reached out, your ghostly hand trembling as it hovered inches from his cheek. Then, with every ounce of will you had left, you brushed your fingers against his hand.

He froze.

For a moment, it felt as though he could feel you, as though the distance between you had finally closed. His breath hitched, his head snapping up to look around.

“Who’s there?” He whispered, his eyes scanning the empty clearing.

You stayed silent, your ghostly form sagging in defeat as he stood. He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Guess I’m losing my mind now, too.”

He walked away, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his grief. You stayed behind.

You collapsed onto your grave, your wails swallowed by the indifferent silence of the world. Your screams echoed through the cemetery, unheard by the living but reverberating through the void.

“I’m sorry,” you cried, your voice breaking. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve—”

The words died in your throat. You realized, with a painful clarity, that it didn’t matter anymore. You were gone. And he was alive.

All you could do now was let him go.

As dawn broke over the cemetery, you faded back into the ether, leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of chrysanthemums.

A/N: Thank you for reading this story—I poured my soul into writing it, and I hope it broke your heart just a little (or a lot). Let me know your thoughts in the comments! Your takes mean the world to me.

All Works Masterlist

[merqki]

he loved like a funeral

cw: aki x gn!reader, hair mention (??), emotional damage™, hurt/comfort (minus the comfort), aki being aki, bittersweet everything, intentional lowercase

a/n: this is my very first time writing and posting a fanfic in english (i’m from the pizza pasta mamma mia country), so any constructive criticism or feedback is more than welcome! i’m also not great with the whole “aesthetic” thing, so feel free to drop any suggestions for that too!

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ 🪻 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

childhoodbestfriend!aki who you were almost 100% sure forgot about you. you were best friends in elementary school and middle school, you were the only one he’d talk to.

childhoodbestfriend!aki who was utterly obsessed with you, but wouldn't show. all he’d really do was keep you close, listening to you rambling about whatever and scoffing at you in an unpleasant manner, secretly enjoying every single sound coming out of your mouth and hating himself whenever you would shut up because of his fucking evil mouth. he didn't mean to.

childhoodbestfriend!aki who didn't even show up at the airport when you had to leave for europe with your parents. your dad was a businessman, it wasn't your fault, but aki made you feel like it was.

childhoodbestfriend!aki who was left traumatized by the gun devil. you and your whole family were safe, but you just felt something happened to him. so you acted on it. it didn't take long to find out he enrolled in the public safety division.

childhoodbestfriend!aki who thought about you every single day, he'd hold onto a strand of your hair that had gotten stuck in a button of his old school uniform jacket. he'd cling onto the memories of you and the sound of your voice that slowly and painfully started to fade away.

childhoodbestfriend!aki who decided to make a contract with the fox devil solely because it reminded him of your eyes. how pathetic, he'd always repeat that to himself.

childhoodbestfriend!aki who rushed to rescue a civilian from some fuckass devil he couldn't even name now. the civilian had hair like yours, which doesn't mean anything — it could've been anyone.

childhoodbestfriend!aki who aggressively grabbed your shoulder to make you turn to face him. so you did. stared into his deep blue eyes that were paralyzed by the shock of seeing you after such a long time.

childhoodbestfriend!aki who would recognize your fox eyes everywhere. he held onto those strands of hair so tightly that now combing his calloused fingers through your hair while looking at your face seemed like an hallucination.

childhoodbestfriend!aki who would crumble and cry on your chest, sobbing like never before.

«i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry, y/n»

the floor was finally still, the devil had been killed. aki was holding the fabric of your shirt so tightly you thought it was going to rip, just like the bones and flesh keeping your heart from jumping out of your chest.

you couldn't believe your eyes, you’d tried to reach out to him, had been silently watching him from afar and now he was here — trembling in your arms.

«i regret everything. i regret not telling you how much you meant to me, not coming to the airport that day, being always so cold. i missed you so fucking much, i–»

he just kept sobbing and apologizing, and you couldn't manage to find the right words, so you just caressed his face and held him as tight as you could.

«it’s– it’s okay, aki. i missed you too. i’m here now.»

he got up, rubbing his eyes, all red and puffy, looking exactly like he did as a child, crying over a broken toy.

he brought his hand, cold and sweaty, to your cheek, warm and soft. you just smiled at him, mimicking an it's okay with your mouth.

a woman with an eye patch appeared, crushing the bubble you and aki found comfort in.

«oh, aki. there you are.»

he immediately stood up to face the woman.

«i found another civilian, call an ambulance for the survivors.»

he left without even looking back at you, leaving you with the eye-patched woman called himeno. she gave you an understanding smile, almost as if she knew exactly what had just happened.

«are you hurt?»

you shook your head.

«i’ll tell aki.»

you smiled back, left on your own, parting ways with himeno. with a lump in your throat, you left aki behind. that was the closure you wanted, but he wasn't who you needed.

you had always been hoping to find him again someday, but you had moved on from your old life. you had a partner that you loved so much, thrived in school and were now looking for a job. your family was still in europe, that wasn't home.

you just wanted closure from the only person you ever loved unconditionally, even from a distance, and that was it, wanting more would've only made you cling onto the past, just like aki did — he always did.

and you were so incredibly sure that one day,

that was what was going to get him killed.

© chiara — 2025

[samazing0831]

Take Me Back to the Night We Met - Bucky Barnes x Reader

Bucky Barnes x Reader // Song Lyric Challenge

It's been five years since Bucky vanished. Five years since he turned to dust in the middle of an argument and took your heart with him. Left behind with only memories and grief that refuses to fade, you've clung to anything that makes him real - his hoodie, his side of the bed, the sound of his laugh echoing in your dreams. But grief doesn't play by rules. And neither does fate.

When the dust begins to settle - literally - Bucky returns, just as the world begins to put itself back together. But what happens after the happy ending?

1.2k words

I still wake up on his side of the bed.

Every morning, I roll toward the ghost of him, hand searching in the quiet. And every morning, I only find the cold.

I used to think grief came in stages. That once you made peace with one step, the next would come easier.

But that was five years ago.

And I still haven’t moved past that moment.

I am not the only traveler Who has not repaid his debt I’ve been searching for a trail to follow again Take me back to the night we met

I felt so lost when he left.

And it’s selfish to say I was heartbroken - everyone lost someone that day.

Technically, I didn’t even have a reason to be - we broke up two weeks before the blip.

But how else could I explain the gaping hole in my chest?

Knowing he was gone, and there was nothing I could do to bring him back?

We were fighting.

Not about anything important. Something stupid.

Like who left the coffee pot on - again.

He laughed when I snapped at him.

He always laughed when I was irritated.

Then he pulled me into his arms anyway. Whispered, “You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

I rolled my eyes.

