#Blooming Vibrance | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fireya-x · 2 months ago

Note

I’m obsessed with the idea of divorced Price who gets you to fall in love with him again. Like, I have forty chapters planned out in my head. Is this just me?? Am I crazy?

Cali!! bestie!! ❤️ Omg. Not sure this is like the forty chapters you have in mind, but I hope you'll like this!

chamomile

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ After a painful divorce and unexpected reunion, you and John rediscover a love that never truly faded. ✦ 8.4k words ✦ tags/cw: angst, divorce, feelings, hurt/comfort, reunion, eventual smut, reunion sex, piv sex, oral sex

The silence in your flat was a heavy, suffocating presence. Some days, it pressed in you from all sides, amplifying the absence, the emptiness, where he used to be. It wasn’t merely the absence of another person, but the absence of him in particular.

John.

His rumbling laughter, often accompanied by the clinking of ice in his whiskey glass. The quiet humming when he lost himself in a well-worn novel by the fire. The concentrated sighs that escaped his lips when he was hunched over his office desk, wrestling with mission reports, the scent of tobacco clinging to the air. The comforting rhythm of his breathing next to yours in the night, now replaced by the oppressive weight of solitude and the cold emptiness of the other side of the bed.

Some days, the silence turned into a constant, dull ache in your chest, a wound that refused to heal. It was a constant reminder of what once was.

You often caught yourself staring at the shelf on the wall, the one you’d desperately tried to fill with an assortment of meaningless decorations, a futile attempt to fill the empty spaces where his belongings had once resided. Each object, carefully chosen and meticulously placed, felt like a small betrayal, a silent admission of defeat. Vases with dried flowers, their faded colors a pale imitation of the vibrant blooms he used to bring you; cheap trinkets that held no emotional value, their manufactured perfection a stark contrast to the unique, imperfect treasures he'd collected on his travels; some mass-produced artworks in frames that replaced the vibrant, personal photographs. Pictures of your sun-drenched vacations on the beach that now felt like a distant dream, a photograph of your faces on your wedding day, smeared with cake, eyes sparkling with laughter. A small porcelain figurine, a handmade and heartfelt gift from his grandmother, a woman who had welcomed you into her family with open arms – it was all tucked away in a box somewhere, hidden from view, wrapped in tissue paper, memories cherished but not yet ready to be confronted, like shards of glass that could cut you if you handled them too carelessly.

But nothing, none of the forced replacements, could truly ever fill the space, this gaping void that he left behind when your lives went separate ways.

This had been your shared flat once, a sanctuary nestled in the heart of Manchester, a carefully chosen haven, not far from either of your workplaces – a two-bedroom flat with large windows that overlooked a bustling street below, the sounds of the city a constant hum; a small balcony where you would share a bottle of wine on warm summer evenings and a cozy fireplace where you would curl up together on cold winter nights.

The location had seemed perfect then, a place where you had envisioned building a life together, a life filled with the comfort of shared routines, stolen kisses, the warmth of shared laughter that echoed through the rooms, filling every corner with the vibrancy of your love.

He had insisted you keep the flat after the divorce; “It’s yours,” he’d said, his gaze avoiding yours, his words clipped, his tone betraying nothing of the turmoil that raged within him. “I won't be here much anyway.”

The words, meant to be a gesture of generosity, a final act of kindness, a parting gift offered with a heavy heart, had instead become a constant, agonizing reminder of his absence, leaving behind the bitter taste of regret and the faint, lingering taste of what might have been.

You missed him.

Not the shadow he had become in the final years of your marriage, the distant, preoccupied figure who appeared infrequently, a ghost in his own home, his mind miles away. You missed the man he had been, the man you had fallen in love with – the man whose laughter could fill a room, whose touch could chase away the darkest shadows, whose love had once been your sanctuary, your safe haven in a world that often felt chaotic and uncertain. You missed the easy, effortless shared laughter over inside jokes that no one else understood, the comforting weight of his arm around your shoulders. The way he could make you feel safe, cherished, loved, with a single glance.

It wasn’t a sudden break, a dramatic fight, an explosion of anger and resentment, but a gradual erosion; a slow and agonizing fading, like a rot that set in, consuming your love, choking the joy, and suffocating the life you had once believed would last forever.

It started with small things, seemingly insignificant, but it was those small cracks in the foundation that triggered the fall. Cracks turning into widening fissures with each passing day. Unanswered texts, missed calls, forgotten birthdays, forgotten anniversaries, the growing distance between you in the same bed, the warmth of his touch replaced by the cold emptiness of the sheets, the silence stretching between you like a vast, empty expanse.

You had known, from the very beginning, from that first stolen glance across a crowded pub where you’d met, that his life would never be ordinary, that the long, dark shadows of his profession would always be a part of your shared existence, an uninvited guest at the table. And you had embraced that, welcomed it, believing, with some naivety that now made you wince, that your love and the connection you shared was strong enough to withstand the sacrifices his job asked of him, the toll it would inevitably take on your shared life. Sometimes, you wondered if there was even a place left for you at his side in this demanding, all-consuming world he inhabited. A world of coded conversations, hushed phone calls in the middle of the night, and the ever-present fear that gnawed at your insides, the fear that one day, he wouldn't come home.

You had always admired his devotion and his commitment to his work. You had seen him transform from a raw recruit into a seasoned soldier, a respected leader, a man who carried the weight of responsibility on his broad shoulders with a grace that both awed and inspired you. The way he could lose himself in the intricacies of strategy and tactics, the intensity with which he approached every challenge, every mission. You had been proud of his dedication and his commitment to a cause greater than himself.

He came home one evening, his eyes shining with pride and exhaustion, bringing with him the news of his promotion to Captain. You celebrated, of course. You opened a bottle of champagne, hugged and kissed, and told him how proud you were. You toasted his success, your words genuine, heartfelt, your joy for him masking the growing sense of dread that gnawed at the edges of your happiness. You knew how much this meant to him, this hard-won victory in the ongoing battle of his career, how many sleepless nights, how many missed birthdays, how many silent goodbyes whispered in the early mornings, had led to this moment, this achievement.

You wanted, more than anything, to be happy for him, to share the joy of his accomplishment.

And for a brief, fleeting moment, you did.

But later that night, the realization of what this promotion truly meant hit you, like a punch to the gut.

More responsibility.

More missions.

More deployments to the other end of the globe.

More sleepless nights spent waiting for his return.

More secrets whispered on the phone.

More clipped words you didn’t understand.

More distance between you.

More fuel for the slow, insidious rot that had already begun to consume your shared life.

Your joy at his success curdled into bitter disappointment, a mixture of pride and profound loneliness, a premonition of the long, empty nights and goodbyes that would soon become your reality. You lay beside him, yet you felt more alone, than you ever had before.

The Christmas you had planned so meticulously, the one where he had promised, sworn on his life, that he would be home – the Christmas tree shimmering with twinkling lights, the table set for a feast he never attended, the silence of his absence deafening amid the cheery Christmas carols on the radio. He hadn't even called, hadn't offered an explanation, hadn't bothered to invent an excuse — just a hasty, impersonal message left from a number you didn’t recognize, a clipped, emotionless voice relaying his apologies, the only sign of life you’d receive.

The pattern continued. The weight of his absences, the suffocating silence of his secrets, became an unbearable burden, a constant, oppressive presence that threatened to crush you beneath its weight.

The secrets grew deeper, the missions more frequent, more dangerous, his disappearances announced with nothing more than a hastily scribbled note left on the kitchen counter.

“Gone. Back soon.” “Don't wait up. Got called in.” “Love you.”

His words, once so full of affection, now felt hollow, crushed by the ever-present shadow of his profession, the weight of unspoken anxieties, the gnawing fear that each goodbye might be the last.

The rot spread and spread, its tendrils reaching into every corner of your life, tainting the once vibrant colors of your memories with a dull, grayish hue until only the empty shell remained, a hollow, brittle husk of a love lost and its future uncertain.

You tried to talk to him, to express your fears, your anxieties, your growing resentment. You remembered the way your voice trembled as you spoke, the words catching in your throat, threatening to choke you. And he listened. He truly listened, his eyes holding yours, his gaze filled with a mixture of weariness and regret. You saw the fatigue etched into the lines around his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders slumped with the weight of unspoken burdens. He understood. He understood the pain he was causing, the toll his profession was taking on your relationship, the slow, agonizing erosion of the love you had once shared.

He asked you to understand, to accept the life he had chosen, a life that demanded his complete and utter devotion, a life that left little room for the ordinary joys of love and companionship. He spoke of the importance of his work, the lives that depended on him, the sacrifices he was willing to make for the greater good. He spoke of the secrets he couldn't share, the dangers he couldn’t reveal, the constant threat that hung over him, you, and your shared life.

There was a raw honesty in his words, a vulnerability that you hadn't seen in a long time, a glimpse of the man you had fallen in love with, the man who was now trapped in the shadowy world he inhabited, a world where emotions were a liability, where vulnerability was a weakness, where love was a luxury he could no longer afford.

And so, when you finally uttered the words, “I can’t do this anymore, John,” the words a painful admission of defeat, a surrender to the inevitable – he didn’t argue, didn’t protest, didn't try to change your mind. He simply nodded, his eyes filled with a deep sadness, a silent acknowledgement of the truth you had both been avoiding for so long, the truth that your marriage was dying a slow, agonizing death.

“If I can’t have my husband back, I at least need my life back,” you had said, your voice trembling. “Not this… this constant waiting, this constant fear.”

“I can’t live like this anymore, John. I can’t keep waiting for you to come home, wondering if this time will be the last. I can’t keep wondering what you’re doing, who you’re with, what secrets you’re keeping from me.” Your voice cracked, the tears threatening to spill over, but you blinked them back, determined to maintain your composure.

You watched as his face crumpled, his carefully constructed mask of control momentarily shattering, revealing the raw pain, the regret, the love he still held for you, a love that was now slipping through his fingers like fine grains of sand.

He reached for you, his hand outstretched, his fingers brushing against yours, a fleeting touch, a desperate attempt to hold onto you, to grasp for something, anything, to prevent the inevitable. But his grip wasn’t strong enough against the cold, hard reality of your decision and your words’ finality.

You pulled away, your heart aching, knowing that this was the only way, the only path towards healing, towards reclaiming your life, your own narrative, your own future, a future that no longer included him. The pain of this separation, though sharp, like a knife twisting in your gut, was a clean break, a necessary amputation, infinitely preferable to the slow, agonizing decay of a love unfulfilled.

You threw yourself into your career, seeking solace in the familiar world of analysis, a world of logic and order, a world far removed from the unpredictable chaos and ever-present danger of John's life. You found a new rhythm, a new sense of purpose, building an existence outside of the shadows, a future you had once envisioned intertwined with his, now carefully, meticulously, constructed on your own. You excelled in your field, your passion and dedication earning you accolades and recognition.

Then one day, there was a call. From a woman called Kate Laswell, a name you’d heard several times in passing conversations with John. You’d met her once, briefly, during a social function at the base, a fleeting exchange of hellos, a polite, impersonal conversation amidst the clinking glasses and forced smiles. But you remembered her – a strong, intelligent woman, her eyes sharp, her gaze assessing, a woman who carved her way out in that male-dominated world of work that still felt so alien and impenetrable to you.

She had witnessed the change in John, the gradual withdrawal, the growing distance, the slow change of the man he had once been. She had seen him throw himself into his work, mission after mission, his dedication bordering on obsession, a desperate attempt to fill the void you had left behind. She had seen the emptiness in his eyes, the silent suffering that had settled over him.

And now, years later, she had reached out, her voice warm and professional on the other end of the line, offering you a position at her side, a chance to use your skills and expertise in a new capacity, a chance to step back into the world you had once abandoned, a world you had once vowed to never return to. “I’ve been following your work,” she said, her voice betraying a hint of admiration, “and I’m impressed. I think you have a lot to offer our team. I’d like to offer you a position as a forensic analyst. It's a unique opportunity, and I think you'd be a valuable asset.”

You were overwhelmed, flattered by the offer, intrigued by the opportunity. It was a chance to take your career to the next level, to work alongside one of the most respected figures in the field, a chance to challenge yourself. You accepted, of course, your heart pounding with excitement, blind to the fact that this wasn’t just a lucky encounter but a carefully orchestrated reunion, a second chance engineered by the woman who had witnessed the slow, agonizing demise of your love. A woman who believed, perhaps more than you did yourself, that it wasn't too late to rebuild the bridge that had been broken.

She took you under her wing, showed you the ropes, and introduced you to the team. She shared her knowledge, expertise, and insights, empowering you to navigate the complexities of your new role with confidence. You quickly found a liking to her, her strength and intelligence inspiring you, her confidence reassuring you. And it didn’t take long before she offered to take you along to your first real job, your first opportunity to put your newly acquired skills to the test in the field.

This wasn’t the first time you had been on a base. You had accompanied John several times during your marriage, social functions and official events, but never more than a few fleeting glimpses. But this was different. You weren't here as a spouse, a plus-one, a silent observer. You were here to work and to contribute.

The operations room buzzed with energy, murmured conversations, papers crinkling, keyboards clicking, screens buzzing. You were nervous. You’d done this work in a lab, in the sterile, controlled environment of a crime scene, but never within a military setting, never in the heart of the operation, never with the weight of lives hanging in the balance.

You clutched the folders you held tightly, your knuckles white, your heart pounding. Kate, her expression casually neutral, as if this was just another day at the office, cleared her throat. “Follow me,” she said, her voice low, just loud enough for you to hear above the noise. You straightened your shoulders, lifted your chin, and stepped behind her, your heels clicking against the polished floor, the sound sharp against the background noise.

“This is Captain John Price,” Kate said, stopping at the front of the room, her voice cutting through the noise, commanding attention. She gestured towards a figure standing with his back to you, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the flickering screens, his posture radiating strength and authority. “He’ll be leading the operation. I expect full cooperation from everyone.”

John.

Even before he turned, the name, spoken aloud in this sterile, impersonal environment, sent a jolt of electricity through you. It was a name that held a thousand memories, a lifetime of whispered secrets and stolen kisses, of shared laughter and unspoken fears, of a love that had once burned so brightly, so fiercely, that it had illuminated every corner of your existence. As he turned, his gaze sweeping across the room, taking in the assembled team with a practiced eye, assessing, calculating, your breath hitched in your throat, a sudden intake of air that caught somewhere between your lungs and your heart. Time seemed to stop, the noise of the operations room fading into a dull roar, the faces around you blurring, dissolving into an indistinct mass, replaced by the single, overwhelming image of him . You hadn't seen him in over two years. Had it been that long?

You held your breath, taking in his features; he was older, harder around the edges, the lines etched deeper into the corners of his eyes, the telltale marks of time and experience, of a life lived on the edge, in the shadows. His beard was longer, scruffier, his hair slightly unkempt, as if he hadn't bothered to style it, a small detail that spoke volumes about the changes in his life, the shift in priorities. But his eyes, those stormy sea-blue eyes that had once drawn you in with their intensity, warmth, and unspoken promises, were still the same, unchanged by time, the color as vivid and captivating as the first time you had met.

His gaze met yours and locked, and for a heart-stopping moment, the world seemed to fall away, the room, the people, the very mission itself, dissolving into nothingness, leaving just the two of you suspended in a bubble of shared history, of unspoken regrets, of what-ifs and might-have-beens. He didn’t smile. His expression softened for a fraction of a second before it returned to be carefully neutral, a mask of professional detachment. But neither did he look away.

“We’ve met,” you said, injecting just the right amount of professional distance in your voice, your pulse hammering in your veins as if wanting to breach your throat. “Captain.” You added, the word, a formal acknowledgment of his rank, his authority, feeling strange, foreign, on your tongue – as it was the uncomfortable, almost painful reminder of the distance that had grown between you.

But a slight, almost imperceptible tremor in your voice, the fleeting catch in your breath, betrayed the carefully constructed facade of indifference, a subtle, unconscious signal of the powerful emotional undercurrent that flowed beneath the surface.

The slight shift in the atmosphere wasn't lost on Kate. Her lips curved into a knowing smile, acknowledging the unspoken tension, the rekindled connection she had anticipated. Her gaze flickered between you and John, a silent assessment of the situation, a calculation of the potential risks and rewards of this unexpected reunion, before she smoothly turned back to the task at hand, addressing the rest of the team, her voice regaining its crisp, professional tone, her words bringing the focus back to the mission.

The days that followed were a blur of intense preparation, long hours spent poring over intelligence reports, analyzing data, strategizing, and coordinating with various teams across the globe. The familiar rhythm of the work, the adrenaline-fueled pressure of the impending mission, both soothed and unsettled you. It was a reminder of the life you had once shared with John, the life you had walked away from, the life that was now, in a strange twist of fate, within your reach once more.

You found yourself working alongside John, your professional collaboration a carefully choreographed dance around the unspoken emotions that simmered beneath the surface. You were both meticulous in maintaining a professional demeanor, your interactions crisp, efficient, devoid of any hint of the shared past. The lingering connection still pulsed between you like a live wire, a current that threatened to short-circuit the carefully constructed walls of your composure. You avoided his gaze, focusing intently on the task at hand, your mind racing with calculations, your fingers flying across the keyboard, your every action a carefully constructed shield against the emotional onslaught of his presence.

He watched you, silently, intently, observing the way you spoke, your voice clear and confident, your insights incisive and insightful, the way you dissected complex data with an almost surgical precision, the way you held your own with the hardened soldiers and seasoned intelligence officers – a world you had once shunned, now embraced with a newfound sense of purpose.

He saw the woman you had become, the strong, independent woman who had emerged from the shadows of their failed marriage, a woman he both admired and desired, a woman he had almost lost to the relentless demands of his profession, a woman he was now determined to win back, piece by carefully chosen piece.

He hadn’t tried to speak to you about your shared past, not once. And though it broke your heart, a dull, persistent ache in the hollow spaces where his love had once resided, it was precisely this respect, this professionalism, this acknowledgment of your independence, that made you see him in a new light. He didn't cross any lines, didn't attempt to rekindle the intimacy you had once shared, didn't presume upon your shared history. The mission, the success of the operation, was his primary focus, and in his unwavering dedication to his duty, you saw a glimpse of the man you had fallen in love with, the man of integrity and unwavering principle.

It was as if the rot that had consumed your shared life had, in its destructive path, cleared the way for new growth, a new beginning, a second chance you hadn't dared to hope for.

And yet, amidst the professional work, he began, slowly, subtly, to chip away at the walls you had built around your heart.

The steaming cup of tea on your desk in the morning.

Chamomile.

No coffee, no black tea, just plain simple chamomile tea. He’d teased you about it once, only sick people drink that , he’d said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. But he'd remembered. He'd remembered a small, insignificant detail, a personal preference you hadn't indulged in since your separation. Did they even have chamomile tea on base? Had he gone out of his way to procure it, just for you?

You hadn't touched chamomile tea since the divorce. The taste, once so comforting, so intimately associated with shared mornings and whispered love confessions, had turned sour, a bitter reminder of broken promises and a love gone cold. You had banished it from your cupboards, your life, a symbolic purging of the past, a desperate attempt to erase the memories.

You stared at the mug, the steam swirling before your eyes, a hazy veil that separated you from the present, transporting you back to a time when the world had felt brighter, simpler, when the scent of chamomile had been a comforting constant in your life. You remembered lazy mornings, waking to the sound of him humming in the kitchen, the aroma of chamomile tea mingling with the scent of freshly brewed coffee, a shared breakfast, a stolen kiss, a whispered “I love you” before he disappeared into the shadows of his work.

You lifted the mug to your lips, the ceramic warm against your skin, the steam caressing your face, the scent of chamomile filling your senses, a sudden, unexpected rush of emotion catching you off guard. You took a sip, the warm liquid flowing down your throat, and the familiar taste shocked your system.

It wasn’t the bitter, tainted taste you had remembered, but the sweet, slightly floral flavor you had once loved, a taste that evoked memories of shared laughter and the quiet comfort of a love that had once felt invincible.

And at that moment, as the warmth of the tea spread through you, chasing away the lingering chill of loneliness and regret, you knew that you hadn't forgotten either. It was as if the years of separation had all dissolved in that single sip, leaving you exposed, vulnerable, raw. The feelings, the memories, and the love you had once shared were still there, buried beneath the surface, waiting to be reawakened.

He left a carefully chosen book on your desk, a first edition of your favorite author, he accidentally brushed your hand during a briefing, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. Your gun permit, which had been inexplicably delayed for weeks, suddenly appeared on your desk the next morning, stamped and approved. He offered you a ride home one evening, the silence in the car filled with unspoken words, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife. He began to share small details about his life, his work, and his team, offering you glimpses into the world he had once kept so carefully hidden, a silent invitation to bridge the chasm that had separated you for so long. One afternoon, you found your schedule cleared and a scribbled note on your desk: “Take a break. You deserve it.”

You began to question your initial assumptions about John's priorities, the narrative you had constructed to explain the demise of your marriage. You had blamed his work, absences, secrets, and dedication to a world you couldn't comprehend, a world that demanded his complete and utter devotion, leaving no room for you, for the life you had envisioned together.

But now, as you observed him in the operations room, his authority commanding the respect of everyone in the room, his strategic mind dissecting complex problems with ease, his commitment to his team evident in every carefully chosen word, every decisive action – you realized that his work wasn’t just a job, a career, a means to an end, but a part of who he was, a calling that demanded his complete and utter devotion.