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

People vanished mid-sentence.

Screams split the sky.

Dust danced through the air like ash from a war I didn’t understand.

And Bucky - my Bucky - just disintegrated.

I didn’t even get to hold him.

I tried everything to repent.

Like I could trade my soul for his.

I walked the streets feeling like the only one left breathing

Sometimes I’d catch my reflection and swear it wasn’t me anymore.

He died fighting for us. Again.

And I stayed.

Sometimes I dream of him.

Not as he was at the end, but as he was when we met.

It was a rainy night in Bucharest.

He was quiet. Guarded.

Eyes like storm clouds.

He asked me if I wanted to get a drink.

I said yes, even though I hated the bar.

That was the first time he touched my hand. Not romantic. Just a brush of fingers.

By accident.

And it was like something clicked into place.

And then I can tell myself What the hell I’m supposed to do And then I can tell myself Not to ride along with you

I wish I could go back there.

Before he let me in.

Before I let him fill my lungs and take root in every part of me.

I had all and then most of you Some and now none of you Take me back to the night we met I don’t know what I’m supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Take me back to the night we met

Because maybe if I could return to that moment, I could stop myself.

Maybe I could be smarter. Safer.

Maybe I could survive this.

But then what?

Live without him, and never know what it felt like to be loved by him?

No.

I couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

I talk to him sometimes. Out loud.

Like he’s just in the other room.

I lie to myself a lot.

Pretend I’ve moved on.

Pretend I don’t stare at the door every time it opens.

Pretend my heart doesn’t ache when I see couples holding hands.

The truth is, I’m still here. Still waiting.

Because that was the last time I remember who I was.

Who we were.

Before the terror.

Before the fight.

Before his eyes filled with tears he wouldn’t let fall.

Before he turned to dust in front of me.

When the night was full of terrors And your eyes were filled with tears When you had not touched me yet Oh, take me back to the night we met

Maybe one day he’ll come back.

Maybe one day, the dust will settle in reverse.

And his body will reform from the pieces.

Maybe I’ll get to hear his laugh again.

Until then, I’ll keep waking up on his side of the bed.

He came back in the spring.

I heard it before I saw it - rumors, headlines, whispers of people appearing out of thin air.

Then Sam called. His voice cracked when he said, “He’s asking for you.”

It was raining the day I saw him again.

Fitting.

It had rained the day he left, too.

He looked the same.

Maybe a little thinner. A little tired.

But those eyes - they found me instantly.

Like they’d never stopped searching.

He stepped forward.

I didn’t.

Couldn’t.

I’d imagined this moment a thousand times.

But none of my fantasies prepared me for how it would actually feel.

Not joy.

Not closure.

Just the overwhelming weight of everything we lost in between.

His voice was hoarse when he said my name.

Like he had to fight through the dust of five silence years.

I had all and then most of you Some and now none of you Take me back to the night we met I don’t know what I’m supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Take me back to the night we met

That’s what he had been.

All of him. Then most. Then some.

Then dust.

Then silence.

Then nothing.

And now?

Now he stood in front of me like time hadn’t chewed me up and spit me out.

Like the last five years hadn’t been a slow unraveling of every piece of my soul.

He reached out, like I could just fall back into step with him.

Like I hadn’t tried to bury the memory of tracing the lines of his metal hand in the dark.

Like I hadn’t sobbed on my bathroom floor, whispering into the silence, Take me back to the night we met.

The moment passed slowly - thick, heavy, full of everything unsaid.

His eyes glassed over.

I knew he was crying before I saw the tears.

God, I remembered that night too well.

I remember how terrified he was that he wouldn’t come back from that fight.

I remember holding his face and telling him we’d have time.

That time was the one thing we’d always have.

I lied.

Now he was here. And time felt like a cruel joke.

I wanted to run to him. Wrap myself around him and never let go.

But I also wanted to scream.

To punch him.

To ask him how it felt to leave me behind with an apartment full of memories and a heart full of ash.

Instead, I said, “You left.”

His head bowed. “I know.”

“You didn’t say goodbye.”

He swallowed hard. “I didn’t get to.”

Silence.

The wind blew. The rain softened. Somewhere in the background, the world kept turning.

But we stayed still.

“Do you still love me?” I asked.

He blinked. A single tear slipped down his cheek.

“I never stopped.”

And suddenly, I remembered the first time he kissed me.

How careful he was.

How his hands trembled like he was afraid he’d break me.

How I had whispered, “You’re safe with me,” and meant it with every atom in my body.

I took one step forward.

Then another.

And when I reached him, I pressed my forehead against his chest.

Just to make sure he was real.

Just to feel the thump of his heart beneath my fingertips.

He wrapped his arms around me like he was afraid I’d vanish next.

I whispered into his jacket, voice cracking:

“Please, don’t leave me again.”

[deadlyangelofpurity]

Roku did what he had to do...

For anyone confused, to summarize Roku has dream of future events, kills Sozin begrudgingly, takes the throne. Knows he made the right call but it sucks.

[steviewashere]

Birthday Blues

Rating: Teen and Up Pairing: Steve Harrington & Steve Harrington's Parents, Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson CW: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Emotional Abuse, Brief Mention of Child Abuse, Brief Mention of Financial Abuse, Brief Mention of Secondary Original Character Death Tags: Post-Canon, Post Vecna, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington Has a Stepdad, Steve Harrington Has a Good Mom, Steve Harrington's Father Being an Asshole, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Emotional Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington's Mom is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington's Birthday, Steve Harrington is Loved, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Hopeful Ending, Bittersweet Ending

Based on my own experience with my stepdad and uh...yeah, that's it, basically. Be kind, I guess? 🤷‍♂️

Also on Ao3 because this shit is long.

🫂————————🫂 He thought his twentieth birthday would come with more fanfare. Maybe not the whole calvary. But something simple. A cake, maybe. A card, possibly. Even just a simple “Happy Birthday.” That would’ve sufficed.

And the problem isn’t with his friends. No. They’ve sent him messages over the walkie since the clock hit midnight on June 29th. Made plans for the next few days. Promised birthday gifts tonight. He wondered if everything was supposed to be a surprise: the gifts and cake and plans. But Robin had already reached out, promised him that she already spoke with everybody, made sure to tell them how he doesn’t like surprises; not after Vecna, not after his ankle had been grabbed.

The issue is with his mom’s boyfriend. His ‘stepdad.’

Nobody really knows much about him. Not really. Nothing above: “He’s an asshole. I don't like him.” Which is…a way to make an impression. But he doesn’t really enjoy talking about him.

The boyfriend came into the picture when Steve was seven. When he was naive and confused about the world around him. When he was used to it just being him and his mom for a while. His birth dad had passed on really young—nothing that could’ve been prevented, but it wasn’t any sort of accident, and Steve doesn’t like talking about it; so he just doesn’t. But the boyfriend came along after so much nothing. After a life half-lived.

He was kind, at first. Interested. Capable. Made Steve’s mom happy. Took her out for dates—which left Steve with a babysitter; then on his lonesome when he turned thirteen—he bought her things, promised the moon, was at her beck and call. He even cared about Steve. Introduced him to the world of Spiderman comic books and baseball games and driving with the windows down. Had been there for home baseball games, Steve’s first piano recital, and for the first handful of birthday parties. He helped, when there was nothing. He helped, even when they had everything.

Then came the alcohol.

Steve remembers it clear as day. The vacation they all took together. They’d taken a plane from Indianapolis to Seattle. And it was sort of cool, Steve figured. The hotel with the indoor pool and the double-wide beds and the really nice view over the tops of tall apartment buildings. It was the first of many trips; one of the last Steve went on. What came with the nice hotel, though, was a bar and grill down at the lobby.

And sure, it was a time for celebration. Of sorts. They were heading out for Disneyland, Steve had been wide awake since the night before, his mom had bought them matching shirts so that nobody got lost. It was ideal, fun, what say you. But then the boyfriend came upstairs, a cup of something sticky in his hand, and a glaze to his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“We’re celebrating,” he had slurred, “it’s alright, just for the night. Let’s have some fun.”

It didn’t stop there, though. Steve hadn’t known why at first. But then came the arguments over the next couple months after that decision. When the recycling bin was full of more beer bottles than empty containers of yogurt. When Richard was slurring his words earlier and earlier in the evening. When he’d sleep a good amount of the day, try and right himself from work, barely talk to anybody when he came back, and already had a bottle in hand by the time conversations started. The arguments were unrelenting, though. He could hear them through the floor of his bedroom: “Laura!”, “Richard.”. A few tense moments would pass after Laura, Steve’s mom, would say that name. Steve would leave his bed, in all the right spaces to make sure it didn’t creak, and settle himself by his bedroom door—where he could open it a crack just to hear, just to know, in case something happened and he had to go down there. Then, she’d speak again. Quiet and wet and calm, “I wish you would stop. If not for me, do it for Steven.”

Steve would hold his breath. Waiting. His mom never called him that, not unless he was in trouble, not unless she was serious. And his stomach turned at the thought of it. She’d call him Stevie otherwise, all soft and sweet and soaking—akin to the sugary butter at the bottom of a freshly made cinnamon roll. He liked that. He loved her. He loved Richard, despite all of this.

Until, finally, Richard spoke. “Is that supposed to make me care?” He questioned with ire. “He isn’t mine,” he eventually spat. And then he stormed to their bedroom—downstairs on the first floor, just off of the living room—slammed the door.

His mom wept that night, Steve could relay if asked. And he had been too tied up in his own awful sadness to go downstairs and comfort her. It wasn’t the last time. Wasn’t the last slammed door, or argument, or soft cry; for either of them. At least Mom loves me, he had thought, at least she’s mine.

With the alcohol and that understanding of absent love and those arguments, Steve would instigate them, too. He’d pick fights if only to get Richard to leave the house quicker. He’d scream and spit and stomp his feet, if only to get time alone. He’d even get fussy with his mom. Because if he could be an ass, get them both to be angry at him, maybe Richard would stay off of her for a little while. Maybe he wouldn’t drink so early. Maybe he’d have to have a conversation about “Steve’s antics.” It only made him more distant. It only made him angrier.

And with all of that in mind, he stopped the birthday celebrations. He stopped caring. He stopped saying “I love you,” when Steve went to bed. He stopped being a dad.

Because Steve wasn’t his. And he wanted to make sure the whole world knew it.

In comes his twentieth birthday, though. And he thought, maybe, that Richard would care. That he’d do something similar to when Steve was a kid. Make pancakes and wake him up with a soft knock to his door and sing the birthday song. He supposed, though, that that was all so foolish. That he wasn’t a little kid, so why would Richard do any of that? Maybe to prove himself, that’s something. Maybe care at all.

His mom had said something at midnight. Then again at nine in the morning. Then again over scrambled eggs and bacon. Made plans. Ushered a card full of cash and the Duran Duran album he didn’t have yet, Notorious, on cassette into his hands. He thanked her, kissed the top of her head, and put his things away upstairs. Richard still had said nothing. In fact, he was snoring through the wall. And the evidence of his latest binge had been scattered across the kitchen countertops before making it to the recycling bin; Steve should know, he had to put them in there and his hands came away smelling of cheap beer—it’s not even the good stuff, how can he drink this shit, he asked himself.

But he couldn’t find it in himself to care anymore. Sure, his chest caved in something funny. And his throat sort of went dry. He went to his car, though. And he drove off to where Robin had told him to go. To Eddie’s new double-wide trailer, a damn replica of his old one on the outside. Where everybody was already parked and waiting. Hanging out outside, sodas and…beer in hand.

He took a steadying breath and forced his way over to them. Let them shout ‘Happy Birthday’ at him. And then he took a seat by Eddie. He was in a pair of loose black basketball shorts, a white t-shirt, and barefoot. His hair was piled up. And he was drinking. 

“Hey baby,” Eddie greeted. He leaned over the side of the sofa they were on, dug around in what Steve assumed was a cooler, and held out a weeping beer can. “Technically, it’s not legal, but I’m not going to tell anybody.”

Steve eyed it for a few long seconds. Enough that Eddie’s hand wavered, the beer threatening to fall to the floor. He looked back up. “No—uh—no, I don’t want that. Can…I’m going to sound like a dick, but can I make a request?”

Eddie put the beer away with a sidelong glance. He furrowed his eyebrows. “It’s your birthday, Stevie. Of course you can make a request.”

“Can we put the beer away? I don’t…It’s making me uncomfortable.”

Another odd glance to Steve, Eddie gave. His mouth pinched. He swished his near empty can in his hand. How many has he had, Steve wondered briefly, some weird pulse of panic in his belly. “Sure,” Eddie agreed slowly. “You going cold turkey or something? Could’a sworn you had one the other day when I saw you?”

He watches Eddie stand up briefly, pour out his beer over the side of the porch, and then place it in a clear garbage bag that’s been tied to the railing. There’s already three or four beer cans in there—Steve knows that’s what they are, they all say Miller and the cans the kids have are bright red or green. He looks back to Eddie’s face when he settles down again, an arm thrown over the back of the couch, hair falling loosely from his bun, sweat on his brow, sweat or beer on his upper lip.

“I just don’t want people drinking today, please.” And he feels kind of silly. Having to explain himself.