Perhaps he hadn't made a conscious decision to prioritize his career over your love, but had felt incapable, unworthy, of juggling the demands of both, of being the husband he wanted to be, the husband he believed you deserved.

Perhaps he hadn't chosen his work over you, as you had once so bitterly believed.

Perhaps he was his work, just as he was the man who left chamomile tea and thoughtful notes on your desk, the man whose love, despite the years of separation, had somehow managed to endure, a stubborn ember glowing beneath the ashes of your shared past, waiting for the breath of forgiveness to fan it back into a flame.

And in that realization, something within you shifted. The resentment, the bitterness, began to dissolve, replaced by a newfound understanding and respect, and a flicker of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn't too late.

The evening before the mission, as he handed you another steaming mug of chamomile tea, a small routine that had formed, he confessed his regret, his voice low, husky, his words a carefully measured confession. “Listen,” he said, his gaze holding yours, “when we leave for this mission tomorrow, I at least wanted to have said this... I was an idiot letting you go.” The words hung between you, heavy with unspoken regret, the weight of years gone by.

You simply nodded, your voice failing you, the sudden rush of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. “Thank you, John,” you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible above the hum of the computers. You turned away, retreating to the safety of your work, your heart pounding, your mind racing.

You couldn't rest. His confession, his admission of regret, acted as a catalyst, a spark that ignited the embers of your own emotions. A sudden, unexpected revelation that shook you to your core. You realized that your feelings for him were still there, stronger, perhaps, than ever before, buried beneath the surface, waiting, patiently, persistently, for this moment.

The next morning, he was gone. The days that followed were a blur of anxiety and anticipation. You found yourself constantly checking for updates, scanning the news feeds for any hint of what was happening on the ground, your heart pounding with each notification, each report. Then, finally, the news arrived. The mission was a success. Kate informed you that John’s team had returned, that he was back, safe and sound.

You had to see him. You needed to see him.

You drove to his flat, your heart pounding, a chaotic mix of hope and fear, anticipation and dread, warring within you. As you stood before his door, your hand hovering over the buzzer, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the encounter, for the potential rejection. You pressed the buzzer, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway, each second stretching into an eternity as you waited for his response. He opened the door, his expression a mixture of surprise and concern.

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough with sleep, his hair tousled, his clothes rumpled. “What’s wrong? Did some – ”

He didn't get to finish his question. You threw yourself into his arms, your body colliding with his, your arms wrapping around him, holding him tight, as if you could physically merge with him and erase the years of separation. He stiffened momentarily, surprised by the suddenness of your embrace. Then his arms closed around you, his touch tentative at first, then tightening.

He held you tight, his hands stroking your hair, his touch gentle, reassuring, a silent apology for the pain caused, the distance created, the years he had been absent from your life. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask for explanations, didn’t question the sudden outpouring of emotions.

You stood there for a long moment, locked in a silent embrace, the world outside fading away, replaced by the comforting warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his heart against yours, the familiar, comforting scent of his skin. It was a sensory symphony that evoked a flood of memories, both sweet and bittersweet.

Finally, you pulled back slightly, your eyes searching his. “I…” you began, your voice trembling slightly, the words catching in your throat.

He looked at you, his eyes filled with concern. “Tell me,” he said, his voice soft and gentle, an invitation to share what was on your mind.

You took a deep breath. “When you said… when you said you were an idiot for letting me go…” you began, your voice trembling, your gaze locking with his, searching for any flicker of judgment, of rejection, “It… it made me realize something. Something I should have realized a long time ago.”

He waited patiently for you to continue, his silence a comforting presence, an unspoken promise that he would listen.

“It made me realize that… that maybe I was the idiot, too,” you confessed. “For… for giving up on us. For asking you to choose when I knew, deep down, that this life, this work… it’s a part of you. It’s who you are.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you stopped him, your hand gently covering his, a silent plea for him to let you finish. “Seeing you back there, in the operations room, commanding, leading… I realized how much of this life is a part of you, how much you thrive in this world. Asking you to leave it… it would have been like asking you to give up a part of yourself. And that’s not what love is, John. Love isn’t about changing someone, it’s about accepting them, flaws and all.” Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision, but you blinked them back, determined to meet his gaze.

He didn’t answer, just pulled you closer, closing the door behind you, shutting out the world. He led you inside, took your jacket, carefully hung it up, and then offered you a drink. “Whiskey?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that sent a familiar shiver down your spine. You nodded.

The familiar sound of ice clinking against glass filled the quiet of his flat, a comforting counterpoint to the frantic beating of your heart. Your throat suddenly felt dry, the anticipation coating your tongue like the first sip of cheap booze. As he poured the drinks, your gaze traced the familiar lines of his body, the subtle play of muscle beneath the worn fabric of his t-shirt, the scars that mapped the hidden landscape of his past. He handed you your glass, his fingers brushing yours, the contact sparking a flicker of warmth that spread quickly through your veins. You took a sip, the heat of the whiskey a welcome counterpoint to the nervous chill in your stomach. He raised his glass in a silent toast, his eyes locking with yours, the intensity of his gaze a palpable force that stole your breath away.

He set his glass down, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet. He reached for you, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb gently stroking the skin beneath your eye. The rough texture of his calloused fingers against your skin was a stark reminder of the life he led and the dangers he faced, but you found it strangely reassuring at that moment of rekindled intimacy.

“I missed you,” he murmured, holding your gaze.

“I missed you too,” you whispered back, the words a release, a surrender to the yearning that had been a constant ache in your chest for far too long. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision, hot against your skin. You hadn't realized how much you had needed to hear those words, how much you had needed to say them, until they hung in the air between you, fragile and precious.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours, a feather-light touch that sent tremors through your body, awakening nerve endings that had lain dormant for far too long. You closed your eyes, savoring the sensation. Then, his lips pressed against yours with increased force, the kiss deepening, growing more urgent, more demanding.

His hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer, molding your body against his. The sensation of his familiar touch, the way he held you, sent a wave of heat through you, mingled with a deep sense of belonging, of coming home.

He lifted you into his arms, carrying you towards the bedroom. The world outside faded away, replaced by the feel of his arms around you, the steady beat of his heart against yours, the warmth of his breath on your skin. He laid you gently on the bed, the soft sheets cool against your heated skin. His body hovered over yours, his gaze holding yours, his eyes, once clouded with guilt and regret, now filled with a love so deep, so intense, that it stole your breath away. He kissed you again, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that mirrored your own.

He undressed you slowly, deliberately, reverently, his hands mapping the familiar landscape of your body with a newfound appreciation, a rediscovered sense of wonder, as though he were tracing the contours of a cherished map, each curve and hollow a familiar landmark on a journey he had almost forgotten.

He reached for the clasp of your bra, his fingers fumbling slightly with the fastening, the momentary clumsiness a endearing reminder of his nervousness. The cool air against your newly exposed skin sent a shiver down your spine, a frisson of anticipation that mingled with the warmth of his gaze. He looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, his gaze lingering on the swell of your breasts, the rosy peaks of your nipples hardening under his scrutiny. He lowered his head, his lips brushing against your skin, his tongue tracing a slow, wet path from the base of your throat to the valley between your breasts, sending shivers of pleasure radiating outwards, a symphony of sensation that had you arching towards him, your body humming with anticipation. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, then harder, drawing a soft moan from deep within your throat. His hand cupped your other breast, his thumb circling your nipple, mimicking the motion of his mouth, the dual stimulation sending waves of pleasure crashing through you.

You reached for him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, your nails lightly scratching his scalp, eliciting a low groan of pleasure from deep within his chest. You wanted him closer, needed him closer, the years of separation, the ache of loneliness, melting away in the heat of his touch, the warmth of his body against yours.

He moved lower, his lips trailing a path of fire down your stomach, his tongue dipping into your navel, sending a shiver of anticipation through you. He kissed the soft skin of your inner thighs, his breath warm against your most sensitive flesh, his touch igniting a fire in your core. He reached for the waistband of your panties, his fingers hooking beneath the fabric, his gaze meeting yours, seeking permission. You nodded, your breath catching in your throat, the anticipation almost unbearable.

He pulled your panties down, his touch slow, deliberate, his gaze lingering on the delicate folds of your flesh, now exposed to his hungry gaze. He moved lower still, his tongue parting your folds and brushing against your clit, sending a jolt of electricity through you, your body arching involuntarily towards his touch. He kissed you there, gently at first, then with growing intensity, his tongue flicking across your swollen nub, drawing out a sharp gasp of pleasure from deep within your throat. You reached down, your fingers tangling in his hair again, anchoring you to the present moment, the exquisite reality of his touch, his warmth, the intoxicating scent of his skin mingling with yours.

“John,” you moaned, his name a plea, a prayer, escaping your lips on a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

He continued to lavish attention on your clit, his tongue circling, teasing, stroking, building the pressure, the pleasure, until you were writhing beneath him, your body arching towards his, your moans growing louder, more insistent. He hummed against you, the vibration a low, guttural sound that resonated deep within your core, amplifying the pleasure that coursed through you. He inserted a finger into you, slowly, deliberately, stretching you, filling you, the sensation both exquisite and familiar, a reminder of the intimacy you had once shared, an intimacy you had almost forgotten, an intimacy you now craved with a desperate hunger. You cried out, a mixture of pleasure and a sharp pang of need. He added another finger, then another, scissoring them inside you, mimicking the rhythm of his tongue on your clit, building the pressure, the pleasure, until you were on the verge of shattering, your body humming with anticipation, your senses overwhelmed by the exquisite torture of his touch.

“Please,” you begged, your voice thick with longing, your body aching for release. “John, please…”

He looked up at you then, his eyes filled with a raw hunger that mirrored your own, a flame that had been rekindled, now burning brighter, hotter, than ever before. He withdrew his fingers, his touch lingering on your swollen clit, sending a final jolt of pleasure through you that had you gasping. He rose then and began to shed his clothes. You watched him, mesmerized, as he shrugged off his shirt, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the muscles rippling beneath his skin, the familiar scattering of dark hair across his chest and stomach. The familiar crisscross pattern of scars, some new, some old, resembling a map of his battles fought. Your gaze lingered on the planes of his stomach, the defined line of his V, the way his muscles flexed with each movement. He unbuckled his belt, the sound loud in the quiet room, then unzipped his trousers, pushing them down his legs, revealing his cock, hard and throbbing, already glistening. He stepped out of his pants, then reached down to pull off his boxers, revealing him fully to you. You admired him, the raw power and vulnerability he embodied in that moment, the man you had loved, lost, and now found again.

He positioned himself between your legs, the heat of his cock pressing against your entrance, a familiar pressure that sent a wave of longing through you. You reached down, your fingers wrapping around his shaft, stroking him gently, feeling the familiar texture of his skin against yours, the heat radiating from him. He groaned low in his throat, his hips bucking involuntarily against your touch. You arched your back, pressing yourself against him, wanting him closer, needing him inside you.

He pushed forward slowly, deliberately, the head of his cock stretching you, filling you, the sensation both exquisite and familiar, a reminder of the past and a promise of the future. You cried out, a mixture of pleasure and a sharp pang of need, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, anchoring you to the present, to the reality of his touch, his warmth, the solid weight of him inside you. A wave of heat flooded through you, centered low in your belly, spreading outward in ripples of pure sensation. It was more than just physical; it was a feeling of rightness, of completion. It was as if his cock was made to be inside you; the way it filled you so completely, so perfectly, the way it stretched you, possessed you. Each thrust reawakened a memory, a sensation, a feeling you thought you'd lost forever. You clung to him, your body molding against his, desperate to erase the distance, to bridge the gap, to become one with him again.

He paused, holding himself still inside you, allowing you to adjust to his size, his fullness. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his voice thick with need.

“Fuck me, John,” you moaned, your voice thick with longing, your body aching for the friction, the release, the complete and utter surrender to the moment, to him.

He obliged, moving within you, slowly at first, savoring the feeling of reconnection. He knew exactly how to touch you, where to press, how to angle his thrusts to elicit the most intense pleasure, as if he had the very skin between your thighs memorized, as if your body was a map he had charted again and again in his mind during the long years of your separation. His rhythm was slow, deliberate, each thrust a measured exploration, a rediscovery of the intimate language your bodies once spoke so fluently. Your hands found his back, your fingers digging into his skin, anchoring you to the present, to the exquisite reality of him inside you. Your faces were inches apart, your gazes locked, his eyes reflecting the same raw hunger and desperate longing that burned within you.

Lost souls, wandering in the wilderness, finally brought home to each other.

The slow burn intensified with each thrust, building a pressure that coiled tight in your belly. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your skin, resonating deep within your core.

“God, you feel so good,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. He shifted his angle slightly, his cock brushing against a particularly sensitive spot within you, sending a jolt of pure pleasure through your body. You arched against him, your hips meeting his thrusts, your moans growing louder, more insistent.

He withdrew almost completely, then plunged back inside you, the friction building with each thrust, the pleasure intensifying until it became an exquisite torment. You tangled your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, closer, wanting to merge with him completely, to erase the years of being apart, the ache of loneliness, the bitter taste of regret. Your nails dug into his back, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his skin.

“John,” you cried out, his name a desperate plea, a prayer, escaping your lips on a wave of pure pleasure. "John, yes ..."

The world narrowed, focused down to the single, overwhelming sensation of him inside you, filling you, possessing you, completing you – the pressure built, coiling tighter and tighter, until it became unbearable.

Then, with a final, powerful thrust, it broke, a wave of pure bliss washing over you, consuming you, shattering you into a million pieces. It was as if the very essence of your being dissolved, merging with his in a blinding flash of white-hot ecstasy. Your body convulsed around him, your muscles contracting, your breath coming in short, gasping sobs. You cried out his name, a wordless expression of the joy, the release, the complete and utter surrender to him.

He followed close behind, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm, his cock throbbing inside you, spilling his seed deep within you, a tangible expression of his love, his possession, his complete and utter surrender to the overwhelming power you held over him.

It was a shared climax, a melting point where the years of separation dissolved, and the barriers between you crumbled, leaving only the raw, visceral connection of two souls intertwined, two bodies forged together in pure euphoria.

At that moment, there was nothing but you and him, your bodies intertwined, skin on skin, two halves of a whole, finally reunited.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight comforting, his breath warm against your skin. He rolled onto his side, pulling you close, his arm draped protectively over your waist, his hand resting on your hip, his fingers gently tracing the curve of your bone. You snuggled against him, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, a comforting sound that lulled you into a state of blissful contentment. The silence stretched between you, now filled with a comfortable intimacy. The years before suddenly seemed like a distant nightmare.

“Come home,” you whispered, your voice barely audible above the steady rhythm of his breathing, the words escaping your lips before you could fully process their meaning, a sudden, unexpected outpouring of a need you hadn’t realized was so profound, so deeply rooted in the very core of your being. You wanted him with you, in your life. You wanted to wake up next to him in the morning, the scent of his skin mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, to share a cup of chamomile tea. You wanted him home, not as a fleeting visitor, a ghost from the past, but as a constant presence.

He shifted slightly, his gaze searching yours, a question forming in his eyes. You’d spoken without thinking, your words driven by the raw intensity of the moment, the overwhelming sense of connection and belonging that had washed over you. As the initial euphoria faded, replaced by a sudden wave of self-consciousness, you realized how forward you’d been, how presumptuous, how soon . You froze, your heart pounding in your chest, a sudden fear gripping you, the fear of rejection, of having overstepped, of having shattered the fragile, nascent hope of a future you had only just begun to envision.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low and hesitant, his words gentle and probing.

“My life is so empty without you, John,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper, the words a simple, heartfelt truth, an admission of the loneliness that had been your constant companion for so long, the gnawing emptiness that had threatened to consume you, to erode the very core of your being. “I… I miss you. I miss us .”

You looked at him then, your eyes pleading, your gaze searching his, seeking reassurance, understanding. You reached out to touch his face, your fingers grazing the stubble on his jaw. “You should have never left in the first place.”

He smiled then, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes, chasing away the lingering shadows of doubt and regret, illuminating his face with a warmth that melted your heart. “I know.”

You took a deep breath. “I… I was so inconsiderate,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “To dismiss the intensity of your job. To ask you to choose. I should have understood, should have realized…”

He reached out, his hand gently covering your mouth, silencing your self-recriminations, his touch a comforting reassurance, a silent promise of forgiveness. “We both had our reasons. We both made mistakes. We both… we both went through a difficult time. I wish things could have been different. I hated being gone so much, hated knowing I was causing you pain” He paused, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. “It’s okay. We’re here now.”

“But, for better or for worse, right?” you whispered, echoing the vows you had exchanged so many years ago, vows that had been broken but not forgotten, vows that now held a newfound significance. “I… I broke that promise, John. I walked away.”

He leaned in then, his lips brushing against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “And I let you,” he whispered, “but not again. Never again.”

He kissed you then, a deep, lingering kiss that sealed the unspoken promise between you, a promise of forgiveness, of understanding, of a love reborn from the ashes of your shared past. You lay there, wrapped in each other's arms, content in the intimacy of a love that had, against all odds, refused to die.

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thedemoninme141 · 2 months ago

Text

Lost Valentine's.

Pairing: Wednesday X Female Reader.

Theme: Angst, Heavy Angst! Wordcount: 8.3k-ish.

Warnings: A bit of confusion? But please read it to the end!

Summary: Can Roses bleed? Wednesday can't remember. Maybe that's why she followed your ridiculous valentine's traditions.

It had been months since you had crept into her life, since you had settled into the spaces between her ribs and refused to leave. Months since she found herself caught in something she never anticipated—never wanted.

Affection.

The word itself left a bitter taste in her mouth, as if it were something toxic.

She was Wednesday Addams. She did not entertain foolish emotions, she did not indulge in sentimentality. She was meant for darkness, for solitude, for the macabre. And yet, against all reason, against every instinct she had spent years honing, she had found herself ensnared by you.

It had started subtly at first, so subtly she hadn’t even noticed it happening. The way she allowed you to linger at her side when she would have long since dismissed anyone else. The way her sharp retorts softened, just slightly, when they were directed at you. The way she resisted—desperately, vehemently—the urge to let the corner of her mouth twitch upwards whenever you spoke to her.

You had ruined her.

And you didn’t even know it.

She exhaled slowly, pressing down the erratic thrum of her heart, suppressing the way your face kept invading her thoughts, the way her mind kept tracing over every moment spent with you.

You had insisted on celebrating something called "Rose Day," a concept so nauseatingly sentimental that Wednesday had nearly scoffed outright when you first brought it up.

Flowers. Love. The revolting ideals of romance wrapped up in a neat, florally scented package.

Wednesday detested roses.

She detested all flowers, unless they were poisonous, deadly, wilted to ruin.

And again,

She hadn’t been able to refuse you.

Against all odds, all logic, all reason, she had said yes.

Ugh.

You wanted to spend the evening in the greenhouse, of all places. Where the air was thick with the scent of earth and blooming things, where petals unfurled and thrived, where you had planted an entire batch of flowers with your own hands, simply because you liked the idea of growing something.

It was one of the things Wednesday—loathe as she was to admit—admired about you.

Your hands were made for creating, not destroying. You nurtured life where she sought to end it.

It was infuriating. It was endearing. Stupid heart.

Her fingers tapped against the desk, her expression tightening.

Was she supposed to bring you something? The thought had only just occurred to her. The whole purpose of this absurd holiday was to exchange roses, was it not?

The idea was ridiculous. You wouldn’t like that. You hated killing flowers.

Wednesday still remembered the way you had frowned when she absentmindedly stepped on a daisy weeks ago, your lips pressing into a thin line before you gently picked it up, cradling it like something fragile, something sacred.

She had been fascinated by you then.

She was still fascinated now.

A deep sigh slipped through her lips as she straightened, smoothing out the fabric of her uniform, willing away the disquieting warmth in her chest.

This was insufferable.

She needed to get out of here before she allowed her thoughts to spiral any further.

“Where are you going?”

The sudden voice shattered her thoughts like glass, and Wednesday turned, her dark gaze settling on Enid, who stood beside her bed, arms folded across her chest.

The werewolf’s usual vibrance was absent, her features drawn tight, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Strange.

Enid was always prying. Always teasing.

“I am meeting Y/n,” she answered evenly. “She insisted on spending the evening in the greenhouse.”

A pause.

“Oh.”

That was all Enid said. No teasing remark. No suggestive smirk. Just… that.

Wednesday frowned.

Something wasn’t right.

Enid was acting strangely, but Wednesday had little patience to unravel the reasoning behind it.

She glanced towards the door, then back to her roommate, waiting for whatever usual nonsense was sure to follow.

It never came.

“Umm,” Enid hesitated, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “When will you be back?”

“I am not sure.”

Another pause. Another unreadable look.

Then, just as quickly, Enid nodded and turned away, fingers tightening around the hem of her sweater.

Wednesday didn’t question it. Didn’t linger. She had somewhere to be.

With one final glance at her roommate, Wednesday strode towards the door, pushing aside whatever strange feeling settled at the back of her mind.

She had more important things to focus on.

Like the fact that you were waiting for her.

And that, for some unfathomable reason, she actually wanted to see you.

How revolting.

She found you lying in the grass, arms stretched out, gaze turned upwards at—what, exactly? The ceiling? The world beyond it? The way the light refracted through the glass?

It didn’t matter.

Wednesday stopped in her tracks, the air catching in her throat, something unfamiliar curling inside her ribcage as she took you in.

You looked completely at peace, as if the very weight of the world had melted away, as if the walls of Nevermore had dissolved and left only this moment, only this space, only the soft, lush grass beneath you and the warmth of the lamps above.

There was something infuriatingly fascinating about the way you existed.

So gentle. So utterly alive.

And yet, somehow, you had chosen her.

Wednesday stood motionless, watching you, letting her dark gaze trace over every little detail—your slow, steady breathing, the way your fingers absentmindedly curled through the blades of grass, the way your lips parted just slightly as if lost in thought.

She hated this.

She hated the way her chest ached when she looked at you.

Hated the way you made her feel as if something inside her was slipping through her fingers, something she had never asked for, never wanted.

But she hated even more the idea of leaving.

So she moved forward.

Your head tilted slightly at the sound of her boots against the stone path, your lips curving upwards before you had even turned to look at her, as if you had known she was there before she had spoken a single word.

And then you sat up, eyes warm, expression bright—

And then the cursed thing,

Your smile.

The one thing Wednesday still hadn’t quite learned how to endure.

She felt it then—the ridiculous, unbearable urge to smile back.

She resisted.

Barely.

"You're here." The words were soft, threaded with something Wednesday couldn’t quite place, something she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

"Of course I am," she replied simply, "I found you, didn't I?" her voice as even as ever, as if her pulse hadn’t just tripped over itself.

Your lips twitched, amusement flickering in your gaze.

"That you did."

A quiet sigh left her lips as she moved toward you, but she didn’t deny it.

"I planted a new batch of roses," you murmured after a moment, eyes flickering toward the far side of the greenhouse.

Wednesday followed your gaze.

Rows of fresh roses stood among the other plants, petals still delicate, still growing, their leaves dark against the rich soil.

Roses.

She almost scoffed.

But then you turned to look at her, and the words dissolved before they could reach her tongue.

"I just… I like watching things grow," you said, voice soft, quiet, as if this was something sacred, something not often spoken aloud. "Helping things live."

Wednesday studied you, the way your fingers toyed with the hem of your sleeve, the way your eyes held something distant, something wistful.

She didn’t understand.

And yet, at the same time, she did.

You stood then, waiting only a second before moving toward the roses, glancing back expectantly when she didn’t immediately follow.

She let out a sigh and followed.

The roses were different from the others.

They stood side by side, carefully planted, one deep black and the other a striking red, their petals unfurling as if reaching for one another.

You crouched down beside them, fingers grazing over their stems without touching, careful, reverent.

"I planted these as a symbol," you murmured, your voice just above a whisper. "Of you and me."

Wednesday stiffened.

"As long as we’re together," you continued, brushing a strand of hair from your face, "these roses will be too."

Something inside her twisted. Tightened.

Wednesday Addams did not entertain sentimentality.

She did not allow herself to be softened by such things.

And yet, she found herself staring at the roses, at the way the black and red bled into one another, and she felt it— That slow, quiet ache beneath her ribs.

You reached for something beside the flowers, lifting it with both hands before turning to face her, expression sheepish.

A watering can.

"You’re probably going to hate this," you admitted, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at your lips. "But I want us to take care of them together."

Wednesday stared at you.

Then at the watering can.

Then back at you.

This was absurd. Truly, completely absurd.

And yet, against all reason, against every fiber of her being, she found herself reaching forward, hesitantly, carefully, taking the handle from your grasp.

Your fingers brushed hers in the exchange.

Her breath caught, almost imperceptibly.

This was ridiculous. And yet, she tilted the can forward, the water slipping past the spout, soaking into the dark earth.

And then—

You giggled.

Soft, warm, unguarded.

A sound she had heard before.

A sound that had never made her feel like this.

Wednesday clenched her jaw, tightening her grip around the handle, as if that might somehow steady her.

Perhaps…

Perhaps her distaste for flowers wasn’t entirely justified.

Lunch at Nevermore was always an assault on Wednesday’s senses. The noise, the clatter of trays against tables, the constant hum of voices overlapping, filling every available space. It grated on her nerves, but she tolerated it. Barely.

To her right, you were curled slightly inward, sitting at the very edge of the table, as you always did.

Across from her, Enid was chattering away, her voice bright and full of energy as she animatedly waved her hands, trying to explain something to Yoko and Bianca.

"And I swear, I almost got it! But then the stupid equation was like, ‘nah, girl, you thought,’ and now my grade is in literal shambles," Enid groaned, dragging a hand through her hair. "I swear, my math teacher has it out for me," she groaned, dramatically slumping forward. "Like, I am genuinely incapable of understanding calculus, and instead of helping, she just stares at me like I’m an insult to the entire concept of numbers."

Yoko snorted, shaking her head. "Maybe you are."

Bianca smirked. "Yeah, Enid, you’re a lost cause. I’d be concerned if I were your teacher too."

Enid gasped, shaking her head at them. "Wow, thanks for the moral support, guys."

Wednesday barely paid attention to them. Their conversations were predictable, nothing that required her participation.

But then— "I can help you with math if you want," your words were quiet, soft, hesitant, careful in the way you said it, as if you already expected to be ignored.

And you were.

The conversation continued as if you had said nothing at all.

Enid was still laughing, Yoko and Bianca still smirking.

Not a single one of them acknowledged your words.

Wednesday felt something cold coil inside her.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But she watched.

She watched as your gaze flickered downward, watched as your fingers curled just a little tighter against the wood, watched as the faintest trace of sadness passed over your face before you carefully schooled your expression back into something neutral.

You didn’t say anything else.

Something cold and sharp coiled inside Wednesday’s chest.

“She said something.” Her voice cut through the conversation like a blade, sharp and deliberate.

The table stilled.

Enid blinked at her. “Huh?”

Wednesday’s jaw was tight, teeth pressed together as she repeated herself, slower this time. “Y/N offered to help you with your math problem.” She shifted her gaze, dark and unyielding, to all three of them. “And you blatantly ignored her.”

Yoko, Bianca, and Enid exchanged glances, an awkward silence settling over them.

Finally, Enid laughed, but it was different this time—forced, unsure. "Oh, um, yeah, sure, Y/N, I’m, uh…" She trailed off, searching for something to say.

Bianca cut in smoothly. "Don’t worry about it, Y/N. I’m actually tutoring Enid, so she’s covered." She offered a practiced smile, tilting her head. "Sorry for not noticing what you said. You know how loud Enid can be."

Lies.

Wednesday saw through them instantly, saw the way Bianca avoided direct eye contact, the way Yoko shifted uncomfortably, the way Enid fidgeted with the sleeve of her jacket.

You smiled, small and tired, nodding as if you believed them. “Right. No worries.”

Then you stood, grabbing your tray, and left without another word.

Wednesday’s glare darkened as she shot one last look at them before pushing her own chair back and following you.

The hallway was quieter, the echoes of distant chatter fading into the background as

Wednesday caught up to you.

You didn’t turn to her, your footsteps steady, your gaze fixed ahead.

"You shouldn’t have done that," you murmured after a moment.

"Shouldn’t have done what?"

"Called them out like that."

Wednesday scoffed. "They deserved it."

A bitter chuckle left your lips, but there was no humor in it. "They hate me," you said, voice quiet, but steady.

Wednesday frowned.

"They don’t even acknowledge me most of the time," you continued, finally stopping, finally turning to look at her. "You saw it, Wednesday. You always see it. They act like I don’t exist."

She stared at you, taking in the way your jaw tensed, the way your hands clenched at your sides.

It was infuriating.

And for the first time, Wednesday didn’t know if her anger was directed at them—

Or at herself.

"They don’t hate you," she said, measured, careful.

You laughed, shaking your head. "Then what do you call it?"

"They’re self-centered," Wednesday said simply. "Thoughtless. Ignorant. But they do not hate you."

"Does it matter?"

Wednesday felt something stir inside her, something she didn’t have a name for.

Because it did matter.

It mattered far more than it should have.

She exhaled through her nose, shifting her weight slightly.

"I do not care for most people," she admitted. "They are fickle. Inconsistent. Disappointing."

You tilted your head slightly, listening.

"I am not like them," she continued, voice quieter now, more deliberate. "I do not say things I do not mean. I do not offer what I do not intend to give."

Your brows furrowed slightly.

"Wednesday—"

"You matter."

The words were out before she could stop them. And she didn’t want to stop them. Your lips parted, eyes widening just slightly.

"I have spent much of my life detesting the very concept of… attachment," Wednesday said, her voice unwavering despite the tightness in her chest. "It is unpredictable. Irrational. A weakness."

You swallowed, fingers twitching at your sides.

"But then you—" she stopped, the faintest trace of something raw, something unguarded.

The silence stretched, heavy, thick with everything unsaid. And then Wednesday exhaled, slow, deliberate.

"Be mine." she said.

Your brows furrowed slightly.

"What?"

Wednesday exhaled again, as if the words themselves had pained her.

"I lo—"

She stopped.

Her throat tightened.

She exhaled again, slower this time.

"I have… an undeniable preference for you," she tried.

You blinked.

Then let out a quiet, breathless laugh.

"Wednesday Addams, are you trying to say you love me?"

Wednesday’s face didn’t change. But her hands twitched at her sides.

She did not look away. Did not falter.

"I’m saying that you are mine," she corrected, her voice quiet but firm.

Your breath hitched.

Then, slowly, carefully, you stepped forward, closing the space between you.

"That was a very Addams way of saying it," you murmured.

Wednesday didn’t reply.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then—

You reached forward, hesitantly, carefully, fingers brushing against hers.

She didn’t pull away.

"You’re mine too, then," you whispered.

And Wednesday—

She didn’t resist the small, fleeting twitch at the corner of her lips.

Enid was at her own desk, digging through her drawers, occasionally glancing at the mirror, adjusting her hair as she pulled on a jacket. She was getting ready to go somewhere.

Wednesday watched her for a moment.

"Where are you going?"

Enid stiffened.

It was subtle, but Wednesday noticed it immediately.

A small, fleeting tension in her shoulders before she turned around, smiling a little too quickly.

"Oh! Um—nowhere important. Just heading out with some people."

Wednesday narrowed her eyes slightly.

"Where."

Enid hesitated, then sighed, rubbing the back of her neck.

"The Weathervane theme park," she admitted, avoiding Wednesday’s gaze.

Wednesday tilted her head slightly.

"With whom?"

Enid chewed on her lip.

"Uh, just—Ajax, Bianca, Yoko, Eugene and some others."

Wednesday frowned.

That was… odd.

Normally, any sort of group outing like this would come with an excruciatingly long, overly enthusiastic attempt from Enid to convince her to join.

There would be pleading, bargaining, annoyingly bright smiles and hopeful eyes.

There would be insistence, over and over, until Wednesday either shut it down completely or relented just to make it stop.

Yet this time, there had been nothing.

No mention of it.

No attempts to persuade her.

And for some reason, that bothered her.

"Why didn’t you ask me to come?"

Enid blinked. The question seemed to catch her off guard, her mouth opening and closing for a moment before she laughed awkwardly.

"Uh, well, I mean—" She shifted slightly. "I just figured you’d say no anyway, so I didn’t bother."

Lie.

It wasn’t an outright lie, but there was something wrong with it, something forced in the way she said it, something in the way she wouldn’t quite meet Wednesday’s gaze.

And Wednesday—

She could push it. Could demand the truth.

But she didn’t need to.

Because whatever the reason was, it didn’t matter.

This wasn’t about Enid.

This wasn’t about her.

It was about you.

Ever since yesterday’s lunch, Wednesday had been analyzing everything, dissecting every detail of how people treated you, how they disregarded you, how they seemed so utterly indifferent to your existence despite you being right there.

It made no logical sense.

Wednesday didn’t like that. She wants you to be close to other people too, to have other friends too.

And so, before she could think too much about it, she spoke again.

"I want to join," she said, her voice steady.

Enid blinked again, startled.

Wednesday’s expression didn’t waver.

"Me and Y/N," she clarified.

For a brief moment, Enid just stared at her. Then, slowly, she smiled, though there was something awkward about it, something hesitant.

"Yeah, sure," she said, "It’ll be fun." nodding a little too quickly though her voice carried the same awkward note as before.

Wednesday studied her.

There was hesitation in her movements, tension in her shoulders.

She was hiding something.

Wednesday straightened, her dark eyes unwavering.

"Is there something I don’t know?" she asked.

Enid stiffened. "What?"

"Between Y/N and the others, did anything happen that I do not know of?" Wednesday pressed, voice carefully measured.

Something flickered across Enid’s face. Her eyes widened, too much, too quick.

"No!"

Wednesday’s stare was cold, unrelenting.

Enid fumbled, forcing a laugh.

"I mean—no, of course not! Y/N’s great! Fun! Amazing, really!" she babbled, her voice too high, too rushed. "She is my best friend, I love her! You know me, I’m just silly, ha-ha!"

Wednesday’s lips pressed into a thin line. She did not believe her.

But she also knew Enid would not willingly say more.

Not yet.

Enid cleared her throat. "Listen, we’re leaving in an hour," she said, shifting the conversation as quickly as she could. "You can get Y/N and meet us outside the school, okay?"

Wednesday gave a single nod. "Very well."

Enid hesitated for half a second longer, then turned back to her mirror, fixing her hair again, though there was something off in the way she was moving, something stiff.

But Wednesday didn’t linger on it.

She turned, grabbing her coat from the hook by the door.

She had something more important to do.

She had to find you.

She wasn’t walking away from something.

She was walking toward it.

Wednesday stole a glance at you.

You looked… happy.

Genuinely happy.

And it was because of a lie.

Wednesday had never been one for dishonesty—she found it tedious, unnecessary.

But when she had seen the way your expression lit up upon hearing that Enid had specifically asked her to bring you along, the lie felt... worth it. And she hated that she didn’t regret it.

You walked a little closer, your fingers brushing hers—not enough to hold, but enough to be felt. “I’m gonna get you something,” you said suddenly.

Wednesday arched a brow. “How unfortunate.”

You laughed. She pretended not to like the sound.

“It’s Chocolate Day,” you continued, nudging her lightly. “And you know what that means.”

Wednesday sighed. “It means I’m about to be forced into yet another pointless tradition.”

You hummed, tilting your head in thought. “I was thinking of getting you dark chocolate.”

Wednesday paused. Her gaze flickered to you, analyzing. She had never told you that dark chocolate was the only exception to her disdain for sweets. She had never mentioned it, never given any indication of preference. And yet—You had known.

“Fine,” she relented. “But if it’s disgusting, I reserve the right to throw it away in front of you.”

You giggled, looping your arm through hers before she could protest. “I’ll take my chances.”

Wednesday looked away. She was losing this battle.

And she did not know whether she wanted to win it at all.

The theme park was exactly as Wednesday had predicted.

Loud. Chaotic. A breeding ground for idiocy.

Yet, with you beside her, something about it didn’t seem quite as unbearable.

Enid was unusually insistent throughout the night, always rushing ahead, always the first to purchase the tickets before Wednesday could so much as reach for her wallet.

Every time Wednesday attempted to intervene, Enid waved her off, claiming it was “her treat.” so, Wednesday let it go.

For now.

Eugene, on the other hand, seemed to be having the time of his life, camera in hand, clicking away at anything and everything that caught his eye.

"Hey," you said, turning to Wednesday, a thoughtful expression crossing your face. "Do you want a picture of us?" you asked.

Wednesday blinked.

You smiled.

"Just you and me," you clarified. "You should have one of us. Just us."

And Wednesday— She did not understand why she felt that small, inexplicable pang in her chest. But she found herself turning to Eugene anyway.

"Eugene," she said, drawing his attention.

The boy perked up, lowering his camera slightly.

"Yeah?"

"Take a photo," she instructed.

Eugene hesitated for only a moment before giving a small smile.

"Of course!"

He lifted the camera, adjusting the focus.

Wednesday stood still.

You stepped closer.

Your arm brushed against hers.

Her fingers twitched.

The flash went off.

Eugene lowered the camera, beaming.

"Got it!"

You turned to Wednesday, smiling.

That ridiculous urge.

That stupid, utterly nonsensical pull to return the expression.

She swallowed it down.

The night carried on, but something had shifted.

Wednesday felt it.

Felt it in the way she found herself watching you more often than necessary.

Felt it in the way she could not bring herself to pull away when you stood just a little too close.

This was dangerous.

She knew that.

She had always known that.

But she was beginning to wonder—

Had she already lost?

Wednesday’s mood was dark.

Then again, when was it not?

Everything was dull.

Everything was predictable.

Everything was exactly as it always was.

And then—

There were you...

Damn you.

It was infuriating, how easily you shifted her world, how something as simple as your presence sent a ripple through the void she had spent years cultivating.

“You’re late,” you said, teasing.

Wednesday scoffed. “I am not late. You are simply too eager.”

You grinned and without warning, you slipped your hand into hers.

Wednesday nearly flinched, not from the touch itself, but from the way it sent an unfamiliar jolt through her veins.

"Let’s sit somewhere else today," you said, tugging her toward the farther end of the courtyard.

She let you. Gladly.

The day passed in a blur of you.

You and your endless chatter, your soft laughter, your ridiculous stories that she pretended not to find amusing.

She let herself indulge in your company, allowed herself this moment of peace.

Just you and her.

Nothing else.

Just silence when she wanted silence.

Just your voice when she wanted to hear it.

Just you.

"I have something for you," you had said when you pulled her towards your dorm.

And sitting on your bed was— Oh no.

No, absolutely not.

You picked it up with a smile, cradling it in your hands like it was some great treasure before turning to her with the brightest expression.

"It’s for you," you said, holding it out. "Today is Teddy Day."

Wednesday stared.

At the scorpion plush toy in your hands.

She folded her arms. "I do not collect foolish, sentimental objects," she stated flatly. “I refuse to accept this.”

Your face fell, and something in her chest tightened, an invisible fist curling around something delicate and fragile.

She hated that expression.

Hated it more than anything.

Then you spoke, voice softer this time. “You don’t have to keep it. I just… I saw it, and I thought of you.”

Damn you.

Wednesday clenched her jaw.

She could not allow herself to care.

She could not allow herself to be weak.

But your eyes—

Your eyes.

With an exasperated huff, she stuffed the plushie into her bag, shoving it deep inside as though trying to erase the evidence of her own surrender.

And your face—

Lit up.

You beamed at her, eyes shining with something warm and unbearable, something Wednesday did not have the capacity to name.

And she—

She did not regret it.

Back in her dorm, the plushie sat at the foot of her bed.

Wednesday stared at it.

It was mocking her.

That ridiculous, soft-bodied thing with its beady, lifeless eyes.

A cruel joke. Mocking her of her surrender, of her growing vulnerability.

She was still staring at it when the door opened.

"Wednesday?... Did Y/N give it to you?"

Wednesday turned to her, brow furrowing slightly.

"What kind of question is that?"

Enid shifted on her feet, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweater.

"Who else would have the audacity to give me something like this?" Wednesday added, crossing her arms.

Enid’s lips pressed together.

"And even if someone else did, do you truly believe I would accept something this absurd from anyone other than Y/N?"

A pause.

A long, suffocating pause.

Then—

Enid forced a small smile.

"Yeah… yeah, you’re right."

She glanced at the plushie once more, an unreadable look flickering across her face before she sighed.

"I'm sleeping in Yoko's room tonight," she said suddenly. "Um… call me if you need anything, okay?"

Wednesday tilted her head slightly.

"Why?"

Enid hesitated. Then, she shook her head.

"No reason. Just… I think I should."

She turned to leave.

Wednesday watched her go, something unsettling curling in her stomach.

The door clicked shut. Wednesday turned her gaze back to the plushie.

It sat there, unmoving.

She narrowed her eyes at it.

Then, slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing against the fabric.

Soft.

She scowled.

And yet, she did not move it.

She wasn’t sure she ever would.

Wednesday awoke to the feeling of something watching her.

For a brief second, her instincts sharpened, body stiffening against the mattress as her mind prepared for an unseen threat. Her eyes snapped open right to the source of the threat.

The scorpion plushie.

It looked… smug.

Wednesday scowled. "What?" she almost asked, but she bit her tongue, pressing her lips into a thin line.

She wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t about to speak to an inanimate object.

With a slow exhale, she sat up. She knew what day it was.

Not because she had been keeping track of the dates, but because of you. Because whatever ridiculous Valentine’s tradition was set for today, she knew without a doubt that you would follow it.

And she—

She would not be able to refuse you.

And worst of all?

She didn't want to refuse you.

And now, sitting beside you, on the wooden bench tucked away near the greenhouse, she had to ask "What tradition do you have today?"

You blinked, taken aback, before breaking into soft laughter.

"You’re seriously asking that?"

Wednesday rolled her eyes.

"I suppose I should prepare myself before it hits me out of nowhere."

You giggled again, "Promise Day. Today is Promise Day."

Wednesday hummed. That seemed… easy enough. She could not recall a single promise she had made in her lifetime, but if that was the tradition for today, surely there was nothing too outrageous you had in store.

"So," she asked, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. "What do you have planned?"

You smiled.

But this time—

This time, Wednesday saw it.

The sadness behind it.

"Hmm," you hummed, looking down at your hands. "I did have it planned, to promise you—" your voice softened, "to be yours forever, to be with you forever, to love your darkness and all, to die for you and all, but I think you would puke from that, so…"

You looked up at her again, eyes gentle, expression unreadable.