But Eddie’s hand curls down from the back of the couch, dangling loose at the back of Steve’s neck. Fingers trailing over the top notches of his spine. “You got it, sugar. I’ll have Robs put it away inside, okay?” Steve nods loosely, lets Eddie holler out, and relaxes into his side.

The rest of the day went by pretty smoothly. There were gifts: hairspray from Dustin, some artwork from Will, a new basketball from Lucas, matching shirts from Robin, a book he’d asked for from Eddie, and cards from the others who couldn’t find something in time or afford anything. He’s thankful for it all because it’s more than he expected. And there’s cake, his favorite, German chocolate with Ferrero Rocher candies on the borders; “Nance and I made it,” Robin explained and he gave her a knowing look.

It was all so normal. So good. So sweet.

Just like it had been last year. Even the year before that. And the years prior, when it was his mom and Tommy and Carol and Nancy. And the years before that, when it was Richard and his mom.

He really wants to cry about it.

When the party dwindles down, it’s just him and Eddie. Eddie’s putting out the last of the recycling and cleaning up some dishes, to which he adamantly refused to let Steve help with. And so Steve takes advantage, using the new phone.

He dials his house number and waits as it rings for his mom to pick up.

“Harrington household, Laura speaking,” she greets, her voice…nasally. Unusually so.

“Hey Mom,” he greets back, “it’s…Well, you know it’s Steve. Just called to…wanted to check-in. How’s everything going?”

She shuffles on the other end. Clears her throat. Sniffs. “He’s not going to say it, Stevie, I’m sorry,” she says, voice unreasonably apologetic. “I tried to get him to at least call this number you gave me, you know for your Eddie friend. And he…he just scoffed at me. Said some things, you know how he is.”

“Oh,” he mutters. His voice must do something weird, because Eddie’s slowing his wash on the dishes, leaning further into the counter edge to look at Steve. “Are you okay?”

“It’s the usual, Stevie. It’s just—“ She sighs, a great heaving thing. “—Just the usual. He’s already out to the store. Took the last bit of my cash for it; he spent all his own. Left me here with microwaved leftovers. Might turn in early.”

“I can give back the bit of cash you gave—“

“No,” she rushes. “No, Stevie. That’s your money. If it came back to me, he’d probably take it anyway. Don’t worry about it, alright? Just…If your friend can let you, I think you should stay the night there. Richard’s…he’s got the whiskey out from the den. Just stay with Eddie for now. I’ll take you out tomorrow for cake, okay? We’ll make a little date out of it. Just us. Like it was…Like it was before.”

He stands still for a moment. The phone cradled in his hands by his ear. Her words ringing out so loud, yet so soft. He really wants to cry about it.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters in his silence, “I’m sorry he ruined this for you.” She shuffles again. Probably got one arm wrapped around her waist, stepping to the side in her slippers. Like she always does when she has to call her sister about…him. She sighs again. “I’d leave him if I could. God, Steve. I would create whole galaxies for just us to live in if I could. I wish I knew how to fix this. I’m sorry I can’t fix this.”

“It’s alright, Mama,” he whispers, utterly broken. “’T’s alright. We’ll do cake tomorrow, yeah? I’ll pay for us to get milkshakes for old times sake, right? Like…” He swallows. Murmurs, “Like before.”

Just off to the side, Eddie’s inched closer. The dishes completely abandoned now. Steve doesn’t want to look at him, thinks he’ll break down if he does. But his body heat is welcoming, wrapping around him like a warm hug.

“Like before,” she echoes. Sniffs. “Just heard the car outside. I’ll…Call me in the morning, okay? I’ll let you know how tonight went. I love you, Stevie. I love you, don’t forget that.”

He takes a breath, it stutters like the skip over a scratch on a record. “I love you, too,” he breathes out. “Be safe,” he murmurs, “you have the address if you need to get away. Or…call me if you need me to get you.”

“I’ll be okay,” she mutters, a wisp of a smile to her voice. “Now, you go have fun. Tell Eddie I said hi. And that…Tell him I say thank you for keeping you.”

They share their goodbyes almost hastily. Right as her words fall through the receiver, the front door seems to open, and the phone is hung up before he can chance anything else. The dial tone is blearing in his ears. He keeps the phone cradled close, like maybe she’ll reach a hand out through the speaker and caress his face. Kind of wants her to.

And he doesn’t have the chance to stop himself from crying. Trembling where he stands. Tears streaking hot and fast down his cheeks, over his jaw. He doesn’t make a noise, but it’s a near damn thing.

“Baby?” Eddie calls softly. He takes a hesitant step forward. And he’s closer than Steve thought. Right at his left side. His hands reach out and take the phone from Steve, hanging it back up. He wraps his palms over Steve’s biceps, barely turning him. “Sweetheart?” He calls out again, softer this time. Bending down just a little to make them stare at each other. He moves up to Steve’s face, cupping his cheeks, thumbs working over the tears. “’S everything alright?”

He sobs something little at that. Closing his eyes so he can’t see Eddie. “He’s so selfish,” he manages to cry out, “Why doesn’t he care?”

“Who, sweetheart? Who’s ass do I need to…” Steve finally stares back. And whatever it is that’s there, Eddie seems to understand. “Oh,” he coos, “oh baby.” In a flurry of movement, Steve is pulled in tight and close. Haphazardly dragged back to the sofa and plopped down almost unceremoniously, if Eddie weren’t holding him so carefully. There’s a palm at the center of his back and one on his head. Both of them firm and welcomed and warm.

“He—Just—He just doesn’t,” Steve hiccups between breaths, “Never—Never cared.”

Eddie shushes him gently. Leans back against the armrest behind him, and pulls Steve on top. His face is tucked into Eddie’s left shoulder, where it’s awkwardly stuffed between the armrest and the backing, and he just cries.

There haven’t been a lot of moments where Steve’s cried over this. Maybe once or twice when he was in high school, but that’s about it. Otherwise, he was getting it out through anger or ignoring it altogether or trying to talk it out with his mom. So many conversations and so many arguments and so much just shoved inside his chest. He thinks if he weren’t getting it out right now, soaking the fabric of Eddie’s white shirt, he’d probably burst at the seams, maybe teeter, fall right off the deep end into something murky and thick. He’d probably die from it. Have a heart attack, maybe, like his dad did.

When there’s nothing more to cry out, he just breathes hot and heavy and choking over Eddie’s shoulder. “I’ve got you, baby,” Eddie murmurs, fingers petting through Steve’s hair, “we’ve got nowhere to be right now, okay? You can fall apart here, I’ll still catch you.”

He sniffs. “I just…I just want him to love me,” Steve admits quietly, “To think of me as his kid and to want to do better and to just be somebody I wanna be around.” His arms wrap snuggly around Eddie’s waist, pushing himself further into the hold of their bodies.