"I promise to… live for you."

Wednesday stared.

"Live for me?" she echoed, voice quieter than she intended.

You nodded, a small, knowing smile playing at your lips.

"Yeah. I probably would."

Wednesday didn’t know what to say.

Live for her.

It was a statement she didn’t fully understand.

Dying for someone had always been the more poetic sentiment, had it not? The ultimate sacrifice, the ultimate declaration of devotion. But living for someone?

That was… heavier. More... terrifying.

"You haven’t made any promises to anyone before, have you?" you asked, tilting your head slightly, studying her with those eyes that always saw too much.

Wednesday shook her head.

"Promises feel… vulnerable," she admitted.

She never liked owing people anything.

"I’ll make it easy for you, then."

You turned fully to her, your eyes searching hers, locking onto them in a way that made her feel trapped yet unwilling to break free.

"Just promise me one thing," you said.

She inhaled, steady, controlled.

"What is it?"

Your voice was quiet when you spoke again.

"Promise to remember me forever."

Wednesday’s breath caught in her throat.

It was such a simple request.

So simple, and yet—

Something about it unsettled her.

Remember you forever?

She already knew she would.

Even if she had never promised it, even if you had never asked, even if the years passed and you drifted away, Wednesday knew—

She would remember you.

For the rest of her days.

She looked at you then, really looked at you, and for the first time, she felt as though she could not move, could not breathe, could not think— all she could do... was nod.

"I promise."

Wednesday had endured many things in her life—pain, loss, the unrelenting presence of insipid social interactions.

But nothing tested her patience quite like the traditions you insisted on following this week.

Not that she was complaining. Not that she would ever complain about you.

Hug Day had been unnecessary.

You had hugged her before—more than once. The first time had been abrupt, unexpected, and Wednesday had frozen like a marble statue, uncertain of what to do with herself. Since then, you had learned not to expect reciprocation, but that never stopped you from wrapping your arms around her. It was infuriating how you always found an excuse—whether it was a casual farewell, a moment of comfort, or simply because you felt like it.

So, Wednesday dismissed Hug Day as redundant.

But then?

There was "Kiss day".

Your lips were on hers.

The graveyard was silent, save for the whisper of the wind through the skeletal branches of nearby trees.

You had kissed before too, albeit rarely. Once, when emotions had overwhelmed you both. Another time, when you had stolen one on impulse, grinning against her lips before pulling away. Wednesday had tolerated it, even if her pulse had betrayed her each time.

But today?

It was reckless.

It was utterly inappropriate.

And that's why, it was perfect.

Wednesday had never imagined herself indulging in such foolishness, but if there was ever a way to win her over, you had found it. Grave digging to set the mood? You understood her in ways others never could.

The ghosts of this graveyard were probably awkwardly witnessing the entire ordeal.

Wednesday didn’t care.

She wasn’t going to stop.

Your lips tasted like roses and vanilla.

How was that even possible?

She didn’t know, and she didn’t care. Because whatever it was, it was addicting. When you pulled back, your breath ghosting against her lips, you giggled, and the sound shot straight through her.

“We should probably run before security comes in,” you whispered, amusement laced in your voice.

You didn’t wait for her response.

You simply took her hand, fingers lacing through hers, and ran.

And, God help her, she let you.

It was nearly 3 a.m. She and you had barely made it back inside undetected, skillfully avoiding any patrolling staff or wandering students, especially with you by her side, suppressing your giggles. She had ignored your teasing, had merely shot you a sharp look before slipping through the entrance, not bothering to check if you followed because she already knew you did. You always did.

When she finally reached her dorm, she was careful as she turned the knob, pushing the door open just enough to slip inside without a sound. But the moment she stepped in, she halted.

Enid was awake.

She was standing on her side of the room, her arms crossed, her eyes wide and glassy. She looked… angry. Or maybe distressed. Wednesday couldn't quite tell.

“Where the hell have you been?” There was no teasing lilt, no dramatic flair, no usual exaggeration Enid often used when scolding her. It was raw. Unfiltered. Desperate.

Wednesday narrowed her eyes, “I was with Y/n.”

She thought that would be enough.

It wasn’t.

Enid sighed, the kind of sigh that came from deep within, like she had been holding something in for too long and now it was spilling out in a single breath. Wednesday didn’t like it. Not one bit.

But Enid didn’t say anything else.

She just turned away, muttering a quiet “Goodnight,” before climbing into bed, pulling the blankets over herself without another word.

For a long moment, Wednesday stood there, staring at the lump of her roommate beneath the sheets, her mind working through a hundred different possibilities. But Enid had already curled away from her, body tense, and Wednesday had no patience for dealing with that now.

Something about the whole exchange sat wrong with her.

But she was too tired to push for answers.

The next morning, she awoke with an excruciating pounding in her skull.

Her first thought was to blame you.

After all, this was your fault. If you hadn’t dragged her into that entire graveyard escapade, she wouldn’t be in this state. But the moment that thought crossed her mind, she dismissed it. Because, realistically, she had let herself go with you.

She had let herself kiss you.

She had let herself enjoy it.

And now here she was, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, her temples throbbing, her body weighed down by exhaustion, her head filled with thoughts she didn't have the patience to analyze.

She groaned, pressing her fingers to her forehead.

This headache needed to be dealt with.

She sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, glancing around the room. Enid’s bed was empty.

Weird.

Enid was rarely up before her. The girl had a terrible habit of sleeping in, only dragging herself out of bed when absolutely necessary. But this morning, she was already gone.

Wednesday didn’t dwell on it.

She had other priorities.

Today was the cursed day.

Valentine’s Day.

She wasn’t sure what you had planned, but she knew you had something planned. You wouldn’t let this day pass by without doing something ridiculous, without showering her in affection she never asked for but didn’t hate.

Once dressed, she stepped out, making her way toward the infirmary.

Pain wasn’t something she feared. She had endured worse things than a simple headache. But headaches were bothersome and if there was one thing she despised, it was being in a bad mood and unintentionally taking it out on you. And today was special to you. She didn’t want to taint it with unnecessary irritability.

The school was already bustling with activity. Students roamed the corridors, their chatter laced with excitement, their hands holding flowers, chocolates, small wrapped gifts. Decorations had been put up—heart-shaped banners, pink and red ribbons, utterly nauseating displays of romance.

Wednesday ignored it all, making her way toward the infirmary, her mind already calculating the fastest way to get what she needed and leave before anyone attempted to drag her into their mindless festivities.

She turned the corner, reaching the infirmary doors—

And then she stopped.

Through the small gap in the door, she saw them.

Her parents.

Standing inside the infirmary.

Her stomach twisted, something sharp and cold curling in her chest.

What the hell were they doing here?

They never visited without warning, without reason.

And they weren’t alone.

Principal Weems was there, Eugene was there too, his expression tense. Bianca stood near him, her usual confident and smug expression absent.

And then there was Enid.

She had been crying.

Wednesday’s stomach twisted at the sight.

“—she’s been like this for too long,” Principal Weems said, her voice softer than usual. “We ignored it at first, thinking it would pass, but clearly, it hasn’t.”

“She’s always been prone to obsession,” Morticia’s voice followed, carrying the usual elegance, but beneath it was something else. Concern. Worry. “We thought it was just her nature, but…”

“This is different,” Weems murmured. “It’s unhealthy.”

Unhealthy? Wednesday’s brows furrowed.

"Not surprising," Bianca added, arms crossing over her chest. "Have you ever tried reasoning with Wednesday? She doesn’t let go of things. Even when she should.”

Something in her tone made Wednesday's stomach twist unpleasantly.

“She doesn’t remember,” Eugene spoke up, his voice softer than the others, hesitant.

“She won’t remember unless she chooses to,” the doctor’s voice chimed in, steady and clinical. “It was the pain’s doing—not the physical pain, but the mental one. Trauma can manifest in many ways, but in her case… she rewrote the narrative entirely.”

Rewrote?

“We should have intervened earlier,” Weems admitted “I saw the signs, but I thought—”

“None of us knew how bad it would get,” Bianca interjected. “We all thought… she just needed time."

Time for what?

Morticia let out a quiet sigh, “My poor raven…”

“What do we do?” Enid’s voice felt like she was about to break down. “She’s my best friend, but I can’t keep watching her like this. I just can’t.”

“She needs to understand the truth,” Weems said. “She needs to accept it.”

There was a long silence, then Gomez spoke, his voice heavier than she had ever heard it.

“She won’t be able to,” he said. “Not when it comes to Y/n.”

Something inside Wednesday snapped.

She pushed the door open with more force than necessary, the sudden intrusion making everyone jump.

“What on earth are you talking about?” she demanded, her dark eyes narrowing as she took in every guilty, startled expression. “What about Y/n?”

Morticia stepped forward instinctively, her features soft with something resembling sympathy. “Cara mia, you need to—”

“I will slaughter every single person in this room without any remorse if you don’t tell me right now what the hell you’re talking about.”

The room fell silent.

Enid let out a sharp, broken breath before her face crumpled. Her tears fell freely now as she shook her head, her hands balled into fists.

"Why, Wednesday?" her voice cracked. “Why don’t you get it? Why can't you move on?! She was my best friend too!" She sucked in a breath, her voice shaking. "It hurts me too! Just as much as it hurts you. I try to move on, I try so hard, but you—” Her voice broke, her whole body trembling. "You keep bringing it back..."

Move on?

Wednesday’s head throbbed, the pain behind her skull intensifying.

“What are you blabbering about, Sinclair?” she snapped, taking a step forward, but Enid didn't step back.

Wednesday’s vision blurred for a second, a sharp pain stabbing through her skull. Her hands flew to her temples, trying to steady herself.

“Stop,” she gritted out, but Enid wasn’t done. She moved to Eugene, snatching a piece of paper from his trembling hands before shoving it into Wednesday’s grip.

“Then look,” Enid whispered.

Wednesday stared at the paper in her hands. Slowly, hesitantly, she turned it over.

It was a picture.

Wednesday stared at it.

The room around her didn’t exist anymore.

A picture taken on Chocolate Day, the day they had all gone to the theme park. She remembered asking Eugene to take it. She remembered standing beside you, close enough to feel your warmth, your presence.

But—

You weren’t in it.

Wednesday’s breath caught.

You had been there. She knew you had.

She remembered your laughter, the way you had smiled at her just before the picture was taken.

But in the photo, there was only her.

She was standing there, alone.

Her hands started shaking.

A sharp, white-hot pain struck her head, forcing her to clutch her temple, her vision blurring at the edges. And then—

A flash.

Your smile.

Your touch.

Your hands in hers.

And then—

Blood.

So much blood.

You.

Bleeding.

On the road.

She was just with you last night.

You kissed her.

She felt you.

Her breathing hitched, uneven, ragged.

Wednesday gasped, her knees nearly buckling as she clutched at her head.

"Ugh," she hissed, squeezing her eyes shut.

Memories.

They were flooding in too fast, unraveling, slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.

This wasn’t right.

None of this was right.

Someone reached for her—Morticia, maybe—but Wednesday staggered back.

No.

No, she couldn’t be here.

She needed—

She needed to find you.

Without another word, she turned and ran.

Wednesday ran.

The corridors of Nevermore stretched endlessly before her, dark and empty, but she didn't care. Her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, but she didn't slow down. She couldn't.

You were waiting for her.

Somewhere in this cursed school, you were there.

The Weathervane. The scent of coffee and rain hanging in the air. Your hand in hers, fingers curled so delicately, so warmly around her own. You had smiled, eyes glimmering with something soft, something she never understood back then.

"Promise me something?" you had said.

She could hear her own voice, steady, unwavering, always so sure. "That depends on what you ask."

"Just remember me. Forever."

Wednesday had scoffed, rolling her eyes. "As if I could ever forget you."

The pain in her skull, the way her vision blurred at the edges—none of it mattered. She just had to get to you. She had to see you.

You, standing beside her at the crosswalk. It was late. The street was empty, save for the occasional flicker of headlights in the distance. She had been looking at you instead of watching the road. You were looking back, smiling at her.

The walking signal turned green.

You took a step forward. She took a step forward.

Your fingers tightened in hers. The light breeze had ruffled your hair, and the city lights reflected in your eyes. You looked—

Beautiful.

Headlights.

She saw it coming from the corner of her eye, but you didn’t.

Wednesday felt her heart lurch, felt the impossible, horrifying force of something being torn from her grasp.

Your hand wrenched out of hers.

The sound of flesh hitting metal. The sickening crunch of bone.

And then—

Flowers.

So many flowers.

Crimson seeping into the petals, staining the sidewalk in a bloom of red.

Wednesday gasped, her knees nearly buckling as she turned the corner, her body screaming at her to stop, to slow down, to breathe.

But she couldn’t.

No.

No, you were here.

You had to be here.

She would find you.

The greenhouse came into view.

The door was already slightly ajar, a soft golden glow spilling out into the night.

Her pulse pounded.

She stepped inside.

And there you were.

You were kneeling beside the roses you planted for her, fingertips grazing over the petals with the same delicate care you had always possessed. Your lips curled into a small smile as you glanced up at her, as if nothing had changed, as if nothing had ever happened.

"Help me water the roses, Wednesday," you said, tilting your head.

Her throat tightened.

She didn't speak, didn't ask, didn't demand an explanation—she simply moved.

She picked up the watering can, stepping beside you. She poured. Water spilled over the petals of a black and red rose, dark like ink, deep like blood.

Finally, you dusted your hands against your skirt and looked at her.

And she—

She looked at you.

Her throat ached. “You’re here.”

“Of course I am,” you said. “You found me, didn’t you?”

Wednesday exhaled slowly, carefully. “I always do.”

"Even when I’m gone?"

Something twisted in Wednesday’s stomach. "You’re not gone."

You exhaled softly. "Wednesday…"

"You’re here," she cut in, her jaw tightening. "You’re right here."

Your expression softened, something unbearably sad settling into your features. "I’m sorry."

She hated that.

Hated the way you said it like this was your fault, like you had done something wrong.

"Don’t apologize."

You let out a small, hollow laugh. "Still stubborn as ever, huh?"

"You always liked that about me." She said.

"I still do." There was something about the way you looked at her that made her feel—

Like the world had stopped spinning.

Like time had folded in on itself, just to give her these few stolen moments with you.

Like nothing outside of this greenhouse mattered.

And yet—

Something inside her twisted.

She clenched her jaw, trying to steady herself. “Why?”

Your eyes softened. “Why what?”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Why do you keep leaving me?”

Silence stretched between you for a moment. You hesitated, then reached out, your fingers ghosting over her wrist before pulling back, like you weren’t sure if she would let you.

She hated that.

She caught your hand, gripping it tightly.

You looked at her, something unreadable flashing across your face.

“I never wanted to leave,” you whispered.

Wednesday swallowed.

“You—” she exhaled sharply, her voice unsteady, weak. She hated it. “You made a promise to me.”

“I did.”

“To stay.”

“I know.”

Wednesday’s chest ached. “You broke it.”

You were quiet.

Her grip on your hand tightened. “You left me.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she snapped. “You did.”

"Wednesday…"

She refused to look away.

If she looked away, you might disappear.

You took a step forward.

She stayed perfectly still.

"You’ve always been so strong," you whispered. "Stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. But even the strongest people need to let go sometimes."

Her throat tightened. "I don’t want to let go."

"I know." You smiled, but it was laced with sadness. "But you have to."

"No."

"Wednesday…"

"No!" Her voice cracked, her fingers twitching at her sides. "I don’t— I don’t want to move on. I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and have you be gone—"

"You won’t forget me," you interrupted, reaching up, your fingers brushing lightly against her cheek. "You’ll never forget me.

She shuddered under your touch, something inside her cracking open.

She had spent weeks—months—pretending, denying, refusing to see what had been in front of her all along. She had forced herself to hold onto you so tightly that she never realized—

You were never really there.

Not anymore.

She clenched her jaw. “Are you—” her voice wavered, breaking before she could stop it. “Are you real?”

You smiled.

“I am real, as long as you want me to be.”

Your hand was warm against her skin. She closed her eyes and leaned into the touch before she could stop herself.

She didn’t want to stop herself.

The warmth of your touch.

The soft press of your fingertips.

The headache that had been suffocating her, dulled into nothingness.

The ache in her chest, the suffocating weight—gone.

She had been drowning for so long.

But now, just for a moment, she felt like she could breathe.

Wednesday inhaled sharply, eyes locking onto yours.

You were still smiling at her. Still looking at her like she was something precious, something worth remembering.

And for the first time in what felt like forever—

She let herself smile back.

“So,” you murmured, your voice soft, teasing, familiar. “How do you want to spend Valentine’s Day, Woe?

[Author's note: Yeah, I know, don't hate me for this. The first version had an even sadder ending than this lol, Sooo, how was this Valentine's angst?]

Taglist: @rqizzu @sevyscoven @kingoftheracoons @kingofthings2 @masterofpuppets-10 @alexkolax @ognenniyvolk@mally-ka@protozoario@machyishere@freakshow2501@101rizzlrr @casbrawel @jinxslapdog @just-zy @gray-cheese @hellenheaven @blue-because-no-yellow @thyhooligans

(I kinda lost which taglist was for which sorryyyy. If you guys don't wanna be tagged in one-shots, inform me, I don't mind. I am gonna make another post for the a better taglist based on your preferences in the future.)

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ghouljams · 4 months ago

Note

Do you think Nikto would accept softer gifts from aphrodite!reader? Like blue flowers that match his eyes? Just something that he wouldn't be able to melt down and use.

Once you're out of your rooms and given free access to the forge --a privilege which gave you more heart palpitations than you'd expected, and caused you to sleep with the key clutched tight in your fingers-- you find it much easier to get back to your duties in the mortal realm. Ares still haunts your thoughts, so you avoid your usual battlefield walks (though you mourn for the soldiers who do not have thoughts of love to comfort them before their journey to Hades) and opt instead for simpler pastures.

A young man traveling to Athens for school lays forget-me-nots on your altar and asks for his love to wait for him. You're so enamored with the little blue blossoms that you send a wave of lust towards his girl with little care for the child it will leave her with. Kept in heart and hand indeed.

You bring the powder blue blooms back to Olympus. Pretty little things, you pinch their delicate petals between your fingers to feel the velvet of it. The color reminds you so much of your husband's eyes. You'd show him but... well, you're not sure the forge's fire wouldn't burn them to bits.

You decide to wait up for him, settling the little stems in a vial with water and nursing them with gentle fingers back to vibrancy. You snuff the candles so he'll think you're asleep and wait.

He comes like a light in the darkness, fire burning beneath the fine cracks in his skin like hot coals glowing in the fire. No, not cracks, scars. His scars have split open, bloodless and beautiful in their obscenity. They must be painful. He stills like a lion waiting to pounce when he sees you sitting up. You try not to smile with too many teeth.

"I got you something," you whisper excitedly. His fist clenches, and you can hear the splintering of metal under the creak of his knuckles. You push the blankets aside to get to the little table, your own godly glow alighting on the petals until the blue shines. "Look," you grin at him, your own emotions too hopefully bright to hide beneath your skin, "they're the same color as your eyes." You turn back to the flowers and touch the edge of a petal. "Aren't they beautiful?"

He's so dark when you look at him again that you can hardly distinguish his shadow from those cast by the marble.

"Nikto?"

"We go." He tells you shakily, before turning and stalking from your chamber.

Your heart falls.

The petals wilt.

The iron ring on your night table burns through the marble.

#cod x reader #x reader #cod nikto #call of duty nikto #mwii nikto #nikto x reader #nikto cod #nikto call of duty #gn!reader

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diyasgarden · 1 month ago

Text

no pomegranate trees

patrick zweig x reader, 4.9k words, features mentions of blood

I was treasuring my past, I was treasuring your future [taken from in our garden there was no pomegranate trees by Şükrü Erbaş]

Patrick’s made the street vendor blush now. A soft rosy color against the depth of her cheekbones, only emphasized by the way her gaze sheepishly flits down to the table in front of her. Her eyes run over the piles of citrus and pomegranate. A futile attempt to regain some composure that only serves to make her look more flustered.

The slight upturn of his lips becomes more defined as you both take her in. It’s the same smirk he would use to convince a caterer to give him a bottle of champagne when you were teens and too bored at whatever gala you were dragged to. Or at one of those dinner parties to deflect questions when everyone felt entitled to know your dreams and mock you for it. He’d use it when visiting you in a new city to snag a few extra drinks at a club or get out from paying the full taxi fare. So routine, it feels intrinsic to his spirit. The sharp, lopsided smile blooms an odd sense of comfort in your chest, its familiarity mildly drowning out the worry about this random trip to visit you.

He took a red eye after some challenger in the midwest, and landed in Istanbul at eight in the morning. When he called thirty minutes later to tell you he was here to visit, “What? Can’t I surprise you?” was the only thing he said when you asked if everything was okay. Right before he hung up, he let out a laugh. A small chuckle that felt pushed out of his throat, and you regretted not asking about the tournament before the call ended.

He leans over the table, closer to the street vendor who’s flush deepens at the action. “Please?” he asks, still grinning like the Cheshire cat. He fiddles with the money in his hand, thumb running over the wrinkles of the dollar and folding the edges aimlessly. She lets out what you think is a quiet giggle, but the bazaar is too loud to actually hear. Tired of watching the exchange, you look around to the other stalls by where you stand. Tables of produce and barrels of spices mostly, with booths lined with Persian rugs and copper pots in the distance. If you squint, you can see the fragmented light of mosaic lamps as afternoon descended into night.

Even with the sunset around the corner, there’s a lingering sense of spirit to the market. A potent vibrancy of sounds, smells, and people, that navigating made you feel close to the heart of the city. Or as close as you could, only living here for a month. It wasn’t like any of the other places you lived. Not that you could really group any together, each with their own withstanding singularity.

Often you’d wonder if Patrick felt the same way about the places he went to on tour. If every country club had its own energy or if any city struck out more to him. Although, you’d never ask. He’d answer it of course, but you couldn’t help thinking it’d be an insult to you both, and frankly it was just another question on the long list of things you wanted to ask him.

You turn to look down at the piles of pomegranate in front of you, aimlessly reaching to cup one of them. The fruit is a little larger than your palm, firm to touch and vaguely leather-like. You squeeze to see if you can make some sort of mark on the hard exterior, but when you move your hand to the next pomegranate you see no indication you ever touched the first. Your fingers draw small shapes against the rough skin of the second, slowly stopping when you see Patrick’s hand come up to touch the same one. His thumb brushes against yours, the rough skin of a callous sending a pleasant shiver up your spine before he moves to pick up the pomegranate, along with the first one you touched.

“We’ll take these,” he tells the shop vendor, reaching over to give her the money in his hands.

“Seriously?”

It takes Patrick a moment to even register the question, too occupied in trying to capture every detail on the walk back to your apartment. Sometimes he imagines a common thread between all the places you’ve lived. An intangible likeness that calls to you, even if the only true connection is the fact that you’ve lived there.

When the playfully sarcastic tone of your voice pulls him away from the stray cats and street signs, he laughs. Deep and genuine, the sound seems to echo down the street. It’s a stupid question, but he can hear the slight undercurrent of unease in your voice.

“I haven't converted any cash since I got here,” he starts, with a small chuckle, thumb pressing into the skin of the pomegranate in his hand. He has one in each palm. The globe-like fruit fits perfectly in his grasp. “It makes no difference, she can just go take it in for whatever they use here.”

“Lira,” you sigh with a delicate smile. The edges of your eyes move in turn with your lips. Titled up to the sky with a ripple of gentle wrinkles bound simultaneously in content and worry that fill him with warmth regardless. The sight prompts a grin on his own, and he looks away in front of him, hand flexing against the firm curve of the pomegranate as you get closer to your apartment. Of course you’d know that. Now living in Istanbul for how long? Three weeks? A month? It’s not like you stayed long in one place anyway.

You moved to London after he first went on tour, in pursuit of some vision for yourself. It wasn’t a surprise, you and Patrick spent years discussing it. Him playing tennis and you traveling the world in search of something deeper. While he didn’t understand exactly what you’re searching for, he assumed your heart would eventually guide you to it. He just hadn’t expected it to take you to so many places.

“Well she can go convert it for lira then,” he adds jokingly, voice slightly clipped. He wants to make some joke about how you’re settling into the country, but in between the jet lag and the thoughts in his mind nothing comes. He should have told you he was coming to visit. Called at least before the flight took off, but it’s all a blur to him. He was driving by an airport after his game, and the next thing he really remembers is the flight attendant telling him they landed in Turkey.

His hand squeezes the pomegranates, the friction stinging against his skin.

“I had lira, you know. I could have given it to you,” you suddenly say, stopping in front of the door to the apartment building. He turns to see you looking up at him with gentle concern. Eyes wide and lips parted like you have more to say. He has to physically restrain from pressing his thumb against the space between your eyebrows and pushing away the knit of worry that’s formed. He can’t decide if you look like an adult waiting for an explanation or a child waiting for an apology.

He shakes his head, but can sense you’re about to protest anyway. Shifting both pomegranates to the same hand, he steps to open the door. “Now where else would I practice flirting in Turkey?”

He’s been holding the pomegranates the entire way back. A tight grip which you’re convinced must sting. He has more calluses now, you think. Physical burdens of the tennis racket which hurt just to look at.

You press the elevator button, and sneak another look at him. Tennis has always more or less left Patrick tan, but it’s more prominent now. Each day in the sun marked with a new freckle or wrinkle. Delicate little things which emphasize his age, no matter how much the boyish smirks or humor clings to his youth.

Your gaze drifts down, following along the vein in his arm back to his hand, still clutching the pomegranate. Your hand gravitates to his, reaching for the fruit, but he moves just as your finger grazes it. The elevator doors open with a ding and he steps in, looking at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Whatcha doing?” he asks, the smirk teasing a reappearance.

“I can hold one,” you insist, stepping in beside him. You try to take it once more, and again his hands move before you can. He holds it up, too high for you to grasp as the elevator doors close with a metallic thud.

“I mean sure…if you can reach it,” he grins, immaturity pushing its way to the front.

When you roll your eyes and lean against the elevator wall, his look softens to something gentler. His hand comes down to his chest and he cradles both pomegranates as the elevator moves up. The weight of his gaze remains on you, pushing your own to the ground. Now you stare at his mud stained shoes, an exhausted greyish brown against what was once white. It’d probably take at least five washes to get the stains out, stomach churning at the thought. With a stronger resolve, you look up again. “Give me one”

“It’s fine”

“Just give me one, Patrick”

“No,” he chuckles, shaking his head. You don’t have another chance to try grabbing it as the elevator opens to your floor, his free hand extending to guide you out. With a sigh, you step into the hallway, hand digging in your back pocket for the key as you walk towards your door. Patrick follows, pomegranates still pressed to his chest as you come to a stop. He hovers closer, as you move to push the key into the lock.

He’s never had any concept of personal space. You can feel him next to you without a glance, heat radiating off his body in waves. The smell of cologne and sweat fill your senses. Distracting enough that you hold your breath to unlock the door. Finally pushing it open and stepping in with a deep exhale.

You turn on the lights and look at Patrick. With his free hand he closes the door, locking it before turning back to you. The slight reddish stubble against his chin catches the light with a sharper shine than the browned undertones of his unruly curls under the light. His hair isn’t long, shorter than when you were teens, but the dark curls still move without any order.

Closing the door and kicking off your shoes, you ask, “I’ll put the pomegranate in the kitchen?”

He steps away, not even letting you reach for it this time. “I'll cut them soon.” Still holding them tight as he moves to kick off his own shoes. For a moment you imagine just grabbing it and running away, not giving him the option to say no. A silly thought. He’d be fast enough to stop you anyway.

“Okay,” you sigh with a nod, turning away before you unwillingly give into impulsivity. “I’m making tea”

He followed you into the kitchen, unsure what else to do with himself. The apartment is furnished and decorated. Warm in its own way, but he’d much rather stay closer to you than just wander back and forth taking in the pictures on the walls. The pomegranates remain close to his chest as he leans against the fridge, watching you standing over the stove and pouring water in the dual teapot. He imagines you every evening coming back to this apartment alone and making tea for yourself.

He likes to imagine what you do in each city. How your life is spent in a new place each time. Years ago he’d picture you moving somewhere new and exploring, making friends, and finding time to write and draw and do all the other things which made you happy. Now he isn’t really sure what you do besides what he sees in front of him.

What would you tell him if he asked? Would you be honest? Lie about some grand adventure? Probably just deflect the question as a whole, but he wants to anyway. It's a desire rooted in concern that reeks of greed.

“Jet lag?” you ask softly, shaking him out of his thoughts. “It looks..” you purse your lips, “like you may pass out.”

Something about your voice makes it seem like he’s going to fall apart in front of you. As if there were stitches between each limb that would come undone, reducing him to a pile of bones that you’d have to put back together. He can’t help but snort out a laugh.

“I’m serious,” you add, and when he looks at you he sees the knot of worry between your brows again. The worried wave of wrinkles scrunching tighter than before.

For a moment he debates explaining the image in his mind, about him falling apart and you slowly rebuilding him, bone after bone, but it’d probably just make you more upset. No words come together in apology, so he sighs. With the deep exhale, he murmurs, “Just tired… I’ll sit down.” He pushes his back off the refrigerator, taking one last look at you and your worry, as he forces himself to the living room taking the pomegranates with him.

The sharp smell of tea circles around the apartment as you pour it from the pot. You can feel Patrick watching you from where he sits in the living room, looking a little too out of place in your apartment. Both too big for the small ottoman he’s sitting on and for the space at all. His hand is playing with the flimsy crown of the pomegranates on the coffee table in front of him, and you look away to stare at your faint reflection in the black tea. Slowly, you move your hands to the tray the thin-waisted cups rest on, carrying it with you to the living room. You sit on the ottoman across from Patrick, and place the tray down by the pomegranates.

A weird sort of silence has formed between the two of you. The sounds of the street come in from the window, a honk every now and then, but neither of you have made a noise. It seems as if time has stopped within the walls of your apartment, giving birth to some half-silence that is too much to bear. Trying to fill the void, you pointlessly murmur, “Turkish tea.”

Thankfully,it’s enough to break the quiet. “Didn’t know,” he quips sarcastically, bringing back some sense of normalcy to the moment. You both reach to take a cup, but you just hold yours as you watch him bring the glass to the plush of his lips. He takes a sip and his nose slightly wrinkles as he puts it back down on the coffee table. “Strong…,” he says, kissing his teeth.

Weakly you chuckle, looking down at the deep brown of the tea which is too dark to be anything but over brewed. “I’m still getting used to making it.”

Now he laughs, an odd forced sound that reminds you of the call when he arrived. The same one from right before he hung up. “So not fully settled then” he says, tone weighed down by something heavy. Some mix of frustration and worry you can’t pull apart.

You look back at him, but even he feels the weight of his words. He looks to the side, before you can even look him in the eye. You bring the glass in your hands up to your lips, trying to push it down with the tea, but it makes the feeling sting down your throat.

When he finally looks back at you, he lets out a shaky exhale. His exhaustion is so glaringly obvious, you think the only way it could be more apparent is if he wrote “I’m tired” with a marker on his forehead. There is not a part of his body or any action not tinged with a weariness you knew was because of tennis.

His lips part to say something, but without much thought you interrupt to ask, “How’s tennis?”

“What?” he asks back, eyebrows furrowing as he sits up straighter.

With more determination, you repeat, “How is tennis?”

He lets out that awful laugh again. “You’re asking me how’s tennis?” mockingly shooting the question back at you, voice tinged with an incipient anger.

“It’s just a question,” you sigh, shaking your head. Placing the tea down in front of you, you momentarily look at the pomegranate on the table before turning back to him.

Patrick huffs, looking at you with an unreadable expression. His eyes pierce into yours before they go downcast. “I know,” he concedes in a murmur, still not making eye contact.

He says nothing more as you still wait for some answer to your question. It’s almost as if the half silence has returned, but this time you can hear the faint sound of his breathing. You open your mouth to ask once more, but he speaks before you can.

“What do you do here?” he asks, eyes suddenly looking right at you again.

It takes a moment to even process the question, and in the confusion, you only repeat, “What do I do here?”

“Do you have friends? Or are you writing something? Painting? Music? What?” he spits out quickly, volume increasing with each word.

“Patrick–”

“I mean what do you tell people when you move to a new place? You have to say something when they ask!”

“What?”

“What do you do!”

His voice is sharp, with a contorted sense of urgency that causes your heart to speed up. He’s out of breath, just looking at you with furrowed brows. A knot in your chest, as you watch his own heave up and down.

Then, unexpectedly he asks, “Are you happy?”

“Happy?” you repeat, more to yourself than him.

“Like here, are you happy?” He leans across the coffee table closer to where you sit. You hear your heartbeat in your ear and the knot in your chest hardens to exasperation.

“You’re asking me if I am happy?” you snap, your own frustration seeping into your voice. “You randomly show up and now you sit here asking me if I’m happy?”

He doesn’t wait a moment, moving in even closer. “Well are you!”

“Yes!” you scoff.

“You’re happy?” he repeats with the awful laugh, the question now rhetorical and cruel. “You’re happy moving from place to place. Just wasting away the trust fund throughout Europe?” making a sharp hand motion alongside his words.

“Jesus,” you mumble, looking away.

“What?” he questions, sounding offended at your dismissal. “You used to make things, be…be passionate…” he pants, clearly out of breath. “And now…you just keep moving from one place to another and for what?”

“You don’t get to judge me!” you shout back, head snapping in his direction. “You’re the one wasting away because you can’t even hit a ball right”

He says nothing, staring at you. Breath ragged as he takes in your words, face twisting from anger to hurt. The reality of what you said sinks in, clarity coming too late. Your lips part in apology, but he just forces out that laughs again.

“Okay,” he says, pushing away from the table with a force that knocks the pomegranates to the floor. You watch the fruit roll away as he walks out of the apartment.

He dangles the cigarette between his lips as he searches himself for a lighter. To no use, of course. It takes him a moment to remember he couldn’t bring one on the flight, and that he’d probably have to go back up to the apartment to borrow one from you. He huffs, just keeping the cigarette between his lips.

The night wind hits him gently. He wants to take a walk, but his legs feel rooted to the ground. Leaning against the building wall, he looks up, trying to see if he could see your apartment from here.

Patrick remembers you called to tell him about the move. You were still in Berlin then, and he was at some tournament in the Midwest. An irrelevant challenger he only made a hundred from. He tries to remember exactly how you told him, but your words are hazy. Now some deformed product of his own mind, born in some desperate need for clarity.

Instead, what he does remember is the musky smell of motel sheets he laid on, spent from the game, and confused by the news.

“Istanbul? Like Turkey.”

“No, like Italy,” you laughed, before pausing with a slow exhale. Then softer, you said, “Of course Turkey.”

He remembers laughing at the joke, before his chest constricted at your tired breath. “I thought you were enjoying Berlin”

You didn’t respond at first, but he remembers your soft breaths into the phone. Measured and deep, to a rhythm he memorized when you both were sixteen. “It was just… time for a change.”

“A change?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “A change”

He accidentally bites down on the tip of the cigarette between his lips. The bitter pungent taste overtakes his mouth, but he still doesn’t move the cigarette.

You don’t move for the next couple of minutes, just staring at the pomegranates as they come to a stop. They rolled alongside each other, before getting too close, and pushing off the other in opposite directions. One to the left and one to the right, now both standing still on each side of the room. Slowly, you push yourself to stand and move towards them.

You bend down, reaching to pick up the first pomegranate, now slightly dented from the fall to the floor. Your hand runs over the soft dimple, taking in the purplish tint of the area. A growing bruise that would only darken with time. Your legs guide you to the other pomegranate across the room and as you hand wraps around it, you feel another dent. Just as deep and big, it feels identical to the first. You run a finger against the concave curve trying to find some difference, but both dip in the same formation. Holding one in each hand, you straighten each arm to properly look at the subtle marks. Barely visible against the deep red of the skin, but there nonetheless.

You walk to the kitchen, placing the fruit on the counter. Stacked in a way so the bruises rest against each other. You hold them like that, before slowly stepping back and just looking at the two fruits. The dents press into the other with ease, each fruit supporting the other, and it dawns on you it’s probably from when they hit each other rolling, not from the fall itself.

You leave them like that before going to your room.

He’s not sure how long he was outside, but by the time he forces himself back into the building, he is relieved you didn’t lock your apartment door. Quietly, he rotates the knob and pushes it open, to be greeted with nearly the same sight he left. The lights are on, and the two cups of tea rest on the coffee table, but you’re nowhere in the room. Neither are the pomegranates. He walks around trying to find wherever you moved them, before finally stopping in the kitchen. Both on the counter top, one leaning against the other. With a deep exhale, he moves in front of them. He picks up one in each hand, both feeling heavier than before.

Knives, he thinks. He needs a knife.

He puts the pomegranates down and looks around again, trying to find something to cut the fruit with. When he finds the thin knife block, he pulls out the first one he can reach. He turns back to the fruit, gripping the blade in his left hand and moving his right one to hold the pomegranate steady. He takes a deep breath as he tightens his grasp on the fruit.

There are gentle thuds from outside your room. You didn’t hear the front door open or close, but you know it’s Patrick from the sound alone. It’s the thud of his steps, steady and gentle, becoming softer as he walks farther away from you.

You close your eyes as you lean against the bedroom door, not ready to go back out, as you try to follow the sound. In the distance you can still hear him walking. Shorter steps, but still steady and gentle.

The pomegranate has a soft waxy sensation, slightly slippery. His hand squeezes again around the rough surface, pressing the fruit to the counter. He moves the knife to the dense exterior, trying to push its way down the middle, but it remains stuck in the width of the peel. He tries pushing it again to no use. With a huff he pulls it out all together, trying to steady himself before thrusting it into the pomegranate again, getting deeper but still barely into the flesh.

The sound of the steps are replaced a more aggressive thud in the distance that keeps repeating. For a moment it sounds like he’s punching the wall or something like that, not enough to make a hole but enough to create a vibration that lingers. You step away from the door, and still hear the harsh thumps. Your heart picks up beat to the disjointed rhythm of the noise, as you finally open the door.

What are you doing?” he hears, looking up to see you now walking towards the kitchen.

Aligning the knife with the valley of the first cut, he harshly retorts, “What does it look like I’m doing?” He lifts it up and hacks into the fruit with a force unstable enough that it shifts in his hand.

You step closer to him, opening your mouth to say something to no words. Each movement of his arm is ragged and sharp, no fluidity as he pushes the blade into the fruit. His grip on the fruit jolts which each cut, getting closer to the blade each time.

The subtle grooves of the fruit press into his callouses. You're standing close, he can tell, but his eyes remain on the pomegranate. It's almost fully split. He holds it tighter, as he brings the knife down again.

He’s not lucky this time.

You hear him before you see the blood. The guttural groan of pain, accompanied by the clang of the knife falling to the floor.

The fruit, now cut down the middle, leaks red all over the countertop, merging with the stream of blood from his hand. The same deep shade, indistinguishable from the other.

His eyes close in pain, hearing your frantic steps in every direction. The sound drowns out as he draws in a breath and is met with the smell of tart and metal. A bitter sweetness that overcomes him, only to be pushed away with the sharp ache of the wound. It shoots up his arm to his head, which now throbs to the rhythm of his former cuts to the pomegranate. He leans against the counter with short, panting breaths.

Suddenly, he feels you take the injured hand. The touch sends a wave of relief up his arm now, followed by a guilt that constricts his chest. You press a soft cloth to the wound. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “Stay still,” repeating the words in a hushed succession. You hold it tight to his skin, burning in an oddly comfortable way.

Slowly he opens his eyes and looks at you hunched over the cut. He can feel the depths of your breath brush against his hand with each exhale. He turns to the counter, pomegranate finally cut open, laying in a pool of red. The other one has someone rolled closer to it, both resting in the combination of juice and blood.

“You’re fine," you repeat once more. His eyes turn back to you, still hunched by his hand. The white cloth you hold is stained red, and the guilt grows tenfold.

He rasps, “I’m sorry.”

You say nothing, too focused on the cut, so he repeats louder, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say, not looking up at him.

He lets out a tired exhale, as he says your name. Quiet and firm, wanting you to meet his eyes. When you do, he repeats, “I’m sorry.”

Eyes wide, you stare at him for a moment. He watches the familiar knot of worry between your brows slowly come undone, as he feels your grip on the cloth relax. You nod softly with your own exhausted exhale, “I know.”

“I am too,” you add in a quiet whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah”

author’s note: hi!! it's been some time since i've written a longer piece, and this idea has been lingering in my head in November. a combination of an old poem i wrote and a specific scene which came to me during a fever dream when i had the flu, so silver lining of that experience i guess. been feeling very unsure about my writing, but i needed to get the idea on paper. special shoutout for @cha11engers to beta reading certain scenes and motivating me to not let this rot in my drafts!!! thank you all for reading and please please please tell me all your thoughts <3 i love you guys!!!

#patrick zweig and pomegranates two of my favorite things #now i want pomegranates #and patrick zweig #can anyone guess what scene came to me when i was sick? i feel like it may be obvious lol #“tag your gore” i did!!#challengers #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #challengers 2024 #patrick zweig fanfic #josh o'connor #patrick x reader #no pomegrante trees

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elixrr · 1 year ago

Text

“I might be in love with you.”

How they realized they were in love.

ft. Xiao, Wanderer

Xiao：

When you held him amidst his karma.

The most interesting part of the tale? You weren't there. But he saw you. Even through the fights with himself and the surrounding darkness, he saw you— the way your sleeves fell loose on your shoulders, the way your feet glided along a garden of lilies and the way the silk and linen of your clothes weaved around your body. Even when he felt his body shatter in vigorous pain, Xiao saw the luminous glow of the moonlight reflecting off of your skin. The scenery of the dark, star-filled sky with the vibrant glaze lilies surrounding you had crafted such a beautiful picture in Xiao's head that, when he snapped back to reality, he could no longer feel the hurt. There was simply you. He couldn't see you, but he thought of you, and, even with his loyalty to Rex Lapis, he still smiled, thanking you for saving him from his karmic outburst.

But, wait a minute.

You weren't even there? How did you save him? Xiao pondered back on the image he created in his mind. It definitely wasn't something he saw, and it definitely isn't something happening now. It is night, but it is far too dark. The vibrancy of the moonlight is not present, and the bright, shining stars are instead clouded by fog and translucent mist. He definitely couldn't picture you outside right now, especially at this hour.