“Can I ask something?” Eddie asks gently.

“You just did,” Steve murmurs, voice crackling with the joke. It’s almost hollow coming out of his mouth.

But Eddie snorts anyway. “Okay…Fine. Two questions. Does this have anything to do with the whole beer thing earlier?”

Steve stiffens, brain fighting to find an excuse, but he figures it’s best to just be honest. Even as shameful as it seems to be some days. “Yeah,” he sighs, giving in. Swallows harshly, his jugular moving over Eddie’s shoulder, the sharp outline of the joint against his neck. “Yeah, it does. He drinks like everyday. Sometimes he…some days he doesn’t, claims he’s stopping for good, says he won’t pick it back up. But then he’s doing it the next day and I—“ He shrugs where he can move. “I just don’t get it, I guess. And I…I try so hard to not think of him badly, y’know? He’s probably got shit he’s working through. But it’s almost everyday, Eddie. He’s almost always drunk. Always arguing with my mom. I can hear him through the floor of my room,” he admits. “I want to feel bad, but the way he treats me—the way he treats my mom—“

“How does he treat you? Just focus on you right now, Steve.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes a harsh sigh through his nose. He can’t bring himself to pull his head up, to look Eddie in the eyes. “I want to feel bad,” he repeats slowly. “But he’s so awful. He’s not a good person when he’s drunk, Eddie. He just riles me up, argues with me, tears me back down. That sort of shit.” Steve shifts, rolling his head over onto Eddie’s chest. The depth of his breath under Steve’s ear.

“He told me to go fuck myself the other night,” Steve murmurs, “I don’t know why, but that like…It solidified in me the fact that he doesn’t love me. I don’t know why I expected him to tell me happy birthday today. Why he’d choose this year out of ‘em all to finally be the person I expected him to be. Just my stupid brain, I guess.”

Eddie’s arms tighten around him. Hands petting over where they rest. “It’s okay to be disappointed, Steve,” he carefully states. “You wanted the best for him and he let you down, tore you apart in the process. You needed him to be your dad and he’s made no effort, it’s not…You’re not stupid for wanting that love.”

“He used to be so nice, Eds. I used to love him. I want to love him, but he makes it so hard. God, that makes me sound like such a terrible person, to admit something like that out loud.”

“No, Stevie,” Eddie immediately says. “You’re not a bad person for wanting to love somebody. And you’re not a bad person for refusing yourself to love them. He’s hurt you, Steve. And you’re allowed to feel how you need to.

“And…” Eddie’s hands clasp over the middle of Steve’s back. Heavy and sure. “From experience,” he musters, “with my dad, sometimes you just gotta let go of that love. Sometimes you just gotta tell yourself that it’s not possible. Because…honestly, in some ways, it is impossible. My dad had every opportunity, and yet he chose alcohol and drugs and crime over me.

“I miss who he was…Before my mom died. I miss his laugh and his hugs and our inside jokes. Miss the way he used to play guitar and the late night drives we’d go on. I miss when he taught me good things, like catching lightning bugs in our palms and how to make a good smash burger and how to tell entertaining stories.

“I don’t miss him now, though,” Eddie confesses quietly. The words almost lost in Steve’s hair. “He hurt me in irreparable ways. Mentally and…and physically. But what got me through the worst of it, before I came here, was knowing there were other people out there who’d love me. Who love me and continue despite who I am or what I’ve experienced. Like Wayne. And my grandma, at the time. My friends; Corroded Coffin especially.

“I could spend a million lifetimes unloved by my dad, but at least it’s the real love I was surrounded by. Sometimes people are so damaged that they like it, they like the cracks they can trace and the anger in their blood, they almost enjoy it—they usually don’t get better. My dad was that way. Even when he quit the couple times he did, he always found his way back to that alcohol, those drugs.” Eddie’s fingers absentmindedly trace over the notches of Steve’s spine. His breath a little heavier, a bit raspier. And Steve is absorbing the words. “Sometimes people want to get better and they don’t know how. And that’s when help is needed, outsourced hands, intervention, that kinda shit.”

“We’ve tried,” Steve breathes heavily. “My mom and I have tried so damn hard, Eddie.”

“What’s he usually say in response to that help?” Eddie asks quietly.

Steve takes a deep breath. Sighs, “That he doesn’t want it.” He slowly brings his left hand to Eddie’s chest, tracing figure eights over his shirt. “I wish he’d want it. I—He was my dad for a little while. Now I just live with a stranger.”

“I’m sorry, Steve,” Eddie murmurs, “for what it’s worth. I’m sorry you’re going through this. That you’re still going through this.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not, Stevie. Things don’t have to be this way.”

“It has to be fine,” Steve mutters, “there’s no other way right now. I can’t leave my mom. And my mom can’t leave him. And he won’t stop.”

Eddie takes a careful breath. “You can leave, though. Steve, you’re an adult, you can go,” he softly states.

“I’m not leaving my mom,” Steve snaps lightly. He sniffs, the last of those tears and snot receding. “Sorry,” he breathes. “I just can’t do that to her, Eds. She wouldn’t do it to me. I’m not gonna do it to her.”

“Okay,” Eddie murmurs, “then, look at me, sweetheart.” Slowly, careful of the slight tension in his neck, Steve raises his head and stares down at Eddie. There are tear tracks on Eddie’s cheeks. A sheen to his eyes. And Steve begins to reach up, but Eddie holds him down tightly. “You, Steve Harrington, are loved by people who want to do right by you. You, Steve, will have love in so many corners of your life. The love that Dick has isn’t for you and it definitely isn’t for your mom.

“I love you, you hear me? And Wayne does. Hopper does. There, that’s two dads. Your mom loves you, too. She loves you with her whole soul. And you’ve got your friends, Robin and Dustin especially. And you’ll have more, Stevie,” Eddie explains gently, his fingers going back to trace along the edges of Steve’s spine. “I can’t fix things, I’m sorry. And I’m not sure how things turn around. But they will some day. I know it because I lived it. We can’t figure it out right now, but we’ll find our way some time down the line. Focus on the people you’ve got right now, though, Stevie. Not him. He ain’t worth a rat’s ass.”

Steve snorts wetly. His lips tremble and his eyes ache something fierce. He’ll cry forever at this rate, but at least Eddie’s hands move to his cheek, at least he wipes the tears away. “I love you, too,” he breathes. “And I’m sorry that you have to know all this shit. That you had to go through that.”

“I’ll figure out a way to know how to get you through it, too,” Eddie murmurs, smiling softly, his eyes moments away from leaking. “But you’re loved. He ain’t worth it. Don’t go searching for something you ain’t gonna find.”

He drops his head back down and burrows under Eddie’s chin. At least he found this. “When I’m ready to go, will you have space for me?”