Hold on. What if you really were out? He is on Wuwang Hill, so of course it's foggy. What if it was brighter for you? What if the moonlight found its way to you instead?

What if that vision of you was real?

Without a second thought or consideration for his duties, he teleported to the balcony of Wangshu Inn, where he could have the possibility of seeing you, and indeed, he did see you. He teleported to a tree that stood by you, leaning on it. The remaining pain of the karma seemed to whisk away, yet his heart beat hastened. Something about how you brushed your finger against the bulb of a sweet flower made him smile.

“Xiao?” You whispered, and he swore he could feel the sun rioting the moon and rising amidst the darkness of the night.

“You called?”

“Oh!” You nearly jumped out of your skin. “That was unexpected. You actually came!”

“Of course I did. I made a promise to you, and I will honor it.”

A smile fell upon your face, and Xiao froze in place.

“Especially because it's me, I presume?”

“Wh—” Roses blossomed on his cheeks, and his heart exploded into petals.

“I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I wanted to ask if you'd be willing to walk home with me? I haven't seen you in a while, so maybe we could catch up?”

“Uh–m, I— Sure. That would be... Quite nice.”

“Oh, wow, you actually said yes!” You cheered, and Xiao's eyes glistened. It was perfect, this moment, because the clouds dispersed, and the stars and moon finally found themselves visible, shining through the clouds. You've conquered the spotlight tonight, and you've conquered Xiao's world, even if he couldn't tell.

But, you extended your hand to Xiao. This was just like his illustration of you from earlier, but he was now included. The moonlight reflected on your skin, your clothes weaved magically across your body, and surrounding the two of you were a field of flowers.

Xiao, without much thinking, grasped your hand tight, and you held it, too.

He felt a bloom in his heart, and the world around him brightened. Even as you were talking, he couldn’t pay attention to a word you said. You were graceful, and he felt the strangeness in the way your fingers interlocked with his.

You weren't holding him, really, but you held him somehow. In fact, you stole him away from the old world he lived in, introducing him to something new, something unique.

And in that moment, somewhere in the combination of his mind and heart swelled, sweeping in to tell him and make him realize that he was in love.

That he was in love with you.

Wanderer：

When you fell ill for the sake of him.

Kuni remembers it. His birthday came soon, and because it never snowed in Sumeru, the flowers still found themselves vibrant. Though, something in him found you to be more colorful and much more appealing to look at than a few colored petals and a stem, yet he could never bring himself to admit it; his pride would shatter and you would become giddy, and— if there was finally a heart to replace his hollow body— he would feel a twinge in his chest and an ache in the hollow shell of himself. Kuni figures that, because he has no heart, he is therefore heartless, meaning that this twinge in his chest can not be love like Nahida had suggested time and time again. Rather, this ache symbolized a feel of annoyance. After all, if he did have a heart, how would he be able to mercilessly kill so many people and commit so many sins?

Yet, he would catch you again and again, plucking the most beautiful, rare, and exotic flowers in Sumeru. Many of which were far too dangerous to even obtain, and that was something he realized far too late. He trusted you slightly. Actually, he didn't trust you. Kuni trusted Tighnari because you have consulted the expert many times about the flowers you picked.

But, one day, you fell ill. It wasn't due to the flowers or anything similar, but due to the weather. Kuni had been coincidentally passing by for a research project, and he stumbled upon you by a hillside, unconscious, bleeding, and sickly. You were lucky enough to forget your basket of flowers, meaning you hadn't lost any of your previously collected ones, but you were still quite unlucky. It was pouring, and atop a hill was a beautiful kalpalata lotus flower. It wasn't a terrible walk, except you were sick, and you ended up slipping and falling to what could've been your doom.

The moment Kuni saw you, he paid no mind to the flowers, nor did he care at all about his research. He needed to help you, and he, as quickly as he could, flew you over to Gandharva Ville, where he almost screamed for forest rangers to come and help you.

As you laid on the bed unconscious, Kuni stayed with you. He never left your side once.

And then you woke up.

“...What?” The pain in your head wrung from side to side, front and back. Your nose was significantly stuffier. Kuni, happy and terrified, immediately rushed over to you.

“Idiot! What were you doing out there?” He yelled, holding back the urge to punch himself for not finding you sooner, “You could've died from that sort'a height!”

“Sir, please, lower your voice. Y/N's healing process could falter if you don't shut up.” Tighnari hissed, and the two glared at each other.

“Fine, sorry. But still, what were you thinking? My birthday or whatever isn't that big a deal, and it's really not worth your damn life.” Kuni sat down on the stool next to the bed, and you looked down at the provided blankets.

“I mean, I'm not dead,” you conjure up a smile and hold in a cough, “but yeah. That was sort of stupid, but it would've been worth it if I did get you the flower.”

“What? You're mentally insane.”

“I could be.”

“That's— That's so stupid!” Why do all of that... for me? Kuni feels his chest ache again.

“Oh, it was. But hey, I'm really stupid when it comes to you.”

“What?” Kuni's eyes furrow, and Tighnari almost slams his head into the desk after hearing that.

“I mean that I'm literally stupid for you. Why else would I leave and get flowers when it's raining and when I'm sick?”

Something clicks in Kuni's head. He saw some of his peers in class talk about this phrase and suddenly connect it to some girl who was in love with a guy and...

Wait.

“I'm leaving. I'll be back— you'd better be conscious!”

“I can't guarantee that, but I'll try.”

Kuni leaves the room, frustrated. Nahida has said that he likes you, his peers have said the same thing, and maybe...

“I'm literally stupid for you.”

“That idiot..” He smiles, looking through the window to see you talking to Tighnari, who appears to be scolding you for being so careless with your health. Kuni holds in a chuckle and turns around. His ache resurfaces in his chest, and he grips the part of his top that covers his 'heart'.

Maybe, just maybe—

“I'm making a bouqet for you on your birthday!”

—maybe he is in love with you.

y/n's real name is robloxnation3000 /j

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bigintorobotsrightnow · 8 months ago

Text

Just Ted and AM enjoying the flowers, I wrote a little fic to go along with this art piece as well if anyone wants to read it— A gentle breeze cascaded across open fields of wildflowers, where AM laid peacefully amongst petals and blades of grass. His head rested upon his arms, dozing off to Ted’s delicate touch as he strung flowers into his circuits. So meticulous with the colors and arrangement. AM couldn’t help but watch from the corner of his eye with interest.

“And what purpose does it serve for you to kill the flowers and put them in my wires,” AM pointedly asked with a chuckle in return from Ted. He plucked yet another flower, this time a black eyed susan that he perched atop AM’s beak. His fingers traced along the sharp, metal ridge and AM raised his head from his arms to glance back at himself and observe Ted’s handy work.

“Don’t put it that way— I mean, you’re not wrong I just I thought you’d look, well… pretty,” Ted whispered the last part, a bashful shift of his eyes.

“And?” AM inquired then stood and craned his neck to put the arrangement of flowers on full display under the sun. They shone bright against the dark chorded circuits, a bloom of color against a dreary mechanical form. And Ted awed at his vibrance against a blue sky. A warmth quick to dance across his cheeks.

“And…I was right,” Ted uttered so breathlessly and AM could only scoff to himself at such a ridiculous notion. Pretty, only Ted would think to call a machine, pretty.

“You’re a moron,” AM quipped back and scoured the field of flowers for the perfect one to embellish Ted with in exchange. He found himself drawn to a cluster of bright yellow coreopsis, in which his long, jagged talons reached to pluck the flowers from the earth. Only for them to crumple and tear under their razor sharp edge. He hissed through his speakers as petals fell from his claws.

“It’s alright, you just have to be gentle. Here let me help,” Ted chortled then scooted forward to take AM’s hand with his own. The computer recoiled initially then eased into Ted’s grasp. He allowed him to carefully bring his talons back underneath a nearby blossom. He eased them closed to snip them from the stem, then followed through to bring AM’s hand back to his hair where he neatly placed the flower for him.

His hold on AM’s hand sank back to his wrist and he smiled. While AM stared at the bright yellow flower that stood in stark contrast to Ted’s dark locks.. Pretty, the word echoed within his processors and he craned his neck around to find another cluster of flowers. Pristine ones that he plucked just the way Ted had shown him. He arranged them neatly into Ted’s hair, and Ted began to laugh again as they fell out shortly after he’d placed them.

“Hold on, they won't stay like that,” Ted uttered and collected the flowers back from the grass, “God I haven’t done this in… well over a hundred years at least.”

He pulled both of AM’s hands into his lap and AM followed closely as Ted began to weave the flowers together one by one. “There, just like that, then you can make a crown,” Ted explained then left the rest to AM. He struggled at first, as his big, clunky talons lacked the tact for something so small and delicate. But AM was determined to get it right, and Ted was there to nudge him in the right direction.

The finished product was by no means glamorous, but when AM lifted it to place on top of Ted’s head, it was…perfect. AM admired his work in silence a moment, gazing down at Ted with a warmth he wasn’t even aware of himself. But Ted’s face darkened and he turned away from him.

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s creepy,” Ted teased and AM blew a raspberry at him.

“What, I just thought you looked, pretty,” he echoed Ted’s words and butt him with his head before he nuzzled his beak to the side of his face.

“Oh shut up,” Ted laughed and pressed his cheek back against his.

—

#ihnmaims #am ihnmaims #ted ihnmaims #tedam #am x ted #allied mastercomputer #my art

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enlysia · 4 months ago

Text

WINTER THINGS ❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆ ENHYPEN OT7

❛ my baby's in town and we're gonna do

some winter things ❜

enhypen and cute christmas drabbles / headcanons

genre — fluff pairing — bf!enha x gn!reader

warnings — cliché and tooth rotting fluff. comfort. skinship. lighthearted teasing. bad attempt at humor :/ lots of kisses :3

word count — 2.3k

this is a work of fiction, which does not accurately portray or represent the people included.

author note — this is my first literary attempt on here (i've wrote before though) so i hope you enjoy~♡ reblogs, likes and comments are so sooo appreciated >.< ALSO merry christmas lovies !

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⋆ ⠀˳. ⋆ ⠀˳. ⠀⋆ ⠀ 🤍 ⠀⋆ ⠀˳. ⠀⋆ ⠀˳. ⠀⋆

︶꒦︶꒷︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶꒷꒦︶

— LEE HEESEUNG (이희승)

a disco ball spins lazily overhead, casting scintillating light across the scene and highlighting your stunning features as you sing and dance with carefree abandon. the energy in the karaoke room is electric, pure ecstasy, filled with giggles and love as you and heeseung luxuriate in this festive experience together.

neon lights flicker, casting a fancy glow on the walls, while oversized snowflakes drift from the ceiling. tinsel wraps around the edges, and small christmas trees are scattered throughout, adding whimsy to the scene. the glossy ebony floor reflects the vibrance of the room, shifting in time with the music.

at center stage, side by side, you stand in matching festive sweaters, each one accentuated with cheeky designs, and santa hats perched jauntily atop your heads. the large screen ahead flashes the lyrics to holiday classics, like “last christmas,” inviting you to sing along. the microphone passes back and forth between you, laughter dissipating in the air as you alternate singing each line, teasing one another with exaggerated, dramatic performances. the energy is lighthearted, infectious—humor and charm woven into every note.

heeseung sings with effortless flair, his voice steady and angelic: “last christmas, i gave you my heart…”

you join in, your voice bubbly, slightly off-key: “but the very next day, you gave it away…”

heeseung grins, delivering the next line with dramatic finesse: “this year, to save me from tears…”

you slowly step closer, your motion calculated, a cheeky smile tugging at your lips, singing: “i’ll give it to someone special…”

crackles fill the atmosphere between you, the music fading as your eyes meet. the world around you seems to still, the tension palpable. without a word, you reach out, pulling him in for a soft, light kiss—brief, but sweet, leaving a flutter of butterflies in your chest. the moment feels unexpectedly intimate, a perfect harmony to the uplifting pandemonium surrounding you.

you pull away slowly, breathless, smiles blooming across your flushed faces. heeseung snickers, his eyes twinkling with affection. “guess i just gave you my heart.”

“best christmas gift ever,” you beam, your eyes sparkling with mischief, a playful contrast to his soft smile.

ㅤ──────────────────────────

— PARK JAY (박종성)

in the cozy warmth of the kitchen, you’re swept up in the joyful chaos of baking gingerbread cookies with jay. flour dusts the countertops and clings to your clothes, creating a soft, white duvet of mess around you—reminiscent of delicate snowflakes. laughter saturates the air as you take turns feeding each other pieces of raw dough, your fingers lightly dusted with flour as you gently press the sticky mixture to each other's mouths.

christmas songs echo through the culinary space, reverberating against the walls and in your chests as you both chant together, lost in the euphoria of the moment, exchanging loving glances that speak louder than words.

jay laughs, reaching forward to wipe a smudge of flour from your lips. “i don’t think we’re baking cookies anymore. i think we’re just making a mess.”

“we’re going to need a snowplow at this point,” you reply with a grin, flicking a bit of dough at him.

“it looks like we’ve been caught in a flour blizzard!” he exclaims, tossing a handful of flour at you like a snowball.

“you’re ridiculous,” you murmur, cracking up as you toss some back at him.

“didn’t know humans could create a snowstorm,” he teases, closing the distance between you, his flour-covered hands leaving fingerprints on your cheeks as he gently cups your face and sows a tender peck to your lips.

you lean in to return the sweet caress. the flour on your faces smears, only adding to the charm of the moment. your love fills the kitchen, blending with the warm, sweet scent of baking cookies and the gentle illumination of holiday lights dancing around you. it’s a perfect, simple moment of bliss, shared between you—lost in the miracle of the season and the alchemy of your connection.

ㅤ──────────────────────────

— SIM JAKE (심재윤)

the soothing notes of soft jazz sweep through the living room, blending harmoniously with the gentle sound of snowflakes tapping against the windows, creating a serene, wintery symphony.

you and jake stand close together beneath the christmas tree, its twinkling lights casting a comforting shine that waltzes across the homemade ornaments adorning its branches. the tree stands proudly in the corner, already surrounded by a growing pile of carefully bundled gifts.

laughter bubbles between you both as you wrap each other in sparkling tinsel. the lustrous silver and gold strands wind around you like a cozy winter cocoon, shimmering with each movement. playful bickering dominates the air as you both try to outdo each other, draping the tinsel in ever more extravagant loops, each determined to “mummify” the other in the most festive way possible. every touch unites you, a silent promise of love and connection woven into the twinkle of the tinsel.

the warmth of the moment engulfs the room and your hearts, as you revel in the sweet bond of togetherness and lighthearted disagreement.

“you’re wrapping it too tight! i can’t even move!” you object, attempting to wriggle free from the glossed restraints.

jake chuckles, clearly pleased with his work. “you look so festive... like the living version of the christmas spirit!”

“i look like i’m stuck in a tinsel straightjacket!” you groan, rolling your eyes dramatically.

jake’s grin widens, his eyes alive with mischief. “well, now you can’t escape all the kisses i plan to give you.” with that, he leans in, planting a series of soft, lingering kisses on your face, each one drawing a giggle from you despite your playful protests.

ㅤ──────────────────────────

— PARK SUNGHOON (박성훈)

beneath the soft glow of twinkling christmas lights, you stand at the edge of the ice, at the heart of a vintage ice-skating rink. the rink’s aged charm is alive with the laughter and warmth of friends and families gliding gracefully across the frozen sheet, their joy filling the frosty air. the atmosphere is an effortless blend of nostalgia and festive cheer, with colorful lights casting an echo on the rink’s frosty smooth, glistening surface.

you hesitate, your breath catching in the cool, crisp air. the crystal gleams before you, the facade stretching out in a perfect, inviting expanse, yet your feet feel rooted to the ground. a flicker of doubt crosses your mind as you shift your weight from one foot to the other, watching the skaters cruise fluently by. the thought of slipping, of losing your balance, twists your stomach into knots.

“yeah, i think we definitely need the skating penguin aid,” sunghoon teases, extending his hand with a grin, his eyes glinting with tomfoolery. he gestures toward the rink with mock grandeur. “unless you want me to wrap you in bubble wrap first.”

“shut up, i’m fine,” you murmur, though the panic is evident as you grab his hand like a lifeline. “i’m totally fine, i just... don’t want to die today.”

he laughs, the sound warm and reassuring. his gaze softens as he squeezes your hand, grounding you with his touch. “don’t worry,” he says with a playful smile. “you’re not going to die, i promise. i’ll protect you... unless i fall first, in which case, we’re both doomed.”

“you’re a pro. you won’t fall,” you mutter, throwing him a skeptical side-eye.

“exactly,” he replies nonchalantly. “now hold on tight. i’ll make you a skating pro in no time—or at least keep you from face-planting.” his grin widens as he pulls you close, his steady hands guiding you as he nuzzles in to plant a soft-spoken kiss to your forehead. the warmth of his embrace lingers, a gentle promise of both support and affection, keeping you centered as you take your first shaky steps onto the ice.

amidst the festive bustle of the holiday season—surrounded by laughter, christmas melodies, and the rhythmic sound of skates cutting through the ice—you share this moment together. it’s a sweet, tender embrace, where your hearts beat in perfect harmony, filled with love, coziness, and the magic of the season.

ㅤ──────────────────────────

— KIM SUNOO (김선우)

within the crisp winter air, you find yourself seated in a ferris wheel cabin, suspended high above a bustling winter wonderland. the gentle motion of the ride slows, as if time itself has paused to savor this fleeting moment. around you, the ferris wheel glows with festive decorations—twinkling fairy lights, ribbons, and garlands entwining a spell of seasonal enchantment.

below, the holiday fair stretches out like a canvas of shimmering christmas lights, their warm glow spilling over streets and rooftops. the distant hum of carols and laughter drifts upward, blending seamlessly with the stillness of the night. in this tranquil embrace, the world below blurs, leaving only the soft presence of sunoo beside you and the serene beauty of the season.

you gaze beneath, your voice barely a whisper. “this doesn't feel real. it’s like a snow globe.”

sunoo’s eyes remain on you, a small sneer playing at his lips. “it is.”

you turn to him, holding back a giggle as your eyes sparkle. “you’re not even looking at the fair.”

he shrugs, his voice laced with hazy charm. “why would i? i’ve already got the best view right here.”

“you’re so corny,” you tease, rolling your eyes as you nudge him playfully.

the ferris wheel creaks as it pauses at its peak, the view stretching endlessly around you. sunoo reaches for your gloved hand, his fingers interlocking with yours as he gazes into your eyes, his expression mellow.

“can i kiss you?” he asks, a slight hesitation in his voice.

you nod, your cheeks flushed from the cold—and maybe from something else. “you don’t need to ask.”

he inches closer, and your lips meet in a kiss that feels suspended in time. the world below fades into a blur of fluorescence, the cold long forgotten as you lose yourself in the moment. when you finally pull away, your cheeks are even redder, your breath coming in soft bursts as you let out a quiet laugh.

ㅤ──────────────────────────

— YANG JUNGWON (양정원)

the late winter breeze mingled with the deep midnight blues as you and jungwon stood side by side in the soft, falling snow in the park. hands wrapped in mittens and bundled up in scarves and coats, you rolled large snowballs together, giggling at the clumsy mishaps that unfolded with each playful turn. the cold air nipped at your faces, but the heat between you made the breeze feel almost comforting. you worked in harmony, shaping the snow into a snowman, your palms brushing against each other with every gentle adjustment, each stroke a silent exchange of affection in the quiet of the night.

when the snowman was finally complete, jungwon’s face lit up with a proud grin, his voice full of childlike excitement. “we’re finally done!” he exclaimed, as though you’d just achieved something monumental.

you beamed back at him, feeling the thrill of the instant. but before you could gather yourself, he pulled you close, spinning you in the soft, snowflakes cascading from above. you gasped in surprise, chuckles pouring out of your lips as you tumbled together, the snowman toppling over with a dramatic thud, burying itself in the white blanket below.

you both landed in the icy duvet, gasping with laughter. jungwon, eyes shining with impishness, smirked at the fallen frosty figure and then turned to you, his voice teasing. “guess it’s nap time!”

you shook your head in playful exasperation. “really? you had to do that?”

his cat-like eyes glinted with amusement as he shot you a wide, cheeky grin. “it wasn’t my fault! the snowman just wanted a nap.”

“a nap? it was standing perfectly!” you replied, letting out a dramatic sigh, your breath puffing in the crispy air.

“it had dreams, okay?” jungwon sniggered, his voice warm and teasing. then, with a sly gleam in his gaze, he leaned in. his lips brushed softly against yours, a delicate, lingering kiss that felt like the quiet flare of a secret shared between you. the blanket of stars above seemed to shimmer even brighter, as if the universe itself had held its breath, adding a touch of magic to the moment.

ㅤ──────────────────────────

— NISHIMURA RIKI (西村力)

you and riki are staying in a cozy, rustic cabin nestled deep in the woods, smothered by freshly fallen snow. the log exterior of the cabin is dusted with fragile snowflakes, while hazy, golden light spills from the windows, casting a warm, peaceful glow on the world outside. a wreath of pine branches adorned with bright red ribbons hangs cheerfully on the front door, adding a festive touch to the winter landscape.

inside, the neon lights of the christmas tree shimmer and sway, casting faint, colorful shadows on your faces while the comforting taste of hot chocolate lingers on your lips. the scent of pine and cinnamon hangs in the air, a perfect synchrony of winter fragrances that floods your senses. wrapped in the woolen blanket fort you built earlier, you huddle close by the stone fireplace, the only sounds being the hissing of the flames and the occasional bursts of laughter you share while watching your favorite holiday classics.

“this fort looks like it’s going to collapse any second,” you say, glancing up at the leaning blankets with a mischievous hint of worry.

riki’s laughter fills the space as the fort creaks ominously.

his eyes shine with playful schemes as he turns to you. “nah, this fort could rival the pyramids. a true wonder of the world.”

you snort, giving his arm a lighthearted shove. “if the pyramids were built with chairs and duct tape.”

he grins, feigning mock offense. “stop! this is engineering excellence at its finest.”

“as long as you’re happy,” you tease, your heartfelt smile full of compassion as your gaze meets his.

with a soft chuckle, riki delicately tugs you closer, gifting a tender kiss to your forehead. his fingers gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch prolonged as the moment feels timeless—mute, safe, and filled with true love.

ㅤ──────────────────────────

ccto for the cute dividers

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zerun0 · 5 months ago

Note

Can you make a fanfic about spending time with Viktor in his greenhouse? 👉👈 Whether it will be more romantic or more spicy is your decision

"Ivy and Iron" — Viktor x Y/N (Gender-Neutral)

English is not my first language. Feel free to comment on any of my mistakes and i will update the post, also I more than happy to receive suggestions, and advice on how to improve my work. — !SFW! — Established relationship, Fluff, Flirting, Garden, kissing. — Word count: — 1,5k (Full uncut version on AO3)

The dome was alive... more alive than anyone had thought possible in a city like Zaun.

Viktor stood among the green area, just above him, fractured glass panes refracted sunlight into shimmering beams that danced across the greenery below. Nature had reclaimed this once-dead space, transforming the ruin into an oasis of color and vitality. Ivy wove intricate patterns along the cracks, mending the broken with threads of green. Flowering vines spilled over from high ledges, their blossoms in hues so vibrant they felt almost otherworldly. Beneath his feet, moss softened the worn stone path, and ferns swayed as if breathing. The air was warm, humid with the scent of earth and blossoms—a stark contrast to Zaun’s metallic chill and acrid fumes.

And in the center of it all was you.

Viktor’s kaleidoscopic eyes lingered on you as you knelt in the soil, gently tending a bed of seedlings. Your fingers moved with careful precision, coaxing life from the dirt with a tenderness that stirred something deep in him. You looked so at peace, surrounded by the vibrancy you had nurtured, your hands stained with earth, your lips curved in a small smile of satisfaction.

He hesitated at the edge of the clearing, his cane tapping lightly against the mossy stone. The sound drew your attention, and when you glanced up, your eyes brightened.

“Viktor,” — you greeted, rising to your feet. There was warmth in your voice, as though you were genuinely pleased to see him. — “You made it.”

He stood there gracefully, his cane tapping softly against the moss-covered stone. The sunlight streaming through the fractured glass dome above dappled his pale face, highlighting the faint glow of his enhancements. The plants had flourished far beyond what he had imagined. Yet, despite the brilliance of the paradise he’d created, it was you who held his attention.

“I could not stay away,” — he admitted, stepping closer. — “You care for this place with such devotion. I wished to see it through your eyes.”

Your lips quirked up in a soft smile. — “It’s your creation, Viktor. I’m just the gardener.”

“You are far more than that,” — he replied, his voice laced with quiet conviction. — “Without your hands, without your care, this place would be nothing compared to what it is now..."

You glanced around at the verdant space, the vibrant green leaves and radiant flowers whispering softly in the warm breeze. Birds flitted between the vines; insects hummed industriously over beds of herbs. Everywhere life teemed, and the air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers and fertile soil.

“It’s easy to care for something so full of potential,” — you said softly. — “But you’re the reason any of this exists in the first place. These plants wouldn’t have a chance in Zaun if it weren’t for you.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes. — “Perhaps.”

The two of you wandered deeper into the dome, your pace unhurried. As you walked, you pointed out the various plants you’d been tending—climbing vines heavy with blossoms, patches of herbs growing in carefully arranged beds, fruit trees that had begun to bear their first harvest. Viktor listened intently, his sharp mind absorbing your every word.

“These fruit trees were the most stubborn,” — you said with a small laugh, brushing your hand against the rough bark of one. — “I had to trim back so much of the dead wood to give the new growth a chance. But once they took root, they grew faster than I expected.”

“You understand their needs well,” — Viktor said, studying the branches laden with ripe fruit. His colorful eyes lingered on your hands as you gently turned one of the leaves, inspecting its vibrant green color. — “Each decision you make, every care you offer, it shapes them. Guides them.”

“I’m just following what feels right,” — you replied, glancing over your shoulder at him. — “Plants are a lot like people, I think. They need support, patience... someone to believe in them.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. — “It is not something I have considered before"

You smiled, your eyes softening. — “Sometimes all it takes is a little faith.”

Viktor walked beside you in silence for a moment, his cane tapping lightly against the mossy path. The quiet hum of life surrounded you. The garden felt alive in every sense of the word, and it struck him how starkly it contrasted with the barren ruins this dome had once been.

“Tell me,” — he said at last, his voice quiet but curious. — “what made you decide to take this on? When I showed you the empty space, it must have seemed... hopeless.” — He asked, he seemed to be testing you.

You paused, turning to face him. — “It wasn’t hopeless. Just waiting. Waiting for someone to give it a chance.” — Your gaze swept over the flourishing greenery, the vibrant flowers, the lush grass beneath your feet. — “When I first saw this place, I saw what it could become. I couldn’t just leave it as it was.”

Viktor’s lips curved into a faint smile, the corners of his mouth softening. — “It seems I chose well, then.”

You laughed lightly, shaking your head. — “You didn’t choose anything, Viktor. You built this space, and I volunteered. If anything, this garden chose me.”

“That,” — he said, stepping closer. — “is precisely what I mean.”

You blinked up at him, your breath catching slightly at the intensity of his gaze. The distance between you seemed to shrink, the space filled with the heady scent of blooming flowers and the gentle rustle of leaves. The air felt charged, as though the garden itself was holding its breath.

“This place thrives because of you,” — Viktor said, his glistening eyes fixed on yours. — “When I imagined this garden, I thought only of potential. Of how life might reclaim what was lost. But it is more than I could have envisioned because you saw not just what it could be, but what it should be"

Your heart skipped a beat at the quiet reverence in his tone. — “And you ... You gave it the chance to exist. Maybe... maybe we both brought it to life, together.”

He stepped even closer. You could see the subtle lines of strain around his eyes, the weight he carried in every step, but here, surrounded by the haven you’d built together, he seemed lighter somehow. — “Together,” — he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue with quiet certainty.

A breeze stirred the air. The moment felt suspended in time, the sounds of Zaun’s chaos beyond the dome fading into nothingness.

“You’ve been coming here more often,” you ventured, your voice gentle. — “Why?”

Viktor’s gaze dropped for a moment as though gathering his thoughts, his fingers tightening slightly around the head of his cane. When his kaleidoscopic eyes met yours again, there was a softness to them that made your chest ache. “Because,” — he began quietly, — “it is here that I feel closest to what I am searching for. Peace. Growth. Beauty.” He paused, his voice lowering. — “You.”

The words hit you like a quiet storm, their honesty stealing the breath from your lungs. The space between you felt heavy, charged with unspoken tension. The hum of the garden, the soft rustle of leaves, all of it blurred into the background as Viktor’s focus remained solely on you.

“You mean that?” — you asked, your voice barely audible.

“I do,” — he said without hesitation.

His words unraveled something in you, a tether you hadn’t realized was holding you back. Without thinking, you reached out, your hand finding his where it rested on the cane. His fingers curled around yours instinctively, the calluses of his palm a sharp contrast to the softness of your touch.

His hand came up slowly, brushing against your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw with a tenderness that made your knees weak. You leaned into the touch, your heart thundering in your chest.

“I should not,” — he murmured, his voice trembling with restraint. — “But I cannot seem to stay away.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, the air between you thick with tension. Then in a blink of a eye, Viktor leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both hesitant and searing. His touch was searching, as though he was afraid you might slip away.

But you did the contrary, you melted into him, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palms. His cane fell to the ground with a soft thud, forgotten, as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him. The warmth of his body seeped into yours, and the world seemed to dissolve into the quiet intimacy of the moment.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged. His voice was a hoarse whisper. — “I have never felt this before.”

You brushed a strand of hair from his face. — “Then let’s not overthink it. Let’s just... be.” — Thank you for requesting it! Feel free to send more fic ideas !

#viktor #viktor x reader #viktor arcane #arcane fanfic

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finemadeline · 2 months ago

Text

A Garden Needs a Gardener

Rating: G

WC: 1.5k

Tags: Ghost x reader, fluff(regardless, minors please do not interact), minor suggestive content, insecure! reader x gardener ghost, size difference

Summary: Not all gardens can be tended to. (Maybe?)

A garden can mean a plethora of things.

A physical one, with overgrown weeds and withered trees— little to no vibrancy or life to be found. Or, it could be one filled with blooming flowers and lush greenery, all meticulously planted to make it akin to a dream.

Your garden could be one of sexuality and fluidity. One of blooming flowers and bright green leaves. Tended to, and cared for. One with excitement and a rush of exhilaration—one of satisfaction and pleasure. One of love and passion.

Or, it could be dry and dreary.

Dead leaves and dead flowers with untilled soil, but thirsty roots. Untended to, and uncared for. Left unsatisfied with desires and wants casted to the side—left to shrivel up and die, succumbing to its own distasteful end.

Green gardens were desired. Needed. Wanted.

But your garden wasn’t green. It wasn’t bright nor tended.

It was thorny and barbed, too prickly to let anyone near. It was dry and barren, too neglected to bring anyone close. It was lonely and diseased, purposely dull to turn people away.

You wouldn’t allow your flowers to be watered. You couldn’t enable your leaves to be tended.

But when you moved to a new city, with a large house and larger green space — the opportunity arose for fresh starts and new beginnings. Maybe a new material garden, too.

And when your sweet older neighbor, as doting as ever, recommended a small, affordable business to tend to your green space as they did hers — all while giving a tour of her own that oozed with exuberance and filled with a tranquil ambiance that left you breathing deeper and feeling lighter, with red roses trimmed and tall, hedges full, and grass thick and green, you jumped on the opportunity.

And after days of meeting and speaking with a man named John Price, with multiple surveys of your land, a quote, and a starting day, all things were put in place.

But, how forgetful the poor man could be.

When you opened your door you froze when you were met with a wide chest, buttons almost bursting from the tension, instead of a face. You were quick to dismiss him — expecting a smaller, more hairy counterpart for the job.

"Sorry, but I think you're at the wrong place," you apologize, already moving to close the door and wait for another.

But his chuff makes you pause, and his voice, low and deep, makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise at the intrigued tilt in his tone.

"Don' think I am, sweet’art."

You watched as he shuffled away from the doorframe, nodding his head at the logo on the side of his truck.

When he stuck out his card, which dwarfed obscenely in his hand, further proving his validity, your eyes widened as you finally took him in.

Thick, corded muscles ran throughout his entire body, his arms abnormally huge and his thighs bigger. His skin, slightly tanned from working in the sun, was filled with scars, veins, and tattoos, all of which only added to his appeal. Your breath shuddered as you gripped the card tighter, finally making it to his face—your neck craning far more than it should.

Low, lidded brown eyes seemed to pin you where you stood as your eyes dragged up to his—making you fidget in place as your words stuck to the back of your throat. A tall, slightly crooked nose sat atop his face, and full pink lips with a scar bisecting the top right corner, twitched in bemusement as you stared. Scars littered his whole face, a prominent one running from his ear to cheek, yet his face pieced together faultlessly.

When you finally found the words to invite him inside; his head ducking underneath your door frame to fit through the doorway, your breath shuddered, your last shred of decency allowing your eyes to finally pull away.

How cruel of your neighbor to put you in this predicament. How cruel of John, to heed you no warning.

He, who was apologetic afterward, forgot to mention that he himself didn't do the gardening. An associate, or a friend of his as the man in front of you put it, did.

Simon, he said.

And when the time came for him to begin his work, your new gardener became more of a distraction as time passed. The sun casted shadows along his body, his taut muscles defined when he pulled out large weeds and dead roots.

On occasion, when the weather proved to be too harsh, he would take off his shirt and tuck it in his jeans, giving you a full view of the wide expanse of his back, his grunts always louder when he did.

You never noticed how long your gaze lingered and followed his every move until his head would turn to meet yours—making you whip your head around and pretend that you weren’t ogling the bulging muscle while leaning in to hear his low grunts, and instead busying yourself with trivial things, as your face heated and your lip became caught between your teeth.

But you’re a creature of comforts, although you deny them. A creature with a long deep ache that wished to be soothed—wished to be tended to; no matter how many thorns grew.

So you did what you could to make his job easier; bringing him sweet teas and tart lemonades when he took his breaks and fed him sandwiches that you filled to the brim; threatening to bust with each bite.

His saccharine sweet words that made your cheeks hot forced your hand, made you stay outside in the heat longer than you should. Made you pamper and dote on him far more than a normal customer would. Barbed ends soothed, his demeanor made you stay.

Made you crave something deeper. Made you crave something more.

You would fidget when he cooed at you, offering kind smiles and more food when he did—always keeping them in your head for later.

“Thank you, sweet thing.”

“Always ‘ppreciate it, love.”

“Treatin’ me real nice, aren’t you dove?”

He made your teeth begin to ache too easily in your gums when his hands dragged along you, your breath shuddering when his touch lingered—big, thick hands meant for ripping and shredding holding onto yours, or your waist when he’s close enough, and gently rubbing his thumb along them or squeezing you before turning away.

His hands were never demanding, nor malicious. The idle appreciation made your heart stutter; made your skin heat and prickle, made something softer grow. Something less barbed and bristly.

And when he called you sweet little pet names, cooing in your ear about your pretty sundresses and updos, all while teaching you tips and tricks about the garden he cares for with rapt attention, you fought against yourself—never letting your mind wander. You couldn’t.

So, you watch Simon tend to other gardens.

Even though yours ached to be nurtured.

But when Simon’s hand rested on your back as he ushered you back inside, under the notion of it being too hot,

“Pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be ou’ too long, yeah? Sun’ll burn you righ’ up.”

And his eyes lowered, his gaze heavy as he looked at you, watching you with rapt attention—his lip twitching in amusement as you busy yourself with anything you could, and breaking the silence with the low timbre of his voice:

“Gardens almost finished.”

You pause when he speaks, gazing out into the yard, humming back.

“Yeah.. suppose it is.”

There’s a beat of silence, the low hum of the kettle doing nothing for your nerves.

“Y’happy? Satisfied?”

You nod, and move closer to him, placing another cup of tea in front of him.

“Very. Just what I wanted. The upkeep will be worth it.”

Simon hums and turns to you, his gaze burning holes into the side of your face.

Your breath hitches when he bends down, watching as his hands move to the opposite sides of the counter—caging you between it and his large frame.

When you feel his chin against your shoulder you involuntarily flinch—making your face heat and back straighten when an amused puff left his lips.

His heavy hand found its way to your hip as your heart threatened to escape from underneath your ribs and claw its way through its iron-clad cage. One you’ve built so meticulously.

His warm breath brushed against your ear as he spoke in a low, warm, tone: one that made molten heat spread through your veins and lights them aflame.

“Good. Don’ mind tending t’your gardens a bit more, love.”

Your knees threatened to collapse under the weight of his words as they coursed through you, settling into your bones, and breaking away your sharp ends.

“….more?”

Simons eyes twinkled, one hand moving to graze your rib, and the other moving to lay on your lower stomach—his fingers teasing the waistband of your pants, and dipping one beneath it.

“More.”

His fingers then slid into your back pocket, placing something within it—the rustling sound ringing in your ears, as your eyes snapped shut when his lips pressed a gentle kiss to your helix.

When you found it in you to look up at him, only to find him already staring—waiting for your gaze to catch his, waiting for you to understand the weight of his words, before patting your back and leaving, you dug into your pocket, retrieving the object he placed inside.

His phone number.

Your finger dragged along the ink written on wrinkled paper, lip twitching at the “Text if you want.” written in his scraggly handwriting, as something crawled beneath your chest. Something less prickly. Something less barbed.

Perhaps two gardens could be tended to at once.

Perhaps your thorns could be trimmed.

Perhaps your garden could bloom.

#ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x you #cod ghost #simon ghost x reader #cod mw2 #cod fanfic #cod modern warfare #simon riley x reader #cod #simon riley x you #simon riley cod #simon riley imagine #call of duty fanfic #ghost x you

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surielstea · 1 year ago

Text

Taunts and Tension

Based on this request!

Pairing: Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader and Azriel go on a spy mission and come back a little more touchy than usual?

Warnings: Sexual tension | Briefest mention of a threesome | innuendo of oral (m receiving)

2.8k words

“You have got to be kidding me,” The Shadow Singer grumbled as the High Lord told him we’ve been partnered for his next mission.

“Unfortunately, he’s not,” I huff to the tall male, just as annoyed as him. “Rhys with all due respect, I work alone,” Azriel contended and I scoff. “Does that apply to your love life too?” I quip but they both ignore me. “I know Az, but Eris likes her, he’s more likely to play by our rules if we use her as bait,” Rhys says. “It’s just a meeting, the both of you only have to get along for a few hours,” He hums and I roll my eyes, I couldn’t refuse the offer, he was paying me double for this. “Fine,” Azriel uttered, the fool agreed for free.

“Good, you leave at sunset,” The half-fae instructs then quickly dismisses the both of us when his mate comes into his office, a babbling Nyx in her arms. “Hi sweetie,” I coo at the two-year-old as I pass Feyre on the way out. “Auntie!” He exclaims with a bright smile. The High Lady waved at me and I returned it. “Be careful on your mission tonight,” She advises and I brush her off. “It’s just a meeting, nothing to be worried about.” I smile. “Oh, I wasn’t referring to your assignment,” Her eyes flick to Azriel and my lips form an ‘o’ shape in realization. She chuckled then gave me a wink as the Shadow Singer passed by me, muttering a curse under his breath. I return her smile then nod in a farewell and go the opposite direction down the hall.

The Spring Court was a lot duller than I had expected. Sure the flowers were in bloom and the sun still seeped through the trees but, there was no vibrancy to the colors. “Feyre really did a number on this place,” I hum, looking out at the deserted Court. It still held some beauty, the crystal clear lakes with lily pads floating heedlessly, the rolling hills, and flower fields.

“I kind of feel bad for him,” I mutter, bending down and plucking a daisy from a patch sprouting out the trunk of a maple tree. “Don’t,” Azriel huffed. We were on the border between Spring and Autumn so there was a weird merging between wildlife, the magnolia trees slowly shifting into maples, bunnies sectioned from foxes, and lush forests morphing into rustic woods.

“Are we early or is he just trying to make an entrance?” I sigh, already bored. “Early,” He replies and my shoulders sag. “Can you only respond with one-word answers?” I narrow my eyes on the Shadow Singer. He smirks. “No,” He says and I grit my teeth, looking down at the daisy in my hands.

We go silent for a moment. I stare out at the dusky sky, the last of the sun slipping below the hills. He seems content to continue staring at me, much to my dismay. I didn’t know what for, it’s not like he had to keep an eye on me, and there was nothing I could do that his shadows wouldn’t report back to him, they were often all over me, seemingly out of his control when I was around.

“What?” I snap my head back to him after only a minute, his stare becoming too physical, like I could feel the way his eyes traced my features. “Why are you dressed like that?” He tilts his head. I look down at my gown with creased brows. It was a silk slip, a rich mocha color. I look at what he’s wearing, his usual leathers. “It’s a meeting Azriel, we’re not battling warriors,” I remark. “Is it because we’re meeting with Eris?” He tilts his head. I cross my arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I bite back. “That you’re trying to impress him,” He surmises.

“Nuh-uh!”

“Nuh uh?” He mocks. “That’s your defense?” The brunette scoffs and my frown deepens, leaning against the tree at my back. “I wore the dress ‘cause I didn’t wanna change, okay?” I explain with narrowed brows. “And it’s not my fault he admires me,” I add. “Not that you know the feeling,” I murmur under my breath but of course, he heard it.

He takes a menacing step forward, shadows turning sporadic around him and I roll my eyes on the dramatics of it— anyone else would’ve been begging for forgiveness just by looking into the darkness of his eyes. “What was that?” His hand comes to my chin, forcing my head toward him. I jerk out of his hold with a grimace.

“I said you don’t know what it’s like to be admired, or do you need a reminder that you’ve been chasing the same girl for five hundred years?” This time I was the one to take a step forward, my chest nearly pressed to his. “Because newsflash Az, she doesn’t want you—” I start but his hands come to my wrists and pull them up above my head, pinning me to the tree, his other hand on my hip so I can’t thrash.

His nostrils flared, eyes ablaze and I nearly laughed. “You’re constantly teetering on that edge huh? Can’t ever keep your temper in check?” I arch a brow up at him, my smirk only widens as I watch him grit his teeth. He knew what I meant. Knew that he pounced on anyone who damaged his fragile ego, and talked down on his precious family, gods forbid I mention Morrigan. His hold moves from my waist to my neck, wrapping his large hand entirely around my throat, softly squeezing.