“Always and forever,” Eddie rushes to answer. “Remember, baby? You fall and I catch you. You come knocking on my door, I’m gonna answer it. And if you climb in bed with me, I’ll hold you close and never let go.”

Steve nods gently, pushing himself in further. He sighs. “Thank you,” he mutters. Eddie squeezes him in. “My mom said hi and thank you, by the way. Remind me to call her in the morning? I wanna make sure I get her before he wakes up.”

“You got it, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs, “now let’s get ourselves to bed before we fall asleep on this couch. Gotta be comfortable, don’t we?”

He huffs. “But you’re comfy.”

Eddie snorts. “I love you and I don’t want you to be sore. Come to bed with me?”

Steve wriggles. “Okay,” he relents. “Because I love you and I also don’t want you to be sore.”

And, he supposes, because he's loved.

🫂————————🫂 Sorry if this sucked, I wrote this with a raging migraine and have no grasp on how shit it is. Whoops.

[coffeebanana]

It felt eerily familiar, kneeling ghost-like beneath a vermillion sky. Doom crept though Antichat's chest, as thick as the acrid smoke scorching his lungs. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. There was a weight in his arms—an inexplicable solace. And yet…  Suddenly it didn’t weigh as much as it should. No.  His eyes flicked downwards. No, no, no, no— All he held was a pile of ashes, moulded into the shape of a girl.

Some nightmares refuse to fade.

***

[Read the full fic below the cut or on Ao3!! CW: panic attacks, dissociation, depression]

It felt eerily familiar, kneeling ghost-like beneath a vermillion sky. Doom crept though Antichat's chest, as thick as the acrid smoke scorching his lungs. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. There was a weight in his arms—an inexplicable solace. And yet…  Suddenly it didn’t weigh as much as it should. No.  His eyes flicked downwards. No, no, no, no— All he held was a pile of ashes, moulded into the shape of a girl.

Please, no.

Chat squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head to rid himself of a sudden, blinding panic pounding through his skull. But it was too late. Ladybug’s slate-stained image was seared into his mind, her face frozen in pain, devoid of everything that had once painted comfort across his soul. 

Her mask was half-torn, such that Marinette's bare cheek was cradled closest to his chest. Like maybe he'd tried in vain to protect her from the blast.

From his own destruction.

A choked sound ripped itself from his throat, a painful lump following in its wake. He had no way to fix this, nothing to do but pull her in closer. To tighten his arms around her precious, fragile remains.

Another mistake. 

She crumbled in his grip; ashes floated up like a mosaic, blinding his vision. Frantically, he pawed at the air—trying to gather her fragments, to force her back together. If he caught enough, perhaps he could papier-mâché her likeness. He could use his tears as glue.

But there was no time for that before a fiery breeze tore through the street. Marinette’s remains were swept away, and only Chat’s strangled cries could follow. 

The further away they fled, the more he came undone. There was nothing left to tie his mind together, to keep his pain from exploding like a supernova.

Nothing to keep the world from collapsing in on him.

“What did you expect?” Nightormentor’s voice sliced through the smoke. “You’ve always been poison to the ones you loved most.”

NO!

With a frigid gasp—one that curdled his tar-slicked insides—Adrien awoke. Once again, there was a darling weight in his arms. Only this Marinette was warm and solid. Her limbs were tangled in the blankets she'd pulled to her side of his bed, and one of her hands curled slightly into his T-shirt as her breath tickled the fabric.

She was alive.

Adrien just wasn't sure his heart still knew how to beat.

He was too hot and too cold all at once, both drenched in sweat and trembling. His chest felt like someone had trampled it, and every attempt to breathe sliced further into the wound. 

When he closed his eyes, the world was still on fire.

Stomach lurching, he carefully rolled Marinette’s weight off his chest. He couldn’t stay here, couldn’t listen to the even sounds of her breath without hearing echoes of his own sobs slip between them. 

The room spun around him as he stumbled to the bathroom; the world still appeared as though through smoke—muted and unreliable, the air too thick to breathe. He collapsed to his knees in front of the toilet, his empty stomach convulsing, only to realize the sickness inside him wasn’t the kind he could expel.

He remained there, braced against the toilet seat, until his limbs eased their shaking enough for him to crawl away. Even so, he barely made it to the wall beside the sink before one of his arms gave out, and his cheek slammed a little too hard into the handle of one of the cupboards he twisted into a seated position. Hissing in pain, he let his face press against the wood there, shuddering at the way the cold surface shocked some life inside of him.

Time ceased to make sense after that. One moment, his chest was burning, pain reverberating through his back as he struggled to fill his lungs. The next, it seemed he’d become a giant cloud. A numb expanse of icy droplets, ready to fall at a moment’s notice.

Light gradually awakened the room, a subtle warmth flickering near the edge of his awareness. He only fully realized the day had come when, somewhere beyond the door he’d left ajar, the bed creaked.

“Adrien?” Marinette called. Her voice was gentle, but pierced through him all the same. “Everything okay?”

No.

Panic set in anew as footsteps approached. He swore he could somehow taste the blood pounding in his ears, and he clamped his mouth shut to keep from crying out. To keep from breathing, even.

He didn’t want to be found. Maybe, if he held his breath until his lungs screamed again, he’d remain concealed in his lifeless fog.

But ironically, it was harder to keep from breathing when that was his actual goal. He sucked in sharp breaths, timed to his heartbeats, and hid his face in his hands.

“Oh, Chaton...” Marinette’s slippers scraped across the bathroom tiles, coming to a stop within his sight. Too close. “Did it happen again?”

He managed a nod, bottom lip quivering as he bit back a sob.

A long exhale piqued his attention; it started as a noise from above and ended as a warm breath against his cheek. Kneeling at his side, Marinette rubbed her hands against her thighs.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

Adrien shifted his jaw from side to side, guilt hooking its talons into his gut. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

It wasn’t a lie; he felt plenty bad about inadvertently dragging her here every night. She deserved the comfort of her own bed, regardless of whether he could actually get any sleep without her. So the least he could do was actually let her get enough rest.

But it wasn’t the truth, either.

And as she took his hand, carefully smoothing his fingers over hers, he had a feeling she knew it.

“Adrien…” She tugged his arm upwards, pressing a kiss to his fingertips. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

Biting his lip to keep from disagreeing, Adrien squeezed his eyes shut. With one less sense at his disposal, he was all too aware of the way she lifted his hand further, unfolding his fingers to press against her cheek.

“See?” she whispered, breath tickling the inside of his wrist. Her head twisted to the side, lips planting a kiss on the heel of his palm. “Everything’s fine.”

He swore he could feel the remnants of destruction prickling against her cheek. It took everything he had not to jerk his hand away.