“You’re choking me,” I whisper out and the sadistic fuck has a smile on his face. “You seem like the type to be into that,” He presumes and he wouldn’t be far off if this was a different situation. I flush pink at the idea, it’d be a lie if I said I hadn’t imagined the Spymaster on top of me more than once. My cheeks were burning hot, I was beyond embarrassed, and slightly turned on.

“Not so talkative now, are we?” He was so close, so close his body was pressed to my own, our breath shared as his face hovered above mine, cauldron damn his height.

“Let me go,” I pull at my wrists but his grip is iron, and maybe my attempts were halfhearted because, in all honesty, I didn’t want to leave this position one bit. “You learn your lesson yet? Or are you gonna keep being a brat?” He hums and arousal pools in my panties. I quickly glamour the scent, praying he didn’t recognize it before I got the chance. “Fuck you,” I seethe, continuing my futile attempts to escape. “Such a filthy mouth, you wanna put it to better use?” He asks and if I wasn’t red before I definitely was now. “In your dreams,” I hiss. “Oh love, it is,” He smirks, and my brain stutters. What’d he just say?

My pointed ears perk before I can reply, noticing an unfamiliar pair of footsteps. Not Eris.

“Someone’s coming, kiss me,” I say with a rushed tone. “What?” His hand loosened around my neck. “Just—” I don’t finish and interrupt myself by lifting onto my toes and crashing my lips against his.

He seems taken aback for a moment then to my surprise, leans into it. I melt at the feeling. He was tentative at first but once I showed him this was what I asked for he seemed almost, hungry. His hand slips from my throat and cups my jaw instead, calloused thumb pulling at my bottom lip and forcing them open. I can’t help but obey his silent command, parting my lips wider so he can capture me fully. His mouth seals over mine yet again and my stomach ties into knots, the thrumming sensation in my ribcage making me realize this was a point of no return.

His tongue explored my mouth like it was his and his alone, he was devouring me and I savored every moment. An energy buzzed between us, my wrists still pinned up by his hold, but I wasn’t any less greedy with my lips. I wanted him to taste me, to memorize me, and never forget the feel of his lips on mine, I wanted it to hurt when he had to pull away. Languid movements with his tongue turn into messy, impatient strokes, needing all of me right then and there— and I would’ve given it to him if not for that pair of footsteps returning, so much closer this time.

“What’s going on here?” A gruff voice demands answers and Azriel hesitantly detaches, like he was unwilling.

It takes me a moment to even open my eyes, gods if he’s got me this paralyzed over just a kiss who knows how much more I could take? Azriel lets go of my wrists and I regain consciousness.

“I’m sorry Officer,” I put on my most innocent smile. The male in front of me was Autumn Court patrol, lower in rank based on the patches on his arms. “What’s an Illyrian doing so far from home?” He snarled the word like it was a curse. “We’re traveling sir,” I say, intertwining my hand with Azriel’s. He stiffens at the action as if I didn’t just have his lips on mine. “Travelin’?” The officer scoffs. “Out here?” He hums. “Yes sir, it’s our honeymoon,” I grin wildly, trying to capture the excitement of newlyweds as I hold our linked hands up.

The officer raises his brows a fraction, he was buying it. He was visibly older, you had to be ancient as a fae to start having wrinkles and this guy had plenty. “You know, I feel like I recognize you,” He hums and I swallow thickly. It was more likely for Azriel to get recognized out of the two of us, so the Shadow Singer didn’t take his chances and stuffed his face into my neck, lining kisses from my shoulder to my jaw. My hand goes into his hair, weaving my fingers into his soft, dark locks as I continue carrying on the conversation.

“Really? What from?” I tilt my head, resting my luck. “Not quite sure…” He thinks for a moment. “Ah, forget it probably just confusing you with my granddaughter, she’s lovely like you,” He says and I giggle light-heartedly. “That’s sweet to hear,” I smile. “Alright you kids be safe, perhaps find an inn somewhere,” He starts his trek once more. “Thank you, officer!” I call to him and he gives me a wave.

I nearly cackle as Azriel pulls away from my neck, my lipgloss smeared along his lips. I reach up and wipe it away with a teasing smile. “Not much of a spymaster if I’m the one saving you, hm?” I say, hands cupping his cheeks. “You were the one distracting me in the first place,” He defended, crossing his arms and I snicker. “Awh, poor Illyrian baby is pouting 'cause I’m better at his job,” I taunt, his gaze on my lips as I talk.

“Well, that was quite the show,” A familiar, smooth voice intones from a short distance away and I whip my head towards the figure, leaning against a tree with an unmistakable foxlike smirk on his face. “How long have you been standing there?” Azriel questions and it seems like the Heir might laugh. “It’s truly a wonder how your shadows didn’t find me, though I suppose they’re preoccupied at the moment,” He gestures to the ground beneath me where they were pooling at my feet, flicking up and twining at my ankle every now and again, completely forgetting what their job was in my presence.

The meeting went smoothly, Azriel was a bit on edge with the lack of his Shadows but other than that Eris complied easily, he seemed to have something up his sleeve but we’d worry about that at a later date, we were only ensuring his loyalty was still with us.

He updated us on some information including his father, the two males briefing over a plan to take down Beron, and as I stood there I realized I was just for show, a shiny jewel for Eris to look at, keep his attention before he got the idea that he could survive on his own. Not that I minded being looked at by the Heir, he was quite pretty— hel, I’d be lying if I said I haven’t dreamed about both the males in front of me, at once, more than once.

Azriel shadow-walked us back to the House of Wind when we were finished, or rather when he was finished. I probably could’ve stayed a few more minutes just to admire Eris in the pale moonlight, but my plans just had to be foiled by the Shadow Singer.

Az flew me the rest of the way into the house bridal style— since you couldn’t winnow straight in due to the wards. His hold on me felt more familiar than usual, and when he put me down he didn’t step away so neither did I.

“Hey,” Cassian said from the dining table, a mouthful of food muffling his voice. We both swivel towards the male, sat next to Nesta who couldn’t be bothered to look up from her book to greet us. “How’d the mission go?” The brunette at the table said once he swallowed his food. We both stiffen, the memory of that kiss has been replaying in my head over and over since it ended and yet it felt odd for anyone else to bring it up.

“Uh, went nice…” I shrug. Nesta looks up from her page, eyes piercing as they read me like the chapters in her book. “Really?” She intervenes and I nod. “Yup, just, so normal,” Azriel blurts out, and for a Spymaster, he was awfully bad at lying. Cassian creased his brows, clearly concerned for his brother. “Why are you acting so weird, then?” Nesta interrogates and the male and I share a look. “I don’t think he’s acting weird,” I scoff. “Do you think you’re acting weird?” My words are fast like I only have one breath to finish my sentence. “Pshh, never,” He shakes his head, looking down at his feet then back up to Lady Death.

“Right, well, man am I exhausted,” I stretch, feigning a yawn. “Yeah, the mission really wore me out,” He sighs, rolling his shoulders like there’s a weight off of them, following me up the stairs towards the bedrooms.

Nesta looks to her mate, a small smirk on her lips. “What?” The lord of bloodshed says cluelessly. “They’re totally going to fuck,” She hums, sinking into her chair a little and picking her book back up.

Azriel and I split off into our respective bedrooms, just across the hall from each other.

I paced beside my closed door, wondering what the fuck was I thinking when I let him kiss me. Sure I’ve always thought he was pretty but that was always a stupid fantasy, not something I would ever pursue… until now. Fuck, I am so finished. I repeatedly hit my palm against my forehead as I racked my head for any thought that didn’t immediately trace back to him. I couldn’t even look at my own hands without thinking about his hands, how they held my jaw— no. I wasn’t going to let myself romanticize this, it was just a mission. Nothing more. Just a kiss. A yearning, passion-filled kiss that fed all my cravings and somehow created new ones.

I groaned, deciding that this was the finest form of torture. I now stand still in front of my door, hoping that if I stare hard enough at it, he’ll come knocking and kiss me again because, fuck, I do want him.

I can’t sit here and wait for him to come rescue me from my own torment so I do it myself, hand coming to the doorknob and before I can psych myself out, I fling the door open.

To my shock, I’m immediately met with Azriel’s figure, his hand up like he was just about to knock.

“You couldn’t even let me make an entrance?” He tilts his head and I roll my eyes. “Shut up and kiss me already,” I grab him by the collar of his leathers and pull him in, the door closing behind him as his lips crash onto mine yet again.

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aventurineswife · 5 months ago

Note

Highschool au! Aventurine was walking around the school taking photos (you can choose the reason) when he accidentally caught reader smiling with their friends in his camera/phone's camera and his heart skipped a beat. He took the photo while smiling fondly

Basically developing feelings

“When I Picture You” | Part 1

Summary: In a high school setting, Aventurine is tasked with capturing joyful moments for the yearbook. While taking photos, he unexpectedly catches your smile on camera, and, in that instant, his heart skips a beat.

Tags: High School AU, Photography, Fluff, Aventurine x Reader, Developing Crush, Slow Burn, Unexpected Feelings, Yearbook

A/N: Reading this request remind me of Picture You by Chappell Roan 😪and I had to... Also funny thing, I was planning to do a high school au with Aventurine and Sunday because of a fanart but you beat me to it, anon :')

(Part 2)

It was a bright, late afternoon at Penacony High, and the air felt light with the buzz of chatter and laughter echoing through the hallways. Students gathered in small clusters, sharing stories, stressing over exams, and enjoying the last few minutes before the final bell. Aventurine—otherwise known as Kakavasha to a select few—found himself with his camera in hand, wandering the halls with a purpose. The school had trusted him with a photography project for the yearbook, capturing “Moments Of Joy” across the campus, and he’d taken to the task with an enthusiasm that surprised even him.

Aventurine wasn’t usually the sentimental type. In fact, if anyone knew him well, they’d know he often kept to himself, his charismatic charm balanced by a hint of mystery and a clever smile. But something about seeing others in their natural, happy moments sparked a strange warmth he couldn't shake.

“Just a couple more shots...” he muttered to himself, adjusting the focus on his camera, framing a lively group of students laughing near the lockers.

But then his eye caught someone else—a familiar figure standing off to the side, their head thrown back in laughter. It was you, surrounded by your friends, your eyes sparkling in the golden afternoon light. Aventurine’s breath caught, a sense of wonder blooming unexpectedly as he lifted his camera, trying to steady his hands.

Click.

He’d snapped the picture before he even realized it, the sound loud in his ears. Aventurine felt his heart skip a beat, his lips quirking into a soft, almost unconscious smile. There you were, frozen in a moment of pure joy, your warmth and vibrancy practically radiating from the photograph.

“Why… does it feel like this?” he whispered, lowering the camera, a strange mix of embarrassment and excitement fluttering in his chest. He’d been the one assigned to capture these “Moments Of Joy” around campus, yet here he was, feeling it himself.

Watching you with that easygoing smile and the way your friends gravitated toward you, he felt a pang of curiosity he couldn’t ignore. He’d seen you around campus before, exchanged glances in class, maybe a few quick greetings in passing. But he’d never truly noticed you—until now.

As you turned, catching sight of him with the camera in hand, Aventurine straightened, feigning composure.

"Hey, are you taking pictures for the yearbook?" you asked, curiosity lighting up your expression.

He nodded, maintaining his usual confidence, though his heart pounded. “Yes, capturing ‘Moments Of Joy’ for the school to remember. Lucky I caught such a radiant one just now.”

You blinked, taken aback by his sudden compliment, and laughed softly. “Well, I guess I’ll have to smile my best from now on if I see you around.”

He smirked, feeling his confidence return, though he was well aware of the flush creeping up his neck. “I’ll keep my camera ready then.”

As you walked back to your friends, Aventurine found himself watching you go, a rare, genuine fondness spreading through him. For a man who usually planned every move, calculated every step, and saw the world as a game of risks and rewards, the thought of seeing you again without knowing exactly what would happen… felt like the start of something new. Something he might be willing to gamble on.

And from that day on, he found himself seeking out the warmth of your laughter, the brightness of your presence, as if each moment he captured with his camera might reveal the answer to the feeling stirring in his heart.

Let me know if you want a part 2 🤭 I honestly loved this

#hsr #honkai star rail #x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr aventurine #aventurine x reader #aventurine x you #hsr aventurine x reader #fluff #high school au #photography #developing crush #slow burn #yearbook #unexpected feelings

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wheeboo · 1 year ago

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dandelion | boo seungkwan

SYNOPSIS. in which healing is a treacherous process, but when it's with you, seungkwan knows he will be okay. PAIRING. boo seungkwan x gn!reader GENRE. fluff, hurt/comfort (we comfort boo), established relationship WARNINGS. kissing, terms of endearment, lil talk abt marriage at the end WORD COUNT. 1.7k

notes: wanted to write a lil something for him after he released dandelion and it only took a v small crying sesh for me to finally write it 😭😭

It's the first time in a long time you wake up without your boyfriend right next to you.

A few groggy groans escapes your lips, followed by a sharp gasp at the sudden rush of cool air meeting your skin when you sit up in bed. Your fingers curl tightly around the blanket, blinking away the dryness to your eyelids as you turn to peer outside the bedroom window.

The world still seems wrapped in a cloak of sleep, yet you spot a faint, ethereal glow peaking through the curtain of morning. A mix of a soft lavender and the faintest blush of a rose pink bleeds across the horizon, gently pushing back the remaining shadows of the night. It's a heartwarming sight to wake up to, but the warmth doesn't seep into your bones as much as it does when Seungkwan is right next to you.

Where had he gone anyway? He didn't text you if he had went anywhere, and it was still too early for him to be going to work.

Letting out a sigh, you swing your legs over, hissing slightly when the cold floor meets your bare feet, while still clutching the blanket around you like a makeshift cape. You pad across the wooden floor and head out of the bedroom, your mind still clutching to the hands of sleep as a yawn leaves you.

The living room is bathed in a soft, early morning light, its usual vibrancy appearing mute. The silence felt too heavy, devoid of the gentle snores and soft murmurs of endearment that usually accompanied your mornings. It's been like this for some time, and you don't really mind the quietness, but it does feel different.

As your feet drag you in the direction of the kitchen, you spot some movement in the corner of your eye. Your gaze trails towards the sliding door that led out to the apartment balcony, and that's where you spot him𑁋Seungkwan, bundled up in a comfortable set of baby blue pyjamas and hoodie, his back facing you with his phone held up high towards the sky. As you watch him for a few moments, you see the way he tilts his head slightly, trying to capture the picturesque sky on his phone screen.

The sight of him brings a familiar warmth to bloom inside your chest, chasing away the remnants of the chill that had settled on your skin. You quietly approach the door, lingering contemplatively for a few moments to simply watch your boyfriend. Seungkwan appears caught in a spell at the sight of the sky, his brow furrowed in concentration, and a hint of colour nipping at his cheeks from the cold, yet his shoulders seem relaxed for the first time in weeks.

Hesitantly, you slowly slide the door open, wincing at the cold that immediately gnaws at whatever exposed skin you had. When you fully step onto the balcony, you close the door behind you, wrapping the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

"Kwannie?" You call out sleepily.

Seungkwan jumps slightly at the sound of your voice, his phone coming back down to his side as he turns around with widened eyes. The soft morning light bathes his face, highlighting the remnants of sleep and a hint of lingering worry in his features. However, as his eyes wash over the sight of you all bundled cutely and sleepily in your blanket, it brings a flicker of warmth to his lips.

"What are you doing out here so early?" You ask softly, approaching him cautiously.

An embarrassed flush creeps up his neck as he mumbles under his breath, "Couldn't sleep."

A faint, understanding smile crosses your face, the worry in your heart dissipating slightly.

"I'm sorry, love," You reply, gesturing towards the balcony railing. "Mind if I join you?"

Seungkwan only nods, his gaze flickering back to the breathtaking canvas of colours spread across the sky. You step closer, keeping a respectful distance, and lean against the railing beside him. The silence returns, but this time it's not heavy, seemingly carrying a quiet hope for the new day dawning ahead.

"I wanted to try something new," he starts tentatively. "and I heard that watching the sunrise and getting fresh air could help clear your head, so I thought... maybe it would help me, too."

You turn towards him, tilting your head slightly, admiring the way the thin threads of sunlight catches in his hair, like there's a halo of soft gold surrounding him.

"Has it been working so far?" You ask gently, voice barely a whisper.

Seungkwan chuckles quietly and turns to meet your eyes. Admittedly, it's been helping so far; somehow, his mind feels a lot more clearer, his heart a bit lighter, but it's especially apparent when he gets to share these moments with you. Maybe you're secretly part of the reason that the sunrise feels so hopeful right now, or that the world feels a little brighter this morning. Then again, when do you not have that power?

"I think so. It's... really healing being out here," he replies with a hint of a smile, gaze lingering on you for a moment before returning to the sunrise. His voice is quiet when he adds on, "Especially now that you're here."

Your eyes widen slightly at his words, the warmth in your chest blooming even further. The silence between you remains comfortable, punctuated only by the soft chirping of birds waking up and stirring in the distance. You steal another glance at Seungkwan, noticing the way his eyes are glued to the sky, yet the corners of his lips are turned upward. He's so beautiful.

Stepping closer to him, you wrap your blanket around his shoulders as well and pull him lightly into your side. Seungkwan lets out a gasp of surprise, a wave of concern seeping into his face.

"You're cold, honey," he points out worriedly.

"It's okay," You interrupt, voice soft but firm as you adjust yourself so that you're standing behind him, letting your arms wrap around his waist comfortably. "I don't mind sharing."

The corners of Seungkwan's lips tug upwards when you snuggle closer to him. He leans back slightly, his head finding a comfortable resting place nestled against yours. A sigh of contentment escapes him, the sound warming you more than any blanket could.

"You didn't... have to come all the way out here for me," Seungkwan mutters quietly, voice tinged with regret. "I'm sorry for making you worried and keeping you up."

You rest your head atop his shoulder, closing your eyes and taking in his familiar scent of closeness.

"You know I can't fall asleep without you," You whisper reassuringly, fingers absently tracing patterns on his hoodie. "But I'd rather be out here with you than warm and cozy inside without you. And worrying about you... it's kind of my job, isn't it?"

A low hum of agreement leaves him, vibrating soundly against your embrace.

There's a certain pressure that Seungkwan feels in his chest, but it doesn't feel suffocating like all the days before. Perhaps it's the weight of the world, or maybe it's just the comfort of having you so close that fills up his heart to the brink of overflowing. It's almost as if he can breathe, like he can float without worrying about falling because you'll be there to catch him. Whatever it is, it feels right𑁋it always has when it's with you.

He can feel your heart beating steadily against his back, with each breath that you take a gentle reassurance that you're there, and that you're real. And with the world still half-asleep as the colours of dawn paint the sky, Seungkwan finds himself feeling more alive than he has in a long time, like a dandelion freely dispersing its seeds into the vastness of the sky.

"Do you want me to leave you alone now?" You ask a bit hesitantly, softly, knowing that he also needs his own space to think as well. "I can go cook some breakfast for us and make some coffee for you? I know you're working later."

The thought of work makes Seungkwan's shoulders slump in slight disappointment, but he knows he should be going back and adjust back into his regular rhythm of life. He turns his head to look at you, a grateful look to his face despite the fatigue lingering in his eyes.

"Yeah, okay," he mutters, yet as you uncurl your arms from around him, he stops you. "Wait. Can I..."

He stops mid-sentence, finding himself just standing there as you peer at him, waiting for him to continue. Gosh, he doesn't know why or how you always seem to make him so nervous, so small, even though you're the one wrapped up in blankets looking all adorable and pretty yourself.

He feels his cheeks burn at the stupid question swirling around him. So instead of just asking, he steps forward, closing the short distance between the two of you. Your eyes widen in surprise, but before you can utter a word, he leans in, his lips brushing softly against yours.

It's brief and quick, but enough to send a jolt of warmth coursing through both of you. And when Seungkwan pulls back, you catch the way his head drops to the floor, and a smirk makes its way onto your face.

"Boo Seungkwan," You call out his name almost dramatically. "Were you just about to ask to kiss me?"

Seungkwan just shrugs, fighting the embarrassment crawling up his neck. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"We've been together for literal years, and you still get shy about asking for a kiss?" You tease, letting a finger playfully tap his nose.

Seungkwan playfully bats your finger away, a genuine laugh escaping his lips for the first time that morning, and it brings a jump to your heart.

"Well, I..." He scratches the back of his neck bashfully. "I don't think I'll ever not be shy around you, you know..."

If it's possible for your heart to burst, then that's what probably sends that giddy feeling to course up your veins and a grin so wide it threatens to split your face in two.

"You're so damn cute," You say, leaning back in and placing another kiss to his lips. "When we get married, I'm writing in my vows that I promise to always tease you about this until the day I die."

Seungkwan lets out a choked laugh. "Marriage? Is that what I think you just said?"

A playful smile dances on your lips.

"Maybe," You drawl simply, enjoying the way his expression seems to fluster up even more. "But that's a conversation for another day, isn't it?"

Seungkwan blinks in surprise. He opens his mouth to respond, but the words seem to escape him as he searches your eyes and the silly grin to your face for any hint of a joke. When he finds none, he lets out a nervous chuckle, his heart racing with a mix of excitement and anticipation.

"Yeah," he murmurs shyly. "It is."

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