Nothing was fine.

No matter how he’d come into this world, and no matter how much he despised the fact, Adrien would always be—in some way or another—his father’s son. Sometimes he swore he saw a glimpse of the man when he turned too fast in the mirror. Other times, a flash of fury would seize him; with a sickening sense of satisfaction, he’d know what it might felt like to be a villain.

Even worse, he was his mother’s son. His very existence had killed her.

He’d killed both his parents, in the end. 

So no matter how much Marinette tried to console him, Adrien knew the voice of his nightmares had a point. He was a danger to her, to himself, to the world.

It might not even end up being his choice. All it would take was someone finding out what he was, and stealing the two rings he still couldn’t stand the sight of.

He was, at most, a liability. And Marinette deserved more than that.

She never agreed with him on that point.

“Look at me,” she said now. An edge crept into her voice, one that shocked him into listening.

His heart jumped at the blue of her eyes—filled with all the warmth that the fiery world of his nightmares had failed to hold. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking. 

“No, no, no. I don’t want you to be sorry. I just…” Tears filled her eyes. “I love you, okay?”

Adrien couldn’t say it back. He couldn’t find enough truth to shove into the sentiment—not when that was all buried beneath his own misery. It was like he’d returned to his nightmare, with smoke charring his throat and one all-consuming fear.

Just the tiniest wrong movement could ruin everything.

But if he didn’t give some kind of response, Marinette would only worry. So he tugged on her hand—maybe a little too hard considering her yelp of surprise—and guided her to sit between his legs. She moved readily into place, and Adrien forced himself to ignore the fear spiking through his veins, hugging her back to his chest.

Once settled, she twisted around and tried to crane her neck upwards, reaching a hand half-blindly up to his cheek. Heart squeezing in his chest, he tightened his grip around and pressed a kiss to her head. 

She remained tense for a moment too long, but finally sighed and melted back against his chest. Her hand trailed lazily back down to her side, and her breath spilled into a hum of contentment. With her gaze fixed firmly ahead, Adrien could finally breathe again.

He didn’t want her to see the few tears he’d finally let slip down his cheeks—even if she’d no doubt hear his sniffles or feel the way the cries rumbled in his chest. And he didn't want her to examine him to deeply, to discover what he already knew.

One day, he would surely disappoint her.

[aventurineswife]

"I loved you like the sun, yet you loved me like the eclipse," he whispered, his voice as soft and fleeting as a memory. Sunday stood before you, his eyes dimmed, the navy blue pupils lost in a sea of unshed tears. His halo flickered faintly, its once vibrant glow now a trembling reminder of his fractured divinity.

You couldn't look at him—not fully. To meet his gaze was to confront the truth you had both tried to outrun. So, instead, you focused on his trembling hands, gloved in black, clenched tightly at his sides. You remembered those hands as a refuge, their warmth steady even when his words faltered. Now, they were trembling barriers, guarding the chasm that had grown between you.

"I gave you my light, my constancy, my everything," he continued, his voice breaking as he took a tentative step closer. "And yet...you only came to me in the moments when your world was in shadow."

His wings fluttered, the feathers catching faint light as though they, too, were straining to hold him upright. You wanted to reach out, to say something—anything—but the words tangled in your throat like a knot you couldn’t untie.

"I never asked for more," he said, his tone sharpening with an edge of bitterness. "I knew what I was to you—a fleeting comfort, an illusion of peace. But even illusions have limits."

You flinched at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than you’d thought possible. He wasn’t wrong. He had always been there, unyielding, while you drifted in and out, carried by tides of your own fear and longing. You had loved him, hadn’t you? Or was it simply the light he offered, the way it burned away the shadows you couldn’t face alone?

Sunday turned away, his shoulders taut with restrained emotion. His scarf fluttered, the golden underside catching the light like a thread of hope unraveling. "I loved you like the sun," he murmured again, the words more to himself now, "steady, unyielding, radiant. But you—"

He faltered, his voice cracking as the weight of his emotions bore down. When he spoke again, it was quieter, a whisper trembling with sorrow. "You loved me like the eclipse—beautiful, fleeting, only when it was convenient to forget the rest of the world."

His words crushed you, their truth unbearable. You had basked in his warmth, his constancy, without realizing how deeply you had wounded him by taking it for granted. And now, faced with the fragility of what you had shared, you could see the fractures you’d ignored all along.

"I didn’t mean to—" you began, but your voice broke under the weight of your guilt.

He turned to face you again, his eyes glistening, filled with a sadness so profound it stole the air from your lungs. "I know," he said softly, a faint, weary smile gracing his lips. "You never meant to. But intention doesn’t erase the pain, does it?"

For a moment, silence stretched between you, vast and aching. The tension in his wings softened, and his halo steadied, though its glow was dim. He reached out, his hand hovering just inches from yours. It trembled, caught between yearning and restraint, before finally retreating.

"I need to let go," he whispered. "For both of us. Maybe, one day, we’ll find the balance we never could before. But not like this. Not now."

And with that, he turned away, his steps light but unyielding. You watched as he disappeared into the distance, his presence fading like the final rays of a setting sun. All that remained was the echo of his voice and the crushing realization that you had loved him too late.

Inspired by me generating random quotes in my head while I brush my teeth in the morning 😇🫶

Expect more angst in the future lol

[princessofghosts-posts]

I'm sorry but Solangelo fanfiction writers (especially the ones that have a Mortal AU going on) could pull the most bittersweet thing ever by giving Nico a terminal illness,with a Will that can't do nothing to help and only watch as he wither away,untill Nico dies at the end.

[st4rvfx]

Sunrise

Chloe price x reader

﹒⪩⪨﹒| you and chloe always watched the sunrise together at the light house. until one day you have to watch it alone.

﹒⪩⪨﹒| takes place in the ending where you sacrifice Chloe | romantic | Mentions of death | mentions of vomit/throwing up | Smoking | reader is going through it | bittersweet ending | Reader never moves on |

“The sunrise looks super pretty today” You comment while staring at the slightly pink but mostly blue sky. Chloe nodded as she let out a long breathe.

“I have to go soon. I have important shit to deal with. We can meet back here for the sunset if you want to.” She asked while giving you the damn soft smile. You give her a smile back, the last smile you would ever share with her.

you nodded as she stood up from the bench, punching your shoulder softly before making her way down the hill. You smile as you watch the rest of the sunrise. You suddenly felt weird, like something wrong was going to happen but you brushed it off.

if only. If only you knew what she was dealing with. You went home and spent the rest of the day waiting for her text. nothing. Weird? not even something to say she won’t be able to make it. You told yourself maybe she was just super duper busy and had more things to do she didn't mention.

you hated being left in the dark so you go to her house. Nothing. not until david came home. He looked like he knew something he wish he didn’t. He sat everyone down before explaining what had happened. different emotions splattered his face as he stuttered over the words and took long pauses before finally getting the words out.

as the three words you were always afraid of hearing slipped from your mouth, you felt your whole world come crashing down in a matter of seconds. Chloe was dead.

just hearing that made you want to throw up. You knew Chloe did some dangerous things. You always scolded her and she would just brush it off saying she would deal with it. Her way of dealing with things always got her in more trouble.

You didn’t know how to properly respond to it. You told your parents you wouldn’t be home and asked joyce if you could stay the night. She could see how hurt you looked, The way your eyes seemed dim so she allowed it.

You didn’t know how to go about this, Walking up the steps without her boots following after you. Opening her bedroom door to be hit with the smell of the blunt she had smoked before leaving. Her desk messy and covered in different papers.

you laid in her bed, the same bed you guys shared endless conversations talking about leaving and random topics, shared each other’s deepest darkest secrets, took 3 hour long naps in. Now you were all alone.

it hit you like a ton of bricks as you realized how many things would change. No more waking up early and sneaking off to chloe’s house in the middle of the night, Hearing her complain about david’s antics that day before she would listen to you rant about your day, no more watching the sunrises and the sunsets together it was all gone.

As you sat on the cold feeling bench, all alone as you stared at the sky you could feel the tears heating up in your eyes. Was she really gone? surely this was a bad dream. Maybe you would wake up and she would be next to you on the comfort of the bench.

You hadn't come to terms with the whole idea of Chloe being dead, it didn't seem right in a way. Yes, she was reckless but the thought of her being dead was just something that made your mind spin and your throat get dry.

The days leading up to her funeral were absolute pure hell. You spent most of your days looking at the photos of you two that you had saved on your phone. You tried to smoke but the feeling was weird without her. You forced yourself to go dress shopping with Joyce to bond some more. Yesterday you slept all day in her bed, clinging at the sheets that started to smell more like you then her.

her bed. cold and empty. Her body wasn't there to keep it warm, and you were left with a broken heart as the tears pooled down your face when you laid in her bed.

You looked down at your watch as you took in a deep breath, nearly it was time. You stood up from the bench before jumping at the sight of Max standing there.

"Sorry! You looked so peaceful, and I didn't wanna disturb you" she said while you gave her a sad smile. You knew a good thing or two about Max due to Chloe talking about her a couple of times. She always sounded so excited to talk about when Max when would come back.

"It's okay, I was just about to leave. I'm assuming you're also going...to the funeral" You say while looking down at your shoes. Max nodded before taking in a deep breath. "I feel bad for not being here all this time." Max said as she turned to look at the sky.

"Chloe used to think you left her and would never come back for her. but I always told her to have some hope and one day you would show up" You said.

if only Chloe could find out Max was here all this time. The two of you stood in silence as you started at the sky. "We should go soon" Max spoke up as she placed a gentle hand onto your shoulder. You looked at her with a gentle nod as the two of you made your way down from the lighthouse.

You offered to drive Max since you had recently gotten Chloe's truck. She always said that if one day something happened to her, she wanted you to get the truck. It was weird to sit in the seat the both of you guys once ate food, talked and napped in.

It stilled had the smell of her cheap cigarettes, The sound of her laughing and overall, everything about her. touching the wheel was weird. you broke down into tears when you first sat in the truck the day you got it and took a nap in it just like the two of you used to do.

You told max small things about Chloe as you drove the both of you to the cemetery. The way you spoke about Chloe made Max realize that even when she was gone, Chloe had someone with her. as you neared the cemetery, you could see people slowly walk up the hill.

You felt hot, you wanted to pull off and leave but you knew Chloe would want you to be there. You parked her truck as turned it off before sitting there and collecting yourself. Max gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze as she opened the truck door and climbed out.

You took in a deep breathe before opening the door and stepping out. Slamming the door as you took tiny steps. You couldn't bring yourself to even think about the fact you were about to bury your girlfriend.

It didn't seem real. It couldn't be real. Max took your hand and gently guided you. Each crunch of gravel brought you back to reality. This was really happening, you were about to your final goodbyes to a box.

You had zoned out that you didn't even realize how close you were until you saw Joyce and David. You looked over before your bottom lip started to shake and quiver. That casket held your girlfriend. You wanted to cry but barely any tears came out.

Joyce instantly noticed you as she frowned and opened her arms wide for you. You gently let go of Maxs hand before crashing into Joyce as the Tears finally fell overboard. You sobbed in her arms, you couldn't hear anything, not a single peep from anyone. you wanted this to be over.

You sat on the ground next to her gravestone. Everyone else left to go to Joyce's for a repast. "I'm so mad at you" you said, Voice raspy from the crying. "I told you shouldn't be doing all this dumb shit" You added while leaning your head on the stone. It was silent again as the only sound being the birds chirping and the crunch of grass from squirrels hopping across the land.

You used to watch and feed squirrels with Chloe whenever you brought trail mix with you. "David never told me how you died...but i found out eventually. Fucking Prescott I don't think I'll ever forgive him for what he did." You said while balling your hands into fists as you shook your head.

"And then Rachel...oh god. You never found out but...I'm sure wherever you are...the two of you are together." You said with a small smile before it dropped as you brought your knees to your chest and rested your head on top of them.

A blue butterfly fluttered down, landing right on the tip of your shoe. You payed no attention to the insect as you checked your watch. You should head over to Joyce's...but you also didn't wanna leave. your eyes looked at the sunset, the bright orange and pinks clashing together. "We never watched the sunsets together...only the sunrises..." You smiled as you unballed your hands, placing them on the ground as you slightly rock your knees side to side, The butterfly flying off your shoe and instead landing on the gravestone.

"Hey Chloe...I'll always come down here...and we can watch the sunrise together still. Just like old times" you said while looking at the gravestone before placing a hand on it, patting it and putting your hand back down. You sighed before standing up.

You looked at her one last time before blowing a kiss towards the grave before making your way down to where you left the truck.

You made sure that every day you went down to her grave. sometimes you would get caught up with work or even finding it hard to get out of bed in the morning, but you always made an effort to see her in the morning.

You would sit down and tell her your plans, then would light a blunt or cigarette depending on how you felt that morning before sitting in silence as you watched the sun come up.

Once you were done, you stand up, blow her a kiss goodbye and make your way back to the truck. You never changed anything about it. You slowly came to terms with her being gone. You made new friends, helped Joyce out at the diner and grew closer to max. But you never started to date anyone again.

You barely thought about dating anyone else as you couldn't see yourself with anyone but Chloe, nobody could give you what she gave you.

you always looked for Chloe in the sunrises, knowing she made them pretty just for you.